So what was the connection? Because there had to be a connection. Every time he thought there were no strands left to tug …
He had twelve hours max before he had to show in the office or risk losing his job. He didn’t know if he could sell. He even had to think for a long minute to remember what his last lie had been. Ah yes, a trip to Minnesota to work Barbara Payton back into the pretzel he’d sold her as.
“Lil?”
“I’ve got cold cream on my face, Hop.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Are you still in Missouri?”
“Out here, they pronounce it Minnesota.” “You know, we thought you’d be doing better with La Payton.” “What do you mean?” “Was that quote for real? It was good enough for you to have
cooked up, but only if you had a plan we didn’t know about.”
“Slow down, Lil. Pretend I’m your ole ma calling from Parsippany.”
“The quote in the Duluth … Mule Feed Picayune, whatever it’s
called. They phoned La Payton at her hotel and asked her how the honeymoon was going.”
“What’d she say?” Hop felt the receiver sliding along his jaw, damp with sweat.
“Let me see if I can remember it right: ‘I thought it would be forever. But forever is just a weekend, more or less.’”
“Fuck me. Someone muzzle that whore, for fuck’s sake.”
“Ouch,” Lil said. “Sure don’t sound like the sweet syrup that usually slides from your lips. Besides, isn’t that your job? The muzzling?”
“I’ve been a little waylaid. I’ll take care of it.”
“Well, you better. Mr. Solomon saw that quote get picked up by the wires and he wanted to take back his call of praise. Also, he said he’d been hearing some other things he wanted to talk with you about. You best tie her mouth up tight and get back to civilization.”
Hop hung up and tried to summon up the snake oil to make a call
to Barbara.
“Operator, Duluth, Minnesota. Cloquet Carriage House Inn.”
“I’ll connect you.”
After five minutes of trying to find Merry Lake on the map in his glove compartment, Hop started out, turning the radio as high as the knob would go. Three-hour drive and he didn’t want to be able to hear his own thoughts. He didn’t want to think anymore. The inside of his mouth felt like soggy burlap, he was still riddled with scotch and beer, he’d long ago forgotten his last honest shave.
He didn’t want to think at all. Not about Frannie Adair and her tentative wholesomeness, her awful dance on the edge of doom, of the bad places always just waiting. She was on pins and needles for the slick, sugar-tongued fellow who would yank her over on the pretense of a jitterbug, and he wasn’t about to be that fancy man.
And he didn’t want to think about Midge and how she could just do it to him, make him crazy, the feel of his hand tight on her neck, fingers splayed on her jaw, he was not that kind of man … and which was worse, that rage she inspired or the twitch in his chest as their heads had leaned closer and she showed him that flicker of loveliness that he’d been so sure he’d long ago snuffed out?
He didn’t even want to think about Jerry. Jerry who could still somehow rise above it, earnest and melancholy and utterly steadfast, above the rank turmoil of everyone surrounding him. After all the women Jerry had been with, all the things he’d seen on the job, how did he get off so noble, so uncontaminated and upright? Hop knew damn well why. It was the difference between them, the thing Jerry had that he himself didn’t have, never knew to want. He couldn’t name it, but it lay there between them like an old promise.
And not about Iolene, not that lost girl… and Jean.
And Jean.
The face in the background.
The far-off voice shivering in his head. A voice he’d probably invented. Could he really remember her voice at all? He just remembered it wasn’t that taffy pull of Iolene’s. No, it was the voice of someone long tired of talking.
He had no idea what he expected to find at Merry Lake. He wasn’t sure which Merry Lake—the person or the place—was the original sound and which the echo. But he had this funny feeling that he would know when he got there.
At midnight, he was rounding the mountain roads, rolling down his window to look for any sign of life. It was barely a town although the sign said, in faux Indian type, POP. 242.
The poplar trees stretched so high that Hop could barely make out the sky. Mailboxes studded the roadway, but the names on them— Gilroy, Canning, Randolph—were meaningless.
