by Janice Law
From his vantage point in the hall, Dwayne saw her begin looking as they had looked that night, opening the file, then the drawers, then the final last small drawer at the back. She held up the keys, unlocked the closet and stood silently aside so that the camera man could focus in on the wedding books.
“Pick one up and open it,” said the producer. “Right, good, get in on that Timmy. Jesus Christ, he’s got enough of them. Yours? Is yours here?” he asked Amelia.
“I’m still alive,” she said.
“And they match?” the producer asked now. “Same gals as in the videos?”
“No doubt about the ones we checked,” said his assistant.
“Copies of everything for the DA. Best we can do. Get this cut for the Thursday night show. All right, how’s the light on that?” And so on.
At first, Dwayne was perplexed to see them shooting things over and over again, but then he was reassured. This was right; this was proper where such great evil was concerned. These, he realized, were the California priests and astrologers, and this was the way they recreated reality and made something new and different which was tv-real and harmless. Yes, he understood why the filming went on and on until it became boring, became routine.
When Dwayne saw that Amelia was in good hands, he drifted back to the front yard to examine the trucks, to inspect the cables and equipment that lay behind the great glassy eye of the tv. He was standing in the shrubbery with his clippers, watching everything and pretending to work, when Señor Barber’s white Honda turned into the drive. For a moment, Dwayne was immobilized with shock and fear. Then he remembered his mother telling him how crafty and patient General Guyen had thwarted the great Kublia Khan, and realized that even he, Dwayne, had underestimated Amelia.
She had insisted on this day, though the tv people could have come earlier, though Dwayne had urged her to get everything done as soon as possible, though he had been haunted by the thought of Señor Barber’s premature arrival. Amelia had assured them all that the Señor had two more days in South Africa. Now Dwayne saw that, like the old general, she had laid her stakes in the river, and here was her husband, not floating on a doomed war boat, but arriving to a yard full of television trucks and cars while cameras ran in his secret office.
Señor Barber should have turned his car around. But he hesitated, surprised, genuinely surprised, because his wife’s qualities had remained unknown to him, and he had never given a moment’s thought to the gardener’s silent, and probably illegal, assistant. He was still in the car, his mind racing, when one of the security people laid on specially for this particular shoot, pulled in behind him in a noisy junker.
Señor Barber jumped out, waving the pistol he was, indeed, licensed to carry, demanding to know what was going on. The guard, whose preferred language was Croatian, had been sensitized to guns back home and produced one of his own. At the first shot through his windshield, the security guard fired three times. Señor Barber, with his imitations of human emotion and his passion for video, fell back onto his driveway and poured his blood down the grooves of its patterned cement.
His last moments were recorded, the camera crew rushing from the house before the cry went up for 911 and emergency services. Señor Barber exhausted an obscene and profane vocabulary which was sucked into the magic parabolas even as his blood stained image was shrunk to be made tv-real and harmless, a process that struck Dwayne as miraculous. He marveled at the strange rituals of California, rituals which, though unfamiliar, were completely comprehensible. With that comprehension, Dwayne began to relax. The world, for so long terrifying and strange, was, after all, intelligible. His mad mother with her rebels and scholars and warrior princesses had prepared him for the paradise garden where, Dwayne knew, he would always feel at home.
The Helpful Stranger
She wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for the smile, which warned and excited her and frightened her into action. How to describe? Not a friendly smile, nor the automatic, good business professional smile, not even the nervous smile of someone trying to make a good impression and suspecting that he’s failing; none of those. It was something else, Dana thought, a quick bearing of the teeth, as if he anticipated biting into something he shouldn’t.
As soon as she saw the smile, ideas jumped in Dana’s mind and she came all alert. Later, of course, she felt a little guilty, but she’d been in a desperate spot, herself. For all she knew, she might have had a funny smile, too, and she could almost understand how the whole situation had developed from an ordinary Saturday.
