Cuts

  “Oh, for the love of God.”

  Janet made a quiet, whimpering sound and smashed her fist into his cheek. Her other fist caught the side of his nose. Blood rushed from his nostrils.

  He twisted sharply beneath her, grabbed her arm and threw her off the bed. She hit the floor hard, shoulder first, feet in the air.

  Dave looked down at her. “You damn near broke my nose!”

  She rolled over and got up.

  “What do you want to hit me for? Shit! All I said…”

  “I know exactly what you said.” She stepped into a pair of brown corduroy trousers.

  “So what’s all the fuss about? It’s perfectly legal.”

  “Sure. Legal.” She pulled on a big, loose sweatshirt.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Dave blurted.

  “I’m leaving,” Janet said. She shoved her hands into the front pockets of her cords and leaned back against a wall.

  “You can’t leave!”

  “The hell I can’t. I’ll be back Monday for my things.

  While you’re at work. Don’t worry, I won’t take anything that isn’t mine.”

  “You’re not being rational.”

  “Screw rational. I’m pregnant. You want to murder my baby.”

  “It’s not murder. Murder’s what Idi Amin does to his political enemies. Murder’s what Manson did. Murder’s what Nixon did in Vietnam. Murder isn’t aborting a goddamn fetus.”

  “When it’s my fetus, it is.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “What’ll you do for money?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “I’ll teach.”

  “Sure you will. This is October, in case you haven’t noticed. They hire teachers in the spring, not in October, for God’s sake. Halloween’s in a couple of weeks. You’re not gonna get a teaching job. Who do you think you’re kidding?”

  “Good-bye.” She grabbed the straps of her purse. As she walked toward the door, she heard a soft thump—Dave kicking something, probably a wall.

  “You’ll be back!” he shouted.

  Janet didn’t answer.

  “You’ll come back begging.”

  The hall carpet felt stiff and cool under her bare feet. With each step she took, the floor seemed to give the way ice gives on a thinly frozen pond.

  She trotted down the apartment-house stairs and hurried across the foyer.

  Outside, the sun felt good on her face. She climbed into her Ford, did a tight U-turn and headed for Grand Beach Boulevard. Meg would be glad to see her. And glad that she’d split up with Dave. “That guy’s a creep,” Meg had said after meeting him. “Beautiful, but a creep.”

  “You hardly know him.”

  “Oh, I know him. I’ve known plenty of guys like Dave. Hotshots. Think they’re God’s gift. What they are, they’re assholes disguised as men.”

  Meg wasn’t home.

  Janet sat on the front stoop. The shaded concrete felt cool through her corduroys. She was too hot in the sweatshirt. With nothing on underneath it, she couldn’t take it off. So she fluttered its front to get some air inside.

  For a long time, she stared at her engagement ring. Then she pulled it off. It left a band of pale skin around her finger.

  She put the ring in her purse and looked inside her billfold.

  A twenty-dollar bill and six ones.

  She opened her checkbook. Her bank account contained a grand total of one hundred and thirty dollars and twelve cents.

  “What wealth,” she muttered.

  It was all that remained of the stipend she’d received for her teaching assistantship at the university last spring.

  At the bottom of her purse, she found a ballpoint pen. She couldn’t locate any scratch paper so she tore a deposit slip out of her checkbook. On its back, she wrote, “Meg, I’ll be back this afternoon. Must see you. Janet.”

  She left the note under the heavy brass door knocker and went back to her car.

  THREE

  THE SUPERMARKET

  That morning, Albert looked at his reflection in the window of the North Glen Safeway.

  Pretty as a girl.

  Makes me wanta puke.

  A mustache would probably help.

  Good luck, he thought.

  He didn’t even need to shave more than a couple of times a week. Growing a halfway decent mustache would probably take him months. Maybe years.

  I’ll just have to put up with it, he thought.

  “You’re awfully cute,” Betty had said. The dumb bitch.

  Twenty bucks!

