by Marc Behm
‘Is it something inhuman?’
But he wouldn’t answer. He went out on the terrace and smoked a cigar.
He spent the afternoon eating apples and reading a few chapters of Tom Jones, Oliver Twist, Light in August, Madame Bovary. He went down to the beach and watched the shark. Then he walked to Naples and had a cup of coffee and a slice of peach pie in a drive-in. On his way back a hick cop in a cruiser stopped him and wanted to know who he was and where he was staying. When Joe told him he immediately became polite and meek. He insisted on driving him back to the house.
By four o’clock she still hadn’t returned. He paced restlessly through the pastel rooms, played a game of solitaire, tried to read again.
Then he realized why he was so irritated. He missed her. Her absence dug an enormous gap in the day. She mentioned clients. Clients? Who were they? Why were they depriving him of her – of her voice and legs, her smile, the marvellous convexes under her blouse, her hand touching him.
Hey! None of that! He was behaving like a jealous husband. She’d beguiled him. That would never do. Maybe he should leave now while she was gone – just split out in his corduroy trousers and leather sweater before the enchantment paralyzed him. Go go go go Joe!
He couldn’t.
She came back at seven and his relief was so intense it left him numb.
‘What was I saying about despair?’ she asked, as if their conversation this morning hadn’t been interrupted. ‘The woman I went to see is a sad example. She spends all her time on the pier, watching the Sound. Her little son drowned there fifteen years ago and she keeps waiting for him to come swimming ashore, wading out of the water as if time had stopped.’
‘How can you help her, Iraq?’
‘I can bring him back for a while, to visit her.’
‘Bring back the dead?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘You mean a seance?’ He was incredulous. ‘No! Communicating with spirits and all that bullshit?’
‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘All that bullshit. A spirit can be conjured up, because it’s already present. Listen …’ she turned, held up her hand. ‘Can you hear that?’
There was a muted sound out in the kitchen or in one of the back rooms. It sounded like … what? As if twigs were scratching against the window panes.
‘That’s one.’
‘A spirit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here? You’re kidding me!’
‘Ever since you came into this house, it’s been haunted. Do you want me to summon it?’
‘No!’
They had dinner, then watched a comedy on TV. It was one of the Movie Star’s pictures. Joe remembered them filming the exteriors at Santa Monica Airport and on the Mall. He began telling Iraq about his poker days at the 4 Straight, about Maxie and Roscoe the midget and Wheelchair and Mademoiselle Air France and the others.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Summon it.’
‘A seance?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
25
She lit a candle and placed it on the mantel. She hung a string of tiny bells on the edge of the bookcase. She opened a drawer, lifted out a curved stick.
‘This belonged to Mantatisi, the Queen of the Wild Cat People. It’s a witch-stick. She pointed it at her enemies and they were immediately demolished.’
‘Is that where the expression “stick it to them” originated?’
‘Are you aware that humor is a manifestation of fright?’
‘I didn’t know that, no.’
‘Sit down and be silent.’
She turned off the lights and dropped to her knees in front of the fireplace.
He sat on the couch.
She tapped the stick on the hearth.
‘Come forth,’ she intoned. ‘Show yourself. We are waiting for you. Come to me. Come to me.’
The bells tinkled.
‘Come to me. Come to me.’ Out in the kitchen, a chair scraped against the floor. ‘Who is there?’ she asked the shadows.
They waited.
She turned to him. ‘It won’t enter. You’re holding it back.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘You are. Stop scoffing.’
She rapped the stick on the floor, on the leg of a table, on the wall.
‘Come to me. Come to me. Come forth.’
The candle flickered. The bells danced on the string, chiming. The room’s murk seemed to shift and ripple.
A figure came out of the kitchen and stood in the rim of light.
Joe started to rise. She stopped him with a gesture. He sat back, his heart pounding.
She addressed the form. ‘Come closer. I can’t see you.’ It remained there, not moving. ‘Who are you?’