That morning, she’d set out in her ancient hatchback with her bike hanging on the rack just the way she did every Saturday, which was the best day of the week, the day which belonged to her, Dana, absolutely. Friday, the end of the school week was good, but Friday night belonged to Bruce, her fiance. They went club hopping or to a concert or a movie, and that was nice. Bruce was fine; she liked going out with Bruce, but still, Friday nights she was expected to get dressed up, mentally and physically.
And Sunday was okay. She would rest up from Saturday’s ride, read the papers, perhaps take a short spin or a long walk with Bruce, but by three, certainly by four, o’clock, the long shadow of the approaching school week began to descend. There were papers she’d put off doing, and lessons to be planned. As Sunday drew to a close, Dana would feel the leaden feet of dread returning. She was responsible for five classes of eighth graders who gave no quarter, and she didn’t want to go back to school.
But Monday morning at eight-thirty, she’d have to put on a bright face, take a deep breath, and tell herself that an adult of twenty-three could control a group of thirty young barbarians. She could, she could, but by 2:15 P.M. every day, she was exhausted and depressed. Intellectually, she understood that she was too inexperienced for so many difficult pupils. Emotionally, all she could think was that it was only October. The idea of the whole year ahead of her, and of years and years after that, filled her with panic. I’m not cut out for this, she thought, and wondered if she would be able to finish the semester.
Her mother had no doubts whatsoever. “Dana’s a natural,” Mother always said. “Just ideal for a teacher.” Dana’s father had no opinion on the subject, which was all right, since his wife had opinions enough for two. Dana had been marked out for a teacher while she was still in high school, and from the safe confines of the Ed School, teaching had seemed nice enough work. She’d been attracted by the neatness of the lesson plans, the tidy structure of the day, the orderly progression of information and skills which was blown away by the rush of wild, active, profane, raunchy “learners” who turned up every Monday morning, bright eyed with energy, while Dana dragged herself to her desk, exhausted.
From that moment, each week was like a long grade that Dana had to gasp her way up, arms and legs straining, then, just when her chest was about to burst, the top of the hill: Friday and the descent ahead. Dana would clear the last steeps, which were lunchroom duty and the horrors of her sixth period class, before the final bell brought an eruption of books, papers, backpacks, and shouts. The kids surged out in a wave, shoving each other in the halls and banging their lockers, before disappearing behind the poisonous exhaust of the waiting buses. Dana would gather up her books and papers, and discard her untouched lunch bag. As she headed for her car, she would feel her spirits revive with the prospect of Friday night and two whole days off.
Saturday was her day. Sometimes Bruce would want to do this or that, but she was dexterous about putting him off. Sunday they could go to his folks’ for dinner or watch the soccer in the park or work on his boat. Saturday was hers, and usually she sat down at her kitchen table with her trail guides and maps as soon as she got home on Friday. Then, before meeting Bruce for dinner, she would go over her bike, oil the gears, check the tires, pack up her jeans and wind breaker, fill her water bottle, and check that she had provisions for a picnic.
Saturday mornings, she carried her bike down the two flights to the driveway, p
ut the rack on the back of her car, and set out for the bike trail of choice or some pretty country town where she could ride for hours along the quiet roads, feeling the dreadful awareness of being teacher, fiancee, fulfiller of expectations drop away with every mile. That was the routine and she was determined to hang on to it, though Bruce sometimes complained and her mother had been fussing lately.
“There was that hiker— strangled. When was that, Bob?” she called through to Dana’s father. “Not long ago, I know that. And there was another young woman killed in one of the Connecticut parks. It’s not safe on your own. Take Bruce with you. He can get a bike. It would be something nice for you to do together.” Mother was very keen on togetherness where Bruce was concerned.
Dana had murmured about Bruce being busy, about an old soccer injury, plausible excuses, but, really, she needed Saturday for herself, without eighth graders or Bruce or her folks or his. Dana felt that she could not get through the week without spending Saturday on her bike, which let her find the place she’d been needing to reach all week, the place where she could look around and decide if any of this was what she really wanted from life.
