Without even grabbing a coat, she ran out the door. And down along the path toward his cabin, hurrying through the trees, not stopping until she heard Corky crying out, “No closer,” and why was he standing off the path in the bushes, sounding that way.
“Corky, listen—”
“—go on back up to the house, please—”
“—Duke called.”
“Tell me later, Peg, huh?”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m just trying to get my head on straight, nothing’s the matter.”
Peg took a step back, away from him.
He moved out onto the path. “I’ll come on up in a while.”
“We don’t have a while.”
“What’s so goddam important about your husband calling?”
“I didn’t tell him you were here.”
“So?”
“He’s going to know why. The second he gets here and finds out, he’s going to catch on—I told him there was steak and he thought that was funny, I could tell from what he said, and there’s Scotch and French wine and he’s going to know what we did, Corky, and I’m afraid.”
“You’ll get sick, standing around without a coat—get back to the house, it’s cold.”
“Why are you acting so funny?”
“How am I acting?”
“Why were you wandering around outside if it’s so cold?”
“I had some thinking to do.”
“About me?”
“No. I swear.”
“If it is, say so—we’ve got to be honest with each other, Corky—I don’t like what’s happening all of a sudden—I don’t know what I’m getting into.”
“Hey …” He put his arm around her. “Come on. Let me walk you back.”
“He’s going to know.”
“You’re just making trouble for yourself.”
“I can’t hide it. It’s going to show all over my face.”
“Not if you don’t let it.”
“You were thinking about me outside, weren’t you—you were having seconds thoughts.”
“Not about you.”
“Tell me. I never did anything unfaithful before, Corky—I’m not very confident just now—” and then her voice got strident again—“that’s Duke’s sweater. If he sees you in that, he’ll know what we did.”
Corky started rubbing her shoulders. “If he sees us in bed, he’ll have a good chance of knowing; otherwise, it’s kind of circumstantial. The way you’re going on, if the sun comes up tomorrow, he’ll know what we did. If the tides go out, he’ll catch on. God forbid the stars should come out.”
They were by the front door now. “You think I can lie my way through?”
“You did great with the Postman.”
She nodded. “I did, that’s right.”
“Everything’s okay then?”
“You wouldn’t feel like maybe coming in for a nightcap or coffee or anything?”
“I don’t think it’s too smart for me to be up here in case he comes early. My God, if he saw us having Yuban together, he’d be sure to catch onto what we did.”
“You making fun?”
“Little maybe.”
“Deserved.” She looked at him. “But, see, I never acted like a whore before.”
“Look on the bright side,” Corky told her. “At least you don’t feel guilty about it.”
Peg started laughing. She moved into his arms and he held her until it came from down in the brush, the terrible scream of the cat. “Don’t be frightened, it’s just a bird.”
Without meaning to shake his head, Corky shook his head: the cat had found the Postman.
10
“Wanna bet?”
Corky blinked. “Bet?”
“You were shaking your head I was wrong when I said it’s a bird. I’ll betcha I’m right—c’mon, I’ll prove it.” She took a step down the path.
Corky pulled her to a halt.
Peg looked at him.
“Go inside, Peg.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“You want to know the truth, I don’t think it’s very smart for us to be seen together. I think if he sees us together, we might not be able to pull it off.”
“You’re scared too then?”
“I’d love for you to show me Sherlock’s bird, but I think our cause would be better served if you went inside and did whatever you ordinarily do when your husband comes home.”
“Christ,” Peg said, “the list. I wrote some things down on a piece of paper, I didn’t throw it out yet. It wouldn’t be so hot if he saw them.”
“I think we both have things we have to do, don’t you?”
“I guess.”
“Let’s do them then.” He opened the door for her, she slipped inside, he closed the door.
Then he broke into a wild run down the path, a mistake because he tripped on the goddam roots, fell headlong, didn’t care, got up again, ran on. When he reached the area he stopped, looking around, trying to figure out where the cat scream had come from, turned around and around on the path, staring at the woods and brush and then he saw the cat’s eyes glowing and he plunged toward them and the night was dark, but when he got there he could see the animal sitting on the Postman who lay facedown and still. Corky looked back to where the assault had been and it was amazing he’d been almost dead, the Postman, but he was like Rasputin, when they tried to kill Rasputin he kept popping back from death on them, almost but not quite taking the final plunge and the Postman had been tough like that too, at his age and with what he’d taken, he’d somehow been able to crawl, what, twenty yards through the thick brush, maybe more.
Corky came close to the body but the cat didn’t like that. He kept sitting on the Postman, perched there ready to spring, his claws digging into the back of the Postman’s tan overcoat. Corky knelt down and the cat snapped—it was his toy, this body, it belonged to him and he was going to drag it somewhere and devour it like the dark birds—he stared at Corky, eyes insanely bright, hissing, and for a moment Corky wondered if it would be safe to reach for the Postman but when he tried the cat jumped at his hand, he knew it wasn’t so he grabbed blindly for a stick, swung it at the animal, missed, but the cat at least was ten feet away now. Corky grabbed the Postman’s feet, dragged him quickly back to the cabin with the cat tracking them all the bloody way.
