____________ ii ____________
The day began earlier for Howie than he'd ordinarily have welcomed after sleeping so little, but once he was up and exercising he felt good about being awake. It was a crime to lie in bed on a morning so fine. He bought himself a soda from the machine and sat at the window, gazing at the sky and musing on what the day might bring.
Liar; not of the day at all. Of Jo-Beth; only of Jo-Beth. Her eyes, her smile, her voice, her skin, her scent, her secrets. He watched the sky, and saw her, and was obsessed.
This was a first for him. He'd never felt an emotion as strong as that possessing him now. Twice in the night he'd woken in a sudden sweat. He couldn't remember the dreams that had brought it on, but she was in them, for certain. How could she not be? He had to go find her. Every hour he spent out of her company was a wasted hour; every moment not seeing her he was blind; every moment not touching her, numb.
She'd told him, as they'd parted the previous night, that she worked at Butrick's during the evening, and at a book store during the day. Given the size of the Mall, it wouldn't be too difficult to locate her work place. He picked up a bag of doughnuts to fill the hole not eating the previous night had left. That other hole, the one he'd come here to heal, was very far from his thoughts. He wandered along the rows of businesses, looking for her store. He found it, between a dog-grooming service and a real estate office. Like many of the stores, it was still closed, opening time, according to the sign on the door, still three quarters of an hour off. He sat down in the steadily warming sun, and ate, and waited.
Her instinct, from the moment she'd opened her eyes, was to forget about work today, and go find Howie. The events of the previous night had run and re-run in her dreams, changed each time in some subtle way, as though they might be alternative realities, a few of an infinite selection born from the same encounter. But among such possibilities she could conceive of none that did not contain him. He had been there, waiting for her, from her first breath; her cells were certain of it. In some imponderable way she and Howie belonged together.
She knew very well that if any of her friends had confessed such sentiments she'd have politely dismissed them as ludicrous. That was not to say she'd not moped over a few faces, of course; turned up the radio when a particular love song was played. But even as she'd listened she'd known it was all a distraction from an unmelodious reality. She saw a perfect victim of that reality every day of her life. Her mother, living like a prisoner—both of the house, and of the past— talking, on those days when she could muster the will to talk, of hopes she'd had, and the friends she'd shared them with. Until now that sad sight had kept Jo-Beth's romantic ambitions, indeed any ambition, in check.
But what had happened between herself and the Chicago boy would not end the way her mother's one great affair had ended, with her deserted, and the man in question so despised she could not bring herself to name him. If all the Sunday teachings she'd dutifully attended had instructed her in anything, it was that revelation came when and where least expected. To Joseph Smith, on a farm in Palmyra, New York; news of the Book of Mormon, revealed to him by an angel. Why not to her then, in circumstances no more promising? Stepping into Butrick's Steak House; standing in a parking lot with a man she knew from everywhere and nowhere?
Tommy-Ray was in the kitchen, his perusal as sharp as the scent of the coffee he was brewing. He looked like he'd slept in his clothes.
"Late night?" she said.
"For both of us."
"Not particularly," she said. "I was home before midnight."
"You didn't sleep though."
"On and off."
"You stayed awake. I heard you."
That was unlikely, she knew. Their bedrooms were at opposite ends of the house, and his route to the bathroom didn't take him within earshot of her.
"So?" he said.
"So what?"
"Talk to me."
"Tommy?" There was an agitation in his demeanor that unnerved her. "What's wrong with you?"
"I heard you," he said again. "I kept hearing you, all through the night. Something happened to you last night. Didn't it?"
He couldn't know about Howie. Only Beverly had any clue as to what had gone on at the Steak House, and she wouldn't have had time to spread rumors, even if she'd had a mind to, which was doubtful. She had enough secrets of her own to keep from the vine. Besides, what was there to tell? That she'd made eyes at a diner? Kissed him in the parking lot? What did any of that matter to Tommy-Ray?
