(I)
An instant reminder:
the odd knocker on the center stile of the front door. I’ve always hated the knocker, Patricia thought.
She had parked the Caddy in the cul-de-sac, and had sat a while
looking up at the house she grew up in. The great wooden edifice
went back to pre-Civil War days, and had been refurbished
incrementally over the decades. It looked the part: a Virginia
plantation house with a high, sloping roof and awnings, and a
screened porch that defined the entire circumference of the lower
level. A grand house. There were plenty of ghost stories dating
back to the days of slavery, when previous owners often executed
unruly workers and buried them around the foundation to fertilize
the hedges and flower beds. It made for excited talk, but in the
eighteen years Patricia had lived here, she’d never seen a
ghost.
She did now,
though.
The door knocker. It
was an eyesore and it was just plain peculiar: an oval of tarnished
bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no
mouth, no other features. In those last two years here before
college, the knocker’s expression had reflected her
own.
In truth, however,
she had to admit that Judy had kept the place up beautifully, and
were it not for the bad memories, Patricia would see the house as a
gorgeous abode.
It was just getting
dark. I forgot, she thought.
Another cicada season. They had so many
varieties down here; there were more seasons with them than
without. The unique sound in the dark, surrounding her on the
porch. She’d looked forward to that sound as a child, but now the
throbbing drone served only as another jolting memory.
The summer she’d been
raped had been a cicada season, too.
Soft lights lit the
front bay windows, but there was only Judy’s car in the court.
She shouldn’t be alone. . . . It was
too soon. Patricia’s younger sister was a Rock of Gibraltar when in
her element, but she was also terribly codependent. With Dwayne
gone—abusive as he’d been—Judy would be unstable, flighty, and
off-track. She knows I’m coming today,
Patricia thought. Knowing her sister as she did, it was surprising
that Judy wasn’t pacing the foyer with the front door
open.
Can’t stand on the porch all night . . . Patricia
winced, raising her hand to the unsightly knocker, but then saw
that the door stood open a crack. The house is
half-mine, she reminded herself, and stepped
in.
The pendulum clock
ticked to her left, and to her right stood a long walnut table
containing knickknacks and candles, centered by an old framed photo
of their parents as newlyweds. For a moment she imagined her father
frowning in the frame, as though he disapproved of her arrival.
“Judy?” she called out. Only silence returned her call. The
interior seemed smaller than she remembered, cramped. Pictures on
the walls seemed to hang lower, and had the wallpaper been changed?
Everything looks different, but I know Judy
would never change a thing.
She turned into the
sitting room and stopped cold. A breath caught in her chest and
wouldn’t come out.
Judy lay slumped on
the old scroll-footed sofa.
“Judy? It’s
me.”
Her head tilted
aside, her mouth agape. She looked pallid and years older.
Patricia’s heart tightened up when she noticed an open bottle of
pills on the old tea table next to the couch. She rushed forward,
then sighed in relief. just a bottle of
vitamins . . .
But there was an
irreducible instant when she’d believed that her sister was dead.
She certainly looked it, lying there as if dropped amongst the
tasseled pillows.
Judy stirred in her
sleep, mouthing something unintelligible, but then real words
formed:
“His head,” she
whispered. “My God, his head . . .”
Patricia leaned over
and gave several firm nudges. “Judy, wake up, wake up. I’m
here.”
It was like looking
at a countrified clone of herself; Patricia and Judy had
near-identical faces, possessed similar figures and the same
plenteous bosom. But Judy’s hair lacked the bright red fire of
Patricia’s, and instead of being short and straight, it lay long
and thick, with high bangs that their mother always called
“kitchen-curtain hair.” Five stress-laden years with Dwayne as a
husband had streaked her hair with some gray and had blanched the
once-vibrant color from her cheeks.
“Judy? Wake
up.”
The crow’s-feet at
the comers of Judy’s eyes began to twitch. Her breasts rose quickly
once; then she gasped herself out of sleep and was finally looking
up at Patricia.
“Hi,
Judy.”
No recognition at
first, just a puzzled stare; then Judy’s arms shot forward and she
hugged her sister for dear life. “Oh, God, thank God. I thought . .
. Oh, Jesus, I was dreaming—a terrible dream.”
Patricia sat down and
put her arm around Judy’s shoulder. “It was just a dream, and it’s
over now. Everything’s fine.”
