Strangely, he was not far from Honey’s home. Perhaps there had been a calmer reasoning voice whispering directions to him during his escape. He recognized some of the houses. He knew that a large golf course was nearby. They were the only truths of his past, his recent past that he carried with him from last night. Malany, Hoss, California—all were far away and receding into infinity.
Beckman parked Honey’s Model A beside the professor’s car. The Model A was splattered with mud and rain streaked. He made as little noise as possible. He touched the hood of the professor’s car; still warm, tinkling sounds came from the cooling metal. He entered the house through the back way but had to stop. He couldn’t ignore the sounds of weeping from the living room. He peeked around the door.
The professor was huddled against Honey’s shoulder, sobbing. Honey, embracing him, patted his back and whispered cooing baby words next to his ear. The professor blubbered something about love and unimaginable cruelty, and Honey cooed in his ear some more. Then, almost as if someone had interrupted this scene to whisper the fact of Beckman’s presence, she looked up straight at him, and signaled with her eyes for him to go upstairs.
Beckman turned and started up the steps, no longer caring about remaining inconspicuous. He consciously stomped up the stairs and, bursting into Honey’s room, began gathering up his few belongings.
After a few minutes, Honey stormed into the room and watched in disbelief as Beckman stuffed the last of his underwear into his duffle bag.
“What are you doing?” she half screamed.
“Going to California.” Beckman was calm and decisive.
“And what do you expect to find when you get there, the end of the rainbow?”
“It’s beginning to look that way.”
“Well, good luck. But the Pacific Ocean is very cold, believe me.”
“You’ve been there, I suppose?” Beckman snapped. He was breaking down.
“Of course. I went there when it was fashionable to leave home and find yourself.”
“And did you?”
“Oh, sure. After paying out enough to buy yachts for two shrinks and one sex counselor who wanted to put her hypotheses into practice with me. I found out that I knew what I was all along. I’ve had to fake the phony morality bit occasionally. People expect it, you know, especially when they feel threatened.”
“What about that scene with your husband?”
“Leon’s just a child, a lollipop-sucking child, only now its phalluses. He needs babying, occasionally, when he’s had a disappointment.”
“Did he see Hoss?”
“That, I should say, he did,” she said.
“And what does ‘that’ mean?”
“Well, Leon says he took Malany’s car and invited him to go with him to New Orleans. Your friend, Hoss, spent most of his time there drinking and throwing away the rest of his money, or was it his money? Anyway. According to Leon, your friend was very cooperative. He must have had a good line; poor Leon’s heart is broken.”
Beckman swung the duffle bag over his shoulder and angrily waved his finger in front of Honey’s face.
“I’m getting out of here. You people are all crazy, and I think you’re all dangerous.” Beckman started for the door.
“Okay, go to California and jump in the Pacific Ocean for all I care. But remember, you’ll be doing it alone. Nobody here will give a shit, especially Malany. She’ll be too busy going down on John Darling.”
Beckman stopped and slowly turned. “You’re really a witch, aren’t you? I mean, you’re a real case study in pure evil.”
“Only when I want something. I can be what you call evil. And, for the moment, I want you, Beckman. It’s been wonderful with you. Don’t go, not now. Stay a little longer. I can get Malany back for you, and then you can go.”
Beckman let his duffle bag slip to the floor. He had not really wanted to leave. The thought of going without her had become physically painful. The end would come with the last drop of their desire. There was nothing now but to feed from the great mound of their flesh. They fell toward each other, groping, grasping, fumbling with his mechanical fasteners; not waiting or caring, but using any convenient platform, first the floor, then the bed. Beckman and Honey, in total surrender to the alternating agony and ecstasy of sensual infinity, seemed to rattle the very windows with the dissonant trills of orgasm.
