Prayer for the Dead jb-1

by David Wiltse

  “Should I offer you something to drink?” she said.

  Becker put a finger to her throat where some water from the shower remained. He held the finger in front of her; a single droplet shivered on his skin.

  I am not in this man’s league, she thought.

  “You came a little sooner than I expected,” she said.

  “I was eager.”

  She smiled, suppressing a nervous giggle. If he touched her, she was afraid she would scream. If he didn’t touch her, she knew she would.

  “More than eager,” he continued. “I needed to come.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that,” said Cindi. “You don’t seem like a man who lets his needs dictate to him.”

  “You know what spelunkers are? People who crawl into caves for fun. The deeper, the tighter, the more inaccessible the better. I’ve heard of spelunkers who lived in the city who had no access to caves-they explored the city sewer system instead. They needed that feeling, being underground, whatever it is, badly enough to crawl around in the city sewer.”

  Cindi nodded, waiting for the point, then wondering if that was the point: making her wait.

  “And there are other people, I don’t know what the name for them is, who will crawl into a cave with a drowsy bear and stick a thermometer in its rectum to measure its sleeping temperature.”

  “That would be a biologist,” she said.

  “That’s not what I mean by biologist. It’s not the hibernating habits of the bear they’re after. It’s the sense of crawling into a place knowing something’s waiting for you there.”

  “Why do they do it?”

  “Some people just like to crawl into small, dark places. Spelunkers of the soul. Maybe they do it because it’s dangerous, or because it scares them, or because they can do their mischief there, or maybe just to be alone where no one can see what they’re doing. Does it matter?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “If you thought a bad man was sitting in the dark in a pitch-black house, would you go into the house?”

  “Mr. Becker, you’re beginning to scare the shit out of me.”

  “Would you even entertain the idea of going in?”

  “It depends what you mean by a ‘bad’ man. If he was the right kind of bad, I might even invite him over to my place.”

  The droplet of water was still on Becker’s finger. As he lifted his finger it shook and sparkled like a diamond. He put the drop on his tongue, but casually, as if he had forgotten where he got it and placed no symbolism on it. As if it were an hors d’oeuvre, Cindi thought, and maybe it is.

  But he still had not touched her.

  “What else do you do that you shouldn’t?” he asked.

  “I gamble some.”

  “Are you gambling now?”

  She studied him for a moment. She did not think he was flirting; he seemed to have something deeper on his mind.

  “Men are pretty thin on the ground around here,” she said. “I take some chances.”

  “You can’t have any trouble finding men.”

  “A good man is hard to find. Not an original thought but sadly true. Also, I’m thirty-one, remember.”

  “I’m not a good man.”

  “The available material thins out real fast after thirty. By this stage the question is no longer are you single, but why are you single.”

  “How did you get this far without getting married?”

  “I didn’t. Jerry played polo. Not with his own horses, of course. Other people’s horses, other people’s homes, other people’s money.”

  “Other people’s wives?”

  “Is it that obvious? Their wives, their sisters, their daughters, their maids. The only good thing about being cheated on that much is that when you find out, you realize it’s not because of you. If he’d had one big affair, maybe I would have whipped myself around, maybe I would have thought it was my fault, I didn’t give him what he needed, that kind of victim-think. But when he views the whole world as parted thighs, you realize the man has a problem with his vision. Not to mention his hormones.”

  “It lasted what, three years? Four?”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “You finally caught him when he was sleeping with your best friend.”

  “His brother’s wife. And it went a full five years.”

  “I’m not a good man.”

  “I heard you the first time,” Cindi said.

  Then a silence that Cindi thought would never end. He just stared at her with those milk-chocolate eyes. Normally she could see the humor in them and the sharp intelligence, but now she had no idea what went on behind them. They did not frighten her, but there was no comfort in them at the moment, either.

  When he finally moved, it surprised both of them. She was sitting next to him with her legs drawn under her, her shoes on the floor where she had slipped them off. He took her bare foot in his hand and pressed his thumb gently into her sole. Cindi could not suppress the gasp of pleasure.

  Becker spent ten minutes on each foot, holding her somewhere between tickling and massage, a pleasure that was just bearable but so intense. When he worked a finger between the toes, Cindi opened her mouth and let her head fall back and gave up.

  When he drew her jeans off, he caressed her legs, running the smooth warmth of his palms along the calves, up the thighs. There was nothing professional or practiced about it; it was not a massage. It was touching for its own sake, and he seemed to feel as good doing it as she did receiving it.

  They spoke some, but for long stretches the only sound was Cindi’s moaning when he found a new spot or another way of touching her. She could not believe the warmth and feel of his hands.

  It took two hours, the first half just touching, the second half lovemaking that seemed like just an extension of the first. Becker was as slow and patient throughout as he had been at the beginning. It was the process that intrigued him. After all, he knew the destination.

