The Fourth Angel

by John Rechy

  ‘Was the guy you made it with, was he older than you?’ Shell asks. ‘Did he force you?’ Then her voice shouts: ‘You didn't even know what the hell was happening, did you, Stu? He just grabbed you!’ The flashlight: Off!

  ‘Yes!’ Stuart lies, to enlist her as an ally—something in her voice…

  Shell's tense body relaxes in the darkness; she seems somewhat diminished. Then she accuses: ‘You're lying.’ And the light pounces on him again.

  ‘Yes,’ the man admits. ‘I wasn't forced.’

  ‘Did you force him?’ Cob asks.

  ‘I've never forced anyone,’ Stuart says quietly.

  ‘You were going to force Manny,’ Shell says.

  ‘I wasn't going to force him,’ Stuart says tiredly. ‘I really thought—I really did—that he wanted … me, too.’

  ‘Shit, man!’ Manny is enraged. ‘What the fuck made you fucking think I wanted a fucking queer? What the fuck made you think I fucking wanted you, man! You mean you thought I was a…’

  ‘No,’ the man says. ‘I just hoped that…’

  ‘I'm no fucking fag, man!’ Manny is furious.

  ‘I'm sure you're not,’ Stuart says dully.

  ‘Okay,’ Manny composes himself.

  ‘How did you make it with guys? How!’ Cob's voice shoots.

  ‘How many times, how many times, how many times?’ Manny parodies, seized suddenly by laughter. ‘Just like a hung-up priest at confession.’ His anger shifts to Cob; he resents Cob's seizing what was to be his interrogation.

  ‘You fucking shut up, man!’ Cob warns him.

  ‘How? Many? Times?’ Manny repeats with taunting slowness.

  ‘I don't know how many times,’ the man says vaguely.

  ‘That's not what I fucking asked,’ Cob reminds. ‘I asked you how you made it.’

  ‘I'm not going to tell you a goddamn thing!’ Stuart rebels. ‘Why the hell don't you find out for yourself if you're so interested?’

  Instantly Cob is standing before him, his enlarged shadow engulfing Stuart. ‘Yes, you fucking are going to tell us!’

  ‘I blew him!’ Stuart shouts, and he stares at Cob's thighs before him.

  ‘And what else?’ Cob proceeds relentlessly.

  ‘That's all,’ Stuart says quietly.

  ‘What else!’ Cob demands.

  ‘That's all!’ Stuart shouts.

  ‘How many times, how many times?’ Manny is convulsed.

  Then: silence, accumulating. The house is invaded by its deafening sounds.

  Cob's world: flashes of black; discordant sounds.

  Now Manny stands up, to wrest the interrogation back to himself as leader. ‘Like we're gonna lay some righteous help on your head, Stu,’ he says.

  Shell frowns.

  Jerry looks at her. Her hair is luminous even in the dark. When this night is ended…?

  ‘How?’ the man says. A recurrent wave of desire engulfs him. His thoughts rush crazily: Might it all somehow turn out all right? Futilely trying to order the horror, his mind explodes in sexual images.

  ‘What the fuck are you into, man?’ Cob asks Manny.

  ‘It's my fucking interrogation,’ Manny asserts himself tensely. ‘I'm the dude who got fucked over and interrogated in the J.D. home—not you!’ He says to Stuart: ‘Diggit, man, like we're gonna make you straight.’

  Shell's light slashes the room fiercely.

  6

  In that shaft of shifting light, Jerry sees a dead bird trapped in the transom of the old house. Had it been trying to Escape the wind? His mother hadn't wanted to die, either. Desperately he had tried to breathe his life into her, pushing his breath into her no-longer-moving lips. Where is she now? … He sees Shell, Cob, Manny. He feels their meanness, and his: revolt against life which contains death.

  The angry whirl of Shell's flashlight—was it meant to warn Manny? If so, he won't retreat: ‘Like you said you've never been with a chick, Stu,’ he goes on; ‘well, you're gonna be with one now.’

  Cob stands in the shadows, as if preparing to choose sides in a quickly shaping game.

  Jerry understands with resentment: Manny is going to taunt Stuart with Shell. He moves slightly toward her.

  Shell turns off the flashlight with finality.

  In the tense darkness Manny moves toward her—and he takes the flashlight from her; he's relieved that she didn't protest. Now he crouches near Stuart. Suddenly, whirling about like a gunfighter, he flashes the light on Shell: ‘Pow!’

