Jon smiled. “Not much.”
“Well, it will.” Mr. Snow flapped the pages at him. “I’ll give you this much. Clumsy as this is, I can see just the wee tiniest spark buried in the muck. You can do this. You have something. The trick is to get out of your own way and let the light shine through. Now get out of here. I’ll see you next week, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You have to write every day, Jon. I mean it. No faking, no farting around, and no shorting me on time.”
Walker came back from Hawaii and the first time the four of them convened at the bus, he took one look at Jon and knew what was going on. For a change, Destiny was cool. She kept her distance, her manner strictly matter-of-fact. Jon and Creed and Walker smoked dope and shot the shit while she sat cross-legged in the grass, reading Tarot cards. Jon thought they’d pretty much pulled it off, but when he and Walker left and were barely out of earshot, Walker turned to him with dismay. “What the fuck are you doing, man? Are you out of your mind?”
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
“Well, here it is anyway. She’s a slut and she’s stupid on top of that.”
“I notice you’re not all that picky about the girls you screw.”
“Because they’re nice and they’re clean. She’s disgusting.”
“I don’t want to hear about it, okay?”
“What if you get caught? How can you try pulling this shit right under his nose?”
“They have an open relationship.”
“Oh, right. You believe that, you’re a horse’s ass.” Walker shook his head. “You’re going to regret it, buddy boy. I’m telling you right now, this won’t end well.”
“Thanks. I’m touched by your concern.”
Saturdays belonged to him and the freedom was a relief. Destiny, Creed, and Sky Dancer went off early to the farmer’s market in town and spent the rest of the day in family pursuits. Destiny wanted to learn to tie-dye so she’d gone to Sears and shoplifted half a dozen three-packs of white T-shirts, which she intended to dye in batches and then sell at the beach. Jon was grateful for the long stretch of hours he could call his own. Friday night he slept well, and when he got up he threw on a T-shirt and cutoffs. He made a fresh pot of coffee and carried a cup to his desk. He reread his story about the boy who ran with wild dogs, this time cringing at turns of phrase that before had seemed lyrical. “Soaring” was what he thought to himself when he was crafting sentences. He went through line by line, X-ing out anything clumsy or pretentious. In the end there was maybe half a paragraph worth salvaging. He took Mr. Snow’s advice and tossed the rest of it in the trash.
For a while he sipped coffee, stared out the window, and thought about Mr. Snow’s rant. When he’d talked about jealousy and rage, when he’d asked if there was anyone Jon hated, his mind had gone blank. The same thing with grief. What the fuck did he know about shit like that? He could see where the loss of a beloved animal might generate emotion, but he’d never actually owned one. Growing up, his mother’s asthma had precluded house pets. The only bright moment he remembered in contemplating Mona’s arrival in his life was when he thought that maybe he could have a pet, a hope that was quickly dashed, along with just about every other hope he had. Mona was allergic to cats and she thought dogs were too much work. Mona ruled. The rest of them were there to obey.
The Amazing Mona. He did have things to say about her and none of them were nice.
He abandoned his typewriter, took a pad of yellow legal paper, and made himself comfortable on his unmade bed, pillows propped up behind him. The sheets smelled of two-day-old sex, a scent not as evocative as he’d found it on previous occasions. He thought about Mona, tapping his pen against his lower lip. He couldn’t think where to start. As much as he hated her, he knew he couldn’t write about her without jeopardizing his relationship with his dad, and more important, getting his butt kicked out of the house. He wouldn’t show anyone his work, but it would be entirely like her to wait until he was gone and come into his apartment so she could go rooting through his things.
He heard a pounding on the downstairs door. Annoyed at the interruption, he set aside pen and paper. If it was Walker, he’d send him on his way. He opened the door just as Destiny reached the top of the stairs. She was exuberant, all hugs and smiles, rattling out a laughing account of her leaving Creed and Sky tending dye kettles in the yard. She’d told them she was going out to snag more T-shirts so she had only an hour. She was busily hauling off her clothes when she picked up Jon’s mood. “Is something wrong?”
“This is my day to write. I’ve been kicking around a couple of ideas and I need the time to myself.”
“I’m not going to be here long. You can write when I’m gone. I thought you’d be excited to see me.”
“I am. I just, you know, had my head into something else.” Having stripped, she pressed up against him, running her hands along the front of his pants. He was already hard, a conditioned response. She slid his shorts down over his hips. She kissed him, lips soft and open, and then sank down to her knees and took him in her mouth. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her up, kissing her with the same intensity she always called out of him. Smiling, she put her bare feet on the tops of his and he walked her to the bed.
The sex was good. It was always good, but this time his inclination was to be done with it and get her out of the way. She was a distraction. Her intensity was like a mass of hot, wet rags pressed over his face. He could hardly breathe. She must have sensed his distance because she clung to him like an octopus, all arms and legs and sucking. She wanted his full attention and she was doing what she could to arouse him for another round.
He pushed her hand away. “Enough. I’m bushed.”
“Don’t be such a shit. You never turned me down before.”
“I didn’t turn you down. What do you want from me? We just made love.”