The blood was going to be a problem and he asked Fats about it once he was back inside.
“You’re just going to have to beat everyone else up in the morning,” Fats said. “You’re rising with the dawn, schmucko, and doing your best to cover up. Need I say your best has only got to be perfect? Where’s the Postman now?”
’ “Just outside—the goddam cat thinks he’s a toy.”
“Bring me any identification,” Fats said so Corky went outside into the dark, took off the Postman’s watch, took his wallet and bill clip thick with hundreds and brought them inside, put them on the arm of the overstuffed chair. “Take off your clothes,” Fats said then.
“Why?”
“The Postman’s going for a swim.”
“I can’t.”
“Not only can you, you’re on your way.”
“I’m not a strong swimmer,” Corky said.
“You’re going to have to be strong enough to get him out in the middle before you let him sink.”
“I can’t do that—see, I’m really not at home in the water—and besides, I know this lake—there’s snapping turtles in there—it’s true—and there was a water moccasin scare once—”
“I don’t care if the Loch Ness Monster’s out there and ravenous—”
“—don’t talk like that—”
“I don’t want to go out in the water—I’m not sure what I want to do but maybe …”
“Don’t trail your voice off on me. You think I’m going to beg you to tell me what follows your ‘maybe.’ Well, I’m quite content without knowing, thank you very much.”
“Maybe
I should give myself up,” Corky said then.
Fats made no reply.
“You think?”
“Fine. Do it.”
“I’m afraid is the thing.”
“You’re kind of scared of everything these days, aren’t you?”
“I killed somebody, for God’s sake—I took a life—”
Fats got ministerial. “Dearly Beloved—”
“—the Postman is dead, don’t make jokes.”
“Why is he dead? Do you remember your logic?”
“He was gonna have me put away.”
“And now, what do you think would happen to you if you gave yourself up?”
“They’d put me away, I guess.”
“Kee-rect. And since you have just proved conclusively you’re not thinking logically, let me take over. Situation: a corpse outside the door. Problem: how to dispose of said object. Now, since corpses tend to sink when given the opportunity, if we had a large enough body of water in the vicinity, we could dip the one into the other and all our troubles would be over. But wait—what is that liquid mass just beyond the cabin edge? It is a large enough body of water. Solution: even to a pointy head like yourself, it should be clear enough.”
“I’m really scared, don’t you understand that?”
“I’m SCARED TOO—YOU THINK I WANT YOU GOING TO PIECES ON ME. GODDAM YOU. DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO.”
Corky got undressed down to his shorts, turned, left the cabin. The cat was still by the body but he shooed it away easier this time, picked the Postman up under the arms, dragged him to the edge of Lake Melody. As he got closer, his feet began to sink slightly into the moist sandless shore. The air was terribly cold now, but the water was worse, and Corky stopped for a moment when he was up to his knees and genuinely wondered if he could go on, but since there wasn’t any choice, he went on, moving slowly along the mud bottom of the dark lake until he was up to his waist. Then he tried moving the Postman into a lifesaving position, one arm around the body, over the shoulder, curving around the chest, gripping tight under the armpit. Once the grip was secure he pushed off, and slowly, very slowly, began to sidestroke out toward the middle of Lake Melody. The lake was shallow for a good portion of the way, not really getting deep for well over a hundred yards. Corky continued kicking, tried to ignore the incredible cold, tried to figure just how far he would have to go before it was safe to unload his cargo and get back to blessed land. He was probably fifty yards from shore now—he could only guess by the receding light from his cabin—not nearly far enough, and for a moment he thought his left calf was starting to cramp but he moved it very fast several times and the discomfort went away. The Postman was getting heavier and heavier as he stroked slowly along, the tan overcoat sponging up water, and that made it slower, harder, and Corky was starting to labor now, starting to shake terribly from the cold and when the snapping turtle struck at first he was so numb he didn’t quite know what was happening, but then when the jaws started pulling at his thigh flesh, when the blood began pouring from the wound—
—stop it—they sleep—they sleep at night and there aren’t any after you, don’t think—
Corky kept his mind blank, and when the turtles bunched for an attack he thought them away and kept on and when the fangs of the water moccasin dug into his neck, he thought that away too, just kept on and on and nothing frightened him at all until he realized that in the middle of the murky lake surrounded by darkness and cold he was no longer the only one alive, there wasn’t any doubt, and he wasn’t going crazy, the Postman was breathing and Corky screamed, and the cry skimmed along the slick surface and he dropped his bundle and was about to start for shore except the Postman would not let go—the old man would not die and he would not let go, his thin fingers held to Corky’s wrist and Corky struck out with his free hand but no good, the old man was indestructible and now they were facing each other and the Postman’s eyes were open and blinking slowly like a withered crocodile’s and now his hands were moving up Corky’s body and when the thin fingers reached his neck they locked on tight and Corky pounded but the Postman was beyond pain, and as his fingers continued to constrict around Corky’s neck he realized omigod, omigod, he’s trying to kill me and they sank below the dark surface then, Corky trying to grip the old man’s fingers, trying