  ‘What the hell!’ Shell protests.

  ‘You did it to us,’ Manny reminds her.

  Not blinking, Shell looks defiantly at Manny.

  The terror multiplies. Stuart knows he may become a mere object in a struggle among the four.

  ‘Isn't she outasite?’ Manny asks Stuart.

  ‘Yes,’ the man whispers.

  Shell's yellow eyes are frozen in the light.

  How far will she allow Manny to go? Jerry looks at Shell.

  As if in answer, suddenly she leans back on the floor, her breasts flare full and lovely. She smiles radiantly. Is she playing along with Manny?

  Now the shadow of Cob stands behind Shell. Yes, they're into Manny's game. ‘Diggit, Stu; isn't she like fine, man?’ Cob asks.

  Jerry moves closer to Shell, joining them. He touches her hair, barely. He hears himself say: ‘You dig her, Stu?’

  The flashlight still bathes her, Cob and Jerry are opaque shadows in the peripheral light.

  Stuart doesn't answer.

  Rashly Jerry bends over Shell, his fingers glide along her throat, lightly touching her shoulders. She allows the gesture. To taunt Stuart—only for that reason? Suddenly her body stiffens. Quickly, Jerry withdraws his fingers. Her flesh was cold.

  In the fleeting light of a vagrant car, Cob's sunglassed eyes flash like angry bulbs. ‘You want her, Stu?’ he seizes the direction of the game. ‘And then you won't be queer any more.’

  ‘I'd … rather … not …’ the man whispers.

  Cob reacts in faked outrage. ‘Don't you like her, man?’

  ‘She's very beautiful,’ Stuart says quickly.

  Feeling pleased with his tactic, ‘Give it a try, man,’ Manny says.

  ‘Move over here, Stuart,’ Cob orders.

  Manny turns angrily to Cob; Cob is grabbing control. And what the hell? Manny thinks. It was to be his interrogation; he's tougher than they are—he's been busted; he's even done time in the state institution; they haven't. He shoots the light at Cob, as if in ambiguous warning.

  ‘On Stuart!’ Cob demands. The purple gaze is electric in the light.

  Responding automatically to his command, Manny shifts the light back to Stuart.

  Stuart has not moved.

  ‘I said, move over here,’ Cob barks at him.

  Stuart moves toward Cob, toward Shell.

  Shell stands quickly. Will she retreat?

  ‘Kneel!’ Cob orders Stuart. ‘Like you've knelt before dudes!’

  Suddenly Shell's body is rigid, as if she must force it not to retreat.

  ‘Oooo-eee,’ Manny giggles.

  Cob pushes Stuart to kneel. And now he places his hand firmly on the man's head as if to force it against Shell's legs.

  Instantly, Shell moves away. Then she laughs. Manny begins to laugh, too—and then Jerry, in relief. Their laughter envelops Stuart. Frantically, hysterically, he joins their laughter.

  Only Cob is not laughing. He's standing before the kneeling form of Stuart.

  His laughter choking, Stuart stares at Cob's spread legs. Desire erupts.

  Cob pushes him backward on the floor. ‘Sick fucking queer!’ he shouts.

  ‘You promised you wouldn't hurt him,’ Jerry reminds him.

  Stuart recovers quickly, stands. ‘I'm getting out of here!’ he gasps hysterically. ‘And don't try to stop me!’

  Manny flashes the light on Stuart as he moves: a relentless searchlight refusing to release him. ‘We'll call the pigs and tell them you were moles
ting us,’ Manny reminds. ‘Remember, man, we're just little kids.’

  Stuart shouts his accusation at them: ‘Kids!—yes!—but your cruelty is …’ He shakes his head wearily. ‘You're not even kids—you're old with cruelty.’

  Cruelty. Jerry feels lacerated by the accusation. Cruelty.

  ‘Stu's hysterical, he needs a smoke,’ Shell says easily.

  Trying to breathe evenly—but gasping—the man nods eagerly. Just the lighting of a cigarette will provide a pause to contain and order the still-shapeless terror.

  Shell brings forth a pack of cigarettes, gives one to Stuart, lights it carefully for him.

  The man inhales.

  Shell watches him closely as he smokes within the still-glaring light.

  The others watch her.

  Now the man is aware of the intense stares.

  Shell's voice is ice: ‘Guess what I put on the tip of your cigarette, Stu?’

  The man looks down at the cigarette in bewilderment.

  ‘Go on, guess,’ Shell insists.