Judy actually
shuddered in her sister’s arms. “Thank you for coming. I’ve just .
. . I feel like I’m falling apart. I sleep all the time; I’ve just
been so tired. The house is a mess; I haven’t even had the energy
to pick up.”
“The house looks
fine, Judy,” Patricia assured her. “You’ve been under a lot of
stress, but things will get better.”
“I hope so. . .
.”
Patricia could smell
alcohol; whenever Judy got depressed, she drank, which only
worsened matters. “Come on; you’re exhausted. Let’s get you up to
bed.”
Judy offered no
objection. She trudged up the carpeted stairs, clinging to her
sister. She’s lost weight, too,
Patricia observed. She felt thin, bony. Patricia helped her down
the dark hall, passing more framed pictures that should seem
familiar but somehow didn’t. The house was too quiet, save for when
floorboards creaked, then the keening hinge of the bedroom
door.
“I’m sorry I’m so out
of it,” Judy finally said. “I shouldn’t have had that wine. I’m
just so lonely now. . . . Doesn’t that sound
pathetic?”
“Of course it
doesn’t. You’ve suffered a loss. It takes time to work through it.
But what you need more than anything tonight is a good night’s
sleep.”
An exhausted nod.
Patricia got Judy out of her housedress, then saw just how thin her
sister had grown in her despair. Her ribs showed beneath the bra.
She looked like she’d lost a cup size, too. She also had tears in
her eyes. This is going to take a
while, Patricia realized. She’s
failling apart. She got her into bed and under the covers,
then sat down beside her and held her hand. “You want me to get you
something, some warm milk, water?”
Judy looked back at
her very wanly, but she finally managed a smile. “No, I’m fine now
that you’re here. I guess I’m not dealing well with being
alone.”
You never did. “But where’s Ernie?” Patricia asked
after the family yardman and housekeeper. “Don’t tell me he’s not
working for you anymore. I can’t imagine him anywhere
else.”
“He just keeps the
yard in order now. Dwayne never liked him, so since the wedding
Ernie’s stayed outside, never does anything in the house
anymore.”
“Well, that can
change now, can’t it? This is a big place, Judy. You can’t keep it
up on the inside all by yourself, not with the crab company
too.”
“I know, and it
will change.” The tired smile even
brightened then. “But when I saw Ernie this morning, I told him to
make sure the yard was cut, ‘cos I didn’t want it all shaggy for
you comin’. You shoulda seen the way
his face lit up when I told him you’d be comin’ back for a
spell.”
Patricia nearly
blushed. Ernie Gooder had been her “boyfriend,” back in seventh
grade. They’d stuck together like glue all through childhood, but
as middle-school years faded—and her body ripened early—she’d lost
interest in Ernie and potential sweetheart romances. Ernie was a
tried-and-true local, would never think of leaving Agan’s Point,
and, like most of the men in these rural areas, he was also a
tried-and-true hayseed. He’d dropped out of school early to work
his father’s farm and stagnate like so many who’d grown up here.
They don’t know they can move somewhere else
and make their lives better, she thought, but maybe she was
being pretentious. There was nothing wrong with staying close to
one’s roots and working the land, but it just seemed so shallow to
Patricia, that or maybe she was just more adventuresome than
everyone else. At any rate, Ernie’s crush on Patricia had never
died, and he’d been disheartened when she’d left for
college.
“He’s still got that
torch burnin’ for you,” Judy said. “And he’s still as handsome as
ever.”
“I’m sure he is,”
Patricia played along, “but my husband’s still got all my bases
covered.”
“Oh, I know, and I’m
so glad you’re happy with Byron. How is he, by the
way?”
“He’s fine . . . and
you’re exhausted, so . . .” Patricia snapped off the bedside lamp.
“You go to sleep, and we’ll have a big breakfast together in the
morning.” She kissed her sister’s forehead, then stood back up.
Judy wouldn’t let go of her hand.
“Oh, Patricia,” came
the whisper. “You don’t know how much it means to me that you come
all this way to be with me.”
“You’re my sister and
I love you. Now go to sleep!”
But Judy’s eyes kept
staring up. “I-I never told you . . .”
“Never told me
what?”
“How . . . Dwayne
died.”
“Of course you did.”
Patricia bent the truth. Actually, her sister had never elaborated.
“An accident, you said.”
