Black Ambrosia

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  And there he sat, looking small and fragile. Frail. Anxious. Waiting. Knowing.

  I twirled my cape around him and gave him my love. In the window. In the light. And I tasted the aspirin, oh, how his pain never receded. And I tasted the wine he drank and the sugar in the food he ate, I tasted the pain and more pain and the isolation and anguish, and the comics crinkled and shifted wetly beneath us and Boyd looked on at it all, and I didn’t care.

  And neither did Joshua.

  “As soon as I saw the headlines in the Denver paper, I found Seven Slopes on the map and took off. I didn’t sleep much the night before, so I was kind of spacey as I drove. I just remember two things from that trip. One is that I drove too fucking fast, I knew it at the time, but I just wanted to catch her, to have it be over, to nail her and have her put away. Away from society and out of my mind. I was too tired and I drove too fast. Luckily, I didn’t have any problems.

  “The other thing I remember was a phrase that kept running through my mind. Know how sometimes a song will get stuck in your head? Well, from the time I saw that headline, grabbed my suitcase, and was out the door, until the time I pulled into Seven Slopes, the thought that wound around my head was this: How could she . . . How could she snuggle up so warm and close to a guy and then just suck him dry? In the front window of a store, for Christ’s sake.”

  22

  Faint strains of music with a melancholy cant hung suspended in the air above me. They moved slowly, sluggishly; I urged them with a little nudge of my psyche: Liven up, become more, give me, give me . . . praise. Let me soar, take me with you and let us sing the music of the spheres!

  But instead, it felt as if it were dying, it slowly wound down with a sickening grate, like a scratched phonograph record when the plug has been pulled.

  I awakened slowly, feeling first the cold that had seeped into my bones during my sleep. I felt the darkness around me and it was good, it was comfort­able, and I felt the hard wood beneath me and around me and it was secure, it was close, it was good.

  And then I remembered Joshua, and my stomach lurched with a vile shudder. I saw his face, not in peace, but with a gruesome grin at death.

  I pushed the lid of my box open and gulped fresh air. My apartment was pitch-­black. My head swirled in sweeps of dizziness, I had to hold it with both hands to still it. Slowly I climbed out of the box and down from the table, steadying myself for a moment before dashing into the bathroom to lose everything my stomach contained.

  Black it was, the vile stuff that poured forth from my mouth and splashed in the toilet. The sweet, tangy ambrosia that had been mine the night before had turned black and diseased and hateful during the course of the day, during my sleep, bloating my stomach, now to be spewed forth in a raging gush of acid.

  Boyd’s word came to mind. Murder. I had mur­dered Joshua; there was no question. I had not acted to ease his pain; I had not acted in carefree delight; I had not acted to please Her. There had been no musical pleasure, no warmth or friendly aftermath. I had sealed Her from my life and killed anyway. I had murdered Joshua, and in so doing had lain waste my own soul.

  I lay my cheek against the stained porcelain and watched the thread of saliva that connected my lips to the swirling black mass in the water. My stomach continued to lurch convulsively with small dry heaves. I waited, beads of sweat cooling my skin as my breath echoed back from inside the bowl.

  My stick-­thin arms were the same color as the toilet; they had not seen the light of day in a year.

  I had renounced Her and yet continued to live in Her manner.

  She was gone and Joshua was gone and I had no one, no one, no one.

  No one except . . . the Boyd of my fantasies.

  Depression and despair stiffened my joints. I rested my face on arms crossed over the bowl and felt the hurt from the inside out.

  It was time to go. My time at Seven Slopes had ended. I would soon hear my footfalls on the highway again.

  Slowly I got up, showered, and dressed warmly. What had happened here? It seemed as though the past year and a half had been no more than a weird memory. I had come to Seven Slopes seeking employ­ment, fun, friends. Life had been new and exciting. My future had been shining and filled with anticipa­tory delight, and now it was dark and ugly and frightening.

  What had I done wrong? My intentions were good, at least they felt right; I had never wanted to hurt anyone, and look at what I had done . . . oh, look . . .

  My knees sagged as I considered my life in Seven Slopes. It was as if I looked at it for the very first time. Had I never considered my motives before? Had I never been honest with myself before? Had I lied and cheated and sinned like this of my own volition all this time?

  It seemed incredible.

  And right now I had a choice. I could stay and be caught; turn myself in. Or, I could leave, straighten up, and try to lessen my debt to society by becoming a contributing member. The debate wanted to go on, but I had already made my choice.

  I pulled my backpack from the closet shelf and loaded it with warm, practical clothes, leaving all the bright, spring clothes that had been so pleasurable once, but had hung, musty, for a long time. I emptied the refrigerator and fed the contents to the cats and the rats. I walked through my apartment, touching all the things, remembering how I’d acquired them, the thrill of furnishing my first apartment, paying my own way, and I felt sad to be leaving it all.

  Especially . . .

  I spread my cape over the top of the box, smoothed it out where it was stiff and crusty with Joshua’s blood. The cape on top of the box on top of the wooden table looked like a shrine. And, in a way, it was. It was a shrine to adulthood, to growing up and leaving the things of childhood behind. It was a symbol of seeking truth, and justice, and making good all wrongs.

