The Moon Around Sarah Page 14

  Somehow he would get to his feet. Wash up in a gas station. Have a few stiff drinks along the way. And complete his dark, sacred mission.

  He lifted himself to his feet, using the wall for support. For long minutes he could do nothing more. He stood leaning against the wall, breathing in the cold, damp air. When his head had cleared a little, he made the major effort of leaning down, pulling up his trousers and zipping them. After another little while, he managed to lean over and pick up the pistol without puking. Eric shoved it into his coat pocket and started on his way again, bouncing off the walls of the buildings, tripping over rubbish. His thoughts were murky and confused, but his goal was still definite and paramount.

  He would not be denied his hour of retribution.

  Don March walked to the top of the outside steps leading to his studio door. The sea sounds reached him through the deep fog. On this night, the sea did not snarl and hiss or roll like challenging drums; it thudded heavily, like the close, sad beating of a universal heart.…

  What a surprise! he thought with patient irony. There was a notice thumb-tacked to his door from Doris, the lady who owned the Hallmark Shop down below, reminding him that his rent was two weeks overdue.

  Don fitted his key into the lock and shoved the door open. He tugged at the chain attached to the overhead light, turning it on, and tossed the notice in the direction of the trashcan. Then he sat on his white wooden chair, staring at nothing for long minutes, wishing he had brought some beer home with him.

  Gradually, his stare focused and he let his eyes study the photographs pinned to his wall. When you were taking the pictures, you always thought that you were preserving a little bit of life forever, something the unpracticed eye might miss if not for the lens. Life wasn’t like that; it was composed of movement and scent and vitality. Photographing people was like mummifying them. He was a professional taxidermist, taking the living and making them into posed mockeries of life. The flesh never glowed; the eyes of the subjects remained fixed, never shifting expression or lighting with humor.

  He hadn’t thought yet of developing the pictures he had taken of Sarah on the pier. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. She was vital, glowing. Alive. Her eyes danced and then grew thoughtful, questioned and became amused. She moved with unconscious grace; her beauty was ingenuous and deep.

  Don rose and went to study the photographs more closely. Sarah had been so interested in them. He thought suddenly, with a flash of trepidation: God, maybe she can see past and through these images into the eye and the mind of the man who took them!

  Who knew? Anything seemed possible with Sarah.

  Was he just finding mystery in her muteness? He did not think so. Then the possibility existed….

  ‘God damn you, Jake!’ he yelled loudly. Happily. With flood waters of relief tumbling over and through him as if his poorly constructed dam had burst wide. ‘Damn!’ he repeated. ‘Jake, you were right, you hairy son-of-a-bitch! I do love that woman!’

  She had become suddenly essential. He would not give her up.

  He looked at the photograph of the nude Michelle looking out the window, hip cocked, goofy, dazed expression signifying nothing, on her face. One more dead image. To hell with all of that, he thought, tearing the picture from the wall. He wanted life and a living woman to share it with. He wanted Sarah. He grabbed his jacket and went back out into the dark and fog of the night, dropping the crumpled photograph of Michelle into the trashcan.

  Seven

  SOME INTUITION HAD told Raymond Tucker to expect her. It was no real surprise when he answered the tentative tap at the motel room door to find Ellen standing there, a hesitant smile on her lips. Her eyes had a fresh liquor glow. She wore a different dress; thin white cotton with tiny salmon-colored storks on the bodice. The skirt fell to just above her knees.

  ‘Come on in,’ Raymond said, turning his back to her and the open door.

  Now that he had gone that far, what was he going to do? Act angry? Berate her again? The day had gone on too long. He was weary of yelling; his anger had exhausted itself, and he had a good half a quart of bourbon under his belt. He was feeling mellow and warm now; friendly. He had suffered guilt about downing the first few drinks, but that had been washed away by the third and the fourth.

  He sat on his bed, looking at the window which was lit by faded scarlet and forlorn blue neon, filtered through the fog. Ellen crossed the carpet and sat on the other of the twin beds, facing Raymond, her hands folded together between her knees. She was looking at the whisky bottle in a small, forlorn way.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Raymond said, with a habitual gruffness he didn’t really feel. ‘You might as well – what difference does it make?’ He even unwrapped another motel glass for her and watched as she poured.

