by Farris, John
Flora felt like having a chat with her mom, whose farmhouse and studio in rural New Hampshire had from the beginning served as the lovers' chief trysting place. Bessie had no more use for Southern women than did her daughter. Bessie's dry humor and droll fits of vituperation would make Flora laugh, and then she could while away the rest of the lonely evening without feeling too heartsick and nervous about the state of her yearlong love affair.
Another caller, who hung up. Was it the same caller? End of messages.
As the tape was rewinding, the phone rang. Flora picked it up hopefully.
"Hello."
"Hi, Aunt Flora."
It had been a while; but she would never forget his voice. Flora hesitated, now feeling just a little buzz from the beer. Her nerves prickled. She didn't know whether to be happy, or hang up the phone.
"Yes?"
"It's your nephew Eddie, from Seattle."
"Oh, Eddie. Yes, hi." She hesitated again, drawing an inaudible breath. Then she said, committing herself, "Long time no see."
"Long time no see," he repeated cheerfully.
"Well, what brings you this far east, Eddie? Are you still in computer sales?"
"In a manner of speaking. The company I work for now manufactures arcade video games. I'm on the road a lot, but I really like it."
"Uh-huh. I see. So you're on a sales trip?"
"I'm just passing through. Called on a client in Arlington this afternoon, but my flight for Seattle doesn't leave Dulles until eleven-thirty. I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner?"
"Dinner? Yes, that sounds—where are you calling from, Eddie?"
"Birchfield Mall. Do you know where that is?"
"About twenty minutes on the Beltway from my house. I could meet you there—say, around eight? From Birchfield it's only a half hour to Dulles."
"Swell! I'll be at the arcade in the mall. Oh, Aunt Flora? Dinner's on me. I'll put it on my expense account."
Still the actor, she thought, perhaps having hoped for better: doing a word-perfect impersonation of a junior-executive boob trying to impress a seldom-seen relative. "Wonderful. Looking forward to it, Eddie."
Time for a bath, then a nubby linen pantsuit and date-night jewelry and—still not too late in the season—sandals, although she would have preferred jeans and walk shoes for the mall trekking. Her mind churned as she fussed a little with her appearance; it was almost as if she'd accepted a blind date. How long since he'd last called? About eighteen months. Well, that part of their relationship was over with. No need to put herself in jeopardy again, because of a long-ago affair with the most inappropriate man she'd ever met.
Then why see him at all? Flora wasn't sure, although she wasn't squeamish about analyzing her own, worst flaws. She'd always been too eager to please the men in her life, from her father, a cofounder of the CIA, to her infrequent lovers, one of whom, a law professor at Georgetown, had characterized her affections as "thinly disguised demons of possessiveness." But he had been a weak man, easily fazed by any demands made of him outside the confines of the academy. As for the boldest, most liberating of her lovers—did she want to go to bed with him for old times' sake? Wild Flora, his name for her. Crazy in the sack for such an outwardly staid person, but the heat of it—unimaginable, then irresistible. Her nighttime passion had bled into her other, orderly life. Wild Flora, risking everything. She was dry in the mouth and, to her chagrin, a little too easily aroused, thinking about the possibility of spending the night with, him. No. There was Miller now. It would be a cheat, even though she was lonely. She couldn't do that to her self-respect.
Still—she had to know if she could see him, end on a pleasant, nostalgic note and walk away. The sex part was over, and she had pressed her luck too far with the business relationship. No matter that the risk-taking had been as satisfying to her as their highly charged sex.
Flora seldom went to Birchfield Mall; she preferred the more upscale mall in Tysons Corner Center, which had Bloomingdale's. She parked at the wrong end and had to walk the length of the mall to find the vido-games arcade, by the entrance to the theater complex. On Friday night this part of the Mall was crammed with teenagers, like a cattle pen for young consumers. She felt slightly intimidated by the arcade itself, a cavelike place on two levels, provocatively lighted in lush blues and dusky reds like a high-tech brothel. No music, except for the expressionistic lilt and percussive rhythms of the electronic machines. Robot voices gave instructions or commented on the progress of the mostly young players huddled in shared rapture in front of the cartoon screens. It was mania elevated to an art form. There wasn't much about computers Flora didn't understand or couldn't use to her advantage, but she felt ridiculously out of place, out of touch with an entire generation while she looked around like a mother searching for a strayed child.