Her latest discovery, the old rail line trail through the state forest, had been a satisfactory route, so pleasant that Dana regretted she wouldn’t be able to ride that way again. The road bed was a little soft in spots but well cleared with easy grades and very pretty. She had seen deer and a beaver, met a nice chap on horseback, passed a round faced woman driving a pony with mesh head cloth to keep off the flies from its face. The threatened rain had not arrived, and the cool weather, the swift moving clouds, the brilliant reds and yellows in the swamp all made it a good day, a happy day.
Dana felt the first faint hint of returning anxiety when she reached her car in the parking lot beside the forest’s shallow lake. It was after three, and Saturday was beginning to run out. She drank some of her bottled water, secured the bike on its rack, changed her shoes, and turned the key for the engine. The old Subaru whined and rumbled, but as soon as Dana started backing out of the lot, the engine sputtered and fell silent. She tried again, but the starter ground without success. I couldn’t have flooded the engine so quickly, Dana thought, but no matter what she tried, the motor refused to engage.
She sat tapping the wheel, feeling the pleasure of the day slip away: she would be late home to Worcester; her mother would start in again on the safety issue and nag Bruce to get a bike. And if Bruce got a bike, he’d want to come on Saturdays. To avoid thinking more about this unendurable eventuality, Dana decided to call Triple A, but she found no one home at the ranger’s house and no public phone in the park. She was preparing to set off on her bike when a door clicked open, and a man wearing jeans and a navy wind breaker got out of the dark SUV on the other side of the lot. Though she’d been aware of the vehicle, Dana had not realized anyone was behind its heavily tinted windows.
“Need help?” he called, his voice light, neutral. He was tall and lanky with a trucker’s cap over his short, dark hair. Despite the tinted windows and the now rapidly spreading overcast, he wore mirrored glasses, and silver reflections of clouds and trees kept Dana from getting any sense of his personality.
Prudence whispered, take down your bike and ride to the highway. But it was getting late; Dana had no idea how far it was to the nearest phone and, once she called, she’d probably have to wait an hour for a mechanic. “My car won’t start. I’m going to have to find a phone to call Triple A,” she said.
“You should carry a phone,” the man said as he crossed toward her. “They’re so cheap now.” He stopped just on the other side of her bike rack.
“Sometimes you don’t want to take calls,” Dana said.
He smiled then, a curious, significant, warning smile. Dana realized that she registered the smile only because she had been teaching eighth graders, who lack adult skill in hiding their emotions.
“I have a phone,” he said quickly, eagerly. “Why don’t you make the call, and I’ll take a look under the hood.”
“I’d love to call, but I don’t want to take up your time,” Dana said. She didn’t want him to be helpful and so create a sense of obligation.
“I’ve got time,” he said. “I’ve been sitting looking over the lake, just kind of waiting. I’m lazy, while you’ve been out riding, keeping healthy.” Dana thought she heard a distasteful touch of irony in his voice.
“It was a nice day, a nice day to be out.” If she’d learned nothing else in two months, Dana had learned how to evade provocation. She was not going to argue about the healthy life.
“That’s what brought me out,” he said. “I only come out on nice days. I like to look at the water and feel the calmness of it.” He went back to his big dark vehicle and produced a phone. When she took it from him, Dana felt the damp imprint of his hand on the plastic case. What did he have to be nervous about?
“Want to pop the hood for me?”
He seemed a perfectly nice, helpful man, but Dana felt a sudden aversion to turning her back on him. “The car’s unlocked. Just reach down at the side for the hood. I’ll call and then I’ll try to start the engine.”
He looked at her as if he knew just what she was thinking. “Have the number?” he asked and smiled again.
Dana nodded. She reached into her day pack and pulled out her wallet, watching him all the time. But that was silly, really, because she was in a public, if lonely, place, with the Triple A operator on the cell phone. Dana gave her location and directions. The Triple A woman thought the mechanic could get there in twenty minutes, surely in half an hour.
