by Devon, Gary;
“But they gotta tell you something.”
“Not any more than what’s in the newspapers. I don’t know. Everything kinda went haywire. All I know is one of the waitresses said a woman took ’em—a woman like you say, with a little girl.”
“I know it,” he said. “She’s the one that’s doin’ this stuff. It’s crazy. I don’t why she’s doin’ it. She don’t look crazy. I showed you her picture.”
“I get all kinds of crazy calls. Crank calls. Just this evenin’ somebody called, some reporter, and said Walter had been seen way south of here in Deaconsville, but when I called the police, they said it wasn’t confirmed.” She straightened and wiped her face with her hand. “Wait here,” she said. “I want to show you something.” She went through the arched doorway and he heard her moving in the living room. He started to go after her, still afraid to trust her, but she returned, carrying her purse. She flipped the switch for the ceiling light. She flipped it again and looked at him. She flipped it a few more times. “Now, what’s happened? Did you do something to my lights?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “It’s prob’ly the storm. Line down somewhere.”
She took another drink. “I hate this goddammed place more every day. Nothing works right. I don’t know why I stay here. I’ll rustle us up a light. You wait here. I’ll be right back.” She walked away unsteadily. When she came back, she had brushed her blonde hair down over one eye like Veronica Lake; she wore perfume and she carried a lighted candle. She proceeded to drag some of the contents from her purse—a compact, car keys—until her hand closed on a fat billfold.
Mrs. Aldridge showed him billfold snapshots, tearing the pictures from the straining plastic leaves and holding them up in front of him. “Here’s Walter when he was three, and here’s one of Patsy on her fourth birthday on a pony, and here’s a fairly new picture of ’em taken last April.” Another snapshot showed all four of them in front of a stage set with palm trees. “That’s Jerry, my husband. But I’ve got a better one of the kids,” she said, slipping the pictures one behind the other like playing cards, almost shuffling them in her haste. She stood stooped at his side, leaning forward, her body warm and full in the slinky nightgown, and when she moved, the cloth seethed against her. He could feel an almost feverish heat radiating from her as he stood trapped in her adamant recital.
“Why don’t you take this one of Patsy and Walter? So you’ll recognize ’em. If you see ’em, you could call …” She laid it on the table. Slowly she straightened and looked at him. “Could I see the picture of that woman again? It was dark in here and I couldn’t get a good look at her.” He dug the picture out and held it up. She reached for it, but he hated to let go of it and relinquished it slowly. This time she held the photograph near the candle and studied it at length. Her hand roamed the table till it covered her drink. She took a big swig and licked her lips. “You’re sure this is the woman?”
Sherman nodded. “That’s her.” She’s drunk, he thought. That’s what’s wrong with this. It’s been wrong all along.
She took another, slower drink. “You know quite a bit about this, doncha? For just a kid? Who are you, anyway? How’d you get in here? Did I leave the damn door open or what?” He didn’t answer, watched her close. “Whew,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking of. We have to get this down to the police. I better call ’em.”
“You better just give it back,” he said, “and I’ll go ahead.” He reached for the photograph, but she swung from him, sloshing her drink. “Oh, you can’t leave now,” she said. “This’s important.”
He couldn’t think of a way to explain to her in words that wouldn’t betray him how much he detested and feared the police. She tucked the photograph under her arm, took the candle, and left the room, the flame lighting her face in grotesque waves. He trailed after her, saw her go to her bedroom. Through the darkened doorway, in the pool of candlelight, he watched her dial the telephone, flick the receiver button several times, and slam the receiver down. He stopped just inside the bedroom door. “Now the damned phone’s dead,” she said. “This goddammed weather’s knocked everything out.”
“Give me back my picture,” he said. “I gotta go.”
“Ah, listen,” she said, “you can’t go now after all I’ve been through. I’d give anything to have my kids back. You gotta come with me. We can take my car. We’ll be down at police headquarters in ten minutes. Please. You’ve got to. Come on.” She nudged him along, ushered him back to the dark living room. “Just give me five minutes. I have to get dressed. I’ll be ready in five minutes. Promise.” She closed the bedroom door and left him staring at the doorknob.
