CHAPTER SEVEN

THE DAY CLOSED IN, AND DIED THAT NIGHT, LIKE A FLOWER LEFT to wither in a current of hot air. Another moon turned in the sky and then another; in the full moon of vacation eve Ron wondered if he hadn’t been possessed even to consider such a vacation. When Kristy had come up with the idea, it had caught him off-balance, tickled him somewhat. Now it filled him with dread.

He took a deep shuddering breath and began to strip off his clothing. Whenever he felt despondent he always seemed to gravitate toward the shower. Lately, he’d become a fervent shower taker. He liked his showers long, hot and steamy.

The brisk spray punched holes into his flesh and began to draw the tension from his body one drop at a time. When he stepped out, his anxiety had evaporated, his vision had cleared. Toweling off, he moved to the steamed-over medicine cabinet. He looked at himself cautiously in the circular design he’d rubbed onto the glass. He nodded approvingly.

If he wanted to be a nitpicker, he could still detect a slight restlessness in his eyes, a faint frown on his lips, just the merest sag of skin under his chin, but all and all, he was relieved that he wasn’t looking at a stranger. It was him all right. Good old Ron Talon, smiling now and thinking about the vacation.

It would solve a myriad of small problems. Four weeks alone together. No pot-smoking parties, no uncomfortable silences, just—please, God—a whole new outlook on life.

Confidently now, he squeezed toothpaste onto the brush, watched the green snake slither across bristle, then humming silently to himself, he began running a last minute checklist through his mind.

When finally he emerged from the bathroom, some sense of order, however minimal, had been achieved. Making his way into bed, he discovered that Chandal had already fallen asleep.

So that was it, then. He rolled over on his side and forced his mind to shut down. It was an effort, the struggle for sleep only helping to keep him awake. But he kept at it. Slowly his limbs became heavy. He raised his right hand over his thigh, his belly, his chest. He stopped and touched the soft folds of skin over his fingertips. Then he felt himself drift with the weight of his hand on his chest. Before he fell asleep, he felt the same odd sensation that he always felt just before going under. It was a brief quivering in his neck that ran slowly upward, upward, until...

This time, the dream was in technicolor. It was the first time in his life he’d dreamt in color. It swooped in on him quickly, like a sudden rush of water being forced through a tube. Then curling in against his nostrils there came a vapor, silent and colorless, pressing with a gentle insistence, and he knew his dreams were no longer safe.

It was testimony to the demons’ poor taste that they would attack him in his bed, in his subconscious, but then that was demons for you. He forced himself to relax and resisted being afraid to sleep. If nothing else, he would show the demons a bit of class.

He could feel the pull of the dream now, drawing him deeper into its spell. Seducing him in a way. Sighing, he sank a level deeper into sleep. He knew his way this time. There was the stone, grey blending into black, which became the sky over the steeple. Stars blew by, silver and icy cold. Now the explosion—water like blood. Cries from the people. Their blood? His blood? He couldn’t be sure.

He trembled as his body was placed on cold marble. Looking up, he saw snow melting from mountains, sliding toward him in an avalanche of mixing colors—reds, greens, blues, all falling into the valley where he lay waiting in the center of moans, screams.

Abruptly, the technicolor snow disappeared.

Now lying drenched in his own cold sweat, he was aware of something else. Something too confusing for him to understand. He visualized human images in twisted, distorted poses, hands that reached out to fondle him, dark seductive creatures wandering up from the mist, sucking his tongue, caressing his penis, forcing their breasts against his mouth, their crimson nipples as pointed as steel spikes. Incredible, crazy, mixed-up images that left him exhausted and spent, and staring at the goddamn floor like he was doing now.

He blinked incredulously. When had he wakened? He had no memory of opening his eyes, of reaching for and lighting a cigarette. And yet here he sat on the edge of the bed drawing in smoke. He wondered if perhaps he wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown. Not a serious breakdown, he reassured himself. More of a pressure explosion that had to do with a business that was doing lousy, a house that was not only “rustic” but falling apart around him, and the fact that his attitude stank. All the time negative lately. Summer felt like a curse. His Sunset Strip office had been an expensive mistake and he had eaten the wrong flavor of Danish for breakfast that morning.

With a sense of anger, he stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray on the floor. He could feel tension lingering in the small of his back, the nape of his neck, below his skull. And finally there was nothing he could do but to get up, slip on his robe, pace the room, and walk over to the window to gaze into the sweet curtain of darkness.

