Twilight Girl

by Della Martin

  Lon would have welcomed sleep then. But the grain of protective instinct had been magnified inside her now. "Didn't you say you were moving out? All right, I'll wait outside while you pick up your clothes. Then I'll drop you wherever you're going."

  "Not much to pick up," Mavis said, though not apologetically. She was dressed once more, but the dampness had crept into the car and she shivered. "And you don't want to see Sassy again. Not when I tell her I'm cutting out for keeps."

  "What will she do when you tell her?"

  Mavis shrugged. And shivered again. "Hard telling."

  "She might get rough," Lon ventured solemnly. "If she does, this time I'll..."

  "Nobody's home up there. Any other time, Sassy would be out somewhere. Or asleep. This time... hard telling." A somberness had fallen over Mavis.

  "You aren't sorry?" Lon asked. "You aren't thinking about her and wishing you hadn't let me—"

  "You think about somebody like Sassy," Mavis said, ignoring the more pointed question. She seemed absorbed in exclusive musings, disturbing insights. "The way I left her— who knows?" But in an unexpected gesture of aggressive intimacy, she patted Lon's knee. "You come along, baby. You wait outside. Then, you want to drop me off, there's this cat I know over in Benedict Canyon. Blows alto. He and his chick used to ask me out They have all kinds of room. You know? And Wish can steer me to the right job, now I'm ready."

  'Will I be able to see you there?"

  "Wish's place? Oh, man, everybody comes and goes. In and out that pad, day or night."

  Lon nodded and started the motor. Before she began the curving climb to the hilltop, there was one final satisfaction to be extracted from Mavis. "You loved me tonight. You didn't say it, but that's true, isn't it?" Mavis stared at the floorboards. "Why can't you say it? You love me."

  "Don't count on anything lasting," Mavis said. Why was she so cynical and evasive?

  "All right, but I'd like to hear you say it!"

  "Baby, I do and somebody's going to hurt. You or me. But somebody for sure. Love your mama. Drop me off, and love her."

  Disappointed, Lon gunned the motor and wound the jalopy past the scrub brush, upward to where the road was lined on either side by young date palms and masses of earth-hugging ice plant. "Maybe you'd like it better if I didn't show up at Wish's."

  "Wrong, baby. But only come see me after a good while. When you're sure I've waited"—and Mavis finished her sentence in a throaty whisper—"like I waited this time. Too long."

  CHAPTER 13

  Lon rested her head on the steering wheel, waiting. Numb from lack of sleep, muscles aching with fatigue. Yet, she wondered, how would she ever be able to sleep with this persistent, half-conscious memory to be relished? Why relinquish even for one moment the knowledge that something dynamic and wonderful had taken possession of her life? Nothing had happened before tonight. Nothing had touched her with meaning before tonight

  And then she remembered that she was waiting for Mavis and that Mavis had been inside the house for ages. Impatiently, she lifted her head to look out again at the unfamiliar and luxurious surroundings. Even with a home like this, a car like the one near the mammoth garage, and a pool like a country lake, Sassy had been unable to hold Mavis. A patronizing pity for the big blonde came over Lon then, tempering the need for revenge that still rankled behind the newborn joy.

  There was a third car in the circular driveway,—a new Buick sedan, and she speculated vaguely about its owner. The glass-walled house beyond the Buick seemed deserted. How long had Mavis been in there? Lon thought of Sassy's violent temper—of her explosiveness with Betty, the way she had shaken Mavis outside the club, the manner in which she had beaten Lon to the ground. I shouldn't have let her go inside alone. Propelled by some warning reflex, Lon got out of the car, cut across the closely matted dichondra ground cover, and peered into an enormous room. A rumpus room, she decided. There was no one in sight. Lon hesitated, then tried the sliding panel. It opened easily and she moved through the opening.

  Faint conversational sounds drifted upward from a stairway to her left. Cautiously, acutely aware of intrusion, Lon followed the twisting, suspended steps. At the bottom, she stopped to listen. Mavis. Yes, and the other voice was Sassy's. Subdued, but Sassy's, all right And another sound—a loud, rhythmic snoring.

