The Best American Noir of the Century

by James Ellroy

  He backed out of the car and stood straight. He stood looking at her for a moment in front of the open car door. He wiped his nose with his gloved hand. Was he crying? She felt a flicker of guilt, as though somehow he'd heard her thoughts. But then he smiled and lifted a finger: Just a second.

  She did a quick beckon with her hand— Get your ass in here —and made a face, eyeballs rolled toward the rest of the house. Now.

  He shook his head, held the finger up again.

  Jenny crossed her arms. She'd see Larry next week; Emily was going to Michigan. She could begin to tell him then.

  Wayne bent into the car, then straightened up again. He grinned.

  She held her hands out at her sides, palms up: What? I'm waiting.

  1970

  When Wayne had first told her he wanted to blindfold her, Jenny's fear was that he was trying out some kind of sex game, some spice-up-your-love-life idea he'd gotten out of the advice column in Playboy. But he promised her otherwise and led her to the car. After fifteen minutes there, arms folded across her chest, and then the discovery that he was serious about guiding her, still blindfolded, through waist-high weeds and clinging spiderwebs, she began to wish sex was on his mind after all.

  Wayne, she said, either tell me where we're going or I'm taking this thing off.

  It's not far, honey, he said; she could tell from his voice he was grinning. Just bear with me. I'm watching your feet for you.

  They were in a woods; that was easy enough to guess. She heard the leaves overhead, and birdcalls; she smelled the thick and cloying smells of the undergrowth. Twice she stumbled, and her hands scraped across tree trunks, furred vines, before Wayne tightened his grip on her arm. They were probably on a path; even blind she knew the going was too easy for them to be headed directly through the bushes. So they were in Wayne's woods, the one his parents owned. Simple enough to figure out; he talked about this place constantly. He'd driven her past it a number of times, but to her it looked like any other stand of trees out in this part of the country: solid green in summertime and dull gray-brown in winter, so thick you couldn't see light shining through from the other side.

  I know where we are, she told him.

  He gripped her hand and laughed. Maybe, he said, but you don't know why.

  He had her there. She snagged her skirt on a bush and was tugged briefly between its thorns and Wayne's hand. The skirt ripped and gave. She cursed.

  Sorry! Wayne said. Sorry, sorry—not much longer now.

  Sunlight flickered over the top of the blindfold, and the sounds around her opened up. She was willing to bet they were in a clearing. A breeze blew past them, smelling of springtime: budding leaves and manure.

  OK, Wayne said. Are you ready?

  I'm not sure, she said.

  Do you love me?

  Of course I love you, she said. She reached a hand out in front of her and found he was suddenly absent. OK, she said, enough. Give me your hand or the blindfold's off.

  She heard odd sounds—was that metal? Glass?

  All right, almost there, he said. Sit down.

  On the ground?

  No. Just sit.

  She sat, his hands on her shoulders, and found, shockingly, a chair underneath her behind. A smooth metal folding chair.

  Wayne then unknotted the blindfold. He whipped it away. Happy anniversary! he said.

  Jenny squinted in the revealed light, but only for a moment. She opened her eyes wide and saw she was sitting, as she'd thought, in a meadow, maybe fifty yards across, surrounded on all sides by tall green trees, all of them rippling in the wind. In front of her was a card table covered with a red-and-white checked tablecloth. The table was set with dishes—their good china, the plates at least—and two wineglasses, all wedding presents they'd only used once, on her birthday. Wayne sat in a chair opposite her, grinning, eyebrows arched. The wind blew his hair straight up off his head.

  A picnic, she said. Wayne, that's lovely, thank you.

  She reached her hand across the table and grasped his. He was exas-perating sometimes, but no other man she'd met could reach this level of sweetness. He'd lugged all this stuff out into the middle of nowhere for her— that's where he must have been all afternoon.

  You're welcome, he said. The red spots on his cheeks spread and deepened. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, then her wedding ring. He rubbed the places where he'd kissed with his thumb.

