“Okay.”
He kissed her cheek, and as he leaned into her he placed his hand on her belly again. Then he was gone out the kitchen door to the garage; she heard the Mercedes start up and the garage door open. Doug backed out, the garage door closed with a thunk, and that was that.
She and David were alone.
“Well,” she said. She looked at Burn This Book, there on the countertop where Doug had left it. She decided to finish it tonight and start on the Hollywood book. Then Laura scraped the dishes and put them into the dishwasher. Doug was being worked like a dog, and it wasn’t fair. He was a workaholic anyway, and this pressure was only making it worse. She wondered what Eric Parker’s wife, Marcy, had to say about her husband working so late on a rainy night. When had money become God? Well, there was no use fretting about it. She went into the laundry room and folded the pants over a wooden hanger. The creases weren’t lined up exactly, and that imperfection would drive her nuts if she didn’t correct it. Laura took the pants off the hanger and refolded them.
And something fluttered from a pocket.
It was a small green piece of paper. It came to rest on the linoleum tile near Laura’s left foot.
She looked down at it.
A ticket stub.
Laura stood there with the pants halfway on the hanger. A ticket stub. She would have to pick it up, and that would require slow motion and a delicate balance. She leaned over, gripping an edge of the dryer, and retrieved the ticket. The muscles of her lower back spoke as she straightened up; they said we’ve been kind with you so far, don’t push it. Laura started to throw the ticket stub into a trash can, but she paused with her hand halfway there.
What was the ticket for?
The theater’s name was on it: Canterbury Six. Must be a shopping center cinema, she thought. One of those multiplexes. It was a new ticket. The green hadn’t faded. Laura looked at the pants on the hanger. She reached into a pocket, found nothing but lint. Then the other pocket. Her hand brought out a third of a roll of peppermint Certs, a five-dollar bill, and a second ticket stub. Canterbury Six, it said.
She’d never been to the Canterbury Six in her life. Didn’t even know where it was.
Laura wandered back into the kitchen, the two ticket stubs in her hand. Rain slapped against the windows, a brutal sound. She was trying to remember the last movie she and Doug had gone to see at a theater. It had been a couple of years, at least. She thought it had been The Witches of Eastwick, which was now old hat on HBO and Showtime. So why were these two ticket stubs in Doug’s pocket?
She opened the phone book and looked up Theaters. The Canterbury Six was at a mall across town. She dialed the number and got a recorded message telling what films were showing: a mixture of teenage sex comedies, alien shoot-’em-ups, and Rambo clones. She put the receiver back into its cradle, and she stood staring at the clock on the kitchen wall.
Why had Doug gone to a movie and not told her? When did he have time to go see a movie? She knew she was skirting around the dangerous territory of the true question: whom had he gone with?
It was silly, she thought. There was a logical explanation. Sure there was. He’d taken a client to a movie. Right. Way across town for a drek picture? Hold it, she told herself. Stop right there, before you get crazy. There’s nothing to this. Two ticket stubs. So what?
So…why had Doug not told her?
Laura turned on the dishwasher. It was fairly new, and made no noise but for a deep, quiet throbbing. She picked up Burn This Book, intending to go to the den and finish reading the philosophies and opinions of Mark Treggs. Somehow, though, she found herself at the telephone again. Nasty things, telephones were. They beckoned and whispered things that were better left unheard. But she wanted to know about the tickets. The tickets were as big as double Mt. Everests in her mind, and she couldn’t see anything but their ragged edges. She had to know. She dialed the number of Doug’s office.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Five times. Ten times. Then, on the fourteenth ring: “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Laura Clayborne. Is Doug there yet, please?”
“Who?”
“Doug Clayborne. Is he there yet?”
“Nobody’s here, ma’am. Just us.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Wilbur,” the man said. “Just us janitors here.”
“Mr. Parker must be there.”
“Who?”
“Eric Parker.” Irritation flared. “Don’t you know who works in that office?”
“There’s nobody here but us, ma’am. We’re just cleanin’ up, that’s all.”
