Come Out Tonight

by Richard Laymon

He didn’t want to go. If he left, he might miss something.

  Might?

  At the very least, he would lose his chance to watch her for a few more minutes. But who knows what else might happen? She might decide to lie down on her back for a little more rest. She might stand up and stretch. She might start talking.

  Pete didn’t want to miss anything.

  “Maybe she doesn’t need an ambulance,” Jeff said.

  “Are you kidding? Look at her. She should be in a hospital.”

  “We could take her to one in your car,” Jeff suggested. “It’d be quicker that way.”

  “I don’t know,” Pete said.

  His heart started pounding faster.

  We’d have to pick her up. Put our hands on her body. On her bare skin. Touch her. Hold her.

  Feel her.

  “It probably would be quicker that way,” Pete agreed. “Yeah. That’s not a bad idea. It’s worth a try, anyway.”

  The woman gasped out a low, whispered word.

  “What’d she say?” Pete asked.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Doh!”

  “Dough?” Jeff asked.

  They both leaned closer to her and lowered their heads.

  “Doh-nn.”

  “Don’t?” Pete said.

  “Don’t what?” asked Jeff.

  “Tuh…Tuh-ch.”

  “Touch?” Pete asked.

  “Don’t touch?”

  “Meeee.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “We just want to help you,” Jeff said.

  “Don’t…touch.”

  She wasn’t unconscious before, Pete thought. She was wide awake and paying attention. Knows everything we said and did. Now she’s got us figured for a couple of creeps…or perverts.

  Burning with shame, he wanted to run away from her.

  But he remained by her side.

  “We just want to help you,” Jeff explained. “We want to take you to a hospital.”

  “No.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Pete asked.

  In the silence following his question, he half expected her to answer, “Go to hell.” Or, “Fuck off.” Or, “Eat shit and die.”

  When she finally spoke, she said, “Waht.”

  “What?” Jeff asked.

  “Waht-urr.”

  “Water!” Pete blurted, vastly relieved.

  “I’ve got the hose right here.”

  “Dring.”

  “I’ll go get a glass or something,” Pete said. “Right back.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Pete stood up and stepped backward down the slope.

  “Everybody stay right where you are, okay? Nobody move.”

  “We’ll be right here,” Jeff said.

  “Don’t do anything.”

  Jeff smirked at him.

  Pete whirled around, rushed down to the wall and climbed it. At the top, he looked back. Jeff, kneeling, blocked his view of the woman’s shoulders and head. But he could see the rest of her. She was still on her hands and knees, her body gleaming and dripping.

  He hated to leave them.

  Hated to miss out on even a few minutes by her side.

  Envying Jeff, he sat down on top of the wall, pushed himself off, and dropped. He landed on the hot concrete. Instead of running around the pool, he dived in. The cold shocked him for a moment, then felt good. As he glided below the surface, he realized his trunks had been jerked down around his knees. He pulled them up, then swam to the other side. He almost lost his trunks again when he climbed out. Pulling them up, he ran to the back door of the house. He skidded it open and rushed in.

  Though dripping wet, he ran straight across the living room carpet.

  By the time he entered the kitchen, his feet were dry but water continued to spill from his trunks and roll down his body.

  What’ll I get her? he wondered.

  She asked for water, but maybe she’d rather have a Coke or a beer or…

  Just get her a glass! We can fill it from the hose.

  What about ice cubes?

  “Good,” he muttered.

  He grabbed a tumbler down from the cupboard, hurried over to the refrigerator and tugged open the freezer compartment. He reached into the ice-cube container, grabbed a handful of cubes and dumped them into the glass.

  Now what? he wondered.

  Try the phone?

  He stepped over to the wall phone…and stared at it.

  If I get through and they send an ambulance, they’ll take her away.

  He picked up the handset. Bringing it toward his ear, he heard a dial tone.

  She won’t be with us anymore. We might never see her again.

  Why should I call? he asked himself.

  Because she needs an ambulance, idiot.

  Jeff and I are perfectly capable of driving her to the hospital.

  She needs an ambulance.

  She said no hospital, he reminded himself. She just wants water.

  And I want to get back outside.

  He hung up the phone.

  Then, feeling a sudden rush of guilt, he grabbed it again.

  I have to call, he told himself.

  He set the glass on the floor to free his right hand, then tapped in 911.

  Jeff’s gonna kill me.

  The ringing started.

  I must be nuts, he told himself, throwing away a chance like this. But it’s the right thing to do. I’ve gotta live with myself.

  We would’ve had to lift her up, he thought. Maybe even carry her. Now we won’t have any excuse to touch her at all. We’ll just have to leave her on the ground and stand around till the ambulance shows up.

  One of us will have to wait in front of the house, not even with her. And guess who that’ll be?

  The ringing continued.

  “Haven’t got all day,” he muttered.

  Another ring.

  How many is that?

  Four or five?

  I’ll give it five more. If nobody’s answered by then…He hung up.

  Screw them if they can’t answer the phone.

  He crouched and picked up the glass. It felt slippery and cold from the ice cubes inside.