  He said, I'm sorry that dinner won't be as fancy as the plates, but I really couldn't get anything but sandwiches out here.

  That's fine. She laughed. I've eaten your cooking, and we're better off with sandwiches.

  Ouch, he said. He faked a European accent: This kitten, she has the claws. But I have the milk that will tame her.

  He bent and rummaged through a paper bag near his chair and produced a bottle of red with a flourish and a cocked eyebrow. She couldn't help but laugh.

  Not entirely chilled, he said, but good enough. He uncorked it and poured her a glass.

  A toast.

  To what?

  To the first part of the surprise.

  There's more?

  He smiled slyly, lifted his glass, then said, After dinner.

  He'd won her over; she didn't question it. Jenny lifted her g lass, clinked rims with her husband's, and sat back with her legs crossed at the knee. Wayne bent and dug in the bag again, and then came up with sliced wheat bread and cheese and a package of carved roast beef in deli paper. He made her a sandwich, even slicing up a fresh tomato. They ate in the pleasant breeze.

  After dinner he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. When they'd first started dating, she thought he did it to be funny; but really, he did it after eating anything larger than a candy bar. She was willing to bet he'd been doing it since he was a toddler. It meant all was well in the land of Wayne. The gesture made her smile, and she looked away. Since they'd married he'd developed a small wedge of belly; she wondered— not unhappily, not here — if in twenty years he'd have a giant stomach to rub, like his father's.

  So I was right? she asked. This is your parents' woods?

  Nope, he said, smiling.

  It's not?

  It was. They don't own it anymore.

  They sold it? When? To who?

  Yester day. He was grinning broadly, now. To me. To us.

  She sat forward, then back. He glanced around at the trees, his hair tufting in a sudden gust of the wind.

  You're serious, she said. Her stomach tightened. This was a feeling she'd had a few times since their wedding —she was learning that the more complicated Wayne's ideas were, the less likely they were to be good ones. A picnic in the woods? Fine. But this?

  I'm serious, Wayne said. This is my favorite place in the world —second favorite, I mean. He winked at her, then went on: But either way. Both my favorite places are mine, now. Ours.

  She touched a napkin to her lips. So, she said. How much did—did we pay for our woods?

  A dollar. He laughed and said, Can you believe it? Dad wanted to give it to us, but I told him, No, Pop, I want to buy it. We ended up compromising.

  She could only stare at him. He squeezed her hand and said, We're landowners now, honey. One square mile.

  That's —

  Dad wanted to sell it off, and I couldn't bear the thought of it going to somebody who was going to plow it all under.

  We need to pay your parents more than a dollar, Wayne. That's absurd.

  That's what I told them. But Dad said no, we needed the money more. But honey—there's something else. That's only part of the surprise.

  Jenny twined her fingers together in front of her mouth. A suspicion had formed, and she hoped he wasn't about to do what she guessed. Wayne was digging beside his chair again. He came up with a long roll of paper, blueprint paper, held with a rubber band. He put it on the table between them.

  Our paper anniversary, he said.

  What is this?

  Go ahead. Look at it.
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  Jenny knew what the plans would show. She rolled the rubber band off the blueprints, her mouth dry. Wayne stood, his hands quick and eager, and spread the prints flat on the tabletop. They were upside down; she went around the table and stood next to him. He put a hand on the small of her back.

  The blueprints were for a house. A simple two-story house—the ugliest thing she had ever seen.

  I didn't want to tell you too soon, he said, but I got a raise at the bank. Plus, now that I've been there three years, I get a terrific deal on home loans. I got approval three days ago.

  A house, she said.

  They were living in an apartment in Kinslow, nice enough but bland, sharing a wall with an old woman who complained if they spoke above a whisper or if they played rock 'n' roll records. Jenny put a hand to her hair. Wayne, she said, where is this house going to be?

  Here, he said and grinned again. He held his arms out. Right here. The table is on the exact spot. The contractors start digging on Monday. The timing's perfect. It'll be done by the end of summer.

  Here ... in the woods.

  Yep.