  The day was done but not complete. Edward was still at Dennison’s office. The Golden West Properties man had gone out to dinner, and he still needed to counter-sign the checks. Raymond had checked into the motel, walked to the corner liquor store for a bottle and settled in to wait, watching a stupid movie on television with the sound nearly off. It flickered away in the corner, annoying voices unskillfully babbling illogical dialogue.

  ‘Turn that damn thing off,’ Raymond Tucker said.

  ‘All right.’

  Ellen rose, went to the wall-mounted TV and switched off the set. She returned to her seat on the bed.

  Raymond was watching her. Beneath the thin cotton dress, her body was still firm and sleek. Her legs were still good. They were pale now, very pale, but nicely formed. He knew that she wore no underwear. And she knew that he would notice that. Damn her. Well, why not…?

  He took a drink of whisky and sat looking at her, his eyes on the front of the low cut dress where the freckled mounds of her breasts nestled, pinched together by her arms which were still held between her legs, one hand holding a whisky glass. It would be as good a way as any of saying goodbye. He hadn’t had a woman for a long time.

  ‘Where’s Sarah?’

  ‘In our room.’

  ‘Your room?’

  ‘Next door,’ Ellen said with a vaguely girlish smile. ‘She’ll be fine.’

  ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘The telephone – there aren’t that many motels around.’

  ‘I didn’t think they told people things like that over the phone.’

  ‘They do. I just gave them my name, said I was your wife. When I got here, I said my daughter needed a separate room.’

  ‘You did, did you?’ Raymond said. There was no anger in his voice now. Slowly, need was uncoiling in his crotch.

  Ellen nodded and drank again.

  ‘What happened to us, Raymond? We used to have so much fun. Going out dancing, drinking….’

  ‘The drinking wasn’t fun anymore.’

  ‘No….’ She was silent for a moment, musing. ‘But it wasn’t that either, really. I didn’t start drinking – like this – until after Eric….’

  ‘And that’s when I quit drinking.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should have, too. It happened because we were out drinking that night. We should have been home.’

  Ellen giggled, a silly little sound, ‘You were so blasted! You wanted to fight a cop!’

  Raymond smiled despite himself, ‘That’s the last thing I remember of that night, too. You and the cop throwing me in a cab! After that, nothing … until later.’

  ‘Please, Raymond,’ Ellen leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee, ‘let’s not talk about that tonight. It’s been talked to death. Let’s have one pleasant visit for a change.’ She faltered and then said, ‘I guess it will be a long, long time before I see you again. Maybe never.’ Her eyes slid away and then returned, ‘let’s have one more pleasant evening to remember. Like we did in the old days.’

  Raymond nodded. He filled his glass and then Ellen’s again.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘What shall we do?’ She asked.

  ‘I’m not going out. There�
�s too much trouble out there, waiting to happen.’

  ‘No,’ Ellen shook her head. ‘We shouldn’t go out. There’s been enough trouble today.’

  Raymond finished his whisky in a swallow; then he rose and stood before Ellen, holding her head in both hands. Her eyes swiveled upward.

  ‘How long are you going to make me wait, Ellen?’

  She leaned forward and kissed his arms.

  ‘I’m not going to make you wait at all.’

  ‘Put the glass down and get on the bed.’

  ‘What are you going to do,’ she laughed, ‘rape me?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Ellen kicked off her shoes and pulled down the front of her dress, showing him her breasts. He had been right. She wore no underwear. Cupping each breast, she held them up for him to kiss.

  He threw her back on the bed and flung her legs onto it. He pulled off his shirt and dropped his pants.

  ‘I’ve still got my clothes on,’ Ellen said. Her head rested on the pillow, one arm positioned behind her head.

  ‘Just hike your skirt.’

  ‘Is that the way you want it, Raymond?’ her voice was teasing, a cat’s purr. Her half-closed eyes glittered.

