“Oh, God, Jack, hurry. I’m gonna be sick. Hurrrrreeee...”
Jack whisked her along the aisle, almost carried her, and Jenny cursed her luck in getting seats so close to the front. Now the place seemed a mile long, there was no way she was going to make it...
Then they broke through the Opera doors into the lobby and Jenny was bolting for the ladies’ room. She straight-armed the door, banged into the nearest cubicle—
And up it all came.
Jesus.
She kept her eyes closed, trying not to look in the bowl, but she couldn’t find the flusher, and when she opened her eyes to find it, there the stuff was, floating and bubbling in the bowl. Jenny thought, Camelpuke, and the thought induced a fresh wave of convulsions.
A hand touched her shoulder. It was Jack.
She wiped her mouth with toilet paper and tried to smile. “You can’t be in here. It’s the ladies’ room.”
“Are you okay? Can you make it to the car?”
Jenny stood, testing her legs. The cubicle walls swapped places a few times, then everything settled. She felt better. In fact, she felt good. She stabbed the flusher with her foot, looking away as the last of her dinner (camelpuke oh shit don’t think about camelpuke) swirled its way into the sewers.
She said, “Yeah, I can make it,” and tossed her ruined hairdo out of her face, resisting the impulse to apologize for her sickness. “Still love me?”
“I want Craig Walsh to have a look at you.”
She followed him out of the stall, glad the restroom was abandoned. “I don’t think we need to bother,” she said, surprising herself. Maybe Craig was right. Her baby was fine and she knew it. “It was just a bad burger.”
“I don’t want to take any chances,” Jack said. “I’ll call him from the lobby, have him meet us in the ER.”
* * *
As Jenny expected, Craig agreed with her diagnosis, sending her on her way with his usual reassurances and a painful shot of Gravol in her backside. Jenny considered the injection overkill, knowing that inside of an hour she’d be a zombie from the drug. But she submitted to it in the hope that, if whatever was left of her supper got angry again, she’d be able to keep it down. The single thing she hated doing most in the world was throwing up. She’d actually dozed off when Jack pulled the car to an abrupt stop in front of the house.
Jenny opened her eyes and saw a strange automobile parked in the driveway. It was a Duster—her kid brother owned one in his teens—and her first thought was that its owner must’ve stopped at the wrong address. Then fear seized her: visions of rape, her child overpowered by drug-crazed maniacs.
She looked up at the house and her heart sank. Even with the car windows up and the air conditioner running she could hear the thump of loud music. Jack’s stereo.
She looked at Jack. His face was dull granite, a terrible gray color in the street lights. His dark eyes seethed.
Jenny said, “Listen, honey, let me handle this. Tracy’s behind this, I can smell it. You know how Kim is, she—”
Then Jack was out of the car, striding across the lawn. Jenny froze a moment—the car was still running, parked in the middle of the street—then she climbed out and ran after him.
* * *
Tracy said, “Stop it,” sunk her nails into Charlie’s sweaty back and froze saying, “Listen...”
Charlie said, “What? Do what?”
Charlie was seriously wired. The Thai stick he’d scored turned out to be dynamite, and Thai was the best fuck drug in the universe. It had taken a lot of dicking around, a lot of being bitched at and ragged to get this little strapper on her back, and now that Charlie had her that way—especially when you considered the Die-Hard boner the dope had given him—there was no way he was going to stop now. She could rake the skin off his back in bleeding handfuls, but Charlie Haid was gonna blow his wad. It was just that simple.
He continued his line drive.
“Charlie, stop it. I think somebody’s home.”
“No way.” He was breathing hard now, maybe a dozen quick piston strokes away from hosing little miss Supreme Court princess full of spunk. “I didn’t hear nothin’. Relax. I got a parcel for you, special deliv—”
That was all he got out. A split second later he was on his ass on the floor beside the bed, his wet johnson slapping his belly. Tracy was on her feet, squirming into her jeans.
“What’s with you, bitch?” He got to his feet and stalked toward her. She was buttoning her blouse, ignoring him. “I’m talkin’ to you.”
