“James! James Carson!”
It was Mrs. Kerrigan, who’d always hated him. Turning, he saw her large, florid face framed in the open window of her dining room.
“You’re home, I see.”
It was an accusation, harsh and spiteful. For a long, silent moment he stood staring at her. Could she see the contempt in his eyes—the loathing he felt for her? He hoped so.
“Are you looking for your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Well—” Her gap-toothed smile was malevolent as she crossed her fat forearms on the windowsill. He knew that mannerism. She was complacently settling herself to enjoy the effect of what she was about to say:
“Well, your mother ain’t here. About six months ago, they took her away to the asylum. Or maybe it was seven months ago, now. I forget.”
As he pressed the bell button, a low angry muttering of thunder sounded from the west, where ominous tiers of purple clouds lay heavy on the horizon. Almost immediately, a second rumble followed the first. To himself, he smiled. In high school English, in Miss Farnsworth’s class, he’d learned about Shakespeare’s use of sympathetic nature, when an angry nature reflected the dire deeds of men. So it was appropriate that thunder should sound as he pressed his Uncle Julian’s bell button. Because, sooner or later, dire deeds would follow.
From inside, he heard the sound of footsteps: light, quick footsteps. A small, white hand flicked aside the lace curtains covering the beveled glass of the tall, deeply carved door. Through the gap in the curtains he saw the narrow, anxious face of Barbara Carson, his cousin. He smiled at her, and nodded a greeting. The curtain suddenly fell back into place; the face disappeared. He knew that she could still see him through the curtain. So he kept smiling.
Finally the curtain parted again.
“My father isn’t home. He won’t be home for another half hour, at least.”
“Well, let me in. I can’t wait out here.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she was shaking her head. “I’m not supposed to, James. I’m not supposed to let anyone inside, until Daddy gets home.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“She’s in Charleston. Grandma’s sick. Mom’s taking care of her.”
“Well, let me in, Barbara. I’ve just got back. And your father’s responsible for me. Just like he’s responsible for you. So let me in.”
“Responsible?”
“That’s right. Responsible.”
“He didn’t tell me about it. I didn’t even know you were coming.”
“He probably didn’t know when I’d be here. Not exactly. Now let me in, Barbara.”
Once more, the curtain fell. But now he heard a night chain rattling. Cautiously, uncertainly, the door swung open. Everything Barbara did was uncertain. She was frightened of everything. She was a mouse—a nothing.
But he remembered to smile again. “Thank you.” He walked past her, into the large, high-ceilinged living room that opened off the entry hall to the left. Uncle Julian lived in a restored Victorian house, one of Darlington’s historical landmarks. Uncle Julian was a grain broker who also dealt in real estate. Still not fifty, with a handsome wife and a spectacular house, Uncle Julian was one of Darlington’s most prominent citizens. When Julian Carson walked down the street, people smiled and nodded. Julian Carson was important. So, to his face, no one mentioned his sister—or his nephew.
He tossed the brown paper sack on a tufted, red velvet sofa, and sat beside it. The bag was wrinkled and torn. Soon his possessions would fall out—his comb and his toothbrush, what the officials called his “personal effects.” Somehow the image of his personal effects exposed in his uncle’s house seemed an obscenity.
Barbara edged onto a small, straightback chair, facing him with her knees pressed together, hands anxiously clasped in her lap. She was fourteen years old, just developing. Her body was slight, but finely formed. She was wearing tight-fitting white slacks that-clung to her thighs, and dove deep into the cleft of her crotch. A red sweater revealed small, budding breasts.
When she’d said she wasn’t expecting him, she’d been telling the truth. Because, dressed as she was, she’d never have let him see her. Not Barbara. Not if she remembered the time she’d let him touch her, so long ago.
“You’re fourteen,” he said. “Fourteen years old.”
She nodded—a single small, grave inclination of her head. Her hair was blond, long and finespun. A twist of red ribbon held the hair at the nape of her neck, pulled smooth over her head. Her hair would be silky and smooth, soft to the touch. Soft, and exciting. When she lifted her head, he saw her swallowing. Her throat was thin, delicately modeled, exquisitely layered and muscled.