This was crazy! she thought. Even if Doug hadn’t had time to get to the office yet, Eric Parker must be there! He’d called from the office, hadn’t he? “When Doug Clayborne comes in,” she said, “would you have him call his wife?”
“Yes ma’am, sure will,” the janitor answered, and Laura said thank you and hung up.
She took Burn This Book into the den, put on a tape of Mozart chamber music, and sat down in a comfortable chair. Ten minutes later she was still staring at the same page, pretending to read but thinking CanterburySix twoticketsDougshouldbeattheofficebynowwhyhasn’thecalled whereishe?
Another five minutes crept past. Then ten more, an eternity. Doug’s hurt! she thought. He might’ve had an accident in the rain! As she stood up, she felt David twitch in her belly, as if sharing her anxiety. In the kitchen, she phoned the office again.
It rang and rang and rang, and this time there was no answer.
Laura walked into the den and back into the kitchen in an aimless circle. She tried the office once more, and let the thing ring off the hook. No one picked up. She looked at the clock. Maybe Doug and Eric had gone out for a drink. But why would they do that if there was so much work to be done? Well, whatever was going on, Doug would tell her about it when he got home.
Just like he’d told her about the tickets?
Laura spun the Rolodex, and found Eric Parker’s home number.
She was going to feel very dumb about this tomorrow, when Doug told her he and Eric had gone out to meet a client, or that they’d simply decided not to answer the phones while they were working. She was going to feel like crawling into a hole, for thinking—even minutely—that Doug might not be telling her the truth.
She was afraid to make the call. The gnawing little fear rose up and gripped her by the throat. She picked up the telephone, punched the first four numbers, and then put it down again. She phoned the office a third time; no answer, after at least twenty rings.
The moment of truth had arrived.
Laura took a deep breath and phoned Eric Parker’s house.
On the third ring, a woman said, “Hello?”
“Hi. Marcy? It’s Laura Clayborne.”
“Oh, hi, Laura. I understand the time’s growing near.”
“Yes, it is. About two weeks, more or less. We’ve got the nursery all ready, so now all we’re doing is waiting.”
“Listen, enjoy the wait. After the baby comes, your life won’t ever be the same.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.” Laura hesitated; she had to go on, but it was tough. “Marcy, I’m trying to get in touch with Doug. Do you know if they went out to meet a client, or are they just not answering the phones?”
There was a few seconds of silence. Then: “I’m sorry, Laura. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Eric called Doug from the office. You know. To finish up some work.”
“Oh.” Marcy was silent again, and Laura felt her heart beating hard. “Laura…uh…Eric went to Charleston this morning. He won’t be back until Saturday.”
Laura felt the blood burn in her cheeks. “No, Eric called Doug from the office. About an hour ago.”
“Eric’s in Charleston.” Marcy Parker gave a nervous laugh. “Maybe he called long distance?”
“Maybe.” Laura was light-headed. The noise of the rain was a slow drumroll on the roof. “Listen…Marcy, I… shouldn’t have ca
lled. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“No, it’s all right.” Marcy’s voice was uneasy; she wanted to get off the phone. “I hope everything’s fine with the baby. I mean, I know it will be, but…you know.”
“Yes. Thank you. You take care.”
“Good-bye, Laura.”
Laura hung up.
She realized the music was over.
She sat in her chair in the den as rain streamed down the windows. Her hand gripped the two green ticket stubs, to a theater she’d never been to. Her other hand rested on her swollen belly, finding David’s warmth. Her brain felt full of thorns, and it made thinking painful. Doug had answered the phone and talked to someone he called Eric. He’d gone to the office to work. Hadn’t he? And if he hadn’t, then where had he gone? Her palm was damp around the tickets. Who was Doug with if Eric was in Charleston?
Laura closed her eyes and listened to the rain. A siren wailed in the distance, the sound building and then waning. She was thirty-six years old, two weeks away from giving birth for the first time, and she realized she had been a child way too long. Sooner or later, the world would break you down to tears and regrets. Sooner or later, the world would win.
