Sometime later she awoke and looked at her watch: 4:00. What she should do, she thought, was get up, get dressed, and go home. But the thought of driving through those dark streets deserted by all but those grim sentinels frightened her more than the image of Brad waiting for her when she returned. Fuck him, she thought savagely as she burrowed closer to the man sleeping beside her, who now seemed not nearly as fat and as sour-smelling as she had first imagined. But even though the nearest specter was a good ten miles away, she found that she could not go back to sleep.
~*~
"A whore," Brad told Wally again the next morning. He stood in front of the TV screen, blocking the boy's view of Mighty Mouse. They were both in the living room. Wally, with a child's casual acceptance, had grown used to the sight of Old Joe, and had even gotten to the point where he could not understand his mother's constant revulsion. It was like a poster, that was all. Like the Mickey Mouse poster Uncle Brad had bought for him last Christmas.
"W-h-o-r-e," Brad spelled out. "But you don't know your letters anyway, do you?"
Wally shook his head no. He did know his letters, had learned them from Sesame Street, and numbers too. But no one had ever asked him if he knew them or tried to help him read or count. Mommy used to, but that was just a game. He didn't really learn from that, like he did from TV. But he wouldn't tell Uncle Brad he knew them, especially since that would have meant telling Uncle Brad he was wrong. So he shook his head no.
"Now, you tell her when she gets home, won't you?”
“Yeah." Wally twisted his head to the right, trying to see past Brad.
"You listening to me?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, then," Brad said, not moving. "If Mommy's a whore, then what does that make you?"
"I dunno."
"It's simple. A son of a whore. Right?"
"Yeah."
Brad moved away from the TV then, his rage toward Christine escaping just enough that he cuffed the boy roughly on the side of the head.
Wally gasped, and his own temper broke suicidally. "I didn't do nothing!" he cried.
"Sometimes being born's enough, sweetmeat," Brad said softly. Frankie didn't do anything. I didn't do anything. "Sometimes you just get whomped for the hell of it."
The door opened. They both turned and saw Christine standing there, her black hair hanging long and only partially combed. Her makeup seemed cemented on, and her coat was hanging open, so that the tight sweater beneath seemed to Brad like nothing more than a walking come-on. He felt both angry and aroused.
"Well, look who's back." He smiled, then chuckled as her eyes darted nervously to Old Joe and back again to him. "And where have you been, my pretty one?"
"Spent the night at Barb's."
"Why for?"
"I drank too much."
"At the bar?"
"Yeah, and . . . back at her place afterward."
"Wrong. I called Barb last night, talked to her," he half lied. "She said you weren't with her. She didn't know where you were. So from that information Wally and I could draw only one conclusion. What is your mommy, Wally?"
The boy whispered it. "A whore."
"Louder."
"A whore."
Christine whitened, staring with wide eyes at her son. Then she turned to Brad. "You taught him that!"
"Only the word. His mommy has taught him the concept." Brad dropped the bantering tone. "What were you doing last night?"
"Wally, go to your room."
"Were you getting fucked?"
"Wally!" The boy ran down the hall.
"Huh? A little on the side? Is that what you were doing the other times?"
"No, I—"
"Don't lie to me. That's the worst. The lying is the worst. What I want is the truth. I want to know why."
"I just—"
"Why?"
"I just want to get away from here!" she flared. "I can't stand this anymore. All these things! I just wanted to get away for a night. That's all!"
"You mean you . . . picked somebody up so you wouldn't have to spend the night here in town?"
"Yes."
"But,"—he shook his head, his cold anger replaced by genuine puzzlement—"you can't see anything in our bedroom."
"I know they're there," she answered, her voice breaking in frustration. "I can feel them. Please, Brad, we've got to go. We've just got to." She had come to his side, her fear of him nothing in comparison to the fears that had sent her into a stranger's bed.
He put his arms on her shoulders, almost tenderly. "Chris, I can't go."
"Why not? You're strong, you're smart, you could do better than the shoe factory. Why do you want to stay here?"
