Blue World

by Robert R. McCammon

  Tiny beads of sweat had formed on John’s upper lip. He felt them crawling down his neck. Debra Rocks sprayed lather on the man’s groin and rubbed it all over. Then she took a straight razor and…

  John jumped as the hot breath of Satan brushed the back of his neck. He realized the building’s heat had clicked on, and it was hot air from a ceiling vent.

  Debra Rocks, if she ever decided to give up being a porno star, might become an excellent barber.

  When the sequence had ended, John pressed Rewind. He watched it again. Pressed Rewind again. And Freeze Frame on Debra Rocks’ masked face.

  Her beautiful gray eyes stared defiantly at the camera, her mouth parted in a whisper. John stared at that face for a long time, his heart hammering, his body damp with sweat.

  And then, a bizarre thought: I love her.

  That was ridiculous, of course. He didn’t know her. Yet, again, he did know her. Maybe even more intimately than that grinning, freshly shaved bastard. I love her, he thought, and pressed his hands against his forehead and knew he had to get that trapdoor bolted down again before he lost his mind. He pressed Fast Forward to the end. Debra Rocks did not reappear.

  He let the videotape rewind all the way to the opening credits, and then he turned the TV and VCR off. Purple dawn light was beginning to stain the clouds. The night was ending.

  He stood in twilight at the window watching the big red X.

  He felt drained, worn-out, like he’d pedaled the bike a hundred miles away from home into uncharted, unknown wilderness. And the strangest thing was that he realized the wilderness had always been there, a block away from where he lived. It was another world out there, one block away yet incalculable distance from the white walls of the church.

  If Monsignor McDowell ever found out about this, the rack and iron maiden would look like a kid’s toys compared to what would happen.

  But still John hadn’t seen the face of Debra Rocks. He thought he would go crazy if he didn’t, and crazier still if he did.

  He remembered the sign at Vic’s Adult Books: Saturday Special! Two-thirty to Three! Debra Rocks Live In Person!

  Two-thirty to three in the afternoon, John thought. There was no way he could set foot in that place in the daylight. Today was Thursday. Well, this was the end of it. On Saturday Debra Rocks would be at Vic’s store, a short walk away, but this was the end of it.

  This was the end of it.

  John went to bed and tried to sleep, still dressed. Sleep eluded him as he saw the lips of Debra Rocks in his mind. Oh, to touch her skin, to run his fingers through her raven hair, to kiss those lips and lie in her warm embrace…oh, that would be heaven.

  Sleep finally accepted him, and his thoughts melted away.

  6

  WHEN HE SAT UP, groggy and shocked, he knew at once that he was late.

  The sunlight was too strong. It was ten-thirty, maybe eleven-o’clock sunlight. He was supposed to meet with Father Stafford at nine-o’clock sharp! John looked at his wristwatch, had to blink several times to get the fog away. Ten-forty-eight. He leapt out of bed, ran into the bathroom, crashed into the doorframe, and bruised his shoulder. No time to shave, and his eyes looked like fried eggs. He brushed his teeth, gargled with Scope, and hurried out of his apartment toward the church offices. About halfway there, he realized he hadn’t even paused to lock his apartment door. But that was all right; nobody was going to steal anything he had.

  He burst, breathless, into Darry’s office. Darryl’s secretary, Mrs. O’Mears, told John that Father Stafford had left about fifteen minutes before to get ready for a gathering of the North Beach Catholic Garden Club in Conference Room Two. Mrs. O’Mears said that Father Stafford would be back in the office around eleven-thirty.

  Conference Room Two was on the lower floor of the rectory. John knew he needed to make some kind of explanation about why he’d missed the morning meeting, but he caught Mrs. O’Mears looking at him strangely and he knew he was wrinkled and shoddy, his beard a light blond grizzle. He decided he’d better take a shower, shave, and get cleaned up before the monsignor caught him. He thanked Mrs. O’Mears and hurried back to his apartment.

  John walked through the door and headed directly for the bathroom. He glanced quickly at the videotape player—that black box of temptation—as he passed.

  His heart stopped. He swore he could feel it stop and swell like a furnace about to blow.

