by Walter Blum
He shook his head. “What are you talking about?” he sputtered. “You lost it, didn’t you?”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“You lost it,” he repeated.
She could see in his eyes as well as his heart that he had somehow grasped the truth, in that infuriating way he had. All the old torment came rushing back. He could read her mind, he could see inside her soul and pick out what was hiding there, every speck of dust that didn’t belong. Her face flushed even more violently.
“It’s not true,” she repeated.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said.
Someone nudged his elbow. Jack Shapiro, the undertaker with the large gray moustache, was standing beside him. Probably wanted to suggest, for the hundredth time, that he become a member of the country club. Adam mumbled something about being engaged and they’d talk about it another time. The interruption only took a second or two, but when he turned back to speak to Susan, she was gone.
The orchestra, which had resumed its place, struck up a popular Duke Ellington number that brought most of the young people to their feet. In no time at all, Adam found himself surrounded by crowds pushing their way toward the dance floor. A wave of panic washed over him. He had no idea which way Susan had gone, but suddenly all the bad things of the past few weeks came flooding back, and he knew now that they had been living all this time in a state of fragile balance, the pendulum poised to return to its starting point—and that was the worst thing that could happen. The monster was just outside the gates of the city, waiting for permission to enter.
For a moment he was paralyzed, not knowing what to do. And then, muttering to himself, he broke away, pushed his way through the crowd, stumbled to the front door and peered outside.
It was like staring at a flood. A wall of rain separated him from the parking lot only a few feet away. From time to time lightning would flash, thunder rattle. The wind had picked up and was blowing the rain diagonally, like steel rods across a blackened curtain. The first thing that caught his eye was the red Ferrari nuzzled up against the building, its lights off, unoccupied. Thank God she hadn’t taken off for home, and in a storm like this it was unlikely she would walk.
He pulled the door closed just as a gust of wind slammed water in his face. Across the room, he could see Gwen emerging from the ladies room. Plowing through the crowd again, he managed to catch up with her and before she could open her mouth, he asked if she knew where Susan was.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her,” Gwen said, making it clear that she didn’t appreciate being addressed like that.
“She was here just a minute ago.”
“I told you, I haven’t seen her,” Gwen said, alarmed at the tone of Adam’s question. “Shall we put out an APB?”
“A what?”
“An all points bulletin.”
The bit of whimsy was lost on him. His fear was turning to anger. He was incapable of containing it. His gaze swept the room and finally landed on the back door. One of the two glass French doors was ajar, evidence that someone had come through only moments before. Moments later, he was out on the balcony, the rain turning his clothes into a soggy mess. Halfway across the lawn that sloped gently to the lake, he could see a small figure in silver pants and a coral blouse. She was sitting on the ground, her knees pulled up to her chin, motionless, looking up at the sky and the grove of pines in the distance, seemingly unaware of him as he ran to join her.
“Susan?” he called.
The thought occurred to him that she might be sick, or in pain, or lost in a kind of drunken stupor.
“Susan, come inside,” he pleaded. “You’re getting soaked.”
She must have heard because she got to her feet, but even then she avoided looking at him, her eyes fixed on the grove of trees on the far side of the lake. He could see that her eyes were filled with tears.
“Why did you have to do this to me?” she moaned.
“I didn’t say anything. I didn’t—,” he protested.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said. “I promise, I won’t say another word.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, clutching her chest with both arms. “You can’t help yourself, and I’m not the one who can help you.”
He wanted to fold her in his arms and kiss her face and her lips and as much of her wet body as he could touch, and tell her that it would never happen again, and then with one arm around her waist, whisk her back to the ball—that was how it should have been, but when he stepped forward with his hands outstretched, sensing his approach, she turned and darted around him so quickly he hadn’t time to catch her, and the next thing he knew she was racing back up the hill toward the country club building.
The suddenness of it caught him off guard and he lunged, lost his balance and found himself sprawling on the grass. The fall confused him. The rain had turned into a flood. Every inch of his body seemed to have become a vast fungus. By the time he managed to get to his feet, she was already at the top of the hill. He followed, around the building to the parking lot, just in time to see her climb into the red Ferrari.
“Susan!”
He stumbled forward.
“Susan, come back!” But she had the jump on him.
He could hear the engine being started. He wondered for a second how that was possible. Weren’t the car keys in her purse, and hadn’t she left the purse back at the club? Then he remembered that she had slipped the keys into her pants pocket. Was that why she had worn a pants suit? Could she have planned all along to drive away by herself, to leave him stranded at the club while she went in pursuit of a mission neither of them was prepared to explain?
Damn it, this was insane. In his scramble up the hill, he had tripped twice, the second time cutting his hands on a rock. Each time he fell, he was slowed down, giving her time to pull the Ferrari out of its stall. The rain seemed to be easing up, but there were still flashes of lightning followed by a decrescendo of thunderclaps.
Without thinking, he pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck, as though that action would keep him dry. His hair was plastered to the top of his head. His shoes were soggy, and his hands throbbed where he had scraped them.