The night was bright under a clear moon, and the surface of the pool’s water flashed like mercury. The moon had risen over the back of the garden wall. He stared at it with upturned face. If he could only fly, he thought, rise up and soar and dart through the air like a wild bird until his muscles relaxed and his mind was swept smooth, wiped clean as a slate, stilled.

“Ron?” Chandal’s muffled voice rose from the pillow.

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Anything the matter?”

“Nothing,” Ron sighed. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. We have to get an early start in the morning.”

“Okay. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Ron nodded. “Positive. I’ll be there in a minute.”

They remained facing each other in the gloomy silence of the bedroom, and then both moved, Chandal to the corner of the bed where she fell back to sleep almost immediately, and Ron to the bedroom door.

He stopped in the hallway to peek into Kristy’s room. He could hear her move in her bed, and as he listened he could see her small back expand and contract as she breathed deeply. The day’s activities had worn her out, Ron thought, unduly so.

Without thinking, he reached in and turned on the light— which Chandal had strictly forbidden—and tiptoed over to the bed. Kristy remained asleep, her mouth open. Ron looked at her for a long time. Then, with trembling hands, he reached out and pulled the covers up over her body. With his heart pounding in his chest, he kissed her forehead.

He found himself strangely comforted by that simple action.

After closing Kristy’s door slightly, he made his way downstairs to the living room, where he stopped for an instant to glance at his surroundings. A tidy world, everything immaculate. He sniffed. The room smelled of lemon oil.

Mechanically he slid open the glass doors leading to the patio and pool area. The air was filled with the faint buzz of insects and something else. Something too silent, too calm to quite understand.

The day had been long, hard and hot; that was the best way to put it. The only way to put it.

He breathed deeply, but the air was dull, too sluggish to revitalize him. The ripple of water was inviting. He imagined himself plunged into its coolness, somehow cleansed. Cleansed of what? he thought and walked barefoot to the edge of the pool. So long as he kept moving he would be all right. To keep moving, that was the secret. To live as freely as an animal, close to the gut, day by day by day.

Without further thought, he unfastened his robe and let it drop to the ground. For an instant, he stood stark naked, his lean body shimmering against the dark night lit by the luminous glow of the moon, then dove suddenly, his arms slicing cleanly through the water, his body sharp and free. Free, he thought exultantly, swimming the pool lengthwise until he had lapped it several times. Still he swam faster, his breath coming in short gasps, his arms flying out in front of him; moving, he had to keep moving...

“I’ve read about black holes,” Mimi said in his ear. “They’re nothing. Nothing,” she whispered. “Just void. A bottomless, empty nothingness. And that affects... how the earth was created, you know.”

He turned and started to swim back. The cold was getting to him in a way he didn’t like. With a sense of panic, he felt the walls of his chest press in upon him. His body seemed to be sinking. He began to choke, fighting for each tortured breath.

Groping like a blind man, he sought to reach the edge of the pool. Now he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Give up, he told himself. You’ve had it. Rest now. Let yourself go, sleep... let yourself sleep...

Ron stopped suddenly, confused, and found himself standing in the shallow end of the pool feeling the coolness of water streaming down from his hair, hearing the dead silence of the night. Droplets of water rolled down his face.

He stood still, his mouth agape, and let the drops flood his eyes. Light sprang up and pierced the darkness like a sudden heat entering a chilled room. At first the light appeared as a solid mass, then quickly separated into two small dots before his eyes. But when he wiped the water away, he realized that they were more than mere dots.

Near the edge of the walkway, two bright patches of light moved, uncertain shapes against the garden wall. They flashed before his eyes, now brighter, now dimmer, until they shimmered away, leaving behind an especially concentrated darkness. He felt his heart hammering in his chest. What the hell was that? he wondered... then caught sight of two figures standing beside the garden wall—the figures of two small children.

The boy stood still, half grinning, with his hands folded in prayer. The girl, thin framed, dressed in dirty, ragged clothing, raised her hands in the air as though beckoning to him. The child’s fingers were long and extended with sharp nails protruding from their tips, all of which appeared to be transparent. She smiled and moved closer.

“Daddy?” Kristy stepped suddenly from the darkness.

“What?” Ron spun around.

“I’m thirsty. May I have a glass of soda?”

When Ron glanced back into the garden the children had vanished.

“May I, Daddy?”

Kristy was standing at the edge of the pool in her pink and white pajamas. Ron could tell she hardly saw him because she couldn’t quite get her eyes open. He regarded her sleep-puffed, shapeless mouth and thought: Just like her father. It was a habit of his to constantly look for similarities between Kristy and himself. Almost as though he were trying to prove something.