  ‘Just pull your skirt up,’ he ordered, and before she had tugged it up over her hips, he was on her wolfishly.

  Ellen smiled, her upper teeth gleaming in the lamp-glow, her arms tightly around him, hanging on for a crazily thumping ride to oblivion.

  The fog was deep and constantly shifting. Beneath the neon lights, it wove itself into colored, ever-changing patterns. Tendrils broke off and spun away, briefly red or green before the constant gray recovered them. The window was water-spotted; rivulets raced each other, following crooked courses toward the sill, sometimes moving with quicksilver speed, then suddenly stopping as they intersected one another – quivered – and sped downward again. The room was chilly and Sarah did not know how to operate the heater. She was not supposed to touch heaters. The television was a blank, glossy eye; silent. She should not touch the television either. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see Poppsy and tell Baby goodnight.

  The room was so cold. She rubbed her arms.

  Silence. Where had Mother gone? There was no sound outside; the fog permitted none. There was only the constant thumping from the room next door. Endless thumping. It reminded her of something, but the memory was very deep and somehow distasteful.

  Sarah’s head lifted sharply. A woman had cried out, very loudly. The words weren’t clear, but someone had screamed. Sarah walked to the bed, sat down and picked up a pillow, folding it around her head to cover her ears and block the sounds out.

  What if that was Mother?

  The thought brought sudden panic with it. She listened, but there was no second scream.

  There was only the thumping. Endless thumping.

  Where was Mother! Sarah was growing frightened. Irrationally frightened, but still very frightened. Tremblingly frightened. Thumping. Thump….

  She leaped up and went out, not bothering to put on shoes or a coat.

  Cold. It was very cold outside. The pavement was slick and damp. The heavily laden sky seemed thick enough that someone could swim away in it; swim all of the way to the moon. Sarah had seen the moon once that night. High and small, dully glowing. Its golden comfort was gone; it was only an empty, pocked, gray half-survivor aimlessly drifting. It was hollow now, doggedly pursuing its hopeless dream of escaping into the far star-void.

  Sarah stopped. She heard voices. They were speaking breathlessly. Odd, tangled words; a vocabulary of the flesh and not of the mind.

  Mother! One of the voices was definitely Mother’s. Sarah stood motionless in the night, her hands clenched so tightly that her fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. Her mouth hung open and her heart began to beat rapidly, erratically. The fog had combed her dark hair into a damp mantilla and pressed her dress coldly against her shivering body. Light beamed thinly from the motel room where the curtains did not quite meet.

  She should not look. It was not polite to look. It was wrong … but Mother was in that room.

  She should return to her own bed, but anxiousness drew her nearer, and she bent to look in the window.

  Mother. It was Sarah’s mother, her mouth open in anguish, her head rolling from side to side.

  The top of her dress was down, her skirt up and the naked man … it was Daddy!

  Oh, Daddy, stop! Please don’t do it, Daddy, it hurts!

  Sarah spun in a tight circle, her hands to her skull, squeezing it as hard as she could. A stranger passed and said some words of concern, but she didn’t understand him.

  Sarah turned and lunged at the window, and her hand and head broke through the glass, and as she tried to crawl on through the window, the shattered glass slashed at her flesh and severed blood vessels in her arms.

  Ellen screamed.

  Ellen thrust at Raymond’s shoulders with her hands and wriggled free of his weight. Raymond, shocked by her scream and convulsive disentanglement, rolled from the bed.

  ‘What the hell…!’ And then he saw Sarah, bleeding heavily, halfway through the broken window, her eyes wide with panic, her body smeared with blood, and he snatched the bedspread and pillow from the bed.

  Ellen was already at the window, trying to push Sarah’s head back out past the broken glass.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ Raymond shouted. Naked, he went to the window. He gave Ellen the pillow. ‘Hold this over her head!’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘Now! Do it!’

  Ellen held the pillow over the struggling Sarah’s head, and Raymond, wrapping his fist in the bedspread, knocked out the remaining glass hanging around and over Sarah. Glass crashed to the sidewalk outside. People were running toward the room. A light went on in the motel office.