  Lon followed the noises, sensing relief. Yet not positive yet that all was well with Mavis. Near the end of the thickly carpeted hallway, Lon caught sight of them through an open door. Mavis stuffing underclothing into a small valise, Sassy in turquoise-colored Oriental pajama tops, nothing more, sitting on the edge of a bed, watching the process without animation. The rumbling sounds came from a curled-up heap under the rumpled covers. Male sounds. An empty bottle on top of the bookcase headboard indicated that the guy was sleeping off a drunken jag. The girls, backs turned to the door, were unaware of Lon's presence.

  They were speaking quietly now, and somehow the deadly calm was more frightening than the dissension she had expected—the violence she had feared.

  "By the way, I saw your old boss last night, Mavis." Sassy drew the words out in a blurred, lazy intonation. "Thought you'd like to know I saw old Ruggio."

  "You made your connection," Mavis said glumly. "Got yourself a whole new rig. Okay, Sassy. Okay, if that's the way it's got to be. I tried."

  "I was sick. I was very sick, Mavis. I had to borrow money from Dur. I had to shoot that spoon in Ruggio's washroom."

  "I had it figured you'd have to call a doctor, Sass. Figured wrong."

  Sassy giggled. "Didn't think I could do it did you? Underestimated me. Well, it wasn't easy. No, it wasn't. And I wish somebody would explain to me what's happening."

  "I'm buggin' out, Sass. I've packed everything. This does it."

  "Oh, I know that. But give me a literal explanation." Sassy's voice rose. Drunk, Lon decided. To sound that bewildered and unnatural, Sassy had to be drunk. The bottle, the man in the bed—it added up. Almost.

  "Quiet, baby," Mavis cautioned. "You'll wake your lover-boy."

  Sassy gurgled—a sound like humorless laughter. "Oh, no. No, he's way out there. We're here, you see, but Durham is way, w-a-ay out." The hushed, floating quality of Sassy's speech was disturbing. Lon stood transfixed, wishing she had waited in the car. Feeling let down, yet fascinated by the trance-like voice. "Well, we came back here and had a wild night. I think. You can't ever be sure about these things. And now you're going somewhere, but I don't actually understand any part of it. It's extremely deep." Sassy turned then, slowly. There would have been time to run, to dart up the stairway. But Lon hovered like an entranced squirrel in an automobile headlight, until she knew it was too late to escape detection—until there was nothing left but to wait until Sassy's eyes locked with hers.

  Lon could only return the gaze, feel the strange eyes boring through her with neither surprise nor disapproval. In that uncertain light, the normally grayish blue eyes looked weirdly dark, as though the pupils had dilated to cover the whole eyeballs. Yet this was only an eerie illusion of the light, Lon knew. And she stood, hearing the audible thumping of her heart, waiting for Sassy to cry out her recognition, to shriek out her demand to know what Lon was doing in the house, spying.

  Still Sassy said nothing, did nothing. Only stared, with apparently a faint amusement lighting those birdlike eyes, and even that could have been imagination. At last the queasy silence became unbearable and Lon turned to hurry up the curved stairway, taking two steps at a time, feeling a terror that had no relation to physical fear.

  And then Lon found herself at the pool's edge, her legs quivering under her. Why did I run? It had been embarrassing, of course, being caught like the intruder she was, eavesdropping. But she could have made some excuse—could have asked if Mavis needed help with the luggage—could have manufactured some subterfuge, any subterfuge, rather than flee like a discovered thief. Why did I turn and run? Nerves, she told herself. Big night. No sleep. Nerves. And as far as Lon knew, Mavis h
adn't even been aware that Lon was there. But why hadn't Sassy said anything?

  Lon did not know how long she had been staring into the slate-dull water before she became aware of someone's presence. Perhaps it was a footstep that had warned her. But it seemed more like an intuitive knowledge—that instinctive feeling of being watched. Closely watched, from behind. Lon whirled around, arms jerking upward protectively. And Sassy stood there, no more than inches away. So that she could only have approached stealthily, Indian fashion, not wishing to be seen. But the attack against which Lon's clenched fists had been raised did not come. Sassy's expression was almost benign. At their first meeting, Lon had been impressed by the clean, economical lines, the strong masculinity of the other's face. Now it looked bedraggled, like the rumpled bed on which Sassy had been sitting moments before. And the eyes! The glazed, cynical, yet conversely contented eyes! On close inspection, they showed less sign of the dark pupils than when Lon had been shocked by them earlier. Sassy had to be drunk. So hung up that she hadn't bothered with pajama bottoms. Lon tensed, speechless, waiting for the towering blonde's next move.