  When the automatic door sprang open, Albert stepped into the supermarket. He went directly to the cookie aisle, pulled a package of Oreos off the shelf, and headed for a checkout line.

  How’ll I get my hands on twenty bucks? he wondered.

  Six, he reminded himself. I’ve already got fourteen, so…

  It’ll be less than that after I buy the Oreos.

  Screw it.

  His cheapskate father only forked out two bucks per week in allowance. At that rate, it would take three damn weeks just to save up six dollars.

  And that’s if I don’t spend any.

  He tore open the sack and ate a cookie. It made the emptiness in his stomach hurt less.

  Maybe I oughta get a job.

  Yeah, like doing what? Bagging groceries after school?

  Babysitting?

  He sort of liked the idea of babysitting. Maybe someone

  would hire him to take care of a cute little gal, and he’d be alone with her…Maybe give her a bath…

  He felt a hardness start to grow in his jeans.

  Yeah, but who’s gonna hire me as a babysitter? Nobody, that’s who.

  Albert stepped into line behind a woman with a shopping cart. “Would you like to go ahead of me?” she asked. She had a gentle voice and an open, friendly smile.

  Albert glanced into her shopping cart. There wasn’t much in it. No more than a dozen items, at most. “Naw,” he said. “Thanks anyway. It’s all right.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind at all.”

  “Yeah. I’m in no big hurry. But thank you for the offer.” He ate another cookie and watched the woman start piling her groceries onto the conveyor belt.

  The clerk rang up each item on the cash register. Then the woman’s total came up.

  Munching a cookie, Albert watched her unsnap a checkbook and flatten it out on the counter close to him.

  The check had a snowcapped-mountain design.

  Against the rich blue sky to the left of the mountain peak, Albert saw a block of letters and numbers:

  Arnold Broxton

  Rita M. Broxton

  3214 Jeffers Lane

  North Glen, IL

  Was this woman Hank Broxton’s mother?

  No, she looked too young to have a kid in high school.

  Albert was prying open a cookie when he saw Rita make out a check for thirty-two dollars.

  The cookie parted cleanly, leaving all the vanilla filling on one side. With his upper teeth, Albert scraped an uneven furrow through the whiteness.

  He tried to take a closer look at the checkbook, but Rita was already folding it shut.

  What was her last name? Jeffers? No, that was the street.

  Broxton! That’s it! Same as Hank. Remember Hank.

  Albert paid for his cookies, then watched Rita walk toward the exit.

  She looked nice in those tight slacks. Smooth and curved without any seams showing through.

  Maybe she’s got nothing on underneath!

  Following her outside, Albert wondered if he should offer to carry her shopping bag to her car.

  No, don’t.

  Don’t want anybody seeing me with her.

  FOUR

  GRAND BEACH

  Janet tucked her purse under the front seat of her car, locked the door and put the key chain into a pocket of her corduroy trouse
rs. Hands free, she walked half a block to the beach.

  The breeze was stronger there, and cooler, and had a sea taste that made her breathe deeply and feel good. She bent down to roll up her cuffs, and the breeze filled the front of her loose sweatshirt.

  She glanced ahead. Nobody seemed positioned for a good look down the neck hole of her sweatshirt so she stayed low, letting the breeze roam around inside, drifting over the hot skin of breasts and belly, while she rolled up both the cuffs of her corduroys.

  Then she straightened up and strolled down to the shore. The breakers were rolling in, one after another, their bellies translucent green with the sun behind them, their heads glinting and frothing as they fell.

  The first cold lick of water made Janet flinch. Then she stepped out farther and let the water climb her ankles.

  With a lifeguard tower as her landmark, she started strolling south.

  Each time a wave retreated, it sucked sand out from under her feet.

  The water slipped back into the ocean, leaving the hard-packed sand bare for a few seconds before it came swirling back, curling between her toes, rising and soaking the rolled legs of her trousers, then sliding away again.

