She turned and smiled at him.
“Just to cuddle,” he said. “I really don’t feel like …”
“I know. Shut up. Give me credit for a little versatility.”
His eyes turned back to the road. “What about … you know … Booter?”
“What about him?” she asked.
“Well … if he comes back tonight.”
She chuckled. “He doesn’t sleep with me, sweetie.”
“Oh.”
“I’m just his afternoon delight. He sleeps with his buddies. Back at the Grove.”
“I see.”
“I’m just pleasure. The Grove is his passion.” The road became asphalt finally, and there were random yellow porch lights to lead the way. “What about you?” she asked. “What are your passions?”
He seemed to think it was a trick question.
“What do you do?” she asked. “I know what your wife does, of course….”
He looked more stricken than before.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was grossly un-Californian of me.”
“No,” he said finally, “it’s O.K. I take care of our daughter. I manage the house.”
“Well, that’s a lot.” It sounded patronizing, she realized, and it was. The man thinks he’s dying, so she reminds him he has no purpose in life.
“It’s not a lot,” he said quietly.
“Raising a child? Are you kidding?”
“It’s not enough.” He gazed out at the lights of Monte Rio. “It’s not … a manhood thing with me. It just isn’t enough. It used to be all I ever wanted … having a kid, being a husband.” He turned and looked at her. “I was a lawyer once. Does that count?”
She laughed, determined to keep it light. “What I meant was … what are your hobbies?”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “The person I really envy is Michael.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “He loves his job. He’s outdoors a lot, not shuffling paper. He makes stuff grow.” Another shrug. “Seems like a good life.”
“You have a good life,” she said.
“Do I?” he asked.
The Way ward RV
BRANDISHING A HUGE SERRATED HUNTING KNIFE, THE gray-haired woman had returned. She knelt by Booter’s inert body and began sawing at the ropes around his wrists. “Dvorak did a job on this,” she said, breathing heavily.
“Yes,” was all he could manage.
He rubbed his wrists and swung his arms while she went to work on his legs. “I brought my Winnebago around,” she said, “but we gotta haul ass. It ain’t s’posed to be here.”
When she’d pulled free the last bit of rope, he tried to stand up. His knees were exceptionally weak, but they did the job. He sucked in air and stretched his arms. The next signal he received was from his bladder.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Would you mind … I haven’t been able …”
“Go over there,” she said, getting the message. “I won’t look. You think I wanna see that ol’ thing?”
When he was done, she led the way through a thicket to a narrow dirt road where a green RV was parked. He climbed into the front seat, sinking gratefully into the embrace of its cracked green vinyl.
“Get in back,” said the woman.
“What?”
“We’re gonna pass the gate. Get in back and keep your head down.”
He did as he was told.
“If there’s trouble,” she added, “I can handle it. I’m packin’ heat.”
She pointed to an unmade bunk and laughed. There, amidst the zebra-patterned sheets, lay a gleaming steel crossbow.
“Hold on,” he said.
“Joke,” she said, starting the engine. She gazed at him over her shoulder and winked. “You’re gullible, aren’t you? What’s your name?”
“Uh … Roger.”
“Mine’s Mable,” she said, handing him a pint of Jack Daniel’s. “Be my guest, Roger.”
He accepted without protest. The whiskey stung his throat like iodine, then seeped into his aching limbs, warming them. He wiped off the bottle on the sleeve of his Viyella shirt and handed it back to her.
“Take another,” she said.
“No, thank you.”
“Go on. If Dvorak didn’t kill you, a little Jack Daniel’s sure as hell won’t.”
It reassured him to learn that his captor had such a reputation for heinousness. His subjugation had been the work of a mastermind, at least, not just some random woman. He returned the bottle to his cracked lips and took another swig.
“Who is she?” he asked, handing back the bottle.
“Security chief,” she said. “They’re all alike.”
His knowledge of female security chiefs was woefully deficient.
“I believe in law and order,” she added. “I voted for Reagan. But Dvorak is something else.” She swatted the air in his direction, her eyes still fixed on the road.
“What?” he asked.
“Get down!” she ordered darkly. “The gate.”
He flattened out on the shag-carpeted floor. There were cigaret butts amidst the shag. Dust balls the size of gophers. A Debbie Reynolds album. His heart beat wildly.
Someone outside the RV said: “You checking out?”
Mabel said: “Nah. Takin’ her for a spin.”
“It’s a little late, isn’t it?”
“Listen, girlie,” said Mabel. “Don’t mess with me.”
Somewhat more meekly, the guard said: “Well, it’s not like it’s a car.”
“You through?” asked Mabel.
“Go ahead,” said the guard.
The RV lurched when Mabel hit the gas. “Stupid spic,” she muttered.
Booter pressed against the yarny carpet to keep his equilibrium. They had reached asphalt and were barreling along at a disarming speed.
“C’mon up,” called Mabel. “It’s over.”
Grabbing the side of the bunk, he hoisted himself to a sitting position. “You’re going awfully fast,” he said.
“Nah,” she said. “Jus’ seems that way from back there.”