  The VCR was gone. Gone.

  In its place was a piece of paper. Words on it, written in ink. John picked up the paper. A note, from Darryl.

  It said: “‘Morning, sleepyhead! Sorry we missed connections. Thought you must be caught up in something. The VCR down in Con Room Two is on the blink. I’ve got thirty-eight elderly ladies who want to see a tape on crocuses and I have to borrow your machine. Your door was unlocked, so I hope you don’t mind. Buy you a burger for lunch. D.”

  The truth dawned on John as the paper drifted from his nerveless fingers. He had not removed Rough Diamonds from the machine. The VCR would start playing as soon as Darryl hooked it up to the TV and switched on the power. And thirty-eight garden-club ladies would see some bulbs and sprouts they hadn’t counted on…

  “Oh, my Lord!” John almost shouted. The blood had drained from his face. He felt for a few seconds like one of those cartoon characters, his legs spinning madly and stretching his body like a rubber band as they raced for the door.

  He had heard the term “hauling ass” before. Until this moment he’d never known its true meaning. He almost leapt down the stairs to the first floor, turned along a corridor, and raced toward the closed door of Conference Room Two.

  He slipped, almost skidded on the linoleum. He ricocheted off the wall, and then he exploded through the conference-room door with a fury that made thirty-eight gray-, blue-and white-haired heads swivel toward him.

  At the front of the room, Father Stafford had hooked the VCR to a big color television set. The TV’s power was on, and Darryl’s finger was poised at the VCR’s ON button.

  “Wait!” John shouted. Most of the elderly ladies jumped in their chairs.

  Darryl’s finger paused, less than an inch from the button. He lifted his eyebrows. “In a hurry, Father Lancaster?”

  “Yes! I mean…no, no hurry.” He smiled weakly at the garden-club members, most of whom he recognized. “’Morning, ladies.”

  “’Morning, Father Lancaster,” they answered.

  “I guess you got my note,” Darryl said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Me? Mind? Not a bit!” He smiled wider, but his face felt as if it were about to crack.

  “Did you come to watch the show?” a little old blue-haired lady asked sweetly.

  “I think Father Lancaster’s already seen this one,” Darryl said, and John gasped audibly as the ON button was pressed.

  The credits came on: “The Crocus. Nature’s Hardy Spring Beauties. Narrated by Percy Wellington.”

  John stood there, stunned, as the screen filled with colorful flowers.

  “I think I have something that belongs to you,” Darryl said quietly as he reached his friend’s side. “You ladies enjoy the tape,” he told them with a pleasant smile, and then the two priests went out into the hallway.

  Father Stafford opened his coat, reached into his inside pocket, and brought out the videotape that had the title Rough Diamonds, a Cavallero Adult Film printed on it’s top. He held it between two fingers, as he might hold a dead rat. “Ring a bell?” he asked.

  John’s first response was to say he’d never seen such trash before—but he was already in too deep, and denying it would only make his soul heavier. He took it from Darryl, leaned back against the wall, and sighed. “Thank God you didn’t show it to the garden club.”

  “Well, it probably would’ve perked up their meeting.” Darryl smiled, but his eyes remained dark. His smile faded. “You want to tell me about this, John?”

  “I…” Where to begin? He paused, took another breath. “I…w
alked over to Broadway this morning. About three o’clock. I bought the tape at a shop over there.”

  “Yes, go on.” Darryl nodded, staring at the floor.

  “I went to a movie, too. An adult movie…”

  “I didn’t think you meant a Disney flick,” Darryl said.

  “But I only watched a minute or two of it. Then I had to get out.”

  “A minute or two, huh? Did you see any…you know…?” He let the rest go unspoken.

  “Yeah. And on the tape too. Darryl, I’ve never in my life even dreamed such things went on! Maybe I’m naive, or stupid, but…why in the world would a place sell false penises that are at least two feet long?”

  “I thought everybody was hung like that,” Darryl said with mock innocence. “Aren’t you?”

  “I mean it!” John took a few paces away and then returned, his face furrowed with thought. “It’s…a different world over there! Everything’s for sale—and I do mean everything!” He shook his head. “I just can’t believe such stuff goes on.”

