by Marc Behm
Besides, he was being asinine. This was over-reacting to the point of idiocy. How many newspapers were there in America? She couldn’t read them all. One column on page 2 of the Examiner was about as notice-able as Uranus.
He took a hot bath to soothe his jangling nerves. King of the Year! Christ! How could he have let that happen? He was like one of those yokels in ancient Greece, chosen during the germinal season to be an imitation monarch, then, at harvest time, sacrificed to Dionysus or somebody – torn to pieces limb by limb, butchered, mangled … Jesus! He was right smack back at the lake, in the Temple of Cadenza.
He’d never grown up, that was his trouble. He played cards with some mature intelligence, but in everything else he was juvenile. Adults faced their problems rationally … sensibly … sanely … A child was always on the borderline of lunacy, oblivious of logic.
Okay. He’d be logical. What was it Father Patrick had told him? If she really wanted to find you, she couldn’t be fooled. Right. All she had to do was punch the right keys on the Master Computer and there he was. EGAN Joseph. Why hadn’t she done that? But she had! She’d traced him to Atlanta through his credit cards. Hadn’t she? And she could just as easily find him in LA through his bank account at California Overseas. And she hadn’t. So what difference did the Examiner story make? Was she or wasn’t she infallible? That was the question. After all, a colossal organization like the FBI wasn’t flawless. They searched for fugitives for years and years in vain. Maybe she was capable of blundering too.
He shaved, dressed.
So? To run or not to run? One thing was certain, he wouldn’t go back to the club. No way. So there was really no reason to stay in LA.
It was ten o’clock. The mail came at ten-thirty. He’d wait that long to make up his mind.
He tried to read a chapter of The Brothers K. The words scattered across the page like ants.
Her meeting Maxie in Des Moines didn’t mean anything. That could have been simply an accident. Yeah sure. Like the iceberg hitting the Titanic. What the hell was a Master Computer?
He glanced out the window.
She was standing on the pavement, talking to the mailman.
17
He crossed the back yard, climbed over the fence, jumped into the alley.
There was no panic this time. He felt strangely jubilant. He’d out-guessed her again. He was free and on the move.
He hurried down Ashland to Lincoln Boulevard.
He’d had his rest, he’d won some money. Now it was go go go! He’d miss Maxie. Would she report his disappearance to the police? Missing persons? No … that wasn’t her style. She was just as migrant as he was. Unexpected arrivals and sudden departures were normal.
He bought a postcard and a stamp at a Thrifty Store and scribbled a goodbye.
Had to take off. Say so long for me at the club. I’ll let you know where I am. J.
He mailed it, then caught a bus to LAX. Then he changed his mind about flying out. The airport would be the first place she’d check. No? Suppose she was waiting for him on the plane? God!
He took a cab downtown and bought a bus ticket to Fresno.
He spent the night there, then flew to Salt Lake City, spent three nights there, then flew to New Orleans, spent a week there, then flew to St. Petersburg, Florida. At Clearwater Airport he felt immediately at home. It was windy and raining, Tampa Bay was thrashing like a boiling cauldron, the sky was leaden. But the vibes were harmonious and the air was clean. His restlessness faded.
He’d picked up a valise and some clothes in Fresno, so he was presentable enough. He checked into a motel on Fourth Street.
He bought a money-belt for his cash and his ‘Royal Golden’ card, then put everything in a safe-deposit box in a bank around the corner.
He did absolutely nothing for a month, except walk the streets, wandering about Pinelass Park and Treasure Island.
He didn’t even buy any books. He cut down on his smoking. Three cigars a day.
He found a town called Safety Harbor and was on the point of moving there – because of its inviting name – when, one morning, he saw in the paper that a Nellie Jarman was having an exhibit in an art gallery in Tampa.
The name meant something to him. Jarman … Jarman … Nellie … an echo from long ago and far away.
Sure! The Dean’s daughter at Dad’s university!
Secrets. Professor Benton, the history teacher, was gay. Owlish Madam Manners, the General’s widow, snorted coke. Peggy-Sue Morgan and Dr. Robert’s nurse were lovers. Et cetera. And Nellie was a congenital shoplifter.
