Come Out Tonight

by Richard Laymon

  At the bottom of the stairs, Mom said, “Anyway, if she is shacked up with someone, it’s her own business.”

  “She has been going with that guy,” Brenda said.

  “What guy?” Dad asked, looking surprised.

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Nobody ever tells me anything.”

  “I don’t think she’s terribly serious about him,” Mom explained.

  “You knew about him, too?”

  “Oh, Sherry’s mentioned him a couple of times.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I think he sells used books or something,” Mom said.

  “Out of a van,” Brenda added.

  “What?”

  “He travels to book fairs and stuff.”

  “How come I never heard about any of this?”

  “Maybe you just weren’t listening,” Mom suggested.

  “You’re never listening, Dad.”

  “It only seems that way because I’m so good at tuning out all the crap.”

  “Can we go now?” Brenda suggested. “I don’t want to be late.” She opened the front door.

  “I’d like to hear more about this guy.”

  Ignoring him, Mom asked, “Did you want to take a towel or something, honey?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’ll probably get wet,” Dad pointed out.

  “Which is why I’m wearing my swimsuit.”

  “Which is why you might want a towel.”

  “I’ll drip dry,” she said, and stepped outside.

  “Sun-screen?” Mom asked.

  “Got it.”

  As they walked toward the driveway, Mom asked, “Do you have a quarter so you can call home in case…?”

  “I’ve got a quarter.”

  “What about some money for lunch?”

  “Got it.”

  “Anything you don’t got?” Dad asked, coming along behind them after locking the house.

  Brenda smirked over her shoulder at him. “Let’s see now, Dad. I don’t got a bellybutton ring, tattoos, a drug habit, a criminal record or a sexually transmitted disease.”

  “For which you have our undying gratitude,” Dad said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Brenda stepped out of the way and waited while he unlocked the car’s passenger door.

  “Why don’t you let your mother sit in the front seat?” he asked. “You’ll be getting out in five minutes, anyway.”

  “No problem. No problem at all.”

  “I don’t mind the back seat,” Mom said.

  Brenda raised her arms and shook her head. “No, no, it’s all right. You go ahead and sit in front. No problem.”

  When they were all in the car, Dad removed the Club from the steering wheel. He put on his seat belt, started the engine, and said, “So who is this guy? Why is Sherry keeping him such a big secret?”

  “She didn’t keep him a secret from us,” Brenda said.

  “Why hasn’t she brought him by?”

  “I told you, Al, I don’t think she’s very serious about him.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “A couple of months, I think.”

  “You know all those Charles Willeford books she gave you for your birthday?” Brenda asked. “Well, she bought them from him at the Burbank Book Fair. That’s when she met him.”

  “Buying those books for me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And nobody even tells me.”

  “We’re telling you now, Pops.”

  “What’s his name? How old is he? He isn’t already married, is he?”

  Mom shook her head.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I think she mentioned his name once, but…”

  “It’s Duane,” Brenda said. “But I don’t know how old he is or anything.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “I don’t know,” Brenda said.

  “I don’t either,” said Mom.

  “Is he white?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me neither,” said Mom.

  “A name like Duane…”

  “Jeez, Dad.”

  “Well…And the fact that she’s keeping him this big, dark secret. What’s she trying to hide?”

  “She’s not trying to hide anything, dear.”

  “Brenda huffed out a laugh. “She’s probably trying to hide from a wildman interrogation by you.”

  “I’m not a wildman.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “She’ll be coming over tomorrow,” Mom said. “Why don’t I give her a call? Maybe she’d like to bring Duane with her.”

  “Good idea,” Dad said. “Excellent idea. I want to meet this guy.”

  “She might not be too happy about the idea of bringing him over,” Brenda said. “He’s got this terrible skin condition. A rash. It’s all over his body, actually. I guess it’s sort of runny and gross. If you want to know the truth, that’s why she’s been so secretive about him.”

  Mom looked over her shoulder, frowning at Brenda.

  “The good news,” Brenda said, “is that she hasn’t slept with the guy so far. Apparently, this rash is really contagious. She can’t touch him at all, or she’d catch it.”

  Mom said, “I hope you’re making this up, young lady.”

  “Huh-uh. He got the rash from being around all those old books. And the thing is, it’s gotten so bad he can’t even wear clothes anymore. He just hangs around his apartment all day, bare-ass naked, with this slimy, dripping rash all over his body. And Sherry stays there to keep him company. But she has to stand in a corner so she won’t get any of the goo on her. He leaves like snail trails everywhere he goes. And when he sits down…”

  “That’ll be enough, Brenda,” Dad said. “Your mother and I are planning to have breakfast in a few minutes.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “Is there something wrong with Duane?” Mom asked.

  “How should I know? I’ve never met the guy. Sherry hasn’t really told me much, either. But I don’t think she’s in love with him. You know? And I’d bet a buck they haven’t done it. I think she’d have to be in love to do something like that.”

  “I sure hope so,” Mom said.

  “Also, I happen to know she’s pretty scared of getting AIDS.”

  “I hope you are, too, young lady.”

  “I always insist on a health certificate before I let a guy bang me.”