His mouth quivered, and for an instant she saw the face of the man she had loved enough to move in with without benefit of marriage. His face had suddenly changed so that it looked like a little boy's, full of a trusting vulnerability that melted her. It was as though a mask had dropped away, as if a statue had become flesh. "I don't know myself," he said, the unexpected wetness in his eyes making them look larger, entranced. "I just know that I have to, that there's a reason. That there's something I have to . . . make up for. And I can't do it without you. I mean I can't bear to be alone now. Not now, when it's coming."
"What's coming?" she asked, clinging to him. "Judgment," he said. "I think judgment."
"I don't know what you mean."
"No. I didn't expect you to."
Her face fell. "You always thought I was dumb."
The moment was over. The seconds of warmth, of communication that they had shared was gone, and Brad's eyes narrowed with a hint of their former cynicism. He tried to hold on nonetheless.
"That's not what I meant."
She turned away. "You told Wally to call me a whore."
He remembered then, and he smirked. "I didn't tell him to call you a dumb whore."
"Don't teach my son words like that!" She whirled, snarling. "He ought to know them."
"He's four, for crissake!"
"Was he good?"
"Who?"
"Your friend. The one who traded you half an out-of-town bed for your little pussy. Was he good?" Some of the tightness went out of her jaw. He had her on the defensive now. "Well? Was he?" She didn't answer. "You know, Chris, in all the time we've been together, I have not once slept with another woman. Did you know that? And we're not even married, so it wasn't fear of God or the loss of reputation. You want to know what it was? Come on. Can I have a response here?" She nodded stiffly. "It was honor." He took his time with the word, so that it seemed to ease itself off his tongue. "Honor. You know, people don't talk about honor today. People have forgotten what the hell it is. Well, I haven't. Maybe I did once or twice before in my life. And maybe that's why it's been so important since. But I'm not forgetting now. I'm living with you, so I don't fuck anybody else, not even if they beg me, which no one's been doing anyway. And maybe I'm foolish enough to expect the same thing in return from you. Do you think that's unreasonable?"
She breathed deeply before she answered. "I think . . . that staying here is unreasonable."
"That's not the point!" he roared. "Not the goddamn point! The point here is cunt, and the fact that you've been spreading yours for a night at the Rammit Inn and a cup of in-room instant in the morning and I don't like that. It pisses me off." He backhanded her lightly on the left cheek, as casually as if he were brushing away a gnat. She gasped and drew back, but swerved as soon as she realized she was stumbling blindly toward Old Joe. "Uh-unh," Brad said, smacking her, this time with his open palm, on her right cheek so that she moved back onto her previous route. "You're not a very honorable lady, Chris," Brad said viciously, striking her again and again, sharp blows that stung her face, left, right, left, right, pressing her backward toward the old black man silently watching the room.
Finally she flailed at Brad with her fists, but he caught them and whirled her around so that she faced the phantom. "Nooo!" she cried, bringing up her knees and
trying to kick him, but he evaded most of her blows, and those that connected he ignored.
"Scared of Joe?" he grunted, forcing her closer. "Huh? Scared of Joe? Why? He's a man, see? Maybe he'll give you a room for the night if you fuck him, huh?" Now he held her less than a foot away from the blue-yellow eyes. "Why don'tcha show him the merchandise, Chris? Huh? Come on, let's show him!"
He had her coat off and her sweater pushed up over her breasts before her terror allowed her to cry out. It was a slow, choking wail of despair that Wally heard in his bedroom, but he did not open his door. He only sat on his bed, hands in his lap, hoping that whatever the man was doing to his mother would satisfy him. He listened to the first cry, then to the high keening, and finally to the primitive, almost rhythmic grunts of pain that followed. The silence lasted then, and he thought perhaps that, for this time, it was over; he was safe.
~*~
One other person heard Christine's cries. The ears were old, yet still sharp enough to catch the sounds through the closed windows and above the purr of Saturday morning Market Street traffic. Eddie Karl frowned and spat, looking up toward the second-floor window from which the cries had come. "Mean shit," he muttered, shaking his head and shuffling through the melting snow. "Turned into a mean little shit." Eddie stepped to the curb and crossed the street. He passed the Western Auto store, glancing briefly at the makeshift plywood box that stood where the bench had been. "Mornin', Rorrie," he said as he passed it and made his way to the Hitching Post.