Her eyes went over Joe three times before she concluded, with a shiver of shock, that it could be him.
Even then she didn't budge, but stared at him until he turned away from a martial-arts fantasy massacre and, observing her watching him, smiled and beckoned.
"Hi, Aunt Flora."
Amazed, she almost said his correct name before catching herself and, instead of speaking, lifted her heels an inch to kiss him on the cheek.
"You look—different."
"I am different." He looked past her, casually sweeping the entrance to the arcade with his eyes, at the same time holding her hand, holding her close to him. "But you look wonderful."
"You—I can't—your face—"
"A good man put it back together for me. But he didn't have photographs to work from."
"My Lord," she said, her pulses pounding.
"It's okay, no permanent damage." His smile, she realized, hadn't changed, except for a little gleaming scar that impinged on his upper lip. He had one other scar she was sure hadn't been there the last time they'd met—and his hair, shorter than he'd customarily worn it, was shot through with silver now. It looked really good with the deepwater tan.
"What happened?"
"I'll tell you about it. As much as I remember. Let's get something to eat. Is there a decent place around here for Chesapeake oysters?"
"Let me think. I can't think in this place. Come on. Do you have a car?"
"Yeah."
"Rental? We'll take yours."
"Cautious is as cautious does," he said, again with that lazy, insinuating half-smile she'd seen in her dreams a few times since they'd last met.
"I was raised that way." Damn it, she would have to be tough with him, that was all. Not let him get away with it: the smooth persuasion, the old come-on, the confident tease and calculated tricks she resented even as she fell for them. Get a grip, Flora. You know what he is. Just a cheap womanizer for all the smoothness. The emotional depth of a barracuda. There's not an ounce of true caring in his body. He could get you killed, and it wouldn't bother him. So get this over with. Be brutally frank. Shoot from the hip. And try to ignore the pressure behind the eyes, the girlish urge to shed tears. The numbing desire just to have his arms around you, for a few seconds. Flora, you asshole. Let go of his hand!
In the postcoital dark of 3 A.M., she awoke from a satisfying nap to see him standing naked by the windows of their second-floor room in the Annandale Red Roof Inn.
"Joe?"
He turned his head. "Hello, luscious."
"Joe."
"Did I ever tell you I'd give up my front-row seat in hell for you?"
"Stop it, Joe. My fault, wasn't it?"
"I don't know." A slight catch in his voice. Real or improvised, she wondered.
"Well, I do. You jumped a foot when I—I mean, you always liked it before when I massaged your prostate. Come and be with me, please."
He lowered his head and rubbed his brow as if chastened, then returned to the bed and lay down in her arms. She kissed the lobe of an ear, sealed tense eyelids with the tip of her tongue. She sensed the nervous movement of his eyes beneath closed lids. This resonance of secr
et vision gave her a naked tingle. The rest of him seemed emptied, ready for burial.
"Easy, Joe," Flora whispered, now thoroughly convinced of his distress.
"Sorry. Sorry."
"Don't be. It's a perfectly natural thing, for a man—tell me something. How many times have you made love since the hijacking?"
"Once. She was a surgical nurse at the hospital. Same story. No problem getting an erection, couldn't hang on to it. Neither could you." He laughed, but it felt like a seizure; his body stiffened.
"That means it isn't a physical thing. And you didn't cause me any distress, I came in two seconds. Joe, you took a horrible physical beating. I've heard stories of what that does to a man emotionally."
"Yeah…"
"Count it as a blessing that you don't remember."
"Should I?"