His pulse moved in great jolts; shock ran through him like acid. In and around him everything was collapsing; even the grainy blue film of the air tasted sour. If only she would change her mind, return his picture, and unwind his tension in a clean, straight line. But she wouldn’t; he knew she wouldn’t. Not without some really bad trouble. He prowled back and forth outside her bedroom door, caught in a slipstream of desperation. Everything was speeded up and breaking down, beyond his control. He felt dizzy, and shut his eyes till he steadied. He could feel events slipping away from him just as they had that night with the cabdriver, only this time the stakes were even higher. He wouldn’t go to the police with her, absolutely could not. But even if he didn’t go, she would tell them all about him. He had to get his picture back. If they traced it to him, they’d find out everything and put him away forever. With dread, he unzipped his jacket, shrugged till it fell to the floor. He flicked his pocketknife open and held it prone in his hip pocket. Outside her bedroom door he tried to shake the jitters, but it only made things worse. He couldn’t wait any longer. Keeping his good hand on the knife in his pocket, he turned the doorknob with his bandaged hand and slipped inside.
She had put on her high-heeled shoes, nothing else. For an instant, in the wiggly light, her image clung to his imagination—the line of her body, breasts nipping and wobbling on the air, hammocky and poised in their suspension. The high heels sculpted her legs, the double round shape of her hips rolled up by the cat-curl of her body as she drew underwear from a bureau drawer—all of her burnished with the feeble light. He could feel the moments destruct and disintegrate one by one. As she lurched up, swayed up like a cobra, his wrapped hand flicked over the candle on the nightstand and the light winked out.
“Hey, what’d you do that for?” Her voice sounded irritated, but his action had scared her. As the darkness flexed on his eyes, he could hear her breath quiver in her throat.
Until his eyes adjusted, he was only able to see her as a dark moving shape in this dark box. His muscles were vibrating and the sweat was slick on his face. The bank of dull streetlight contained his shadow for only an instant. He stepped through it and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, hurriedly calculating the distance to where she stood. “Oh, what’sa matter with you? Never seen a girl get dressed before?” Her voice had turned haughty and brash. “What are you, some kind of weirdo? Come bargin’ in here?” She let her body drift into a sullen pose. “Why don’t you take a good look, then? Get a real eyeful. Then get the hell outa here.” She’d painted her face into a vivid mask and in the dull light he saw her now for what she was: coarse and not ashamed of anything, capable of anything. She would tell them every damned thing they wanted to know. “I mean it,” she said. “Don’t worry about your measly picture. It’ll be right here. Now, get out of here, get out of this bedroom. You hear me? I want you OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! RIGHT NOW!”
“I told you not to scream!” His voice slammed tight from his throat. “Give me back my goddammed picture!”
Very fast, as he spoke, she twisted to the bed and slipped her robe on. “Where d’you get off tellin’ me what to do in my own house? I’m going to the police. And you’re goin’ with me.”
He turned bone cold. “You can’t take me to the police,” he said, his voice flat and quiet. “Nobody can.” He edged toward her.
“Oh, yeah? Well, we’re goin’,” she said. “You better believe it. They’ll have to listen to us, now that we’ve got that picture.” Just then she seemed to realize that he was moving relentlessly toward her, and in fright her glance darted past him in frantic search of escape.
“I won’t go to the goddammed police,” he said. “Where’s my picture?” A few more steps and he could reach her before she did anything. Force it from her. But she hurled the hand mirror at him, wheeled and ran, her heels flipping behind her at odd angles. He skimmed through the dark, diving for her, and caught a fist of her hair as she yelped and sprang through the bedroom door. He yanked her back, her feet coming off the floor. With astonishing speed, his arm flung out and the knife drove deep across her throat. Her legs skipped the air, the cry severed in her voice box. Twice her arms flailed in the confusion; a fingernail opened a burning lid of flesh above his left eye. He stabbed her again and again and again, and she was reclining on the air. When at last she fell back, the force of gravity pulled him along with her and he rode through her fall. They smacked the floor hard, he straddled her, and the hot red blood poured from the opened regions of her face.