"Something happened last night," he was still saying. "I felt some kind of change. But whatever we were waiting for . . . it didn't come to me. So it must have come to you, Jo-Beth. Whatever it is, it came to you."
"Want to pour me some of that coffee?"
"Answer me."
"What's to answer?"
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying," he remarked, with more bafflement than accusation. "Why are you lying to me?"
It was a reasonable question. She wasn't ashamed of Howie, or what she felt for him. She'd shared every victory and defeat of her eighteen years with Tommy-Ray. He wouldn't go blabbing this secret to Momma or Pastor John. But the looks he kept giving her were odd; she couldn't read them. And there was that talk of hearing her through the night. Had he been listening at her door?
"I have to get down to the store," she said. "Or I'll be real late."
"I'll come with you," he said.
"What for?"
"The ride."
"Tommy . . . "
He smiled at her. "What's wrong with giving your brother a ride?" he said. She was almost taken in by the performance, until she nodded her acquiescence and caught the smile dropping from his lips.
"We have to trust each other," he said, once they were in the car and moving. "Like we always have."
"I know that."
"Because we're strong together, right?" He was staring through the window, glassy-eyed. "And right now I need to feel strong."
"You need to get some sleep. Why don't you let me drive you back? It doesn't matter if I'm late."
He shook his head. "Hate that house," he said.
"What a thing to say."
"It's true. We both hate it. It gives me bad dreams."
"It's not the house, Tommy."
"Yes, it is. The house, and Momma, and being in this fucking town! Look at it!" Suddenly, out of nowhere, he was raging. "Look at this shit! Don't you want to tear the whole fucking place apart?" His volume was nerve-shredding in the confines of the car. "I know you do," he said, staring at her, eyes now wild and wide. "Don't lie to me, little sister."
"I'm not your little sister, Tommy," she said.
"I'm thirty-five seconds older," he said. This had always been a joke between them. Suddenly it was power-play. "Thirty-five seconds more in this shit-hole."
"Stop talking stupid," she said, bringing the car to a sudden halt. "I'm not listening to this. You can get out and walk."
"You want me shouting in the street?" he said. "I'll do it. Don't think I won't. I'll scream till their fucking houses fall down!"
"You're behaving like an asshole," she said.
"Well, there's a word I don't hear from my little sister's lips too often," he said, with smug satisfaction. "Something's got into both of us this morning."
He was right. She found his rage igniting her in a way she'd never allowed it to before. Twins they were, and in so many ways similar, but he had always been the more openly rebellious of the two. She had played the quiescent daughter, concealing the contempt she'd felt for the Grove's hypocrisies because Momma, so much its victim, still needed its approval. But there were times when she'd envied Tommy-Ray's open contempt, and longed to spit in the eye of propriety the way he had, knowing he'd be forgiven his trespasses upon payment of a smile. He'd had it easy, all those years. His tirade against the town was narcissism; he was in love with himself as rebel. And it was spoiling a morning she'd wanted t
o luxuriate in.
"We'll talk tonight, Tommy," she said.
"Will we?"
"I just said we would."
"We have to help each other."
"I know."
"Especially now."
He was suddenly hushed, as though all the rage had gone from him in a single breath, and with it all his energy.
"I'm afraid," he said, very quietly.
"There's nothing to be afraid of, Tommy. You're just tired. You should go home and sleep."
"Yeah."
They were at the Mall. She didn't bother to park the car. "Take it home," she said. "Lois will run me back this evening."
As she went to get out of the car he took hold of her arm, his fingers gripping her so hard it hurt.
"Tommy—" she said.
"You really mean it?" he said. "There's nothing to be afraid of?"
"No," she said.
He leaned over to kiss her.
"I trust you," he said, his lips very close to hers. His face filled her sight; his hand held her arm as though he possessed her.
"Enough, Tommy," she said, pulling her arm free. "Go home."
She got out, slamming rather than closing the car door, deliberately not looking back at him.
"Jo-Beth."
