by R. L. Fox
“No, I’m taking you home after this.”
“I don’t want to go home. I want more speed.”
I sigh in frustration, and then for an instant I think I’m dreaming, as the front door of the house opens and two girls with shoulder-length hair appear on the lighted porch. They walk towards the car. Both are barefoot, wearing jeans, and topless, their breasts gliding about shamelessly in the sweet night air. As my point of interest alternates from one pair of breasts to the other, the girls come up curbside, to the open window.
“Hi, I’m Lori.”
“I’m Nancy.”
Both girls are perhaps a year or two older than me. Lori has Gaelic good looks, petite with straight reddish hair and small, pointed breasts. Nancy is tall, brunette, beautiful, with a full mouth and large rounded breasts.
Madeline approaches. “Girls, girls,” she puts forth. “What will the neighbors think? We don’t want ‘the authorities’ visiting us, do we?”
I turn to Devon. Despite the bleached pallor of her face, brought on by the crystal, Devon’s cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. She wears a grin. Lori and Nancy look at each other, giggle, and with arms folded over breasts they scramble into the house.
Madeline addresses me. “I’m headed back to Gerald’s party to get my purse. Go in. Captain Jack will take care of you.”
I’m having trouble thinking clearly. These people, including Madeline, are definitely strange, and I begin to feel apprehensive about the whole thing. I’m feeling tired and unsure of myself. Something isn’t right, but I have no choice. I need the money.
Devon and I walk into the house. We’re standing in a short hallway where the walls have been painted fire engine red. “Come on in,” I hear someone say, someone with a deep, gravelly voice.
We wander into a low-ceilinged chamber with wingchair, couch, CD player with speakers, table lamp and light brown carpet. A water pipe, or hookah, is positioned in the center of the floor. Smoke hovers in the room like a bird of prey. A rap ditty, Eminem’s “Lose Yourself,” sounds quietly.
“I’m Captain Jack. You can call me CJ.”
Though I endeavor to appear relaxed, I’m stewing inside. My heart sounds like a bass drum. I throw a look at Devon. She’s staring at CJ, who’s sitting on the floor with Lori and Nancy.
CJ is a massive man, thick-muscled, with a tight potbelly like a swallowed basketball. His face is pale and bearded, his long curly black hair, parted in the middle, gnarly and in need of a wash. Every inch of exposed skin, except CJ’s face, is tattooed. His abundant neck gives the appearance of having a black mamba coiled around it. The head of the snake is terrifyingly prominent, shown in awesome detail with its single glaring eye, wide-open jaws and protruding fangs.
I estimate CJ’s age at around thirty, younger than Madeline. He wears a purple poncho and jeans, no shoes. His eyes are large and otherworldly, dark and deep-set under heavy brows. A thin scar runs across one cheek and draws the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. I’m reminded of Rasputín, the Russian mystic of the early twentieth century.
“I’m Daniel, and this is Devon,” I say, rather meekly.
Devon and I join the others on the floor, forming a circle of sorts. I sit cross-legged, yoga-style, like CJ, Lori and Nancy. Devon sits next to me with her legs curled beneath her. She has settled in, it seems, like a girl about to hear her favorite melody.
A tiny, elegant tattoo, a flower, on Lori’s shoulder, catches my eye.
“It’s a lotus,” Lori says. “Signifies the center of life, where the heart dwells.”
I can’t help glancing at her breasts, and then I turn my attention to CJ. “Madeline said you’d lay some pot on me.”
“I know. “But first, let’s smoke one, you roll.” He looks at Nancy. “Never seen a narc that could roll a nice joint.” Nancy hands me a clear plastic bag containing two fingers of weed, along with a package of Zig-Zag rolling papers. I pick up a Rolling Stone magazine from the floor.
I don’t want to get high, but it appears I have no choice. What if I’m unable to roll a joint? If only J-man had come with us. The J-man is about as cool as they come.
As I focus on rolling the joint, head down, separating tiny stems from bud material, I hear Captain Jack say, flatly, “You’re cute, wanna fuck?”
