“Yes, you did.”
He shook his head and then slapped himself on the forehead. “Look, forget what I said. What do I know? Those people had wonderful treatment, honest.”
Laurel walked slowly out into the sunlight to get warm and then just kept walking. She could hear Evan’s plea behind her but she didn’t turn.
“Please, it’s not you. It’s me. I always say the wrong things to the right people … Mrs. Devereaux? Oh … hell.”
That night Laurel prowled. She put a coat over her nightgown and walked the covered walkways where hanging palms and leafy vines made weird silhouettes on the walls in the moonlight and the twisted trees in the courtyard created moving, menacing shadows. There seemed to be no darkness in this desert world with the harsh sun in the day and the moon at night sending its eerie glow through barred windows and wide archways. There seemed no place to hide in darkness and to nurse jangled nerves.
It was cold and the pool steamed, the steam wisping and writhing in the moonlight as if from a witch’s caldron. She paced back and forth beside it, tense and writhing inside like the steam. She couldn’t bear to stay here but couldn’t think of any place to go. Evan Boucher had offered help, but she dismissed him. Whether he was a fumbly lovesick kid or a house burglar, he wouldn’t be much help. She still couldn’t bring herself to trust him. Her parents had been cruel enough to disown her and she didn’t know them anyway. It’s hopeless.
She walked toward the recess of the garages at the back of the courtyard, and in a corner under the stone steps that led to the old nursery was a door she had noticed before but never opened. A thick wooden door like all the doors in this house, but locked. A large old-fashioned key of wrought iron was still in the lock. The key turned easily and the door opened to the outside world, a world she’d scarcely seen since she’d entered this house and become Laurel Devereaux.
Laurel pocketed the key and closed the door behind her. The house was built on the slope of a hill and the city of Tucson spread out on the valley floor below her, its lights snapping like stars in the clear night, dark jagged peaks rising up behind it on the far side of the valley.
Below her she could see the patio of another lush home with a steamy pool. She’d forgotten how close the rest of the world was, once inside this self-contained house at her back.
The hill rose steeply behind the house and the giant branched cacti marched widely spaced to the top, their ghostly profiles standing out on the skyline. Toward the front of the house a chain link fence that must have been ten feet high enclosed an area of desert outside Paul’s laboratory and sloped down the hill almost to the drive of the house below.
Rustling noises on the hill around her gave Laurel the creepy feeling that unfriendly night eyes watched her. She turned back to the door. And then a measured thumping from within the house caught her attention.
Not far from the door the ground fell away to expose a subbasement and another barred window that opened into a lighted room. She had to stoop slightly to see into it and wondered who else was awake.
She was looking down into a gymnasium with mats, barbells, hanging ropes, and a trampoline that thumped each time Michael came down on it. He had removed his shoes and the coat he’d worn at dinner. White shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows and straight black hair flopped against his forehead as he landed. Keeping his eyes on the taut canvas beneath him, he measured each jump with a precision that brought him down at almost the same spot as before.
He rose higher each time, his head rising level with the window and then above it, his arms flung out for balance. She could see the sweat-soaked patch of shirt between his shoulder blades as he twisted and landed to face the opposite direction. He leaped again and twisted so that he was facing her, his lips pulled back to expose his teeth as he gasped in air.
On the next leap he brought his knees up to his chest and somersaulted, landing on his feet. Again and again and faster until the veins at his temples pushed out at the skin, and Laurel’s pulse raced. He was a powerful man and an angry one and here was another release for a violent temper.
She could stand no more and turned to the door, her head thumping with the trampoline. She had one hope left, a small one. Harley. He wasn’t much, but he was all the friend she had in the world and she had to get out of this house and away from Michael Devereaux.
6
“He ain’t here.” Raymond McBride sounded as though he were used to receiving calls for Harley and didn’t like it much.
“Do you know where I might reach him?” Laurel spoke softly on the upstairs telephone.
“I don’t know where he is. He should be in late this afternoon though.”