Beneath his hand, her throat would feel like a wild bird, fluttering and wildly beating, struggling to escape. But, captured, birds couldn’t fly. So, crushed to death, they died. Pressed hard against his, he would feel her body buck and shudder: a doomed, desperate bird. Dying.
“You’ve grown, since I saw you.”
Once more, she nodded.
He let his eyes linger on her, watching a sudden flush stain the pale flesh of her face. Finally, softly, he said, “Say something to me, Barbara. Don’t just nod. Say something.”
“I—” She licked at her lips. “I don’t—don’t know what you want me to say. My father won’t be home for a half hour or so. I’ve already told you that.”
“Did Uncle Julian tell you I was—getting out?”
“He—yes, he did. But he didn’t say when. And my grandmother, she’s been so sick, lately, that—” She left it unfinished. Once more, her eyes fell away from his. In her lap, her hand still twisted. She was afraid of him—afraid of being there with him, alone. Watching her, he felt his genitals tightening. Beneath his clothes, he was suddenly perspiring. His throat had gone dry. It was, he knew, the first sign—the first warning.
But she mustn’t know—mustn’t suspect. Not now. Not here.
So, again—still—he was smiling as he said, “Your house is beautiful, Barbara. You’ve done a lot, since I was here the last time.”
She nodded. Then, with obvious effort, she said, “Thank you.”
“Don’t you know my name?”
“Yes, It—it’s James.”
Still smiling, he gently prodded: “Cousin James. That’s what you used to call me, when you were smaller. Do you remember?”
“I—yes—I …”
From the hallway, he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Instantly, she was on her feet, fleeing into the hall. He heard the sound of the front door closing, followed by the sound of hushed, anxious voices. A silence followed. Then Uncle Julian stood in the open archway to the living room. Behind him, Barbara was silently fleeing down the hallway—gone.
“As I understood it,” Julian Carson was saying, “you weren’t to’ve arrived until next week. Tuesday, to be exact.”
On his feet, facing his uncle squarely, he shook his head. “I don’t know. They just told me to go, and gave me a bus ticket. So that’s what I did. I left.”
“How long have you been in Darlington?” Julian’s voice was brisk, clipped. His eyes were hard. They were watchful eyes. Hostile eyes. The eyes of the enemy.
“About an hour.”
“Did you go home? To your house?”
“Yes. Mrs. Kerrigan—the neighbor—said that my mother’s in an asylum.” He was satisfied with his voice—calm, cool. In control.
“It’s not an asylum,” his uncle answered curtly. “It’s a sanitarium. A very good sanitarium, in fact.”
“Is it expensive?” His voice was still calm. He was still in control. Perfect control.
For a moment, Julian didn’t reply. Suddenly his eyes were guarded. Finally, cautiously, he said, “Yes, it’s expensive. Very expensive, in fact. But she’s got to be there, no question. No question at all. She’s a sick woman. A very sick woman.” Then, quickly, Julian raised his wrist, glancing at his gleaming gold watch. To steal the watch would be
wonderful: a wild, dizzying rush of pure pleasure.
“Listen, James,” his uncle was saying, “I’ve just got time to shower and shave before I’ve got to go out. It’s business. Let’s see—” Still looking at the gold watch, Julian frowned. “Today is Thursday. You’ve got a job at the Chevron car wash, down on Bagley. It’s all set. Everything’s arranged. But it doesn’t start until Monday. Are you staying at home?”
“I don’t have a key. The door’s locked.”
“Yes. Well—” He reached into his jacket pocket, for a long alligator wallet. “Well, I don’t have time to look for the key. Not now. So why don’t you take this—” He extended three twenty-dollar bills. He held them gingerly, as if to avoid the contamination of finger-to-finger contact. “Take this, and get yourself a room downtown. Get yourself settled. Give me a call over the weekend. We’ll get together, and I’ll fill you in on what’s happened.”