Ahead of her, Howie. Her stomach flipped at the sight of him. Behind her, she heard a car-horn blare, and glanced back to see that Tommy-Ray had not taken the wheel of the car, which was blocking access for several other vehicles. He was staring at her; reaching for the handle of the door; getting out. The horns multiplied. Somebody began to shout at him to get out of the way, but he ignored them. His attention was fixed upon Jo-Beth. It was too late for her to signal Howie away. The look on Tommy-Ray's face made it plain he'd understood the whole story from the smile of welcome on Howie's face.
She looked back at Howie, feeling an ashen despair.
"Well lookee here," she heard Tommy-Ray say behind her.
It was more than despair; it was fear.
"Howie—" she began.
"Christ, was I dumb," Tommy-Ray went on.
She tried a smile as she turned back to him. "Tommy," she said, "I want you to meet Howie."
She'd never seen a look on Tommy-Ray's face like the look she was witnessing now; hadn't known those idolized features capable of such malice.
"Howie?" he said. "As in Howard?"
She nodded, glancing back at Howie. "I'd like you to meet my brother," she said. "My twin brother. Howie, this is Tommy-Ray."
Both men stepped forward to shake hands, bringing them into her vision at the same time. The sun shone with equal strength on both, but it didn't flatter Tommy-Ray, despite his tan. He looked sickly beneath the veneer of health he wore; his eyes sunk without a gleam, his skin too tightly drawn over his cheeks and temples. He looks dead, she found herself thinking. Tommy-Ray looks dead.
Though Howie extended his hand to be shaken Tommy-Ray ignored it, suddenly turning to his sister.
"Later," he said, so softly.
His murmur was almost drowned out by the din of complaints from behind him but she caught its menace clearly enough. Having spoken he turned his back and returned to the car. She couldn't see the mollifying smile he was putting on, but she could imagine it. Mr. Golden, raising his arms in mock-surrender, knowing his captors didn't have a hope.
"What was that about?" Howie said.
"I don't exactly know. He's been odd since—"
She was going to say since yesterday, but she'd seen a canker in his beauty moments ago that must have been there always, except that she—like the rest of the world—had been too dazzled to recognize it.
"Does he need help?" Howie asked.
"I think it's better we let him go."
"Jo-Beth!" somebody called. A middle-aged woman was striding towards them, both dress and features plain to the point of severity.
"Was that Tommy-Ray?" she said as she approached.
"Yes it was."
"He never stops by any longer." She had come to a halt a yard from Howie, staring at him with a look of mild puzzlement on her face. "Are you coming to the store, Jo-Beth?" she said, not looking away from Howie. "We're already late opening."
"I'm coming."
"Is your friend coming too?" the woman asked pointedly.
"Oh yes . . . I'm sorry . .. Howie . . . this is Lois Knapp."
"Mrs.," the woman put in, as though her marital status were a talisman against strange young men.
"Lois . . . this is Howie Katz."
"Katz?" Mrs. Knapp replied. "Katz?" She removed her gaze from Howie, and studied her watch. "Five minutes late," she said.
"It's no problem," Jo-Beth said. "We never get anyone in before noon."
Mrs. Knapp looked shocked at this indiscretion.
"The Lord's work is not to be taken lightly," she remarked. "Please be quick." Then she stalked off.
"Fun lady," Howie commented.
"She's not as bad as she looks."
"That'd be difficult."
"I'd better go."
"Why?" Howie said. "It's a beautiful day. We could go someplace. Make the most of the weather."
"It'll be a beautiful day tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. This is California, Howie."
"Come with me anyway."
"Let me try to make my peace with Lois first. I don't want to be on everyone's shit list. It'll upset Momma."
"So when?"
"When what?"
"When will you be free?"
"You don't give up, do you?"
"Nope."
"I'll tell Lois I'm going back home to look after Tommy-Ray this afternoon. Tell her he's sick. It's only half a lie. Then I'll come by the motel. How's that?"
"Promise?"
"Promise." She began to move away, then said: "What's wrong?"