Tracy glared at him and Charlie cupped his withering meat. He was stoned and he was steamed, but he was still with it enough to realize Tracy was not the kind of chick you fucked with...to coin a phrase. She weighed about ninety-five pounds soaking wet, but she’d tipped him off that bed without even grunting.
She said, “Listen, asshole. I think Kim’s parents are home, so unless you want to spend your formative years digging sod on a work farm, I suggest you get dressed and shut your hole.”
That got Charlie moving. He was already on probation on a possession rap, what he didn’t need was a statutory on top of it. Besides, if he played his cards right he could probably get her to finish him off in the car. A little tonsil hockey to cap off a perfectly fucked up evening.
He started scrambling into his leathers...then another thought took shape in his drug-fogged mind. Did some fat chick’s daddy think he could mess with Charlie Haid? Maybe he’d have to involve himself in this little domestic dispute.
He followed Tracy out of the bedroom, feeling the weight of the switchblade in his jacket pocket.
* * *
Jack flung open the front door. The place reeked of marijuana smoke, and Jack saw his crystal decanter lying on the living room rug in a puddle of cognac. The music was so loud the windows rattled in their frames. He was livid now, wildly alive.
“Kim.” The word cut through Alice Cooper’s “Only Women Bleed” like a pistol shot.
Jenny clutched his arm.
“I’ll handle this,” Jack said, pulling away. He strode into the living room, Jenny right behind him.
Kim was on the couch with Jeep, trying to shove her skirt down over her thighs. Her white cotton panties were bunched around her ankles and her shirt was unbuttoned, one of her breasts exposed.
Jeep’s eyes, slitted and red, widened in disbelief. His zipper was down and Jenny caught a glimpse of a blunt, hard penis before Jack advanced on him.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Kim said, tears boiling from her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do. He made me...he made me...”
Jeep said, “No way.” He was on his feet now, zipping his fly, jabbing his shirt into his pants. “She said you guys were cool.”
Jack grabbed him by the ear and twisted. Jeep screamed.
“Let him go, dumb fuck.”
Without releasing Jeep’s ear, Jack turned and saw Charlie standing in the entryway. Tracy had already fled through the open door. Charlie pulled out his switchblade and thumbed the release button.
Jack said, “First I’m going to take that pickle fork and carve your friend’s ear off with it.” He gave Jeep’s ear another twist. “Then I’m going after your balls.”
“Jack,” Jenny said. She huddled next to Kim on the couch. “This is getting out of hand. I’m calling the police.”
Jack said, “I told you to stay out of this.”
“Tough guy,” Charlie said, waving the six inch blade. “Want some? Tough guy?”
Jack grinned. It was a pleasant grin, almost friendly, and Charlie found himself grinning back. For a moment, it was almost like old friends having a play fight.
Then Jack was gliding toward him, closing the gap in a kind of light-footed swagger. He still had Jeep by the ear and the little guy stumbled along beside him. He stopped two feet shy of Charlie’s reach and cranked Jeep’s ear. Howling, Jeep went down on one knee.
Charlie said, “Let him go.” Then he glanced down at his friend.
; The edge of Jack’s hand struck Charlie’s wrist above the joint. Charlie’s hand went numb and the switchblade twirled to the rug. Jack kicked it under the love seat.
Eyes wide, Charlie plucked back his jacket sleeve and screamed. His arm was broken.
Jack’s thumb came down on the bridge of Jeep’s nose, fracturing it. He released the kid’s ear and Jeep cupped his spouting beak.
“You boys can go now,” Jack said. “Unless you want to party some more.” He glanced at Jeep. “Get one drop of that shit on my carpet, runt, I’ll fix your other ear.”
Charlie howled, “You broke my fuckin’ arm, man. I’m gonna bring the cops down on you for this. I’m gonna—”
Jack took a step toward him and Charlie bolted for the open door. Jeep, bleeding copiously, was already three long strides ahead of him. The two of them leaped off the porch into the yard, screaming obscenities, shielding their wounds like dogs. A moment later they were tearing across the lawn in Charlie’s Duster, ripping up turf, just missing the idling Mercedes as they slewed into the street. Jack slammed the door behind them.
