Dreamthorp

by Williamson, Chet

  "No, but I don't want to spoil your meal."

  His face across the booth was dead serious. Then, slowly, it melted like wax into that razor grin again, and he laughed so loudly that most of the other customers turned to look.

  "You've got a weird sense of humor, Gil," Kitty said.

  "Yeah, that's what they tell me." He chuckled and bit into his hamburger, but Laura noticed that Kitty took no more french fries, and Gilbert didn't offer her any.

  The two women sipped their beers and watched Gilbert eat. No one said anything until Gilbert picked up his napkin for the last time, wiped his mouth and fingers, and dropped it next to his plate. "So," he said through his final mouthful, "where you two staying tonight?"

  Kitty started to answer, but Laura interrupted her. "We're not. We're driving on."

  "At night?"

  "I like to drive at night. There's less traffic. We spot each other. One sleeps, the other drives."

  "Yeah? Well, maybe we could travel together. I mean, we're both heading toward Dakota, right? The old Badlands?"

  "Oh, I don't think so, we've come this far on our own, and—"

  "You don't want to travel with me."

  "Well . . . no."

  Gilbert stuck his tongue into his cheek and moved it around, as though trying to dislodge a piece of food. "I said something wrong? I offended you somehow?"

  "No, not really, it's just that—"

  "Because if I did, I apologize. I was just joking."

  "There's nothing to apologize for."

  Gilbert looked at Kitty. "How about you? You're not saying much now. You don't want to travel with me either?" He was frowning now, and Laura thought that for the first time he looked angry.

  "I . . . I don't think so. . . ."

  "You don't like guys or what?"

  "That doesn't have anything to do with it," Laura broke in.

  "You don't think so, huh?" There was real menace in his voice now, but he spoke softly, as if not wanting anyone else in the bar to hear what he was saying. "Well, I'll tell you what I think." His eyes flicked back and forth between them as he launched into a remarkably fast tirade, barely pausing to draw breath. "I think that you're a couple of dykes who—"

  "Jesus Christ!" Laura said.

  "Who eat each other out and maybe use vibrators and dildos and shit. I don't think you'd know a real man if he—"

  "You shut the hell up—"

  "If he boned you for ten hours straight, you ball-busting cunt, you the guy, huh? You pretend to be the guy and she's the chick and you fistfuck her? Or is it the other way around or maybe both ways, it all depends on how you feel on a particular night?"

  He clapped his mouth shut. Laura could feel herself sweating, could feel the pain as her nails dug into the heels of her hands. Gilbert was looking at her, not at Kitty, directly at her with eyes that caught all the cheap neon light in the place and turned it into fire. "You're a sick person," she finally said, and it took all her courage. "You really are sick. You ought to see a doctor. I feel sorry for you." She licked her dry lips. "We're going to leave now, and if you follow us, we're going to the police."

  Gilbert smiled. It was just as open and seemingly honest a smile as he had shown them when he first came over to their table. "Now why would you want to do that?" The anger had completely vanished from his tone. It was calm and reasonable. "Darn," he said, and chuckled. "I really am afraid I've offended you two now."

  Laura, trembling, stood up. "Come on, Kitty," she said, stepping out of the booth. Kitty didn't rise. Gilbert would have to move first. He didn't. "Let her out," Laura told him.

  Gilbert turned to Kitty, his arms crossed on the table, and cocked his head, still smiling. "You want out? Or you want to stay here with me?"

  Kitty swallowed hard before she answered. "I want out. Will you excuse me?"

  "We could have fun if you stayed, you know, just you and me. We could have a ball."

  "Kitty—"

  "Hey," Gilbert said, snapping his head around. "You let her decide, all right?"

  "I've decided," Kitty said, standing up. "Now let me out."

  "I tell you," Gilbert said, shaking his head and looking down at the table, "I have never met two ruder women in my life. It's a shame."

  "Let me out, dammit." Kitty raised her voice, and now the old cowboys at the table were all looking at them.

  "Hey, son," said one of them, a man with a brown and leathered face, "why don't you stop bothering those ladies now."