"What's the last thing you do remember?"
"I was talking to a woman at Le Breton. That's a restaurant on a little island called Terrè-de-Haut. It was, I think, about two in the afternoon. She was reading a novel. I remember everything in sharp detail—what she had on, the brand of beer she was drinking: Corsair. I remember the title of the novel. Savannah's Flame, by Pamela Abelard. I was particularly struck by the author's photo on the back of the book jacket. The next thing I remember seeing was that face. I was adrift between Marie-Galante and Dominica. She was sitting big as life on the transom of a Saintois fishing boat like a vision of heaven. Or hell, I'm not sure."
"You were in shock. The mind does strange—"
"I've seen her since then, too," Joe murmured.
"Pamela Abelard? She's popular. I noticed one of the girls reading an Abelard paperback in the cafeteria at Langley the other day. Thoroughly engrossed in that twaddle. Joe, how badly do you want to know what really happened to you and the Dragonfly?"
"If it was pirates, then it doesn't matter."
"And if it was someone from your recent past, an irate husband or—"
"That doesn't matter, either. I'm not looking for revenge. I'm not the violent type. I just wasn't careful enough. It's the one thing that I can't forgive myself for. Flora—"
"Yes?" Flora said, slipping down in the bed to nuzzle the small of his back with her lips.
"That feels good."
"You bet."
"Flora? I should have told you this. I was raped."
Her lips parted, closed. Her hands were quiet on his groin and slowly swelling penis. "Oh, no."
"It's okay, I was tested, I'm not carrying anything."
"I didn't think you'd get into bed with me if you were. That's why you jumped when I—but do you remember it being done to you?"
"Physical evidence only."
"Poor lamb." She kissed him again, at the base of his spine. "Now, don't do anything," she said. "I'm making love to you. Let it happen. Don't think about it. Turn on your back, baby."
"Flora," he said, a few minutes later, "I need an identity."
She paused and lifted her head, blew her warm breath into the hollow of his scrotum, which she held in one hand as tenderly as the fuzzy brown chick of a giant raptor.
"Isn't it too soon?"
"I hope not."
"You can't need the money."
"It's not that."
She massaged his groin with the gentlest of touches, turning up the heat and the pace of her activity, tongue flickering to the niche in the apricot-size head of his now-firm penis.
"What are the rules again?" she said, her own eyes closing, feeling the bliss of his fingers invading her as she humped over him, seamy but febrile, her large breasts pressing down on his belly.
"I don't kill anybody. I don't take everything they own. I leave the young ones and the emotional misfits alone."
"And you never, never, never tell anyone about Flora. Because they won't reprimand me, and they won't fire me. Never mind who my father was—they'll assassinate me."
"I know."
"I'll bet you didn't know this. I've never touched a penny of my end. It's all just sitting there in the bank in Madeira. I converted everything to gold, like you said. I'll give it all back to you, Joe, if you promise me you'll quit."
"You know I can't do that."
"Well, I'm quitting, Joe. This is the last time. I mean it. I'm getting married to a hell of a nice guy. I know I am. It's gonna work out. Who—are you going to be this time?"
"Joseph Bryce, M.D Specialist in pediatric oncology."
"A doctor? That's a—tough one, you ought to know that. I'll have to—set you up with the AMA, and other—professional societies. That means maximum exposure on my part. My involvement could be traced. Oh, God, Joe! Yes, right there, that little spot. Nobody could ever find it like you can. Fuck me, dearest. I'll need—uh, uh, uhhhhhh, recent photos."
"They'll be in the usual place. How long, do you think?"
"Joe, honey, I'm almost there!"
"I mean for the documentation."
"We have new procedures. Computer codes change every fifteen seconds now. It's so—fucking difficult. Oh, why?"
Flora began to cry even as she came. Afterward she was slack and upside down on him in that awkward—now that the passion was done—position, her head between his legs. She shook with bitter sobs while he caressed her spread hips. The worst of it was, she hadn't done Joe any good, and she realized she was never going to see him again.
