“Sure she’ll come. I’d like that. She can help us choose the house.”
I’m so choked I’m close to tears. Norah’s never had a home before, and Victor’s so damn generous. A lot of men would bitch about a threesome, close their hearts to Norah. “Can we take the fish?” I ask, looking at them now with Norah’s eyes; the magic rainbow colours, the paradise of plants.
“I wouldn’t dream of leaving them. You can send them air-freight, in these special insulated cartons. It’ll cost a bomb, but …” He shrugs. “It’s worth it. You’re right, you know, honey. I have missed my home town. I was no one in New York – just half a line of print in the telephone directory and a social security number on the IRS’s file. And Vegas is a mean town which rates you by your bankroll, not your personality.”
I walk over to the fish tanks, lure the shyest of the clown fish from its bolt-hole of green weed. “If we have a garden, can Norah have a bit of it, a patch all to herself? She’s never grown a bloody dandelion.”
“I’ll teach her to grow orchids.”
I take his hand, put a kiss inside the palm, close his fingers over it. We glance at one another. “Let’s go and tell her. Now,” I say. “This minute. Before we’ve even changed. I want to tell everyone.”
“But we’re not formally engaged.”
“What d’you mean, formally? D’you have to nick another diamond ring from the five-and-dime before it’s official?” I exchange grins with the lionfish.
Victor laughs. “You’ll have the best ring in Las Vegas.”
I don’t say no. If I love his scars, then I’m allowed to love his money. I know I’m not a saint – I’m greedy for too many things. It would never have worked with Reuben. I’m not a Jew, couldn’t be a Zionist, can’t change the world or save it. All the same, I’d like a cause.
“Hey, Victor?”
“What?”
“I’ve just had an idea. If we can’t have our own kids, why don’t we adopt a few from Vietnam – you know, as sort of … compensation?”
I’m slightly hurt when Victor laughs. I thought he’d tell me I was good again. I like it when he does that, feel capable of anything – Lady Bountiful dispatching crates of rice to shanty villages, or brave unselfish earth mother breast-feeding hordes of slant-eyed commie orphans. I drain my dry martini. I guess I’ll have to settle for a less dramatic cause – loving one man, taking in one dear and batty woman.
Victor takes my glass. “You’re far too young for kids yet. You ought to go to college first. My old one maybe. I could drive you there and back each day.”
I pretend to bridle. “I know – you just want me out of the house, so you can have some peace and quiet – you and Norah.”
“Yeah, that’s right. And a wife with a Master’s who can keep me in my old age.”
“You’re not going to be old, Victor. I shan’t allow it – ever. Well, not till I’m old, too. If we go back to Bardstown, you’ll be twenty-two again, like you said you felt. We’ll cancel all those horrid years when you were on your own and in hospital and everything.” I run my hand along his chin. “I’d like you with a bushy beard. You could rub it on my breasts.”
He touches them, fingers circling across and round the nipples. I shiver. “And I’ll go back a bit as well, cut out that whole summer when I gave up my college place and nicked those things and landed up in Beechgrove.”
He smiles. “You wouldn’t have met Norah then.”
I say nothing for a moment. Norah’s precious. I can’t explain it really. To the outside world she’s a pudding-brained old bat, but for me she’s become a sort of relative – the nicest, most important kind, who loves you as you are and would give you her right hand without demanding something back or playing martyr. And she knows things, deep things, which other people don’t. She may not have the words for them, but that doesn’t mean she’s thick. And she’s perceptive about people, liked Victor from the start, distrusted Reuben.
I pull at Victor’s tie. “I wouldn’t have met you, either. If I’d gone to university, I’d have been probably far too busy to enter competitions – not sixty-three times anyway, all for the same one.”
