I looked at the note and changed the punctuation around twenty times. Then I threw it in the wastebasket and went in to make dinner.
Danny and I had had a fight. A middle-of-the-winter, we're-bored-and-there's-nothing-better-to-do-so-let's-annoy-each-other fight. Danny was sort of right and so was I. Who cares? It ended with me walking regally out of the room.
«I'm going to bed!»
Luckily I had put the baby down half an hour before our fireworks started. Luckily the bathroom was connected to the bedroom, so I didn't have to lose face by seeing my husband again on my way to wash up. It was only nine o'clock, but I had no other alternative but bed.
The dream began in an empty room which reminded me of a ballet rehearsal hall. Middle-aged women in nondescript dresses stood in the center of the room; there must have been twenty of them in all and they had identical long green scarves in their hands, which they swept across the floor in slow choreographed arcs. The end of each scarf was on fire, but the flame didn't grow or consume the silk; it flickered on each end like a lit wick.
The women stared blankly at me. The air in the room was heavy and rank with smoke and old sweat. The scarves burned in queer, alien colors.
«You don't live here anymore. Your name is James!» They said it as one, and their stiff unison was unnerving. «You have no right to the Bones. You live _away_!»
They started moving toward me, scarves behind them. Glaring tails.
«Stay here and your Mae burns. Little scarf. Silken baby.»
Our dreams are like the messes children make in a kitchen when no one is around to yell at them. Ketchup, an egg or two, chocolate sauce – all thrown into a blender and zipped around.
Where's the wheat germ and look at that tin of clams! Throw 'em in! A little from real life, a few daydreams, a lot from God-knows-where, and _voila_! There was the movie for the night. But with the advent of my special, strange Rondua, things had grown increasingly more clear, connected and sometimes frightening.
I woke. It was only the second time a reference had been made in the dreams to my real waking world, but in both cases it had had to do with Mae.
I slid out of bed as quietly as possible and walked into the living room. The little light over her crib was on for some reason and she was lying on her back, wide awake. It must have been three in the morning.
«Hello, Mommy.»
«Mae?»
Five months old and she had said my name.
«Yes, Mommy, I was waiting for you.»
Gripping the side of the crib, I stared down at her.
«Go look at your face, Mommy. The women did it. They scare me so much. They _burn_.»
The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror staring at my brand-new face. Colored swirls and circles, blue flecks, a small black horse were all drawn over my forehead and cheeks, chin . . . I touched myself here and there to make sure. The skin, as if to confirm its change, was slick and slimy. The little horse over my right eye blurred forever under my unbelieving, sliding fingers. The purple circle became a cone, the indigo . . .
I woke and this time the world was the real mine: Danny right next to me, his back curved and warm and totally familiar, the pillow under my head, the Italian alarm clock offensive in its solid electronic beeping. «Holy Cow! You again?»
The telegram man looked disgustedly at me and held out another one. «Just doing the job, lady. What'd you do, win the lottery or something?»
He had been there four times that day. The three previous telegrams had been from Weber Gregston and all said the same thing: «Today I'm missing you more than I ever thought possible. Please punch me again.»
Two weeks earlier I'd had a bunch of postcards from Florida where he was scouting locations for a new film. For no good reason, he'd spent a weekend taking a train across the state. Getting off at stations all along the way, he sent me postcards from places like DeFuniak Springs, Cornbee Settlement and Mary Esther.
I walked back into the living room and waved this newest telegram at Eliot. He had dropped by for an afternoon piece of cake.
«_Another_ one? Oh, Cullen, they're going to have you in _Interview_ magazine: 'Who is the mysterious Gregston's mysterious paramour?' I _love_ it!»
«Oh, shut up! Eliot, what's he up to?»
«I would say he's trying to get you, but in a very romantic way. If it had been me, I'd have been his after the leather jacket. Now I think he likes your stubbornness. Have you written back?»
«Not a word.»