It was a man, clothed in smoky opaqueness, stooped, limp, hesitant. He stepped forward out of the darkness.
Joe gasped.
‘Do you know him?’ Iraq whispered.
‘It’s my father.’
The spectre moved back into the dimness, then again into the candlelight. His eyes found Joe. His arms rose toward him.
Joe cowered against the couch.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Iraq murmured. ‘He means you no harm.’
‘Keep him away from me …’
The hazy figure came across the room, filling the air with a damp cold draught. Now it was almost upon him, its hands extended to grasp him.
Joe ran out to the terrace and down the steps to the beach.
She found him sitting in the sand, hiding his head in his arms.
‘He’s gone,’ she said.
A trawler passed a mile offshore, covered with yellow lights, its horn blaring.
‘Is he dead, Iraq?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t even know. How could I …? He wrote a book on Brahms. I never even read it. I don’t like Brahms.’
‘The house is empty now.’ She sat down beside him. ‘No more ghosts.’
‘The last time I saw him was in London.’ He leaned against her. She slipped her arm around him. ‘On my honeymoon. He used to say things like “Laurel and Hardy are contrapuntal.” And he spoke awful French. “C’est égal.” When Mom died he started going to a motel with one of his students. She had a boyfriend on the side, a senior named Porky. He didn’t know that. I did. He married her, then she left him …’
‘But it isn’t your father you’re afraid of, is it?’
‘No, of course not. Look! There’s the fucking shark!’
The fin passed in the bright water, swooping toward them, coming into the waves, then disappearing into the iridescence.
‘In those days I had a gift,’ he said. ‘It’s called DOS.
Discoverer of Secrets. Sure, I knew all about Porky. And others. I knew lots of things. I knew who she was. I met her on Greenwood Avenue and I knew.’
‘And she’s the one you’re running from?’
‘Yes. She’s looking for me. But I have one advantage. I can recognize her.’
‘Who is she, Joe?’
‘I’m freezing.’
‘So am I. Let’s go to bed.’
26
She came into his room just before sunrise. He was still awake. He watched as she pulled off her kimono and walked to the window. She stood for a moment, nude and gleaming, staring out at the Gulf. Then she came over to the bed.
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had an erection since 1492 BC.’
‘That’s understandable. You’re a pyschotic mess.’
‘God! You’re so black! You look like a panther standing on its hind legs. What a waste.’
‘Waste not, want not.’
She lifted away the blanket and stretched out beside him. The moon painted her flesh crimson and jade. A passing cloud covered the window and she disappeared into carbon darkness.
‘Who is she, Joe?’
Her breath blew over his chest, then his hips, then his thighs.
‘She’s blond. She has purple eyes. She dresses in mourning.’
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His lips sipped at his loss, her tongue licked it, her mouth tasted it.
‘Who is she?’
Deep within him, in a long disused railroad yard, a sleeping switchman woke with a start. Taken by surprise he quickly jerked levers and pushed buttons and turned rusty knobs. Cogwheels covered with cobwebs grated and turned, dusty lightbulbs glowed and blinked, ancient fuses cackled with sparks. Cables creaked.
And out of a ramshackle engine shed, rolling on shaky tracks, a vintage puffing locomotive appeared, its whistle wailing.
He couldn’t believe it! He had a hard-on!
She tumbled over on her back, stretching out her arms, growling softly. He slipped atop her, his enormity pulling him in its wake, leading him into her.
And all the lost years, like a late crop, burst into fulfillment.
He still couldn’t believe it. ‘Did I do that?’ he asked, awed by the accomplishment.
‘I would say it was a mutual endeavor.’
‘But it’s never happened before … not for … for … since … what does it mean?’
‘It means that your cure has begun. Taking off our clothes is part of the therapy. Now we must remove other obstacles.’
‘First things first.’ He reached for her again and she came against him, yielding, her zest as eager as his.