“Where’s my mother? What sanitarium?”
Glancing again at the watch, Julian said, “It’s the Prospect Sanitarium, out north of town. But I’m not sure you should see her, James. That is, I’m not sure it’ll do much good, for you to see her.”
“I’d like to see her, though, Uncle Julian. I’ve got some business to talk about. Important business.”
His uncle’s small, narrow-set eyes came suspiciously alive. “Business? What kind of business?”
He paused a moment. Then, speaking in the same slow, calm voice, he said, “Money, Uncle Julian. I need money.”
“Well—” Julian’s round, smooth cheeks puffed out. He was a short, fat man with a round face and thick, stubby arms and legs. Once Carson had seen him swimming. His round white body had looked like a big, bloated frog.
“Well, you’ll have money, James. I mean, I’ll give you some—a stake, to start. Then, if you work hard, you won’t have anything to worry about. Nothing at all.”
“Still, I’d like to see her.”
“Yes. Well, that’s only natural, I suppose.” Fussily, Julian nodded. “And there’s no harm, I guess. But now, I’ve got to go. Call me over the weekend, James. We’ll get together. Maybe you can come over for dinner.”
But, as he picked up the wrinkled brown bag and walked past his uncle to the front door, he knew there’d never be a dinner invitation. He could see it in his uncle’s eyes.
Eight
AT THE DOOR, SHE heard a knock. It was the jailer, coming for her. Or was it the devil, rattling the gates of hell? Or an angel, striking a golden gong?
Or her mother, coming to punish her—to flay her with a whip until her legs ran red?
Again it came: three short, sharp blows on the white wooden panel. It was a signal. So she could be ready.
So, quickly, she moved back until her back found the wall. Then, eyes still on the door, fingertips light against the wall on either side of her body, she moved to her right—two steps, three steps. The fingertips were her eyes. Because the eyes must look, mustn’t leave the door.
One more step. The fourth step. It could have been the title of a song—of a poem set to music, played by a fiddling fool.
One more step—the final step. She’d found the corner. Without eyes, she’d found the corner. It was the place of power, her secret triangle. Kings had crowns and pyramids. Clowns had wands and waggles. But she’d found her corner.
As, slowly, the door opened.
As, slowly, she was sliding down the wall to the floor. Crouched. Ready. Watching.
Yes, it was the devil. The costume could change, and the face could smile. And the walk and the talk and drop and dangle and drabble could sniggle and slide …
But never the dross-downer.
And never the snake’s eyes, or the vermin mouth, with pointed teeth behind red-painted lips. Moving now. Talking. And smiling, too. Saying:
“You have a visitor, Mrs. Carson. Your son. James.”
But if the devil had knocked, then the son wasn’t Christ’s. Because where Christ could come, no devil dared ever walk.
And none could the son come. Never more.
The son
The son
And none could ever believer deceiver receiver the son from the Christ dramble.
But—yes—it was the son. The sound of his voice was the same. And, the face-shape and color of hair, brown, with eyes the same, so crystal cruel. Christ’s eyes.
Because Christ had been cruel, too. Ripping and tearing into her, to give her the son with the crystal eyes …
… the crystal-cruel eyes.
“Hello, Mother. I’m back.”
Yes, he was back. No one else could speak in that soft, dead voice. So he was back.
So she must remain crouched, protected. Especially from him. Her mother had bloodied her legs. But he had bloodied her soul.
Too.
Too many times.
Too too many times.
“Talk to me, Mother. I want you to talk to me.”
From outside, she heard the distant roll-wooly loudsounds of an airplane above, somewhere far in the sky beyond.
And that was her answer. She could open her mouth and the engine sound of distant thunder could speak for her. Magic.
Magic.
But to believe it might make her cry.
Why? Why?
Alone in the corner, crouched down, she heard her thunder-voice answering him. And, yes, she was crying. Because her face was wet beneath her eyes. Her fingers told her so.
She could remember that song: a Sunday school song, every stanza ending: Because the Bible tells me so.