  Afterwards, Becker continued to embrace her, cradling her in his arms until he knew she was asleep. He was grateful she had not felt the need for comment or witty talk. They simply held on to each other, sustaining the connection that had begun hours ago until she slipped into slumber. Even then Becker continued to hold her, grateful for the comfort she gave him, hopeful that she had not seen the desperation with which he had clung to her. He gripped her until dawn and when she rolled away in her sleep, he moved with her and put his arms around her again. Only when the sun was up did he feel his need ebb away. Like a vampire, he thought. Retreat with the sun. Only then was he sure he would not go to the darkened house and crawl into the cave.

  Chapter 7

  Pulling into the parking lot, Dyce took the only available spot and turned off the lights of his Toyota. Because the bar was popular and crowded, he left the motor running; his ignition had been erratic of late and he did not want to risk not getting the spot he needed because he couldn’t move immediately when the opening came.

  The red station wagon was parked behind him and to the side, but he could watch it by fuming his rear-view mirror. The wagon was just on the edge of the pool of light shed by the parking lot’s one lamppost. Not fully lighted, but not completely dark, either. Dyce would have preferred it darker, but it would serve.

  The door to the bar opened and several people came out, accompanied by a gust of music and loud voices. A couple, arms around each other, moved toward the red wagon. The woman was laughing at something the man said, and he had his arm around her waist as if afraid she might bolt. Dyce slid down on the seat and watched in the mirror as they paused behind the car on the left of the wagon. The man slipped both arms around her and tugged her into him. They stood, pressed together at the waist, leaning back with their trunks so they could look at each other as they talked. She pointed in one direction, he in the other and she laughed again. Deciding which car to take, Dyce thought.

  The man whispered something into her ear and she pulled her head back even farther
to look at him, startled by his suggestion. He pulled her to him again, and for a moment they leaned against the back of the wagon itself. Behind them Dyce could see the shadows of the man’s landscaping tools, hafts and handles sticking up like a dead, stunted forest.

  Finally the couple moved to the car on the right of the station wagon and drove off together, the woman behind the wheel. She was talking as they swung directly past Dyce’s car and for a moment she reminded him of Helen. That inability to do anything in silence. Dyce wondered if the man next to her bothered to listen to her, either. It wasn’t conversation. There was no exchange of views and ideas; it was noise, generated from a fear of what she might hear if she were quiet.

  There was an opening next to the wagon now, but it was on the wrong side and in the full glare of the light. Dyce could not take a chance, so he settled in to wait and let himself think of Helen. It was now just past nine o’clock. She would call him around eleven before she went to bed to say goodnight. She had already called him at six to discuss her day. She had inquired about his activities as well, but Dyce didn’t have those kinds of days. Things did not happen to him as they did to her. He met no strangers, he encountered no minidramas in the shopping aisles, no shoplifters tried to run away with steaks under their shirts in his world. Dyce did his work, ate his lunch, was overlooked by his superior. There was a beauty and a comfort in the numbers, of course; an elegance in the predictions formed from raw data, as simple but complex as the patterns of the ocean’s waves- but he had long since given up trying to explain it all to Helen. She did not understand and after a halfhearted attempt, did not even try. Dyce kept it to himself, another private pleasure.

  He did not know what to do about Helen. She was smothering him, that much was clear, but how he might stop it was as murky as the shadows in the back of the station wagon. They had had one fight, a silly squabble about nothing at all as far as Dyce could remember. At the time, he had even suspected she started it just to get a rise out of him. Dyce was not accustomed to fighting and did not understand there were rules. At first he took her petulance as some sort of game, but eventually it dawned on him that she was accusing him of not being jealous. Somewhere in her ramblings she had told him about another man who made a pass at her at work, and Dyce had not responded with the fury she hoped for. In truth, he had not even been listening and the incident was lost on him, although it would not have occurred to him to be angry even if he knew the details. What she did during the day was her business, as far as he was concerned, just as what he did when he was alone was entirely his concern.

  The argument had grown and swirled about Dyce as he watched in bafflement, wondering how she could wring so many variations of woe out of the same theme without Dyce contributing anything. Finally she had begun to cry, and it was then that Dyce realized how hard it would be to stop seeing her. When she wept, she touched him and Dyce would do whatever he could to ease her pain.

  He comforted her as best he could even though he wasn’t sure what ailed her, and to his amazement he heard himself apologizing. When he admitted his guilt in the matter, her spirits improved immensely. She forgave him and kissed him. The crisis was past, although she continued to pout occasionally about his alleged lack of attention.

  He knew she would cry if he told her he didn’t want to see her anymore, or even not so often. He was afraid, in fact, that she would do much worse than cry. She had told him more than once that she would kill herself if he ever left her, and Dyce believed she was capable of it. In a way, the notion of being that important to her was rather flattering, although something of a responsibility. Dyce did not want to be the cause of anyone’s death, or even their unhappiness.

  Pouring him a third white wine spritzer, the bartender considered what he was going to have to do with Eric Brandauer. Ginny had already complained twice. The first time, while giving him Eric’s order, she had simply said, “What a prick.”