‘But be careful,’ her kiss hissed in his ear. ‘You’ll be arrested for speeding.’
In the weeks that followed they made love continuously. The bedroom became a place only for sleep and recuperation. Their sex was too urgent and spontaneous to wait for the discretion of night. Collisions took place in broad daylight, in the kitchen and on the terrace, in the laundry room and behind the carport.
He had only two failures, both due to over-reaction. But that didn’t matter. Their pursuits involved all sorts of variations. A neighbour, a Dr. Blake, dropped in for an uninvited visit one afternoon and discovered them in the yard, in an oral duet in the grass. A mailman got the shock of his life, glancing through the front window and seeing them wrestling, naked, on the living room rug.
Joe was in no hurry now to go back to St. Petersburg. Iraq never brought up the question of money. She was fabulously wealthy. She was sometimes paid as much as a thousand dollars a ‘sitting.’ Rich clients came all the way from Miami and Jacksonville to consult her. One weekend she flew to Quebec to visit a haunted house in Ste-Brigitte-de-Laval. Her price: five grand.
She offered to buy him a car, but he refused. He had nowhere to go. When she wasn’t there, he just walked up and down the coast or read all the books in her library. They went to restaurants in Naples and Pirate Harbor and Fort Myers. They spent a whole month in an expensive hotel on Lake Okeecheobee.
They held another witch-stick seance. No apparition appeared.
The shark abandoned the beach. They could swim in the Gulf now.
From time to time, in moments when he was the most defenseless, usually after a prolonged bacchanal, she would ask him again, ‘Who is she?’ He still wouldn’t answer. Then, in autumn, they had a visitor.
27
Joe drove the Triumph into Naples to return some cassettes. It was his last day of tranquility.
Coming back, he saw the two of them standing in front of the house, chatting like old friends.
Iraq was in her scandalous bikini, the other was disguised as a tourist, wearing black shorts, a black T-shirt, black glasses, a black straw bonnet, carrying a black sack.
Odd. They both looked ravishing. Tall and slim and lissome and sombre and blond.
He turned into a side road. His mind was suddenly submerged in glue. He couldn’t think.
He found himself back in Naples. He pulled into the edge of a field and just sat there in the sun. He had to think … to plan … This was it. The end of everything. Iraq, the house, the feast, the haven. But he’d never expected it to last. It had to happen sooner or later.
So?
Why not just keep going north? Back to St. Augustine… no … not Augustine … St. … what the fuck was his name? St. Petersburg. Pick up the money-belt … leave the Triumph in a parking lot … catch a plane at Clearwater … One thing was absolutely certain: he just couldn’t sit here like an asshole doing nothing.
His friend the hick cop pulled up beside him in his cruiser.
‘Anything wrong, Mr. Egan?’
‘Hullo.’
‘Lo. Anything wrong?’
‘Mmm? No. Just letting the engine cool off.’
‘Need any help?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Say you need any help?’
‘No, I’m fine thanks.’ Just go away, shitface, and do your Columbo routine somewhere else.
‘Want me to have a look at it?’
Jesus! ‘Don’t bother. It’s happened before.’
‘Give my regards to Miss Iraq.’
‘Right.’
‘Have a nice day.’
‘You too.’
He drove away finally. No … he wouldn’t go north. The money was safe where it was. He could pick it up any time. He’d go south. But what the hell was south of here? Nothing. The fucking Everglades! He’d take 75 east. To Fort Lauderdale. First he’d have to go to Golden Gate on the western end of the Alligator Alley highway.
He U-turned. The Triumph stalled.
It wouldn’t start. He left it there and followed a path across the field. It led to a marsh. He tried to go back to the road. He couldn’t find the path. It was gone. So was the field. He was in a soggy grove, littered with wrecked cars. How far had he come? His thoughts were gluey again. He sat down on a fender, lit a cigar, tried to relax.
So?
A blank. He couldn’t think. Glue.