  “Did you like it?” Darryl asked him.

  “What?”

  “Did you like it?” Darryl repeated. “Do you want to go over there again?”

  “No! Of course not!” John pressed his fingers to his forehead. The truth had to be told, even if it destroyed him. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I liked it.” His eyes were tortured. “And I want to go back.”

  “Whoa,” Darryl said. “I think this is getting a little heavy.”

  Again the opportunity to tell someone about Debra Rocks came into sight. John started to tell him, and earnestly wanted to, but suddenly he didn’t want to share her. And, anyway, what was said in the confessional was private, between sinner and priest. How could he betray what had obviously meant a great deal to her? “What would you do if you were me?” John asked.

  Darryl leaned against the wall and thought about it. “Well,” he said momentarily, “I won’t say I haven’t been tempted to stroll over that way. You know, I could always say I was looking to save some souls. I could pop in and out of those movie houses and bookstores holding up my crucifix like I’m warding off vampires. But I don’t. And I’m not going to. I’m a priest, but I’m a man, and I know my limitations. So I’m not going to open myself up for temptation, John.”

  “Meaning that those places are stronger than your power of will?”

  “Not necessarily,” Darryl answered. “Just that… I’ve spent my life training myself to work for Christ, and training myself to think with my mind, not with my—excuse the crudeness—dingdong. My sex organs might sleep most of the time, but every once in a while they wake up. And they say I’m the dumbest idiot who ever lived. So I take my cold showers and I read and study and pray, but I do not open myself for temptation. It’s mind over matter.”

  “Those people are in our parish,” John said. “It seems like…we should go over there.”

  “And do what? Hand out spiritual literature? Pray on the street corners? Go into the porno dens and try to save lost and burned-out souls? No, those people are too far gone to listen to anything we might say. The almighty buck and the drugs rule over there, and Christ isn’t welcome.”

  “We ought to try. I mean…” He didn’t know what he meant.

  “And we would be consumed by the sin ourselves,” Darryl told him. “We would be driven mad by what we saw. Oh, Satan’s got a real good deal here, John! Satan knows those people aren’t going to come to us, and we can’t go to them without…well, putting ourselves in dire jeopardy.”

  “Is that what I’m in? Dire jeopardy?”

  “Yes,” Darryl said flatly.

  And John knew his friend had spoken the truth. “What shall I do?” John asked.

  “First thing, take that tape around to the dumpster. Pull it off its reels and bury it in the trash. And for God’s sake don’t let the monsignor see you. Then go to your room, take an ice-cold shower, and start copying the Bible in longhand.”

  “Copying the Bible? Why?”

  Darryl shrugged. “I don’t know, but it worked for the monks.”

  John left the building and went around to the green dumpster. He wrenched the tape off its reels with a vengeance, getting his mind cleansed out again as he destroyed the evidence of sin. It occurred to him that he was destroying his only picture of Debra Rocks’ face too, and that realization slowed his work. But he kept going, doggedly tearing the tape out. Then he threw the tape into the dumpster and shoved it down into the mass of garbage.

  And there, next to his left hand, smeared with pork-’n-beans from a discarded can, was a blue leaflet that announced Saturday Special at Vic’s Adult Books! Half-Price Sale on All Used Tapes! 100s of Movies! Erotic Star Debra Rocks Live in Person Two-thirty to Three!

  Erotic star, John thought, somehow that sounded better than “porno queen.”

  He had a smear of beans on his hand. He wiped it off on the leaflet and slammed the dumpster’s door shut.

  7

  SATURDAY CAME. BETWEEN IT and Thursday the cold water streamed frequently from the shower head in John Lancaster’s bathroom. Because he realized that he could destroy the tape and throw it away, but he could not erase the burning tape loop that played over and over in his mind.

  He had lunch with Monsignor McDowell and Father Stafford. Then the monsignor went fishing with a friend of his, and Father Stafford went to visit his mother in Oakland. John sat down in his apartment to study a lesson on divine intervention; he read every word and every line as if he were chewing tough little bits of food, but he knew he was fooling neither himself nor God. He looked up every few minutes and watched the mantel clock as it ticked toward two-thirty.

