Byron smiled, rose, and looked in the refrigerator.
“I vote for hot dogs. That spaghetti is getting rather gummy, don’t you think?”
I laughed, feeling my spirits rise. “Whatever you want, my friend. You call the shots tonight.”
Chapter 24
The night was a whirlwind of bars, clubs, and coffee houses. For four hours straight I followed Byron from place to place, drinking far too much and watching him leer at women.
My friend became more and more annoying as the evening wore on.
I actually had to talk him out of jumping on the stage at the bar where we’d just landed. Byron was convinced that the smashed audience wanted to hear his rendition of the La Boheme aria, “Che Gelida Manina,” by Puccini.
“I’m telling you, nobody here likes opera, Byron.” I slumped over with my elbows on the table. The candle in the center glowed and swam before my eyes.
A waitress, a nearly naked bronzed Amazon with bleach-blonde hair, leaned down into my face. She stank of cigarette smoke. “Another beer, honey?”
I stared at her dimensionless eyes and the roots of her stiff-looking hair. “No. No thanks. Coffee if you’ve got it. Strong coffee.”
Byron smiled broadly and ordered another Tequila Sunrise. “Hey, darlin’! Gotta question for ya.”
She stopped and turned back to him. “No. I won’t go out with you,” she laughed.
He slapped the table and guffawed. “No, love. That’s not the question tonight. I wanna ask you about rock stars.”
She returned to the table, pulled up a chair, and bummed a cigarette from a guy at the next table. “Okay, big boy. Shoot. What’s this about rock stars?”
She blew a stream of smoke into Byron’s face. He pulled back, recovered quickly, and winked at me. “What’s the big draw? Why do you women go nuts for the Jim Morrisons and Mick Jaggers of the world? What is it about these chaps that draws you to them?”
He acted as though he was doing me a favor, seeming to think that somehow, if I found out the secret behind this attraction, I’d feel better about my wife salivating over Robert Plant tonight.
I stopped and shook my head to clear it, wondering what was happening at this very moment. Was she in the front row? Staring at Robert Plant’s tight bellbottom jeans? His curly blond mane? Was she smiling at him? Singing along with the songs? Was he leaning down and singing to her? Trying to court her from the stage?
The Amazon waitress laughed and crossed her legs provocatively.
I found myself staring at her penciled-in eyebrows, wondering how she did it. Does she shave off the natural brows and then take a crayon to draw in the fake ones?
“Oh, darlin,’ that’s easy. It’s just raw sex appeal. The music. The beat. The way they move on stage. Oh, yeah,” her voice grew husky. “That’s what we like. We feel it right here.” She squirmed on the chair and looked down between her legs.
This was not helping. I rolled my eyes at Byron and sighed. “Let’s go home, buddy.”
Our waitress giggled, hopped up, straightened her leopard-spotted mini skirt, brazenly adjusted her halter-top, and sashayed to the bar.
“But we just ordered another round,” he said, his words slurred. He looked into the distance. “Back to the rock stars. I can see her point. They do move rather sensuously, don’t they? They’re lithe, and almost animalistic.”
He focused on a spot above my left shoulder, meditating on the subject.
“You’re not making me feel any better, Byron,” I mumbled.
“Huh?” he looked at me with confusion, “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, old chum. I’m sure it’s just a phase. She’ll come home and be happy to crawl in bed with you. You’ve got those guys beat, hands down.”
“Sure. Sure I do,” I said miserably. I really did just want to go home and flop into bed.
The lights dimmed in the room and a spotlight splayed on the stage curtain, moving in provocative circles.
I swiveled in my seat, wondering what kind of show was featured in this joint. I had lost track and didn’t know if we’d see a banjo player or a comedian.
I was wrong on both counts.
An announcer’s voice piped over the din of the crowd. “And now, please give a warm welcome to the Latino Temptress.”
Blue smoke swirled in the light of the spot. The curtain rustled, and the band began to play a seductive, sax-rich tune.
Our waitress deposited my coffee and Byron’s drink on the table.