As he drove even higher, he passed a scenic overlook and could see the shimmering lake. He stopped his car and got out.
Pine needles crackled under his feet like cut glass and he was suddenly aware of a fresh, rough smell he hadn’t experienced since a summer logging job in the Adirondacks when he was fifteen. Was this a place Jean Spangler would dream of? How could he know, anyway? In his head, she was a heady, jagged mix of B girl, good girl, girl next door, victim, blackmailer, damsel in distress, dead girl, girl of broken dreams … Christ, she was one of thousands he’d met, no different. But in his head she’d become all those girls all at once— and a succubus no less, holding on tight, refusing release long after he had any reason to be in her thrall.
As he gazed across the open space, the expanse of the lake bleeding invisibly into ring after ring of wooden frame houses, seasonal tourist cabins, logger huts, he realized this was his first moment of real peace, solitude, clearheadedness in days … years? He wasn’t sure he liked it.
Maybe if Jerry were here, he thought. We could go fishing down there, rent one of those creaky rowboats, lean back and let it bobble.
Then he could straighten out his thoughts. Remind himself of what’s what. Stop letting these women …
Oh, fuck it all, fuck it all.
He lit a cigarette.
As he smoked, he found himself rocking on his heels lightly. Where was that sound coming from? The water? No, Hop, no surf on a lake. No. No. There was music coming from somewhere. Car radio? Open window?
He peered to his left. Walking forward, pushing his way through a few yards of mulchy overgrowth, he saw a cabin with a porch, windows blazing, about sixty yards down a knotty footpath. A bar, God help me. Sweet Mary, if it’s a bar, I’ll never skip Mass again, he thought. He started walking.
As he got closer, the music took on a familiar feel. Hoagy Carmichael, wasn’t it? One of those old songs that Hop remembered dancing to with dozens of women right after the war. A slow song that bands liked to whip into something hot, hectic. He remembered one brassy blonde with a voice low and throaty like Tallulah Bankhead, blowing vibrato into his ear as they pitched around the dance floor in that frenzied VJ Day style, her breasts shuddering against his chest with each twirl. “Love comes along, casting a spell,” she sang. “Will it sing you a song? Will it say a farewell?”
That’s the one he should have married.
THE HOT SPOT was painted in red letters on a small sign hanging from a nail on the front-porch rail. Hop pushed open the Wild West doors and absorbed a cloud of smoke, old beer, and something that smelled like moonshine. The place couldn’t have held more than twenty-five people, but at least forty were crushed in, sitting at the long tables, playing cards, and drinking out of glass jars, perched along the small bar on stools that looked carved out of tree trunks. The jukebox shook mercilessly in one corner. Apparently, the Hot Spot was the only spot in town.
He pressed himself up to the bar, holding on for dear life as patrons wedged in and out of every corner. After waiting two or three minutes for the sweaty, harried bartender, Hop finally reached over the bar and grabbed his own jar. He was seconds away from
reaching around to the tap when the bartender finally saw him.
“Sorry, buddy, but it ain’t self-serve.”
“You sure?” Hop said, watching carefully as the fellow drew his
beer, making sure he didn’t spit in it.
/> It tasted awfully nice, but not as nice as a tumbler of bourbcn.
A seat opened up at one of a handful of single tables fashioned out
of barrels. Hop took it.
Watching the throng, he wondered if there was anything he could do.
Watching the throng, he wondered how he’d lost the big picture. When he’d phoned Barbara Payton before he left, he’d done some very fancy dancing. The kind of thing that can easily backfire. She’d fessed up to talking to a reporter about her wedded woe.
“Maybe if you’d been around, Hop, I wouldn’t have felt so lonely and turned to that beetle-browed reporter for a little friendly conversation.”
“But B.P., my darling, I thought you wanted this.”
“I picked the wrong joe. I miss Tom. I liked lying in bed with him
and counting his muscles.”
“Then Tom it is.”
