She’s so scared.
He’ll buy her. He has to save her.
He wonders what to name her. Amy? Leigh? She doesn’t have a name. She doesn’t have anything, really She is penniless. Her friend, over there by the bicycle, could care less. She’s alone—except for me, he thinks with a curious satisfaction. And she’s not going anywhere unless I take her with me. And I will. I will buy her; but not now. Later.
She’s not going anywhere.
He walks away from her and wanders over to the menswear department, with its shirts and slacks and jackets, wallets and belts and ties. He never buys ties. His secretary buys ties. The receptionist buys ties and the receptionist’s secretary buys ties and the secretary’s receptionist buys ties. Even his wife buys ties. But he does not. His partners—and even, on occasion, his associates—say that he fancies himself as the Don Johnson of north Dallas. It’s true that, in the summertime, he does not wear socks at home or on the golf course. Or on the Fairweather, his boat—or, as Rachel calls it, his yacht. But he doesn’t look like Don Johnson. He shaves everyday. And he doesn’t feel like Don Johnson. Women don’t hang on his every word and he’s never been in People and he’s never been on TV (well, maybe once), and he’s never cut a record. Not a record record, but he has cut some record-making deals.
He looks in a mirror, holding a red necktie against his chest. It’s silky and shiny and absolutely uncouth. He tells the bored clerk he’ll take it and tucks the package under his arm. The paper crackles reassuringly. He doesn’t like the plastic bags that most stores are giving out these days. Non-recyclable. He thinks of all that plastic still lying around, long after he’s dead and gone. It bothers him.
He gazes into the distance and sees the two mannequins in their “Sportif” ensembles. The bicycle gleams. She could ride away in a minute, if she wanted. If she could. But it wouldn’t be long before they were together again.
These things are inevitable.
He suddenly wants to walk away. Especially from her.
She’s so vulnerable, so needy. Rachel was like that once He’d believed her. It was only later that he discovered it had all been an act; but by then he had also discovered that it didn’t matter. Or he chose to believe that it didn’t matter. He’s still uncertain; perhaps she simply changed. But Rachel is a good woman. Patient. Understanding. Demure.
He does like Florida. On occasion. The right occasion.
And he likes the song that Don Johnson sings. He has heard it on the radio, on MTV Something about a heartbeat. Looking for a heartbeat.
The multilevel mall opens before him, vast, impersonal, glittering, and real. So real. Rob’s favorite word is “real.” Everything’s “real”—like real radical, real stuff, real right, you know? Real.
Walter’s hair is going silver at the temples. Terry Bragg accused him of coloring his hair, because it was just too distinguished-looking to be real. Really real. He charges down the mall, taking huge strides, burning calories, being aerobic, healthy, stirring the blood.
People are pouring into the mall now. It’s like an awakening beehive. They all look so wonderful. The men purposeful and fatherly. The women smelling of perfume and money. The children circling and laughing, circling and laughing. He finds himself smiling again.
He pictures Rachel and Laurie somewhere in the crowd They’re pretty, Rachel and Laurie: Rachel’s fair hair with its faint reddish streaks, Laurie’s redder hair catching and holding sunlight until her head looks as if it were on fire. They both have green eyes and a dusting of freckles across their perfectly matched noses. Both are petite and slender, their breasts like half-opened buds. Short and flashing-quick on their feet, their hands sporting the fingernail polish of the ; week, Laurie’s showing signs of teeth marks.
He stops in a bookstore and heads for the magazine section. Tchaikovsky is playing over the sound system. This bookstore sells music, videos, calendars, postcards. He glances through the array of foreign publications that marks the stand as an upscale, trendy sort of place. A lovely girl holds a Madame Figaro closer to her face. She’s obviously pretending to read it. She squints at the French and then no-lices that he’s watching her. She blushes and puts the magazine back.
“Hello,” Walter says. He has no intention of carrying this further, but she looks so innocent and sweet. Like the mannequin.
“Hi,” she says and blushes again. She’s about average height, with brown hair and hazel eyes—or are they brown, too? Her clothes look old but clean. Her sandals are worn. She’s not as young as he thought at first. There’s gray in her hair. Maybe she’s over thirty.