It was a mean place to bring a child into, but it was the only world there was. Laura’s eyes were wet. Doug had lied to her. Stood right there and lied to her face. Damn him, he was doing something behind her back, and she was carrying their baby in her womb! Anger swelled, collapsed into sadness, built back again. Damn him! she thought. Damn him, I don’t need him! I don’t need any of this!
Laura stood up. She got her raincoat and her purse. She went out into the garage, grim-lipped, got into the BMW, and drove away, searching in the dark for a place where there were people, noise, and life.
4
Mr. Mojo Has Risen
SHE TASTED HIM IN her mouth, like bitter almonds.
The first time, she’d wanted it because she missed it. The second time, she’d done it because she was thinking of how she could get a better rate on the acid. Now she stood in the bathroom, brushing her teeth, her hair damp around her shoulders. Her gaze followed the network of scars on her stomach, down to the ridges of scar tissue that ran between her thighs. Freaky, Gordie had said. Looks like a fuckin’ roadmap, don’t it? She’d been waiting for his response, steeling herself for it as she’d taken off her clothes. If he had laughed or looked disgusted, she didn’t know what she might have done. She needed him, for what he brought her, but sometimes her anger rose up as quick as a cobra and she knew she could reach into his eyeballs with two hooked fingers and break his neck with her other hand before he figured out what had hit him. She looked at her face in the mirror, her mouth foamy with Crest. Her eyes were dark; the future was in them.
“Hey, Ginger!” Gordie called from the bedroom. “We gonna try the acid now?”
Mary spat foam into the sink. “I thought you said you had to meet your girlfriend.”
“Aw, she can wait. Won’t hurt her. I was pretty good, huh?”
“Far out,” Mary said, and she rinsed her mouth and spat into the sink again. She returned to the bedroom, where Gordie was lying on the bed in the tangled sheet smoking a cigarette.
“How come you talk like that?” Gordie asked.
“Talk like what?”
“You know. ‘Far out.’ Stuff like that. Hippie talk.”
“I guess because I used to be a hippie.” Mary crossed the room to the dresser, and Gordie’s shiny eyes followed her through the haze of blue smoke. On top of the dresser were the Smiley Face circles of acid. She cut two of them away with a small pair of scissors, and she could feel Gordie watching her.
“No shit? You used to be a hippie? Like with love beads and all that?”
“Love beads and all that,” she answered. “A long time ago.”
“Ancient history. No offense meant.” He puffed smoke rings into the air, and he watched the big woman walk to the stereo. The way she moved reminded him of something. It came to him: a lioness, silent and deadly in one of those documentaries about Africa on TV. “You into sports when you were younger?” he asked innocently.
She smiled slightly as she put a Doors record on the turntable and switched on the power. “In high school. I ran track and I was on the swim team. You know anything about the Doors?”
“The band? Yeah. They had a few hits, right?”
“The lead singer’s name was Jim Morrison,” Mary went on, ignoring Gordie’s stupidity. “He was God.”
“He’s dead now, right?” Gordie asked. “Damn, you’ve got a nice ass!”
Mary set the needle down. The first staccato drumbeats of “Five to One” began, and the raspy bass bled in. Then Jim Morrison’s voice, full of grit and danger, snarled from the speakers: Five to one, baby/ One in five/ No one here gets out alive/ You get yours, baby/ I’ll get mine…
The voice made memories flood through her. She had seen the Doors in concert many times, and had even seen Jim Morrison up close once, as he was going into a club on Hollywood Boulevard. She’d reached out through the crowd and touched his shoulder, felt the heat of his power course up her arm and shoulder like an electric shock, blowing her mind into the realm of golden radiance. He had glanced back at her, and for a brief second their eyes had met and locked; she had felt his soul, like a caged and beautiful butterfly. It screamed to her, wanting her to set him free, and then somebody else grabbed Jim Morrison and he was taken along in the surge of bodies.
