They fell against the dresser, pushing it away from the wall. They slid past it with Bernice dragging at him and pulling him down with her.
He wasn’t fighting her now. He was fighting her clothes. He was pulling them off. She listened to them rip. Elhanner’s expensive dress made a lovely expensive sound in Carlos’ fists.
She could feel his fingers digging into her hair. She could feel his body growing hot, responding to her own abandoned hotness. She flung off her glasses as he pushed her back on the floor. She clawed her fingernails into his shoulders, sank her teeth into his throat, feeling the laughter mixing with the passion. She was going to have him. Now on the floor, like this. Even if it left her tormented, raving. Even if it drove her crazy. She had to have him.
She opened her eyes, staring across Carlos’ shoulder. There they were, reflected in the tilted dresser mirror, like a fantastic painting of two abandoned beings lost in a passion that had nothing to do with love and was made of hatred.
Carlos. The hungry, driving anger of him, clutching at her throat and at her bare shoulders, hating her, looking as if he wanted to kill her.
And for the first time she saw her own face in the fire of wanting. Her sweated hair was pushed back from her face, her cheeks were drained of color, and her eyes were tortured with a torment that was sweet and unbearable at the same terrible moment.
She stared at this motion picture of herself, her hands raking at his shoulders, her mouth taut and red across her teeth.
She watched, fascinated. Carlos’ frantic hands closed on her thighs, dragging her closer. The floor rattled, the mirror quavered, wavering like ripples on a pond. And when it was quiet, she was still staring at it, but it wasn’t the same any more.
Carlos had fallen away from her. Her gaze lifted to her own eyes and she saw what she looked like when he left her crazy writhing in her need for him, wanting him so badly her face was twisted and creased, ugly with wanting him.
The mounds of her breasts heaved, her hips still moved, her head rolled on the pillow of her black hair. He was spent. There was nothing he could do for her. Nothing he could do but hate her because she showed him how ineffectual he was.
What a hellish thing, she thought, staring at the girl in that mirror. The passion in her was always going to rouse Carlos, but all he was ever going to be able to do was carry her to hell and leave her there. And every time it was going to be worse. Every time he’d hate her a little more for what she was doing to his pride. And he’d go on hating her until his hatred was as hideous as her insatiable need for him.
“Try,” she pleaded. “Try, Carlos!”
“My God, Bernice. I can’t. Maybe later. Maybe I can later.”
Her head stopped rolling. Her breath subsided. “All right,” she said. But she said it without hope.
Ten
Forty minutes later, Carlos came out of the bathroom.
Bernice was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
He was showered, immaculate in sport shirt, white trousers, and strap sandals. “Let’s go to lunch,” he said. “Do you want to go eat, Bernice?”
She turned her head and looked at him. The thought of food sickened her. But there was no choice, really. She had to go with Carlos or be left alone in this cottage. She couldn’t stand the thought of being alone.
He flopped on the divan in the front room and waited until she was dressed. They walked across the highway to the restaurant.
He held his head up and swaggered a little as he walked. But he said nothing to Bernice. She held his arm as they crossed the air-conditioned room toward a booth. She wanted to tell him that it was her fault, that she didn’t care if he satisfied her or not. But she knew better than that. She couldn’t even mention it. She had to find something to talk about that was safe, yet something that would let him know that she loved him, she forgave him, she wanted him.
“Do you like the green color of these walls?” she said.
“Yeah, Yeah. Swell.” He shook free of her hand.
She sat across the table from him. She whispered, “I’m sorry, Carlos. I’ve said I’m sorry. Please stop acting this way.”
She put her hand on the table, waited until he covered it. She pressed a hundred-dollar bill into his palm.
He drew his hand away, shoved it into his trousers pocket. He grinned at her. “O.K., Bernice. Don’t you worry. It’s going to be better for us.”
She laughed. “I don’t care. I love you.”
He nodded. “Sure you do. What red-blooded American girl could resist me?”
