But these speculations she had to dismiss from her mind, since they were confusing and just did not make any sense. She could find no reason, in fact, for believing that any of these things were true. Yet, from time to time, these vague
(203)
and uncomfortable feelings would swell within her and she would start speculating once again and finally end by remembering how much she loved him, and his tenderness toward her and Harry Junior. Eventually she always returned to the definite and incontrovertible fact that they were very much in love and eventually everything would be all right. It had to be.
In the meantime, though, another undeniable fact had evolved—she had to talk to someone. For quite some time this fact tried to define itself in her consciousness, but as long as she could believe there was no real problem there obviously was nothing to talk to someone about. But as the acceptance that there was a problem grew, so did her need. She thought about whom she should talk with, not wanting to worry anyone, and one day the question was answered simply when her mother called. After saying hello and asking Linda how she was, she asked her how Harry was?
Fine.
No, how is he really?
Why do you ask? You sound serious.
Well, dear, I am. Whenever I ask about him I get the feeling that youre trying to hide something; and lately you havent been sounding like your old self. Now, if theres something wrong and you dont—
O no, Mom, its nothing like that—
You know I dont want to interfere in my childrens lives and if—
I know that, Mother, and I dont feel as if youre interfering
in any way.
Well, if I am, you just tell me and I/ll—
No, Mom, honest . . . but youre right, there is something wrong—but not between us. I really dont know what it is.
Is he sick, dear? When was the last time he had a checkup?
I don't know—no, I dont think so. But I dont really know.
Well, what exactly is the problem?
(204)
Well, thats just it, Mom, I dont know. Sometimes he seems to be all right, but then he gets moody and seems a little jumpy and nervous and sort of—well—preoccupied, I guess. I dont know exactly how to explain it, Mom. I guess its more of a feeling than anything else. Like I said, sometimes hes a little irritable—nothing bad, dont misunderstand—but nothing you can put your finger on.
I understand how you feel, dear, but you dont have to protect him from me. Im not going to condemn him for acting human.
They both laughed, and Linda could feel the tension starting to drain from her body. I didnt think you were going to attack him, Mom, I just didnt—
I know, dear, you just didnt want anyone to think there was anything wrong with the perfect man you married.
They laughed again, and this time Linda could feel and enjoy the laughter. O.K., Mom, you win.
You know, dear, Ive been married to your father longer than I care to admit—except that it has been a happy time, at least for the most part—and our life together has not always been calm and serene. There are times when that father of yours is a veritable bear, just ranting and raving and— Well, to use a euphemism, there are times when hes a son of a bitch.
Linda burst into a loud guffaw and then laughed for many happy minutes and stopped just short of hysterics. O, Mom, still giggling, youre awful.
Well, to quote the younger generation, Im just telling it like it is. Anyway, dear, are you sure you havent been fighting, or that theres—
No, Mom, honest. Its nothing like that at all. To be perfectly frank, Im not sure whats wrong at all. Harry is just not himself. Thats about all I know.
When was the last time you were alone together?
Well, we did go to a movie a few weeks ago.
No, I mean away some place. Just the two of you.
(205)
O, God, I dont know. I suppose its—
If you have to suppose, then its been too long.
Linda was chuckling with genuine mirth. That sounds like some of that homespun philosophy.
Well, my dear, that may be true, but thats the way to keep the home spunning, chuckling, Linda continuing to laugh. Anyway, thats what I think you should do. Some place you havent been before and far enough away so it will be a complete change of scenery.
It sounds wonderful, Mom. It really does. I can just feel that youre right.
And dont wait too long, dear. The sooner the better.
O.K., Mom, the first chance I get.
Linda thought about where they might go for the rest of the day, and when a cold, gray rain started falling, and she came across an ad from the Jamaican Tourist Bureau in last Sundays Times, she knew where she wanted to go, and this seemed like the perfect time to suggest it. She left the full-page picture of sunny Jamaica on top of the pile of papers.
After Harry got home and had shaken the rain from his clothes and plopped in a chair, she handed him the ad before he had a chance to establish any particular mood.
It looks lovely, doesnt it?
Yeah. On a day like this even Miami Beach would look good.
Well, laughing, I dont think the weathers that bad. But I do have an idea.
Yeah, whats that?
Why dont we—just you and I ... alone . . . together—fly down there for a couple of days? White sandy beach—
Huh? What?
Blue sky, emerald sea—
What are you talking about?
Jamaica. Us. Alone. Together. You getting the picture?
How can we? I have work and theres Harry Junior and—
And nothing, sitting on his lap and putting her arms around his neck. Mother would be delighted to take care of Harry—
(206)
Whose mother?
Either of ours. Theyre both goofy about their first grandchild. Really, honey, lets do it. Im sure you could take a day or two off from work. I cant remember the last time weve been alone together. What do you say?
Well, I don't know. I—
Please . . . Come on ... We need a few days alone. We really do.