  Should I take her some aspirin? he wondered. Bet she’s got a headache.

  Might not be such a hot idea, though. Messed up the way she is, the last thing she needs is a blood thinner.

  What about Tylenol?

  Forget about it, he told himself. Just get out there with the glass and…

  What else?

  Find her something to wear.

  Jeff’ll kill me.

  I’d want to kill me.

  But what will she think if I don’t come back with a sheet or something to put around her?

  This is a no-brainer, he thought, hurrying toward the hallway. I take her out something to wear or I look like a total shit.

  But what? he wondered.

  It’s gonna get bloody.

  An old sheet? An old towel? Something of Mom’s…?

  I can’t go looking through Mom’s stuff.

  What about my stuff?

  Let her wear a pair of my trunks.

  He had a dresser drawer full of old swimsuits. They would be too big for her. They wouldn’t stay up.

  All the better.

  And his swimsuits didn’t come with tops.

  Even better.

  Just take her out a pair of big, loose trunks…It’ll look like I tried…

  He suddenly remembered the swimwear in the guest room. Mom and Dad had collected a variety of suits in different styles and sizes for friends who might drop by the house and want to enjoy the pool.

  She doesn’t know about them, he told himself. I could still take her a pair of my trunks.

  That’d be a dirty trick.

  Besides, Pete had occasionally spent some time inspecting the guest suits. There were a couple of very good ones. Especially the black string bikini that Harriet Hanson always liked to wear when she
came over.

  Harriet looked amazing in it.

  If our gal looks half as good…

  Pete hurried into the guest room, set down the glass of ice cubes and opened the dresser drawer.

  In seconds, he found the string bikini.

  Holding it up, he looked at the dangling cords and tiny patches of fabric.

  What’ll she think…?

  I’ll tell her it’s all I have, he thought.

  Besides, the less there is to it, the less it’ll be touching the places where she’s hurt.

  He shut the drawer. Glass in one hand, bikini in the other, he ran from the guest room and down the hall to the living room. The sliding door was still open. Outside, he used his elbow to shut it. Then he raced alongside the pool, his feet slapping the hot concrete, the ice cubes clinking inside the glass. He took the corners fast. Ahead, he spotted A Moveable Feast on top of the cinder-block wall. He ran to it, set the glass near the book, then stuffed the bikini under the waistband of his trunks and leaped at the wall.

  Braced up with stiff arms, the top edge pushing against his waist, Pete held himself steady and looked out at the slope.

  No longer on hands and knees, the woman was sitting cross-legged, her head down, her hands folded on her lap. Jeff, standing off to the side, was showering her with a broad, fine spray from the hose.

  Nobody was supposed to move.

  He felt a moment of anger, then noticed hazy bands of blue and yellow and red light floating in front of the woman, wrapping her in an aura of pure colors.

  Pete couldn’t move.

  He could only stare at her.

  She looked magical.

  Supernatural.

  My God, he thought.

  He gazed at her, struck with awe and wonder.

  I’ll never see anything like this again.

  With that, though she still sat shrouded in a misty rainbow, the magic vanished. The loss made Pete ache inside.

  He knew he would always remember the way she looked and the way it had made him feel for a few miraculous moments. He also knew that he would have to write about it. And that he didn’t stand a chance of getting it right.

  How could he possibly make his readers see those vivid rainbow colors? Or the way you could look through them to the woman, the girl, sitting under the spray with her short boy-hair matted down against her scalp and the sunlit water sliding down her body?

  Can’t.

  Nor could he possibly do justice to her radiance, her damaged beauty, her innocence and strength.

  He wanted to make his readers ache for her the way he ached for her.

  He wanted them to fall in love with her.

  And to be spellbound by the image of such a glorious wounded survivor sitting naked inside a rainbow all her own.

  Can’t.

  But I can try, he thought.

  I should make some notes while it’s all still fresh in my mind.

  Not that I’ll ever forget any of it.

  Make notes anyway, he told himself.

  “What’re you doing up there?” Jeff called.

  “Nothing,” Pete said.

  He climbed over the top, lowered himself to the ground on the other side, then reached up for the glass of ice cubes.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  On his way up the slope, Pete pulled the bikini out of his trunks.

  “Whatcha got there?” Jeff asked.

  “Something for her to wear.”

  She didn’t look up.

  Jeff snarled at him, but said, “Good idea,” in a way that almost sounded as if he meant it. He turned the hose away as Pete approached the woman.

  “It’s a swimming suit,” Pete told her. “It’s clean and everything. We keep some extras around for visitors.”

  She didn’t respond. She just kept her head down, maybe staring at her folded hands, maybe at her ankle or the stem of a weed on the ground in front of her crossed legs. Maybe looking at nothing.

  “You want to wear it, don’t you?”

  “Wah…ter,” she said.

  “I’ve got that, too. I’ve got ice, anyway.” To Jeff, he said, “Shoot some in here.”

  “I almost gave her some in the mouth,” Jeff said. “Scared she might choke on it, though. Comes out pretty hard.” He swung the spray over and flooded the glass.