  Sometimes, she watched how the water played around her legs and feet. Other times, she watched the surfers, the sailboats far out, or the diving, squealing gulls. Much of the time, she watched what was happening to her left where the beach was dry.

  Lots of joggers, both men and women. Children digging in the sand. Dogs chasing each other and sticks of driftwood. Lone sunbathers. And couples.

  Couples running together, walking, sitting or lying close to each other in the sand. Many held hands. Some embraced as if they were alone.

  She was glad she’d never been to the beach with Dave. The one time she’d suggested it, he had said, “The beach? My God, you’ve gotta be kidding.”

  If he’d come to the beach with her, it wouldn’t be the same now. It wouldn’t be so totally her own. It would’ve been ruined for her.

  It’s all mine, she thought. Completely mine.

  The water felt so good.

  She wished she were wearing a swimsuit under her heavy sweatshirt and cords.

  Her only swimsuit, a blue bikini, was back at Dave’s apartment.

  That gonna stop ya?

  Letting out a soft, quiet laugh, Janet waded out. The water climbed her trousers, making the fabric cling to her legs and groin and buttocks. When it reached her waist, she dived beneath a wave. The cold water washed over her, soaked and pulled at her sweatshirt, pushed her, tumbled her, sucked her forward, tossed her backward.

  Again and again, she stood up to meet the inrushing waves.

  She dived into them, swam under them, rode them toward the beach, then waded out again to meet new waves.

  Finally, exhausted, she waded for shore.

  Her sweatshirt, stretched and pulled askew, drooped from her shoulders. Her corduroy trousers felt so heavy with water that she feared they might fall around her ankles. She hung on to the waistband with one hand as she walked.

  When she reached dry sand, she lay on her back and gasped for air. Her breath soon began to come more easily.

  That was nice, she thought. Very nice.

  But what am I going to do?

  Just take it one step at a time. I’ll be all right. The baby’ll be all right.

  We’ll both be better off without Dave.

  Who needs him, anyway.

  The world’s full of guys, she told herself. They’re always after me. The trick’ll be finding one who isn’t an asshole.

  I sure was wrong about Dave.

  Better be more careful next time.

  Maybe just the right guy will come along this morning. He’ll see me sprawled here on the sand and fall madly in love with me. The way I’m dressed, maybe he’ll think I got washed ashore after a boating accident.

  I’ll wake up and find him standing over me, smiling.

  As her mind played with the idea, she drifted into sleep.

  She woke up some time later. Nobody was standing over her, but the front of her sweatshirt and corduroys was nearly dry. She rolled over and shut her eyes.

  The second time she awoke, she was still alone on the beach. She felt as if she were baking inside her heavy clothes. Her mouth was parched.

  She got up, brushed sand off her clothes, then headed back toward the lifeguard tower that she’d earlier used to mark her way.

  It was a long walk.

  When she reached the tower, she sat in the sand to rest. She felt tired and gritty, hot and sweaty. She shouldn’t have stayed out so long. She was probably dehydrated.

  I’ll have to make up for it, she thought, when I get to Meg’s.

  She struggled to her feet, then walked the rest of the way to Meg’s house.

  The front door stood open.

  Janet went to it and raised her hand, ready to knock, when Meg’s rough, husky voice called, “Come on in, hon.”

  “Okay. Just a second.” Bracing herself against the door frame, she brushed sand off her feet and ankles.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Meg said. “A little sand never hurt anyone.”

  Janet went inside and saw Meg sitting on the couch, a copy of T. V. Guide lying open on her lap, her bare feet resting on the coffee table.

  “Been waiting long?” Meg asked.

  “Since about eleven this morning.”

  “Wish I’d known. I was off playing volleyball at church.”

  “Meet anyone interesting?”

  “If I had, I wouldn’t be here now. So what’s the word, anyway?”

  “I left Dave.”

  Meg shook her head. “Sorry to hear it.”

  “But not very?”

  “Sorry for you. I know it’s gotta be tough.”