Judy’s voice piped up
like a child’s. “His head was cut off, and nobody knows how it
happened.”
Patricia stood in a
silent shock. She’s serious. . . . She had no idea what to say in
response.
“And the head was
never found,” Judy groaned out the rest.
Murder, not an
accident. What condolence could she add now? But when
Patricia looked again, Judy had already fallen asleep.
My God . . .
The windows stood
open at the end of the hall, letting in the cicada sounds, and the
house’s deep, old Colonial decor made her feel a thousand miles
away from her condo in D.C. She stepped into her bedroom, felt odd
at once, then backed out. Sleeping there would just remind her of
more childhood memories, but she couldn’t stay in her parents’ old
room, either—that would just be worse. One of
the guest rooms downstairs, she decided, then drifted back
down the stairs to go out and get her bags from the Caddy. The
macabre distraction was sidetracking her: Dwayne’s head. Did she mean that somebody cut off Dwayne’s
head?
She stopped midway
down the step. How the heck
did—
Her suitcases sat
neatly stacked at the bottom of the steps.
“Didn’t know where
ya’d wanna be sleepin’. . . .”
Ernie Gooder stepped
from behind her baggage, looking up.
“We was expectin’ ya
much earlier,” he said next, “like about noon.” He glanced to the
window. “Looks like ya barely beat sundown.”
Patricia felt a
shock: Judy wasn’t
kidding. . . . Ernie had always been attractive: well
contoured, strong arms, broad-backed. Dark eyes glittered in an
appearance of youth that should’ve disappeared a decade ago. If
anything he looked late twenties instead of mid-forties. The only
difference, now, was his hair. For all the years she’d known him,
Ernie had had a nearly military cut, but now he’d grown it out
shoulder-length. When she finally found words, she blurted, “Your
hair!”
He looked sheepish.
“Yeah, I growed it out fer the hell of it; now everybody likes it,
so I guess it’s here to stay.”
She came down the
stairs and gave him a hug. “Ernie, did you find the fountain of
youth somewhere out in the woods?”
“Huh?”
“You look the same as
you did years ago. You look great.”
The remark
embarrassed him; he almost blushed. “Aw, well, thanks, Patricia.
You look really fantastic your own self. I like your hair shorter
that way; ain’t never seen ya with it like that.”
“It makes me look
more like a lawyer, I guess.” Then she remembered his first
comments. “And, yeah, I did plan on getting here this afternoon,
but I wound up dillydallying. Had breakfast in Richmond, lunch in
Norfolk. I burned the whole day driving around.”
He seemed instantly
uncomfortable. “Well, yeah, that sure is understandable—that you
wouldn’t be in any hurry to get here. This old backwards town’s
gotta remind ya of . . . well . . . you know.”
His stilted
compassion was sweet, the way he awkwardly talked around her
obvious motive. Naturally she hadn’t been in any hurry to get back
to the place that made for the worst memory of her life. It didn’t
bother her, though, which seemed strange. Nor was she bothered by
the obvious difficulty that Ernie was having in keeping his eyes
from roaming her obviously braless bosom. He’d always had a thing
for her. Always. The silliest thought occurred to her then:
Maybe I
subconsciously didn’t wear a bra because I knew it would rile Ernie
up. . . .
But that was
ridiculous.
If anything, his
darting eyes flattered her, even caused her to want to tease him a
little. No harm in that. The poor lug is
probably still nuts about me.
“So how’s yer, uh,
yer husband?”
“Oh, he’s fine,
Ernie. He was going to come down with me but he’s busy with his
job. What about you? You must be
married by now.”
More embarrassment.
“Aw, no, never did tie the knot with no one. One day maybe.” But as
he spoke he kept looking down. Still as shy as
ever, Patricia thought. Like a little
boy.
“Anyway, it’s good to
see ya, Patricia,” he went on, shuffling his feet in place. “Well,
not like this, a’ course, but . . . you know what I
mean.”
“Sure I do, Ernie. A
funeral is always the worst occasion to see old
friends.”
“We all know you
don’t like to come down to Agan’s Point much, but what’cha gotta
know is that it really means a lot to Judy.”
“She looks really
shaken up,” Patricia said. “It’ll take time for her to jump back to
normal.”