“Never mind the red-blooded girls,” she said. “You’ve got to be content with me.”
She reached across the table and straightened his tie. She just couldn’t keep her hands off him.
The blonde waitress was standing by the table. Her smile was disdainful. Carlos jerked his head back, moving away from Bernice. He ordered for them, and when the waitress was gone he leaned across the table toward Bernice.
“For God’s sake, Bernice. Can’t you keep your hands off me in public?”
She stared at him. “What do you care what a waitress thinks?”
“I don’t care,” he replied. “I don’t care about her at all. It’s you, Bernice. Why do you think she was smiling like that?”
“I don’t even care why.”
“Well, it just so happens that I do care.”
“Why don’t you apologize to her when she brings your steak?”
“I told you. It’s not her I care about. It’s what she was thinking. What people think about you. Not just her—everybody who sees you acting the way you do!”
“How am I acting? Like I’m in love? Shouldn’t I act that way? I am in love, you know. With you. I don’t care who knows.”
“You don’t act like you’re in love,” he answered. “You act starved. Plain starved, Bernice.”
Her carefully drawn red mouth went lax. Starved? Of course she was. Months and years—a lifetime of starvation, of wanting to be loved, of wanting a man like Carlos. And then to have him. To find he resented the money she spent on herself, to find that he was ashamed of the fact that she loved him so terribly. To know that he was never going to be able to satisfy her desire for him. A desire that left her weak when he touched her hand. A desire that no other man could arouse so terribly. A desire that was always going begging, starving...
After breakfast the next day they went out to lie on the beach.
Carlos slept under a green-striped umbrella and Bernice rolled like mutton on a spit, browning evenly under the sun. She tried to talk with Carlos, but he wouldn’t answer her. She lay with her head on her arms, feeling the sun cooking the drops of sweat into her body. She knew she was frying, she was hot enough to sizzle, and yet she was cold.
She fell asleep. She awakened suddenly and sat up on her blanket. The sun was halfway down the sky. And Carlos was gone.
She looked about, searching the beach and the water.
He was nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d gone to the cottage. But she couldn’t escape the fact that it had been morning when they came out on the beach. It was now late afternoon.
Feeling dizzy and sick at her stomach, she got up and dragged the sandy blanket after her across the beach. She tried to walk slowly, but she wanted to run.
She dropped the blanket at the front door of her bright little cottage. The door was closed. The key was in the receptacle beside it. She called, “Carlos.”
Her fingers trembled as she forced the key into the lock. She flung open the door and went in the living room. There was a trail of sand across the rug. Carlos had been here.
She padded into the bedroom. She found his bathing trunks wadded on the floor of the shower. She stepped into the shower, pulled the curtain, and turned on the water. The spray struck her like needles. She knew she was burned crisp. The cold water made her so ill she was nauseated.
She staggered out of the shower. Her fiery skin felt icy under her fingers. She tried to put on a slip
and bra, but she couldn’t stand the touch of them against her flesh.
She stared at herself in the mirror. She was burned a fiery red brown across her shoulders and legs. Her face was deeply burned except where her sunglasses had covered her eyes.
She bit back a scream.
For one terrible moment, she thought she was going to faint.
Those were Lloyd’s white, sightless eyes staring out of that dark-burned face!
“Carlos!”
She clenched her fists at her sides and ran away from the mirror. She managed to wriggle into her pants and she found a strapless dress. She slipped her seared feet into a pair of slippers. Why had Carlos left her to bum in the sun like this?
She went out of the cottage, leaving the front door standing open. The sun was painful on her blistered shoulders. But she knew she couldn’t stand it another minute away from Carlos. She had to find him.
The manager of the motel was watering flowers at the entrance. He was a stout, gray-haired man who had retired from business in Iowa and got rich in Florida renting his beach cottages.
“Have you seen my husband?” Bernice said.
He looked at her. “You better see a doctor, Mrs. Brandon. You got a bad case of sunburn.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Have you seen Carlos?”