  “Well…Do you have something to drink?”

  “Sure. Something hard?”

  “Not too hard.”

  “How about a beer?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great. In the refrigerator?”

  “Right. Bring me one, too, will you?”

  With two cans of Hamms, Janet returned to the living room. She gave one can to Meg, then sat on a wicker chair and popped open her lid.

  “Did you catch him stepping out on you?” Meg asked.

  “Huh-uh.” Janet took a swallow of the beer. It was cold and sharp and slightly sweet. She breathed, then drank some more. “He doesn’t want the baby,” she finally said.

  “Baby?”

  Smiling, Janet nodded.

  “Terrific! How far a long are you?”

  “About seven weeks.”

  “Wow! That’s fabulous! How’re you feeling?”

  She rubbed the cold, wet can across her forehead. “Not bad right at the moment.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m a bit shaky in the morning once in a while. And sometimes I don’t feel too perky. Aside from that, though, I feel great.”

  “A baby. Wow!”

  “A baby without a father,” Janet said. “I’m finished with Dave. He wants to kill it. Like it’s a fly or mosquito or something to be swatted.”

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  “He can go to hell.”

  “He won’t let you off that easy, hon.”

  “He doesn’t give a damn about me.”

  “Even if he doesn’t,” Meg said, “he for sure gives a damn about himself. His ego’s way too big for him to let you off the hook.”

  “I hope he rots.”

  “Until he does, do you want to stay here?”

  “That’d be great. Will I be in your way?”

  “Not a chance. We’ll have a great time.”

  “Well, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “Hey, what are pals for?”

  FIVE

  THE SOCIAL COMMITTEE

  A bunch of lushes, Lester thought.

  Well, maybe not all of them.

  For the most part, however, the Grand Beach High Scho
ol social committee seemed like a group devoted to liquor, laughs, opinionated posturing and flirtation.

  Lester had heard plenty about their meetings from Helen, but this was the first he’d attended.

  Because Helen had decided to host it at their home.

  Thanks a bunch for wrecking my Saturday night, he thought.

  After spending a couple of hours hatching plans for the faculty Halloween party nearly two weeks away—the alleged purpose of the meeting—they had scattered to begin some serious drinking and frolicking.

  There seemed to be no end in sight.

  Time for me to split, Lester thought. Nobody’s talking to me, anyway. I’m just Helen’s poor loser of a husband. Not even a teacher.

  Around this crowd, you’re shit if you aren’t a teacher.

  Bunch of pretentious bastards.

  Drunk, pretentious bastards.

  Figuring to hole up in the bedroom until the fun was over, Lester began making his way across the living room. But someone caught hold of his arm from behind. Annoyed, he frowned over his shoulder.

  And found Emily Jean Bonner smiling at him.

  Emily Jean, the aging and pathetic Georgia belle of Grand Beach High. Fifty if she was a day—probably closer to sixty—but still sporting a blaze of flowing red hair and a flamboyant spirit.

  “You’re just who I was looking for, Mr. Bryant,” she said, her voice a soft drawl.

  More of a drawl than usual, he imagined, due to the martinis she’d been consuming.

  “What do you think of our plans for the Halloween party?”

  “They seem fine.”

  “I believe they do, myself. Of course, I would prefer that costumes be mandatory rather than optional. I think everyone should come in costume. It’s so much more festive that way. It’s so much more Halloween, don’t you think so?”

  “Yes, I do,” Lester said.

  “You’ll be coming in costume, won’t you?”

  If I have to attend the damn thing at all.

  “Oh, probably,” he said.

  “I haven’t decided what to wear yet. Do you have any suggestions for me?”

  “How about a Georgia peach?”

  Laughing, she patted his shoulder. “You are a card, Mr. Bryant. Perhaps I shall come as a peach.” Resting her left hand on his shoulder, she raised her right to her mouth and sipped her martini. “And what’ll be your costume?”

  “I might come as the Invisible Man.”