The neighbors came to accept the different family, and Chris always had to deal with those ignorant. He remembered his patience, and he always remembered the extremes of evil humans were capable. No one told the story, except in the occasional playground tale, and when his brother Tom came home from Korea missing his arm, taken in a mortar blast, he only said that the world could move on.
DOUBLE FEATURE
NEAL F. LITHERLAND
I arrived at a quarter after five, just as I said I would. My shirt was clean, my slacks were creased, and a single button held my corduroy jacket closed. I’d polished my shoes to a shine, my socks matched, and from head to toe I looked the dapper date. My palms were still a little damp, and it took me two tries to press the bell at 225 Elm Street. Clipped footsteps sounded in the front hall, and I wiped my hands against the seat of my pants just as the green door with the brass lion-head knocker swung inward.
“William, punctual as always,” Mr. Spitzer said, his accent softening my name’s first letter, and putting an exotic emphasis on the rest. He ushered me inside, closing the door and offering me his hand. “Cheryl’s upstairs. She asked me to make sure you didn’t leave without her.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Spitzer,” I said, taking his hand and shaking once. He laughed as if I’d said something funny, and stepped into the den.
“Were you an older man William I’d ask if I could get you a drink,” Mr. Spitzer said, unstoppering a decanter.
“I appreciate it,” I said.
He stopped pouring his drink, and glanced at me. Mr. Spitzer was a small man with receding hair, and he still wore two of the three pieces of his business suit. His gray banker’s eyes weighed me, and I could feel the scales tipping under my feet. Then he smiled like I’d passed some internal test.
“I’m glad you do,” he said, pouring the rest of his glass and sipping. His tie was loosened, but his cufflinks were still firmly in place.
We talked for a few minutes, passing time while we waited. He asked me about school, and I told him I was doing well, but thought I could do better. He mentioned the pictures I’d taken that had made it from the school paper and into the Times, and I said I hoped they were the first of many. He smiled, and told me that if being a photographer wasn’t my calling he was sure there was room for me in finance. I thanked him, and meant it.
“Didn’t keep you waiting, I hope?” Cheryl called from the stairs.
She was wearing her reporter’s ensemble; a black skirt, tight white blouse, black stockings, and low heels, with her purse over one shoulder. She leaned on the bannister, looking over her glasses at me. Her hair was sleek and clean, hanging loose to her shoulders and curling at the ends. Her red lips quirked at the corners, and my heart sped up like it was trying to send Morse code along my ribs. I tried to say something, but for a moment nothing came out.
“Not at all,” Mr. Spitzer said, finishing his drink and setting the glass on the sideboard.
“You look beautiful,” I said. Cheryl pushed her glasses back up her nose, nodding once.
“Thank you, Will,” she said as she came down the last few steps. I met her at the base of the staircase, and she looked me over with a critical eye before straightening my lapels. “You’re pretty sharp yourself.”
I beamed, but managed not to flush. She slipped her arm through mine while turning me around to face her father. I managed to get my lips back down over my teeth, but Mr. Spitzer was pouring himself a second scotch. It was the limit he set himself, and I’d never seen him break it. Not even on the late nights when he and my dad sat up and talked about the war. The nights when Cheryl’s father rolled up his sleeves so you could see the numbers tattooed on his forearm. Cheryl pinched my arm, and I coughed slightly.
“Mr. Spitzer, I know it’s later than usual, but would it be all right if Cheryl and I stayed for the second film?” I asked. “It should be over by midnight, but if that’s too—”
“I trust you, William,” he said, cutting me off. He waved his glass, and gave me a small, almost secretive smile. “Just take good care of my daughter, and make sure she’s home before I have to worry.”
“I will, sir,” I told him.
Cheryl kissed her father’s cheek, leaving a faint lipstick print behind. She grabbed her coat, and had the both of us out the front door before her old man could change his mind. I reclaimed my arm long enough to open her door, then hurried around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. The warm motor caught, turning over with a low growl. Cheryl grinned, and drew in a deep breath that was distracting to say the least.