I leaned forward, resting my arms on the sticky table.
She emerged from the curtain slowly, moving languidly and swaying to the music with her eyes closed. She ran her hands over her own body, lingering on her breasts and trailing her fingers down her thighs. Her dark skin glistened beneath the sequined hot pants and brassiere-like top. Her smooth, long hair shimmered with some kind of glitter, and hung loose on her shoulders.
Byron leaned forward and his jaw dropped.
I focused and refocused, took a sip of the hot, acrid coffee, and muttered, “Lana,” in a hushed whisper.
We watched in awkward fascination as Lana sashayed toward a pole in the center of the stage. She grabbed it, ran her hands along its smooth surface in a lascivious motion, and wrapped one leg around it, swinging slowly from side-to-side.
The beat of the music was strong. She played the audience, focusing on the pole as if it were alive. The men who salivated and uttered cat calls in the audience leaned forward as one when she toyed with the strap on her bodice, lowering it to her shoulder.
They cheered, egging her on.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I pushed back from the table and stumbled toward the door. Byron followed me in a stupor.
“That was Lana. Damn. What’s she doing here?” he mumbled thickly, words thickened by alcohol.
I pushed out into the cool night. The stars swirled above in a sickening, wobbly circle. I felt queasy. “I don’t know. But it made me sick to see her like that. All those guys, reaching for her and leering at her. It’s just so...”
“Wrong,” he said. “It’s so bloody wrong.”
I guess it didn’t occur to him that her behavior rivaled his own lusty exploits in the sack. We both took a deep breath and steadied ourselves against a light post.
“Which way is home, Byron?” I thought we might be in Cambridge, but wasn’t sure.
“I dunno,” he mumbled. “Better get a taxi.”
We blundered along until we reached a major intersection, finally flagged down a cab, and gave the driver our address. At three o’clock, we reached the apartment. I stumbled inside and downed a large glass of water. I couldn’t get rid of the acrid taste of coffee and beer lingering on my tongue.
Byron slumped on the couch, his head in his hands. “Oh, Lord. The room is spinning.”
“I know,” I said. “I hate this feeling. I’m never drinking again.” I made a face. “And yuk, this taste in my mouth is horrid.”
In the bathroom, I brushed and re-brushed my teeth, then washed my face and headed for the bedroom.
In the dark room, I craved the warmth of my wife’s embrace and the comforting feeling of her breath on my face. Slipping out of my jeans, I slid under the covers, and reached for her, shocked to find her side of the bed empty.
“Elsbeth?” I asked. “Honey?”
She’s not home yet.
The ticking of the alarm clock on the nightstand was conspicuously loud. I loosed a disappointed sigh, pushed away a vague sense of unease, and collapsed onto the pillow.
Chapter 25
Saturday morning, sunlight poured into the bedroom like honey, smothering me in warmth and dancing along my eyelids. I stretched torpidly and rolled over, flopping onto Elsbeth’s side of the bed. Without opening my eyes, I stretched for her, but felt only rumpled sheets.
Must’ve gotten up already, my sluggish brain mumbled.
Wait.
A jolt of fear ripped through me.
I opened my eyes and looked around at the empty
room.
Where is she? Did she come home last night?
I sat up. Knives stabbed my brain, behind my eyes. I grabbed my head and moaned. “Elsbeth? Where are you?” I called out with a raspy voice I barely recognized as my own.
My throat was parched, as if I’d been asleep for days. I swallowed fuzz and turned to the clock on the nightstand.
What the hell? One o’clock in the afternoon? How was that possible?
I clutched my head again and massaged my temples, with the room swimming before me. The back of my throat grew slick.
I’m gonna be sick, I thought, running to the bathroom. I stopped, leaned over the sink, and breathed deeply. Running the cold water, I splashed it over my face, rested my head on the cool porcelain for a few minutes, and then straightened.
The guy who looked back from the mirror was pretty scary. Dark shadows hovered beneath his bloodshot eyes.
I looked like an electrocuted cartoon character.
