Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

by Ray Garton

  A police officer did indeed come in that afternoon—officer Chuck Niles, a boyish freckled man—and asked if Roger had spoken to Sidney, if the delivery man's behavior was in any way unusual, if he'd been angry or mentioned quitting his job, if he'd been alone.

  Roger answered the questions calmly and with assurance, saying that Sidney had simply come in, said hello, made his delivery, then left.

  When the officer left, Roger had more wine, only because there was no more scotch.

  Sondra came in a few minutes late looking weary and pale, just as she had the day Benny Kent's body had been discovered. The confidence she had developed over the past weeks, however small, was gone. She would not look at Roger.

  Although he had not slept, Roger was not tired. Instead, he was jumpy and irritable and could not think straight. He dropped things and bumped into things and once looked up at the sign over the Munch Room doorway and began to giggle uncontrollably —remembering the sound of Sondra's wet, sloppy chewing early that morning gave new meaning to the Munch Room sign and he found it horribly funny.

  Shortly before closing time that evening, Roger spotted Sondra going into the bathroom with a broom and followed her.

  "Did you get caught this morning?" he asked quietly, half-closing the door.

  "No. They were asleep."

  "How do you feel?"

  "The way I always feel afterward. Tired. Shaky." Her eyes never met his.

  "How many times has this happened?"

  "I don't know."

  "What brings it on?"

  "I don't know," she hissed.

  "You killed Benny Kent, didn't you?"

  After a long moment, she nodded and began sweeping as if he were not there.

  "What happened?"

  "He wanted to...to...be with me. We met that night by the footpath. Between here and Manning? And we started to...you know..."

  "Did you want to?"

  "Yes, I wanted to. Just like with you. But when we started...I...like always, it happened."

  "Sondra, you've got to do something about this. I know you're scared, but you've got to see someone or—"

  "Forget it."

  "What? What do you mean, forg—"

  "Thank you for helping me, but...you have to forget it because...I'll be looking for a new job now."

  "What? Why?" He was speaking in urgent whispers now, fists clenched at his sides.

  "They don't want me to work here anymore."

  "They? Annie?"

  "And Bill. I shouldn't even be talking to you like this. She could come in any minute and—"

  "Because of me? They want you to quit because of me?"

  She started for the door but Roger stepped in front of her.

  "What do they know about me?" he asked.

  "I have to go, let me go," she snapped, moving around him and leaving the bathroom.

  Roger followed her into the Munch Room where he froze when a familiar voice said, "Sondra? You ready?"

  Bill Dunning stood before them leaning on a cane.

  A silence as solid and cold as stone filled the room.

  Sondra stopped, folded her arms protectively over her breasts and stared at her shoes.

  A second, minute, or hour could have passed as Roger stood in the doorway, eyes locked with Bill's—he was not sure and did not care.

  Bill's face was solid now, the boyish roundness it had in college replaced by a stern, jaw-clenched look of bitterness. It might have been because he was looking at Roger, but Roger didn't think so. It was not a passing look; it was chiseled into the bones beneath his skin, carved into his jaw. He was thicker and stubble sprinkled the lower half of his face. His right leg was gone. The leg of his black pants was filled out but stiff, and when he shifted his weight once, the leg clicked noisily. It was a prosthesis.

  "Come on, Sondra," Bill said, his voice low and level, his eyes still on Roger. "Let's go. Annie's waiting."

  Sondra was hurrying for the door before Bill was finished.

  Bill remained for a moment, eyeing Roger warily.

  Swallowing a clot of felt in his throat, Roger tried hard to smile, to sound congenial when he stepped forward and said, "Well, hey, Bill, it's been—"

  "Sondra won't be working here anymore," Bill said. "Thought I'd let you know." As he turned and walked out, leaning heavily on his cane, Bill's right leg clicked with each step and he muttered, "Getting a job someplace else."

  Roger listened until he heard the bell out front jangle over the closing door. Then he sent the others home and closed up for the night.

  20.

  A thin mist crept into the Valley that night and spread itself through the vineyards like a blanket of cobwebs. The stars were hidden by gathering clouds and the air had fangs of ice.

  When he turned down his street, he noticed a car pulling up in front of his house.

  Roger felt sick.

  It was not a police car, but it was unfamiliar.

  As Roger pulled into his drive, the driver's door of the car opened and a woman got out. Marjie.

  "There you are," she called happily as he got out of his car. "I was afraid I'd come up here for nothing. Hope you haven't eaten yet." She lifted two grocery bags from her car.

  Hiding his annoyance, and the fact that eating was the last thing on his mind, He took one of the bags and they went inside.

  "Spaghetti sound good?" Marjie asked as she emptied the bags on the kitchen counter.

  "Sure, Marjie, but I really don't—"

  She held up a bottle of wine. "Do you want this before, during or after dinner?"

  "Right now, please." Roger sighed as he sat at the table. "How did you find me?"

  "I've got a friend in payroll at Napa College. She looked up your address for me. Why, did I come at a bad time? You look terrible. Are you sick?"

  "No, just tired." He yawned.

  She opened the wine and poured two glasses, then busied herself with the groceries, preparing dinner.