“I’ll call back about four. Will you ask him to wait for my call?”
“Well, I’ll ask, but I can’t promise with Harley. Who should I say called?”
“Laurel … no … just say Doe Eyes. He’ll know. Thank you, Mr. McBride.” She hung up before he could ask any more questions.
It was Sunday morning and she’d watched Paul, Michael, and Jimmy go off to mass. Claire had taken another car to her church. She didn’t know where Janet was, probably getting her beauty sleep. It had been a perfect time to talk to Harley and she was disappointed not to have found him at the motel. There’d been no reason to think he would be there, but the motel was her only contact with him. She’d have to take her chances and hope to get a phone call out secretly that afternoon.
Laurel didn’t know how she would talk Harley into coming to Tucson for her. There was the fifty dollars that Paul had given her for spending money, a preciously small stake for a new start but maybe she’d offer him some of it.
She was jumpy the rest of the day and especially through dinner, an elaborate but quiet affair in the small dining room. It was served about two-thirty. There were two brass candlesticks on the table, their candles unlit. Laurel worried about spilling on the red and gold brocaded tablecloth that looked as if it should be hanging at the windows instead of covering the table. She fidgeted like a child in the uncomfortable high-backed chair and tried to take courage in the fact that this was the last such ordeal she’d have to endure.
Paul discussed some family business with Michael, something about withholding land from a proposed subdivision. Their voices sounded strangely hollow in the high-ceilinged room, Paul’s thin nervous tenor contrasting with Michael’s rumbling bass. Janet was not up to her usual snide chatter. She picked at her food and secretly watched Michael. And so did Claire.
Laurel had to admit that he possessed a certain magnetism that attracted female eyes—his deep voice, his effortless assurance. And yet an occasionally abrupt movement as he reached for his glass or rubbed his forehead gave her an impression of violence, of energy barely contained. She wondered what it was that had attracted her to him once, the exotic good looks or the hint of danger about him that frightened her now? Out of the corners of her eyes she watched as his long fingers unconsciously twisted and untwisted the cloth napkin on his lap. What had it been like to sleep with him? I must not be Laurel. I can’t even imagine what it would be like.
After dinner the family congregated in the warm sun of the courtyard. Michael and Claire played with Jimmy, throwing a ball for him to catch. Janet and Paul sat near the fountain and watched. Laurel wandered off and no one paid her much attention.
Once inside she slipped into the library where there was a clock on the mantelpiece. It was already 4:10! She decided to use the phone on the desk where she could watch them through the glass doors that led to the courtyard.
She’d obtained the number of the “Sunny Rest” that morning from Phoenix information, and she put the second call through quickly. Raymond answered and she asked for Harley. The hand that held the phone trembled.
“Harley? Yeah, he’s here. Harley, I think it’s the dame that called this morning.”
“Doe Eyes? I knew you couldn’t forget me—they never do.”
“Harley, this is serious. I need help.”
She pictured the good-natured grin with relief.
“What’d you do—get lost again?”
“No, I’m in Tucson and I have to get away. Harley, could you … would you come to Tucson tonight?”
“Tucson! That guy who came to get you live in Tucson? Devereaux?” He didn’t sound as if he was grinning now.
“Yes. Harley, I can’t talk now, but I have to get away.”
“Why don’t you just leave?”
“It’s not that simple. I don’t know anyone but you and the Devereaux’. Will you come? About midnight?”
“Look at it from my angle, Doe Eyes—this all sounds kind of weird. You know? You’re going to have to tell me who you are and what this is all about.”
“They tell me I’m Laurel Devereaux, Michael’s wife. The rest I’ll explain.…”
“What do you mean they tell you—don’t you know?”
“Harley, I can’t explain it now; I will tonight—please come.”
He swore in a perfectly audible whisper and then chuckled. “I’m a fool but … okay. Never let it be said I passed up a chance to do the Devereaux’ dirt. Where do I meet you?”