  ‘Call an ambulance!’ Ellen shouted. ‘Please, someone call an ambulance!’

  A bewildered, sleep-rumpled man in a bathrobe stood gawking.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Call a god-damned ambulance!’ Raymond bellowed, and the man took off at a lope toward the office where the night manager now stood framed in a rectangle of light.

  Raymond wrapped the bedspread loosely around his waist and went outside. He pulled Sarah gently away from the broken window and then rushed her back into the room.

  ‘Wrap her arm!’ he ordered Ellen.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With anything! A sheet!’ Raymond flung the bedspread he was wearing aside and tugged on his trousers. Sarah stared at him blankly from the bed. Then, aware now that she had been injured, watched the blood leaking from her arm onto the white sheet beneath her. People had gathered beyond the doorway.

  Raymond turned and shouted at them, ‘Get the hell away from here!’

  Ellen’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. She had torn a strip from a sheet and was using it to bind Sarah’s arm.

  ‘Make sure it’s tight,’ Raymond told her.

  ‘Her poor face….’

  ‘They’re just scratches. Her scalp’s cut in a couple of places. Christ! You couldn’t even watch her for an hour, could you?’ Raymond yelled, knowing full well that it was as much his fault as Ellen’s. The sheet knotted around Sarah’s arm was already crimson with her blood.

  ‘She’ll bleed to death,’ Ellen said. She was pulling at her own hair, her face a mask of anguish.

  ‘She didn’t get an artery,’ Raymond replied, ‘she’ll be OK if that damned ambulance gets here fast enough.’

  He couldn’t tell if she had severed a tendon or not; he didn’t think so. The doctors would have to examine her to determine that. Blood from Sarah’s scalp trickled through her hair, down across her ear.

  Raymond leaned over Sarah and stroked her head gently.

  ‘What in the hell were you doing, girl? What were you thinking? I wish you could tell us.’

  That’s it, he had already concluded. He had still sheltered lingering doubts before, but this only went
to prove that the girl needed attending; there was no other way. Tomorrow they would sign the commitment papers. They could have the ambulance take her up to Northshore Medical tonight. It wasn’t much farther than County General, and they had good doctors there.

  ‘Where are they?’ Ellen whimpered. She sat holding Sarah’s bloody hand. ‘Where’s the ambulance?’

  Raymond didn’t answer. He drank whisky straight from the bottle, pulled on his shirt and shoes and went to the door where he braced himself, looking out.

  Spectators still hung around in a loose bunch across the parking lot, drawn by the excitement, no doubt inventing scenarios that would spread rapidly as gossip. There was still no sound of sirens approaching through the fog.

  Raymond’s eyes shifted toward the south of the lot where the motel building formed an L leg. Impossible! He was seeing things now, but the man walking heavily, slowly toward their room looked like Eric!

  Well, not exactly like his son; this guy was drunk, staggering drunk. His coat hung crookedly. One trouser leg was out at the knee and he was shoeless.

  Ellen came up beside him, straightening her dress. She took Raymond’s arm at the elbow, but he shook her off.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Raymond nodded toward the approaching drunk, caught briefly in a cone of light from the motel’s exterior illumination.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Ellen’s hands went to her lips; she had recognized Eric instantly. ‘What has happened to him?’

  ‘I couldn’t guess,’ Raymond said stonily. He turned back into the room where Sarah lay staring listlessly at the ceiling. ‘Keep him away from me, Ellen. I don’t even want to think about him just now.’

  He walked to the nearly-empty bottle and drained it before sitting beside Sarah, his hand resting on her shoulder, listening for an approaching siren that seemed infinitely delayed.

  Walking to the motel hadn’t been such a great idea, Edward Tucker reflected miserably, and there was no way he was going to find a cab now – not in this fog. It wasn’t that long a walk from Dennison’s office to the motel, but his suit was damp and heavy. His underwear chafed his crotch and inner thighs. His shoes had got soaked that morning and wet socks and misshapen leather threatened blisters.