It was a typical small-town restaurant—six booths, a counter with red leather stools, tired-looking pies under dull plastic shells. There were greasy menus and greasier food, and a waitress called Jake who handled the whole with aplomb. When Eddie entered, only a few people were having a late breakfast, and he sat on the empty stool between Fred Hibbs and Tom Markley. "Howdy, Jake," he called to the chubby waitress. "Coffee 'n a doughnut, please. And how's Mr. Mayor today?" he asked Markley, who didn't look up from his coffee cup.
"Okay, Eddie," he said, taking a deep drag on his Camel. "How's the store doin'?"
"It . . . could be better."
"Yeah, I bet. Hell, a lot fewer customers these days. And I'm bettin' they don't feel much like Christmas, am I right?”
“You're right."
Eddie shook his head. "Just a coupla days away, and everybody's walkin' around with Good Friday faces. Don't know what they're so scared of."
"They're scared of what they don't understand."
"Maybe so. Thanks, Jake." Eddie dunked the doughnut in his cup and took a large, wet bite. "This Thornton guy finding out anything yet?"
Markley snorted, the smoke rushing from his nostrils in twin torrents. "Thornton. Biggest waste of taxpayers' money I've ever seen. Him and his fucking scientists have been here almost three months now, and nothing. Got the power companies and the chemical firms kissing his ass every day too."
"You think he's a crook?"
"Don't know what to think, but he sure as hell doesn't give a damn about Merridale. I had to fight like hell to get us declared a disaster area. Son of a bitch didn't wanta do that. You believe it? People running out of town, businesses gone to hell, being shut off like we're in quarantine." Markley's voice fell. "You know what would've saved our asses? Tourists."
Eddie grinned crookedly. "Tourists?"
"Sure!" Markley seemed obsessed with the idea. "Why, people want to come in here. What do you think the road, blocks are for? Personally, I think they're sickos, but they want to see these things. So why shouldn't the town make some money off of it. You could do plates, T-shirts, even religious stuff."
"Some people'd say that's just as sick as wantin' to look."
Markley stubbed out his cigarette. "It's just an idea. There's no harm in ideas."
"I ain't so sure of that," said Eddie Karl. "That Hitler had ideas."
Markley stood up and threw two singles on the counter, then turned back, pocketed one bill, replaced it with three quarters, and walked out without another word.
"Testy, ain't he?" Eddie said, turning with a friendly smile to Fred Hibbs. "Just 'cause I didn't agree with turning Merridale into Disneyland. Might not be too bad at that." He dunked, chewed, and swallowed. "Deadland. And we could have like a Dracula mascot—the Count of Merridale. You know, like they got Mickey Mouse at Disneyland? Sure. Buttons and T-shirts and beer mugs and pennants for the kids. Maybe we could even use some old '39 World's Fair stuff. You know, 'I have seen the future.' "
Jake laughed in spite of herself. "You're awful, Eddie!”
“Just thinking of ways to make a buck, Jakie. Just like our mayor."
"It ain't funny," Fred Hibbs said. "You shouldn't make fun."
"Well, I'm goddamn sorry, Loafer, but when I see some greedy tweedly-pom like Tom Markley all bent out of shape because his business is gone to shit, damned if it don't make me chuckle a little."
Jake refilled Eddie's coffee cup, grimacing at the multitude of crumbs that bubbled up as she poured. "Mr. Markley's not all that bad. We had worse mayors."
" 'Sides," added Fred, "it ain't just his store, it's the whole town. Whole town's dead." He blanched. "I didn't mean that."
Eddie sent up a whoop of laughter. "Maybe not, but you're right as rain anyway. Yep. Deadest place I ever saw."
Fred Hibbs stared down at his soiled plate. "Jeez, I hate it here."
"Why don't ya go?"
"Go where? Got no relatives. All I got's my daddy's house."
"Sell it."
Hibbs grunted. "I can see you ain't been talking to no realtors lately. Nobody's sold a house here since this's all started. "
"Been renting some," Jake said.