  Gilbert gave him a look of bemusement. "Just kidding around, pardner. No harm done." He slid off the bench and stood up, bowing deeply as Kitty extricated herself from the booth. "Milady," he said.

  Laura stepped up to the window to the kitchen and called through to the waitress, asking her for the bill.

  "I'll take it," Gilbert said from behind her. "It's the least I can do for such fine company."

  Laura ignored him, and the waitress, pushing moist hair back from her forehead, handed her the check. She went to the bar to pay it, Kitty trailing behind her like a puppy, taking short steps to stay as close to her as possible. Gilbert shrugged, slipped back into the booth, his back to them, and began eating his fries. Laura heard one of the cowboys say something to him, though she couldn't make out the words. Gilbert said something in return, nodding his head toward the front where she and Kitty stood, and the cowboys laughed, then looked curiously at the two of them. Despite her rage, Laura felt herself blushing, and grabbed the change the barman offered, stuffed it in her purse, and barreled out the front door, Kitty in her wake.

  "Bastard!" she spat out when they were both in the car. "That filthy son of a bitch."

  "What are we going to do?" Kitty asked.

  "We're going to go to that place and go to sleep, and in the morning we're going to get the hell out of here."

  "God," Kitty said, "I'd feel better if we got out now."

  "We're both too tired to drive, Kitty. You want to have to pull over on the road and have that scum find us? Besides, he'll expect us to drive on, and if he really wanted to, he could probably catch us on that motorcycle of his. The thing he won't expect is that we'd camp out here."

  Kitty thought for a moment. "You've got your gun, too."

  "That's right," Laura said. "I've got my gun."

  They found the place the sheriff had told them about, and turned off the main road onto one paved with loose stones. There was a place to park several cars, and a path that led downward through some high brush. Laura took the holstered pistol from underneath the front seat and slipped it onto her belt. Then they took their tent, sleeping bags, knapsacks, and a Coleman lantern, though there was still some light in the sky, and followed the trail until they came to the edge of a stream. There were several picnic tables, a trash barrel, and a few raised, flat spots of earth that were ideal for pitching tents. In a few minutes they had the tent raised and their sleeping bags unrolled.

  "Can you sleep now?" Laura asked Kitty.

  "It's almost dark. Let's just watch the stream until then." They sat next to each other on the grass as the sun sank behind them. "He frightened me, Laura," Kitty finally said. "He frightened me too."

  "I don't know." She shook her head. "I don't know about men. You think they seem nice, and then . . . even those men at the table. They were on our side, and then he said something to them, some . . . men talk, and they were on his. Are they all skits? I mean, are they all interested in women to screw and nothing else?"

  Laura didn't know. The only man except for Hank that she'd ever known well had been her father, and as far as she knew, after her mother died, he was sexless. "I don't think so," she said. "I remember my mom and dad—she died when I was six—but they got along really well, always laughing and things. Hugging, but not like sexual hugging. Oh, I guess that was part of it, though I didn't realize it at the time. He was a good man."

  "What about Hank?" Kitty asked.

  "Hank was . . . selfish. I didn't realize he would be, but he w
as. I was unlucky, I guess. Just didn't find the right guy."

  "I don't think there is a 'right guy.'"

  "Well, you oughta know, honey, you sure been lookin'."

  Laura intended it partly as a joke, partly as a rebuke, but Kitty took it purely as the latter. Her mouth tightened, her chin shook, and tears formed in her eyes. "Oh god, Laura," she sobbed. "I feel so dirty. . . ."

  Laura put an arm around her, almost drew back, but stayed. "What is it?" she whispered. "What is it?"

  "I don't . . . go with men anymore. I mean I used to, and we'd go out and then I'd let them take me to bed, since that was all they were interested in anyway, all of them, and I never felt a thing because it was just them, it was what I could do for them, never the other way around, oh shit, oh god, I hate them. . . ." She continued to cry.

  "It's all right. . . ."

  "I'm sorry, Laura. . . ."

  "It's all right. I'm here."

  "Just hold me, okay?"

  "Yes, yes. Shh."