And time passed, minutes … and longer … and he stayed with her. Under the hard press of his hands he could feel her exhale the last faint breath. Just as he let go, a long rippling shudder coursed through her body, more violent and absolute than anything preceding it. When he opened his stinging eyes, the woman’s blank eyes looked through and past him; nothing moved in her face, not an eyelash. She was not breathing. On her lips a bloody bubble broke, the tip of her tongue just breaking the pale rim of her lips, and he began to tremble and gasp.
Dimly the outlines of the room returned to him, tinged with haze. He was covered with blood. Leaning into the bed, he picked up the chenille bedspread and wiped his face. He squatted beside her. In the abrupt stillness, as he watched the night, he saw hundreds of glittering eyes winking at him like fish surfacing from the black water of a magical pond, each showing him a shattered sparkling piece of himself. He stood and pulled the bedspread over the body and most of the broken mirror. He wiped the blade on his pants, closed the knife, and put it away.
Holding his wrapped hand out from his side, he unbuttoned the middle three buttons of his shirt and withdrew the collection of papers—newspaper articles, his map, the torn photographs—and laid them on the bureau. He removed the bloody sweatshirt, wiped his face with it, dropped it. He pulled the T-shirt from his pants, grabbed the bottom edge, and pulled it up, damp and stinking, over his head. He dropped it and again took up the sweatshirt, scrubbed it across his chest and under his arms, and tossed it aside.
Dragging his feet with exhaustion, he went to the door and let the Chinaman in, caught a reviving breath of cold air, and reset the door chain. As soon as the dog smelled blood, he began to whine and go stiff-legged. Sherman had to quickly shut the bedroom door. Then, in the living room, the Chinaman shook himself, slinging water high and wide, the slapdash shudder moving down his dark coat from head to tail as he wrung himself out. He looked woolly as he followed Sherman to the kitchen. They ate ravenously. The dog gulped ham scraps and chocolate cake in huge swallows, his coat heaving on his bony frame.
Scattered on the kitchen table were the billfold photographs Mrs. Aldridge had shown to Sherman. He picked them up, one after another, and held them in a streak of moonlight, glancing at the fixed smiling faces of utter strangers. I’ve come a long way, he thought, to get no further than this. He let the last photograph drop, the one showing the little family standing among the cardboard palm trees.
Tired and spent, his rage depleted for now, his hunger satisfied, he sat at the dinette table listening to the muffled sound of the wind and watching the last of the rain trickle on the window, and it all seemed so familiar. Slowly he lifted his head and heard far away the creaking slap of a screen door, silverware tinkling, Mamie’s laughter, the sound of his family’s voices as they sat around the supper table at home. He stiffened and swallowed the pain in his throat, but already the glimpse of home had vanished as if a dream had suddenly burst in his heart and dwindled to nothing. A weary sob emptied his throat for all that had been lost and set loose within him. When he spoke to the Chinaman, it was not with sorrow or remorse, but with longing. “We don’t have a home,” he said. “It’s gone. It’s gone. Burned up.”
Unsteadily, he stood. Turning the dead kitchen light switch to off, he went down the basement stairs and fixed the fuses. In the living room, he told the Chinaman to get up on the couch and made him lie down. The dog lowered his head on his paws and groaned. Sherman picked the dirtied tape-flap loose and unwound the bandage on his hand.
Under the bathroom lights the sight of his ruined hand sickened him. Inflamed and swollen, the skin was cracked like old parchment. It was almost unrecognizable as a hand; it gave off a nauseating stench. As gently as he could, hardly touching it, he washed it. Braced against the cold rim of the sink, grinding his teeth, he dabbed peroxide on the infected parts and dabbed it off, yellow and singeing. Then he took a bath, letting the water saturate and warm him, the delicate odor of the soap lingering. The night’s ugliness seeped from his pores. When he had dried himself, he brushed his wet hair straight back with the silver-plated brush from her boudoir set and found the torn photograph edged among the perfume bottles. He dressed his hand and wrapped it in bandages from the medicine cabinet.