I raise my head and look. My God, CJ’s talking to Devon! The girls are chuckling, including Devon, who turns away shyly. CJ is grinning insipidly, childishly, and I join the explosion of merriment with my own quiet laughter. Things are getting tricky. My desire to confront CJ becomes a kind of physical hunger, but I’m scared to death of him. I feel helpless as a blown leaf.
I manage to roll a decent number, with some difficulty, on my first attempt. I want only to get the hell out of here, but with growing hopes of getting the pot I stifle my impatience, and my fear. There is no doubt about it, CJ is completely mad.
I hand the number to CJ, who inspects it carefully. “Not bad,” he says. He lights the joint, takes a hit and passes it to Devon. She drags on it and hands it to me. I inhale the smoke, which finds a path all the way down to my knees, it seems, and when I offer the joint to Lori, she declines. Nancy waves it off as well.
For a short while, as we pass the joint back and forth, I’m thinking the stuff isn’t very good. Then, suddenly: WHAM! The effect is not exhilaration but a confused elation without object. I begin to feel as though I’ve replaced my true emotions with plastic ones. My eyes drift over to Lori and Nancy, and I find myself staring at their breasts. They’re grinning, and I have to smile. I can think of only one reason why Lori and Nancy choose not to smoke marijuana: they’re speed freaks. The thought brings on a rush of paranoia.
Without warning CJ asks, “How many ounces Madeline say she’d give you?”
A shiver of fear, old and habitual, runs through me. CJ is testing me. I avert my eyes and blurt, “One,” hoping I’ve spoken with an air of confidence. I’m filled with the glow of the marijuana, and my mouth seems stuffed with dry straw.
CJ throws his head back and howls like a wolf, softly, as if to mock me. Then, with a sardonic flash of teeth, he announces, “I’ve got magic mushrooms, and crystal meth, best in the world, mellow as hell, you don’t get jittery.”
“Just the pot,” I say, letting out a nervous laugh. Devon taps my leg and looks at me uneasily. She wants the speed. She takes a cigarette from her purse and lights it. I’ve never seen Devon smoke anything before tonight. It reminds me again that what I did to her was, is, appalling, an act of evil. My bad, my bad, my bad. CJ leaves the room.
A moment later CJ returns with the weed, wrapped in shiny red paper. He hands it to me and sits down. “You’re among friends,” he says, as he looks Devon over greedily. “Anyone want speed?” CJ produces a hand mirror, a razor blade, and a small plastic bag of white powder. He takes a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. The girls, including Devon, move closer to CJ.
I gently take hold of Devon’s arm. “You’re stoned,” I say. Let’s get out of here.”
“You can’t tell me what to do, Daniel.”
CJ laughs, a loud outburst. He rolls the bill into a cylinder, lays out a line of crystal on the mirror and snorts it. He lays out another line and hands the mirror to Devon.
I assume an expression of self-assured amusement. My drug-induced elation has already been transformed into anguish, and now my desperate soul is riddled with it. I’ve reduced myself to an addled state with the smoking of the grass.
I need to get Devon out of here, take her home, I tell myself, as I watch the rush of powder up her nostrils. Lori and Nancy snort a line, and then CJ again, and then Devon, again.
The sense of disorder I’m experiencing becomes a living nightmare when CJ stands and, amazingly, Devon also stands and follows CJ out of the room.
Seconds later, CJ comes back, alone, his arms folded like a Thracian executioner. “Wild Thing is staying the night,” he says, his eyes inflamed, obsessed. I lose my last drop of leftover hop
e. CJ grins, displaying his discolored teeth. The whites of his eyes are blood red. He walks away, singing over his shoulder, “Wild Thing, you make my heart sing ...”
I think the matter over, trying to make it come out my way, but I can’t. My distress and embarrassment have so unsettled me I can’t even speak. The putdown is complete. I’ve chosen to watch out for my balls at the expense of my soul.
Apparently, by sleeping with CJ, Devon seeks to exact some sort of masochistic revenge, over David’s act of infidelity. She would allow that madman, that animal, with his wild hands and his rapt eager voice and his heedless crazed eyes, to take her maidenhead.
A violent wave of self-loathing sweeps over me. This is entirely my fault. I’ve single-handedly stolen away Devon’s innocence. I’ve committed an unnatural act, a wicked deed that will never be made holy.