“They’re coming right out,” Dana told the man. “You don’t need to bother.”
The hood sprang up and he fixed the little metal support bracket to keep it open. “It could be something as simple as your battery,” he said. “Or a loose connection.”
“The battery is brand new,” Dana said.
“You can get a dud battery,” he said. “Lot of the stuff today is just crap. They think we’ll buy anything, and half the time they’re right. Screw the Great American Public is the name of the game.”
Dana sensed, rather than saw, his bright, fixed gaze behind the shiny glasses.
“We can see through them, though. We got the tools to check this out.” He went back to his truck, emerging a couple minutes later with a volt meter to pronounce her battery functional. “It’s not the battery.”
“The Triple A people said twenty minutes. Fifteen now,” Dana said. This, she thought, was a plain enough hint, but he paid no attention. “Connections look okay, but won’t hurt to tighten them up.” He fiddled with the wires on the battery for a moment, then asked her to try the engine.
Dana slipped into the car, closed the door and turned the key. The man listened to the various whines and rattles and shook his head. He dropped the hood and came around to lean on her door. He had a number of ideas for what might be wrong, distributor, water pump, other mysterious Subaru organs.
“You’ve been very kind,” said Dana. “I’ll just wait for the mechanic. I don’t want to keep you.”
“I’ve got nothing much to do,” he said. Despite this wistful remark, there was an impersonal, almost mechanical, quality to his voice, as if he’d learned what to say without feeling the words. “Besides, they may keep you waiting quite a while. It’s real quiet here this time of day. Not the best place to be stranded.” He put his hand on the door frame near the lock button and Dana regretted having rolled the window down. “I like to help people if I can,” he continued. “I think that’s the right way, don’t you? To be helpful?”
Dana agreed, though she knew it would help her considerably if he would go back to his truck and let her wait alone for the mechanic. “I almost forgot your phone,” she said, handing it out the window to him. “You’re right, I should get one. I know Mom will be worried.”
He handed the phone right back, all pleasant and above board. “You’d better call Mom,” he said. “Let her know what�
��s happened.”
Dana took the phone and opened it, then tapped on the case without punching in the numbers. “My mother thinks it’s dangerous for me to cycle alone.”
“Perhaps your mother is right,” he said. “Now, take me. I could be anyone, right? Someone who sits all afternoon watching the lake could have anything in mind. You can’t always be lucky as you are today.”
Dana suspected he was trying to frighten her, though that was a silly idea when he had just handed her the phone. Annoyed, she punched in the numbers smartly and told her mother what had happened.
Her mom’s voice rose in her ear. “Where are you calling from?”
“Some guy’s loaned me his cell phone. I’m in the parking lot.” Dana explained about calling Triple A.
“I’ll phone Bruce,” said Mom. “He’ll have to drive down and pick you up.”
“Don’t do that,” Dana said too quickly, at least, she felt she’d spoken too quickly, as if she were not eager to see Bruce, as if she were making up excuses. “I may be real late. I’ll call him from the garage.”
As usual, her mom had advice and suggestions and was willing to discuss what should be done at length.
“I’ve got to go,” Dana said. “I’ve got to give back his phone.”
“What’s his name?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know,” said Dana. “He was in the parking lot and saw I couldn’t start the car.”
“Ask,” said Mom, and Dana raised her eyebrows, because he’d loaned her the phone and been helpful and really all she had against him were his creepy mirrored sunglasses and his eagerness to help.
“Mom wants to know your name.” Dana smiled ruefully to let him know this wasn’t her idea, but when he hesitated, she understood it was a bad sign.
“George,” he said.
“His name is George Anderson,” she told her mother. Anderson was the first surname that came into her mind, and Anderson would be good enough, because Dana was pretty sure George wasn’t his given name, either. She closed the phone and handed it over.