“So you can’t go back, you see. And nor can I. All we can do, as you limeys say, is simply soldier on.” Victor flicks his tie straight as if he’s about to be inspected by his sergeant, holds me with his eyes. “Okay, so you gave up your college place in England, but that doesn’t stop you applying here. In fact, we’ve got a lot more colleges. Not just Louisville, but the University of Kentucky in Lexington and …”
I’m silent. My father was so eager that I had an education, got somewhere in life. Goals again, a purpose; Dad proud of what he called his brainy girl. I can see him in his baggy Fair Isle cardigan, sorting through prospectuses with me, stumbling over words like anthropology, worrying about grants and means-test forms. There won’t be any grants out here. Only Victor’s bounty, his support. I hug him suddenly.
“Oh Victor, I do wish you could meet him.”
“Who?”
“My Dad.”
“He’d disapprove – of me, I mean. You and me.”
Victor’s right. He probably would. All the same, I’d like him there, in Bardstown, in that little white wood church with all the trees outside, giving me away. And Jan – I’d like her too. She could do the flowers, make up my bouquet. Suddenly, I’m missing her.
“Victor, we can visit England, can’t we?”
“Sure.”
“And we’ll still come back to Vegas sometimes?” I’m missing Angelique now, all the girls. If they’re tough and hardened, it’s only because they’ve never had my luck, a guy to bail them out, a second chance.
Victor laughs. “I guess we’ll have to, honey, if I’m going to pay for all those transatlantic flights. I’ll need a run of wins.”
“Will you teach me poker?”
“Absolutely not. We’d wind up in Cardboard City.”
“So you don’t think I’d make a gambler?”
“I’d prefer you as my wife.”
I get up, join him at the sideboard where he’s replenishing the drinks. “So when we getting married, then?”
“Tomorrow morning, nine o’ clock?”
“Don’t be nutty, Victor. How about my birthday, 19th June? We can put my wedding flowers on your friend’s grave – the one who died. Does he have a grave in Bardstown?”
Victor nods. “They … sent his body back – all the bodies.”
“We’ll put flowers on all the graves, then. And I want to see your house and where you went to school and …”
“And we’ll call on my old buddies and make our own new friends and maybe join the tennis club and …” Victor recaps the vermouth, passes me my drink. “I guess it may turn out to be another heroes’ welcome, honey, especially with you there. The Kentucky Standard’s bound to run a piece on us. ‘Tomahawk Hill survivor returns with English bride.’”
“We’ll be in the paper, Victor? Really? With photographs and everything?”
“Sure. It’s headline news. And everyone will envy me for having such a beautiful young bride.” He puts his glass down, takes both my hands in his. “Oh, Carole, my crazy darling Carole, can you really take me on – for better for worse?”
I grip his fingers. That ancient hackneyed phrase. It’s only now I realise how serious it is, how absolutely terrifying. Not just “I love you”, which is hard enough to say and really mean, but a solemn vow to make and keep for ever. For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health. A gamble with no guarantees. My parents didn’t make it. I think back to their years of co-existence, the endless nagging tension, no love, no give and take.
I reach out for a cigarette, let my hand fall back, wonder when it won’t be quite so hard. “Yes,” I say. I’m cold. I’m really shivering, though he’s turned the heater on. “I think I hope I can.”
Chapter Thirty
We’ve arrived. Quite some time ago. I’m sitting on my own on a piece of fallen
rock. I still feel sick, a bit. The drive was very bumpy, very fast. The man didn’t understand that I had to drive myself. I asked him several times, but he only laughed quite rudely and said did I want to kill him. I said no, just myself. I showed him the piece of paper about free funerals, but he pushed my hand away and said if I didn’t shut my trap and let him listen to the radio, he’d drive straight back the way we’d come.
I said nothing after that. I couldn’t even think because the music was so loud. Sometimes there was news. I listened very hard, but there was nothing about the Bomb. I think they keep it secret so the Russians won’t find out. I’ve never seen a Russian.
He dropped me at the ranger’s house. When we first set out, he asked me where I was staying and which part of Death Valley did I want. I didn’t know. It all felt very muddled and I can’t remember names.
I do remember one name: Jubilee. That’s where all the flowers bloom in the spring. Reverend Mother had a Jubilee. It was the only day she smiled. They’re not allowed to smile. We had cake for tea instead of bread and marge and everyone was happy. The ranger is happy all the time.