He rose on uncertain legs and hunched his way to the front, collapsing into the seat. The scrubby moonlit landscape flew past them like a painting on a freight train. It was freedom, he supposed, but a shaky one at best.
“Where to?” asked Mabel.
How, he wondered suddenly, would he explain this vehicle to the gatekeeper at the Grove? “Uh … Monte Rio,” he told her, resigning himself to another half mile on foot.
“You got it,” she said, unscrewing the top on the whiskey.
They thundered down the deserted road in silence, civil strangers sharing only a time and a place. He did his damnedest not to notice their speed, which was considerable, or Mabel’s expression, which was just this side of maniacal.
“You voted for Reagan?” he asked eventually.
“Damn straight.”
“Then … you’re a conservative?”
“Always have been. Hate welfare, hate communism, hate all that stuff.”
It made no sense to him. “But … that place?”
“What?” she asked. “Wimminwood?”
“Yes. It’s … leftist, isn’t it?”
She shrugged. “Mostly.”
“Why do you go?”
Mabel gave a little snort. “That’s easy. Pussy.”
He was almost certain he had heard wrong until she began to guffaw exuberantly, slapping the dashboard with her flattened palm. When she turned to see his reaction, she lost control of the wheel, and he heard the sickening clatter of gravel as the RV slipped onto the shoulder.
“Watch out!” he hollered.
Her reaction wasn’t nearly quick enough. The RV leapt a narrow ditch, then ripped through a curtain of brambles, plummeting willy-nilly into the darkness.
His hands shot to the dashboard. He gritted his teeth as she slammed on the brakes and the RV skidded to a stop in the underbrush.
“Good God,” he
murmured.
“Holy shit,” said Mabel.
The RV was tilting dramatically, its two right wheels lower than the left.
“You O.K.?” she asked.
“Yes … I’m O.K.” If she had been his wife, he would have yelled at her, but she was his rescuer, and a man doesn’t yell at his rescuer.
She climbed down from the RV and inspected the damage. “It’s gonna take Three-A,” she said, returning. “Sonofabitch.” She shook her head slowly, obviously annoyed with herself. “That’s what I get for thinking about pussy.”
He took the whiskey from the dashboard and offered it to her. Mabel accepted with a weary grunt, unscrewing the cap. “Ever have one of those days?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered dryly, feebly. “Yes, I have.”
She blinked at him with red-rimmed eyes and began to chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so,” she said, and took a swig of the whiskey, smacking appreciatively. Then she gave it back to him.
This time he tipped the bottle like a seasoned wino. “You on vacation?” she asked.
He nodded. “Supposedly.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Tacoma,” she said.
“Ah.” There wasn’t much he could say about Tacoma. He’d never even been there.
Mabel filled the silence by taking another nip from the bottle. When she had finished, she said: “Well, better get our tails in gear. There’s a phone down at Duncans Mills. It’s not all that far. You can wait here.” She slapped the dashboard. “Keep an eye on the ol’ girl.”
Booter heard her, but just barely. His glazed eyes drifted toward the moon, which was dangling like an off-kilter ornament in the broken branches above the windshield. The night was uncannily still. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so alone with someone.
“You O.K.?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered quietly.
She regarded him for a moment, then said: “That’s Venus. The big, shiny one under the moon. The Greeks called it Lucifer in the daytime and Hesperus at night.”
This odd footnote, imparted tersely and without provocation, reminded him instantly of someone else. Even the light in her eyes was right, the half-mad, tutorial glint which awaited his response like a child who had just told a favorite joke.
“You know much about that stuff?” he asked.
She squared her jaw in an eerily familiar fashion. “Nah. I watch that guy … whatshisname … the billions-and-billions man.”
He nodded. “I know who you mean.”
“Why the hell are you doin’ that?”
“What?”
“Lookin’ at me funny.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You reminded me of somebody. Just briefly.”
“Who?”
“It’s ridiculous. Somebody who knows a lot about … outdoor things. Knew, that is.” He was embarrassed now; she was bound to take it the wrong way. “It’s not a physical resemblance. He just enjoyed … explaining things.”
Her brow wrinkled. “He’s dead now?”
“Yes,” he answered vacantly, feeling oddly relieved to be able to say it. “Last night.”
She scratched her arm, staring at him.
“He was my best friend,” said Booter, realizing how curious it sounded to him. He had never told Jimmy as much. Why was he telling her?
Mabel looked puzzled. “He was traveling with you?”
“No. We’re members of the same … camp.” He was wary of explaining Bohemia to a woman, even to one who’d befriended him. So far it had brought him nothing but trouble.
“Here?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“He died at camp?”
He nodded. “During a play.”
Sympathizing, Mabel shook her head dolefully. “Just sittin’ there, huh?”
“No. He was performing in the play.”
“What was it about?”
“Uh … the Red Cross, actually.”
“I remind you of him?”
“Well … his spirit.”
“What was he like?”
He thought for a moment, discarding any adjectives that might be loaded. “Well … interested in nature. Adventurous.”
