A Whisper of Blood

by Ellen Datlow

  4. THE DREAM

  The people in the water return to me. I know I’m dreaming, but I’m so happy to see them. I try to say hello, but bubbles come out of my mouth instead of words. I am underwater, too. I start to walk over, to sit down at the table with them. But there aren’t any other chairs and it’s awkward. I want to see them up close. I force my legs to move. Closer. The water keeps teasing me, pushing me back. Closer. They don’t see me. They don’t hear me. Then the man turns toward me and stares right through me. His hair is graying at the temples. The sunlit water twists it out straight. His forehead doesn’t match the rest of his face. It’s much paler, more innocent and exposed. His eyes widen suddenly, registering my presence. I frighten him. He quickly glances at the woman who has also seen me. She waves her hand. I try to say hello again, then I stop because I see blood, or probably red dye, issuing from her mouth. The woman loses her seat. Released from the chair, which had been holding her in with silky black ribbons, the woman rises through the water. Her legs are gleaming white. The thin white skirt also rises, a flower blossoming backward. The man’s face turns upward, following her ascent.

  I’m at the table now, looking at the empty chair.

  There’s a crash or a splash, something that makes the water rumble and stir. The woman has split the surface. She is gone. I sit down in the chair. I am naked. He’s watching me, helpless, as the other ones laugh. They’re watching me. Everyone sees I’m naked. Two hands come around from the back of the chair, or it is the chair. I think it is the chair. I can’t breathe because it is squeezing me. The man’s mouth screws up in pain. His chair has hands, too. He can’t stop it. And the black ribbons swim around us like snakes. Water moccasins. They hiss, “Watch what we’re going to do to her, Mr. Principal, watch us-ss-s.” The bubbles keep escaping from my mouth. There is nothing I can say, but if I could, I would. The bubbles fly away, one after another, in a line, like laundry on a line drawn up and away by the wind. One of them I touch with my hand before it escapes; it is rainbow-hued and shining. My hands burn. The ropes twist. What will the children say. Will their eyes go round and spin into shame? Don’t look. Don’t see.

  “It hurts!” I scream or I think loudly and he hears me but one of the other bubbles has settled over his face. It develops into a monarch butterfly.

  The hands clutch my middle, the nails biting into my stomach.

  “Let go of me—let go—"And then it’s dark and I’m in another place, a bad place. But the water’s still there, pushing down, and I do not see the table. I’m drowning. “Help me!” My scream melts into a coughing silence. The hands keep holding me down. “Let me go—” I hit the water and it’s glass. I hit it but the glass will not break. Safety glass. “I’m not going to hurt you,” the other voice says. I keep hitting till my hands hurt because I hurt. The hands hurt.

  5. THE VACATION

  “So, are you having a good time? You need to get out more, do stuff. This weekend I was thinking we could go up the coast or something. I have a friend who has this neat beach house. We could go up there, you know, really get away, watch the ocean.”

  I could do that. Cara Ann’s face brightens when I smile at her. She’s encouraged.

  “Oh, God, I could use a vacation myself. Listen, at work yesterday, it was just horrible—horrible. It took all day—all because of Serena. Belts. I’m serious. She puts belts on everything she wears. I don’t care if it’s the most gorgeous suit in the world or the most delicate skirt. Belts, big red plastic belts or awful gold ones. She insists, the star insists. And who am I? Just the lowly costume supervisor. Sometimes, I know, it doesn’t matter. And even sometimes the belts aren’t so bad. But sometimes, it just makes me sick. To work so hard—” Cara Ann sighs and leans back on the couch.

  I lose myself in the contemplation of belts. It’s the after-diet-succeeds mania—look at how little my waist is—when you keep cinching the belt in tighter and tighter, regardless of how much it hurts or accentuates the faintest bulge.

  “Maybe she lost a lot of weight lately. She’s overcompensating."But red plastic?

  “And the producer? He’s no help. He says, Serena wants belts, she gets belts. I groan. Over a negligee? Won’t the viewers think she’s gone around the bend or something?”

  “Well, maybe she has,” I observe, picturing a red plastic belt around a pale pink satin teddy. I laugh. “Maybe her boyfriend has a thing about belts.”