“Outside the wall, on the road in front of the house. Do you think you can find the house?”
“I know where it is. I’ll park the truck down the road and walk up. Never thought I’d get mixed up with a Devereaux woman. Wait a minute, I thought you didn’t know them. You were asking all those questions about.…”
“I have to hang up now. Harley, please be here tonight.”
They were all walking across the courtyard toward her, Michael carrying Jimmy on his shoulders. Consuela had joined them.
When they came in she was in the entry hall and everyone but Laurel said good-bye to Michael as he left for the base. He didn’t even look at her. He brushed Consuela’s forehead with his lips, hugged his son and was gone. It took Consuela to quiet Jimmy’s sobbing.
That night Laurel filled a purse with a comb, a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a lipstick, and the money Paul had given her. After changing into slacks, a sweater, flat shoes, and a warm jacket, she paced the big bedroom, waiting for midnight. She’d take no more of what belonged to the Devereaux’ than she had to. She didn’t need all those luxurious clothes. Wherever she was going, she wouldn’t be dressing for dinner. The only thing she regretted leaving behind was the bottle of foaming bath oil, too large to fit into her purse.
Cautiously opening the door to the hallway, she peered at the clock on the wall above the telephone. It was only eleven. She took off the jacket and sat on the bed to wait it out.
She felt excited and yet depressed. It would be such a relief to get away from these people, from Michael. What she was doing was wrong. But everyone would be happier if she left and she’d be happier. Could it be so wrong to make people happy? Michael obviously didn’t want her and Claire obviously wanted Michael. Well, she could have him. Although what he can see in her, I don’t know.
And Jimmy would be better off without her. He had Consuela and his father to love him, Claire to take care of him, and a wealthy family to see that he would never want for anything. He definitely did not need a mixed-up mother. Besides, I’m not convinced I am his mother. And I’m scared to death of his father. It wouldn’t work out, ever.
She started pacing the room again. I don’t want to be Laurel. Laurel is no good … walking out on her own baby … I don’t want to be her!
She found herself facing the double mirrors over the dresser and the image she would never get used to. There was an adolescent pout about her lips that she didn’t like. Was it the sophistication of makeup or had the once-blank expression in her eyes grown wary and suspicious? Look what they’ve done to me in just a week. She was beginning to look like a … a Laurel … immature, selfish. I could swear I didn’t look like this a week ago.
On a hunch and to pass the time she began searching the drawers of the dresser, most of them filled with the clothes she had bought in Tucson. Two were empty. She looked about the room. If Michael had kept any mementoes of Laurel, they had probably been moved with his things. In the carved wooden commode table by the bed there was nothing but a small box containing rosary beads. He probably wouldn’t keep any hateful reminder of Laurel.
The wardrobe that Michael had used had two drawers beneath and room above for hanging clothes. The drawers were empty and she had to stand on the floor of the upper section to reach to the back of the shelf above the hangers. There were two shoe boxes in one corner, and she pulled them out and laid them on the floor. Kneeling beside them, she wiped the dust from her hands onto the red rug.
The first box held a small assortment of mementoes. She felt guilty prying into Michael’s life this way. A certificate of graduation from a Catholic academy, another from the School of Engineering at the University of Arizona, Tucson. A yellowed newspaper clipping with a picture of a man and a boy in a rubber raft on swirling water with the caption, PAUL ELLIOT DEVEREAUX I AND SON MICHAEL 9 SHOOT RAPIDS ON COLORADO RIVER. The picture was taken from a distance, and one could not recognize the figures without the caption. There were two small model airplanes, one with a broken wing.
Laurel opened the second box and found three rings, a billfold, and a woman’s watch. She put all three rings in the palm of her hand. They were white gold or platinum, two bands and an impressive solitaire diamond, emerald cut. Laurel’s wedding and engagement rings and Michael’s wedding band. The diamond and the smaller band fit her ring finger. She slipped them off quickly and picked up the billfold.