  Senselessly, Sassy droned, "Sex. Who needs it?"

  She swayed closer to Lon. Thinking she'll surprise me, Lon warned herself. Pretending she's forgotten about the other time. But I'll be ready—I've got to be ready! Lon's fingers curled, clipped nails digging into her palms.

  "Mavis is packing, you know. She's going somewhere with you, of course, but I wish you would make a few points clear. I keep getting this ridiculous double-talk... and I know I hate you... well, that's obvious, but you understand I haven't been well at all... this situation has an element of confusion... you understand... literally confused." The low-spoken, monotonous babble seemed to fall from Sassy's mouth like a stream of spewed vitriol. "Not that I care, but sometimes I like things explained to me—"

  She's planning something... It's got to be something ugly. Ready—be ready! And the readiness tightened up inside Lon like a third fist, her muscles taut and aching from the tenseness. Regretfully Lon remembered that she had not eaten dinner the night before, had not eaten any of Violet's party fare—had not tasted food for so many hours that maybe it accounted for the headache, the cold feeling in her stomach, the tremors of weakness.

  "Now I simply want you to clarify this—!" Sassy raised her arms in a sweeping, hypnotic motion. She lurched forward. And it was all the warning Lon could wait for. She brought her cocked fist upward, smashing it hard into Sassy's midriff, hearing in the same instant the loud grunt of expelled breath. And danced aside with an agile step, prepared to avert the return blow, remembering the other girl's savage speed. But there was no return blow. Sassy only shuddered, mouth dropping open, eyelids fluttering grotesquely. Then with a long, deep groan, like a burlesqued imitation of a steamboat whistle, she folded, pitching forward into Lon's boxer-poised arms. Lon staggered under the weight, Sassy's wet, open mouth limp and heavy on her shoulder.

  "Get away from me—you drunken slob." Lon shoved at the unwelcome body, threw the strength of her arms against Sassy's ribs, freeing herself of the disgusting burden. Lon leaped back to avoid further contact. And Sassy doubled, swayed for one unsupported instant and fell forward. Too late for Lon to catch her, to record in her mind that the blonde was unconscious. Too late for anything but the crack of Sassy's forehead against the flagstone coping—a sound that Lon absorbed through her own body like an internal rifle shot. And then Sassy lay still.

  Lon waited, paralyzed, staring wide-eyed at the arched mound beside her feet. The shock passed through her then, and she squatted next to Sassy's head. Breathless and fearful, She turned Sassy's limp face, saw only inconsequential-appearing scrape on the forehead. Oh, God! The prayer whispered in Lon's mind. Oh, God—why doesn't she move? And Lon watched with sick horror the widening spot of red, the rich crimson pool expanding on the flagstone under Sassy's head, moving in an incredibly sluggish trickle from the corner of Sassy's mouth.

  Then came the frantic shaking, the calling of Sassy's name. The desperate impulse of lifting an eyelid as she had seen movie detectives do. The long time before knowing, before acknowledging with that final, dreadful certainty that comes not from physical tests—the uplifted lid, the imperceptible pulse—But from some mystic, inner sense, knowing that Sassy was dead. Lon screamed it inside herself. Dead. She's dead.

  Lon felt a child's panic. Saw herself as a little girl. Helpless amid holiday adultery. Humming sound that never had been really a sound whirred now in her head. And the fear-frozen child within told her. Make it look like an accident. It truly was an accident, but they won't believe you. Even when it's true, they never believe you. Make it look as though—

  And Lon kneeled beside the crumpled form, away from the water's edge, burying her palms in the still-warm flesh. Burying her palms, crying for breath and pushing with all the strength she could summon to roll the horror from her sight.

  The splash was gentle. Unprotesting, the slate water accepted its burden. And closed over it like a reverent nun's hands folding.