The room swam again. I grabbed two aspirin from the bottle in the medicine chest, swallowed them with water cupped in my hands, and then stumbled back into the living room. “Anybody home?”
No one answered.
I cracked open the door and glanced into Byron’s room. He lay sprawled on his bed with his long legs hanging off the mattress. I shut the door softly, careful not to wake him. Lana and Valerie’s door was closed. I knocked. “Valerie? Lana?”
A soft muffled response came from within.
Opening the door a crack, I looked inside. Lana raised her head from the pillow and squinted at me. Mascara ran down her cheeks and her hair hung over her eyes in a snarled mess. “Huh?”
Valerie’s bed was made up; it hadn’t been slept in.
“Did the girls come home last night?” I asked.
She shook her head, flopped back on her pillow, and mumbled, “Didn’t see ‘em.”
I closed the door and checked in the kitchen, thinking maybe she’d already come and gone and left a message on the table. There was a message, but it was the same one from the night before.
Don’t wait up; we’ll be awfully late.
The phrase repeated over and over in my mind. Don’t wait up, don’t wait up, don’t wait up.
A sound came from the hallway. Footsteps clattered along the floor. A key turned in the lock. And the door opened.
Elsbeth and Valerie tumbled into the room, hanging onto each other. They looked awful, almost worse than I did. I stood in surprise as Elsbeth mumbled “G’nite,” to Valerie, looked at me dully through puffy eyes, walked straight past me, and headed for the bedroom.
Valerie went into her room and flopped onto her bed, face down.
“Honey?” I called, following Elsbeth to our bedroom. “Babe? Are you okay?”
Elsbeth had slipped out of her yellow crepe dress and stood beside the bed in her slip. She pulled back the sheet and slid beneath it, mumbling nonsense. I crawled in bed beside her, noticing that her dark hair reeked of marijuana.
I pulled back in surprise. “Elsbeth? What did you do? Where were you?”
“Sorry...too tired... smuffley dumble... in morning...”
Her eyes closed and she passed out on the pillow. I lay down beside her, listening to her softly snore.
What the hell had happened to her? And where had she been all morning?
Chapter 26
I woke later that evening with hunger pangs rocking my stomach. My eyes felt gritty and I wondered what day it was.
Saturday?
Yes. I think it’s Saturday.
With a start, I rolled over to Elsbeth, who still lay in a deep sleep.
There she was, safe and sound.
A sigh of relief passed through me, and I started to remember how worried I’d been last night when she didn’t come home.
A tiny braid plaited in her hair was laced with a fine, yellow satin ribbon. It lay unashamedly on her cheek, a flagrant reminder of her night on the town.
Well, I’d had my night on the town, too, hadn’t I? It wasn’t exactly a rock ‘n roll extravaganza, but I’d dutifully followed Byron from club to club, drinking far too much and ending up with the shock of seeing Lana making love to a pole on stage.
I rose and padded to the bathroom, used the facilities, brushed my teeth, and splashed water on my face. Leaning over the sink, I drank greedily from the faucet. When I straightened and wiped my chin on my tee shirt, I heard Elsbeth stir.
The apartment was quiet. I walked down the hall to find Byron’s door open and his bed made. Lana was gone, and Valerie still slept heavily. I pulled her door closed on the way back to our bedroom, where I sat down beside Elsbeth.
“Gus? What time is it?”
I perched on the side of the bed and massaged my temples. “About eight.”
She looked toward the window. “At night?”
I nodded, settling beside her. “Uh huh.” I scooted up against the headboard.
She still smelled like the rock concert. I realized last night that I’d judged her harshly. When I’d been to concerts, the air had been full of the smell of pot, and I’d smelled it on myself when I came home, even though I didn’t smoke. I had to be careful not to let jealousy turn me into a judgmental idiot.
She lay on her side with one leg straight out and the other curved under the sheets. Placing her arms behind her neck, she sighed and stretched, shifting the sheet. “I feel weird, Gus. Kind of…disoriented, almost dizzy. And my throat’s so dry.”
Her slip rode up, revealing ugly purple bruises on both thighs.