She settled on her side, her head propped on one hand. “You know what? We belong together. We’re a good fit.”
“How do you figure that?”
“It’s the feeling I had the first time we met. Like we were together in another life.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, I’m serious. It’s like I remember you.”
“What about Creed? How many reincarnations have you shared with him?”
“Don’t make fun. He’s boring. All mopey and glum. I’m sick to death of him and his parents and this whole stupid town. I’m this close to taking off, just getting the hell out.”
“I thought the bus belonged to him.”
“Who said anything about the bus? That’s what thumbs are for. I hitchhiked all over the country before I hooked up with him. Pregnant, babe in arms. There’s always a guy who slows down and offers you a ride. You go where the wind blows you.”
“Go and god bless, but leave me out of it.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure? Don’t you want to live on the wing?”
“Not particularly. What about your kid? He might not appreciate being dragged all over just to satisfy your whims.”
“I’ll leave him with Creed. Sky’s crazy about Deborah. He’d be happy as a clam.”
“You can’t do that. You told me he’s not even Greg’s kid.”
“What, you think kids are possessions? Mine, yours, and his? Sky’s a child of the universe. He’ll find his own path in life. He doesn’t need me for that.”
“He’s eleven. You can’t just dump the kid and run off.”
“I’m not dumping him. I’m thinking about what’s best for him. Deborah thinks I’m a crappy mother anyway and maybe she’s right. At least with her he’d have a normal life, whatever that’s worth. We’d have a blast, the two of us. We could go anywhere. Nova Scotia. Have you ever been to Nova Scotia? I love the sound of it. Nova means ‘new,’ but what’s a scotia?” She put her head on his chest and wrapped her leg over his.
Her flesh was hot and the weight of her leg made him tense. He could
feel her pubic hair against his thigh like a Brillo pad. “Nice idea, but it won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Here’s some late-breaking news. I’m eighteen. I live at home. In two months, I start college. I don’t even have a job.”
“Neither do I. Who needs a job when you can panhandle? You ought to see ’em in the Haight. Tourists stand around gawking at all the hippie freaks. For them, it’s like being at the zoo. Hold your hand out, they’ll give you cash. They’re scared to death of us.”
“I don’t want to be a beggar when I grow up.”
She hooked an arm over his shoulder and shook him playfully. “Come on. You old sourpuss. This is the Summer of Love. We’re missing all the fun.”
He stared at the ceiling, wondering how long he’d have to put up with her before reclaiming his day.
She kissed his neck, making a low sound in her throat like she was turned on. “I love you.”
“Stop.”
“I mean it.” She licked his neck. She nibbled on his shoulder while she rubbed against him, amorous despite his failure to respond.
“Cut it out.”
“So uptight. Such a grouch. Don’t you even love me a little bit?” She put her lips to his ear and ran her tongue around the rim.
“Goddamn it. Get off.” He loosened her arms and rolled out of her embrace. He found his shorts and pulled them on. He ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it.
She sat up, agitated. “What’s wrong with you? Ever since I got here, you’ve treated me like shit.”
“I told you. I have work to do.”
“That is such a lie. You don’t have work. That’s ridiculous. Writing stuff down is not work.”
“What do you know? You barely made it out of ninth grade.”
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
“Fine. I’m an asshole. So what?”
She pulled her legs up under her and got on her hands and knees, crawling across the bed. “What if Creed finds out about us? You think he won’t come after you?”
“You said you had an open relationship.”
She reached for him, her tone of voice teasing. “But you don’t know if it’s true or not. I might have made it up.”
Abruptly, he sat. “Jesus, don’t say that.”
She smiled. “Why, are you nervous what he’ll do if I tell?” She held him from behind, her arms around his neck. He tried to shrug her off and she laughed, grasping him tightly as though prepared to ride piggyback. He pushed himself up, using the bed for leverage. She locked her legs around his waist and the weight of her pulled him off balance. He stumbled sideways and they tumbled to the floor. Anger fanned up in him like a gas fire. She hung on like a demon, nails cutting into his chest. He elbowed her sharply, trying to break her grip. In retaliation, she grabbed his hair and yanked so hard his head snapped back. He turned over and shoved upward, dragging her with him. He managed to make it to his feet. She had his head in the crook of her elbow and he was choking for air. He leaned forward, trying to toss her off. She grunted and tucked a leg around his. His knee buckled and he fell again. He was far stronger than she, but she had the advantage of tenacity and the clumsiness of her hold. He couldn’t get purchase and she used his momentary faltering to seize him anew. He heaved himself sideways, shaking her off, and then she was on the floor under him and he had his hands around her throat. He choked her, not even aware of what he was doing until he saw the look on her face. There was triumph in her eyes. She was an adrenaline junkie and she’d tripped him into a rage as inflammatory as desire. He felt her shudder and he released her. She turned on her side, hands at her throat. Both of them were breathing hard. She moaned once and it dawned on him she’d reached orgasm.
He stared at her for a moment, fascinated. What kind of creature was she that violence served as an aphrodisiac? Killing her would be the ultimate turn-on from her point of view, and what did that make him? Not another word passed between them. She dressed quickly. She wept and her hands shook as she struggled to fasten her skirt. He sat on the bed stupefied, his head in his hands.
