by Clive Barker
When, in the early afternoon, all three of them sat down to talk, it took a little time to persuade her to unburden herself of the past, but the stories came, one by one. Sometimes, especially when she talked about Arleen, Carolyn and Trudi, she cried as she talked, but as the events she was describing became more tragic she told them more and more dispassionately. On occasion she'd go back to offer details she'd missed, or to praise somebody who'd helped her through the difficult years, when she was bringing up Jo-Beth and Tommy-Ray alone knowing she was talked about as the hussy who'd survived.
"The number of times I thought about leaving the Grove," she said. "Like Trudi."
"I don't think it saved her any pain," Howie said. "She was always unhappy."
"I remember her a different way. Always in love with somebody or other."
"Do you know . . . who she was in love with before she had me?"
"Are you asking me do I know who your father is?"
"Yes."
"I have a good idea. Your middle name was his first. Ralph Contreras. He was a gardener at the Lutheran Church. He used to watch us when we came home from school. Every day. Your mother was very pretty, you know. Not in a movie-star kind of way, like Arleen, but with dark eyes . . . you've got her eyes . . . a sort of liquid look in them. I think she was always the one Ralph loved. Not that he said very much. He had a terrible stammer."
Howie smiled at this.
"Then it was him. I inherited that."
"I don't hear it."
"I know, it's strange. It's gone. It's almost like meeting
Fletcher took it out of me. Tell me, does Ralph still live in the Grove?"
"No. He left before you were even born. He probably thought there'd be a lynch-mob out after him. Your mother was a middle-class white girl, and he . . ."
She stopped, seeing the look on Howie's face.
"He?" Howie said.
"—was Hispanic."
Howie nodded. "You learn something new every day, right?" he said, playing lightly what clearly went deep.
"Anyway, that's why he left," Joyce went on. "If your mother had ever named him I'm sure he'd have been accused of rape. Which it wasn't. We were driven, all of us, by whatever the Devil had put inside us."
"It wasn't the Devil, Momma," Jo-Beth said.
"So you say," she replied, with a sigh. The energy suddenly seemed to go out of her, as the old vocabulary took its toll. "And maybe you're right. But I'm too old to change the way I think."
"Too old?" said Howie. "What are you talking about? What you did last night was extraordinary."
Joyce reached across and touched Howie's cheek. "You must leave me to believe what I believe. It's only words, Howard. The Jaff to you. The Devil to me."
"So what does that make Tommy-Ray and me, Momma?" Jo-Beth said. "The Jaff made us."
"I've wondered about that often," Joyce said. "When you were very young I used to watch you both all the time, waiting for the bad in you to show. It has in Tommy-Ray. His maker's taken him. Maybe my prayers have saved you, Jo-Beth. You went to church with me. You studied. You trusted in the Lord."
"So you think Tommy-Ray's lost?" Jo-Beth asked.
Momma didn't answer for a moment, though not, it was clear when the answer came, because she felt ambiguous on the subject.
"Yes," she said finally. "He's gone."
"I don't believe that," Jo-Beth said.
"Even after what he was up to last night?" Howie put in.
"He doesn't know what he's doing. The Jaff's controlling him, Howie. I know him better than a brother—"
"Meaning?"
"He's my twin. I feel what he feels."
"There's evil in him," Momma said.
"Then there's evil in me too," Jo-Beth replied. She stood up. "Three days ago you loved him. Now you say he's gone. You've let the Jaff have him. I won't give up on him that way." So saying, she left the room.
"Maybe she's right," Joyce said softly.
"Tommy-Ray can be saved?" Howie said.
"No. Maybe the Devil's in her too."
Howie found Jo-Beth in the yard, face up to the sky, eyes closed. She glanced around at him.
"You think Momma's right," she said. "Tommy-Ray's beyond help."
"No, I don't. Not if you believe we can get to him. Bring him back."
"Don't just say that to please me, Howie. If you're not on my side in this I want you to tell me."
