Bad Desire

by Devon, Gary;

  At one that Saturday afternoon, he left City Hall. A terrible seizing-up of anxiety gripped him when he walked out on the sidewalk. Where is he? Slater thought. He’s around here somewhere; I can feel it. But he saw no one he didn’t know by name.

  A paved road called Condor Pass rose steeply into the northern rim of the city. The cliffs on the right had been left uncultivated, tangled with creepers and wildflowers; the other side fell straight to the rocky shore below. High in the hills, the Eldorado dipped over a knoll and turned onto an asphalt driveway that curved like a carriage drive among stately live oaks. Here, the immaculate yard sloped downward for fifty yards and vanished. Far below, the sparkling bay of Rio Del Palmos was revealed as if viewed from the wrong end of a spyglass—the tiny, white city glowing in the lap of green hills, the Pacific black as rumpled satin. At the end of the drive, in front of the shake-roofed house, Slater parked the Eldorado on bricks that were half a century old.

  The Slater house was a large, sprawling, rambling ranch built into the side of a hilltop. Once it had been the love nest of an oil speculator from Wyoming, a man who had hobnobbed with Will Rogers and who then lost everything in a scandalous divorce. Slater got out of the car and walked up on the long veranda, which was always, even in the heat of day, as cool and shaded as a springhouse. Wicker rockers and tables were artfully strewn down its length; flowering vines grew up the roof posts.

  He entered the house through one of the sets of French doors. No one was home. Many Saturdays he came in late, after Faith was gone, but he had never been so aware of this deep, midday silence. It was unnerving how perfectly still everything was now, as if it had been waiting for him, endlessly waiting. More and more, this empty house had become a reflection of his marriage. On those rare times when he thought about it, he found it strange that Faith could be so oblivious to his feelings.

  The living room was large and classically proportioned. He made his way among the sofas and chairs, past the gleaming mahogany side pieces, trod over worn antique Chinese rugs, glimpsed himself in the huge, gilt-framed mirrors. The colors, the textures, all seemed to have aged together, as if from some masterful, loving lifelessness. It was not the air of indulgence that Slater found suffocating but the unyeilding sense of time standing still—of time spent wastefully and going to waste.

  On a raised platform, the dining room sat like a separate pavilion inside the house—a Chippendale-style pagoda with its own silk roof. He took the one step up to cross through it and went down the hall.

  As if suspended in midair, the master bedroom jutted out from the hillside at the end of the house. In the dressing room, he changed into khakis and an old sweatshirt. From the trouser pocket of his suit, along with the quarters and dimes, he brought out the necklace Sheila had left in the night to surprise him. Only a few more hours, he thought. Slater felt light-headed as he put the necklace into his pocket with his change. He took off his watch, put it into his pocket as well, and went back through the house, outside.

  In the third bay of the garage, under a tarpaulin cover, sat a Jaguar XK 140. He untied and peeled off its cover. He had loved it since the moment he first saw it in a neighbor’s garage. He had talked the man out of it immediately. A very precise machine, always, it seemed, a little out of tune, the roadster was an ancient dark scarlet with black fenders. Its sharklike hood, its primitive cockpit and tattered leather interior gave the car an air of impoverished elegance that he admired. All right, he thought, let’s get you started.

  Slater kicked the blocks from the tires and rolled the two-seater out into the sunlight. It positioned him ideally at the topmost crook of the drive. He wanted to know if he had been found out. If a dusty, black Mustang drove by on Condor Pass, he would see it at once. While he immersed himself in working on the car, Slater frequently lifted his head, wiped his hands on a rag and looked to the left, down the long shaded driveway to the main thoroughfare. He didn’t know quite what he expected to see. He didn’t actually believe that the killer would show up here, but he would’ve felt vulnerable working on the car anywhere else.

  His sense of unreality persisted like a mild intoxication. The day reeled around him and away, irreversibly. Luisa came back in a taxi from her shopping. Half an hour later, Faith drove her car into the garage. She loitered beside him a few minutes, teasing him about the Jaguar. “Poor old accident,” she said, breezily, “looking for a place to happen.”