"Hey," he said shyly.
"Oh, what?"
"Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage."
Flora drew a deep, shuddery breath.
"Thank you. This moment will always be fixed in my memory. I will never erase from my mind that you said 'congratulations on your forthcoming marriage' while you were looking straight up my ass.",
"Isn't there an all-night waffle house across the street? Do you want to go out for something to eat?"
"I want to kill myself. But because I'm mature enough to know that that isn't a viable alternative, I guess food would be the next best thing."
PART TWO
The truth that can be told is not the truth.
—Lao-tzu
Chapter Nine
There were no suites at the Planter's House, but the double room Joe was given on the fourth and top floor of the best hotel in Nimrod's Chapel proved to be more than adequate. It had a private bath with copper pipes on the wall that rumbled when the hot water was turned on, and a balcony overlooking the pleasantly shabby park that extended for six blocks along Pandora's Bay, parallel to the main street of town. In the park were live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, a turn-of-the-century brick-and-latticework bandstand, and a small covered carousel, also an antique. At the south end of the park was one of the better harbors on the Intracoastal Waterway. There was a pier, a marina, a fish house, and a large anchorage by the fish house for both commercial shrimpers and charter fishing boats. At the north erid of the park a causeway with two swing bridges crossed the blackwater rivers that came together above Nimrod's Chapel to form an estuary teeming with blue and green herons, osprey, and other aquatic bird life.
Neon signs were not allowed within the town's Historic District. Many of the small commercial buildings displayed bronze plaques that denoted a listing in the National Register of Historic Places. The town had a weathered, durable, old-fashioned appeal without being self-consciously cute. Before the shops along Front Street closed for the evening, Joe bought a good pair of binoculars at a camera store in a narrow arcade paved with cobblestones that had come to Carolina as ballast in English merchant ships.
From the balcony of his room he used the binoculars to look southeast across the bay, its surface shining like hammered copper in the sunset, to the Barony on Chicora Island. The distance was about three miles. Barbara Ann, the assistant manager of the Planter's House, had told him that on most days the main house of the former plantation could be seen with the naked eye. "It was practically a ruin, but they have done a lot of work on that old place in the last few years. Charlene, that's Dr. Luke's third wife, sh
e was Miss South Carolina when I was a senior in high school? Well, she's good at restoring and decorating, or so I hear; I've lived in Nimrod's Chapel most of my life, except when I went to Clemson, but I have yet to set foot in the Barony."
Barbara Ann was a giggler and a chatterbox; he probably could have learned a great deal more from her, over drinks and maybe later in bed. But it was a small town; he knew better than to ask a lot of questions. And Barbara Ann wasn't the one he'd come to Nimrod's Chapel to seduce.
Still, he was curious. He had assumed, from the unusually sketchy reports he had on Pamela Abelard, that she was the owner of the Barony. Now there seemed to be a "Dr. Luke" in the picture. Medical doctor? That might serve to complicate his project. At least he wasn't Abelard's husband. But the caution light was on, even asJoe focused his binoculars on the house across Pandora's Bay.
What he saw, through huge live-oak and chinaberry trees that undoubtedly had survived a couple of centuries of bad storms off the nearby Atlantic, was a Tudor house with two one-story additions on either side. Ivy grew on the brickwork. The main house was not as imposing as he had anticipated from the name. There were two full stories and a smaller, judging from the size of the windows under the eaves, third or attic floor. The original Tudor architecture and the QueenAnne façade had been bastardized with the necessary addition of hurricane shutters, which for now, on a calm early-October evening, were open. There was a veranda with a gazebo at one end, gardens with brick walls and hedges, a modern pool house, an old cemetery and then a dock on an inlet off the bay. The last light of day glittered on the corrugated zinc roof of what might have been a boathouse, but he couldn't see much of it for the cypress trees rising from the shallows of the inlet like knobbly old fishermen calling it a day.