“I’d like to go to Jubilee,” I told the man. I still don’t know his name.
“Jubilee?”
“It’s a mountain. Very high.”
“I can’t leave you up a fuckin’ mountain.”
He was getting very cross by then because I didn’t know the way. He said I must have an address, but the ranger doesn’t have one. He lives all on his own in a very lonely place, far away from anyone without a street or number. I’ve never seen his home.
In the end, we found it. A house all on its own. I think it was the right one because it was hidden in the mountains and very dark and quiet.
“Let’s stop here,” I said.
The man left me a torch. He was quite kind once we’d stopped. He asked me if the ranger was expecting me and I said yes, he was, and told him not to wait.
He did wait, quite a while. He gave me his Thermos and half a bag of sweets. Then he drove away.
The ranger may be dead. There are no lights on in his house and no one answered when I rang the bell. I’ve rung it seven times. He may be in a shelter.
I don’t know what to do. I was going to ask the ranger if I could drive his car. You have to drink and drive if you want the funeral. I don’t think I’ll get it now. It had to be New Year. I’m not sure what the date is, but it must be nearly February, and after that it’s spring.
Spring is when you get the flowers. I’ve never seen a flower here, not in all Death Valley. Sometimes they don’t bloom at all, not even in the spring. Not if there’s no rain. The ranger told me that. Sometimes they wait years and years, too dry and parched to sprout. A million tiny seeds hiding in the dark.
This year, they’ll all burst out. There’s been rain this winter. More this winter than for over twenty years. The ranger said they’ll be wonderful this spring. He told me all their names. The names were beautiful. I tried to lock them in my mind, but they escaped and got away.
The flowers only bloom a short time. Sometimes just a week, sometimes less. They wait all those years to flower, he said, then die in just a day or so. He said he hoped I’d see them. I think he liked me. I think I was his friend.
“Will you be staying through to March?” he asked.
I couldn’t say, because I didn’t know when March was. St Joseph has his feast in March. In the convent, we had two Masses on his feast day, and you could buy Holy Pictures of him. They were very long, the Masses, and he looked angry in his pictures. St Joseph’s never angry.
I’m not allowed to drink, so I couldn’t drink and drive. It doesn’t mix with pills. I haven’t any pills. I forgot to bring them with me. And the man took the champagne. He said I owed it to him for the gas. I didn’t use the gas. Maria wouldn’t let me.
I’d like some nice hot tea. There’s coffee in the Thermos, but I couldn’t get it open. My hands don’t seem to work. They’re very cold and stiff. My body’s cold as well. You can’t be cold in deserts. People die of heat here. It’s the hottest driest place in all the world.
I think I’ll die of cold.
It’s been dark for hours. It’s still dark. It’s meant to be full moon tonight. The man who drove me said so. I can’t see any moon at all, not even just the peel of one. Only thick dark clouds. The clouds are black. Everything is black. It’s a quiet and peaceful black. Not quiet like Angelique’s house. That was frightening because people always listened, people with no bodies, only ears.
I’m not shut in, not here. The sky goes on much further than most skies. I keep looking up and up until my neck aches. I can see some stars between the clouds. Stars are saints, saints with silver eyes. I’m very near the saints here, near St Joseph.
Saints never need to go. I have to go a lot now, number one. I’ve been three times already, crouched down by the rock. And we had to stop six times in the car. The man got very cross. When I go, it stings.
You don’t go when you’re dead. When you’re dead, you smell of flowers, not toilets. Stars don’t smell, not ever, not even when they’re old. I’d like to be a star.
I get up and ring the bell again. The ranger may be sitting with the lights out. I knock as well, but no one comes.
I didn’t steal the shoes. I was going to pay, but the man took all my money. I’ll have to leave my handbag in return. Then Angelique can pawn it. It’s quite a useful bag. It isn’t new. I’ve never had a new one, but I’ve always kept it nice.
The shamrock is for Carole. I hope she doesn’t pawn that. It’s silver, like the stars, and very special. My mother left it for me. It meant she loved me, left me all her luck. I’ll leave it for Carole, leave her all I’ve got. I want her to be lucky and shamrocks bring you luck.