  He grinned. “Oh, you think so?”

  The Vietnamese gardener arrived with his basket of tools and attacked the hedge. At times during the afternoon, when the noise of a falling limb or the jarring screech of a neighbor’s chainsaw startled him momentarily, Slater straightened and looked carefully about him, took his wristwatch from his pocket, checked the time and put it away, all as if in studied reflection.

  At six-thirty, when he cranked the ignition, the dials in the cockpit stood upright, twitching, the engine drinking oil but ready for whatever he asked of it. Behind him, across the lawn, the automatic sprinklers came on with a repetitious chatter. Slater looked at the house, where the setting sun cast the windows bronze. He set the clutch, shifted gears and tore down the driveway for the road.

  Hitting eighty-five, he banked into a tight curve, executed a flawless speed shift into second and flew out the other end as if from a slingshot. He pushed the Jaguar up to ninety, backed it down, then wound it up again.

  The sun had fallen behind the hills, the moon stood in the indigo East and the curves of the road meandered like quicksilver toward the valley below. Approaching a bridge marker, Slater hit the brakes, cut the wheel. The roadster spun to the side, throwing up gravel, and whipped around as he jammed the stick into first, buried the gas pedal and rocketed back the way he had come. He hadn’t felt such freedom since he was a boy.

  Night was collapsing all along the western coast; he had no control, whatsoever, over what was going to happen.

  Dinner that evening was at the Rod and Gun Club, a few miles north of Rio Del Palmos. On the way there, Faith turned to him and said, “Henry, let’s not go, tonight. It’s so lovely out. Why don’t we drive up the coast like we used to. What’s the name of that place you took me to?”

  “The Fireside,” Slater said.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said, smiling at him. “I wonder if it’s still there? Remember that crazy band? Oh, come on, let’s do it, Henry. Let’s go on a real date again; we’ll dance and drink beer and spend the night like we did before. No one needs to know where we are. You’ll have a good time, darling; I promise you.”

  For a moment, as he drove, he seemed to consider it, but in the end he grinned and shook his head. “Faith,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, “we can’t tonight. And besides … we’re not kids anymore.”

  She laughed and nestled closer to him. “Oh, shame on you,” she chided, keeping the moment light. “We’re not that old.”

  In the rustic lodge room of the club, they were seated at the table for twelve, among friends. The lofty, old hall was cozy and dim, the tables made intimate with trailing centerpieces of pine boughs and glimmering candles. Throughout the dinner courses—the chilled green tomato soup, the clams, the rack of lamb—Faith was aware, gradually, of her husband’s preoccupation with the time.

  At first, it seemed so inconsequential that she hardly gave it a second thought, but he kept doing it and in the most unobtrusive ways. Each time, the tilting of his watch was cloaked in a passing gesture, subtle and sly. What’s he waiting for? she wondered. Otherwise, he seemed entirely himself, ebullient, charming, almost boyish in his desire to please. Still, it had a disquieting effect on her; almost against her will, Faith found herself keeping track of the time, too.

  It was seven-thirty; it was ten past eight. Whenever he looked at his watch, Faith inevitably lifted her own watch to the edge of the tablecloth in her lap and again checked the time, but the position of the small gold hands meant nothing to her. What is it? she wondered. What’s bothering him?
Henry didn’t seem to be particularly on edge. Was the evening moving too fast for him or was it impossibly slow? It can’t be anything important, she finally decided. She would have known if it was, wouldn’t she?

  The relaxed conversation and laughter rippled around them. With a subdued clatter of plates, the waiters cleared the table; coffee and brandy were served. Against the protests of his wife, Deke Holloway told a joke about nuns and a parrot—the abrupt wave of laughter eddied away; on Faith’s left, Bunny Cartwright praised the diving crew she’d hired on North Eleuthera; across the table from Henry, three of the men were baiting him to join in still another poker game, the “Saturday Night Massacre” Henry sometimes called it.