He put his hand on her shoulder. "Listen," he said, "if I'd believed what your mother said then I wouldn't have come back, would I? This is me remember? Mister Persistence. If you think we can break the Jaff's hold on Tommy-Ray then we'll damn well do it. Just don't ask me to like him."
She turned round fully, brushing her hair, which the breeze had caught, from her face.
"I never thought I'd be standing in your momma's back- j yard with my arms around you," Howie said.
"Miracles happen."
"No they don't," he said. "They're made. You're one, and I'm one, and the sun's one, and the three of us being out here together is the biggest of the lot."
III
GRILLO'S first call, after Tesla's departure, was to Abernethy. Whether to tell or not to tell was only one of the dilemmas with which he was presented. Now more than ever the real problem was how. He'd never had the instincts of a novelist. In his writing he'd sought a style that set the facts out as plainly as possible. No fancy footwork; no flights of vocabulary. His mentor in this was not a journalist at all but Jonathan Swift, author of Gulliver's Travels, a man so concerned to communicate his satire with clarity that he'd reputedly read his works aloud to his servants to be certain his style did not confound his substance. Grillo kept that story as a touchstone. All of which was fine when reporting on the homeless in Los Angeles, or on the drug problem. The facts were plain enough.
But this story—from the caves to Fletcher's immolation—posed a knottier problem. How could he report what he'd seen last night without also reporting how it had felt?
He kept his exchange with Abernethy oblique. It was useless to try to pretend nothing at all had happened in the Grove the night before. Reports of the vandalism—though not a major story—had already been carried on all the local newscasts. Abernethy was on to it.
"Were you there, Grillo?"
"Afterwards. Only afterwards. I heard the alarms and—"
"And?"
"There's not much to report. There were some windows broken."
"Hell's Angels on the rampage."
"Is that what you heard?"
"Is that what I heard? You're supposed to be the fucking reporter, Grillo, not me. What do you need? Drugs? Drink? A visit from the fucking Mude?"
"That's Muse."
"Mude, Muse; who the fuck cares? Just get me a story the people want to read. There must have been injuries—"
"I don't think so."
"Then invent some."
"I do have something . . ."
"What? What?"
"A story nobody's reported yet, I'll bet."
"It better be good, Grillo. Your job's on the fucking line here."
"There's going to be a shindig up at Vance's house. To celebrate his passing."
"OK. So you get inside the place. I want the works on him and his friends. The man was a no-good. No-goods have no-good friends. I want names and details."
"Sometimes you sound like you saw too many movies, Abernethy."
"Meaning what?"
"Skip it."
The image lingered, long after Grillo had put down the phone, of Abernethy sitting up nights rehearsing lines from newspaper epics, refining his performance as a hard-pressed, hard-bitten editor. He wasn't the only one, Grillo thought.
Everyone had a movie playing somewhere at the back of their heads in which they were the name above the title. Ellen was the wronged woman, with terrible secrets to keep. Tesla was the wild woman of West Hollywood, loose in a world she never made. Which line of thought invited the obvious question: what was h
e? Cub reporter on a hit scoop? Man of integrity, dogged by crimes against a corrupt system? Neither part suited him the way they might have done when he'd first arrived, hot foot from his hovel, to report the Buddy Vance story. Events had somehow marginalized him. Others, Tesla in particular, had taken the starring roles.
As he checked his appearance in the mirror he mused on what it meant to be a star without a firmament. Free to take up another profession perhaps? Rocket scientist; juggler; lover. How about lover? How about the lover of Ellen Nguyen? That had a nice ring.
She was a long time coming to the door, and when she arrived it seemed she took several seconds to even recognize Grillo. Just as he was about to prompt her a smile surfaced, and she said:
"Please . . . come in. Are you recovered from the flu?"
"A little shaky."
"I think maybe I'm catching it too . . ." she said as she closed the door. "I woke feeling . . . I don't know . . ."