“Wild-ass,” she said.
“Yeah.” He smiled a little. “That too.”
“So you got drunk, huh? And you passed out in that canoe.”
He nodded in resignation.
“Then your poor ol’ white ass just drifted on down into Lezzieland.”
What was this woman’s story?
“You get drunk much?” she asked, plucking a pack of Trues from the dashboard.
“No,” he said.
“I do. I like it.” She poked a cigaret into her mouth, then flicked her Bic. Her red-veined face flared up in the darkness. “So,” she asked, holding in smoke, “how did you like them dykes?”
He looked out the window to compose an answer. “It wasn’t what I felt,” he said at last. “What I felt had nothing to do with anything.”
She nodded gravely. “I know what you mean.” Holding the cigaret with her thumb and forefinger, she offered it to him.
“No, thanks,” he said.
“Did you and your buddy live together?”
“No,” he replied. “He lived in Denver.”
“Huh?”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said. “I have a wife.”
She narrowed her eyes a little, then asked: “Where do you live?”
“Hillsborough,” he said.
“If he was your best friend”—smoke curled out of her and hovered overhead like a question mark—“when the hell did you see him?”
“Here,” he said impatiently. “At the camp.”
“How often?”
“Once a year.”
“For how long?”
He thought about it. “Four or five days, usually. For twenty-seven years.”
How many days did that make in all? As many as six months’ worth? No, not even that many.
Mabel seemed to be doing the same arithmetic. “Was it mutual?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Were you his best friend?”
He didn’t look at her. “No. Probably not.”
She nodded. “Never told him, huh?”
“No.”
Another nod. Another drag off her cigaret. “Doesn’t matter,” she said.
“No. I guess not.”
“It’s just words,” she said. “Doesn’t matter.” She stubbed out the cigaret in a beanbag ashtray. “What kinda candy bars you like?”
“What?”
“There’s a machine up in Duncans Mills.”
“Oh … nothing, thanks.”
“I’ll be back in half an hour.” She gave his knee a jovial shake. “Doesn’t matter,” she said.
She climbed out and made her way up to the highway, puffing noisily, cursing every villainous branch that got in her way.
Rearrangements
STILL ON FOOT, MICHAEL AND THACK CROSSED THE graceless iron bridge at Monte Rio and made their way to the greasy spoon. Ten minutes earlier, the midnight audience at the Rio Theater had been released from Giant. Now the movie-goers stood in circles, jabbering, like patrons at a cockfight.
When they entered the restaurant, Wren waggled her nails to get their attention. Brian was with her, looking a little sheepish.
“You’re back in one piece,” Brian said.
To confirm this, Michael held out his hands in a beatific pose. “How was your drive?” he asked.
“Great,” said Brian.
“Sit down,” said Wren.
Thack slipped into the booth next to Wren, leaving the spot next to Brian for Michael.
“What was the Grove like?” asked Brian.
“Beautiful,” said Michael, “but weird.”
“Too straight for you?”
“Too white,” said Thack, frowning at a menu. “You guys eaten yet?”
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“I ate here earlier,” said Wren. “And I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“I’m starving, for some reason.” Thack gave Michael a devilish sideways glance.
It wasn’t lost on Wren, Michael noticed. “Go ahead,” she said. “Eat. You’ve earned it.”
“We ate at the Grove,” said Michael. “We noshed our way through the place.”
“You’re right,” said Thack, abandoning the menu.
“The coffee’s O.K.” said Wren.
“Actually,” said Michael, “we just wanna crash. If you could drive us back to the cabin …”
“Fine,” said Wren. “Your car is at my place, so we’ll just all go back there.”
“Oh … right,” said Michael.
There was room here for a cheap shot, but the look in Wren’s eyes told him not to take it.
In the car, she said: “I have a limo coming tomorrow, guys. I’d love company.”
Thack said: “I thought you were going to the airport.”
“Yeah, but we have to go through the city, anyway.” The prospect seduced Michael for a second or two, until he remembered. “What are we gonna do with the VW?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Wren. “That’s right.”
“I could drive it,” said Brian. Wren gave him a funny look.
“No way,” said Michael. “That’s really nice, but …”
“Really,” said Brian. “I like driving alone. I’d be glad to.” He shrugged. “I’ve been in a limo. You seen one, you seen ‘em all.”
Thack chuckled. “Isn’t that what Reagan said about redwoods?”
“It’s no problem,” said Brian.
Wren reached over and patted his cheek. “This man is such a doll.”
“I could do it,” said Thack.
Shut up, thought Michael. Leave well enough alone.
“I’m a troublemaker,” said Wren. “I forgot all about the other car.”
“I really don’t mind,” said Brian. “I prefer it.”
“To our company?” asked Wren, pretending to be hurt. She turned to Michael and said: “Does he mean this or is he just being nice?”
“I think he means it,” said Michael.
They made the bumpy ascent to the lodge in virtual silence. When they were all out of the car, Wren planted kisses on Michael and Thack. “You were so sweet to do this,” she said.
“Hey,” said Michael.