Then he returned to the living room and started removing his belt. “Jenny,” he said. “Upstairs.”
Jenny sat in front of her child. “Stop this, Jack. You really hurt those boys. That wasn’t necessary. They’re only kids.”
“They’re punks. One of them pulled a knife on me. I should have killed him for that.”
And Jenny believed him. In that wild moment, she believed him. She’d been afraid before. Now she was terrified.
Jack’s belt whispered out of its loops.
Jenny stood, shielding Kim with her body. “Stop this, Jack, right now, or I’ll call the police. I swear it.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Kim said, sobbing. She’d gathered herself into a ball against the arm of the couch, her underwear still around her ankles. “I deserve it...”
Jack brushed Jenny aside and brought the belt down. It cut the air like a bullwhip, finding flesh. Flinching under the blow, Kim looked up into her father’s eyes and saw twin cold root cellars. She did not cry out.
Jack swung the belt again, catching her arm and half-exposed breast this time. Its tail stung her face, raising an ugly weal.
Jenny screamed, “Stop it,” and seized Jack’s rising arm. It was like grabbing the leg of a stallion.
The belt whipsawed across Kim’s legs and Jenny yanked on Jack’s arm with everything she had.
Then Jack shrugged. He shrugged and Jenny went airborne, landing on her stomach on the edge of the coffee table. An ashtray wobbled to the floor, dumping a still-burning roach onto the carpet. Jenny rolled onto her side and sat up, a sharp pain ripping through her belly.
Now there was a warm gush of fluid between her legs.
no
She sat on the rug with her knees drawn up, watching Jack whip their adopted child. In a hoarse whisper she said, “Jack, I think I’m losing the baby...”
But Jack didn’t hear her.
Clutching her abdomen, Jenny got to her feet and stumbled into the stairwell, the front of her gown tacky against her legs. She staggered into the bathroom upstairs, sick with fear. The pain had become a knotted, crampy breed of agony she’d experienced before.
Somehow she got out of her things and stood shivering in a rumple of garments. The room seemed to tilt...
Please, God, let my baby be okay—
Jenny looked down at her evening gown. It was soaked with blood.
“Jack...”
She sat on the open toilet seat and stuck her head between her knees. And in that instant, every expulsive reflex in her body seemed on the verge of triggering at once.
Unable to stop herself, Jenny bore down, a sound of unbearable strain ripping from her throat. Now there was a fresh gush of fluid, and Jenny could feel the margins of her vulva stretching. She pressed her fingers against the round firmness of her baby’s head, trying to hold him in.
I’m losing him. God help me, I’m losing him...
Jenny threw her head back and screamed, closing her eyes as the final cramp wrung her out.
There was a splash then. Not a big one—a rock plinking into a still pond—and Jenny sagged off the toilet in a dead faint.
* * *
Jack burst into the bathroom and froze, the belt still clutched in his fist. He looked at Jenny’s body, sprawled in a spreading pool of blood, then at the open throat of the toilet; there was gore smeared down its porcelain neck in scrawled finger shapes.
The belt dropped to the floor. Jack shuffled to the toilet like a man approaching the gallows.
At his feet, Jenny stirred. “Jack? Oh, Jack...”
She pushed up on her elbows, the last of her strength ebbing away. There were tears in Jack’s eyes, the first Jenny had ever seen.
He slipped a bath towel off the rack and reached into the bowl. Jenny heard his hand dip into the water, saw him lift the tiny corpse stained Sani-Flush blue, then swaddle it in the towel.
Kim was in the doorway now, her face tear-streaked, angry welts on her legs and arms.
Jenny said, “Jack...” She could feel herself fading again. The pool of blood around her was widening at an alarming rate. “Jack, call an ambulance...”
Jack’s gaze fell on her then and Jenny’s words curdled in her throat. She thought, If Kim weren’t here, he’d let me bleed to death.
“I’ll do it,” Kim said, and hurried off down the hall.
* * *
The gallery opening was a huge success. Before Richard had seen the last of his guests to the door his mother was punching the grand total into her pocket calculator.