«Has he called you? Come on, cut me a bigger piece. Cullen. You're always such a tightwad.»
«He hasn't called me since that time we went to the market. The telegrams are daring enough, thank you. What's the scoop on him, Eliot? Is he a big wolf? How can a man be so vile the first time you meet and then so sweet after that? Is he schizo?»
«I checked on it for you, Cullen. I think he's just tremendously shy and guarded. A lot of people come at him from all angles, so he retreats into an easy corner – he snarls. There are a lot of movie people who use that device, believe me. The news I had on him is interesting. For a few years he lived with a writer named Lenore Conroy. Word has it that she left him for someone else, but that there were no hard feelings between them at the end. The women who know him well enough all say basically the same thing – he's reliable, thoughtful and a very good friend to have.
«Cullen, there's something I've got to tell you I've been thinking about. Remember how he said he couldn't stop thinking about you only _after_ you'd knocked him down? I don't want to scare you or anything, but do you think maybe a little Rondua has crossed over into his life?»
«Oh swell! Thanks, Eliot. There aren't enough problems around here! Now I'm going to start thinking I've got magical _powers_!»
Eliot put a piece of cake in his mouth and shrugged. «It's just a thought.»
«Yeah, but what if you're right?»
The front door slammed and Danny called in to us that he was home. Eliot and I looked quickly at each other, as if we had been caught by our parents doing something very naughty. Well, we had. Danny knew nothing about Weber Gregston, purple light, the dream of the women with the fiery scarves. Eliot snatched the telegrams off the coffee table and I slid the one in my hand into my pocket.
Danny came in and dropped down on the sofa next to me. Startled as I was, I was still glad to see him. His presence in a room always lifted me a little.
«Hiya, kids! How many pieces of cake has Eliot had? Cul, I've got some interesting news for you. Has a guy from the police called you yet? A guy named Flossmann?»
«_Flossmann_? I remember him; he questioned me after Alvin Williams killed his family. Why would he be calling us now?»
Eliot got up. «Should I go?»
Danny shook his head and gestured for him to sit down again. «No. Actually, it's all pretty interesting. And you stop jumping to conclusions, Cullen. I got a call this morning from your detective Flossmann. He said Alvin Williams is requesting permission to write to you.»
«Axe Boy wants to write to me? What for?»
«Oh Cullen, you lucky _thing!_ Axe Boy never writes to me!»
«Shut up, Eliot! Why does Alvin Williams want to write to me, Dan?»
Both men wore full, shit-eating grins on their pusses. When they looked at each other across my discomfort, the grins widened appreciably.
«Cut it out! This isn't a joke, is it?» I glared at Danny, waiting for an answer. He shook his head. «All right then, a lot of protection you two guys will be when the going gets tough!»
Danny took my hand, trying the whole time to bite the smile off his lips from inside. Across the room Mae came awake and Eliot went for her.
«Flossmann said you were the only one who was ever nice to him, Cul – at least, that's what Alvin says. He wants to write and thank you. I guess it's also because he's lonely.»
«Lonely and loony! Uh-uh! I've got enough problems, Danny. Give me that baby, Eliot.»
Standing behind Danny, Eliot was able to get away with mouthing «Weber Gregston» without being seen. Then he danced Mae around in a circle.
«You know where _I_ was when he killed his mother? In the laundry room, doing a white wash. By the time I came upstairs again, everyone interesting had left. Typical me!»
«Danny, why did the cop call you if I'm supposed to get the letter?»
«Because he was afraid the idea would upset you. He wanted to know if you were the nervous type.»
«Nervous type? Me? Not me! Hi, Axe Boy! You wanna play with my daughter?»
«Cullen, you don't have to say yes.»
«Of course I do, Danny. That's a lesson I learned from you, pal.»
«You remember that song we heard the other day? 'You've got to kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight'?»
«Danny, whenever I kick something I hurt my foot.»