It was about three in the morning when Hoss woke up, still dazed from the alcohol and marijuana. He started to roll out of bed but felt the body of a woman next to him. He searched his memory but could not recall meeting her or sleeping with her. He couldn’t recall having sex either, but from the condition of the bed and his flaccid member, it was obvious that he had.
The streetlight outside the window illumined the room sufficiently to allow him to find his clothes. He slipped on his soiled shirt and tried putting on his pants standing up. This was a mistake, since he quickly lost his balance and hopped around on one foot, while the other foot was wedged in the left pants leg. He couldn’t prevent crashing into pieces of unseen furniture and nearly slipped on something soft and wet. He finally managed to slide his pants over his waist and secure them with his belt. He pulled on his Harley Davidson T-shirt, still reeking of beer and bourbon. He looked at the woman again. She was lying on her back, her mouth gaped open and emitting grunting sounds from her throat. Her blonde wig had slipped off her head, revealing a matted pelt of thinning gray hair. The blonde wig lay in a tangled mass next to her right ear.
Hoss tried to remember her name but nothing came except a fading kaleidoscope of images from the night before. An urgent need to escape came over him. He felt in his pockets and they were empty, even of the soiled and spotted handkerchief he kept stuffed there. He looked at the woman’s purse on the night table next to her bed. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t allow himself to think of it, but he was completely out of funds—not a dime was left over from his generosity of the night.
He moved slowly at first, then much quicker once he had committed himself. He unsnapped the woman’s purse and felt around in its dark interior. Surprisingly, he discovered Malany’s car keys. He withdrew them as though he were pulling a fish out of the water. Then he deftly removed her wallet and searched its interior with his fingers. $200 was all he could find. He wouldn’t take the credit cards, just the cash. The $200 would be enough to get him back to Memphis. He slipped the bills into his pocket and eased out the door.
He had failed to lock the doors on Malany’s car and did not notice the man sleeping in the backseat. He started the engine and immediately shifted the gear lever into drive, which made him cringe since he had been taught from his first day of driving to always let a cold engine warm up.
He had driven several blocks, not knowing where he was or how to find his way to Memphis when the man in the backseat awakened and sat up directly behind Hoss, who noticed him instantly from the rearview mirror. Hoss presently stopped breathing.
“Whor in the fuck did you come from?” he shouted.
The man had all the appearance of someone washed up on a beach, still covered in his torn and wrinkled clothes.
“Where are we going?” The man asked looking bewildered.
Hoss pulled the car next to the curb and stopped, leaving the engine idling.
“We ain’t goin’ no place!” Hoss shouted. “Get out! Get outta here now!”
The man reached for the door with a look of terror on his dirt-streaked face.
“Wait!” Hoss shouted again. “Wait!”
The man froze, his hand still on the door handle. He stared straight ahead as though waiting for the executioner’s axe to fall.
“How much you know about this town?” Hoss asked.
“Pretty much everything. I was born and raised here. Know every street and alley, every stone and secret, know things that haven’t happen yet.”
“Da ya know how to get to Memphis from here?”
“Just go straight down this street until you see the signs
to Interstate 55 North, then take the off ramp and it’ll take you straight to Memphis.” There was a long hesitation, and then the man said. “Can I go with ya? I won’t be any trouble. I promise. I just want to get out of this evil place.”
Hoss did not answer for a long time. Then he said, “You want to go to California?”
“Isn’t that the place where they say dreams come true?”
“Yes, that’s the place. You got any dreams you want to come true?”
The man thought for a while, then absentmindedly started chewing his fingernails.
“I had dreams once. I had lots of dreams, but none of them came to fruition. I tried, I tried as hard as I could, but . . . ”
The man stopped midsentence as though mentally transported to another time.
After a short while, Hoss saw the road sign to I-55 North. He looked back at the man for a moment and said, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah, man. Let’s do it. I’m not leaving anything behind here except pain and disillusionment.”