The curtains were still drawn. The place looked even smaller than Grillo remembered it.
"You'd like coffee," she said.
"Sure. Thanks."
She disappeared through to the kitchen, leaving Grillo abandoned in the middle of a room in which every article of furniture was piled high with magazines, or toys, or unsorted washing. Only as he moved to clear a space for himself did he realize he had an audience. Philip was standing at the head of the passage that led to his bedroom. His outing to the Mall the evening before had been premature. He still looked frail.
"Hi," Grillo said. "How you doin'?"
Surprisingly, the boy smiled; a lavish, open smile.
"Did you see?" he said.
"See what?"
"At the Mall," Philip went on. "You did see. I know you did. The beautiful lights."
"Yes, I saw them."
"I told the Balloon Man all about it. That's how I know I wasn't dreaming."
He crossed to Grillo, still smiling.
"I got your drawing," Grillo said. "Thank you."
"Don't need them now," Philip said.
"Why's that?"
"Philip?" Ellen had returned with coffee. "Don't bother Mr. Grillo."
"It's no bother," Grillo said. He returned his gaze to Philip. "Maybe we can talk about Balloon Man later," he said.
"Maybe," the boy replied, as though this would be entirely dependent upon Grillo's good behavior. "I'm going now," he announced to his mother.
"Sure sweetie."
"Shall I tell him hello?" Philip asked Grillo.
"Please," Grillo replied, not certain of what the boy meant, "I'd like that."
Satisfied, Philip made his way back to his bedroom.
Ellen was busying herself clearing a place for them to sit. With her back to Grillo she bent to her work. The plain kimono-style dressing gown she wore clung. Her buttocks were heavy for a woman of her height. When she turned back the sash of the gown had loosened. The folds fell away at her breastbone. Her skin was dark, and smooth. She caught his appreciation as she handed him his coffee, but made no attempt to tie the gown more tightly. The gap tempted Grillo's eye every time she moved.
"I'm glad you came around," she said once they were seated. "I was concerned when your friend—"
"Tesla."
"Tesla. When Tesla told me you were ill. I felt responsible." She took a sip of coffee. She made a sharp backward motion when it touched her tongue. "Hot," she said.
"Philip was telling me you were down at the Mall last night."
"So were you," she replied. "Do you know if anybody was hurt? All that broken glass."
"Only Fletcher," Grillo replied.
"I don't believe I know him."
"The man who burned up."
"Somebody got burned?" she said. "Oh God, that's horrible."
"Surely you saw it."
"No," she replied. "We just saw the glass."
"And the lights. Philip was talking about the lights."
"Yes," she said, plainly puzzled. "He said the same to me. You know I don't remember any of that. Is it important?"
"What's important is that you're both well," he said, using the platitude to cover his confusion.
"Oh we're fine," she said, looking directly at him, her face suddenly cleansed of its bafflement. "I'm tired, but I'm fine."
She reached across to put the coffee cup down and this time the robe fell open enough for Grillo to catch sight of her breasts. He didn't have the slightest doubt that she knew exactly what she was doing.
"Have you heard any more from the house?" he asked, taking undeniable satisfaction from talking business while thinking sex.
"I'm supposed to go up there," Ellen said.
"When is the party?"
"Tomorrow. It's short notice, but I think a lot of Buddy's friends were expecting some kind of farewell celebration."
"I'd like to get in on the party."
"You want to report?"
"Of course. It's going to be quite a gathering, right?"
"I think so."
"But that's just part of it. We both know there's something extraordinary happening in the Grove. Last night, it wasn't simply the Mall . . ." He trailed off, seeing that her expression, upon mention of the previous evening, had once again become distracted. Was this self-induced amnesia, or part of the natural process of Fletcher's magic? The former, he suspected. Philip, less resistant to changes in the status quo, had no such memory problems. When Grillo turned the conversation back to the party her attention was once more upon him.