The first letter arrived on a Monday, along with another postcard from Weber. I read the card first, so that I'd have a nice feeling before I leapt into the dark soup of Alvin Williams land. What a pair of pen pals!
Cullen,
I met a Countess von So-and-So today who's interested in financing my next film. I don't understand why people are so delighted to find that one of their ancestors was a Duke or a Count. All it means is a long time ago somebody did something horrible to someone else and was rewarded for it by some monstrous or syphilitic king.
Here's a quote I came across today that made me think of you: «As long as I know that you understand,» he whispered. «But of course you do. It's a great satisfaction to have got somebody to understand. You seem to have been there on purpose.» And in the same whisper, as if we two whenever we talked had to say things to each other which were not fit for the world to hear, he added, «It's very wonderful.» It's from Conrad's _The Secret Sharer_.
I've given you my address here twice. Are you ever going to write?
I scratched my head and flirted with the idea of sending him back a postcard with the word «No» written on it.
I put my hand on the letter from Williams and pushed it back and forth across the desk. The address had been written with a typewriter, which somehow made everything more cold and creepy. How could an axe murderer very calmly sit down and plunk out a letter on a typewriter? The careful spacing and precision of the letters and sentences all in sharp black order were so much the opposite of what he had done to his poor mother and sister.
On the other hand, I realized I had no desire to see the actual handwriting of this person. That would have been more naked and distressing, maybe even obscene.
Dear Mrs. James,
It was very nice of you to allow me to write to you like this. But I've heard there are autograph collectors out there in the world who pay a lot of money for letters from people like me. What you can do is _sell_ them this letter after you've read it a couple of times. Buy your daughter Mae a toy with the money. Just make sure to tell her it comes partly from her friend Alvin Williams! Ha ha!
I've been thinking about that day when we met on the street in front of our house. Do you remember? It was cloudy and sunny, back and forth all day long. You looked really great that day, Mrs. James! You can't imagine how good I felt standing there talking to you. Everyone watched us when they walked by. Mr. James is a very lucky man to have you as his wife. You're one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, but one of the things I like so much about you is you never show off about it. You're warm and friendly. You always had time to talk with me whenever we met up with each other. I always hoped I'd meet you on the stairs. I bet you didn't know that, did you? I have to go now. I'll write to you again soon.
Very sincerely yours,
Alvin Williams
«Danny, do you think we'll need chains?»
«Cullen, honey, we're just driving to your parents' house, not Siberia.»
«I know, but I worry.»
«Yes, I noticed. . . .»
Eliot sat in the backseat with Mae on his lap. «Cullen, will you please get in? Your husband will take very good care of us. If you ever let him.»
I sighed and opened the car door. The sky was slush gray and threatened all kinds of snow. It had been my bright idea to round up the gang and spend a weekend at my parents' house on Long Island, but now I wasn't so thrilled. I envisioned bullying snowdrifts and silvery iced roads way out there in the wilds, where no one in their right mind _ever_ went before May 1.
Typical me. It hadn't snowed in the city since March had arrived two weeks before. Winter's cold was still around, but the days lived longer and Mae woke at six each morning because the light was everywhere in the apartment by then.
I put my hand on the back of Danny's neck and twirled his hair around my finger. «Did I turn the stove off?»
He smiled and put the car in gear. His hair was longer than ever and his face was full of mischief. It was hard to believe that a year before, we were living in Milan without a child and my husband was making hook shots for a living.
The ride out of town was on pleasantly empty roads that welcomed our company all the way out past the two airports and onto the Long Island Expressway.
Whenever I traveled this route, I remembered trips with my parents as a girl. Already in my swimsuit as the car pulled out of Manhattan, I would perch like a parrot between the folks' seats and keep up a two-hour running commentary on exactly what I would do when we got to the house. My mother would tell me not to breathe on Daddy's neck, while Dad would point out license plates from exotic states like Wyoming and North Dakota.