John Darling had been a great disappointment to Malany. She spent about a week with him hoping for poetic enlightenment. She had even broken her vow of renewed chastity hoping he would have an emotional breakthrough, but the only thing he seemed to be able to produce was one dry martini after another. Malany had never found acute alcoholism alluring or productive. Smoking grass was, in her thinking, a far better stimulant of the imagination.
She left after about a week. Darling was asleep or unconscious—she couldn’t decide which—in bed. She called a cab and waited outside on the edge of the street until the cab came. Honey’s house felt cool and refreshing and, after the self-degradation she had gone through with Professor Darling, she realized she needed a shower. A shower usually made her feel spiritually and physically clean, but after the shower she continued to feel like she was coated with a thin layer of slime. She put on clean clothes thinking that would dampen her sense of shame—it didn’t. She wandered into Honey’s library. Honey had an extensive collection of all the great writers from ancient to modern including Chinese and Japanese. Malany selected a volume of poetry by Allen Ginsburg, Howl. She had met Ginsburg once. She had gone to a poetry reading while she was an undergraduate. Afterward her Literature professor, Dr. Moseros, invited her to a party where Ginsburg would be a guest. He was a rather short, balding man, thick-set with thick round glasses. He showed little interest in talking to her or anyone at the party. He simply wanted to know where the bathrooms and telephone were. She remembered being a little upset that he did not seem to recognize her as a fellow poet.
She tried reading Howl, but the text seemed more like the ravings of a mad man, barely coherent and disassociated; not the musings of a sensitive poet. She put the book down, determined to pick it up and try again. She tried writing but found herself staring out of the window much of the time. She decided to look into her own past writing to see if she could pick up a few loose verbal stings. She leafed through her Song and Saber but to her horror the words seemed meaningless, aesthetically void and pretentious. She threw her book across the room and watched it as it crashed against the shelves of Honey’s library and fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird. She quickly found her way to Honey’s liquor cabinet and poured a large glass of vodka.
Hoss did not realize that Malany would be in the house. He had convinced himself that she was still living with John Darling.
“What are you doing here?” Malany yelled as she looked up and saw Hoss and his new companion walk into the house. “And who is that?”
“This here is Mr. Lockjaw.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hoss. No one is named Lockjaw. He looks like a bum, and he stinks.”
“Yes, he is a bum—they call ’em homeless now—but he wants to change his life, follow his dreams. You know, just like you and Beckman—nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Then why are you here?”
“I come to return your car, maybe take a shower, get something to eat, you know, live like a civilized human being for a day or so,” Hoss said.
“I think taking a shower is a good idea for both of you. Why don’t you both hurry it up?”
“Mr. Lockjaw here don’t have any clothes except what he’s got on,” Hoss said. “Do you suppose he could borrow some of the professor’s? He’ll send ’em back, I swear he will.”
“Sure,” Malany said. “Just go in the closet and select what you want. I’m sure the professor will be happy to loan you some of his sartorial best.”
Mr. Lockjaw smiled, showing his dark and encrusted teeth. Malany lead them to the master bathroom, pointing out the various white, fluffy linens and towels. Hoss went first, and Malany told Mr. Lockjaw to follow her. She led him into the library, pointed to the reading chair, picked up Howl from the floor and handed it to him.
“If this means anything to you, then you can have it.”
Mr. Lockjaw took the book gently and held it in a kind of reverence much like a devout Christian holds the bible or a rabbi holds the Torah. Malany left him and he was carefully opening the cover and turned over the first page. She returned to the guest room where she had been sleeping, picked up her box of Song and Sabers and, with some difficulty, carried them downstairs and out to the large, open fire pit that the professor used to roast meat. She, without hesitating, tossed the box into the pit. She then found a plastic container of charcoal lighter fluid, emptied the container onto the books and set it on fire. She watched unmoved as the fire burned and crinkled the books and cardboard box into a small pile of ash. She watched even as the fire started to subside and continued to watch until the last ember had snuffed out. Then, when the last swirls of smoke disappeared into the air, she turned to find Hoss standing behind her.