  “Brenda!” Mom blurted.

  Brenda laughed.

  “You’re a real comedian,” Dad said.

  “I try.”

  “You try too hard sometimes,” Mom told her.

  “Nah.”

  “Do you have a secret boyfriend?” Dad asked.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Nope. Not that I know of. If I have a secret boyfriend, he’s a secret to me. And I hope he’s unknown to me, because frankly every guy I know is either a jerk or a moron.”

  “That’s my gal,” Dad said.

  “Including you.”

  He let out a wild laugh.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was a great morning, sunlit and windy and no school.

  And no parents.

  Pete’s parents were off to spend the weekend playing golf in Palm Springs, so he had the entire house to himself until Sunday night.

  Freedom!

  Stretched out on his bed, he folded his hands behind his head and smiled. Above him, his window was open. Wind blew in, filling the curtain, lifting it toward the ceiling and letting sunlight slant down on him. The sunlight felt warm. The wind rubbed softly against his body.

  Like the caress of a lascivious woman.

  That’s pretty good, he thought.

  Good. Right. If I want to write garbage.

  Still, though, caress and lascivious sure sounded good together. Sibilance.

  He decided the combination was worth remembering, so he climbed off his bed and walked o
ver to his desk. From a side drawer, he removed a spiral notebook. On the front cover was written, in bold marking pen, RUMINATIONS AND OTHER CRAP, Vol. 1. He opened it, flipped through a dozen pages until he found an empty one, then picked up a ballpoint and wrote, “The summer breeze was like the caress of a lascivious woman.”

  Caress of a lascivious slut.

  That had a lot of sibilance, but he decided not to write it down. No telling who might lay hands on this notebook, someday. His mom or dad, maybe. Especially if he got shot or hit by a car or if he dropped dead of an aneurism or whatever.

  Maybe his girlfriend would read the notebooks someday—if he ever had one.

  Or his wife.

  Or his biographer.

  Like that’s ever gonna happen.

  You just never know, he told himself. So you’ve gotta make sure you don’t put stuff down that’ll make you look too much like an idiot or a creep.

  Screw that, he thought.

  He wrote, “Sighing, the lascivious slut caressed her breasts.”

  Too much sibilance.

  And come to think of it, lascivious is a lousy word.

  He scratched it out. Then he scratched out “the slut” and scribbled “she” above the line.

  His sentence now read, “Sighing, she caressed her breasts.”

  Not bad, he thought.

  But what if somebody reads it?

  He considered scratching out the whole sentence, then decided to leave it.

  Nobody’s got any business reading my stuff anyway.

  He closed the notebook, returned it to the drawer, then opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. He had about ten swimsuits in there. He took out a pair of old, faded blue trunks, stood up and stepped into them. The trunks hanging low on his hips, he pushed the drawer shut with his foot. Then he left his room.

  He walked down the hallway, the Spanish red tiles cool under his bare feet. In the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee.

  It would take a few minutes to brew. He spent the time in the bathroom, using the toilet, washing his face, brushing his teeth and spraying his armpits with Right Guard. Then he went out the front door and brought in the LA Times.

  The plastic bag enclosing the newspaper was wet from the lawn sprinklers. On his way to the kitchen, he tore it off. He stuffed it into the wastebasket, then tossed the newspaper onto the table.

  It flopped open.

  He read the headline: KILLER WINDS BLAST SOUTHLAND

  Killer winds? Hyperbole, or had a tree fallen on someone? Either way, he didn’t feel like reading about it.

  He glanced at a few of the smaller headlines.

  School Board…Racial Quotas

  Murder Spree…West LA Apartment Complex

  New Charges…Clinton…Sex Scandal

  “Same old shit,” he muttered.

  Leaving the newspaper on the table, he opened a cupboard and took down his Bigfoot coffee mug. He filled it with coffee. Then he carried it into the living room. His paperback copy of A Moveable Feast was on the lamp table where he’d left it last night. He tucked it under his right arm. The cover felt slick and cool against his skin.

  He picked up a red ballpoint pen and put it sideways between his lips.

  Then he stepped over to the back door. With his left hand, he unlocked it and rolled it open. Then he skidded the screen door out of his way and stepped onto the patio.

  A warm wind blew against him. The sunlit concrete felt warm under his feet.

  But the brilliant glare on the pool’s surface made him squint.

  Forgot my sunglasses.

  Keeping his eyes turned away from the pool, he walked over to the glass-topped table. He set down his coffee mug and book and pen.

  The table was in shadow, so he figured he could do without his sunglasses.

  He pulled out a chair and sat down with his back to the pool. Then he raised the mug to his lips. Instead of taking a drink, he watched the way the steam swirled and drifted just above the coffee’s dark surface.

  How do you describe something like that? he wondered. How do you do it so everybody who reads about it can see the steam, the way it just sort of hovers low over the coffee and you can just barely see it at all, and how the coffee is trembling and shiny, reflecting the sky, and then the way you can feel the heat and moisture of the steam against your upper lip and the bottom of your nose when you go to take a drink?

  He took a drink and noticed that he could feel the steam inside his nostrils, too.