There was a quarter and a penny in one pocket but no bills. The plastic fold-out held a sober picture of a younger Michael, a Standard Oil Credit Card, a Colorado drivers’ license made out to Laurel Jean Devereaux with a colored picture of a woman’s head. It could be a picture of her; she wasn’t sure. The dark hair was short and long bangs came down to the eyebrows. Other details listed told her Laurel was 5 feet 6 inches, weighed 118 pounds, had brown hair and eyes, and had applied for the license three years before. The birth date would make her twenty-eight. I feel younger than twenty-eight.
She looked hard at the picture of a heavy woman with graying hair and glasses in a blue sweater. Laurel’s mother? A Denver Public Library card. Another card from the State University of Iowa, Iowa City, Iowa … “This is to certify that Laurel Jean Lawrence was granted the degree of Bachelor of Arts; Major Area: History.”
Lawrence … Laurel Jean Lawrence … Iowa City, Iowa. Even this did not stir her memory. Next on the fold-out was a Social Security card made out to Laurel J. Devereaux and last was an identification card from the Denver Public Schools allowing Laurel Jean Lawrence into school functions free of charge as a teacher.
She slipped out the Social Security card, put everything else back in the box, replaced the boxes on the shelf, and put on her jacket. Laurel majored in history at Iowa and taught school in Denver before she married Michael. Her maiden name was Lawrence. And I don’t remember any of this. If she were Laurel some of what she’d learned would bring back memories, surely. She couldn’t be twenty-eight years old. But she might be able to use that Social Security card in a pinch.
A check of the clock in the hall told her it was a quarter to twelve. She turned off the lights and went to the door that led onto the balcony. With her hand on the knob, she hesitated, glancing reluctantly over her shoulder to the door of Jimmy’s room. One last look.
The night lamp was on and her eyes went immediately to the picture over the bed. The woman in the picture had always seemed to stare at her, but now as she walked to the foot of the bed to look closer she realized that the Madonna was instead gazing down at the near-naked child in her arms. The face of the mother and body of the child stood out flesh-colored on the otherwise dark blues of the canvas.
She moved to the crib and covered Jimmy. He seemed to have grown so in just the week she’d been there, this baby changing so quickly into a little boy. Gently, she brushed the fine damp hair from his forehead an
d touched the soft cheek. What would he look like when he lost the roundness from his face? Would he have freckles? His mouth was open and a wet thumb had slipped out.
She hated to do this to him. She didn’t know if she was Laurel or someone else. Either way she was no good for him. He was looking for a friend, but what he needed was a real mother. I hope you find some happiness in life … God, let him be happy … somehow. None of this was his fault.
Although Laurel knew it wasn’t so, the Madonna still seemed to stare accusingly at her back as she left the room.
Crying softly, she crossed the courtyard, passed the steamy pool and turned the key in the old lock of the door under the stone steps.
This time she left the key in the lock and walked past the window of the gym, now dark, toward the front of the house. She was looking down, watching where she stepped, when she walked into the chain link fence. She’d forgotten about Paul’s outdoor laboratory.
A monster cactus within the enclosure rose above the fence, moonlight outlining the spiny ridges of its trunk and arms with a ghostly corona against the night sky. It stood like a warning sentinel about to set the alarm that a prisoner was escaping. The familiar headache started its pulsating rhythm.
She hurried back the way she had come and crossed the concrete aprons of the garages at the back of the house to the graveled drive and followed it to the road.
There were no trees or bushes here to hide behind and the cacti were too lean, so she stood in the shadow of the great wall that sat right up to the road. She was safe unless someone drove in the drive and then she would be hopelessly spotlighted by headlights. This wall that surrounded the outer courtyard was an extension of the walls of the house, one monstrous white fort defying desert and public.
Flattening herself against the wall, she peered around it. The road was empty as it passed the house and wound past her up the hill and out of sight. He’s probably decided I’m crazy and won’t come. Why should he, he doesn’t owe me anything.