  “I guess I hate feeling powerless. But it made me sick yesterday, I mean physically ill. I threw-up-my-tacos sick. I don’t know, getting sick over a belt? What’s wrong with this picture? It’s not like I’m working to discover a cure for cancer.”

  I smooth my ponytail and look outside. The pool’s turquoise water catches the fading sun. It is chemically clean and not crippled by an oil slick. But I would rather see the ocean.

  Cara Ann notices my switch in attention. “So this pool man, did he have blond hair with faintly green tips and real narrow shoulders. Was his name J. G.? Say about nineteen or twenty?”

  “No, he was a lot older and dark. He was slow, real slow, not retarded, but like he wasn’t sure of what he was doing.”

  “Oh, yeah, really good-looking—white, white teeth—smile a lot? Talk a lot?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “What was his name—?” “Pete Bergman.”

  “Oh, wow—I knew it—that’s P. C. Bergman—God, that Pete—what a kidder.” She shakes her short bouncy blond hair and giggles. “What’s the joke?”

  “He’s an actor. Don’t you—didn’t you recognize him?” “Should I?”

  “He’s on Santa Fe Stories—plays a continuing role.”

  “Oh.” I remember the knife and how I was so frightened of him. My cheeks burn and I know I’m blushing, something I’ve never been able to control and Cara Ann laughs even harder.

  “Well, it’s not that funny—”

  “He’s good, I mean, really good. I guess he’s practicing for something, researching a role. I know Ben, his brother. He owns Sunside Pools. He told me his little brother was slightly wacko. I met him at a party last year. When Ben started out, Pete actually worked for him, but that was a long time ago. It’s too bad his career hasn’t ever really taken off.” “But he’s still working—”

  “On Santa Fe Stories? Yes, but I heard his character might be killed off. The last time he left the soap was five years ago—his character got hit on the head by a jealous husband and he wandered off, thinking he was his evil twin brother Raven Blackfoot and Santa Fe never heard of him again till last year when he came back and had a car accident that restored his memory. Then he was Gavin Gold again.”

  “How do you keep up with all that?”

  “VCR. I tape all the episodes on my bedroom set. I’ve watched that show since I was a kid. Habit and it’s the best daytime soap on the tube, period.”

  Cara Ann fixes herself an iced tea and asks me if I want one.

  “No, I’m okay. But tell me why—why do you really like it so much? I’ve never been able to get hooked on one.”

  “Continuity. With all the shit I’ve been through, I just like something that stays relatively the same. Throughout the divorce from Al, the job changes, moving, the custody battle over Teddy, when dad was sick, all the way through them I could watch the citizens of Santa Fe Stories and know basically, I was okay because their problems were always so ridiculous and awful that mine seemed to pale in comparison.”

  A reasonable conclusion. I feel like hugging Cara Ann. “Teddy will be back soon. You miss him, don’t you?” Count on me to state the obvious. I should hug her, but I sit across the room from her, frozen. My problems are indistinct. I am in awe of her.

  “Hey, this is your vacation, cousin, let’s celebrate tonight. You want to?” She comes over to me and pinches me. “Let’s go—and if Pete comes again, ask him if Gavin’s brain tumor is going to pull the plug on him permanently.”

  “Are we going to take off this weekend, really—go up the
coast?”

  “I’ll see if I can take some time off. That would be great,” she says, but her eyes are suddenly distant and preoccupied. I see her measuring her waist with her hands. Belts. I realize she’s just talking and that when it comes time to go, she’ll probably have to beg off. She’ll tell me I should take off on my own. That I shouldn’t be afraid to drive up the coast by myself. She’ll tell me about a bed-and-breakfast some friend owns. She’ll tell me she’ll meet me there a day later. But if I go, I’ll have to go alone. And I won’t.

  I have been here one week.

  I am still scared.

  6. THE FEAR

  The first thing you do, after some of the shock has worn away, is to deny it happened. Or you decided that whatever happened, happened for a reason, that somehow you did something to deserve it. But mostly, you push it way back under the bed or into the depths of a closet, somewhere that seldom gets cleaned out. I have pushed it as far away from me as I can, but it’s still there.