“Elsbeth? What the hell happened?”
She winced and glanced down at her legs. “What the—” Jumping up, she wiggled her slip up to her waist, staring at discolorations. “I don’t understand.”
Scared now, she examined the rest of her body under the light on the nightstand, and found bluish marks on her upper arms as well.
My heart beat faster. “It looks like you were mauled by someone,” I whispered.
She sat back down on the bed, her eyes glazed. “I have to think. I have to think...” Focusing on a spot on the wall, her face froze, then suddenly tightened.
“Honey?” I asked again, “what the hell happened to you last night?” A wave of nausea washed over me.
“Oh no.” She didn’t meet my eyes, and soon tears streamed down her face.
“Oh no,” she sobbed.
I reached for her, but she pushed me away. “Don’t touch me! Please don’t touch me. I have to shower.”
She walked unsteadily past me, steadied herself on the doorjamb, and rushed into the bathroom, slamming the door.
Listening to the water run, I tried to fathom what had just happened. I got up slowly, robotically, and wandered into the kitchen. Without thinking, I opened the refrigerator and took out the grape juice. I poured a tall glass and downed it.
After a long time, the shower stopped. Elsbeth emerged in her white terrycloth bathrobe, her hair wrapped in an orange towel.
“Hungry?” I asked, trying to stick to a safe topic.
Her eyes were huge. She nodded, and I didn’t think she trusted herself to speak for fear of crying again.
“Turkey salad?” I asked.
“Okay.”
I pulled out two cold roasted turkey legs and began to chop chunks of the meat on the counter. “Celery?”
She nodded, but her face tightened again. “I need another shower...I don’t think I can...” She burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.
I stopped chopping and embraced her, pulling her shaking body to mine. She let me hold her and while she shuddered and sobbed, the story burst out in fits and starts. I rocked her against me, trying to soothe her, but my brain was alive with questions and a deep-seated fear I didn’t want to face.
“The band asked us to a party after the show. Valerie was so flattered. She accepted, and I sure as heck didn’t want to leave her alone. I thought something might happen to her.”
She leaned harder into my ch
est, wrapping her arms around me.
“At first it was fun. I actually got to talk to Robert Plant. He was so nice. And so beautiful.” She looked up at me with a guilty expression. “I mean, oh. Sorry.”
“I know you have a crush on him,” I said. “It’s okay.”
“The band left early, and we stayed behind with the others. Valerie and I decided to try some pot.”
With a shake of her head, she stopped my explosion before it could happen. “I know, I know! It was stupid. We drank more of the punch, and I think it must’ve been laced with something really bad, because almost right after that the room started spinning. I saw green kittens climbing the walls. I thought Valerie was my dead sister. I hardly remember the night, Gus.”
Anger crept up inside me, threatening to burst. Some bastards had drugged my woman. I wanted to hurt them, scream, punch something. But I held back and did what she needed. “Babe.” I crushed her to me. “It sounds like you were drugged.”
She sobbed again. “I remember someone leading me up to a room.”
“A room? A bedroom?” I said, trying to slow my heartbeat.
“Yes.” She shuddered, and went on. “The bed was small. I remember it had blue plaid sheets on it. He...I...I was too drugged to know what was happening; it was like a bad dream. I thought he was you for a while.” She looked up at me with tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Then, when I realized it wasn’t you, it was too late. I couldn’t stop him. I tried, oh I tried so hard, but I couldn’t stop him. He was so strong. Please…” She pleaded with haunted eyes as if trying to convince herself as much as me.
The sobs wracked her body, and as hard as I tried to stop it, anger built inside me to a volcanic level.
“That bastard.” I let go of her and stepped back, turning in a half circle away from her. “I’ll kill him.”
She wept into her hands, shoulders shaking again, and I went back to her, holding her against me.
The refrigerator whirred in the background. The faucet drip, drip, dripped. A moth beat itself against the screen window over the sink. Her towel turban fell off, and I stroked her damp hair, trying to say the right things.
Spirit Me Away Page 9