  At two-fifteen he closed his book and leaned his head forward to pray.

  When he opened his eyes, he was looking at his bicycle. Of course! he thought. That was the answer! Take the ratchet-and-gear device off the bike’s front tire to convert it to street use, then get on it and go for a long ride—in the opposite direction of Vic’s Adult Books. Yes! That was the answer he’d been seeking!

  John brushed his teeth and changed his clothes for a bike ride; he put on a pair of faded jeans, a plaid workshirt, and a brown wool sweater. No need to wear the collar today, or carry it with him. He was letting himself off-duty, for just an hour or so at least, and he hoped God would understand that he needed the break. Darryl would be back within thirty or forty minutes, so someone would be available in the church. Everything was fitting together. John put on his beat-up old Nikes—old basketball shoes—and then he took a screwdriver and removed the ratchets from the bike’s front tire. Now it was ready for the street, and so was he. He put on his beige windbreaker, zipped it up, and locked the door behind him as he walked his bike out into the hallway.

  His watch showed two-twenty-seven.

  On Vallejo Street he boarded the bike and started pedaling west. Then north. Then west again. The afternoon was crisp and sunny—a perfect October day—but it looked as if a lot of people had had the same idea as John; the streets had a lot of auto traffic, and here and there were traffic jams. But John breezed through the knots, the wind in his hair, and kept going, pedaling steadily away from Debra Rocks.

  He looked at his watch. Two-thirty-nine. She would be there by now. Signing autographs. Talking to other men, in that smoky Southern accent. Smiling at them. His pedaling got a little faster. He hit a traffic jam, turned north again, and started up a moderate hill. Two-forty-two. Oh, yes, she would be there, smiling and talking. Maybe wearing a tight red dress. Blowing kisses. Maybe licking that lower lip to drive some other fool crazy. My God! he thought. He hoped Vic would have put away all those gargantuan members, so she wouldn’t be offended.

  Then John had to laugh at his own stupidity, but the laugh was strained. Those awesome things would be no surprise for Debra Rocks. She probably…well, she probably knew what they were used for.

  He pedaled on, as his wristwatch showed two-forty-four.

  It was a beautiful d
ay. Perfect for a bike ride. The wind was clean and fresh, and when he inhaled the sweet autumn air he…

  He smelled her scent, and it almost made him go over the curb and wreck.

  Two-forty-six.

  His heart was beating very hard. Slow down, he told himself. Slow down, you’ll kill yourself.

  And it came to him with brutal clarity: if he did not see Debra Rocks before three o’clock, he would never see her again in his life. And forever after—forever after—he would thrash in the sheets and wonder what her face, framed by that rich black hair, looked like.

  Not worthy! Not worthy! he shrieked at himselt as tears filled his eyes. He grazed past a pedestrian and made the man leap for his life. Not worthy! he raged inside.

  His willpower collapsed, not in bits and pieces, but as suddenly as the walls of a sand castle under a foaming, thundering wave. It just simply vanished.

  Ten minutes before three.

  John turned the bike in a quick, jarring circle and pedaled frantically toward Broadway.

  His lungs gasped and heaved. He was sweating profusely under his shirt. Still his legs pumped the pedals. Faster. Faster. He ran a red light, heard a cop’s whistle blow shrilly, but he hunkered down and kept flying.

  Seven minutes before three.

  Traffic was snarled ahead of him. He turned into an alley, raced through it and out the other side, leaving a wino grinning in his breeze. Then he was on Filbert Street, battling his way east, and then south, swerving through traffic and around pedestrians.

  Four minutes before three.

  I’m not going to make it, he realized. No way. I went too far to turn back. I went way too far…

  He raced across Vallejo, a good three blocks west of the church. The next street sign said Broadway and Taylor. He swerved violently and headed east along Broadway, and he saw the big red X in the sky. He glanced quickly at his watch: two minutes before three.

  A woman with shopping bags in her arms stepped out in front of him.

  He yelled, “Watch out!” and swerved around her, but the abrupt motion made the bike’s frame shudder and then he clamped on the brakes because he was heading straight for the display window of a Chinese grocery.