by Clive Barker
He began to cry while he sat there, the tears coming haltingly at first, then as a flow he could not halt. He put his hands over his face, which was burning hot, sobbing behind his palms. It seemed he could not imagine misery profounder than the misery he felt now: abandoned, sick, confused. What had he done to deserve this? Nothing. He’d lived the best life he knew how to live. So why was he sitting here like a damned soul, smelling his own stench rising all around him, tormented by the predictions Garrison had whispered in his ear? And why didn’t he know where his wife was tonight? Why wasn’t she here to comfort him, waiting in the bed to hold him in her arms once the spasms had passed; her touch cool, her voice full of love? Why was he alone?
Oh Lord why was he alone?
Across town, Garrison returned from the bedroom where he had lately shot his seed. The icy recipient of his love had been admirably inert throughout his plugging of her body; not once had she grunted or cried out, even when his ministrations had become less than gentlemanly. Sometimes, not satisfied with his vaginal explorations, he liked to roll the “corpses” over and take them anally. Tonight had been one of those times, and once again Mr. Platt had planned for the eventuality. When Garrison had rolled the girl over and parted her fesses, he’d found the back passage already lubricated for him. In he’d gone, eschewing the protection that most would think advisable when screwing with this class of woman, and had discharged inside her.
Then he’d got up, wiped himself on the sheet, and zipping up his pants (which he had not even dropped to mid-thigh during this whole business), left the room. As he exited he said: “It’s over. You can get up,” and was curiously comforted to see that the woman made a move to rise from the bed before he departed the room. It was all just a game, wasn’t it? There was no harm in it. Look, she was resurrected! Stretching, yawning, looking for her envelope of cash, which Garrison had placed on the bedside table, as always. She would go on her way without even knowing who her violator was (or so Garrison liked to imagine. The women were instructed to keep their eyes closed throughout the game. If they peeped, Platt could be cruel).
Garrison went straight down into the street, to his car, and drove away. Anyone catching sight of him in the driver’s seat would have thought: there goes a man happy with his lot in life.
As I said earlier, it wouldn’t last. He would get up tomorrow feeling thoroughly disgusted with himself, but the self-disgust would last twenty-four hours—forty-eight at most—and then the desire he’d quenched tonight would flicker into life again, and grow in strength over a period of a week or two, until at last he couldn’t resist it any longer, and he’d be on the phone to Platt in a kind of trance, saying that he needed one of his “special nights,” just as soon as possible. And the whole ritual would be repeated.
What a strange thing it was, he thought, to be Garrison Geary. To possess as much power as he possessed, and yet feel in his troubled soul such a lack of self-regard that he was only able to make love with a woman who passed for dead. What a peculiar specimen of humanity he was! And yet he could not feel entirely ashamed of this peculiarity. There was a part of him that was perversely proud tonight; proud that he was capable of doing what he’d just done; proud that even in this city, which was a magnet for men and women who lived unusual lives, the fantasy he’d enacted would be thought disgraceful. What might he not do with this perversity of his, he wondered, if he once unleashed it outside the bounds of his sexual life? What changes might he work upon the world if he put his darker energies to better purpose than fucking an icy cunt?
But what, what? If there was some greater purpose to his life, why couldn’t he see it? If there was a path that he was intended to follow, why hadn’t he stumbled onto it by now? Sometimes he felt like an athlete who’d sweated himself into a frenzy in preparation for a race that nobody had summoned him to run. And with every day he failed to compete his chances of winning that race—when he finally knew what course it would follow—became more remote.
Soon, he thought to himself; I have to know what my purpose is soon, or I’ll be too old to do anything about it. I’ll die without having really lived, and the moment I’m in the ground I’ll be forgotten.
It has to be soon.
XVI
The night Rachel had come home she’d told her mother that she wanted as few people as possible to know that she was here, but in a community as small and as well-knit as Dansky no secret so large could be kept for very long. The following morning she’d gone out to put some letters in the postbox for her mother, and had been seen doing so by Mrs. Bedrosian, the widow who lived next door.
“Well, well,” Mrs. Bedrosian had said, “Is that you Rachel?”
“Yes. It’s me.”
That was the full extent of the exchange. But it was all that was needed. Half an hour later the telephone started to ring—people from around town making apparently casual calls to see how Rachel’s mother was doing, then lightly dropping into conversation the fact that they’d heard Rachel was home for the weekend; and—just by the way—had she brought her husband home with her?
Sherrie simply lied. She hadn’t been feeling very well, she told everyone, and Rachel had come to spend a few days with her. “And no,” she invariably added, “Mitchell isn’t with her. So you can stop sniffing after an invitation to meet him, if that’s why you’re asking.”
The lie worked well. After half a dozen such calls word spread that even if there was something worth gossiping about here, Sherrie Pallenberg wasn’t going to be providing any fuel.
“Of course that won’t stop them talking,” Sherrie remarked. “They’ve got nothing better to do, you see. This damn town.”