  This vacation is supposed to make me feel better, my own brand of therapy. Trying to save money, I suppose. Afraid if I went into therapy, real therapy, the doctor would keep asking me to come back until eventually he’d decide I would need to be admitted to some expensive clinic, that I’d agree and disappear from the rest of my life without a whisper. A safe thing to do.

  I could do that. I’m just too tired. I’d like to go to sleep and never wake up.

  My mother and father want me to straighten up, be an adult, especially since I’m over thirty. It’s way past time. My father’s not averse to the idea of psychiatric help but my mother warns me, “It would always be on your record.” Maybe she’s afraid at some point people will find out and I would thereafter turn into Mrs. Woods’s poor loony girl, the one who started off so promising and ended up—well—disturbed.

  But I can’t get away from it. I don’t know what to do. I can’t really think about it. There’s a wall there, a big, thick stone wall and I don’t want it to tumble down on top of me. So I come here to recuperate and there is this pool.

  Cara Ann has left me alone to sort things out. Again. She’s very patient with me. I think I’m getting better. Maybe I will fix myself a thick chocolate milkshake. Lots of calories. But I can’t, I’m just not hungry.

  I called Dad last night and he told me an awful joke and I laughed till I cried. Then Cara Ann and I went to a concert of a saxophonist, a rather famous one you see on television from time to time, David Sanborn. But at one point, there was a song that bothered me. It was smoky sweet and trailing down the aisle toward me, it wrapped me up tight and then left, going back the way it had come. I asked Cara Ann what the name of the song was. She didn’t know. She said she’d get some tapes for me and maybe we’d find it. But it’s here now, the music’s in my head. And I’m looking at the pool.

  I like water. Water soothes and refreshes the skin. Sit down in a shower and let it fall on the top of your head. Such freedom. And in a hot tub full of bubbles.

  Bubbles.

  I see some.

  In the water over there.

  My feet are in the water. Something dark is coming. Something seems to touch the balls of my feet. I get out of there quickly.

  Shadows stretching up and forward. Shadow. Nothing there.

  The pool people are still there. I know it. What if I submerge myself. In the water and below me their bodies would rise up to meet me and we would entwine, entangle, and sink down into shadow. Then later, we would float like dead fish in a polluted lake of green glass. Going nowhere. Have you ever noticed how sometimes toxic water glitters with rainbows?

  I wish they would show themselves.

  I sit down on a white deck chair and wipe the wetness off my legs. I haven’t done any swimming in a long while. I used to be deathly afraid of the water since the time a dumb swimming instructor threw me off the high diving board and I almost drowned. What a guy—convinced that scare tactics should be included in lessons for six-year-olds. “Sink or swim!” was his rallying cry, I recall. So I decided to sink. Swimming at that point of my life was as alien an idea as flying.

  Eventually, I did learn to swim. Maybe I should take a swim now. I have the beginnings of a healthy tan. I don’t need to sunbathe anymore. I could use the exercise.

  Maybe tomorrow. Right now I’m just too weak. I feel like an over-watered hanging basket, all the excess water draining out of the bottom, into the pool, into their breathless, sucking mouths.

  7. THE ACTOR

  “You really didn’t know who I was?”

  He sits across from me, sipping a glass of iced tea. A lemon wedge bobs in the melting ice and he smiles, again, intent upon some secret joke. Then he laughs. “You’ve really never seen my show? Or say, I’ve been in a movie or two. A Kiss After Death or The House of Mirth—that was on PBS. No? Oh—I know—I was on Miami Vice back a few years ago. I had a close-up with Don Johnson. I was a drug lord’s bodyguard.” Silence. “No? Well, you realize, of course, that this doesn’t do much for my ego.”

  “I’m sorry, honestly, but Cara Ann tapes all of the episodes of Santa Fe Stories and I did watch a couple the other night. And you were good—you really seemed to have a handle on your character.”

  “It’s a pile of crap, isn’t it? I’ve been doing Gavin so long I’m thinking shit, maybe I’m the real evil twin brother, not Raven Blackfoot.”