Which began, really: Because her fingers told her so.
THE BIBLE TOLD HER SO.
But why was she crying? Because now she remembered the first part:
Yes, Jesus loves me
Yes, Jesus loves me.
And so, because Jesus had loved her, the son was there. In this room, standing over her. Saying: “Talk to me, goddammit.”
Cruelly. Cruelly.
So now she must scream. Nothing. Anything. Something. But scream. Now.
“Goddammit, shut up.”
She could see his hands, drawing back.
“Shut up.”
She heard the words through a sudden crash, flesh against flesh, bone on bone. Blinding her.
“Shut up, I said.”
And now, with his angel’s face close to hers, she could hear him say, “I want the money. Those envelopes. They’re mine, now. They’re for me.”
But did he love her?
Or had love gone with the sound of thunder, rolling off across the sky to leave her without the voice she’d found?
“Does Julian have it? Is that it? Uncle Julian—does he have the money? Do the envelopes go to him now?”
How could she answer? With the thunder gone, nothing was left for her. No voice. No hope.
“Just nod, goddammit. Or shake your head. One or the other. Or else—” The hand came back. That hard, heavy hand, so cruel for an angel’s.
“Is that it?”
Now the room was moving up and down, keeping time to her head, nodding. And, finally, with her head bowed, she heard the sound of footsteps departing.
So, softly, while she stared down at the small drops of blood on the floor, she could cry.
Nine
HE DRAPED THE DAMP, heavy cloth over the wire drying line, and reached in the hopper for two more cloths, one for each hand. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a green Buick station wagon emerging from the strips of heavy canvas that hung across the exit. Blasts of steamy air rippled the canvas. “Dragon’s breath,” they called it. And the wail of machinery was the dragon’s voice, a constant, angry roar.
A black teen-ager—Willard—sprang into the Buick, started the car and drove it to the right of the wide concrete driveway. The Buick’s owner, a slim woman wearing fifty-dollar denims and a hundred-dollar bush jacket, advanced toward the car, raising her wrist to look at her watch. She was late. Wearing her expensive clothes, driving her new Buick, th
e whole world waited for her. Anything she wanted, she could get. It was plain in every movement of her body, every line of her clothing.
For today—his third day on the job—this car was his last.
The Buick dived as Willard set the parking brake. Before the driver’s door had slammed, Junior Frazer was wiping at the car’s roof, on the right side. Frazer’s side was always the right. The left side was his.
“Hey, man—come on. Let’s do it, Jimmy.” Frazer’s strong, velvet-brown arms curved and corded as his two drying rags swept across the gleaming green metal. Frazer was eighteen years old. He’d never had a full-time job before. Pleasure was plain in every move he made, every quick, deft switch of his twin drying cloths.
“Come on, Jimmy, let’s dry this mother off.”
In all his life, except when he was very young, no one had called him “Jimmy.”
Now he was leaning against the car’s left door, sweeping his own rags across the roof. Some of the roof on his side was already dry.
Thank you, Junior Frazer, you dumb black bastard with one tooth missing in front.
Thank you, Junior Frazer, you big-lipped black ape.
As he began on the hood, Junior was already on the trunk, and now moving around toward the left rear fender. Apes were good workers. They’d been bred for work like this.
Junior and Jimmy. The perfect team. Master and slave.
Behind him the conveyor clanked and the canvas strips blew open again as another car emerged from the dryer—a white Lincoln, with a gleaming black top.
But not his. Some other slave’s. Not his.
He turned away, draped the two cloths over the drying wire, and strode to the time clock.
In all his life, he’d never punched a time clock. Not until now, his twenty-sixth year.
A small slip of paper was clipped to the time card:
See me before you go home.
Krober
Through the plate-glass window of the office, he saw Krober waiting for him. The master, waiting for the slave.
He slid the card into the clock, waited for the mechanism to click, slid the card back into the rack. Slid the slip of paper into his pocket—turned the knob and opened the plate-glass door of the manager’s office.
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