“I thought you liked it here,” Rachel said to her.
They were sitting in the kitchen at lunchtime, eating peach cobbler.
“If your father was still alive, it might be different. But I’m on my own. And what do I have for company? Other widows.” She rolled her eyes. “We get together for brunches and bridge, and you know they’re all sweet souls, they really are, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but, Lord, after a while I get so bored talking about drapes and soap operas and how little they see their children.”
“Is that one of your complaints?”
“No, no. You’ve got your own life to live. I don’t expect you to be on my doorstep every five minutes checking up on me.”
“You might be seeing rather more of me in the future,” Rachel said.
Her mother shook her head. “It’s just a bad patch you and Mitch are going through. You’ll come out the other side of it, you’ll see.”
“I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” Rachel said. “We’re not suited to one another.”
“Nobody ever is,” her mother replied nonchalantly.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I certainly do. Honey, listen to me. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is ever deep in their hearts perfectly suited to anybody else. You have to make compromises. Great big compromises. I know I did with Hank and I’m sure if Hank were alive he’d say exactly the same thing about me. We decided to make it work. I suppose . . .” she allowed herself a sad little smile. “ . . . I suppose we realized that we weren’t going to do any better than what we had right there and then. I know it doesn’t sound very romantic, but it’s the way it was. And you know, once I got over that silly feeling that this wasn’t Prince Charming—that he was just an ordinary man who farted in bed and couldn’t keep his eyes off a pretty waitress—I was quite happy.”
“The thing is Mitch doesn’t look at waitresses.”
“Well . . . lucky you. So what’s the problem?”
Rachel set down her fork and stared at her half-eaten cobbler. “I’ve got so much to be grateful for,” she said, as though she were saying her prayers. “I know that. Lord, when I think of how much Mitch has given me . . .”
“Are you talking about things?”
“Yes, of course.”
Sherrie waved them away. “I
rrelevant. He could have given you half of New York and still be a bad husband.”
“I don’t think he’s a bad husband. I just think he’s never going to belong to me the way Daddy belonged to you.”
“Because of his family?”
Rachel nodded. “God knows, I don’t want to feel like I’m in a competition with them for his attention, but that’s how it feels.” She sighed. “It’s not even as though I could point to something they do that proves it. I just feel excluded.”
“From what, honey?”
“You know, I don’t really know,” Rachel said. “It’s just a feeling . . .” She exhaled; puffing out her cheeks. “Maybe the problem’s all in here.” She tapped her fingers to her breast. “In me. I don’t have any right not to be happy.” She looked up at her mother, her eyes brimming. “Do I? I mean, really and truly, what right in all the world do I have to be unhappy? When I think of Mrs. Bedrosian losing her family . . .”
Judith Bedrosian had lost her husband and three kids in an automobile accident when Rachel was fourteen. Everything the woman lived for—all the meaning in her life—taken away from her in one terrible moment. Yet she’d gone on, hadn’t she?
“Everybody’s different,” Sherrie said. “I don’t know how poor Judith made peace with what happened to her, and you know what? Maybe she never has. The way people are on the outside and the way they feel deep down are never the same. Never. I do know she still has very bad times, after all these years. Days on end when I don’t see her; and when I do she’s obviously been crying for hours. And at Christmas I know she goes to her sister’s in Wisconsin, even though she doesn’t like the woman, because she can’t bear to be alone. The memories are too much. So . . .” She sighed, as though the weight of Judith’s grief was heavy on her too. “Who knows? All you can do is just get on with things the best way you know how. Personally, I’m a great proponent of Valium, in reasonable moderation. But each to their own.”
Rachel chuckled. She’d always known her mother to be an entertaining woman, after her odd fashion. But as the years went by Sherrie’s sophistication became more apparent. Under the veneer of small town pieties lay a self-made mind, capable of a willfulness and a waywardness Rachel hoped she had inherited.
“So now what?” Sherrie said. “Are you going to ask him for a divorce?”
“No, of course not,” Rachel replied.
“Why’s that such a surprising idea? If you don’t love him—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“—if you can’t live with him then—”
“I didn’t say that either. Oh God, I don’t know. Margie said I should get a divorce. And a nice big settlement. But I don’t want to be on my own.”
“You wouldn’t be.”
“Mom, it sounds like you think I should leave him.”
“No, I’m just saying you wouldn’t be on your own. Not for very long. So that’s not a reason to stay in a marriage that’s not giving you what you want.”
“You amaze me,” Rachel said. “You really do. I was absolutely certain you were going to sit me down and tell me I had to go back and give it another chance.”
“Life’s too short,” Sherrie said. “That’s not what I would have said a few years ago, but your viewpoint changes as time goes on.” She reached up and touched Rachel’s cheek. “I don’t want my beautiful Rachel to be unhappy for one more moment.”
“Oh, Mom . . .”
“So if you want to leave the man, leave him. There are plenty more handsome millionaires where he came from.”