I’m seized by gut-wrenching visions of Captain Jack with Devon. The images, nails of agony, are being driven into my heart. In my mind’s eye Devon is pleading for help and I have nothing to offer, not even a little bravado. I suck at anything having to do with courage. I just cannot man up.
Overcome by a wave of self-pity, a groan escapes me, a throaty, strangled note of dismay, and I furrow my brow with the pain. Then I find myself staring at Lori, and she is staring at me. As if in a trance, unable to turn away, I watch as her eyes shift to become the black as night eyes of something vile yet godlike, a satanic stranger who gazes at me from behind the mask that was once Lori’s pretty face. Suddenly, as I attempt to smile, I’m seeing my own face, which looks back at me with lips drawn over canine teeth bared in a murderous rage. I recoil from what I recognize as my own self-hatred. Cringing, I force myself to look away and jump to my feet. What I’ve seen is impossible, I know, but it was so real that for a moment I thought I had glimpsed, in the mirror of Lori’s face, my own soul—and I had seen only evil.
Steadying myself, I pick up the weed and step quickly from the room. I run from the house to my Mazda and start the engine.
I drive aimlessly for some time, and then I head straight for PB to locate a Jack-in-the-Box. After that I’ll go home to my apartment and crash early. I’m unable to face J-man after what happened with Devon.
A part of me, I begin to realize, seems to enjoy the thrill of being faced with ever-threatening catastrophe. It’s after times like these, when my unfocused dread has clung to me like an evil companion, that I seem to end up further away from discovering my true nature. So I try not to think about Devon, but only about Sarah. I feel the need of her.
17
Sarah
Friday afternoon, August 8
Coronado Island
I lie restlessly yet contentedly on the front lawn. The grass tickles my arms, and I look up at leaves set against a vast universe of blue sky, as I listen to the beat of my heart and the birds singing.
I laugh for no sensible reason, and a couple in Bermuda shorts walking by thinks I’m smiling at them. “Good afternoon,” the woman says. I smile, guiltily, as if the neighbors know that I’m running away.
Barefoot, I’m wearing my yellow print skirt with a white blouse. The blouse has four buttons, but I’ve left the top one unfastened, to accentuate my long neck. This morning my mother pulled my hair tightly back from my pale, broad forehead, wove a braid, and bound it in a shimmering knot at the nape of my neck.
On the deep-shaded summer porch, out of view behind the Tuscan swing, I’ve put my overnight suitcase, packed with my diary, my book Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, two changes of clothes, sneakers, pink pajamas, bathroom stuff, ballet flats, Kotex pads (my period has stopped, but just in case) and a photograph of my mother and I.
I also snatched a condom from my mother’s bedroom, just in case Daniel insists on wearing one, now that I started getting my period. I’ve been opening my bedroom curtains and sleeping in the moonlight for heightened fertility. I run my hands across my belly, imagining the shape of Daniel’s baby inside, pretending I can feel it move.
Manny is on the porch, too, in his travel cage, which he doesn’t like because it’s so small. My white leather purse sits next to the suitcase, filled with money and make-up, the condom, my hairbrush, the photograph from 1998, and a small bottle of my mother’s perfume. After my mother went off to play tennis, I’d applied my mother’s lip-gloss and a few chill blasts of her Chanel no. 5.
A confusion of emotions has assailed me all day. That’s why I took a walk by myself this morning. I’m not a hundred percent certain that Daniel isn’t my brother, but my instincts say he isn’t, and I’m going with them. I plan to honor my mother’s request and refrain from saying a word either way to Daniel.
Right now my feelings keep ricocheting back and forth between the Alice part of me and the Sarah part, and I already miss my mother. I believe I know as much as anyone about self-struggle.
I wish Daniel would arrive soon. I recall a prayer I said for him this morning: “Dear God and Jesus. I am asking that you please help Daniel Rosen to accept his mother’s death, like you’ve helped me with the passing of my dad. I know that Daniel has the fire in his heart and the ice in his veins, like I did when I was so upset with you. It took me a long time to understand, and I am asking that you help Daniel understand. Thanks. Amen.”
