Obediently I followed, hiding the pain that rocked the top of my skull as I stood, feeling very small and inexperienced. It didn’t occur to me until later—until it was too late—that she had told me that night people were always out looking for something. Instead of asking her name, I should have asked what she wanted in return for the ride.
But by then I already knew.
“I felt her moving away from me. I felt her moving south, and it was all I could do to stay in Seven Slopes and wait. I itched to be back on the road, back on the trail, but all my information was routed here, and I had to wait. Waiting is the hardest part of the hunt. I just prayed to have one of those experiences where I could see out of her eyes so I could look around and maybe recognize a landmark or something . . . It was hard, that waiting. The hardest waiting I’ve ever done. To be so close . . .
“And then I felt Angelina hurting, hurting real bad, and all the disgust and all the hate I’d felt for her melted, as if . . . well, it just melted. Then I didn’t want to hunt her anymore, I wanted to hold her. I wanted to stop her from hurting, stop her from hurting others. I felt that if I could stop one, the other would automatically stop. If she didn’t hurt anybody else, she wouldn’t hurt herself.
“I spent most of my time in the Hot-Dogger Bar, trying to figure out my life, and that’s where they found me when they finally got word.”
25
Her suit was tailored, her coat leather, her car luxurious. Rosemary took old-lady steps over packed snow to her car, got in, and started it up with a wild cloud of frosty exhaust. I walked slowly, more like an old man, and by the time I was able to swing my deadening legs inside, the interior was warming quickly. The pain clouded my brain, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. If it had been a pain I could press, a pain I could grit my teeth against, an acute pain, one I could scream over, it might have been easier. But it was just an infernal ache, a continual, inescapable, nauseating ache.
The miles rolled beneath us as I agonized, trying everything I knew to rid myself of the pain, or at least to ease it. Rosemary’s presence was comforting, I could feel her shiny eyes on me as she checked me every now and again, sometimes patting my shoulder as she did.
It was a long time before I could speak, before I could offer Rosemary any company. And that was only after She came for me, to offer me bribes, to lure me back to the old ways.
I fell through, for the briefest of moments, into the void, and She was there. She cupped my chin in Her hands, ever so delicately, and Her touch was like velvet. Her love and warmth surrounded my delirious head, She cooled my forehead with Her breath, lay Her cheek next to mine, and I knew Her offer.
She would lift the pain.
It was such a compelling idea, to have normal, pain-free legs. I dwelled for a moment on how wonderful it would be, and for another moment on how much I had missed Her (oh, yes, that was the ache that I felt) and I opened my eyes to look upon Her loving face. Boyd stared at me from over Her shoulder, he judged me, and reality slammed me back into the car, by Rosemary’s side, into the pain of my frostbitten legs.
“No!” I said, teeth gritted. “I won’t pay that price!”
Rosemary’s eyes were wide with alarm and I began to talk—began to talk about Sarah.
Sarah. She had made it on her own. Lived, loved, raised her son, held a job, cooked meals. Adult. Responsible. Led a healthy life. Sarah would show me how. She was a good person, a kind person. She had helped me once; she would save me now.
Sarah. The very thought of her swarthy, part-Indian, maybe part-Oriental, complexion, and her broad, straight teeth in a big unself-conscious smile, was enough to make me sit up straight. She had everything I wanted. She had feelings, she had love. She had friends, and knew how to be a friend. She had family—a son. I wanted a son someday; I wanted a place of my own filled with bright colors and patterns and light. Fresh air. I wanted a stove and a singing teapot. I wanted a job and a car and a way to help strangers in need.
I looked at Rosemary, hooked over the steering wheel like a little bird. I didn’t always want to be the one who needed help.
My legs ached.
The miles rolled by and so did the hours. Eventually patches of city lights began to shine down on me, curled up on the car seat, holding my knees. Rosemary made a series of turns. The streetlights slid in different patterns across the seat. Then we stopped. She turned off the engine, and the silence was a friend. Her cool hand touched my forehead.