  Lon trembled to her feet. To see close-cropped yellow hair undulate in slow movement, the way submerged sea plants wave in response to a current. To see other things. How dark the turquoise fabric looked when wet. How faintly pink that cloud of water there.

  She started for the car and stopped, retracing her steps, grateful for a keen mind that knew clearly and efficiently what must be done. Kneeled once more, to scoop water from the pool with cupped hands. Dashed the water against the red puddle on the rough coping, repeated the cleansing ritual many times, arms moving with frenetic, mechanized speed.

  The rock was only lightly tinged with color when finally she hurried toward the Plymouth. Cleaner than it had ever been, Lon assured herself. Soaked with enough water so that it would not dry red and caked.

  * * *

  Mavis was walking to the car, tugging a valise and juggling two cardboard cartons. Lon watched through half-closed eyes, head pillowed against the rim of the steering wheel, feigning sleep. And saw Mavis take a short route across the lawn, unknowingly avoiding the pool's edge and what would be better unseen. Mavis set down the bag and opened the door.

  "Guess we can cut out, baby," Mavis said. She tossed all her worldly possessions carelessly to the back seat. "Sassy's painless. So junked up, she wasn't even around when I walked out." The brown girl sank into the front seat, shook her head dolefully and slammed the door.

  They were at the foot of the hill, turning into the highway, before Lon felt sure enough of her voice to ask, "What's 'junked up,' Mavis?"

  Mavis started to reply, hesitated, and then said, "Sick. Miserable sick." A long while later, she spoke again. Pensively, more to herself than to Lon. "Feel I owe her something, you know? One phone call, maybe. Monday, when her mama's home. Get somebody else to do for her what I figured she'd do for herself last night. Cross her. That's the only way. But I care that much—care that much about anybody, come to think about it." Mavis looked out at the scrubby hills, fresh in the morning light. She seemed to be pondering a secret problem of her own. "Man, Sassy keeps going the way she's going... Sassy's a set-up. Kill herself, that's all."

  And no one sick should be struck—killed. A person should be able to tell when someone's weak and sick. Lon's hands tightened on the wheel. She concentrated on the white line dividing the winding ribbon of concrete before her, blinking bard to keep her eyes from closing of their own accord. Yet felt no need now for sleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  Somewhere in a tree-shaded canyon, Lon listened to the motor idle It was the wrong time to congratulate herself on the carbureter adjustment that had produced this pleasing, steady purr. Strange, the way insignificant thoughts had of coming to her mind when other, much weightier matters should be possessing her faculties. Did a body sink to the bottom or float? And who would find it? When? And the silly thought returned: it would have cost her plenty at Mageley's garage, but she had done the job herself—and just listen to that mot
or!

  And then Lon remembered that she had said goodbye to Mavis, had looked up to watch the slim figure start up a steep concrete stairway embedded in a rocky wall that had been cut away to make the road. At the top of the stairway stood a picturesque house, or what could be seen of a house, built from fieldstone. Mavis wasn't going there and Lon wondered why she had not offered to carry the pathetic luggage with which Mavis struggled. Lon looked long and hard at the figure in loosely hung black, watching until the sting of tears forced her to rub her eyes and drown out the image. "I'll be over to see you soon," she promised hoarsely, although Mavis had already heard her say that once and could not hear her now. Mavis—how was I to know she was sick?

  Lon put the Plymouth in gear. Soon was driving on through the canyon then, past the sign that warned drivers that this was a closed area and no smoking was permitted, headed in the logical direction. And she could not permit herself to think what it would be like to walk into her home where the questions would be hurled at her and the accusations heaped upon her shoulders. She refused to project herself that far into the future Thinking, she might turn the car around, drive to some other place—some other place. But where? Where can anyone go, at the end, but home?

  Sunday was the right day for homecoming, the exactly right day. For how could Lon's mother prolong the inquisition, how many times could the thin, whining voice repeat questions and answer them vindictively in the next breath, when Sunday culminated a week of planning, organizing, telephoning? On this day, Mrs. Harris bathed in approval. On this day the Supervisor of the Sunday School reaped her reward.