  It was not until he had finished his first glass of wine that Roger realized how beautiful Marjie looked.

  She wore a tight black skirt, a red-and-black top with a scooped neckline, and a dark gray blazer. Her hair was up in the back and gently curling strands of it fell to the sides of her face.

  "You look nice," he said, pouring more wine. "What are you all dressed up for?"

  "For you," she said, sounding disappointed that he would think otherwise.

  As she darted around the kitchen, chatting about work and her two cats, Roger watched her and realized this was not just a friendly visit—this was a very friendly visit. Marjie meant to start something. Roger thought it might be nice to spend the night in her arms—God, it's been a long time, he thought—and forget about everything else for a while. But he could not do that and knew he shouldn't even be having dinner with her. He could not very well tell her take her spaghetti dinner and go home.

  Things had happened between them that no amount of explaining or apologizing could erase and, knowing that the average back-slidden Adventist could undergo a spiritual about-face at any time, he did not want to open himself up to more of the same. He knew Marjie would be more of the same.

  Over dinner, she brought him up to date on some of their former schoolmates.

  Clearing his throat, Roger asked, "Whatever happened to Bill?"

  "Dunning? Oh, what a sad story that is. He's married now, you know. Married some girl from Michigan just out of college. Annie something. A little wallflower. He got really religious and was planning to go right back to school—the seminary—and become a minister. Then he had an accident on his motorcycle. Lost his right leg. Couldn't work. Annie works at the hospital. And if Bill was religious before...well, he and God are best buds now. The accident...I don't know, I think it made him go a little, you know, wiggy. Annie's cousin from Michigan is living with them now. She's got a job somewhere in St. Helena and helps pay some of the bills."
>
  "Not anymore."

  "Oh?"

  Roger told her about Bill's visit to the deli that day.

  "Then you know the girl," she said.

  "Not very well." He began to feel uncomfortable with the subject.

  "I met her once. I hear she's a real troublemaker."

  Roger swallowed a black, morbid chuckle.

  "A horny little devil, from what I've heard."

  "I...wouldn't know."

  There was a pause filled with the clatter of forks against plates, then Roger asked, "Are you sure Bill lost his leg in a motorcycle accident?"

  "Yeah. I mean, there aren't too many ways to lose a whole leg, you know? Why?"

  He shrugged. "Just wondering."

  "No, really, tell me why you asked. You seem...I don't know, troubled. Did Bill say something today that—"

  "Never mind, Marjie, I really don't want to talk about it."

  After dinner, they had ice cream and Marjie turned on the television and cuddled up beside Roger on the sofa after opening another bottle of wine.

  Roger stiffened, forcing himself not to respond.

  "What?" Marjie said, puzzled. "What's wrong?"

  "I...don't think it's such a good idea, Marjie."

  She pulled away from him, smiling, and removed a baggie and a small pipe from her purse on the floor. "You just need to relax, that's all," she said, waving a lump of marijuana under his nose.

  Roger had tried to get her to smoke pot with him the summer of their senior year in high school, but she'd refused politely, saying she had no intention of ever trying it.

  "Like I said before, Roger, I'm a big girl now," she whispered conspiratorially, as if reading his thoughts.

  They each took a few hits and began laughing at some vapid sitcom on TV until Marjie spilled some wine on herself.

  She stood, giggling. "Shit, oh shit," she said as she brushed at the spreading stain. "Do you have a robe, or—"

  "Sure." Roger went to his room.

  "Where's your washer?" she called. "Do you have one?"

  "In the garage. Through the kitchen."

  Roger returned to the living room with his bathrobe and was about to sit down again when he remembered his blood-spattered clothes stacked on the washer and he bolted through the house after her.

  "Roger, what happened?" she asked as he stepped down into the garage. She was holding up the shirt splashed with Sidney Nelson's blood.

  "Oh, that," he said, trying to calm himself as his mind raced. "I, uh, I hit a, um, deer. Last night. With my car. I had to, you know, move it out of the road. It was...messy." His hands trembled and he began to perspire as he took the shirt from her and tossed it aside along with the pants.

  When Marjie had her shirt off, Roger handed her the robe and quickly started the wash, then led her back into the house.

  "That must've been awful," she said. "Hitting a deer. I did that once and thought I'd never stop crying."

  On the sofa once again, Roger suddenly felt giddy at having succeeded with his lie.

  They smoked some more, drank some more, and kept laughing at the TV show. But now Roger's laughter was deep and heartfelt and he was relaxed beside Marjie. They leaned on one another as they guffawed with the laugh track, her arm around his shoulders, his arm resting across her thighs.

  Then they were kissing.

  Minutes later, they were in bed.

  Laughter continued from the television set, blending with their sighs and whispers, and with the sound of the rain that had begun to fall gently outside.

  * * * *

  When Roger closed his eyes, thrusting his hips, moving inside her, it was not Marjie who filled his mind.

  It was Sondra.

  21.

  Roger woke the next morning to find Marjie gone. She had left a note: "It's still as good as before! Soon, M."

  Over coffee in the deli, Roger searched the paper for any mention of Sidney Nelson. A small article said only that the delivery man's truck had been abandoned in an alley. A tiny smear of blood hinted at foul play.