  Cruelty. The word floats on Jerry's mind. The force that seized his mother into death, that was the ultimate cruelty. And his vulnerability—weakness, he renames it—prepared him for the horror. To be strong! Yet … Cruelty…

  ‘What!’ the man blurts.

  ‘Acid, I put acid on the tip of your cigarette,’ Shell says.

  ‘What kind of acid?’ the man asks uncertainly, the fear hasn't yet shaped.

  ‘LSD,’ Shell pronounces.

  ‘Far out!’ Manny giggles.

  Terror springs on the man. ‘What will it do to me!’

  ‘Well, uh,’ Cob comes in, ‘like if you let yourself, you'll dig it.’ His voice changes abruptly. ‘As uptight as you are, you'll probably freak—and end up in the psycho ward for days or even months.’

  A frantic trapped animal, ‘Don't stop me from getting out of here!’ Stuart yells.

  ‘Where will you go?’ Shell asks coldly. ‘It'll start coming on you like in about half an hour and it's powerful shit.’ She raises her hands—enlarged by the light into monstrous shadows, giant claws—as if to lunge at him like the drug. ‘Like it really comes at you!’

  ‘I couldn't have taken that much on the tip of that cigarette!’ the man is arguing with his fear.

  ‘All it takes is like a lick of the tongue,’ Manny says. ‘Now why don't you just groove on it?’

  Jerry watches in horror. And new fascination. He looks at Shell. So at ease with cruelty. And so, nothing can hurt her. She's immunized herself; she can't feel pain like his.

  Stuart gags, attempting to spit out whatever has invaded his system. ‘I'm afraid!’

  ‘You'll bum yourself out for sure,’ Cob shakes his head.

  Violent nausea, dizziness. The man staggers to the door. The light held by Manny pursues him. Now Stuart is rushing along the dark enclosing corridor. He's at the window. He imagines their hands on him, pulling him back like savages into the darkness. But already he's climbing out of the window, the house.

  ‘The dude's gonna bum for sure!’ Cob says.

  ‘It wasn't acid,’ Shell says quietly. ‘I didn't put anything on the cigarette.’

  Cob laughs, Manny giggles.

  Suddenly Jerry is running along the corridor. He's already climbed through the window; he's rushing away from the house.

  The others follow him hurriedly, but they stop at the window.

  ‘Where the hell is he going?’ Manny asks.

  ‘He's fucking scared, he's running away from us!’ Cob says, almost victoriously.

  ‘No,’ Shell says decisively.

  From the window they watch Jerry with Stuart; Stuart is retching violently in the parking lot.

  ‘He's just going to tell him it wasn't acid,’ Shell says easily. ‘He's still weak.’

  In the car lot. ‘They were putting you on; there was nothing on the cigarette!’ Jerry is yelling at Stuart.

  Wearily, Stuart straightens up. ‘You're sure?’ he asks in vast relief.

  ‘I'm sure,’ Jerry says.

  Stuart actually reaches out to touch Jerry on the arm. To him—despite all the terror they exposed him to—to him, at this moment, standing as he is in the halo of a street light, Jerry looks like a lost, beautiful angel. ‘Thank you,’ Stuart utters.

  Jerry returns quickly to the dark corridor. He faces the three. ‘If he'd gone to the cops or the hospital, they would come looking for us,’ he says hurriedly. He's trying to tell them that he did not really surrender to pity. But he knows he did.

  ‘Sure,’ Shell says tersely.

  ‘Sure,’ Cob echoes darkly.

  ‘Fuck it,’ Manny says, imitating Shell's disappointment earlier over the escaped voyeur.

  For moments they stand in the silent darkness. Gone, Stuart has left an almost palpable emptiness. Without his terror, they must look elsewhere.

  ‘Now what?’ Cob asks. Again the wasteland of empty time, stretching.

  ‘Let's do some more dope,’ Manny says. It might execute time.

  ‘It's all gone,’ Shell says flatly.

  ‘We could go get some more from that dude near the river,’ Manny insists. He feels suddenly sad. Stuart's borrowed reality lingers—and the dope may pull them away from it.

  ‘I'd dig some acid,’ Cob approves.

  They pronounce words. It's as if the confrontation with Stuart has left them diminished because there was no real climax for them.

  For Jerry the night stretches emptily too. Yet a disturbing, disturbed part of him was filled by the mean encounter—his initiation away from vulnerability and tears? Within the whirling void, a stasis was provided by the unresolved violence. Yes, Stuart's terror freed him momentarily from his own. Now he pulls away from the newly haunting memory of Stuart.