  “All right,” Claudie Murdock said, “we’re in Kansas City and I’m in this game, straight poker, seven-card stud. Sixth card, two other guys still in the game, betting like hell, no end in sight. One’s got a straight flush, nine, ten, Jack showing, could, conceivably, fill a royal. The other guy shows an ace and three deuces, have to figure he’s got the fourth. I’m showing two ladies and I’ve got the other two in the hole. One card to go. The deuces bet fifty, the flush bumps him fifty. So, Henry, what would you do?”

  Slater grinned. “I’d order some whiskey,” he said and everyone started to laugh. Faith knew what the men were doing; she had listened to this talk before. Saturday night poker was a fiercely guarded tradition among the club’s wealthier members and Henry rarely lost at poker. She was aware that he had a reputation as a savvy but unpredictable player. In the lull of after-dinner conversation, the men were dealing him speculative hands, asking how he would bet them, all designed to lure him into a game. When Faith had a chance, she whispered, “Henry, go ahead, if you want to. I’ve got lots of catching up to do with Jeannie and Fran.”

  He leaned back, expansively, put his arm around her and gave her a familiar hug. “All right, Claudie,” he said, “you set it up, but no wild cards. Straight poker.” Faith collected her purse, Henry drank the last red-gold dollop of his cognac and they stood, along with several of the others, who were also leaving the long table.

  Except for her vague feeling of uneasiness this evening, she was happy trailing a step behind her husband. It was the order, the comfort of being married that lent stability to her life. She depended on it. Faith liked the confidence with which Henry moved through the crowd, calling everyone by name, a handshake here, a slap on the back there, a few effortless words of flattery or good-natured teasing, laughing companionably all around, then moving on, leading her through the rough tide of his admirers, while she twisted around in his wake, saying, “Hi, Fran, save me a place. Yes, thank you, order for me, same as always.”

  The crowd scattered at the dining hall entrance. Henry signed the check, passed it back to the maître d’, then he winked at her and said, “This won’t take long.” As he turned to accompany the men to the locker room where the game would take place, Faith heard him say, “I’ll sit in for an hour and that’s all tonight.”

  It was then that Henry removed his watch, wound it with a twist of the tiny knob and returned the polished gold band to his wrist, all without appearing to notice the time. But Faith knew otherwise. When she leaned down to say good evening to the Kramers, who were still seated at their table, she, also, looked at her watch. It was twenty past nine.

  Oh, stop it, she thought.

  At ten-thirty, she saw him leave the locker room. In the lounge where she was sitting, the quartet had started up again after taking its second intermission. Fran Baudin, complaining of a cold, had gone home early; Faith had lost Jeannie Whitman in the crowd. The conversation around her had grown muted, rich with gossip. “Did you hear what happened to Carolyn MacRae last night?” “No—don’t tell me.” Faith tried to be polite, but was unable to concentrate on the tales of local intrigue. She excused herself and went to find her husband.

  The outer regions of the lodge were deserted that evening as she made her way through the smoking room, then the trophy room with its walls of mounted antlers, and out through the music room, moving quickly around the silent Boesendorfer. The lodge’s back entrance appeared at the end of the hall. Faith was headed toward it, past the dark, cavelike ballroom called The Cotillion, when a gust of wind blew from its vast interior, carrying with it flecks of confetti and a few tumbling curls of white and silver ribbon.

  In the spindrift of debris, she saw something tightly crumpled and green. Money, she realized. It must’ve fallen out of someone’s pocket. Hardly breaking her stride, she stooped to pick it up and saw—across the blackness of the dance floor—a service door swing open. In the sudden wedge of moonlight, the silhouette of a woman appeared for a moment before the door clapped to. Who was that? Faith wondered as she continued toward the lodge’s back door, but from somewhere in the darkness behind her came the long, silvery echo of a laugh.

  My God! That’s Jeannie’s laugh. Jeannie Whitman. Meeting someone! Quickly, Faith went outside and across the patio, hearing her heels strike the old clay tiles. She didn’t see Henry anywhere.