He shook his head, frowning at the anxiety in her voice. “No, I haven’t,” he said.
Bernice was sure he was lying. She tried not to care that he lied, tried to keep her voice light. “Oh, well, he probably went to dinner without me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the court owner said. “If you’ll tell me what time you’ll be back in your cottage, Mrs. Brandon, I’ll call the doctor and have him drop in.”
Bernice shook her head. “I don’t know.”
She hurried away. She went across the blistered highway, feeling the sun on her shoulders like the blast from a furnace. She stopped at the door of the restaurant and looked in.
Her eyes met those of the blonde waitress. Bernice hated her. The girl seemed to know that Bernice was frightened, that Carlos was gone, and that Bernice was running around looking for him. Her smile was superior. Bernice moved on.
She saw him sitting in the cool bar. He looked up and saw her coming through the door. There was no pleasure in his face. She saw that he’d been drinking for a long time. There were fifteen or twenty squares of paper on the bar before him. Each one had a single number scrawled on it.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m glad you came.” His voice was slurred. “You’ll have to pay for my last drink. I’m broke.”
She stared at him, opened her mouth to speak. She’d given him a hundred-dollar bill only yesterday. Something in his eyes warned her not to mention that. She closed her lips and nodded.
Carlos smiled. Triumph made his face smug. She laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.
“Fix me another one,” Carlos said. Bernice sat on the stool beside him. “Dugan, I want you to meet my wife. This is Dugan, Bernice. He knows what I want. He can fix it for me.”
Bernice glanced at the bartender. He snapped off the radio on the shelf behind the bar. He was a short, squash-faced man with dark curly hair. He grinned at her.
“You got a lovely husband, Mrs. Brandon,” he said. “He didn’t hit one all afternoon. Right now he’s a little high and a little mad about it.”
“Don’t apologize for me,” Carlos said. His voice was loud. “So I had a bad streak. I’ll make it up.” He sat up straight and looked at Bernice. “My God,” he said. “What’s happened to you?”
Bernice was feeling cold prickles through the crisp burn of her skin. She began to be cold all over. Her teeth chattered and her body began to shake.
“She’s got a lulu of a sunstroke, mister!” Dugan said.
He fixed something green in a small glass and came around the bar. “Here, drink this,” he said to Bernice. He looked at Carlos as Bernice drank. “You know how to dial a telephone, sonny?”
“Just because you got all my money, quit being so sweet to me,” Carlos told him. “What’s a doctor’s number?”
“It’s written in pencil right over the phone,” Dugan said.
Dugan helped Bernice to a booth. “Don’t lean back,” he warned. “That leather’ll feel cool, but when you try to get up, you’ll think it’s peeling your skin off. Soon as Personality over there gets the doctor, he can take you home.”
Bernice’s teeth were still chattering. She looked at the bartender, frowning. “Why do you talk about Carlos like that?” she whispered.
He smiled at her. “How long have you been married to him, honey?”
“Four days,” she chattered.
“Four days,” he repeated. “Imagine that. Four long unhappy days. You poor thing. You poor sunburned little thing.”
Carlos half carried Bernice to the cottage. As they went in the front door, the doctor arrived in a yellow Cadillac convertible. Carlos went out to meet him.
Bernice sat on the edge of a chair. Her teeth were not chattering any more, but she was having a chill under the outer layer of her fried flesh. Her head ached and spun so she was giddy.
Sitting there, she could see the way Carlos looked at that convertible. His eyes had a hungry look, like a little boy yearning after a bicycle in a shop window. The kind of hunger she’d always had, only for something different.
The doctor came in, and after a moment Carlos followed.
The doctor was young, slightly older than Carlos. No one would ever call him handsome. He looked at Bernice, led her into the bedroom.
He prescribed for Bernice, put her in a soda bath, and when she was naked on her bed he spread a film of ointment over her burned flesh. Bernice sighed. The fire seemed to die out almost at once, leaving her weak and sleepy.