“I didn’t think your dad would let you take the Commodore,” she said as I reversed out onto the street.
“I didn’t think yours would let me keep you out,” I said, shifting gears and aiming toward the end of Elm. “It didn’t take as much asking as I thought it would. He told me if I was celebrating then I should do it in style. As long as I returned it in the same condition I found it in, I can consider it mine for the evening.”
Cheryl made a small noise in her throat, but didn’t say anything. I recognized the sound, and chose not to race her train of thought. Instead, I concentrated on driving. I turned left onto Main, and hooked down around the town square toward Old Highway 15. First the businesses thinned out, then the houses dropped away. There was nothing but farmland on our left, and a screen of huge, ancient oaks replete with Autumnal foliage on our right. A small sign marked the turn-off five miles outside of town. I slowed, bouncing off the pavement onto a rutted, gravel track. It led into a shady arch in the tree line, and we left the encroaching evening behind.
A small booth sat in the center of the path. It was painted bright red, and a kid with nearly as many pimples as he had freckles waited in a white shirt and a red vest. I took out my wallet, and handed him a few bills. He passed me back some change, and waved us on.
“Big spender,” Cheryl said, looking at me from around one wing of her hair. I shrugged, and tried to make it look modest. We usually split the cost, propriety be damned. Not tonight, though. There was something different about tonight, and I think we both knew it.
The trees opened up, and we entered the Secret Valley Drive-In. Neat rows of pinstriped grass and gravel ran from one end to the other, interspersed by metal posts that held squawk boxes on thick cords. In the center sat a concrete pillbox painted a garish green that would be just as black as everything else after sundown, and looming over the entire spread was the massive, blank facade of the single screen. It had its back to the trees, cutting off the world that existed beyond the orange and yellow boughs.
Despite the still-lit sky, we weren’t the first ones to arrive. A few families lounged up close near the screen, and cars dotted the landscape here and there. Some people had set up chairs, and some people sat on rear bumpers or reclined on picnic blankets. Even the infamous rear rows were only partially full, the overhanging branches of the far end making the spot shady and private. I let out the clutch, and we started rolling.
Heading down the main drag felt like the slowest game of chicken the world had ever seen. If I turned off too soon, I’d look like I lost my nerve. If I went back too far, I’d be jumping the gun. So I had to try to gauge how much was too much, and whether or not I was pushing my luck. My courage held till I was six rows from the back. I broke, turned the wheel, and ducked into row number five. It was further than I’d been to that point, but not as far as I could have gone. I put us in park, and when I turned Cheryl was looking at me. Her eyes were half-lidded, and her lips pursed. It was a look she usually had when she found a story particularly satisfying. It was also one passed down from her old man.
“Yes?” I asked. She tapped the end of my nose with her index finger, the nail a warning red that matched her lips.
“Never answer unless you know what I’m asking,” she said.
“Well, what are you asking?”
“Would you take a walk with me?” She asked, opening her door. “I need to str
etch my legs before we settle in.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said, tucking the keys into my pocket and getting out to join her.
We walked. We passed other early birds staking their claims. A few fellows threw a baseball around. Three girls skipped rope off one of the gravel patches, an older woman clapping and keeping time with them. We didn’t go anywhere special, and for a while neither of us said anything. We didn’t need to. She didn’t walk too slow, I didn’t walk too fast, and we took a roundabout tour of the field all the way up to the base of the big screen. She rested a hip against one of the screen’s supports, watching the main gate. No one left, and quite a few people came. It was like watching schools of fish. More sensible, economy cars moved in stately lines, one or two peeling away from the pack to find a comfortable place. Boxy Chevrolets and Ford work trucks grunted and backfired their way through the ranks like engorged turtles, settling in places big enough to take them. The fins of the newer models cut through the trees; land sharks in candy-apple red with the drivers honking and bellowing out cat calls. The sun started to slip out of the sky, as if it had a previous engagement in Hawaii and was in a hurry to be off. A chill breeze shook itself out of the trees. I put my arm around Cheryl’s waist, and she didn’t pull away.