Losing the Triumph screwed up the whole program. He couldn’t drive anywhere now. He’d have to hitchhike. Or find a bus stop.
Anyway, he had to move. Fast. Now. His cigar tasted like rancid soot. He threw it away. His brain simply refused to operate. The sun blazed down, smothering him, baking the cars. He felt sleepy, drunk, breathless. The air was rotten and fetid. Indians used to live in these bogs.
Sergeant!
Sir?
We’re in Siminole country, keep your eyes peeled.
Yes, sir.
Make sure you’re not captured alive. These redskin devils feed prisoners to the gators.
Good god, Lieutenant! How hellish!
They’re heartless savages.
Sir, what is that 1979 Chevvy doing here?
It must be the relic of some bygone age. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Something moved behind an overturned van. A broken headlight dropped to the ground.
He jumped to his feet as a long green alligator walked out of the wreckage just in front of him.
It looked at him with apricot eyes, opened its jaws. He climbed up on the roof of the Chevvy. The thing came after him, sliding up across the hood, its rows of yellow teeth as long as butcher knives. He jumped to the ground, ran through the maze of chassis. It followed him, guffawing at him, moving with unbelievable speed, skidding through the junk as if it had a hundred stubby legs.
Joe leaped up to the back of a wheelless truck. The gator tried to climb after him, heaving its awful wrinkled torso up against the cab, its hungry gullet yawning.
He dropped down to the other side, ran into a clearing. There was a shack in the distance. He started toward it when an old man in camouflage fatigues came barging out the door, aiming a shotgun at him.
‘Get off my land, skumbag!’ he yelled. And fired a barrel at him.
Joe dived into a gully as a tempest of buckshot ripped up the ground around him. He crawled along a slimy stream filled with tincans. Where was the fucking alligator? There it was! Jesus! Just behind him, thrashing down the embankment into the water. Its tail lashed at him, striking him across the shoulders, knocking him flat. He rolled away, his spine burning with pain. The shotgun’s other barrel fired, dismembering a bush just beside him. The alligator stopped and looked around,
grinning madly.
Joe scrambled out of the hollow, forcing his legs to hold him upright. A fence barred his way. He flopped over it.
He was back on the road.
A girl on a bike pedaled up to him. He stared at her. She looked familiar. She was wearing a bikini.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ Iraq asked. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’
28
‘What woman?’
‘The woman you were talking to.’
‘Oh, her. She was looking for Dr. Burk’s house.’
An AAA mechanic recharged the Triumph’s battery. They drove into North Naples and spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the beach.
‘She didn’t ask for me?’
‘For you? Of course not.’
‘She didn’t mention my name?’
‘What is all this, Joe?’ Then she laughed. ‘Ah, I see. A blonde. With purple eyes. You think it was the sinister girl who’s after you!’
‘You got it.’
‘Are you aware of how many blue-eyed blond honky nymphs there are in Florida? How can you tell them apart?’
‘Don’t laugh, Iraq.’
‘It’s going to rain. Let’s go home.’
‘I can’t go back there.’
‘Yes you can. Stop this foolishness and come on.’
‘Do you think she saw me?’
The house was the same. There were no malignant vibrations. The hues and rhymes were in perfect balance.
Only the weather was vile. The wind rose, filling the air with flying sand, lifting the surf all the way to the terrace stairs.
They sat in the living room drinking calvados.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’
So once again, for the third and last time in his life, he confessed everything. Now she and Father Patrick and mad Peggy-Sue were the only three people in the world to know his secret.
Her sole comment was a matter of fact. ‘But you’re not certain it was her.’
‘I couldn’t be mistaken. Neither could you.’
‘Me?’
‘You must have sensed something when you were talking to her. Something unnatural.’
She smiled. ‘Unnatural? I did, yes.’
‘What?’
‘Looking at her, I thought, how lewd it would be, the two of us in bed together. Black and white. Her blond hair on my belly. Ah! My big lips on her pale breasts. And I wondered what she would taste like.’