  The coffee tasted good and hot.

  Maybe you can’t write about this stuff and make it completely real.

  Hemingway can.

  God, Hemingway.

  Pete set down his mug, sighed, then picked up A Moveable Feast and opened it to his bookmark and began to read. Soon, he could smell the rain, feel it blowing against his face, see it slanting down through the gray Paris morning, splashing in puddles and bouncing off sidewalks.

  God, this guy can write, he thought.

  Nobody else can make it this real.

  It made Pete wish he were in Paris on such a day, walking through the rain, going into a café to write.

  Though this ain’t bad, he thought, looking up from the book and glancing over his shoulder at the pool and the hillside beyond it.

  I should be writing, not reading.

  But you’ve gotta read, he told himself. Especially great stuff like this. See how it’s done when it’s done right.

  He read on.

  The reading made him excited and a little sad. He wasn’t sure why, but he thought it had something to do with wanting to be there—in the scene. Not just reading about it, but living it. And knowing that he couldn’t, and feeling the loss.

  It happened mostly when he read Hemingway.

  He ached to be there. He wished he could be Hemingway in a Paris café, Nick Adams camping by a woodland stream or walking down a railroad track, Robert Jordan with Maria naked in his sleeping bag, Harry Morgan steering his charter boat through the waters off Key West on a quiet, early morning with no sounds other than the putter of his motors and the squeals of the seagulls.

  With Hemingway, he wanted to be there so badly that it made him ache. And it also made him ache with a need to write that well, himself.

  God, to be able to do that to people!

  But he knew it was too much to hope for, and that made him sad, too.

  At least I can try, he told himself.

  Then he realized that his eyes had been moving over the lines of the book but he’d been daydreaming, not reading.

  He picked up his coffee mug.

  Holding it close to his face, he couldn’t find a trace of steam anymore. The dark surface of the coffee still trembled and flashed reflections of the sky, but now Pete could see subtle swirls of rainbow colors, as if someone had slipped a dab of gasoline into his coffee. He supposed it was caused by oil from the coffee beans.

  He hoped so.

  It wasn’t very appetizing to look at. He needed to remember it, though, so he could use it sometime in his writing.

  I should put it in the notebook before I forget about it, he thought.

  But he didn’t feel like fooling with the notebook again. He wanted to work on his novel.

  He sipped the coffee. It had lost most of its heat and didn’t taste so good. He set the mug down on the table.

  Maybe I should toss it out and get a refill, he thought. And bring out my book and try to get some writing done.

  So he took his mug into the kitchen. He dumped the remains of the coffee down the sink, then left the mug on the counter and hurried to his bedroom.

  He found his sunglasses on top of the dresser. He put them on, but the tinted lenses made his room too dark. He took the glasses off and slid one of the stems down the waistband of his trunks.

  With the glasses hanging at his side, he stepped over to his desk. The two spiral notebooks containing his novel in progress were hidden under stacks of papers at the bottom of a desk drawer. He
pulled them out, shut the drawer, then took a black ballpoint pen out of the top drawer. He slid the pen under the band of his trunks, next to the stem of his sunglasses. Then he hurried back to the kitchen.

  He filled his mug with fresh, hot coffee from the pot. Mug in one hand, notebooks in the other, he hurried outside. As he put them on the table, he felt excitement in the pit of his stomach.

  It wasn’t always there when he was ready to start writing, but sometimes it was. Especially if he’d just been reading something really great.

  He began to sit down, but stopped when he felt the stiffness of the pen and sunglasses stem inside his trunks. He pulled them out, put on the sunglasses, and dropped onto the lawn chair.

  He opened PART 2 and flipped through pages until he came to the end of what he’d written so far. It was two pages into a chapter. He went to the start of the chapter and began to read.

  “Who do you think it is?” Shana asked, a tremor shaking her voice.

  Ralph darted his eyes again to the rear-view mirror and squinted into the glare of the headlights of the car behind them.

  Pete frowned.

  Of the headlights. Of the car.

  That didn’t seem too good, having both those of phrases one after another.

  He needed to get rid of one.

  “Ah!” he said.

  He scratched out the first of the and changed glare to glaring.

  …squinted into the glaring headlights of the car behind him.

  Not bad, he thought and resumed reading.

  “Whoever it is, he’s been on our tail for the past ten miles. I think maybe he’s after us.”

  “Oh God, Ralph. I’m scared.” With that, Shana reached across through the darkness. Her hand came to rest on Ralph’s knee.

  On his knee? Way down there? Why not have her put it on his ankle?

  Pete scratched out knee and wrote thigh.

  That sounds like a chicken part, he thought. Something you’d pick up at KFC along with your drumstick and wing.

  He scratched out thigh and wrote leg.

  And heard the doorbell chimes. The sound of them sent a squirm through his stomach.

  Somebody’s at the door?

  He muttered, “Crap.”

  Why don’t I just not answer it?

  The chimes rang again.

  Maybe it’s something important, he thought. Maybe it’s a cop. Mom and Dad were in an accident…Maybe the neighborhood’s being evacuated. None of the fires seemed near enough for anything like that, but…