And yeah! Hey! Hadn’t they made it together? He couldn’t recall. Though he did remember that he’d taught her how to play poker.
He took a taxi to Tampa. The gallery was on Hillsborough Avenue, a big glass rectangle crowded with assholes. The pictures on display looked like gaudy tick-tack-toe games. All were boldly signed ‘NEL.’
He found her sitting in a circle of fawning admirers, wrapped in a red sari, wearing jogging shoes, eating an ice-cream cone.
She was absolutely gorgeous! He winked at her, beckoned. She drifted over to him, her lovely cat’s eyes narrowing.
‘Greetings, Nellie.’
‘Let me see …’ she had a lazy drawl now, very Deep South and caressing. ‘Your daddy was in the math department.’
‘Music.’
‘You had a canoe.’
‘Right.’
‘Your favorite movie star was Catherine Deneuve.’
‘And yours was Orson Welles. I met him in Los Angeles. He’s a friend of a friend of mine.’
‘I invited you up to my room to listen to my Shakespeare records and you raped me.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Or I raped you.’
‘That must have been somebody else.’
‘I’ll have to consult my diary. What do you think of my paintings! Stop! I’m sorry I asked. Your expression of obtuse nausea indicates terminal Philistinism, so just never mind.’
‘I hate that word.’
‘Philistinism?’
‘Terminal.’
They had lunch in an Italian cellar in Temple Terrace. He really didn’t have anything to say to her, but she enjoyed discussing herself and he just let her ramble.
‘I married Speed Evans. You remember him.’
‘Speed Evans! Certainly!’ He remembered especially Professor Benton gobbling him on the Isle.
‘It lasted about a year.’ (Longer than Roxie’s marriage – five minutes!) ‘Then he went out west to coach some rustic football team. And I went to Berlin. And Florence. And other places. I sold my first painting to the Duchess of Proel. Do you know who she is?’
‘Nope.’
‘You must have heard of her, Egan, she’s famous.’
‘I’ve heard of the Duchess of Malfi.’
‘She’s on talkshows all the time. I met her in Capri. She was lying on the beach, sunbathing, utterly à poil! I painted her portrait. What a heavenly creature! We had a liaison naturally. It was grand. There’s something about cunnilingus with a duchess that’s highly arousing. The climaxes are intensely snobbish. One must suppose it’s class related. After going down on me, she’d say things like, “Precious Nellie, you mustn’t shave your legs. Hairy little girls are le dernier cri this season.”’ She picked up an ashtray and a spoon, slipped them into her handbag. ‘Anyway, I settled here four years ago. I bought a loft. Do you want to go there and – pray excuse the circumlocution – fuck?’
‘I guess not, Nel.’
‘I’ve often wondered whatever became of you.’
He didn’t believe that. But it was lulling, listening to her drawl. She was feline and melodious and smelled of lilacs. She suspended him in languor. He wished he could doze off and find her still there when he woke. Was this all he had to look forward to, just this? Brief moments of peace in the eye of the storm?
He steered her back into the past. ‘Nellie, do you remember Morgan?’
�
�Vaguely. Oh, yes. Morgan. Horses, the riding academy. He lived on Greenwood Avenue.’
‘Right.’
‘We tried to buy his house. Speed and I. But it was all tied up in an inheritance squabble.’
‘Do you remember how he died?’
‘He toppled out of the saddle while under the influence, as I recall.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, just seeing you brings it all back … the lake, the canoe, Shakespeare, Greenwood Avenue, people, nostalgia. “The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there.” Who said that?’
‘Why don’t you want to screw me?’
‘I’m a uhh Catholic.’
‘Did you ever get married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘No. A girl from Oklahoma City. I met her in Raleigh.’
‘It’s a small world. That’s where Speed is teaching. Oklahoma.’ She frowned. ‘His niece went mad.’
‘Speed’s niece?’
‘Morgan’s niece. What was her name?’
‘Peggy-Sue.’