  Roger grew faint for a moment, but was relieved to read that the police suspected Sidney had been attacked and robbed and was perhaps wandering around, injured, lost, and confused. The search was ongoing.

  Roger called Betty, woke her, and told her Sondra had quit and she would need to hire a new girl. He was not familiar with the procedure and said he would be more comfortable if she came in and did it herself.

  "Oh, sure, honey," she said groggily. "You've been awfully good to me. I should've come back before this. I'll be in this afternoon. Why don't you go home and relax."

  He did. He watched a Godzilla movie on television that afternoon, munching on pretzels. He read through some of the books on Satanism he had bought and leisurely wrote pages of helpful notes. He finished a chapter that had been stumping him for days.

  Marjie called him from work and said she wanted to see him again that night.

  By the time she arrived, Roger had set up a tray of take-out Chinese food in the bedroom. The focus of their attention alternated between the food and each other's bodies.

  The next week was smooth as glass, and so were the days that followed. Roger enjoyed teaching his classes. He had regained an old friendship—and then some. He thought hardly at all of Sondra. He was able to enter the Munch Room without seeing Sidney the bread man scattered over the floor and walls. He began to feel as if it had never happened.

  For the first time in years, Roger's life was good. He would even go so far as to say he was happy.

  That worried him.

  It had been so long since Roger had felt anything like happiness that he began to wonder what would happen to end it. Surely it could not last long.

  It did not.

  22.

  Roger tore himself from a nightmare—

  Sondra was peeling a bloody sheet of skin from the back of Sidney the bread man, who was convulsing on the Munch Room floor, and who, for some reason, had an enormous set of antlers growing from his skull.

  I hit a deer last night...

  —and sat up in bed gasping in the dark.

  "What is it?" Marjie pressed warmly against his back and her breath was hot on his neck.

  "Night. Mare." He was out of breath.

  "Get you something?"

  "No." He lay back down and Marjie curled up beside him, kissed him, and whispered, "Be right back."

  She went into the bathroom and he heard her urinate, flush, wash, then go to the kitchen for a drink.

  After a few moments of silence, Roger started to doze.

  "Roger, what are these books?"

  He opened his eyes and saw her standing in the rectangle of soft light spilling in through the door, holding a book in each hand.

  "The Satanic Bible?" she said in a tiny voice. "Satanic Invocations? Roger, what are you—"

  "Research." He rolled over.

  "Roger," she whispered, "this is...these are...I can't believe you—"

  "C'mon, Marjie, it's just research for the book I'm writing. That's all."

  "But why so many? You've got more out there. What are you writing?"

  "Another thriller," he mumbled into his pillow. When she did not return to bed for a while, he sat up and saw her still standing in the doorway looking at the books. "Marjie, it's just research. What's the problem?"

  Still she did not move for a while. Then she put the books on his dresser, turned off the hall light and slowly returned to bed. They were silent for a while, then, voice cautious and just a little afraid, touched with a nervous chuckle, she asked, "Roger, that...that blood on your shirt the other night..."

  But Roger was asleep.

  23.

  At noon the next day, Roger was hunched over his notebook in the Munch Room when some of the high school students began to crowd into the deli for lunch. The noise level rose as they filled the tables around him, laughing, and constantly
smoking.

  Roger hardly looked up from his work, leaned back in his chair with a sigh and chewed on the end of his pen. His eyes fell on Sondra at a table on the other side of the room. She saw him at that moment, too, as she half-smiled at something said by someone at her table. When their eyes met, her smile crumbled until it was gone.

  She looked tired. Her beautiful bright eyes seemed dimmed and had puffy half-moons beneath them. She looked just like she had the day Benny Kent had been discovered.

  Their eyes remained locked like the bumpers of two cars that had collided and Roger became deaf to the voices in the room. He was suddenly afraid that if he were to look around him, he would see Sidney's blood splashed on the walls and pieces of him scattered over the floor and he would have to clean it up all over again. He tried to keep those images out of his mind, but it wasn't easy. He had not seen Sondra—had hardly even thought of her—for nearly two wonderfully comfortable, content weeks that had passed mercifully slowly. Seeing her now brought it back, reminded him how she had touched him that night...how her breasts had felt beneath his hands as he washed the blood from them...how much he had wanted her.

  Movement twitched on her face, as if searching for a hold, then her lips curled upward at the ends. The smile warmed slowly, grew, and for a moment, Roger thought she was going to cry.

  Sondra stood and quickly left.

  24.

  His writing did not take off again that day. He pieced together a few more paragraphs, then gave up.

  When he got home, the red light on his answering machine was winking lecherously and he played his messages.

  There were three hang-ups.

  He called Marjie at her office and invited her out to dinner that night.

  "Um, I don't think so, Roger," she said. "I'm kind of, you know, um, tired."

  "We have been pretty active the last few nights, haven't we?" He laughed, but she didn't respond. Silence hissed over the line. "Is anything wrong?"

  "Things are kind of hectic here today, really busy, you know? I'll probably have to work late and..."

  She left the sentence suspended in the air.