  They sat there until the darkness came, her arm around Kitty, Kitty's head on her chest. Kitty's tears had soaked through Laura's denim shirt, and she could feel the moisture on her skin. It felt cold as the night air grew cooler. Kitty had stopped crying, and Laura could just make out the tracks the tears had made across her face.

  "Let's go to bed," she said to Kitty.

  Kitty didn't answer at first, then said, "I'd like to go to sleep right here. Sleep here forever."

  "I know," Laura said. "I know."

  She gently disengaged her arm from around Kitty and stood up. "It's chilly," Kitty said. Laura held out her hand and helped the girl to her feet. "Laura?" she said.

  "What?"

  "Let's put our sleeping bags together."

  Laura felt fear mingled with desire. She tried to ignore the obvious. "Is it that cold?"

  "I just want to be beside you tonight. I'm upset. I need you to be with me."

  It sounded rational, Laura thought. There was no suggestion of anything sexual in it, was there? Kitty needed closeness, that was all. God knew there were enough times in her own life when she had needed to have someone close and no one was there. Well, she was there for Kitty now. "All right," she said.

  They crawled into the tent and zipped the two bags together. When they took off their jeans, Laura put the pistol near her pillow. They climbed into the large dual bag together wearing panties and t-shirts, as they always did at night. There was nothing special about it, Laura kept telling herself. They were just sleeping together, that was all.

  Laura reached over to extinguish the lantern, but Kitty stopped her. "Just turn it down. Just so there's a little light."

  Laura looked at her, a plea in her eyes. "Kitty . . ."

  "Please, Laura. I want to see you."

  "Oh, Kitty," Laura said, something clutching at her throat.

  "Laura," Kitty whispered, reaching out for her, putting her own head on Laura's pillow, kissing her cheek as Laura turned her head away. "Laura," she said again, her voice full of need. "Please . . ."

  Laura saw her hand reach up, as if with a will of its own, and turn the lantern low, and now it was as if the tent was washed in candlelight. She felt Kitty's arms go around her and pull her near, and she pressed her body against Kitty's, her own eyes filling with tears now with the relief of receiving something needed and desired far too long. Kitty's mouth tasted sweet, and her skin felt soft. Her fingers on Laura's body were so gentle and knowing that the fear left her now, the sense of wrong that she had carried ever since she had met Kitty.

  She answered Kitty touch for touch, and soon their hands were where the heat and the need were greatest, and something grew within Laura that she had never felt before, grew and pressed inside her, arching her back, stiffening her legs, stopping the breath in her throat until it finally broke free, like some great bird that she was giving birth to, broke free and flew away, leaving her exhausted, happy, warm.

  Time passed. She became aware of Kitty lying next to her, her t-shirt up around her neck, her face flushed and sweating, a wet smile on her face. "Laura," her friend, her lover said, and touched her cheek with a finger and then her lips. Laura, self-conscious, closed her eyes, then kissed Kitty's hand. "It's okay," Kitty said. "I don't know what to say either."

  Laura opened her eyes and nodded. "We can talk in the morning," she said softly, and smiled. "Let's go to sleep."

  Kitty nodded, and Laura reached up, turned off the lantern, and made the tent dark. Kitty moved against her, and they closed their eyes, feeling each other's warmth.

  Laura did not sleep right away. She lay there, her arms around Kitty, thinking about what they had done. It did not seem wrong. On the contrary, it seemed as right as anything had ever been before, far more tender and loving than those fast bursts of energy and passion she had experienced with Hank.

  It wasn't wrong, she thought as sleep slowly came over her. Whatever else it was, it couldn't be wrong.

  But why do death and dying obtrude themselves at the present moment?

  —Alexander Smith, Dreamthorp

  When she awoke, she thought at first that the sound was that of the zipper of the sleeping bag, and dully wondered why Kitty was getting up in the darkness. Then she realized that it was a harsher sound, a sound of tearing, or. . .

  Cutting.