“Six hundred thousand and change,” the old matron said. “What do you think about that, Richie? Not bad for paint-by-the-numbers.”
“Yeah, Ma. That’s great.”
Richard’s mother delighted in the money—she was the middle child in a working class family of thirteen—and Richard had never begrudged her that delight. Truth was, he got a hell of a kick out of it himself. But there was little joy in him tonight. Dumb, he realized, immature, but true.
Sandra Dickerson knew her only son well, and after warm congratulations bid him goodnight. Richard stood in the doorway and watched her tool away in her Jeep. He’d been happy to share his success with her, especially after his father’s untimely death in an industrial accident, and even happier to make her an active part of it. “I grew up poor,” she told him when she came up with the idea of managing him. “And your father, God rest his soul, was a lousy provider. So I know what it’s like.” She grinned at him then, a faintly sinister grin, Richard had judged at the time. “You let me manage you, Richie,” she said, “and no one is going to screw us. That much I can promise you.”
Still wide awake, he closed the door and wandered through the gallery, picking up champagne glasses, switching off track lights...and wishing Jenny had come. A boyish part of him still expected her to show up, but the grown man in him knew it wasn’t going to happen. Sometimes he hated that grown man, despised the indolence that had lost him Jenny in the first place. Maybe if he’d just gotten busy, shown her he could produce...
But he knew this was just more wishful thinking. His delayed immersion in the work, his tentative, almost seductive hits and misses, had been critical ingredients of what he’d come to think of as The Process—of maturation, emotionally and artistically, but also an active defiance of maturation, a stubborn clinging to the all-seeing eye of the child. From this, with time, had followed the vital faculties of visualization, empathy and feeling. At eighteen, all of this had eluded him. At eighteen, he couldn’t have painted an outhouse. Jenny might have thought so, but something deep, and wise, in Richard had known better.
He caught himself cleaning up and stopped. The caterers would be back in the morning to pick up after Ottawa’s elite. Old habits died hard.
He poured himself a glass of champagne and carried it to the front of the gallery. There was a big bay window here, giving a view of the fl
oodlit grounds, and Richard sat on the wide sill. From this vantage he studied the painting Emily Kraft had been so intent on acquiring.
It was a large canvas with a gilded frame. The painting had taken him a week to complete, seven days of almost non-stop work, pushing the oils faster than they wanted to go, transforming a dog-eared Kodak into one of his most powerful compositions. He got the photo from Jenny’s mother while he was still in his teens.
“Jenny was six when I shot it,” she told him. “We were at her grandparents’ farm in Beckett’s Landing. My, how she loved those trips to the country. Her gramps rigged her that swing out of rope and an old length of barn wood. The ’suckle was in full bloom that day, buzzing with honeybees, and that fragrant your eyes wanted to water...”
The composition was simplicity itself: summer sun shafting down from an unblemished sky, a band of which could be seen at the top of the canvas, perspective pushing it miles away across the hayfields that rolled and shimmered beyond the honeysuckle; the honeysuckle itself, crowding the foreground, droopy with blossoms—he’d even included a few of the honeybees Jenny’s mother had recalled so nostalgically. And, slightly off center, the focus of the canvas itself: a small, sable-haired girl on a swing, rising through her arc, sturdy arms chestnut-brown from the sun, flounce dress billowing back unheeded to reveal her legs, long and slender even then, and a glimpse of pink cotton underpants. How alive she looked. How innocent and alive...
Tears came to Richard’s eyes. He wept quietly and without shame, wondering where Jenny was at this moment, praying all was well.
* * *
Jenny kept drifting in and out. Each time her eyes fluttered open she saw Kim hunched over her in the speeding ambulance, her face puffy from crying. Jenny wanted to tell her everything would be fine, but she couldn’t summon the strength.
She faded again, then she was aloft in the cool night air, a glimpse of star-specked sky giving way to glaring fluorescents and a jarring thud as the paramedics engaged the stretcher’s retractable wheels.
On an elevator now. Bumping, rolling out. Furtive whispers. No sign of Kim. Curious eyes above surgical masks. Then a voice...
“Jenny, it’s Doctor Hardie.”
Sandman Page 11