  ‘You want some acid?’ Shell asks Jerry abruptly.

  Deliberately cool—to match their cool—he shrugs.

  ‘It'll clear your head,’ Shell tells him.

  Her voice seems curiously gentle to Jerry. Seems? Through some particular horror of her own—but what?—does she understand the wailing emptiness? … The proffered drug. To clear his head, she said. Perhaps it will be the door to his salvation. At least a substitute for salvation.

  They stand outside now under the star-punctured sky. A breeze suddenly becomes a nervous gust. An augur of the desolate wind, rising again? In moments will an army of tumbleweeds invade the city from the desert? Already those crushed against the house stir restlessly.

  Again Cob chooses to drive, Shell lets him—and again she sits in back with Jerry. To be with him, or to affront Cob? The question is important to Jerry as they speed away on the freeway.

  They exit on the Mesa highway and into the outskirts of the city draped in the shadows of thick trees. Traveling on a dirt road now, they reach a torn-down shack near the Rio Grande. Cardboards are tacked against its smashed windows to keep out the wind. Leprous weeds cover the otherwise bare lawn. Several cars, some partly stripped and propped like mechanical skeletons on bricks, are parked before it, or abandoned there. Rock music wafts the dark country air.

  Cob knocks loudly to be heard.

  A curtain parts at the window, a face peers out, the curtains close again carefully, the door opens.

  Inside, the room is dimly lit. Gradually faces float eerily out of the light, which is the dyed color of koolade. At least a dozen long-haired youngmen and girls sit on the floor.

  Slightly apart, two girls huddle against the wall and over a sheet of paper. One is frailly blond, almost translucent. The other is delicately Oriental.

  Shell, Cob, and Manny join the circle on the floor. Immediately someone hands Shell a number, which she smokes, passes to the others. The joint of weed, passing slowly and silently—and another is instantly started, moving in the opposite direction—binds them intimately as it goes from hand to mouth to hand in the familiar ritual.

  Shell holds up the number to Jerry, who stands. He hits from it, expecting nothing from
it now, getting nothing. Then he turns to the two girls outside the circle.

  The two are making slow, careful, graceful water-color marks with brushes on a sheet of paper. Colors meld, creating quivering electric edges. The two seem deliberately isolated from the others—perhaps that's why Jerry turned to them.

  He hands the number to the frail blond girl. She seems to be protected by fragile crystalline glass. She inhales, passes the joint to the other girl.

  ‘You like colors?’ the Oriental girl asks Jerry softly.

  ‘Yes,’ he answers.

  The blond girl lifts the drawing dreamily. The colors run in clashing streaks, creating a flood of vari-colored waves. She holds it up to Jerry.

  ‘Sound,’ she says. ‘It's a picture of sound.’

  ‘And this is a picture of God,’ the Oriental girl says. She holds up another drawing: a sheet covered with shades of blue like overlapping wings.

  ‘Gentle, like that,’ says the blond girl. ‘That's God.’

  Jerry reaches abruptly for the drawing. He stares angrily at it. ‘I think it's weird—really weird and ugly—and it's all crazy.’

  7

  This time Shell drove. Manny sits aggressively in front with her.

  ‘Can't you go any faster?’ Cob taunts Shell. ‘Are you too stoned to drive?’

  ‘Shit,’ Manny defends, ‘Shell can drive ripped any fucking time.’

  ‘What's putting you uptight?’ Shell aims at Cob. ‘I can't fucking help it if the cat was out of good dope.’

  Cob shifts his disappointment to anger: ‘Let's go to Jerry's big pad.’ For him, the house Jerry has not let them into is looming as a symbol of the new-angel's unapproachable distance—and it affronts him.

  Jerry says nothing. But his resolve grows that they won't—that no one will—invade that part of his life. He regrets even having told them that he locked his mother's room.

  Shell is silent.

  ‘Why don't you want us in your house?’ Cob verbalizes the accusation.

  Jerry says: ‘The cats aren't used to strangers.’ Then in a very quiet voice: ‘They miss my mother.’ Yes, and they seem lost, lost like him … The brown Burmese waiting before the closed room—he remembers her especially: the bewildered, angry yellow eyes. If he could explain to her! But even he doesn't ‘understand’. How could he—how could anyone—explain death?—suddenly an invisible constant in his life.