“Wait right here and I’ll send someone out for you,” she said, then left, slamming the door behind her. A few moments later, a big Indian man opened the door and lifted me out, carried me effortlessly and silently up an old wooden stairway and through a door that Rosemary held open. The room smelled musty, old. It was a pleasant smell—dry and warm. He lay me on a sagging bed, then took cash from her and grunted as he left.
The bedspread beneath me had once been yellow chenille, but was now faded and stained. I shivered and rubbed my arms in semi-conscious misery, looking around at the peeling wallpaper, then looked at Rosemary as she locked the door and began to take off her coat. Her eyes shone like ball bearings.
“A little Christmas present, Angelina. Just a little Christmas present for an old lady, for an old, old lady.” She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled wet strands of hair from my feverish, perspiring forehead. “An old lonesome lady wants a little Christmas cheer,” she crooned. “Just a little Christmas cheer.”
I was too exhausted, too sick, to protest. I saw the loneliness on her face, saw the desperation, saw the fear of rejection, I knew the feeling. I felt the dawn and turned my head toward the window. It was still dark, but I could feel it, it pulled the darkness from me and with the darkness went the last of my strength.
“Rose,” I said.
She was unbuttoning my shirt. She stopped and ran her fingers across my cheek.
“What is it?”
“It’s dawn.”
“You go right ahead. I understand.”
“Please . . . You’ll be gentle?”
“Of course.” And she bent over me and kissed me as tenderly as ever anyone could.
My consciousness faded, and soon I was in the cold land of dreamless, timeless inactivity. The lifeless place of the undead.
I awakened slowly to the ache, the ever-present ache in my legs. I felt vague unpleasantry—something was not right. In fact, it seemed that something hurt, or my body didn’t fit me right anymore, but the scalding ache in my legs overshadowed most other sensations. I was warm, there seemed to be pounds of blankets atop me, and I wasn’t alone. Rosemary’s tiny form was curled up, naked, at my back.
The moment I began to turn toward her, I made the second discovery—my bonds.
Shock silenced me for a long moment while I examined the leather thongs that bound my forearms together at the elbows and wrists. They were wide, of professional quality with polished silver studs and shackles. There were others that joined my legs together at the knees and ankles; the straps that held my knees were cinched tight to the straps that held my elbows, all of which fastened to a cord that connected with the bedframe. I was trussed up tightly, my knees held almost to my chest. Helpless.
My mind was always sluggish as I first awakened, and it took me a long while to puzzle out that I was being held against my will. But maybe Rosemary had just fallen asleep before she could end her game. Surely she wouldn’t . . .
“Rosemary. Rosemary, wake up.” I struggled to my back, knees in the air, tenting the covers.
An old, old face turned toward me. Devoid of makeup, Rosemary’s wrinkled, puffy face merely acted as grotesque framework for those glittering brown eyes, those sharp pinpoints that captured each nuance of winter-evening light and bore deeply into me. “Hello,” she said. “Sleep well?”
“I’m tied up.”
“Oh, yes.” Bony fingers caressed the leather straps, feeling the edges where they pressed into my skin. “Oh, yes,” she repeated, breathlessly. My skin crawled. She yawned and stretched, then slid her scrawny body out of bed and walked naked through a door that I hadn’t noticed the night before. I heard the sounds of running water and suddenly my bladder was full. The toilet flushed and she came out again, walking toward me, sagging breasts loosely moving.
“Please untie me.”
“Oh, I can’t do that yet.”
“Rosemary!” I was astonished and beginning to be afraid.
“Don’t be afraid.” She sat on the edge of the bed, but I shrank away from her. “Rose doesn’t want you to leave for a while, okay? Just a little while, and then we’ll get into the car and Rosemary will drive you to Sarah’s. That’s what you want, right? Sarah’s? We’ll get to Sarah’s, just . . . just a little more Christmas for Rose, okay?” Her hand stroked my arm, lulling me. I was still on my guard, but helpless, and wanting to trust her, wanting desperately to believe her. “Rosemary just wants some company right now, okay? Okay? Then she’ll drive you to Sarah’s.” She crooned to me, and I felt almost sleepy as she did, until her clawlike nails dragged furrows in my arm and I shouted with the pain of it, shamed as my bladder let loose for a moment.