XVII
That night Deanne had invited them both to a church barbecue, assuring Rachel the guests were all people she knew and liked, and she’d already passed the word around that nobody was to ply Rachel with questions about life in the fast lane. Even so, Rachel wasn’t keen to go. Deanne, however, made it plain that she’d take it as a personal affront if she declined. Once they got to the barbecue, however, Rachel lost her protection. The kids went off to play, and her sister—despite promising to stay close by—was off after five minutes to have a heart-to-heart with the hostess. Rachel was left in the midst of people she didn’t know but who were all too familiar with her.
“I saw you and your husband on television just a few weeks ago,” one of the women, who introduced herself as Kimberly, Deanne’s second-best friend, whatever that meant, remarked. “It was one of those gala nights. You all looked to be having such a wonderful time. I said to Frankie—that’s my husband, Frankie, over there, with the hotdog; he used to work with your sister’s husband—I said to Frankie don’t they look as though they’re having a wonderful time? You know, everything so polished.”
“Polished?”
“Everything,” Kimberly repeated, “so polished. You know, everything sparkling.” Her eyes gleamed as she recalled the sight; Rachel didn’t have the heart to tell her what a drab affair the gala had been; the food sickly, the speeches interminable, the company wretched. She just let the woman blather on for a few minutes, nodding or smiling when it seemed appropriate to do so. She was saved from this depressing exchange by a man with a napkin tucked in his shirt, a sizable sparerib in his hand and his face liberally basted in barbecue sauce.
“You don’t mind me barging in,” he said to Rachel’s captor, “but it’s a long time since I saw this little lady.”
“You’re a mess, Neil Wilkens,” the woman declared.
“I am?”
“All round your mouth.”
The man plucked his napkin from his shirt and wiped his mouth, giving Rachel time to realize who this was: Neil Wilkens, the first boy who’d had her heart (and broken it) all grown up. He had a gingery beard, a receding hairline, and the beginnings of a beer belly. But his smile, when it emerged from behind the napkin, was as bright as ever.
“You do know who I am?” he said.
“Neil.”
“The same.”
“It’s wonderful to see you. I think Deanne told me you’d gone to Chicago.”
“He came back with his tail between his legs,” Kimberly remarked, somewhat uncharitably.
Neil’s brightness was undimmed. “I didn’t like living in a big city,” he said, “I guess I’m a small-town boy at heart. So I came back home and started up a business with Frankie—”
“That’s my husband,” Kimberly put in, in case Rachel had missed this fact.
“We do general house repairs. A little bit of plumbing, a little bit of roof work.”
“They argue all the time,” Kimberly said.
“We do not,” Neil said.
“Fighting like dogs one minute. Best friends the next.”
“Frankie’s a Communist,” Neil said.
“He is not,” Kimberly protested.
“Jack was a card-carrying Commie, Kimberly,” Neil replied.
“Who’s Jack?” Rachel asked him.
“Frankie’s Dad. He died a while back.”
“Prostate cancer,” Kimberly put in.
“And when Frankie was going through the old man’s papers he found a Communist Party card. So now he carries it around with him, and he’s talking about how we should all rise up against the forces of capitalism.”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Kimberly said.
“How do you know?”
“It’s just his stupid sense of humor,” she said. Neil caught Rachel’s eye, and gave her a tiny smile. He was obviously stirring Kimberly up.
“Well you can say whatever you like,” he remarked, “but if a guy’s carrying a Commie card, he’s a Commie.”
“Oh you are so infuriating sometimes,” Kimberly said, and without another word, stalked away.
“It’s too easy,” Neil chuckled. “She gets so hot under the collar if you say anything about her Frankie, but she gives the poor man hell day and night. He had a good head of hair when he married her. Not that I have much to boast about.” He ran his palm over his semi-naked pate.
“I think it rather suits you,” Rachel
said.
Neil beamed. “Do you? Really? Lisa hated it.”
“Lisa’s your wife?”
“The mother of my children,” Neil said, with ironic precision.
“You’re not married.”
“We were. Actually technically we still are. But she’s in Chicago, with the kids, and I’m . . . well, I’m here. They were going to come back and join me when I was all set up, but that’s not going to happen. She’s got someone else now, and the kids are happy. At least, she says they are.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” he said, the word one long sigh. “I suppose it’s happening all the time, but it’s hard when you want to make something work but you just can’t.” He stared down at his paint-stained boots, as if embarrassed by this confession.
“Did I know Lisa?” Rachel asked.
“Yeah, you knew her,” he said, still studying his boots. “Her name was Froman. Lisa Angela Froman. She’s the same age as your sister. In fact, they were in Sunday school for a year or so.”
“I remember her,” Rachel said, picturing a pretty, bespectacled blonde girl of sixteen or so. “She was very quiet.”
“She still is. She’s very smart and the kids got her brains, which is great for them, ’cause God knows I’m not the brightest guy on the block.”