“I hope she
can jump back to normal.” Ernie shook
his head. “She sure was crazy in love with Dwayne. No one could
ever figure it out. Enough of that, though. You want me to put your
bags in your old bedroom, or would ya rather—”
“The guest room down
here would be better, if that’s okay.”
He seemed visibly
enthused. “It’s bigger and catches the sunlight in the morning.
Plus it’s right down the hall from my room, in case ya need
anything.”
No wonder . . . “It’ll
be fine.”
He picked up her bags
and led her through the back of the house. 1
feel good all of a
sudden—hell, I feel great, she
admitted to herself. All day long during the drive, and even the
first few minutes back in the house, a heavy oppression seemed to
be hunting her. Now it was all gone. Maybe
this trip won’t be as bad as I thought
“Really bad about
Dwayne,” Ernie made conversation.
Patricia couldn’t
take her eyes off the strong, tapered back as they moved on. “Oh,
yes.”
“He wasn’t a good man
by any stretch, but no man deserves to
die like that. I believe that ya get what’s comin’ to ya in this
life. What goes around, comes around. But that? Jesus.”
Patricia touched his
arm, urging him to stop and turn. The contours of his silhouette
opposed her, the strong legs in tight jeans, the bulging biceps.
She frowned at herself. “I didn’t know the details until just
now—she told me when I put her to bed. He was
decapitated?”
“Somebody cut his
head clean off, I guess.”
Strange way to say it. “You guess?”
“That’s what Chief
Sutter told Judy. Judy wasn’t up to seein’ the body, so he did it
for her, for proper ID ‘n’ all. But there’s all this talk
now.”
“What kind of
talk?”
“Rumors about
somethin’ really wrong about Dwayne’s
body, and I mean . . . somethin’ more
than just losin’ his head.”
Patricia couldn’t
imagine. What could be more wrong than losing
your head? It was something she could look into, though. As
a lawyer, she was an expert at expediting Freedom of Information
Act requests. There must be a death
certificate and an autopsy report. . .
.
“But that’s probably
all it is when ya get right down to it—just talk. You know what
this place is like. People got nothin’ better to do than run their
mouths ’bout every little thing that ain’t their
business.”
One rumor generates more rumors, she knew too well,
and at the end of the line there’s no truth
left at all, just distortions . “It’s really odd, though,
and Judy does have a right to know all the details concerning her
husband’s death.”
“I went down to the
county morgue myself and tried to see the body, but it had already
been cremated. Then I asked to see the autopsy report and they told
me it was confidential,” Ernie said, pronouncing the last word
confer-din-shul.
We’ll see about that confidential part, Patricia
vowed.
The guest room was
cozily decorated and large, with fat, tapestried throw rugs and
tasseled drapes. It felt unlived-in, which was what she wanted.
French doors, closed now, showed a charming little porch over
looking backyard flower beds. In the moonlight she could see the
flowers swaying in a night breeze: pansies, baby breath,
daisies.
“Will this do ya?”
Ernie asked. “There’s a smaller room on the east
wing.”
“No, this is perfect,
Ernie.”
“And you can open the
windows if ya want, catch the breeze off the bay most of the night.
It comes right through the pine trees, brings that scent right into
the room.”
“I just might do
that.” She sat down on the high bed, testing the mattress. Suddenly
the day’s long drive caught up to her, and she couldn’t wait to
fall asleep on the comfy bed with the moon on her face. “What time
are the services tomorrow?”
“Noon. I’ll be fixin’
breakfast at eight.”
“That sounds great.
See you in the morning.”
“Night.”
She leaned over to
untie her sneakers, and in the fringes of her vision noticed his
shadow still there. Before she even looked back up, she could guess
the reason. I’m leaning over . . .
and I’ve got no
bra on. Ernie was getting an eyeful.
Then she looked back
up at him with the thinnest smile. “Was there something else you
wanted to tell me, Ernie?”
His eyes darted out
of her cleavage. He quickly cleared his throat and said, “Oh, yeah,
just that it’s great to have you back in town for a while.” And
then he rushed out of the room and closed the door.
Men. But some would say she was asking for it,
wasn’t she? Wearing no bra, with her bosom? But then part of the
tease in her returned. I guess it’s not that
big a deal. At least I gave the poor guy something to think
about.