“For real? The big D for me and Franchot?”
“We can sell it, B.P. The rash actions of a young girl trying to be
practical. She meant it when she said those vows, but now she realizes she can’t fight her own heart.”
“My heart has a lot of opinions, Hop.”
“That it does, B.P. Give me a day and I’ll make things move like Gypsy Rose Lee.”
Recalling this conversation just a few hours later, he was very unsure how he was going to pull it off. And instead of working the Payton story on Eastern Standard Time, making the calls, cleaning things up, he was in Hicksville Central, having beer spilled on him by men in plaid shirts and suspenders.
His own mason jar long empty, he wondered if there was any chance for table service. He rose and peered above the horde. As he did, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror above the nearby hat stand. What was his old man’s face doing staring back at him instead of his own pretty mug, he wondered. Fuck me, not even the nice suit helps. His face looked ten years older than a week ago. He hoped he’d be able to wash and shave it off. But what could he do to fix that strange look in his eyes? That empty-eyed look that says, Whatever you got, I’m ready. No surprises left.
He sat down, feeling his legs creak.
From a few tables away, he heard a slurred voice shout out.
“Iolene? Iolene? How ‘bout one more round?”
Hop turned, a hard, hot tremor dragging from his feet straight up to his chest. All evidence to the contrary, he fully expected to see the lively, lovely Iolene Harper come strolling across the crowded floor, skin glowing toffee, high, tight breasts wrapped in green satin, hips turned toward him, one long arm at her side, hand angled out to him, beckoning.
But instead … instead.
A girl appeared, white shirt tucked into a full skirt, hair pulled back in a long ponytail, a long gold scarf tied around her neck, two large jars of foamy beer sloshing over her hands. A white girl, a tall girl, a very, very pretty girl with a walk like a showgirl. Boom-chicaboom. A girl waiting tables in a place like this shouldn’t have that walk.
As she moved closer … as she moved closer .. .
Like the glossy photograph in his jacket pocket come to life.
Come to life.
Jean Spangler back from the dead.
He was suddenly sure he’d lost his mind.
His hand on his mason jar jerked off the edge of the table and the
jar hit the floor, rolling without breaking.
He felt like the whole joint could hear his thudding heart.
He tried to speak, but nothing came out.
She placed the beers on the nearby table with a whisper of a smile.
This dead girl did.
And then, as if sensing his attention, her eyes lifted and she looked
over at Hop. Walking toward him, a voice spilled forward from her and slithered straight into Hop’s ear, drowning out everything else.
“You want some more, fella?”
He tried to speak again, but nothing came out.
Jean Spangler. Without all the spangles.
That pearly skin a little less pearly. The posture a little less bright, less on, less ready to skate around and see what she could start up. But still without question Jean Spangler. Creamy face. Fringed, flashing eyes and pouty lip. That thick tangle of chestnut hair. The legs began where they should and ended in forever.
His whole world collapsing from within and she’s handing out drinks, Lazarus-like, in a bar seventy miles away.
Yes, I want some more. A lot more. Goddammit. Goddammit.
‘You,” Hop snarled, rising to meet her at eye level. “What the fuck are you doing here? What are you doing aboveground?”
He had lost his mind. He knew it. His mind, it was gone.
He saw her hands grip her tray tightly. He saw her face go white.
“Who sent you?” she uttered, so low he could barely hear her above the din.
“No one sent me,” he said, aware that this all felt more and more like a dream. He was talking to Jean Spangler. In the flesh. He half expected snakes to burst from her head.
She leaned close to him so she could whisper. “Please leave me. I don’t have anything.” She, only a few inches shy of his height, forced them both into the corner, only the tray jammed between them. “I don’t have anything to give you.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, placing his hands on her forearms, which rigidly grasped the tray. With one sharp gesture, he knocked the tray out of her grip and it clattered to the floor. He looked down at it and wondered what he thought he was doing. Fuck, Hop. Fuck.