I’d like to wrap it up. I haven’t any paper. Only newspaper, the bit about the funerals. It’s torn now, but I make a little parcel, find a stub of pencil in my bag.
The ranger’s name begins with B. Or D. “Dear B,” I write, then cross it out. I can’t see what I’m writing. I try to make the torch work, but it’s sleeping like the Thermos. I shake it once or twice, but it keeps its eye tight shut. Everything is sleeping, maybe dead.
I go on writing in the dark. The writing is important. I’m asking if he’ll give the Luck to Carole, say it’s from her Friend.
I get up again, put it through his letter-box, knock and ring three times. No reply.
I sit down on another piece of rock. B or D doesn’t have a garden, only stones. They may have dropped the Bomb here. When they drop the Bomb, grass and trees and plants all disappear.
I think that’s why it’s cold. It’s always winter when they drop the Bomb. People scorch to pieces, but the flames are cold and black.
They’ve dropped bombs here before. The ranger told me. He didn’t call them bombs, but everything exploded just the same. Flames flew out of rocks and huge mountains walked around. It was long ago, before anyone was born, even Miss O’Something and St Joseph. The earth was very young then, young and fidgety. It couldn’t sit still, kept turning upside-down or jumping up.
The earth moves all the time. Sister Watkins said so. But in Beechgrove you can’t feel it. I can feel it now. It moves like waves in seas. I saw the sea when I was thirty-nine. It was made of rock, dull grey rock which moved.
It’s moving now. Underneath my feet. The whole mountain’s heaving up. I think it’s called an earthquake. They had earthquakes here before. I saw the pictures in the ranger’s book.
I clutch my piece of rock, shut my eyes against the flying sand. My head feels very strange. It’s full of pictures, pictures from that book. They’re moving too, leaping off the page.
I try and hold the ground still, cling on with both hands. No good. It’s tipping, swinging, turning upside-down. I’m twisted, split apart. Bits of rock break off from my body, go crashing down the mountainside. My arms have gone. I haven’t any feet. I’m thrown up in the air, tossed back again, broken into
pieces.
The rocks are very angry. I hear them roar and roar. I can only hear, not see. Sharp-edged stones have got into my eyes, wedged right across the lids.
It’s raining now, sheeting rain, turning the whole mountain into flood. Dirty water is gushing from my mouth, stinging down my legs. I’m swept into the flood, bumping over boulders, plunging down and down. I try to struggle up. Can’t stand. Can’t see at all. I’m spitting water, choking it; crying thick black mud.
I haven’t got a face left. Wind and rain have ground it down to nothing, worn it smooth and flat. I’m old, I’m very old. I was born before the moon was.
I lie still. Nothing’s still. Flames and ash spurting from the black hole in my head. Lava bursting out. I’m hot, I’m burning hot, so hot my rocks are melting, pouring down the mountains to the sea.
I’m waves, I’m only waves now. I can feel myself rolling up and over, white froth in my mouth and on my hands. I’m smashing against cliffs, wearing them away. Huge mountains worn to sand.
Only dust and sand.
Only soft black sand.
Soft.
And black.
Black.
Black.
I’m not dead when I wake. I don’t think I was sleeping because I’ve still got all my clothes on, far too many clothes on. I don’t sleep in my coat. It’s not my coat. It’s new.
I can see the moon, or some of it. It’s trapped behind a cloud. It must have come to help me. It’s lighter now, easier to climb.
I feel quite faint, so I get up very slowly. I’ve got to get to Jubilee. Jubilee means happy all the time.
I can see it now, a tall black mountain standing just in front of me. It wasn’t there before.
I leave my bag behind, tip out all the things first, put them in my plastic carrier. The bag’s for someone else. I can’t remember who.
I walk towards the mountain. It walks the other way. It’s so big, it moves quite slowly, but still I can’t catch up.
“Wait!” I shout. I’m tired. I’m very tired, not feeling well at all.
Sin City Page 57