to break them like stiff twigs from his jugular but they would not loosen, they held, they held, and Corky hadn’t gotten a decent breath, the surprise had taken him too quickly and he could feel his heart already trying to break from his chest and his temple was pounding too and the old man held, held, he had been alive a million years and he had no intention of going quickly or quietly or at all and Corky began to think he was about to drown and he fought hard and somehow kicked briefly to the surface and they thrashed awhile for air and then down again, and Corky, rejuvenated, reached out his hands and grabbed the Ancient’s and as they sank deeper and deeper into the lake center he began to get leverage and then he had one hand loose and then the other and my God he’d done it, he was safe, safe, he’d won and he kicked to the surface, panting but alive and that was the object of it all wasn’t it, staying alive, and he treaded water before he realized that somewhere in this chilled darkness the Postman was alive and swimming more than likely for shore but where—where—and Corky tried listening but he couldn’t hear because he was panting too terribly and he turned around in the water, around and around, and this time he really did feel something around his legs, but it didn’t matter, there wasn’t time to fill your mind with wildness now, now there was an old man to find in a dark sea and Corky realized that what had been around his legs had been his muscles starting to surrender to the cold, cramping, and if they got bad enough, good-bye, but until that happened he had to keep looking, keep looking, and now his stomach was starting to tighten slightly and that would have been funny, getting murdered by a corpse, some epitaph, except he wasn’t going to get murdered and the Postman wasn’t a corpse, yet, and Corky turned in the water, turned and spun and there he was, at last, the Postman, swimming feebly for shore, and oh, Corky thought as he covered the distance between them, oh oh oh, he thought as he overtook the Ancient, pushed and held him down till death and after, and as at last the Postman sank at last forever, Corky could only shake his head in awe at the things we do for love …
11
“There’s breakfast anytime you want it,” Peg said.
Corky stood in the doorway of the cabin. “What’s wrong?” The morning was chill.
“Just make believe everything’s fine—Duke’s watching us from the house I think.”
“Why?”
“Because what I said would happen happened—we had a steamer last night—‘Why didn’t you tell me someone was here? You lied, why did you lie?’ I said I didn’t I only forgot. I didn’t tell him anything about yesterday. Not word one.”
“You think he wants me up there now?”
“I think he wants to watch us together.”
“Give me five minutes, I’ll be there, can he read lips?”
Peggy shook her head confused.
“Then I’d like to say thank you for the invitation, and I adore you, and I appreciate the opportunity of having breakfast, and fucking you was just maybe the experience of my lifetime, and I take my coffee black, and your breasts belong in the Louvre which is a museum in Paris which is a place I would love to visit with you once you decide to leave that suspicious asshole up in the house.”
“Are you ever something,” Peg said, careful to stop smiling before she turned, faced the house, headed up.
Corky hurried inside, started shaving. “Getting very suave with the words there,” Fats said. “Urfuckingbane.”
“Praise from Caesar.” Corky glided his razor down along his cheeks. “Wanna come along?”
“I got nothing else on the agenda. Besides, I wanna see what the old ear-blower looks like.”
Corky was rocked by the change. The Ronnie Wayne who had him take his notes across the library, the senior w
ith the convertible and the Elvis hairdo; not a remnant left. The one sipping coffee at the kitchen table was almost completely bald, beer-bellied, with the puffiness under the eyes that only an excess of alcohol supplies.
“My God Ronnie how are you,” Corky said, crossing the floor with Fats, right hand out.
“The Duker’s doing okay,” and he stood, and they shook, then they sat.
“You take your coffee—” Peggy began, about to say “black,” but the quick turn of Duke’s head warned her, and she ended with the word “how?” which was fine.
“Nothing,” Corky answered, and she nodded, poured him a cup.
“Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you yesterday. Help with the entertaining and all. But somebody’s got to earn a living, I guess.”
“You’re still in real estate, isn’t that right?” Corky asked.
“I gave that up,” Duke said. “Dull. Who needed all that bullshit, the goddam pressure all the time when what I really love is just to fish and hunt, take your Pick. When I want to think, I just go out on the lake here and cast a plug around and let my mind clean out.”
“He fishes every chance he gets, God knows,” Peggy said.
Duke looked at her. “I’m out of real estate awhile now. Just doing a little selling nowadays. Surprised Peg didn’t bring you up to date.”
“She may have, the truth is, I was so whipped when I got here she fed me and the wine hit me fast which I should know by now it always does.”
“Corky’s a lot of fun when he’s bombed,” Fats cut in. “He spends half his time trying to be witty—you might call him a half-wit.”
Corky looked at Fats. “You can do better than that.”
Fats looked right back at him. “Why bother, you’d miss the punch lines.” He turned to Duke. “Corky here is afflicted with diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of the brain, very rare.”
“I’d just like to drink my coffee in peace, do you mind?” Corky said.
“He’s that dumb?” Duke asked.
Fats answered, “Dumb? If it started raining soup and we all quick ran outside to eat, Corky would be the one carrying a fork.”