Magically, I hear the sound of a car coming down D Avenue and look to see Daniel’s Mazda. I jump up and run to the porch, gather my things and hurry to meet Daniel.
As soon as I see him, the anger I’ve felt towards my mother gives way to my love for Daniel. He gets out of his car and comes around and opens the door for me without uttering a word. He’s wearing a dark green tee shirt and Levi’s, and his brown moccasins. The look on his face is really serious. I try batting my eyelashes helplessly. He cocks his head to one side and almost smiles.
“Meet Manny,” I say. Manny stands on the floor of the cage, preening his feathers.
Daniel finally smiles, as he takes my suitcase and places it in the backseat. I put Manny in the back, get into the car, and Daniel closes the door for me.
As he starts the engine, Daniel says, “What’s that smell?”
“Oh, it’s my mother’s perfume,” I answer, blushing a little.
He chuckles melodiously. “It’s nice. I think it’s the same kind my mother used. Are you okay? Why are you running away?”
“I’m fine,” I say, although I’m not too sure. Yesterday, all day, I was filled with patience and cunning, instead of love for my mother. “I’m running away because I believe my mother was unfaithful, with your father, the night before she married my dad. I brought the photograph.”
Daniel gazes at the wallet-sized black and white picture of my mother and his father. “It does look as though they were more than just friends.” He turns the photo over and sees the date on the back, in my mother’s handwriting: August 21, 1998.
“See, I told you,” I say.
“It means my father was unfaithful, too.”
“Gosh, I never thought about that.” I feel so stupid.
Daniel drives up D Street. “We’re not going to PB yet,” he says. “I have to go to The Gables first, get my stereo, a box of books and comics and, if I’m lucky, Julie will be there. My brother is working the swing shift today. I can take you to the apartment first, if you like.”
“I’d rather be with you.”
Daniel smiles thinly, but doesn’t speak, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.
“Julie’s creepy,” I say. “What do you want with her?”
“My mother’s diary was supposedly buried with her remains. But I think Julie has it.”
“That’d be cool if you could read your mother’s private writings, I guess. I don’t know. I wouldn’t want anyone reading my diary.” I remember the entry I made this morning when I woke:
I think Daniel wants to be completely free, I can feel it. He is so unaristocratic, not the kind of boy without shame who insists on talking about his manliness, or sex. His mysterious soul seems to drink in many
sad things. He’s burdened beyond most other people. He sees much more than me, and he can suffer more deeply. I think he’s really frightened by girls, and that’s why he was a little hostile with me at first. I sense there’s something big troubling him underneath.
We cross San Diego Bay on the Coronado Bridge. I’ve fallen in love with Daniel, I reflect, long before I will know myself, though it occurs to me now that I might never know myself, that perhaps no one ever does, that such a thing might not be possible.
Suddenly Daniel says, “Did you hear the news? NASA is soliciting, from the public, proposals to solve the moon problem.”
I sit on my knees, facing Daniel. “Are you going to submit a proposal?”
“I don’t know. It seems they’ll review all submissions and give particular consideration to those containing the applicable mathematical proofs.”
“That sounds difficult.”
“I don’t know if I have the skills to do all the math, but I may give it a try. First of all, though, I have to come up with a viable solution to the problem.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard, for you.”
“That’s just it. I’m stumped, like them.”
“I think you’ll figure it out,” I say. Then I blurt out a question to sort of show off my knowledge a little. “I know the moon is 238,855 miles from Earth, but how do they measure that distance?”
Daniel smiles. “Well, first of all, that’s the average distance. The moon has an elliptical orbit, so its distance from Earth varies. The closest point is 225,623 miles, and the farthest is 252,088 miles. The distance is measured with the firing of a laser beam from an observatory in Texas, to reflectors that were left on the moon by the Apollo astronauts. It’s determined by timing exactly how long the echo takes to return.”
Daniel definitely knows his stuff. “How does the elliptical orbit affect the tides?” I ask.
“The moon does exert a bit more of a gravitational pull when it swings closer to Earth, about forty-two percent more at its closest point than its farthest. In general, the moon stabilizes Earth’s wobble on its axis, leading to a stable climate. That’s why it’s so important that we find a solution as soon as possible.”