‘They locked her up in the looney bin.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘She began wandering around town like a banshee, telling everybody she actually saw The Angel of Death.’
18
He flew home the next day. He didn’t go to the lake. The asylum was in Cooperstown. If Peggy-Sue were still alive, that’s where she’d be.
The place was called Wildflower Downs and he had no trouble at all getting past the girl at the reception desk. She clipped a tag on his lapel and told him Peg was out in the garden.
It wasn’t a garden. It was a courtyard with a few trees and hedges. It reminded him of his vacant lot in Atlanta. A dozen lost souls in tan smocks were sitting in the afternoon sunshine, watching two nurses pitch horseshoes. He asked an old fellow reading a comic book where Peggy-Sue was.
‘Sue due few,’ the man muttered. ‘Two you blue new dew pew one-two.’
Another patient, darning a sock, pointed to a woman sitting at the far end of the enclosure. ‘That’s Peggy,’ he said. ‘Are you her lawyer?’
‘No, just a friend.’
‘Nobody has any friends in here,’ he grunted. ‘We’re on our own.’
‘Own,’ the first man recited. ‘Home bone stone poem comb loan dome roam …’
Peggy-Sue was sitting on a bench, eating a prune. He was surprised how young she looked, then realized she was only about five or ten years older than he was. She was gray haired, black eyed and, like Maxie, was wearing weighty earrings.
‘Another attorney,’ she sighed. ‘About the house, I suppose. Well, I still own it and I’m not going to let anyone take it away from me.’
‘No, Peg. I’m Joe Egan.’
‘That house belongs to me. It’s mine. Shithead left it to me in his will. So don’t try to drop me into some loophole.’
‘Joe Egan.’
‘I know who you are. No need to keep repeating it over and over again. I sang in your papa’s choir for two years. You used to walk past the house every morning going to school.’
‘Yes.’
‘Come along with me,’ she got up, took him by the arm, led him behind a wall. ‘Nobody can see us here. Not that it matters. Nobody in this pigsty gives a shit about anything. Walter, the head orderly, is the only decent human being here. He likes to rub his cock on my tits. That’s a lot of fun.’ She kissed him on the cheek, licked his ear. Her hands slid to his belt, fumbled with it.
Startled, he looked around. But she was right. No one could see them. A squirrel hopped out of a tree, picked up what was left of her prune.
‘Tell me about the Angel of Death, Peggy-Sue.’
‘She rang the doorbell,’ Peg said. ‘I was in the kitchen, doing the dishes. Uncle Shithead was watching TV. “Who’s that?” he yelled. “Peg, go see who’s there!” I looked out the window. That’s when I saw her. Standing on the porch. Nobody believes me.’
‘I believe you.’
‘I bet.’
‘I do.’
His belt was unbuckled. She dropped to her knees, pulled down his trousers. She nibbled on his thigh, squeezed him. He didn’t try to stop her.
‘“It’s the Angel of Death,” I told him. “She’s come to get you, shithead!” “I’ll disinherit you, you little bitch,” he says. “You won’t have time to,” I says.’
‘What did she look like, Peg?’
‘Like a nun. With a hood on. All in black. Carrying a scythe on her shoulder.’
‘A scythe?’
He was in her mouth now, her tongue lapping him hungrily. Then she leaned back, looked up at him. ‘I opened the front door and she came into the living room.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘He screamed. What’s the matter, can’t I get it hard? Not that I’m complaining mind you. A cock is a cock, few and far between.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I ran out to the street.’ Her lips took him tightly. He felt a feeble stirring – just a spark. Yes! No … There it was again. An electric tingling. She stopped. ‘I went to the drugstore and had a strawberry shake. When I came back he was deceased. That’s what Dr. Roberts said, “Deceased.” She wasn’t there, the blond Angel. I never told nobody. They’d think I was a fruitcake.’ She laughed. ‘It’s my fault. I’ve been in this dungeon so long I forget how to turn a guy on.’
She sat down on the ground and watched the squirrel.
‘A scythe …?’ he pulled up his trousers, buttoned them quickly. ‘She was carrying a scythe?’