  The perfume of star jasmine hung on the air like scented beads and she could feel her linen dress relaxing with the night’s dampness. Before her, the golf course stretched for a thousand moonlit yards, but out over the Pacific, the clouds were heavy and rolling and black. No stars shone there. Leaning forward against the stone balustrade, Faith closed her eyes and breathed in the warm air. One of those treacherous spring thunderstorms was blowing in, maybe the last before summer, she realized as she opened her eyes. Every few minutes, a blue-white flash of lightning ran jaggedly along the horizon, silent, ominous. “I don’t like lightning,” she murmured to herself.

  Jeannie Whitman! My God, what gets into people? She has four children. Faith felt the beginnings of a profound loneliness settle over her. I don’t understand how people can do that to themselves. To take her mind off it, she loosened the wadded money she’d found, smoothed it out and examined the two ten-dollar bills in the moonlight. It was as if God had put the money there to stop her so she would find out the truth about her friend. What an odd twist of events.

  Folding the bills, she put them into the pocket of her loose, pajamalike jacket. All right, Henry, she wondered, biting her lips, Where did you go? She lifted her head and looked back in the direction of the ballroom. Someone—some man, undoubtedly—had been waiting there in the dark for Jeannie. Henry had come this way and vanished.

  Shame on you, she scolded herself. You ought to be ashamed of even thinking such a thing. Henry and Jeannie? Don’t be ridiculous.

  She heard nothing but the eternal hiss of the Pacific. Then, as the currents of the night changed, Faith sensed that someone else was standing farther down the patio, beyond the honeysuckle that trespassed the stone railing of the balustrade. She tried to see over the tumbling mass of flowers but all she could make out was the motionless profile of a man, facing the night. Is that Henry? she thought. Without making a sound, she lifted the vines aside to see him more clearly.

  A reading lamp inside the lodge had been left on; the beam it sent across the patio was fine as mulled cotton. It caught one of his shoulders and half of Henry’s face. Immediately, she went toward him.

  His left hand was thrust in his trouser pocket, his right hand held a cigarette. In the way he stood, in the set of his head, Faith could see how intensely he was gazing into the distance and she approached him quietly. When he lifted the cigarette cupped in his hand, she noticed how his fingers were webbed with light, his lips cast red by the glow. A few steps behind him, she stopped. “Hello, sailor,” she said, light-heartedly, “want to dance? I think I’m free tonight.”

  It was as though her voice had struck him physically; she could feel his body go rigid as if to ward off a blow.

  “Henry, what is it? Are you all right? What’s going on …”

  When he finally turned to look at her, his voice was calm, but flat. “Why’re you always following me?” he said. “Can’t I get a breath of air?”r />
  Faith swallowed the dryness in her throat. “I don’t always follow you. I hardly ever follow—”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “I was only going to ask if we were winning or losing at poker—but I will gladly leave you alone.” She took a step to go, but all her instincts told her not to leave him like this. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? What is it, Henry? Are you angry with me? You’re certainly angry about something.”

  For several seconds he didn’t speak. He stared at her, eyes flashing. She saw something in him then that she had never seen before and it chilled her. His eyes were a thousand years old, hard with hatred, the eyes of an old, old soul masquerading in his man’s face. “Why are you staring at me like that?” Like the changing moonlight, in an instant, his expression seemed to her to dissolve, his face returning once again to that of the husband she knew. It’s the night playing tricks on me, she thought.

  “I hate these people,” he said, quietly, “sometimes … goddamn, I hate them, I can’t begin to tell you. We’re all on our own out here, Faith.”

  He wasn’t making sense to her but she dared not ask what he meant.

  An abrupt snap of wind shook the panes in the lodge windows behind them and the first plump raindrops struck the awning above. They stood at the edge of the patio, facing each other, like cats. Rain rustled in the bougainvillaea, lightning cracked and the thunder rocked the tile floor beneath them; he stiffened and looked at the night.

  “What’s the matter, Henry,” she said, softly, “afraid of the storm?” Never before had she wanted to sound so loving, so tender. “Something’s going on, isn’t it, my darling?”