When she was gone he sat down at his desk, where he rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter. He wrote for four hours, took a break, and then wrote for another two. Words poured out of him. He could feel sentences form in his head, almost faster than he could type. It was like taking dictation. Paragraphs lined up and passed through his body onto the paper in front of him. No thought. No analysis. No hesitation. He wrote about Mona. He wrote about his mother’s death. He wrote about his weak father and his own loneliness. He wrote about what it felt like to be shut away upstairs while the rest of the family enjoyed the comforts of home. He wrote about being a fat boy and what it felt like to run seven miles in the rain. He wrote without once thinking of Mr. Snow.
At 10:00 he stopped. He went downstairs and out into the chill night air. The property overlooked the ocean and he could see the sheen of moonlight on water as far as the islands. He was exhausted and energized. He thought he’d never sleep again, but he did. In the morning he read what he’d done. Some of it was awkward and inadvertently comical. Some of it was mawkish and maudlin. It mattered not. He knew what it felt like to work from the heart and he was hooked. Even if it took him years to get back to that flow, he knew it was worth every failed attempt and every misbegotten word.
At eight, he brushed his teeth, showered, dressed, and rode his scooter to Walker’s house, taking the bridle paths that wound up the hill. He had to cross a public road only once, and even then there was no traffic. Walker had just gotten up and he was sitting in his kitchen in his boxer shorts, hair rumpled, his face embossed with wrinkles from his bedsheet.
Jon let himself in as he usually did. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “I have to get out of the house before the Amazing Mona returns with her merry band in tow. She sucks all the oxygen out of the air and I can’t take it anymore. I thought we could get a place together near UCST or close to City College, whichever you’d prefer.”
Walker said, “I’m up for that. How do we pay the rent, rob a bank?”
“I’ve been thinking we’d borrow Rain—fun and games for a day or two—and then we exchange her for a bag of cash. Easy does it. No rough stuff and nothing scary. We get a kitten and she can play with it. She gets to drink pink lemonade laced with tranquilizers. Mona has a big stash, fifty-two by my count. She won’t miss a few. You have folks, so we keep the little girl at my place while everyone’s gone. I have a new hot-water heater going in and we can use the box to make a house for her. As long as she naps, she won’t make a fuss, which should give us time to negotiate.”
Walker was attentive. “I’m with you so far.”
“The only snag is the threesome in the yellow school bus. We have to find a way to get them out of there.”
Walker’s smile was slow. “Funny you should mention that. I’ve been mulling the selfsame subject . . . on your behalf, of course. You may be in the woman’s thrall, but she’s bad news. Consider yourself lucky if you haven’t picked up crabs or a dose of the clap. I’m not passing judgment, Jon. I’m stating a fact. You want her gone, I can make it happen, the other two as well, unless I greatly miscalculate. Say the word and it’ll be done by noon today.”
“How?”
“First, I call the draft board and tell them where to find our friend, Greg. Then I stop by the bus and drop a hint to him. I figure fifteen minutes max we’ll see them tearing out of there. Your idea about Rain we can implement once we get the kinks worked out. What do you think?”
“Far out. You’re a genius. I take back every bad word I ever said about you. No offense.”
“None taken.”
32
Thursday, April 21, 1988
I arrived at the office at 8:00, hoping to get a jump on the day. As I unlocked the door I could smell scorched coffee and realized with a flash of annoyance that I’d forgotten to turn off the coffeemaker when I’d left Wednesday afternoon
. I scurried down the corridor to the kitchenette and flipped off the machine. I removed the carafe from the unit and set it on a folded towel to cool. The glass bottom had a ring of black sludge that would probably never come off.
I hauled out my trusty Smith-Corona, popped off the hard cover, and placed it on my desk. I spread out my index cards and typed a report for Sutton’s file, covering what I’d done to this point. I included Henry’s speculation about the sequence of events, which added a little ray of sunshine. When I finished I put the report in his file. I put a rubber band around the cards, dropped them in the same file, and closed the drawer. I’d gone as far as I could go and I needed a break. Over the weekend I’d reshuffle the facts and hope to spot something I’d missed. In the meantime, it was a perfect April morning, clear and sunny, still cool but with the promise of a warming trend. Surely, that boded well.
I stashed the typewriter under the desk again and caught sight of the light on my answering machine, which was blinking merrily. I swiveled once in my chair and pressed Play.
I could hear background noise.
“Kinsey? This is Michael Sutton. I gotta talk to you as soon as possible. After I left you, I went to get Madaline at her AA meeting and saw the same guy I spotted at the dig. He has two black eyes and his face is banged up, which is why I noticed him in the first place. We followed him to that Montebello Bank and Trust at Monarch and Old Coast Road. I’m calling from the gas station across the street. We’ve waited half an hour and he hasn’t come out so maybe he works there. Thing is, Madaline’s antsy to get home so I was hoping you could spell me while I run her back to the house. I guess not, huh. Anyway, when you get the message, could you call? If I’m not home, I’ll be here unless the bank closes in the meantime. Gotta go. Thanks.”