“Ever been there?” he. blurts out, gesturing toward the magazine.
She glances at him, uncertain. “To Madame Figaro’s?”
“No. To France.”
She tugs at her shoulder bag. One of the straps is splitting. She shrugs.
He has lost count of how many times he has been there. To France. But never to Madame Figaro’s. He visualizes a comfortably fat woman wearing a lace shawl and holding a wooden spoon, red with tomato sauce, in her hand. A good name for a restaurant or a fortune-teller. But for a fashion magazine?
“I’ve been to France lots of times.”
“Great,” she says coolly, as if she were unimpressed; but her eyes seem wider. Perhaps she is envious. Perhaps not.
“You read French?” he asks her as she picks up the Madame Figaro again and heads for the cashier. She glances over her shoulder at him and says, “A little,” and then pays for the magazine. She’s ignoring him. She doesn’t want to talk to him. It makes him angry. She’s a nothing. She’s just a woman he doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter.
Why would a woman who doesn’t read French buy a French magazine? But she said she could read it. A little. She was probably lying. Probably she has fifty dollars in her checking account, if she has one at all. Maybe she doesn’t even have a car. Maybe she rides the bus. Is there a bus stop near here? He thinks of the mammoth parking garage and of all the cars on the expressway girdling the mall.
He finds himself following her. She looks so old-fashioned, wearing her faded black pants and her faded black shirt. The amber necklace was probably plastic. Or was it carnelian? She couldn’t afford carnelian. Glass?
She’s almost five stores ahead, but she’s walking slowly. He catches up to her in no time. She turns and enters a chocolate shop. There are small tables and chairs out front, so that patrons may watch passersby as they eat. She comes out and sits down, clutching a small bag of truffles. A plastic bag. She eats a truffle and, when the waitress arrives, orders a cappuccino. She glances up and sees him. She looks trapped. Captured. He sits down across from her.
“Do you mind?”
“I guess not,” she says, but he can see that she’s scared. He finds this oddly thrilling. The waitress comes back and hands him a menu. He orders chocolate ice cream with almonds.
“My name is Walter.”
He waits for her to tell him her name. She just stares at him.
“So?”
He wishes that he could think of something witty to say. He feels very young and very foolish. He hasn’t felt this way in years.
“So. I’m a lawyer.”
“Okay.”
“What do you do?”
“Whatever I have to do to get by,” she says. The waitress brings their orders. She stirs and sips her cappuccino without looking up.
“I find you fascinating,” he says.
She says nothing. She won’t look at him. Her body, he realizes, is like white enamel. Porcelain. The only place with color is her cheeks. They bloom like pink roses.
“You don’t get out in the sun much, do you?” he says.
“I burn easily,” she whispers.
“What’s your name?”
“Look, pal, I really don’t know you and I don’t think—”
“I don’t mean any harm. I’m not a mad rapist or anything.”
Now she almost gulps her cappuccino.
Is this love at first sight? Her hands come to rest on the sack with the French magazine. Her hands are beautiful. She doesn’t wear any rings at all. Rachel wears a ring on almost every finger. She especially likes diamonds. This girl has probably never owned a diamond. He wants to give her diamonds, rubies, emeralds. But she probably wouldn’t wear them. He sighs.
“I think I’d better leave,” she says, half-rising. He stops her with an over-eager hand. She freezes; the fear turns into shock.
“Don’t go.”
She sits back down. Their eyes lock. She’s not afraid at all. Walter glances around, checking reality. The sun slides through the glass ceiling. Shoppers whip past, and the plants seem to rustle in their clay pots. The noise escalates. A child screams and laughs with another child. A mother tells them to stop running. He glances back at the young-old woman and she’s not there. The sack with the magazine is still on the table. She forgot it like she forgot him. He leaves the waitress an overlarge tip and takes the magazine.
His enthusiasm for his Saturday at the mall has waned. He heads for the exit closest to the parking garage where his Mercedes is parked. He does not even have the heart to go bargain for his mannequin, with her crossed arms and big blue eyes. The girl from the bookstore had big eyes, too; lost eyes. Now he feels lost. He knows he’s being childish. Rachel will get a good laugh out of this.