“Shhhh, Angelina, sweet Angelina. I’m sorry, did we hurt you? Poor sweet baby. Here, let Rosemary make it all better,” and she grabbed the leather straps with a horrible strength and rolled me over so I lay curled on my side facing the edge of the bed. Blood seeped from my arm into the sheets. Then she walked around the bed and got under the covers behind me.
Oh, God, I thought. Oh, God. For a ride to Sarah’s. For a ride to Sarah’s. I can stand this; I can stand anything for a ride to Sarah’s.
There was an alternative. I knew She would spare me this humiliation, this ultimate degradation. I knew I had only to call Her, and together She and I would put an end to Rosemary and her disgusting Christmas cheer.
I felt Rosemary’s body heat, her skin could have been no more than a half inch from mine as she lay there, and my every fiber was alive with fear and expectation. I knew she would touch me, but I did not know where or when, or with what, and the terrible anticipation grew to immense proportions. Little vibrations moved the bed as she fiddled with something, I knew not what, but I knew that I was soon to discover the true extent of her deviation. I was again helpless in the face of life, in the literal claws of this horrible woman, and I had had enough of it.
The temptation to call upon Her was almost overwhelming.
And then it came. Something horribly wet and cold slipped between the cheeks of my buttocks, and everything that had built up in me over the past days threatened to burst forth. I felt the newness of the night, felt its strength. I felt Her within, and I grasped my hair with both hands and held on for dear life; I held on, trying not to give in in the face of this loathsome experience, trying to think only of Sarah, of Sarah and Samuel, and of her healing me, that which I truly wanted most in the world.
I knew that I could stand this. A ride to Sarah’s was my reward. I could stand this. I would get to Sarah’s.
My skin crawled and inadvertent moans of disgust rose from the bottom of my soul as Rosemary kept me tethered to the bed all night, her imagination growing ever more disgusting. I was powerless to stop her, powerless to save myself, my crippled legs giving me the only peace I could find. I dove into the excruciating ache as Rosemary whiled away the hours, snickering and giggling with her perverted talk and laughter, and I lived for the pain of my legs and tried to ignore her for hours on end as she fiddled with me and her suitcase full of specialty items.
After what seemed like lifetimes had passed, I felt the tug of the dawn, and blessed unconsciousness slipped over me like a shroud.
“One of the things my daddy stressed to me when he was first teaching me about hunting—in fact, he mentioned it before each trip we went on—was: ‘Be sure you know what you’re going after, son, and why. And don’t be comin’ back with anything else. Come back with nothin’ if you need to, but don’t be comin’ back with just any old thing to make the trip worthwhile.’
“The more I had to sit there in that Colorado bar and wait for Angelina to surface, the more I had to sit and think about why I was after her to begin with. Hell, I’d had a good job, had my pa and my brother Bill back in Westwater. I could be construction-project foreman by now, or I could have been going back to school, or doing something with my life, instead of sitting in a stupid Seven Slopes bar all the time, drinking coffee in the morning and beer at night, trying to figure out how to catch that slippery little girl.
“What for, Boyd, I kept asking myself. You kill a deer, or a pig, or a rabbit for meat. For food. For life. Why are you after Angelina with such a desperation?
“Because I didn’t want school. And I didn’t want work. I didn’t want the same old friends and the same old place to live, right near my old man and Bill, anymore. I was hunting something new in my life. Angelina was just the symbol of that. I was ready for a change from Westwater and all it had to offer, which wasn’t much.
“No, this hunt had become something more to me. I was pursuing the bizarre, the strange, the threatening, the exciting. I was pursuing a quarry that was smart, through an element that was uncertain. It was the most exciting thing of my life.
“And I wasn’t about to ‘come back with nothin’.’ The next time I saw Westwater, I would be a different man.”