“That’s got a good beat,” Gordie said.
Mary Terror cranked up the music a notch, and then she took the LSD to Gordie and gave him one of the yellow Smiley Faces. “Allllright!” Gordie said as he crushed his cigarette out in an ashtray beside the bed. Mary began to lick the circle, and Gordie did the same. In a few seconds the Smiley Faces were smeared and their black eyes were gone. Then Mary got onto the bed and sat in a lotus position, her ankles crossed beneath her and her wrists on her knees, her eyes closed as she listened to God and waited for the acid to work. The skin of her belly fluttered; Gordie was tracing her scars with his index finger.
“So you never said how you got all these. Were you in an accident?”
“That’s right.”
“What kinda accident?”
Little boy, she thought, you don’t know how close you are to the edge.
“Must’ve been a bad one,” Gordie persisted.
“Car wreck,” she lied. “I got cut up by glass and metal.” That much was true.
“Whoa! Heavy-duty hurt! Is that why you don’t have any kids?”
Her eyes opened. Gordie’s mouth was on his forehead, and his eyes were bloodred. Her eyelids drifted shut again. “What do you mean?”
“I wondered, ’cause of the baby pictures. I thought…you know…you must have a thing about kids. You can have kids, can’t you? I mean…the accident didn’t fuck you up, did it?”
Again, Mary’s eyes opened. Gordie was growing a second head on his left shoulder. It was a warty mass just beginning to sprout a nose and chin. “You ask too many questions,” she told him, and she heard her voice echo as if within a fathomless pit.
“Man!” Gordie said suddenly, his crimson eyes wide; “My hand’s gettin’ longer! Jesus, look at it!” He laughed, a rattle of drums that merged with the Doors’ music. “My hand’s fillin’ up the fuckin’ room!” He wriggled his fingers. “Look! I’m touchin’ the wall!”
Mary watched the head taking shape on Gordie’s shoulder. Its features were still indistinguishable, but the mass of flesh began to throw out cords of skin that looped around Gordie’s other face, which had started to shrink and shrivel. As the Gordie-face dwindled, the new face tore itself loose and slithered across Gordie’s shoulder, fastening itself onto the skull with a wet, sucking noise.
“My arms are growin’!” Gordie said. “Man, they’re ten feet long!”
The air was filled with music notes spinning from the speakers like bits of gold and silver tinsel. The new face on Gor
die’s skull was becoming more defined, and a mane of wavy brown hair burst from the scalp and trailed down the shoulders. Sharp cheekbones pressed from the flesh, and a bastard’s mouth with cruel, pouting lips. Dark eyes emerged under glowering brows.
Mary caught her breath. It was the face of God, and he said, “You get yours, baby. I’ll get mine.”
Jim Morrison’s face was on Gordie’s body. She didn’t know where Gordie was, and she didn’t care. She drew herself toward him, her lips straining for the pouting mouth that had spoken the truth of the ages. “Wow,” she heard him whisper, and then their mouths sealed together.
She felt him slide into her, body and soul. The walls of the room were wet and red, and they pulsed to the music’s drumbeat. She opened her mouth as he drove deeper into her, and a long silver ribbon trailed out that spun up and up. The air was vibrating, and she felt the notes of music prick her flesh like sharp little spikes. His hands were on her, melting into her skin like hot irons. She traced the bars of his ribs with her fingers, and his tongue came out of his face like a battering ram and tore up through the roof of her mouth to lick her brain.
His power split her, tearing her atoms asunder. He was burrowing into her as if he wanted to curl up inside her scarred belly. She saw his face again, amid a blaze of yellows and reds like a universe aflame. It was changing, melting, re-forming. Long sandy-blond hair replaced the wavy brown, and fierce blue eyes rimmed with green pushed God’s eyes out of their sockets. The nose lengthened, the chin became sharper, like a spear’s tip. A blond beard erupted from the cheeks and merged into a mustache. The mouth spoke in a gasp of need: “I want you. I want you. I want you.”