She heard the doctor talking to Carlos. “You’ll get that prescription filled. I want you to put this ointment on her as I did, as she needs it and in the morning. Just don’t try to get too near her or touch her and she’ll be all right. The ointment will take the fire out, and she should be able to sleep.”
Bernice went to sleep. When she woke up, it was dusk.
“Carlos?”
The cottage was silent.
She lay miserable on the bed. She couldn’t go out looking for him now. Some of the ointment had rubbed off on the sheets and the exposed places burned. She hoped he would hurry and rub the ointment on her bums. She got the jar and tried to reach the sorest places herself. She put the jar under her pillow, feeling better just because the soothing cream was so near.
She lay there and told herself Carlos was at supper. He would bring her a sandwich or something when he returned.
The hours dragged. The motel court grew loud as people gathered outside on the shuffleboard courts and around the card tables. The sounds roared in from the busy highway. Radios blared in the other cottages. The gulf boomed up on the white sands and rolled hissing out again. The radios were cut off one by one until there was only haunting music she could barely hear. The shuffleboard courts went dark. The muted talk continued at the card tables. There were only a few cars on the highway, and even the waves seemed quieter on the beach. Bernice thought, I can’t stand it alone. I’m afraid. When I’m alone, I’m afraid.
She heard the front door open and then bang shut. She heard Carlos stagger against a chair and knock it over. She heard him curse. “Damn lights!” he muttered. “Where lights?”
The lights flared on in the front room. A yellow oblong of it fell across Bernice. She wanted to laugh with the relief she felt. Carlos was home.
He stood in the door. “I lost some money,” he said. ‘To Dugan. I told him you’d pay him in the morning. He said O.K. O.K.?” His tie was awry. His hair was mussed over his forehead. He stared at her. “Where I sleep?” he said.
She looked at him. She wanted him to sleep with her. The fever in her body made her need him worse than ever. She couldn’t bear the rest of the night without him.
“I’ll sleep
in the front room,” he mumbled. He turned around, knocking over an end table. She heard it clatter to the floor. The front-room light was snapped out. She heard the springs of the divan sag as he flopped upon it. In less than three minutes, she could hear his even snores.
She lay hot and miserable on the damp bed. How was she going to sleep alone and needing him? But the sound of his snoring was comforting. At least he was home. At least he was near. Her eyes grew heavy. Her last thought was that she was feverish. She fell asleep.
It began at once, the loud splintering sound as Lloyd’s body struck the stair railing. He went spinning down the steps. Fred Findlay was standing there to comfort him as he landed. Bernice stood at the head of the stairs, staring down at them. Finally Findlay lifted his head and met her gaze. Only his eyes were white. Slug-white, sightless. They bored into her. Lloyd’s eyes. She wasn’t ever going to be able to escape now because Fred Findlay had Lloyd’s eyes!
She woke up screaming.
This time she knew she really screamed. The sound of it was echoing in her ears as she sat up on the bed. She saw lights come on in windows along the court.
Carlos stumbled into the bedroom and snapped on the light. He sank to the edge of the bed. “All right,” he said. “What is it? What’s the matter, Bernice?”
She drew away from him. His voice was sour and his breath was foul. She stared round-eyed at him, thankful for the light, thankful he was there. Her heart was still slugging against her ribs.
“A dream,” she whispered. “It was awful. I was so frightened.”
Carlos stared at her a moment. He shrugged, got a package of cigarettes from the table beside the bed, lighted one.
He stood up, exhaling a long puff of smoke. “Forget it,” he advised. “Try to go back to sleep.”
“Come to bed with me. Hold me.”
“You know I can’t. You’re sunburned.”
“I don’t care!”
He started from the room.
“Where are you going?” she cried.
“Back to my wonderful bed, my bride” he said. “I know you got something on your mind, Bernice. Don’t try to keep me up all night with it.”
Fires That Destroy Page 10