For all her faults, Rachel usually understands. It all comes from being thirty-nine. He’s going to turn forty next year. It’s only natural to have days like this. But he has so much to live for. He’s done so well. His father’s proud of him. He’s proud of himself. He has a good life, a happy family.
And that mannequin’s not going anywhere.
He finds the exit. In a minute, he stands in the parking garage, looking for his car. He does this a lot. He’s always forgetting where he parked his car. One time, he spent two hours searching for his car at the Beverly Center in Los Angeles. To this day, it has made flying to the West Coast a pain in the ass. He’s always afraid it will happen again. Consequently, he never goes to shopping malls in California anymore. It’s a matter of principle.
He is sweating profusely. Rob loves to say that, too: “sweating profusely.” His face cracks into another lopsided smile. He walks past a Porsche, and sees her staring at him. The girl from the bookstore. It’s her Porsche. He can’t speak. She stares at him, crosses her arms defensively. As if he’s going to attack her. As if he’s going to grab her and hold her against his chest. Though he does want to do that. But she’s gone and slammed the door of her Porsche and it’s squealing past him. He catches one last glimpse of her startled face, her mouth open, a crack of red in her porcelain skin. He breathes in the exhaust and coughs. His Mercedes is right there, right next to the space where her car was parked.
Poor little rich girl.
He feels worse than cheated. He feels dumb.
Sighing, he sinks into his car and leaves.
Walter likes driving. He’s got a sports car in the shop. A black Ferrari. He drives and drives and drives. He drives fast. See Walter go. See Walter go fast. See Walter get a ticket for speeding. It’s no big deal.
Late afternoon in Dallas. It’s been a hot summer. It’s cooler right now, but not by much. He cranks up the air conditioner. He feels hungry—the ice cream went untouched—but he doesn’t want to head for home. Not yet. His family is probably not there anyway. He can’t remember, but he thinks they’re gone. Somewhere.
Saturdays are always busy. Laurie had a dentist’s appointment. A dance lesson. A friend’s birthday party. Rob had a baseball game. A Scout meeting. A sleepover. Rachel had a date with the girls—or maybe, with the boys. He thinks she has lots of affairs of the heart.
That’s what she calls them: “Affairs of the heart.”
Has Walter had affairs? He doesn’t think so. He has held a mannequin in his arms, but he’s never screwed one. He wouldn’t do that. That would be perverse.
Walter may be many things, but he’s not perverse.
Not really.
It’s almost twilight. The sun is watered down and mellow. Mellow-yellow, orange and red. He clicks a cassette into the tape player. The Moody Blues sing of nights in white satin. He’s dated and old. Never reaching an end. Floundering.
The expressway is almost empty. Soon it will be overcome with exhaust and taillights. He’s driving home the way he’s always driven home from the Galleria. The light shines in his eyes. He might have a wreck. Just in time, the sun winks and is gone.
He’s approaching an overpass. His favorite overpass, a sleek angle of white concrete and sunbaked steel. He sees something dangling in the shadows overhead. It looks like a body, hanging at the end of a rope. But it can’t be a body. He puts on the brakes, and the Mercedes slides. He brings the car to a stop on the shoulder and gets out, gaping back at the body, twisting and turning above the highway. An eighteen-wheeler wheezes by. It doesn’t stop. Another car passes. Doesn’t anyone care? He’s got to save that poor girl. But he knows that it’s probably too late.
Why do people kill themselves? Selves. He sees a multiple image of himself trying on a suit. Did she plan this, or was it spontaneous? Panting and sweating—sweating profusely—Walter manages to scale the earthen bank. He boosts himself onto the pavement of the overpass. It would have been easier to move the car, but maybe she’s still breathing. Maybe she’s alive.
He carries a pocketknife in his jacket. His father always told him to be prepared. But he can’t haul her up by the rope; he’s not that strong. And if he cuts the rope, she may die from the fall. He pulls tentatively on the rope and discovers that she is not very heavy. She is not very heavy at all. He pulls the rope, hand over hand, and soon holds her in his arms. She does not breathe. Her heart is silent. He cradles her against his chest, uncertain whether to laugh or cry.