“Susan!”
Frantically, he shouted and waved at the car to stop, but it was bigger than he was and more powerful and if the windows were rolled up, as they would have to be, she couldn’t possibly hear him—or see him, because the wipers weren’t on and the windshield was covered with a sheet of water.
The car backed up, whipped around and darted forward in the direction of the county road. Adam stood watching in dismay. Where was she going? If she turned right, she would be headed home and that would make it easy to find her. If only there were someone around to help. He couldn’t very well keep up with a moving car, at least not on foot.
But fortune smiled on him. Just in time he spotted the second car, a dark blue two-door Pontiac. He didn’t think twice. The rear lights were aglow, the dome light was on and he could see a man slumped down, the back of his head leaning against the seat. Moving as fast as his rain-heavy shoes would carry him, he slogged up to the car, whipped open the door and, still dripping, slid into the passenger seat and slammed it shut.
Its occupant was clearly shaken by his sudden appearance. “Hi,” he stammered. “Hello. Listen, I’m sorry if my coming to the dance—”
“Did you see the Ferrari?” Adam interrupted. He didn’t give a damn about Bernard’s explanations.
“Yes, of course. But listen, I didn’t think anyone would mind my coming—I thought there might be some singles here…”
“Never mind. Just tell me where it went.”
“What?”
“The car, the Ferrari. When she got to the county road, which way did she go?”
“To the right, I think.” He stared at Adam with dawning recognition. “You want me to—?”
“Yes.”
“I don�
�t think we can catch her, Adam. She’s too far ahead.”
“We have to try.”
In an instant the dome light went off and the car was roaring into reverse. Hit the brakes, stop the car, lurch forward, and then they were off in the direction of the county road, seats shaking, wiper pumping furiously. In the faint glow of the dashboard light, Bernard Silverman’s face could be seen, caught up in the contagion of the moment, his head swiveling as he glanced back and forth at Adam and then the road, both of them straining to catch a glimpse of the red Ferrari up ahead.
But it was already too late. Susan’s car was ahead of them, by several minutes, and as one mile became a second mile and then a third, the chances of catching her dwindled. What if she turned off on a side road? How would they know? At least another car hadn’t turned in from a side road and gotten between them.
The rain had eased, but there was still a heavy mist that made it difficult to see what was ahead. The pavement glistened with rain and there were any number of slippery spots that forced Bernard to drive more cautiously than he ordinarily would. He could still hear the Duke Ellington tune spinning dizzily in his brain, feel the crowds of dancers as they pushed and pulled, keeping him from making his way to the door.
Why, why? Why had he said it? What difference did it make that she wasn’t wearing the ring? It was such a small lie compared to those that had come before. He didn’t have to punish her, knowing that one falsehood would only lead to another. Couldn’t he have waited until later, when they were alone, at home or having breakfast? What sort of meanness led him to confront her right out there on the dance floor? Yes, it was his fault that they were driving through the darkness and the mist, searching out a spot of red on a highway that seemed headed for oblivion.
His heart sank. Somehow, he knew the game was not theirs to win, but he had to try. Silently, he pleaded with Bernard to drive faster, forgetting the bitter secret encounter that had made them enemies, aware that if the car hit a slippery patch and skidded, the pursuit would be over and Susan lost.
But why keep fighting? Why not just let go before it was too late? What right did he have to hold her, after all the black days and nights that hung from both of them, after all the soundless tears, after all the rages and streaks of remorse? Why be a hero? He’d never had the strength, the authority to bend her to his will. He could only stand and watch, clench his fists, close his eyes and cling to the roll bar as they rounded steep turns while the loop-the-loop carried them inexorably into space.
Now the mist was closing in on them like a plague. Leaning against the seat, he expected Bernard at any moment to suggest they turn back. Having dipped one too many times into the punchbowl, he felt thick and giddy. He felt as though he was suffering from a fever. Nausea played games with his throat and chest. Nerve endings tingled, prodded by a thousand tiny wires filled to the edges with electricity. Had he been sitting behind the wheel, he might have lost control by now and ended up in a ditch.
They had just rounded a turn and were heading into a straightaway when it materialized, suddenly. The big old oak that stood, leaning, on the side of the road, its branches dripping leaves like a canopy over a sidewalk café. That ancient tree, felled by the storm, had crashed headlong across the road and was lying like a monstrous barricade a hundred yards or so ahead of them. A tangle of roots, ripped from the earth, wriggled like snakes at one end; on the other side of the road, the branches spread out in a labyrinth of leaves, and headed right for it was the Ferrari, a bright red smear in the black night.
Years later, when it came time to remember, every dot, every detail, every pixel would be painted with a giant hair brush on the canvas of memory, every movement would be slowed down so he could see it, frame by frame, feature by feature, unfolding like a malevolent flower. But it was different then. There was no way to stop the tape, no way to punch a button for rewind, to make time stand still and then start it up again, and again and again…
“Adam—” Bernard started to say.
“Oh God, no!” Adam screamed, but the words caught in his throat.