“Why did you do it, Will?” she asked me. It was an airy question, but she didn’t look my way when she asked it.
I didn’t need to ask what she was talking about. The incident when the Times had offered to re-publish an article of Cheryl’s along with my pictures, and who had tried to pay me behind her back, had been the only thing we hadn’t talked about for the past two weeks. I didn’t even need to think about my answer. “Because what he tried to do wasn’t fair.”
Cheryl turned, and somehow cut the already narrow space between us in half.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“That’s it,” I said. Then when it was clear she wanted more, I took a deep breath and tried to elaborate. “I went to the parade to help you cover it. They were my pictures, but they were meant to go with your story. You did just as much work as I did, so there was no reason for him to pay me for mine and not to pay you for yours.”
“So you didn’t do it because you wanted to be my hero?” Cheryl asked.
“Well I didn’t, what I mean is—”
Before I could say anything to embarrass myself she leaned up and kissed me. It wasn’t a hard kiss like you saw on the big screen, but it stopped me cold in a very warm way. She tasted like sweet mint with a hint of sugar, but beneath was a fuller, richer flavor. I leaned into her to try and get more, but she pulled back. My mouth worked, but no words came out. Then my brain caught.
“Cheryl, I—”
“Hush, Will,” she said, putting a finger to my lips. She smiled, and gently wiped her lipstick off my mouth. “I know you didn’t bull up to Mr. Clarkson because you wanted me to fawn. But I had to brace you with it anyway.”
“Just to be sure?” I asked.
“Just to be sure,” she said.
I shook my head slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. Part of me felt sandbagged, but other parts were more than making up the difference.
“Are all girls as complicated as you?” I asked.
“No,” Cheryl said. “Would you rather I make moony eyes at you and start talking about kids and wedding plans?”
“Lord and all his saints preserve me,” I said, crossing myself.
She laughed, kissing me again. It was quicker, but hit me just as hard. She pulled my arm around her shoulders, squeezing against me. “Now come on. It won’t be a proper movie night without some popcorn and a coke.”
“That’s what the commercials say, anyway.”
Dusk came on, and with it familiar chaos. Headlights flashed, and silhouettes danced to the carnival blare of horns. Butter and salt mixed with perfume and cologne, all of it tinged with the scent of excitement sharpened by early October. It was one of the last shows of the season, and the Valley was going all-out to make sure that when winter finally let go next year every single person would want to come back again. The concession stand was an island of heat and light, blazing with noise and ringing with demands. We waited, shuffling forward through the crowd until it was our turn. I ordered, and slid a folded bill across the counter. We headed back the way we’d come with Cheryl cradling the soda, and me carrying a mid-sized tub.
“Will you look at that,” Cheryl said, pointing. I followed her finger, and my eyes went wide.
My mother always said my dad’s ‘49 Hudson Commodore 8 was the third child of the family. That car was everything he’d fought the war for, all wrapped up in sleek engineering and a smooth paint job. Pride, security, room for family, and as long as he took care of his obligations it took care of him. It was unique, stylish, and without exaggeration the thing he loved most in the world after my mother, my brother, and me. It was why it took me a minute to realize that the Commodore I was looking at wasn’t his.
In the sharp shadows, with the harsh flashes of low beams, it looked exactly the same. The long hood, the low brow of the cab, and even the characteristic sheen that was a good waxing’s calling card. The driver’s side mirror was broken clean off though, and there were two shapes in the front seat. They were also close enough to be practically indistinguishable from one another. I glanced at Cheryl.
“What, precisely, am I supposed to be looking at?” I asked.
Cheryl pinched the inside of my wrist. “The car, Will.”
“Ah,” I said, resisting the urge to rub the sore spot just behind my watch band. “Good thing you noticed it before I did. I probably would have opened the door and gotten in before I realized.”