He cleaned his clothes as well as he could, but the sweatshirt and the corduroy pants couldn’t be saved. Stolen, they never did fit right anyway; tomorrow he would have to bury them. His other pair of pants, the jeans he wore under the corduroys, weren’t stained so badly that he couldn’t wear them. In her bureau, he found clean underwear and a white sweatshirt stained with yellow paint, all too big—her husband’s, he guessed—but he had no choice: he had to take them. He found the woman’s car keys in her purse and took them. At the first light of dawn, he and the Chinaman went outside.
Graying with light, the air was chill and wet. The freezing rain had again turned to snow. From the back of the house, he took the stone walk past the side of the garage to the alleyway. Around him, the dark windows reflected black tree shadows. He walked slowly, his hands limp at his sides. This morning he was acutely conscious of his hands.
Other than the twittering of a robin or wren, all was quiet. Among the trees a few shriveled patches of frost striped the ground; leaves scuttled. And the snow was falling. Sherman turned to listen for any odd sound. Listened. Nothing. He opened the wide garage door on its creaking pulleys and tried the key in the car trunk, where he stashed the bundle of bloody clothes and bandages. He shoved the trunk shut and tried the other keys until one of them fit the ignition. He called the Chinaman into the car.
He sat behind the steering wheel, studying the unfamiliar panel of instruments and dials. He shifted the lever into neutral. With his foot on the clutch, he turned the key in the ignition. The motor whined and throbbed. Slowly he eased the gear shift down to reverse. As he let out the clutch and touched the gas pedal, the car slipped back, caught the edge of the garage door, scraping red paint, and rolled into the dim morning. He practiced driving back and forth on side streets before he headed out of town.
On River Road Drive, the scant morning traffic came off the curved ramps and whisked by, the headlights hurtling and flickering like meteors. In no time, he passed between the statues, like bookends, on either side of Hoover Drive, the brass Indians on horseback, ancient hosts of the city of Coolidge, Pennsylvania. He could smell the age of the city. Old bricks crumbling to atoms of red dust; soot and smoke and mustiness. He crossed the metal drawbridge, and the façade of the city shimmered in the snowy morning light, while all around the red Ford coupe the occasional throb and whoosh of traffic created a beautiful pandemonium in the early dawn.
11
“Maamie … ohhh, Maamie, time to come to supper.”
“Comin’! … Now, you girls be good and when I get
back we’ll—Uh-oh, Elsie, your dress fell off again. Shame on you. Naughty. Naughty girl …”
“Maamie! Put those paper dolls up. Come on, now.”
“Okay, Mama! I’m comin’!”
“La-di-dah,” Toddy said. “Look at you. Where’d you get so dressed up?”
“These’re all my favorite clothes. Mama said I could wear ’em. Race ya.”
“Okay. Ready, get set, go.”
“Wheeeee!”
“Hey, bannisters is no fair.”
“Look who’s here,” Sherman said. “It’s Loretta Young.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hi, Loretta.”
“It’s the Queen of Sheba,” Toddy said, “and she cheats.”
“Pkpkppkppkppk!”
“Loretta, don’t stick your tongue out. Not very ladylike.”
“Tell him not to make fun of me, then. Tell him, Daddy.”
“I think we oughta tickle her,” Sherman said.
“Oh, no! Yiiiieeee! Hahahahaha haha hahahahaha.”
“Sherman, Toddy,” her mother said. “Stop your foolishness now and come to supper. Ray, bring Mamie.”
“Daddy, ride me piggyback. Please, please, pretty please, Daddy, let me ride.”
“Up we go, then. Up high. Now, hold on tight.”
“Hey, what’s that? Daddy? Mama, is that my birthday cake? But how’d you make it so big? And look at that! Little birds flying round … Daddy … Daddy, look at the bluebirds with ribbons in their teeth. It’s just like Cinderella. Oh, Mama! Where’d you get the little birds?”
“Now, who’s the one I love? Whose little girl are you?”
“Oh, Mama!” she cried. “I’m your girl. I’m your very best girl, Mama … I’m your girl.…
“Mamie? Mamie, wake up. You’re twitching all over.” The woman gently shook her shoulder. “Are you having a bad dream?”