Alone now, she
switched off the bedside lamp, undressed, and shouldered into her
typical nightwear, a soft spearmint-colored lounger, which she
quickly zipped up the front. Without thinking, next she took
Ernie’s advice: she opened the window. Warm air and cicada sounds
instantly flooded the room; she felt tranquilized. And Ernie was
right—soon the moonlit room began to flux between sultry summer
heat and a fresh, pine-scented coolness from the bay breeze
filtering in through the woods.
As if they were a
lover’s hands, the dark air and pulsing sounds pushed her down to
the mattress. Her fatigue left her dopily giddy as she stretched
out, flexing her toes, arching her back. An impulse from out of the
dark brought her hands to her thighs, slipped them up under the
lounger. When she closed her eyes, she imagined that it was the
darkness feeling her up, exciting her nerves. Her hips squirmed
around in unbidden horniness, and when her fingers walked up her
belly and threatened to slip beneath her panties, her conscience
dragged them away. What are you doing?
she scolded herself. You’re exhausted. Go to
sleep. What am I all hot and bothered about? I’m going to a
funeral tomorrow. . . .
The dark thickened
around her, broken only by the wedge of moonlight that lay right
beside her, a pearlescent bedmate. The cicadas thrummed and
thrummed, rocking her in a strange and primitive lullaby. Then she
faded off, but—
Oh, my God . . .
—at once, her sleep
dropped her into a dream gushing with sex. She lay cringing, raw,
and naked on her living room floor, her ankles locked desperately
around the back of a faceless man. Patricia knew it was her living
room back in D.C. because she saw her business dress, high heels,
and blouse flung over her litigation bag, which she always set down
right next to their coffee table. The Rothko print that she’d
bought for Byron for a past birthday hung just above the faux
fire-place, and on the mantel sat the crystal carriage clock he’d
bought her years ago for an early anniversary. These were familiar
things, things that rooted her to her life with Byron, and she
loved these things. But through her
cringing sexual angst—as she was being fastidiously penetrated on
the floor—she noticed the clock’s glass dome bore a crack, and the
Rothko hung upside down.
A climax clenched her
up—she couldn’t breathe for a moment—and then she looked up at her
aggressive lover’s face. She fully expected it to be Byron’s, but
she could see no face, and it wasn’t his rotund body atop her but a
lean, muscle-rippled physique. Oh, my God,
do it harder, harder, she thought, teething her lower lip, and
then the desires of her mind were answered. The rigid penis boring
in and out of her stepped up its delicious tempo, pile driving her
loins into the bed. Another orgasm rippled through her as her lover
withdrew and released himself across her belly and breasts. He
knelt between her legs now, looking down at her; then he grabbed
her hand and glided it over the lines of warm sperm—an earthy love
lotion.
Patricia lay
quivering, heaving in breath. Who is
he? Who is he? The question
reeled around and around in her head. She could see every detail of
his chiseled body shellacked in sweat, but his face still remained
shrouded, as if by smoke.
The smoke moved
downward; he was lying beside her, his mouth sucking pink marks on
her neck, and his fingers playing lower. Just the touch of his hand
riled her up; she was just about to come again, but then her eyes
darted off a moment and she saw Byron sitting fat and naked on the
couch, his face forlorn as he watched this other man electrify
her.
Patricia didn’t even
care.
She lay back, tensing
more, begging for this strange mystery lover to take her again
right there in front of her husband, the rough hand expertly gentle
with her most private parts, and then her legs shot upward, toes
straining toward her living room ceiling when she recognized Ernie
Gooder’s face on the man who was burying her in the most wanton
ecstasy—
Patricia shrieked in
the throes of another climax . . . and—
—then awoke naked and
clenching in her sister’s guest room.
Oh, jeez . . .
There was no one
beside her, of course, no Ernie finishing up, and the only hand
between her legs was her own.
What’s gotten into me? she thought. Her confusion
melted into a drowsy disorientation. It frustrated her, even
half-asleep as she was, because it made her feel unaware of
herself. The cicada sounds seemed twice as loud now, the moonlight
dimmer yet somehow edgier. During the fitful dream she’d kicked the
covers off the bed and cast her cotton lounger to the floor, and
now she didn’t even bother putting it back on. The moonlight made
the sweat on her breasts, belly, and thighs appear
frostlike.
She let her confusion
fade away behind her fatigue, then curled up into a nude ball. Her
sex still tingled as she drifted back to sleep, completely
incognizant of the face peering in at her naked body through the
window.