Cheryl laughed; a full, rich note like good whiskey in a cheap glass. I smiled, but the thought of stepping in on someone’s action even by accident was enough to make my scalp tighten. I got us walking again, two rows back and three cars over. I could still pick out the imperfect twin when I got in. Cheryl turned my face to her, amusement still pooled in her eyes.
“Don’t get any ideas big guy,” she said.
I kissed her. She gasped, but didn’t pull away. She opened her mouth, and dragged me in deeper. I tasted her again, taking as much as she’d let me. She slid her fingers beneath my collar. Her touch was warm against my cool skin, and more intimate than anything I’d ever felt. She drew a single nail along my pulse, and time slipped away. When we came up for air, there was a lion roaring on the screen and the previews were starting. Cheryl never even glanced at the movie. She just regarded me while she sipped at the straw.
“You never mentioned you were a good kisser, Will,” she said.
My face went hot. “No one’s ever told me I was good at it.”
“Well, someone just did,” she said, scooting so her thigh touched mine. “Now quit hogging the popcorn, it’s about to start.”
I rolled down the window, taking care as I hung the speaker on the door. Cheryl sat the popcorn in my lap, munching a few pieces at a time. She carefully wiped her fingertips after every bite to keep the butter off her clothes. I put my arm across the back of the bench. Cheryl offered me a drink, and I took it. The straw was still warm where her lips had been.
The first film of the night was Hitchcock’s Vertigo. We’d both seen it two years ago when it had come out, but didn’t hold that against it. We watched as Jimmy Stewart stared into the abyss, and broke down in the shakes as unstoppable fear jangled his nerves. We emptied most of the bucket, and all of our cup by the time Kim Novak made the scene. The leads were starting to stalk through the nearly abandoned San Francisco streets when Cheryl pulled my arm around her like a blanket. She trembled slightly.
“You all right?” I asked, the unfolding drama in front of me immediately forgotten.
“Not really,” Cheryl said. “Guess it’s colder than I thought it was going to get.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” I said.
“Will you?”
I did my best. When I pulled back we were b
oth breathing hard, our coats were in the passenger foot well, and Cheryl was sitting in my lap. The windows had fogged over, and so had her glasses. Everything outside the car looked like snatches of a dream; dark shapes in a dark sea who paid us no mind. Her teeth grazed my neck, and my pulse jumped so hard my extremities hurt.
“It looks like intermission,” she said softly.
“How can you tell?”
She laughed, kissing the hollow of my throat. “There’s nothing but music coming out of the speaker.”
She was right. I smiled, the expression loose and sloppy on my face, and leaned in for another kiss. She let me, but pulled back when I tried again.
“One step at a time, Will,” she said. She put her arms around me and sighed, a tremble of an entirely different sort sliding through her. “Let’s not go too far tonight, huh?”
“Sure,” I said after a moment. I pressed my face into her hair, just behind her ear. I smelled the last dregs of perfume, eclipsed by the scent of her flushed skin. I tasted that little, secret place, and she dug her fingers into my shirt. “Nothing you don’t want, Cheryl.”
She held on for a few more moments, then leaned back. Her hips shifted, and I groaned. She carefully took off her glasses, cleaning them on her sleeve before putting them back on. Then she rested her hands on my shoulders, and slid reluctantly back to her side of the car. She offered me my jacket.
“Going somewhere?” I asked.
She laughed, tossing the cords into my lap. “I’d like to clear my head a little bit, and powder my nose.”
“I suppose I could use a break,” I said, sliding my arms into my jacket.
“Liar,” Cheryl teased. “But it’s the thought that counts.”
We stepped out into the chill, and joined the sea of pilgrims heading for the concession stand. Couples walked arm in arm, kids rushed with their need to use the bathroom, and small knots of people our age moved in little packs if they weren’t there as couples. Not all the cars we passed were empty though. Some had the windows down, occupants smoking or talking while they waited for the real draw of the double feature. A few of the cars had their windows up, their residents still very much at home. The other Commodore rocked gently on its springs as we stepped past, too steamy to see anything going on inside. I didn’t say anything. Neither did Cheryl, but we both said it very loudly.
American Nightmare Page 11