‘You think I’m lying. You think I belong here.’
‘No. I saw her too.’
‘Everybody tells me that. Just to humor me.’
‘But she didn’t have a scythe. She looked … I don’t know. Just as normal as anyone else.’
‘You’re putting me on! You saw her?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s one of us!’ she called across the yard. ‘Sign him in! Always room for one more!’ She jumped up. ‘But I saw her again.’
‘Where did you see her?’
‘On Grant Street, standing by the bookstore. That’s when I started telling everybody. To warn them. And they put me in here.’
‘Did you talk to her?’
‘I almost didn’t, I was so scared. She looked mean. Then I asked her if she came back for me this time. She didn’t have her scythe. She was wearing a black dress. She was very very furious. I could see that. Even though she was smiling. But she didn’t want me. She was looking for somebody else. Do you want to try again? I’m not wearing anything under my smock. It seems like a shame, not squirting you off.’
‘Who, Peggy-Sue? Who was she looking for?’
‘For you.’
19
He flew back to St. Petersburg the next morning. He had a fever, his eyes were burning, his ears ringing. At the motel, he swallowed three Tylenol gelcaps and tried to sleep.
A scythe! Wow!
He believed her though. There was no doubt in his mind that she was telling the truth. Oh, no. It was the old eye-of-the-beholder principle. People just see what they see. And the beheld can take any form the eye devises. Walking along Greenwood Avenue, a little boy saw a blonde in a black coat. And five minutes later, looking out the window, Peggy-Sue saw a medieval shape of Death, holding a scythe.
What would the Board of Shrinks have to say about that?
Obviously collective fantasizing. And, I might add, typical in cases of duo-hallucinatory sexual ambiguity. And, of course, it goes without saying, a repressed pas de deux-like transference of voyeuristic and guilty penisenvy – the scythe in question being the perfect allegorical phallus, with a cutting edge that when turned upside-down resembles an erection …
The phone rang.
His temperature climbed even higher as he lay there listening to it. Finally, he picked up the receiver. ‘Room service,’ he rasped.<
br />
‘Egan?’
It was only Nellie, inviting him to dinner. When he told her he was ill she came rushing across the bay with a doctor, a young woman named Alice. She gave him an injection of something and he immediately felt much better.
‘Alice is a surgeon,’ Nel explained. ‘She adores cutting up patients and extracting their innards. Especially males.’
‘Males have no innards,’ Alice said. ‘They’re all hollow façades.’
The three of them went to a seafood place in Palm Harbor. The two girls talked about Nellie’s exhibit. She’d already sold twelve paintings for over five thousand each.
‘Not bad,’ Alice said. ‘But he’ll take it away from you. He’s back, y’know.’
‘No!’
‘He got in yesterday.’
‘The little prick! We’ll nail him this time!’
Joe ate in silence. His sole meunière tasted like rubber.
‘Egan,’ Nellie took him by the hand. ‘You taught me how to play, didn’t you?’
Her touch was like balm. The sole was suddenly delicious. ‘Mmm? Play? What? The violin?’
‘We used to hide in a boathouse on the lake,’ she turned to Alice, ‘and play and neck all day long.’
‘Neck?’ Alice grimaced. ‘That sounds like something ostriches do.’
‘Didn’t we, Egan?’
‘Excuse me, Nel, but you’ve lost me.’
‘Poker.’
‘Oh, sure. Poker. My father taught me the game. And I taught you. Right.’
‘There’s a sonofabitch who shows up in Tampa periodically and cleans us out. We think he’s cheating.’
‘That’s easy enough to spot.’
‘I happen to be an excellent poker player,’ Alice huffed, ‘and I haven’t been able to “spot” it.’
‘He’s very clever,’ Nellie said.
‘If he plays poker and has to cheat to win, then he isn’t clever. Alice, for instance, is clever.’ (Flatter the unfriendly slut.) ‘If she couldn’t win cleverly, she wouldn’t play.’
‘Poker is a simpleton’s game,’ she snapped down on a piece of lobster, like a parrot. ‘And you don’t know whether I’m clever or not, do you?’