"Oh, sure, to them scientists and such. But now most of them are pullin' out. I talked to Melva Dupes about sellin' my place, and she told me no way. Said Merridale's just another—what'd she call it—Love Channel or something."
"Love Canal," said Jake. "Where they dumped those chemicals."
"Yeah. Love Channel's a pussy." Eddie raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, Jakie."
Jake blushed pleasantly, said, "You're a dirty old man, Eddie," and disappeared into the kitchen with Fred Hibbs's empty plate.
The two men sat for a while without speaking, and then Eddie said, "You still seeing your parents?"
Hibbs shook his head. "I put . . . like sheets of cardboard around 'em. But I know they're there."
"Really bothers you, huh?"
"Wouldn't it you?"
Eddie shrugged. "My folks weren't from around here. Never got married, nor nobody ever lived with me. Folks lived there before moved away." He sighed. "I got nobody in my house. Lotsa old friends though. All around town. I can see them a whole lot better now, if only people didn't keep tryin' to hide them."
"You're crazy, Eddie, you know that?"
"Crazy, huh? You just remember who seen 'em first, son. You remember that." He dropped the final piece of doughnut into the coffee and wolfed it down, licking a crumb from his wrinkled lips before bending them in a smile.
"I may be crazy, but I ain't scared."
~*~
While Eddie Karl was finishing his breakfast, Tom Markley was pushing open the door of his sporting goods store on High Street, noticing as he did that it was empty as usual. Max Douglas, his only remaining salesman, sat behind the counter reading a paperback Executioner novel, which he tried to hide when he saw Markley enter. Markley pretended not to notice. He was past caring. "Anything?"
"Cy Holland was in, bought a headband. He and his family's going skiing for two weeks over Christmas. I think they just want to—" He stopped as Markley held up his hand.
"Take an early lunch, huh?" Markley said. "Be back around noon or so."
"Sure, Tom. Whatever." Max bundled up and left the store.
Alone, Markley looked at the single bill of sale registered that morning. A headband. A four-fucking-ninety-five headband. The Friday before Christmas, and a total of five bucks. It was enough to make a body sick.
&n
bsp; Markley ripped off his bifocals and looked around his empty store. Empty? Not quite. In one way it was full—full of merchandise that sat and sat and sat waiting for someone to come in and buy it. He kicked the side of the counter savagely, doing more harm to his foot than to the sturdy wood, but it helped nonetheless.
Goddamn Clyde Thornton, he thought. It was Thornton who was responsible, Thornton up there in Ted Bashore's big house, rented for a pittance because rich old Ted couldn't bear to sell it, oh, no, not even if he could have found a buyer, but he could afford to run, couldn't he? Off to goddamn Florida for a few months until this unpleasantness clears up. Sure, that's what everybody with money does—runs away. Doesn't matter if their town goes down the toilet, that there's no money left to keep the merchants in business.
Why doesn't Thornton find something? That's what he's here for! Markley was starting to think maybe Thornton really didn't want to. Maybe he liked being the big man too much. Markley shook his head and jammed a Camel in his mouth. Not only was his business shit, he was barely even mayor anymore. At the town meetings everyone deferred to Thornton; everyone asked Thornton questions. And Thornton would smile and be gracious, while never saying a goddamn thing, and would refer to Markley as "Mr. Mayor," while wearing a smirk broad enough to tell the whole town that "Mr. Mayor" meant absolutely nothing in his scheme of things.
That thinly veiled contempt had begun to spread, touching the rest of the town, so that when before people had smiled, had helloed, had stopped to chat with the mayor, now they only nodded and walked on, the ends of their mouths twitching skyward in a vague memory of warmth toward this man who was now an impotent fool, who could only say, "I don't know," when they asked their questions. Thornton would never say that. Instead it was always, "We've thought of that possibility and are looking into it at this time. We'll inform you as soon as we learn anything definite." Or maybe, "Our investigations have so far not disproved those possibilities, but we can't make a positive statement yet." Or, "No, radioactivity cannot be ruled out as a possible source for the phenomenon, although it seems highly doubtful," and, "Chemicals, combined with the precise amount of wind or underground stream activity, are a somewhat remote possible source, but we're not ruling anything out yet."
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