  He laughed, watching her face, and said, We're only three miles from town. The interstate's just on the other side of the field to the south. The county road is paved. All we have to do is have them expand the path in and we'll have a driveway. It'll be our hideaway. Honey?

  She sat down in the chair he'd been sitting in. She could barely speak. They had talked about buying a house soon—but one in town. They'd also talked about moving to Indianapolis, about leaving Kinslow— maybe not right away, but within five years.

  Wayne, she said. Doesn't this all feel kind of ... permanent?

  Well, he said, it's a house. It's supposed to.

  We just talked last month. You wanted to get a job in the city. I want to live in the city. A five-year plan, remember?

  Yeah. I do.

  He knelt next to her chair and put his arm across her shoulders.

  But I've been thinking, he said. The bank is nice, really nice, and the money just got better, and then Dad was talking about getting rid of the land, and I couldn't bear to hear it, and—

  And so you went ahead and did it without asking me.

  Um, Wayne said, it seemed like such a great deal that—

  OK, she told him. OK. It is a great deal. If it was just buying the woods, that would be wonderful. But the house is different. What it means is that you're building your dream house right in the spot I want to move away from. I hate to break it to you, but that means it's not quite my dream house.

  Wayne removed his hand from her shoulders and clasped his fingers in front of his mouth. She knew that gesture, too.

  Wayne —

  I really thought this would make you happy, he said.

  A house does make me happy. But one in Kinslow. One we can sell later and not feel bad about when we move —

  She wasn't sure what happened next. Wayne told her it was an accident, that he stood up too fast and hit his shoulder on the table. And it looked that way, sometimes, when she thought back on it. But when it happened she was sure he flung his arm out, that he knocked the table aside, that he did it on purpose. The wineglasses and china plates flew out and disappeared into the clumps of yellow grass; she heard a crash. The blueprints caught in a tangle with the tablecloth and the other folding chair.

  Goddammit! Wayne shouted. He walked a quick circle, holding his hand close to his chest.

  Jenny was too stunned to move, but after a minute she said Wayne's name.

  He shook his head and kept walking the circle. Jenny saw he was crying, and when he saw her looking, he turned his face away. She sat still in her chair, not certain what to say or do. Finally she knelt and tried to assemble the pieces of the broken dishes.

  After a minute he said, I think I'm bleeding.

  She stood and walked to him and saw that he was. He'd torn a gash in his hand on the meaty outside of his palm. A big one—it would need stitches. His shirt was soaked with blood where he'd cradled his hand.

  Come on, she said. We need to get you to the hospital.

  No, he said. His voice was low and miserable.

  Wayne, don't be silly. This isn't a time to sulk. You're hurt.

  No. Hear me out. OK? You always say what you want, and you make me sound stupid for saying what I want. This time I just want to say it.

  She grabbed some napkins and pressed them against his hand. Jesus, Wayne, she said, seeing blood well up from the cut, across her fingers. OK, OK, say what you need to.

  This is my favorite place, he said. I've loved it since I was a kid. I used to come out here with Larry. He and I used to imagine we had a house out here. A hideaway.

  Well —

  Be quiet. I'm not done yet. His lip quivered, and he said, I know we talked, I know you want to go to Indy. Well, we can. But it looks like we're going to be successful. It looks like I'm going to do well, and you can get a job teaching anywhere. I'll just work hard, and in five years maybe we can have two houses—

  Oh, Wayne—

  Listen! We can have a house in Indy and then this—this can be our getaway. He sniffled and said, But I want to keep it. Besides you, this is the only thing I want. This house, right out here.

  We can talk about it later. You're going to bleed to death if we don't get you to the emergency room.

  I wanted you to love it, he said. I wanted you to love it because I love it. Is that too much to ask from your wife? I wanted to give you something special. I—

  It was awful watching him try to talk about this. The spots of red in his cheeks were burning now, and the rims of his eyes were almost the same color. The corners of his mouth turned down in little curls.

  Don't worry, she said. We'll talk about it. OK? Wayne ? We'll talk. We'll take the blueprints with us to the emergency room. But you need stitches. Let's go.