  He liked that about Ginny; she was a no-nonsense person. Older women made better waitresses. They didn’t look so hot, maybe, and nobody tipped them big just because they were cute, but they got the orders straight and they knew a prick when they saw one. Ginny had two kids in high school and a husband who drank it up as fast as Ginny could pay for it, so she didn’t have any illusions that waitressing in a place like this was a stepping-stone to somewhere else. This was it.

  The second time she said, “Harold,” using his proper name, which was what he preferred, not Harry, which he hated and the younger women insisted on. “Harold, you’re going to have to shut that prick off.”

  “Eric?”

  “The asshole.” Eric was slouched in his chair, his left leg stretched out so it nearly tripped anyone who passed, his right leg draped over another chair. “The one sitting in two chairs.”

  “Eric Brandauer,” said the bartender. “This is only his third drink.”

  “His third here,” said Ginny. “He’s been swilling something stronger than white wine spritzers somewhere. Either that or he’s just naturally as pleasant as a molting snake.”

  “Eric’s always had a mean streak,” said the bartender, hoping he wouldn’t be called on to do anything. Eric not only had a reputation for being mean, he was awfully quick to use his hands. And his boots. Tending bar was not the same as bouncing, and Harold had no desire to take up a new career at this stage in his life.

  “If he gives you any more trouble, let me know.”

  “I’m letting you know now, Harold. If he touches me again, or even looks at me like that, I’m through serving him.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Harold, placing the wine spritzer on Ginny’s serving tray. She added a napkin.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” she said. “You keep an eye on me.”

  The bartender watched as Ginny put the wine on the table in front of Brandauer. He affected a hat, not quite a Stetson, but something semi-Western, that he wore very low over his eyes. Thinks he’s Clint Eastwood, Harold thought. Or no, someone else, some other actor. Who was it he looked like, not quite a star but well known, a character actor, foreign. Harold remembered him from a Redford movie where he had been a CIA killer, and then he had seen him only the other night in an old movie where he played Jesus or John the Baptist with a Swedish accent. The planes of his face were the same, the high cheekbones, the long, slightly horsey look. Funny that the Swedish women all looked good enough to eat, and the men had these thin, long faces with the big jaws. Max Von Sydow, that was it. He looked like a young Max Von Sydow. Or like Max Von Sydow pretending he was Billy the Kid.

  Knowing just how far to push it and when to stop, Eric Brandauer let Ginny pass without incident, but his eyes under the brim of the hat looked at her with the kind of malevolent interest that Harold usually saw on television only when the punk was about to do something rash. Harold prayed that Eric would save his rashness for the parking lot where Harold wouldn’t have to know about it until he read the police report in the local paper.

  Dyce waited until ten thirty. His favorite classical music station was playing one of the Beethoven symphonies-he wasn’t certain which, he had missed the announcement, but he thought it was the Seventh- and he was nearly as comfortable in the car as he would have been at home. When the driver of the car to the left of the station wagon finally left, Dyce pulled into the spot, carefully leaving just enough room so that he could open the passenger door all the way. He would wait for fifteen more minutes.

  At a quarter of eleven, Dyce gave up and drove home. He wanted to be there before Helen called. Explaining his absence at that hour of the night would simply take too much effort. Seeing that he wasn’t jealous, Helen had decided to assume the role herself and she acted as if Dyce were this wild-eyed ladies man who couldn’t be trusted out of her sight for so much as an hour. He didn’t know what he was going to do about her.

  As he pulled out of the parking lot, he saw Brandauer come out of the bar. For a moment he considered pulling back in, taking a chance, i
mprovising something. He could take the man and still get home in time for the call-but then the man was in his own car and it was too late.

  Dyce drove home to await Helen’s call. There would be other nights, as many as he needed, and things would be all the better for waiting.

  “It’s happening again,” said Becker.

  “What’s happening again?”

  Becker was at the window once more, peering out through the Levolors.

  “You need a new view.”

  “You could try looking at me for a change,” Gold said.

  “You think that’s an improvement?”

  “What’s happening again?” But Becker had clearly changed his mind about discussing it, whatever it was.

  “I was with this girl, this woman, the other night. We were talking about crawling into lions’ dens… She has thirty-seven freckles on her cheeks and across her nose.”

  Gold drew a vertical line down the margin of his notepad. He did not note the number thirty-seven. He was not a numerologist.

  “Bearding the lion in his den. Where did that expression come from? Lions don’t have dens. They live on the open savannah. The expression conjures up this picture of the hon in a cave with the bones of all its prey scattered all over. They don’t live that way. Bears don’t have bones in their caves, either. They don’t eat and they don’t excrete all winter long and the rest of the year they live outdoors. Why do we think of the beast hunkered down with the bones of its victims around it, waiting for us?”

  “Is that what we think?”

  “Carnivores don’t live that way. At least not mammals.”

  “Dragons do,” said Gold. “As long as we’re dealing in symbols. Dragons are surrounded by skeletons and treasure.”

  “Did you have to go to school for this?” Becker asked.

  “Why do you have such contempt for the psychiatric profession?”