“And what are you doing up at this hour?” Ron stepped quickly from the pool and wrapped himself in his robe.

“My room is too hot. I’m thirsty.”

“You couldn’t get a glass of water yourself?”

“I want soda.”

“I don’t think...”

“Daddy!” she whined.

He glanced again at the garden wall. He was uncertain whether his eyes had ever been open. Or maybe he had suffered a sort of mini-blackout in reverse. Bright lights instead of dark spots before his eyes.

In the kitchen he lifted the Coke bottle from the refrigerator, then placed the glass on the counter and filled it with soda. The soda rose rapidly in the glass and splashed over the rim onto his hand.

“Here,” he said and dried his hands. Kristy drank greedily at first, then began to slow. Ron regarded the kitchen wallpaper, which was covered with pictures of an ancient stag hunt and which was starting to show signs of wear. How often, how many days now had Chandal been after him to have it replaced? Two weeks. Three? Or had it been months? He sighed. As soon as they got back from their vacation, he’d take care of it.

“I’m hungry,” Kristy said, her big eyes peering over the rim of the glass.

“Kristy, it’s three-thirty in the morning.”

“I can’t sleep when I’m hungry,” she whispered solemnly.

Ron’s wink accepted the conspiracy. Instantly he began fumbling through the cabinet, searching for brownies. In mid-action he stopped, having distinctly remembered eating them himself. Sheepishly he closed the door and stared at the bread box. “How about...”

With a slice of raisin bread in her hand, Kristy sat at the table and began to chew. There was a slice of raisin bread for Ron also, smeared with butter. And a cup of coffee.

He ate slowly, while she took quick bites, all the while holding the bread close to her mouth.

“Kristy?”

“Yes.”

“When... when you came into the garden. Did you see anyone out there?”

“You. You were there.”

“No, I mean other people. Children.”

“Nooo,” Kristy laughed. “That’s silly.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. Silly.”

They were silent then, because neither seemed to have an answer. Ron considered the possibility that perhaps he had picked up Kristy’s image standing beside the pool. His vision blurred when he rubbed his eyes. He saw double. All perfectly normal. Yet he couldn’t help feeling there was still something he wasn’t quite able to grasp.

“Good night, Daddy.”

“Night, sweetheart.” He looked up just as Kristy cleared the kitchen door. “Hey, hey—not so fast. Back.”

Kristy turned slowly and shuffled to the table. Ron smiled, pushing loose black curls away from her eyes. “I love you, stinker.”

Kristy lowered her head in a sudden flush of embarrassment. “I love you too,” she muttered.

“Kiss, please.”

Kristy looked up, her face having burst open into a magnificent glow. She puckered her lips and placed a kiss sloppily on Ron’s cheek.

“Good,” Ron said softly. “Now you, young lady, must get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

Ron kissed her gently on the forehead. “Good night, sweetheart.”

“Night, Dad.”

Ron watched as she scrambled from the room, almost running into the refrigerator on the way out. “And don’t tell your mother about the eating tonight!” he hollered after her.

“I won’t.”

He listened to Kristy’s footsteps hurry away up the stairs, until they became lost in the soft hallway carpeting above. It wasn’t until he had heard her door close that he actually found himself acknowledging the acute loneliness he now felt, and the small fragments in his unconscious, the distorted but familiar pictures, which seemed to hover over him like scavenger birds.

Yes, sir. This sure has been one hell of a night.

He finished his coffee quickly. Then stood and tested his legs. There was a spot just below his right knee that felt as though it had been freshly bruised. He was surprised to see several deep gashes along the bottom of his shin. A faint line of weariness pulled at his mouth as he watched the blood clot at the thin edges of each gash. Christ, he never remembered doing that, but then again, he wasn’t remembering much of anything these days.

Sometime later, he climbed into bed, rolled over on his back and closed his eyes. He would try to go again to where stars burned like fire, where God had neither compassion, nor mercy, but how, or even why, he did not know.

Curiously enough, there were no stars this time. No great stones clinging to heaven. No spectacles. There was only a riddle. Something about a well and a bell—he heard the ringing, felt himself falling—a small descent, nothing to be worried about. Not yet, at any rate.

He dozed and saw Kristy’s face. Then Kristy’s face became Chandal’s face. So much alike, and yet so different. So incredibly different.

But then Kristy was his child too, wasn’t she? A combination of both of them. And something else. Motion. Grappling motion. Always moving, changing shape, growing, growing, growing...