  I love you, he said.

  She stopped fussing around his hand. He was looking down at her, tilting his head.

  Jenny, just tell me you love me and none of it will matter.

  She laughed in spite of herself, shaking her head. Of course, she said. Of course I do.

  Say it. I need to hear it.

  She kissed his cheek. Wayne, I love you with all my heart. You're my husband. Now move your behind, OK?

  He kissed her, dipping his head. Jenny was bending away to pick up the blueprints, and his lips, wet, just grazed her cheek. She smiled at him and gathered their things; Wayne stood and watched her, moist eyed.

  She finally took his good hand, and they walked back toward the car, and his kiss, dried slowly by the breeze, felt cool on her cheek. It lingered for a while, and despite everything, she was glad for it.

  Then

  The boys were first audible only as distant shrieks between the trees.

  They were young enough that any time they raised their voices they sounded as though they were in terror. They were chasing each other, their only sounds loud calls, denials, laughter. When they appeared in the meadow—one charging out from a break in a dense thicket of thorned shrubs, the other close behind— they were almost indistinguishable from one another in their squeals, in their red jackets and caps. Late afternoon was shifting into dusky evening. Earlier they had hunted squirrels, unaware of how the sounds of their voices and the pops of their BB guns had traveled ahead of them, sending hundreds of beasts into their dens.

  In the center of the meadow, the trailing boy caught up with the fleeing first; he pounced and they wrestled. Caps came off. One boy was blond, the other was mousy brown. The brown-haired boy was smaller. Stop it, he called from the bottom of the pile. Larry! Stop it! I mean it!

  Larry laughed and said with a shudder: Wayne, you pussy.

  Don't call me that!

  Don't be one, pussy!

  They flailed and punched until they lay squirming and helpless with laughter.

  Later they pitched a tent in the center of the meadow. They had done this before. Near their ten
t was an old circle of charred stones, ringing a pile of damp ashes and cinders. Wayne wandered out of the meadow and gathered armfuls of deadwood while Larry secured the tent into the soft and unstable earth. They squatted down around the gathered wood and worked at setting it alight. Darkness was coming; beneath the gray overcast sky, light was diffuse anyway, and now it seemed as though the shadows came not from above but from below, shadows pooling and deepening as though they welled up from underground springs. Larry was the first to look nervously into the shadowed trees while Wayne threw matches into the wood. Wayne worked at the fire with his face twisted, mouth pursed. When the fire caught at last, the boys grinned at each other.

  I wouldn't want to be out here when it's dark, Larry said, experimentally.

  It's dark now.

  No, I mean with no fire. Pitch dark.

  I have, Wayne said.

  No you haven't.

  Sure I have. Sometimes I forget what time it is and get back to my bike late. Once it got totally dark. If I wasn't on the path, I would have got lost.

  Wayne poked at the fire with a long stick. His parents owned the woods, but their house was two miles away. Larry looked around him, impressed.

  Were you scared?

  Shit, yeah. Wayne giggled. It was dark. I'm not dumb.

  Larry looked at him for a while, then said, Sorry I called you a pussy.

  Wayne shrugged and said, I should have shot that squirrel.

  They'd seen one in a tree, somehow oblivious to them. Wayne was the better shot, and they'd crouched together behind a nearby log, Wayne's BB gun steadied in the crotch of a dead branch. He'd looked at the squirrel for a long time before finally lifting his cheek from the gun. I can't, he'd said.

  What do you mean, you can't?

  I can't. That's all.

  He handed the gun to Larry, and Larry took aim, too fast, and missed.

  It's all right, Larry said now, at the fire. Squirrel tastes like shit.

  So does baloney, Wayne said, grim.

  They pulled sandwiches from their packs. Both took the meat from between the bread, speared it with sticks, and held it over the fire until it charred and sizzled. Then they put it back into the sandwiches. Wayne took a bite first, then squealed and held a hand to his mouth. He spit a hot chunk of meat into his hand, then fumbled it into the fire.