  “You’re not kidding,” Pete said. As the glass overflowed, he pulled it away.

  Jeff twisted the nozzle and shut off the water.

  Without the hiss and splatter of the spray, the morning seemed strangely quiet.

  “Did you find out anything while I was gone?” Pete asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Like anything?”

  “Found out she doesn’t talk much.”

  “What about her name?”

  “Haven’t got a clue.”

  Pete sank to a crouch just in front of her. She didn’t look up. “My name’s Pete,” he said. “This other guy is my friend, Jeff. We found you unconscious back here a few minutes ago. We figure somebody must’ve…well, that you were the victim of a crime. Anyway, we’re behind my house. My parents are away for the weekend, but Jeff and I are going to take care of you. Okay?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “What’s your name?” Pete asked.

  After a few seconds, her head moved a bit from side to side.

  “Your name?” Pete asked.

  Another shake, but this time it was accompanied by a moan.

  Pete frowned over at Jeff and asked, “What did she say?”

  “Said it hurts to shake her head.”

  “Very funny.

  “I don’t think she knows her name,” Jeff said. “Or doesn’t want to tell us.”

  “Can you remember your name?” Pete asked her.

  “Water.”

  “Maybe that’s her name,” Jeff suggested.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Ever hear of John Waters?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “We can call her Water.”

  “Water,” she said again.

  Pete reached out with the glass and held it under her face. “Here you go,” he said.

  Slowly, she lifted a hand. She took hold of the glass, but almost dropped it. Letting out a soft whimper, she jerked up her other hand and caught it. Some water sloshed out. The ice cubes clinked like wind chimes struck by a gust.

  She raised the glass toward her mouth, then stopped without taking a drink.

  She can’t take a drink, Pete realized. Not slumped over like that.

  “Want some help?” he asked.

  Moaning, she raised her head and straightened her back. Her eyes met Pete’s.

  The whites were bloodshot, but the irises were pale blue. He thought he could see pain in them. And wariness.

  Her eyes lowered. She watched the glass as she lifted it with both hands toward her lips.

  Swollen, cracked, bloody lips.

  As she drank, she shut her eyes. She tipped the glass higher. Water suddenly spilled from its edges and ran down her chin, but she continued to swallow. The dribbles rolled down her neck, trickled down the center of her chest.

  With her arms up, there was nothing in the way of Pete’s view. Ashamed of himself but excited, he stared at her breasts.

  What if she catches me?

  I’ll be okay as long as she’s drinking.

  Quickly, he slid his gaze down her front and stared between her legs.

  He ached.

  She started to lower the glass, so Pete jerked his eyes up to her face.

  Jeff let out a laugh.

  Pete scowled at him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Jeff said.

  The woman’s left hand fell away from the glass and dropped across her thigh. Her right hand, holding the glass, settled on her knee. The water was gone. A few shrunken pebbles of ice remained at the bottom of the glass.

  “More water?” Pete asked.

  She looked at him. “Huh-uh.”

  H
e showed her the bikini. “Do you want this on?”

  Her head moved slightly up and down.

  “I don’t think she’s in any shape to put it on herself,” Jeff said.

  “Do you want us to help you?” Pete asked her.

  “Blee…”

  “I think that’s a ‘please,’” Jeff interpreted.

  “Yuh,” she said.

  We have to put it on her!

  “She’d better stand up first,” Jeff said.

  “Can you stand up?” Pete asked her.

  “I…” She shook her head a bit.

  “Is anything broken?” he asked her.

  “How would she know?”

  “She might know if she has a broken leg or something.”

  “What makes you think so? She doesn’t even know her name.”

  Looking Pete in the eyes, she said, “Chair.”

  “She wants a chair?” Jeff asked.

  “Me,” she said. “Chair. Chairee.”

  “Is that’s your name?” Pete asked.

  She nodded and winced.

  “What’s her name?” Jeff asked.

  “Cherry, I guess.”

  “Wow,” Jeff said. “Cool name.”

  She groaned.

  “Do you think any of your bones are broken?” Pete asked her.

  “Ah…” She lowered her head.

  “She moved around enough to sit up,” Jeff pointed out. “I’m pretty sure she hasn’t got a broken leg or arm.”

  “Do you want us to lift you, Cherry?”

  “Yuh.”

  Jeff stepped over to her side and squatted down. “You take one arm,” he said, “and I’ll take the other.”

  “Okay.”

  Pete stuffed the bikini under his waistband, then crawled to her left side, turned around and crouched. He studied her upper arm, looking for a good place to grip it.

  There was no good place. Wherever he might take hold, he would encounter bruising or raw, red wounds.

  “Be careful where you grab her,” he told Jeff.

  “Sure thing.”

  Turning toward her, Pete slipped his right hand under her armpit. It went in from behind. Her armpit felt moist and hot and snug. He eased his thumb down against an abrasion on the outer side of her arm.

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He cupped his left hand under her elbow. She didn’t flinch or cry out, so he supposed it must be okay.

  “How you doing, Jeff?” he asked.

  “Got her.”

  They waited while she uncrossed her legs, brought up her knees and planted her feet against the ground.