  “Don’t put yourself down—” He makes me uncomfortable—fidgeting with his teaspoon and jogging one leg up and down in a nervous, but not totally unattractive movement that makes me too aware of the muscles in his calves. I glance at the pool for solace. The water moves with the wind. “You should be proud of yourself, being a well-known actor and everything. I guess I should read People more. I used to watch Entertainment Tonight while I graded papers.”

  He smirks. “Once in a blue moon, right?”

  I stare at him weakly. He wants me to flirt. I try a small smile. “It’s been really special to meet you—even if it was under dubious circumstance.” So, I am flirting. It’s not too difficult. I’m wanting him to ask me out. I’d shock Cara Ann, have a date with a TV star. Do I feel stronger? The sun does not go through me.

  I’m not floundering. It has not resurfaced. It is far away. Surely, I am stronger.

  He brushes my hand. He’s wearing a watch with a sporty plastic band instead of a Rolex. I find myself absurdly relieved. Now his hand drifts over mine. Does it show the time in other time zones?

  I don’t care. I’m glad he decided to drop by. He smiles. His hand caresses mine. Pressure.

  “I felt really bad about the other day. Barging in—it’s just something I do sometimes. I mean, I’ve met Cara Ann and I thought it was her day off—it was a joke. I’m in a transitional phase of my career and I needed—”

  I pull my hand away and he acts like it embarrasses him. He quickly grips his glass. “Yeah, Cara Ann told me that your character might be killed off, something about a brain tumor?”

  He flinches as if I have slapped him. “Come time to move on, you move on,” he says curtly. He makes a big deal out of checking the time. “Would you look at that? Duty calls—lunch with my agent. Guess I’d better run.” The actor stands, half in and half out of the sun. I’m surprised someone like him would bother with some no-name teacher. Then I catch my self-depreciation and glare at the obscenely cheerful pool. I wonder if I should ask for his autograph? Mom might like it.

  “Thanks for dropping by,” I say stiffly, also standing. I hold my stomach in and hope I look attractive. “It was a nice surprise.”

  The pool people are back. Waving at me. Waving in streams of blood. I’m dizzy. I’m going to fall into the water and drown. I will fall; I can’t stand still. My arms turn cartwheels. Head over heels, slipping, falling, going down. Gone under.

  He catches me. We’re sitting at the edge of the pool. He turns me around and studies me with concern. It’s like he knows me, for God’s sake. Like he’s worried. What an actor—or I look re
ally awful. “Should I call Cara Ann? A doctor?”

  “I guess I’m just hungry. I’m sorry about that. I just lost my balance. Really, Mr. Bergman, I’m fine. I’ll go heat up a frozen burrito in the microwave. I’ll be really okay. This is so embarrassing—”

  He looks away from me, into the pool. He frowns. “It’s not that. It’s not that at all.” He glances at me. “Talk to me—tell me about it.”

  Talk to him? My head pounds.

  We go inside and I tell a perfect stranger about it and the pool people. He is kind but distracted. He listens patiently and gives me the name of a local psychiatrist. He pities me. He leaves this time without smiling. He says he’ll stop by again sometime and maybe we’ll have dinner some evening if he can clear his schedule. I don’t expect to ever see him again. His eyes are too troubled by the sight of me. I am too real.

  And I have to go back to them. I have no choice. They need me.

  8. THE MOVIE

  Cara Ann has a date with a semifamous chef. She’s giddy with happiness. She is certain he’ll share the secret of his Double Chocolate Amaretto Mousse. He’s Italian-German, a bizarre combination. His accent startles me when he comes to pick her up in his old white Jaguar. He kisses my hand and invites me to come to his restaurant with Cara Ann before I leave to go back home. I am delighted.

  My cousin tells me not to wait up for her. As if I’m that stupid.

  I go back to the TV in her bedroom and select a few movies to wade through.

  I’m watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the tenth time in my life. It’s really late. I should go to bed. My eyelids are heavy. It’s the scene where Holly is searching for Cat in the rain. I want to die. The rain keeps streaming into Holly’s eyes and I start crying “Cat—Cat—” Then it’s over but I’m still crying. I have lost something, too. But I can’t find it. I will never find it.