Harry looked at his wifes smiling face and into her shining eyes and put his arms around her and wanted to bury his face in her neck and cry . . . just cry. Thats all. Cry and tell her over and over that he loved her and was sorry and as God was his witness he loved her and did not want to hurt her. He hugged her to him and felt his warm breath on her neck. He swallowed his tears and felt them churning in his stomach. O.K., honey, I/ll make the arrangements tomorrow. We/ll go this weekend. He hugged her again, trying to create the hope that the white sand, the blue sky and the emerald sea would kill this thing within him.
The few days before their departure were nerve-wracking and agonizing for him. He wanted desperately to be with Linda and recapture that elusive something he felt was slipping away, but at the same time he was afraid he would destroy it completely. What would he do if the insane (Is it really ??? No, just a figure of speech; what other word would you use?) urge came over him there? Here he was safe. He could find relief easily without anyone (Linda) knowing. But what would he do on some dumb little island? Where would he go? What excuse could he make? How could he keep it a secret? The whole thing seemed impossible. There was just no way he could spend four interminable days and nights on that rat little island without either going stark raving mad or destroying his marriage. . . . Krist, he did not want to do that. He did not want to lose his family. He/d die without them. He knew it. What in krists name could he do? He couldnt cancel the trip; Linda was planning on it. She was just bubbling and bouncing all over the house. He didnt know how or why, but
(207)
it was obvious that it was very important to her that they go. He was stuck. Irresistible force and immovable object. He could only pray that he survived the trip.
The first time they walked onto the beach an incredibly cold chill twisted Harrys gut and the only thing that kept him from running back to the hotel was the overwhelming nausea tha
t almost cut off his breathing. He staggered to an abrupt halt and swayed back and forth for a moment.
You all right, honey?
Huh? O, yeah, fine. Its—its just so bright I couldnt see for a moment.
Here, youd better put on your sunglasses.
Thanks, putting them on and continuing to walk toward the water, then stopping. I think this is close enough.
Whatever you say, sweetheart, dropping her things on the beach and getting ready to go into the water. Isnt it beautiful? —Harry nodded—I just cant wait to get in the water. Come on, slowpoke.
You go ahead. Im going to just sit for a minute.
O.K. Dont melt, and she ran to the water and dove into the surf and waved to Harry.
Harry waved as he struggled to breathe. He was feeling sweaty. He didn't know what the hell was going on. All manner of things seemed to be struggling through his mind and body, but the only thing that he seemed to be aware of, that seemed to saturate his consciousness, were the goddamn broads in their bikinis. He knew, or at least part of him did, that the beach was not crowded, that there could not be more than a hundred of them on the beach. He could see that. He could see that plainly. But that was not what registered. All he could see were long legs and round asses and tits that looked like they were trying to squirm their way free from almost nonexistent restraint, and the gentle rise of flesh below the navel that glistened and shimmered in the sun, and then that incredible and bulging mound of Venus and little bits of spark-
(208)
ling hair that seemed to flutter and wave invitingly, and Harrys gut tightened more and more as he sat with his legs raised and his chin resting on his knees, his arms wrapped around and clutching his legs, staring at all the cunts grinding and undulating their way out of the water and across the beach, and Harrys chills shivered in him as the sweat slowly crawled across his face. . . .
He heard Lindas voice and she
waved to him as she walked slowly toward him, the water glistening and rolling down her body to the glaring sand. He stared at the roll of her hips as she came toward him, and when she bent over to pick up the towel he leered at the nipples of her tits, then stared at the inside of her thighs as she dried herself briskly with the towel.
That was marvelous. Just fantastic. You have to go in the water, Harry, you just must. Its absolutely invigorating.
Thats not the only thing thats invigorating, pulling her down next to him and putting his arms around her and kissing her neck.
Be careful, Harry, leaning into his kisses, her eyes closed, youre getting me all sandy.
Thats all right. A quick shower will take care of that. I feel a little sandy myself. Come on, lets go.
Harry always brought Linda to peaks of excitement when they made love, but through her excitement she could feel a desperation within him, but easily pushed this knowledge aside, attributing it to his tension. And as the days moved along, she was convinced she was right, since Harry seemed to be a little less tense each day.
They made love frequently, during the day and the night, Linda especially enjoying the times during the day because of the novelty and the feeling of freedom it gave her. It helped her feel free of obligations and everyday routines, as if, for now, she was in another world.
And they danced and held hands in the moonlight and sailed across lagoons under the bright Caribbean sky. Im so glad we came here, Harry.
(209)
I am too, sweetheart. Its a beautiful place. Almost as beautiful as you.
She snuggled into his shoulder and felt the warmth of his love and the dark velvet sky.
Harry felt himself relaxing almost to the point of giddiness. He was constantly holding Lindas hand, even in their sleep. He would awake, his fingers interlocked with hers, and he would kiss her hand until she started to awaken, and then he would roll over on his side and kiss her beautiful face. He just could not get enough of his wife. He held her hand in the dining room, on the beach and as they strolled through the tropical gardens. From time to time he would kiss her tenderly on the cheek or finger tip. This world was lovely, calm. You had to walk and talk and think slowly or you would pass it by. Each evening there would be an orchid waiting for Linda on their table, and they would beam at each other as the maitre d pinned it on Madams dress.