  I would come back to Seven Slopes someday, and when I did, it would be as a good person, a nice person, an adult, and I would join the Yacht Club and play bridge and do all the right and proper things adults do.

  I opened the window in the second bedroom so the rats could climb up and out, then shut the bedroom door so the cats would not eat them as they tried to leave. I said my good-­byes to each of the cats and kittens, my friends, their yowling voices dear to me, their feline smell pleasant and comfortable. I would miss them.

  In a final gesture of farewell, I walked one last time into the bedroom, I suppose to convince myself that I was leaving, that there was no hope in staying, and as I did, I saw what they would see when they came in.

  Indignation rose through me, knowing they would soon violate my space, enter my domain, my kingdom, and they would see before them just what I was seeing now.

  Well, they would not. I swept my cape from the lid of the box, wadded it up, and stuffed it into the last space of my pack.

  Wait, Angelina, I told myself. You won’t be needing the cape. Leave it.

  And then I thought of Boyd seeing my little shrine, for surely he would, and I smiled, and returned the cape to its dramatic place atop the box. Then I hefted the pack to my shoulders, and without a backward glance, I left.

  At the top of the stairs, the frozen air fell upon my face like a mask. I looked from left to right down the deserted street. My breath plumed out before me as I tried to make a decision. Where to go. Which way. Right or left.

  The cold began to gnaw at me, and I wished for a little more meat on my bones. South. I would go to the warmer south.

  Westwater.

  Lewis.

  My boot heels quickly regained their familiar rhythmic beat; my stride had purpose, and I headed for the pay telephone next to the library. Small change jangled in my pocket and I thought there would probably be enough for a quick conversation. All the way there, I argued with myself about whether to call or to just show up. If I called, he could tell me not to come. If I just arrived at his house, he could refuse me in per
son. Which would be worse? But surely he would want to see me. Lewis had loved me once, there had to be residue from that. I had to at least offer him the opportunity. Maybe we could regain what we had . . . maybe we had both grown, changed.

  As I deposited the coins, my mind flickered back to West­water, to the teen dance, to Boyd’s truck and that haunting, magical night we spent together, to the bus station and the man in the coat with the beaver collar. Could I really return?

  Then the line was ringing, and a female voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  I was shocked into silence for a moment, and she repeated, “Hello?” It was the voice of a woman; I could see her, tall and thin, with raven-­dark hair, a good cook and probably a tennis player. She and Lewis were young and healthy together, a good match, an up-­and-­coming pair, the beginnings of a lifetime of family. What on earth was I doing?

  I cleared my throat, and in a voice that sounded so young, so weak, so inferior, I said, “Is Lewis home?”

  “No, I’m afraid he’s not. May I take a message? Are you calling long-­distance?”

  “Yes, I’m a friend of his from a long time ago . . .” A baby cried in the background. “. . . and I just wanted to talk with him for a moment.”

  “Well, can he call you back?” Not an ounce of jealousy in her voice. She’s secure.

  “No, no, is this his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, no message. Tell me, is he well?”

  “Yes, he’s fine. We’re all fine.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “That’s all I really wanted to know.”

  “Well, okay. You’re sure . . .”

  “I’m sure. Thank you. Good-­bye.” I hung up, and pressed my forehead to the side of the booth.

  Up-­and-­coming Lewis. Housing appreciation. No, he and I could never, never.

  I was headed back on the road again, with no destination, with no direction, knowing no one, start­ing over again, fighting not only myself and the adolescent pressures of growing up, but fighting the elements and the social conditions of life as well.

  It was almost too much to carry.

  I thought briefly of Rolf, thought of going to Pennsylvania. I thought of Boyd, I knew he would not be married with a child. I thought of the local police station, of a warm cup of chocolate and someone to confide in.

  I turned away from the phone booth, already exhausted, shoulders aching from the psychological load, and looked into the winter sky, saw a few snowflakes falling by the streetlight. The town was deserted. Of course. It was Christmas Eve.

  I needed a place in which to heal, to change. I needed someone to help me, to teach me, to show me how.

  And all of a sudden I knew where to go. Sarah. Surely her invitation was still good. She probably even had a Christmas tree.

  “The police opened her apartment as soon as I arrived, which was about three days loo late. I, like, saw it when she killed that poor guy, that newspaper vendor, and when I read about it, I knew where she was and drove up there right away. Seems everybody in town knew Angelina, and everybody had nice things to say about her. About the worst comment I got was that she was a little odd, but nobody would believe that she could’ve done the damage she had.

  “Until we opened her apartment.

  “God, it was awful. The whole place was black. Walls, table, curtains, all black. It smelled like a den, or a lair, or a bat cave. There were the remnants of apparently what the cats had been eating for the days since she’d been gone. The cats smelled bad enough, but . . . well, it was pretty hard to take. The place was absolutely filthy, with the window open and the cats in and out, and more cats, and cats in heat and fighting and litters under the table, and oh, Jesus.

  “The window in the back bedroom had been left open and rats had come in and nested in there, but the police chased them out and closed the window behind them.