The mist was gone, and in its place stood the Bell Tower, rising like a monstrous dinosaur that had wandered out onto the road. Where had it come from? And why now? Fifty feet high it stood, its gray sandstone blocks dripping moisture, the tiny windows glaring acidly. It was a living, flourishing thing that seemed to hover above the tree like one of those cutout mushrooms decorating the dance floor back at the ball. He could sense the room inside with its sofa and chairs and purple wall hangings, the room that made the tower live, where from its height on a clear evening the entire valley spread its carpet of winking lights and throbbing lines, where roads and houses met.
But now, the light through the windows of the room at the top pulsed, reaching out to him with an evil succulence, boiling up in an effort to suck him in, the car in front of them, the red Ferrari, its brake lights flashing, beginning to wobble as though looking for some way around the brute that blocked its path, a side road, an escape hatch, a door that would open if only it could be found.
A symphony of voices surrounded them. They seemed to come from different directions, like some hideous stereo apparatus filling the interior of the car and shooting beyond into the night. It was impossible that Bernard should not hear, but his ears seemed stuffed with cotton. The sounds were for him alone—Peggy Lee and Nat “King” Cole with their own private hits from the Top Ten. The Sauter-Finnegan Orchestra and Doris Day and Duke Ellington and people who would ring the phone because there was nothing else to do.
“Hi, babe, I hear you broke your wrist.” Wally’s voice rising out of the mist: “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, old buddy.” Mrs. Warren, standing at the foot of the stairs. “There’s good news, Adam, if you have faith in Jesus…in Jesus…in Jesus…”
And Mattie, on a cool, dark night: “Mr. Bay-ul—would you—?”
It had all been so simple, so inviting, and now the world he once knew had turned the color of evil. The tower swarmed over every inch of the canvas, filling it like a hungry animal. The voices shouted in his ear, warning him not to come any closer, spinning a theme and variations that spanned the audible spectrum from growling bass note to vanishing shriek, and on into the stratosphere, for now the tower was indeed growing, its top lost in the mists of the jet stream, its base spreading, its front door bloating, dilating, opening like the mouth of a humpback whale—and the Ferrari ahead, seemingly without fear of what loomed in front of it, skidding wildly.
Even with the windows closed, Adam could hear the sequence—brakes taking hold—tires gripping the pavement—the car fighting to stop and unable to control itself, lurching, sliding, tumbling into a skid. And then disappearing momentarily into a dip in the road. And then a terrible ripping sound, metal being torn to shreds in one terrible tiger-like snap, and a crash as the car hit the tree, and a light erupting from beyond the dip in the road, blossoming into a fireball whose heat could be felt from behind closed windows, yards and yards away.
Inside their car, Bernard managed to hit the brakes and skid off onto the shoulder at the last minute. The tower vanished instantly, replaced by darkness and mist. The voices went silent, a transformation more horrendous than anything that had gone before. As they topped the rise, Bernard slowed to a halt and pulled onto the shoulder. The remains of the Ferrari, curved around the base of the tree, had found a home in death more welcome than anything known in life. The hood, twisted like the head of a giant puma, was pointing toward the rear, the body had ended up in intimate contact with the bark of the tree, flames shooting out of the engines and the windows, both front and back, a cloud of smoke thicker and more terrible than the mist, white, gray, reflecting the orange of the smoke. A silence as vast as the vacuum of space, as distant as the next galaxy, as hungry as a black hole from which no light could emerge.
Silent except for a single sound—a sound without a name, savage, inhuman—a sound made of horror and brass and the rasp of flesh b
eing burned—a sound without parallel that only later did he recognize as coming, inexplicably, from himself. A scream that had no beginning or end, an uncontrollable scream, a scream to call the whole universe down from its corners, a scream that filled his ears, his lungs, the blood that pumped in his veins. A scream that would not stop, a scream that wrapped itself around him, the way the Ferrari was wrapped, its body around the oak tree, the way pain and horror and agony were wrapped in a necklace of death.
“Relax, relax.”
Enticing, curling a finger, the scream—really a voice now - tried to persuade him to enter, exploding beyond its boundaries, taking on colors and accents and underlining and boldface and, finally, seeping back into the mist, losing all semblance of order, disassembling into its component parts.
“Lean back. Relax, lean back and join us for an evening of romance.”
26
On a cool day in August, two men stood on the upper deck of a ferry that set sail for Tiburon from Fisherman’s Wharf.
Salt spray splashed their faces and tangled their hair. Screeching gulls wheeled overhead, hoping to spy an untended piece of sandwich or a potato chip separated from its bag from those who took the ferry and lunch with them. The gulls, firm believers in the necessity of sharing the wealth, sought to put theory into practice, bringing with them an avarice that many aboard the boat secretly recognized, although few were willing to admit.
Frank Genero pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck and led his friend Adam up and around the corner of the deck to a spot where they could be alone, pressing his back against the bulkhead. The ferry set off a bit late, but soon made up time and bulldozed its way across the bay, skirting the edge of Alcatraz, “The Rock,” the former Federal prison.