Inevitably there was the final evening and the last day of their brief vacation. They held hands as they boarded the plane and all the way to New York.
When they got home, Linda called her mother to tell her they were back and that they had had a wonderful time. I/ll tell you all about it tomorrow when I pick up little Harry, but you were right, Mom—absolutely right.
They spent the remainder of the evening on the couch watching something or other on television, Harrys arm around his lovely Linda, and her head nestled on his chest.
(210)
15
He
was back in the pit, only this time it was smelly and vile. He went straight to Eighth Avenue, south of Times Square, and made the rounds of a few bars until he found a thirsty lush and bought a bottle and they went to her sour, roach-infested room. He could feel the sooty grayness crawl under his skin as he looked at the scummy walls and floor, and felt the gritty sheets as their foul stench reamed his nostrils.
He fucked the sodden piss/sweat smelling mess next to him and then fucked her again before she drank herself to sleep. He could have left and stayed somewhere else, anywhere else —perhaps have even made the last train home—but he stayed. In the dim light that just managed to penetrate the soot on the window overlooking the air shaft he looked at the thing, whatever or whomever it was, next to him (white sandy beach, blue sky), thinking of ripping her off the bed as you would an
(211)
old and crusty scab. Krist, what a hopeless and helpless bloated mess of pathetic flesh. He somehow knew that she was younger than he was. Maybe not much, maybe only a year or two, but younger. She looked and smelled like something that had been left on the beach (emerald green sea) by the receding ocean and was already starting to rot in the heat of the tropical sun. A rotten drunk. A disgusting drunk. Living in a hovel not fit for a rat. The roaches he could hear scuttling across the bare floor were probably fighting to get out of this filthy pesthole. How could a human being allow herself to degenerate to a state like this? It was inconceivable. She might even have been attractive at one time. He looked at her greasy hair and in the dim light he could see a large pimple on her shoulder, and remembered the crud under her fingernails. His leg started to cramp and he knew he had to move it, but fought against the need because he did not want to be made aware of the filth he was lying between. Eventually the cramp forced the movement and his body moved through the swill as he continued to look with disgust at the booze-reeking mess beside him. He raised himself on an elbow and looked down at her. He stared at the gray skin on the gray sheets (O Harry, Ive never seen such a beautiful orchid. Its never seen anything as beautiful as you) for an indefinite and interminable length of time. His eyes burned and begged to be closed, to be jammed shut in sleep and ignorance so everything seen could be denied or at least shoved aside for now. His body, too, ached for sleep or some sort of rest. He felt himself sinking lower and lower on the bed, his eyes shutting out more and more until his head was almost on the rag of a pillow, and he jerked it up, and his eyes open, and tried desperately to keep them open and his head as high as possible, but, O God, he wanted to sleep. He wanted so desperately to simply plunge into sleep. Instantly. Oblivion. That, at least, is what this hulk beside him had. Oblivion. O dear God, what a gift. Nausea was twisting and grinding him and his nose and throat burned (they stood in the surf holding hands, the soothing water and sand caressing their feet as they watched the sun sink into the sea) and he struggled
(212)
to swallow through the taste of bile. He had to move. He had to get up and bathe—o, dear god, he had to bathe, to plunge himself in the water—and get dressed and get out of here and maybe get some rest
. . . yes, some rest . . . Jesus, God, some rest. Why in the hell couldnt he move? He had to get up
---and out. (Come on, I/ll race you to the float.) He jerked
himself around and up and cringed as his body scraped through the sheets and his bare feet touched the floor, and he immediately stretched up as far as possible on the tip of his toes. He darted to the bathroom, trying, in an insane ballet, to keep his feet off the floor as much as possible. He felt the cold, slimy tile under his feet and looked around, in the dimness, at the bare bathroom. He hesitated for a moment, then turned on the light and instinctively leaped back. He quickly saw the shit-and pukestained commode and the dried vomit on the rust-stained bathtub. How in the name of krist can anyone sink so low to have to live like this? Animals dont live like this. Then it suddenly struck him that he was there. The scabby hulk couldnt help it, but he— He quickly jabbed at the light switch and started vomiting almost simultaneously. It splattered off the side of the tub onto his legs and the floor. He leaned over the tub until he was finished vomiting, swearing, crying, raging and pleading within himself as he bent so as to prevent any more vomit from splattering on him. When he stopped, he wiped his legs with toilet paper and instinctively started to wipe up the mess he had made, then suddenly dropped the toilet paper and backed out of the bathroom and hurriedly dressed and scrambled from the building.
He thrust himself
through the street, trying to breathe deeply, but unable to rid himself of the smell and taste that burned through him to the marrow of his bones and the pit of his gut. He looked up and down the dreary streets frantically and finally got a cab and went to a Turkish bath.
He stayed in the steam room for hours
visualizing the poison oozing from his pores, constantly swallowing, not because of the bile that soured his taste, but
(213)
because of something that was trying to worm its way up from the depths of the darkness within him. He continued to swallow and to shove this demon down without ever acknowledging its existence.
The Demon Page 21