  “In the other bedroom was a mattress on the floor, all torn up and clawed, and a table with a coffin on it, for Christ’s sake. The policeman in front of me backed out of that room so fast he almost knocked me over. He crossed himself and wouldn’t go near it. I was afraid too, but knew it had to be opened. The other policemen were happy to let me do it.

  “A yellow tom cat had draped himself across the top. I shooed him away and he spit at me and jumped down. The box was covered with a piece of blue or black terrycloth. I pulled it off—one side was all stiff, hardened. The police put it into a plastic bag. Under­neath was the coffin.

  “The coffin was patched together with bent nails and rough edges, it was no more than a coffin-­shaped box—a crate, actually. I looked at that thing and knew I was going to open it, and wondered what the hell I was doing there. I tried to steel myself, and lifted the lid.

  “It was empty, but not completely. My initial rush of relief that there wasn’t somebody inside was quickly overcome when I smelled the scent from the box. I leaned over and sniffed, and it was unmistakable. Then I knew. I knew for sure. There was no doubt. It was Angelina’s scent. I knew it from memory, she’d left it inside of my truck, impressed on my coat, everywhere. She had a particular smell, as we all do, but it always smelled like perfume in my mind.

  “Now, here, it smelled the same, there was no mistake. It was strong, but it was also different, it was more . . . God, how do I describe it? Feral? Animal? It’s like once you’ve smelled a foxhole, you never forget it. Like that.

  “So I knew in that moment that finding Angelina would be no small task. She had turned, all right. She’d be crafty. But I also had some important things on my side. She was really sick. Really sick. Sick enough to sleep in a . . . God.

  “Sick people, unless they get well, keep getting sicker.”

  23

  There was little traffic that Christmas Eve. I walked the highway bearing southwest out of Seven Slopes, quickly leaving the entire experience behind me. I walked into the endless night, freezing cold, with only the stars for light. My body was heavy, burdened with sadness, with loneliness.

  Two miles down the highway, I connected with the main freeway. A light snow fell and I kicked pebbles out of my way and felt through the soles of my boots for the vibration that indicated an approaching truck. With each one that passed me by, I stepped more boldly into their paths so they inevitably honked their monstrous air horns and had to steer around me. Couldn’t they see that I needed a ride? It was Christmas, after all. Where had Christianity gone? Then the truck would roar past, the backwash nearly knocking me from my feet, sucking me into the giant tires, and just for a moment, it would be warm, warm from the friction, and then it was cold again, in the freezing wind, and soon the silence returned, always deeper than before, and then even the asphalt vibration ceased. The world was a desperately lonely place.

  I walked on, trying to keep my mind on my stride, on the miles going by, on the next town, which surely couldn’t be far away. My destination seemed abominably distant—so distant that it was not even a reality, it was a farfetched goal. I don’t think I really believed that I’d make it all the way to New Mexico. It was too cold, I was too tired, too used up.

  And then I noticed a glow in the sky ahead. I looked behind me to make sure, yes, the sky was definitely lighter ahead. A town. Soon I’d come over a ridge and see a cafe sign, the first truck stop this side of town, and it would be warm and serve hot choco­late and I could stay in there and rest, warm up and maybe even get a ride south, maybe one ride all the way, all the way to New Mexico.

  Then I heard my boot heels, felt their rhythm, and the old feeling washed through me. I felt it, but was reluctant to give in to it; my misery had kept me warm all these miles. But there it was, undeniable excitement. I had left Her behind; I was getting out of town, making a new start. What on earth had I to be morose about? Life was good; I was free. I was intelligent and able; my past need not haunt me.

  I
skipped a few steps as the glow in the sky became brighter. My whole body tingled in freedom. I felt the tremble in the ground, it grew to a rumble, and the next truck stopped and gave me a ride.

  It was warm in the cab, and the driver had a thermos of hot coffee that he shared. We drove right through that town, and the next, my teeth chattering in the warmth of the truck. I had no conception of how cold I’d been until I started to warm up, and then the task seemed impossible. Frost had etched the marrow of my bones.

  The driver’s name was Ned, and he was a nice boy. I often caught him peering at me with curiosity, and while I was loath to be rude to him—he was, after all, giving me a ride, warmth, and coffee—I did not appreciate his overt interest. I located a blanket behind my seat and wrapped up in it.

  “You a runaway?”

  “From what?”

  “You know. School. Family.”

  “No. I have no family.”

  “Where you headed?”

  Exasperating, his questions. “New Mexico.”

  “Got family there?”

  “I have no family, as I said. I have friends there.”

  “Aren’t you awful young?”

  This was too much. I turned to look right into his face, so he needn’t keep sneaking peeks around my coat collar. “I’m not too young,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said, obviously embarrassed. “I’m sorry. At first you seemed a lot younger. I see now . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Silent miles rolled by.

  “So when was the last time you ate?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  “What is your interest here? Are you trying to make conversation or be my keeper?”

  “Listen. I pick up what I think is a half-­frozen, starving little kid on the side of the road. I ain’t supposed to pick up riders anyway. I’m just trying to help you out and all you do is give me lip.”

  He was right. I retreated into the folds of blanket.