Bad Moon Rising
Page 19
When I was coming up to the house, I saw that something was wrong. I hadn’t been able to contact Wendy by phone. Now the lights were out and the house had a deserted look. Where had she gone?
Her car was in the garage. Had a friend picked her up?
I hurried to the back door and walked inside. We never locked up until we went to bed.
Refrigerator thrum. Air conditioner whoosh. All those inexplicable sounds of a house talking to itself.
Downstairs empty. Upstairs—
I went straight to our bedroom and there with the bloody sunset filling the window like a wound she lay in a tight fetal position in the center of the bed. Her blue walking shorts and white blouse were badly wrinkled, something she would ordinarily not have allowed.
The bedroom décor was all hers, of course. And it was very feminine, with a canopy bed, a doll collection, a dressing table, enough perfumes to enchant a sultan, and three stacks of fashion magazines from her high school years. I knew this because one night when she was depressed she sat in a chair in the living room with several very old issues, going through them with great interest. I asked her about them and she said, “That was the last time my life was simple. Back when I used to sit next to you in homeroom.”
I knew she was aware of me because the sound of her breathing came sharper now. But she kept her eyes closed. When I saw the envelope on the hardwood floor I reached down to pick it up.
“Don’t look at it.” Her eyes were still closed; she hadn’t moved.
But I did pick it up. I knew what it would be of course. Her mood told me that.
“We’re going to Canada.”
“No, we’re not, Wendy.”
Then she was not only sitting up, she was hurling herself off the bed and standing in front of me.
“Well, you’re sure as hell not going to Nam, I’ll tell you that. I lost my husband over there; I’m not going to lose you the same way.”
“I have to go, Wendy. It’s my duty. Other guard units have gone.”
“Don’t give me any patriotic bullshit. I don’t want to hear it.” I took it as significant that she wasn’t crying. Her fury wouldn’t allow for any softer expressions of pain.
I reached out for her but she jerked away. “Don’t touch me. I can’t believe you’re just going to go along with this.”
“What the hell choice do I have, Wendy?”
“Go to Canada. Or say you’re a pacifist. Or say you’re queer. Some goddamned thing. You’re a lawyer, Sam. Start thinking like one.”
She was doing me a kind of favor. By having to deal with her I didn’t have to deal with my own feelings—fear and anger just like hers—that would be mine when I was alone.
“And think of your mother, Sam. How’s she going to take this? She needs you just the same as I do.”
I knew better than to touch her. “Listen, honey. Why don’t you fix us a couple of drinks while I wash up? Then we can sit on the patio and talk this through a little more calmly.”
“Don’t give me your calmly bullshit, Sam. That’s what you always say when you can’t think of anything else.” Then she waved me off. “This is making me so crazy. I’m like I was after my husband died.” She looked crazy, too. Then, “I’ll go make some drinks.”
In the upstairs bathroom I washed up, and as I did I studied my face in the mirror. I knew what she meant about those old magazines. My face had been very different back then. If I survived the war it would change even more and probably not to my liking.
I’d been taking my time in the bathroom until I heard her weeping downstairs. Great harsh gushes that must have burned her throat.
I hurried up then. I needed to be with her for both our sakes.
THE END
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copyright © 2011 by Ed Gorman
interior design by Maria Fernandez
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Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
PART ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
PART TWO
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
PART THREE
17
18
19
20
21
22
Copyright Page