"Don't want to . . . kiss . . . kiss me in public, huh?"
"Certainly not."
"How about in private?"
She half-heartedly shushed him as she backed away.
"Just say yes."
"Howie."
"Just say yes."
"Yes."
"See? It's real easy."
In the late morning, as she and Lois sat sipping ice water in the otherwise deserted store, the older woman said:
"Howard Katz."
"What about him?" Jo-Beth said, preparing herself for a lecture on behavior with the opposite sex.
"I couldn't think where I knew the name from."
"And now you remember?"
"A woman who lived in the Grove. 'Way back," she said, then turned her attention to wiping a ring of water from the counter with her napkin. Her silence, and the effort she gave to this minor mopping, suggested she was happy to let the subject drop if Jo-Beth chose not to pursue it. Yet she'd felt obliged to raise the issue. Why?
"Was she a friend of yours?" Jo-Beth asked.
"Not of mine."
"Of Momma's?"
"Yes," Lois said, still mopping, though the counter was dry.
"Yes. She was one of your momma's friends."
Suddenly, it came clear.
"One of the four," Jo-Beth said. "She was one of the four."
"I believe she was."
"And she had children?"
"You know, I don't remember."
This was the closest a woman of Lois's scrupulousness came to lying. Jo-Beth called her on it.
"You remember," she said. "Please tell me."
"Yes. I guess I do remember. She had a boy."
"Howard."
Lois nodded.
"You're sure?" Jo-Beth said.
"Yes. I'm sure."
Now it was Jo-Beth who kept her silence, while in her head she'd tried to re-evaluate the events of recent days in the light of this discovery. What did her dreams, and Howie's appearance, and Tommy-Ray's sickness have to do with each other, and with the story she'd heard in ten different versions of the bathing party that had ended in death, insanity and child
ren?
Perhaps Momma knew.
____________ iii ____________
Buddy Vance's driver Jose Luis waited at their agreed rendezvous for fifty minutes before deciding that his boss must have made his way up the Hill under his own power. He called Coney on the car phone. Ellen was at the house but the boss wasn't. They debated what was best to do, and agreed he'd wait with the car the full hour then drive back via the route the boss would be likeliest to take.
He was nowhere along that route. Nor had he got home ahead of his ride. Again they debated the options, Jose Luis tactfully avoiding mention of the likeliest: that somewhere along the way he'd encountered female company. After sixteen years in Mr. Vance's employ he knew his boss's skill with the ladies verged on the supernatural. He would come home when he'd performed his magic.
For Buddy, there was no pain. He was thankful for the fact, but not so self-deceiving as to ignore its significance. His body was surely so messed up his brain had simply overloaded on agony, and pulled the plugs.
The darkness that enclosed him was without qualification; expert only in blinding him. Or perhaps his eyes were out; dashed from his head on the way down. Whatever the reason, detached from sight and feeling, he floated, and while he floated he calculated. First, the time it would take for Jose Luis to realize his boss wasn't coming home: two hours at the outside. His route through the woods would not be difficult to follow; and once they reached the fissure his peril would be self-evident. They'd be down after him by noon. On the surface and having his bones mended by the middle of the afternoon.
Perhaps it was almost midday already.
The only means he had of calculating time's passing was his heartbeat, which he could hear in his head. He began to count. If he could get some sense of how long a minute lasted he'd be able to hold on to that span of time, and after sixty, know he'd lived an hour. But no sooner had he started counting than his head started a different calculation altogether.
How long have I lived, he thought. Not breathed, not existed, but actually lived? Fifty-four years since birth: how many weeks was that? How many hours? Better think of it year by year; it was easier. One year was three hundred and sixty days, give or take a few. Say he slept a third of that. One hundred and twenty days in slumberland. Oh Lord, already the moments dwindled. Half an hour a day on the john, or emptying his bladder. That was another seven and a half days a year, just doing the dirt. And shaving and showering, another ten days; and eating another thirty or forty; and all of this multiplied by fifty-four years . . .