He had a puzzled expression on his face. “Why did you do that?”
“I had an epiphany, and they are usually destructive.”
“A what?” Hoss asked.
“Let’s just say I realized some terrible truths about myself.”
She walked past Hoss and into the house. Mr. Lockjaw was standing in the middle of the living room, clean-shaven and wearing one of Leon’s best suits.
“Blue becomes you,” Malany said. “Why don’t you help yourself to one or two of his tweed jackets? He won’t miss them.”
Mr. Lockjaw smiled and, although he had brushed his teeth, they remained dark and encrusted.
“Hoss,” Malany said, turning to him. “Tell me something.” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “Why did you take Leon with you to New Orleans? I don’t get it. I thought you were homophobic.”
Hoss chewed his bottom lip for a moment, his eyes shifting from side to side. “Homo what?”
“It’s someone who doesn’t like homosexuals,” Malany said.
“I don’t dislike them people, hell, I don’t give a shit about ’em. I just don’t want them shoving it in my face,” Hoss laughed. “I don’t care if they shove it in somebody else’s, though—know what I mean.” He laughed harder now.
“I spoke to Beckman last week on the phone. Leon thinks you’re a repressed homosexual.”
“A repressed what?” Hoss’s face tightened.
“That’s someone who denies certain feelings they have,” Malany said.
“I ain’t a repressed nothing!” Hoss growled. “I just took him along because he’s kind of a smart guy and I wanted the company. He knows how I feel about cock suckers. I had come back drunk from some bar on Bourbon Street, flopped on the bed, and passed out. Woke up about three in the morning and that little faggot had my pants down and was going to town on my willy.”
“And what did you do—kick the crap out of him?” Malany said, not bothering to conceal her contempt.
“No, I was too drunk and too tired, so I thought what the hell, and let him finish. Next day I told him to get out. The last I saw of him he was getting in a cab—the sneaky little cock sucker.”
“Just wanted to clear that up,” Malany said
with a slight smile.
“Malany,” Hoss said, looking down at his feet. “I know we don’t get along and all that, but I was wondering if you might loan me your car for about a week or so? I’ll get it back to you, I swear.” There was a long silence except for the wind. The wind had increased in the last half hour. It whistled around the house and rattled the tree leaves. Malany did not like wind. It always frightened her. There was something in it that threatened madness or doom.
“Tell you what, Hoss, you can have the thing. I won’t need it anymore,” she said in a tone of resignation.
Hoss looked at her as though he had just been told that he had won the grand prize.
“No shit!” he said.
“No shit,” Malany answered.
“What are you going to do now?” Hoss asked.
“I’m going to rejoin my husband, stop kidding myself, and accept the good life he is offering me.”
Malany noticed Mr. Lockjaw standing behind Hoss. He was holding several articles of clothing in his right arm and gripping the copy of Howl with his other hand close to his chest.
“How do you like the book?” she asked him.
Mr. Lockjaw looked lovingly at the book. “I think it’s a brilliant work—a real tour de force.”
“And you, Hoss, what are you going to do?”
“Me? I’m going to California.”
Beckman did not like the Gold Coast of Florida. In no way had it lived up to his fantasies of loincloth freedom and paradisiacal plenty. It was, instead, an unnaturally expensive wedge of real estate, overcrowded with assorted rich people, hurrying merchants, and servile domestics, all sealed away by stone, and all speaking a polyglot of dialects from across North America.
It was, however, quieter in Palm Beach than it was in Miami. The elite like their distance, especially from each other and their dogs. Beckman felt he could tolerate the place as long as Honey could, and there was, he had to admit, a certain rare, wasteful elegance in sitting by the pool, in the sun, and drinking coconut milk and vodka from coconut shells mounted in silver holders, then making love to exhaustion at night.
No Birds Sing Here Page 17