Danny and Eliot chatted while I looked out of the window, feeling warm and complete. My husband, baby and best friend were all there and all mine for a couple of days. Weather fears aside, I knew we would have fun. We'd go into Southampton one day and feel like natives for a few hours by walking around the deserted streets. The store windows would be full of inappropriately bright things, hibernating there until the flashy summer crowd returned and started whipping out their credit cards.
What else would we do? Build big fires in the living-room fireplace, cook marshmallows on sticks. Mae had never seen a marshmallow. For that matter, she'd never seen a fire! Oh sure, a second's match flick here and there, but never a luxuriously big blast of yellow and heat dancing off red brick. No sir, never that! It was about time.
«I'm hungry.»
«Danny, we haven't even got to Port Jefferson yet!»
«Cullen, please reach down and hand me a large sandwich, pickle and a can of cream soda. I'm hungry, there's a basket full of food and if you want to have an argument with my stomach – go right ahead.»
«I guess that's touchй to you, toots!»
«Pipe down, Eliot. You can't have any food anyway. Hello, Mae darling. Would _you_ like a sandwich?»
There was snow on the ground by the time we passed the sign for Westhampton, the exit you would take if you were going to Weber Gregston's house. How did I know that? Because I looked it up on a map before we left, that's how. I watched the sign approach, get larger and larger, flick by. Weber. Was he in New York again? Did I want him to call me? See me? Eliot asked those questions this morning and I had had to shrug. No. Yes. No. Yes. Maybe.
But Eliot's interest in the Weber Gregston affair was purely academic because, next to me, he was Danny's greatest supporter. He would have been aghast if I had done anything about Weber besides fantasize. Yet I was still more honest with him about certain things than I was with Dan. Eliot heard every Rondua dream and seemed perpetually fascinated by them. He was now convinced they were an important part of my well-being. The E. Kilbertus analysis was that Cullen James was an interesting person who, at the moment, wasn't able to live up to her potential because of the humdrum busy work involved in taking care of an infant. As a result, I let my unconscious take off nightly and the adventures in Rondua compensated for the mundaneness of my everyday. That logical and highly complimentary view – coming from one who knew every detail of the situation – reassu
red me mightily. It also helped to know that what he said agreed essentially with what Dr. Rottensteiner had told me months before: if the dreams didn't have any bad effects, just leave them alone. It reminded me of the dust motes that float around in front of our eyes; follow them with your eye and they remain in your vision much longer than if you ignore them and let them drift away.
And how about the time I realized with a hefty jolt how much I would _miss_ those damned dreams if they were suddenly to go away? Anything that is wholly ours sets us apart from the rest of the universe .
Overall, the only thing that tickled my mind the wrong way was what in God's name had I done to Weber that day I put up my hand and sent him flying across his hotel room? That haunted me when I let myself think about it – which, believe me, was _not_ often.
The first thing that struck me about my parents' house when we pulled into the driveway was how forlorn it looked: ready to be filled and have some fun with people moving around in its belly, turning up all the heat.
As we ferried back and forth to and from the car with all the bags and boxes we'd brought, Eliot pulled me aside out of Danny's earshot and said we _had_ to make a safari over to Remsenberg one day to check out Villa Gregston. I agreed with a curt nod, but a white light of excitement clicked on in my heart as I did so. I know I wouldn't have gone alone, but how could I say no with Eliot _insisting_. . . .
The first night out on the Island, Eliot whipped up his family's secret bean soup which we ate from hot bowls by the fireplace along with thick chunks of cheese and homemade bread and a good French red wine. Mae was transfixed by the fire, but very blase about the marshmallows we toasted for her. She fell asleep with a fat black one in her hand, but we kept her there with us to complete our circle as we sat around, dreaming and not saying much.
The next afternoon, Danny said there was a Rutgers basketball game on television he wanted to see. He volunteered to babysit if Eliot and I wanted to go out and wander around.
Bones of The Moon Page 11