26
I awoke again at sundown. The bed was soaked with my bodily excretions; my skin was chapped and sore where the leather straps had held the acidic moisture to my skin. The room smelled of the things I imagined a well-used prison cell to hold—urine, sweat, pain, and disgust.
I was alone.
Slowly, each minor movement a major difficulty, I slipped out of bed onto the floor. The gray-brown carpet was worn through to its string weave in a path from the door to the bed, and from the bed around to the bathroom. Using the bed as support for my aching legs, I pulled myself to my feet and shakily walked to the bathroom, my entire being feeling violated and desecrated.
I showered until I felt dizzy, scrubbing every inch of my body, trying to scour away the feeling of the old woman’s probing fingers, but the memories clung too deeply. I scrubbed, opening the scabs on my arm, and blood mixed with soap and shampoo and water and swirled down the drain in the stained shower floor.
The tears came when I knew I couldn’t scrub deep enough, and I leaned against the cold shower stall, sliding soapily down as my poor knees gave way under the weight of my sobs. I sat in the bottom, hard spray pelting the top of my head and shoulders, and I cried with all the strength I had left. I knew I was paying for my sins, I knew that I had deserved everything Rosemary dished out, and probably more. I wailed and sobbed and shook my feeble fist at God, and finally I just cried.
Eventually, my strength for self-pity was exhausted, and so was the hot water. I reached up and turned it off, then pulled the curtain aside and used it to help balance me as I straightened out my deteriorating legs. A fresh towel was on the sink, and next to it stood all the necessary toiletries as well as some light makeup, lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara. I dried the shivers from my skin with the towel and wrapped it around me.
Back in the main room, I threw the sheets and blankets over the cesspool of a bed, and found my pack on a torn imitation-velvet chair. The clothes I had worn—two nights ago? two years ago?—had been cleaned, pressed, and folded neatly. On top of the clothes was a sealed envelope with “Angelina” penned on it with a flourish, and leaning next to the chair was a beautiful new cherrywood cane.
I picked up the cane to admire it. The handle was fashioned as a brass lizard, intricately carved, with its tail winding almost halfway down the wood, ending in a little lizardlike curl. It fit my small hand perfectly, m
y fingers closing around its cold throat. The cane was short, exactly right for my size. I loved it and hated it, needed it and resented it. Bless her, curse her. I sat on the edge of the chair, cane between my knees, and fingered the envelope. I lay it down again, unopened, and dressed.
She was gone. My ride to Sarah’s gone. I had endured all—that, and now . . . nothing.
I was so disappointed I could have raged, except I had no energy for it. All my energy had flowed out in tears and swirled down the shower drain.
Once dressed, feeling tidy and clean, comfortable and warm, I again sat in the chair, cane across my lap, and opened the envelope.
Inside were three sheets of lavender notepaper, each one covered with a fine writing.
My dearest Angelina:
I am always filled with remorse after I succumb to my baser passions. Regaining my senses is always a shock, yet I maintain this flat for just such emergencies. I prefer to be prepared for my perversities than to fall victim to them in more terrible ways.
I am writing this as you sleep the deep slumber of one who’s no stranger to baser passions, the ancient ones, if my instincts are correct. This is what makes me feel that you will understand, as few do, the depth of remorse of which I speak.
My remorse is such at this moment that I dare not face you this evening. I am afraid. I am afraid of your reaction when I loose you in the darkness, and I am afraid that my own guilt and self-loathing will drive me to succumb to you. And I cannot do that, for I have those who depend upon me.
And so I leave you here, augmenting my guilt and remorse. But it, too, will pass. I sincerely hope you find your way to your friend Sarah, and to assist you with your journey, please accept the gift of this cane.
I don’t know if this will in any way repay you for the ordeal you endured here, but let me add this: Never before have I been so thoroughly entertained by one as soft and tender as you. The experience of the past two nights has been one of sublime ecstasy for my departed morals, and for that I am much indebted.
Black Ambrosia Page 17