It is a joke of some sort, isn’t it?
He hears a siren, and from the corner of his eye, he sees a police car’s knowing lights. They’re coming to get him.
He looks at her again and still can’t believe what he sees. He knows this lady. But she’s so far from home. It’s Christine. The shaggy blond wig he had glued on her himself; he had glued it well. And dressed her in the silk Kamali blouse and sleek faded jeans. One of her spike heels is missing. He kisses her cheek and the policemen approach him carefully. There’s a crowd gathering. The policemen may arrest him. They must not do that.
He is a lawyer. He can talk himself out of anything. He starts talking. The policemen listen. They listen as they finger the long rope, the thick noose. They listen as they go down to the patrol car. They listen as they escort him to the Mercedes. They marvel at the nut case—or perhaps it was a high school prankster—who planted the mannequin at an unusually busy section of the Interstate.
The policemen shake his hand. Walter says good-bye. He watches as they carry Christine to the patrol car. He checks an impulse to wave. He’ll miss her. Did he do this? Did he hang Christine from the overpass? When could he have done that?
It is almost night. The cars zip by, one after another. Then-headlights are bright, probing, like flashbulbs. If he didn’t hang her, perhaps Rachel did. But how would Rachel know when he would pass? How did she know that he would be the one to stop? And why didn’t anyone else stop to see if it was a real body? Real body. Real. His brain feels fuzzy.
Doesn’t anyone care?
Rachel would not have done this to him. He’s a good husband. A good father.
A Porsche drives past. The girl from the bookstore. He starts to follow her, but the car is white, and he knows that her car wasn’t white. But it wasn’t black. He thinks it was silver. Gray. He’s not sure. Two Porsches in one day.
He sits behind the wheel of the Mercedes and cries. No one understands. No one cares. No one but Rachel.
Ahead, the highway curls into darkness. In the rearview mirror, he watches the shadows lengthen. And sees someone hangi
ng from the overpass, twisting at the end of a rope. A trick of the fading light. He turns the ignition key, tries a new tape in the cassette player. But he doesn’t listen.
He has decided to drive straight home. He follows the highway to the third exit. Turns right at the end of the ramp. Passes two traffic lights, then takes a left, another left, a right, another left. He’s there.
All the lights are on. The station wagon, a Volvo, sits in the driveway. Maybe everyone’s home. Maybe dinner is ready. Maybe a chilled Martini is waiting on the table. Maybe they’ll play gin rummy.
Walter trembles as he slides the key in and out of the lock and walks into the living room. He clutches the sacks with the magazine and the red tie. Rachel prefers Italian fashion magazines, but she’ll be glad he thought of her. They’ll laugh about the tie. It’s a joke, he’ll explain. They’ll laugh. He should have bought something for the kids. Of course, Laurie’s not a kid anymore. She has a boyfriend named Chad.
They’re not in the living room. He tries the kitchen, the dining room. He can’t find them. The bedrooms. They’re not there. He hears music coming from the den. With enormous relief, he heads in that direction. Down the stairs. They’re safe. They’ve been waiting for him. All the lights are on. They’re sitting on the couch, staring at the TV
“Welcome home, Daddy,” he says for them. He kisses Laurie on the cheek, scuffs Rob at the back of the neck. Then he sits next to Rachel, touches her beautiful hair, her eyes, her lips.
He loves her.
“We love you.”
He pulls her to his chest. Her breasts are cool and hard. He listens between them for the sound of a trapped heart.
Maybe, someday and always.
He listens.
D.W. Taylor
DEW DROP INN
TOO often, teachers get a bum rap. Like second looies and mothers-in-law, only the shrill or grumpy arc usually recalled. Yet if you like this anthology, you might pause to pay mental homage to ol’ Ms. or Mr. So-and-So who made your joy possible. Other writer-teachers present here include Castle, Ramsland, Anderson, Kisner, and me, but the best “teach” I’ve seen, since Miss Jean Grubb personally taught me about deadline diligence and integrity, wrote the following story.
Darker Masques Page 4