“You’re here to finish things, then,” she said, her voice shaking. “To finish everything.” Her face was so close to his now he felt like he was looking straight inside her, inside those dark, depthless eyes wide with fright. And he could smell bergamot on her skin, almost taste it.
“No, no. Don’t you … don’t you remember me?” He found himself whispering. Against all reason, he felt the anger and aggression slip from him. Maybe it was the perfume. The gleamy skin. The way he could feel her body trembling against him.
He felt suddenly desperate and eerily aroused. He felt he had only seconds to make everything fall together right. How could he possibly make her understand what had happened to him and how close they were now? How intimate. And how Iolene… and everything.
“I don’t… I don’t want to remember anything.” She shook her head. “I’m done with that.”
Hop felt his temper rise again. “Maybe you’re done with it, but it’s not done with you. It’s not done with the rest of us.”
She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him. Her eyes were pleading.
“Look, we have to go somewhere. We have to talk,” Hop said pulling her closer, pulling her right up against him, his mouth on her ear. Digging his fingers deep into her arms, he could tell he was hurting her and he couldn’t stop and didn’t want to stop.
“Not now,” she pleaded, eyes darting from side to side. “Later.”
“So you can take it on the heel and toe again?” His fingers tightened on her arms, pressing her into him.
“No, no. You can wait here. I’ll finish the shift. An hour. Just an hour.”
“No hour. Now.” He didn’t want to tell her that he couldn’t last an hour sitting there, watching, not knowing. He had no hours left.
She saw something in his face. And she said, “Let me talk to the other girl.”
She brought him to an apartment on the second floor of a timber frame house. The stairs ran along the outside of the building, which smelled like tar and mildew.
When they entered, she turned, shook off her coat, and walked across the room to turn on a small floor lamp. The space was furnished sparely with a rattan frame settee, a card table with a fringed tablecloth. A dying jade plant.
“Come here,” she said, beckoning him from across the room.
“Why…” He trailed off, walking toward her.
As he reached where she stood, leaning over the lamp, he realized she was trying to
get a better look, to place him. He moved very close, directly above the lamp with its blonde glow. She looked at him closely and then, suddenly, grinned, the teasing dimples emerging.
“The reporter. The reporter. You’re still good-looking but not as pretty.”
Hop relaxed a little. “You got me on a bad day.”
She smiled again, but then it flitted away. She was remembering things. All kinds of things. He wouldn’t want to be in her head. Or maybe he already was. Had been for days.
“Sit down,” she said. ‘You want something to drink?”
“No. No.” He sat in a straight-backed chair facing her.
She struck a match on the rattan armrest and lit a cigarette,
swatting the edge of her scarf from the red ember. Her hands were shaking. But then again so were his.
“I don’t have any money. You can see I don’t,” she said.
“I don’t care about that.”
“So what’s the game, newsboy?”
The abrupt, hard tone, its similarity to Peggy Spangler’s, bristled against Hop. Her face under the light looked beautiful, yes, but like wax. He found his anger rising again.
“How does it feel to leave your family behind?” he said. “They all think you’re dead or worse.”
She didn’t flinch. She was ready for this. “They’re so much better off. They’re safe. I was nothing but a jinx.”
“What kind of mother abandons her daughter?” he said, as if he knew anything about mothers. As if he’d even given one stray, flickering thought to … to … was her name Christina?
“The kind of mother who knows she’s nothing but bad news for her little girl. And I don’t mean because I was a lousy mother.” She straightened her back, wrapping the edge of her long gold scarf around her fingers. But her voice remained flat. Plain. Toneless. “I was a fine mother, Mr. Hopkins—sure, I remember your name. I was a fine mother who got pulled into something rotten and didn’t want to put my little girl in danger for it.”
“Pulled in, eh? Is that how you frame it? You know, when you fall into the blackmail racket, you’re not falling. You’re jumping. Those
were some rough boys you were mixed up with. But I didn’t see you kicking and screaming.”