  She gasped as she recognized the sound for what it truly was. Someone was ripping their way through the canvas of the tent, and now they were through. She felt a weight fall on her chest, driving the air from her lungs, and suddenly something struck her on the head, and she nearly lost consciousness but awoke again, and was struck again, and this time her head felt as if it was shrinking into itself, and she found that she was falling down a long, black spiral, and the pain kept growing, growing larger than her shrinking head could contain, until her head burst open, and she felt as if her blood was raining down upon her, and then she felt nothing. When the blackness left, she heard the music. Somewhere a saxophone screamed, drums hissed a furious tempo, a bass throbbed like a heartbeat. At first she thought she was dreaming, but the pain that battered her skull told her that it was real. There was music here, and it was real.

  Her eyes opened, and she pressed them shut against the fiery light that cut into them. When she opened them again, the first thing she saw was Kitty, lying naked beside her. Her eyes were bulging wide, and blood trailed out of the side of her mouth like a string that Laura could have picked up and pulled. Kitty's breasts had been savagely chewed. Both nipples were gone, leaving only two gaping wounds the size of jar lids. The girl's stomach was caked with blood, as were her spread thighs. Her groin was a sodden mass. It oozed like a sponge.

  Laura's scream was neither abrupt nor loud. It was choked, born of shallow breaths and sobs of pity, mixed with retching at the cloying smell of fresh blood and other, more vile, fluids. She stopped when she heard Gilbert Rodman chuckle.

  The Coleman lantern, turned to its maximum brightness, illuminated him vividly. He was naked too, crouching at Kitty's feet, his skin streaked with drying blood. His penis was stiff and red, dripping, she thought, with Kitty, with what he had taken from Kitty. He was holding a long knife.

  "I waited until you woke up," he said. The words were thick and wet and rhythmic, a rough counterpoint to the cruel music that played somewhere outside. "I wanted you to be awake for this." He smiled, and the red lips pulled back to show his teeth, stained with rust.

  Laura felt as if she had suddenly grown up, as if she had been only a child before, unaware of reality, of what people could really do. Now she knew, and thought about what she could do. She could grieve for Kitty later—and she would—but she could only grieve if she survived.

  Only the gun would let her survive.

  Her mind raced. If the gun was still there, if he had not found the gun and moved it, then it was under the canvas, the canvas he had cut with his knife, the canvas her hand was leaning on, and if it was still there, could she reach it, draw it
from its holster, bring it up? And could she pull the trigger to kill him?

  "I'm not finished yet. First this . . ." he said to her, holding up the knife so that she could see the blood on it, the lines of scarlet that rimmed his knuckles. "And then this." He reached between his legs with his left hand and gripped his erection like a club. "How does that—" His voice broke and he cleared his throat roughly, as if angry at himself for showing weakness. "How does that make you feel?"

  His eyes glistened, and the hand holding the knife shook with excitement, and she could tell that he wanted her to be afraid, that that was an important part of it. If she could put him off his guard, the rift in the tent was behind her, and somewhere there was the gun.

  "Please," she whispered. "Oh God, please don't hurt me. . ."

  It was not difficult to say the words, for she felt them. Still, inside her she was as rational as a veteran soldier, her mind fixed on the gun, on finding the gun, picking up the gun, aiming the gun, firing the gun.

  "You're scared . . ." he said, beginning to move his hand up and down, like a piston, on himself. "Are you scared?"

  She shrank back from him, moaning, her hand on the canvas, patting it as if in panic, and god, yes, there it was, she could feel it through the material of the tent, but she could not look to see where she could put her hand beneath and grasp it, she could not take her eyes away from him.

  Twisting her body so that it was between him and her probing fingers, she whimpered and began to cry. "Why are you doing this? Why do you want to hurt me?" She wanted him to talk, to give her time, but she wanted to know as well.

  "I don't want to hurt you," he said, laughing so that each word was an element of the laugh. "I just want to make you feel good. I just want to give you what you want."

  Her hand touched a ripped edge of canvas, and her breath caught in her throat. She reached beneath, and in another moment her fingers felt the soft leather of the holster. "What . . . what do I want?" she babbled, trying desperately not to look away from her executioner toward her salvation. Outside, a trumpet was playing now, high and fast and savage. Cymbals sizzled.