"Do you think you could get me in?" he asked.
"You'll have to be careful. Rochelle knows what you look like."
"Can't you invite me officially? As press?"
She shook her head. "There won't be any press," she explained. "It's a strictly private gathering. Not all of Buddy's associates are gluttons for publicity. Some of them had too much of it too soon. Some of them would prefer never to have it. He mixed with a lot of men .. . what did he call them? . . . heavy-duty players. I think, Mafia probably."
"All the more reason I should be there," Grillo said.
"Well, I'll do what I can, especially after you getting sick on my account. I guess if there's sufficient guests you could melt into the crowd . . ."
"I'd appreciate the help."
"More coffee?"
"No, thanks." He glanced at his watch, though didn't register the time.
"You're not going to go," she said. It was not a question, but a statement. The same was true of his response.
"No. Not if you'd prefer I stay."
Without another word she reached and touched his breastbone through his shirt.
"I'd prefer you stay," she said.
He instinctively looked towards Philip's room.
"Don't worry," she said. "He'll play for hours." She looped her finger between the buttons of Grillo's shirt. "Come to bed with me," she said.
She got up and led the way through to her bedroom. By contrast with the clutter outside, the room was spartan. She crossed to the window and half closed the blinds, which lent the whole room a parchment tint, then sat down on the bed and looked up at him. He leaned down and kissed her face, slipping his hand inside her robe and lightly rubbing her breast. She pressed his hand to her, insisting on severer treatment. Then she pulled him down on top of her. Their comparative heights meant his chin rested on the top of her head, but she turned this to erotic advantage, pulling his shirt open and licking at his chest, her tongue leaving wet trails from nipple to nipple. All the while her hold on his hand didn't relax for an instant. Her nails dug into his skin with painful force. He fought her, dragging his hand away to reach for the sash of her robe but her hand was there before him. He rolled off her, and was about to sit up to undress, but she took hold of his shirt, this grip as fierce as its predecessor, and kept him at her side, her face at his shoulder, while she untied the loose knot of the sash one-handed, then threw the robe open. She was naked underneath. Doubly naked in fact. Her groin was completely shaved.<
br />
Now she turned her face away, and closed her eyes. One hand still gripping his shirt, the other limp at her side she seemed to be offering her body to him as a plate to be dined from. He put his hand on her stomach, running his palm down towards her cunt, pressing hard on skin that looked and felt almost burnished.
Without opening her eyes she murmured:
"Anything you want."
The invitation momentarily flummoxed him. He was used to this being a contract between partners, but here was this woman waving such niceties away, offering him total command of her body. It made him uneasy. As an adolescent her passivity would have seemed unbearably erotic. Now it shocked his liberal sensibilities. He said her name, hoping for some sign from her, but she ignored him. It wasn't until he once again sat up to pull off his shirt that she opened her eyes and said:
"No. Like this, Grillo. Like this."
The expression both on her face and in her voice was like rage, and it unearthed in him a hunger to respond in kind. He rolled on top of her, taking her head in his hands and pushing his tongue into her mouth. Her body pressed up from the mattress, rubbing so hard against him he was sure there was as much pain as pleasure in it for her.
In the room they'd vacated the coffee cups trembled as though the mildest quake were underway. Dust crept across the table, disturbed by the motion of an almost invisible something which slid its wasted shoulders from the gloomiest corner of the room and drifted rather than walked towards the bedroom door. Its form, though rudimentary, was still too recognizable to be dismissed as mere shadow, yet there was too little of it to deserve the name ghost. Whatever it had been, or was to become, even in its present condition it had purpose. Drawn by the woman who was presently dreaming it into being, it approached the bedroom. There—denied access—it mourned against the door, awaiting instructions.
Philip emerged from his sanctum and wandered through to the kitchen in search of food. He opened the cookie jar, dug for chocolate chip, and headed back the way he'd come, a cookie in his left hand for himself, and three in his right for his companion whose first words had been: