“And if you hadn’t sold the family farm, I’d have a place to live,” Sharon said furiously. “I’d have a chance to get well. I wouldn’t be dependent upon your precious charity. You and your precious Wes.”
Lily protested, “Sharon, that isn’t fair. It wasn’t my decision to sell the farm, it had to be sold. I’ve tried to explain—”
“You want to believe I’m sick because it makes you so fucking normal. All our lives it’s been good Lily and bad Sharon—right? You get off on that, right?”
Lily stepped back, as if Sharon’s wild-waving hands frightened her. “Sharon, please. You can’t believe that.”
“If you want me to leave, Lily, just tell me. If you can’t stand the sight of me!” Sharon’s voice rose to a thin childlike soprano, blindly she would have rushed from the room but Lily caught her in her arms. The sisters struggled together, panting. “Stop, stop, just stop, Sharon just stop,” Lily murmured, as she’d done when they were girls, and Sharon said, blinking back tears, “You don’t really want me here, admit it, you don’t have room for me in your life,” and Lily murmured, “Sharon, stop, you know better,” and Sharon said bitterly, “I don’t know better! I don’t belong here with you and your family I’m—trash,” and Lily murmured as before to comfort her, to quiet her, and Sharon said, “I’ve fucked men for money, Lily. I’ve done terrible things. God has used me but God abhors me. God will cast me from Him. Lily, you don’t know!” and Lily murmured, “Yes. I know you, I know your heart,” and Sharon said, “You don’t. You don’t know me or my heart, you don’t want to know,” and Lily said, “Sharon, of course I know, you’re my sister, I love you,” and Sharon said, pushing at her, not hard enough to break Lily’s embrace but pushing, nudging, as a fretting child might push against her mother’s confining protecting arms, “How can you love me if you don’t know me! You don’t know my heart, Lily—you don’t know ‘Starr Bright,’” and Lily said, “I don’t know ‘Starr Bright’ but I know you,” and Sharon was crying, Sharon was crying in anguished furious sobs, and Lily said, maddening Lily as if no opposition in Sharon could dissuade her nor even discourage her from her path of righteousness, “Now let me drive you to Dr. Krauss, all right?” and Sharon lost control finally and screamed, “No, it is not all right!” and pushed Lily away, halfway across the room.
Thinking Will I have to kill you, too, to be free of you?
The sisters stared at each other. Their faces were damp with perspiration and their eyes dilated. In the kitchen Lily had turned on a radio, the local Yewville station was playing morning music, and now came a brisk cheery advertisement for a local car dealer, voices self-assured and optimistic and maddening too to “Starr Bright” who of all things despised hypocrisy. Saying, as if it were a curse, to Lily, “‘So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spew thee out of my mouth.’” Yet even now Lily stood her ground; did not retreat; fueled by the terrible strength of righteousness; the stubbornness of blind, ignorant love; saying gently, as if “Starr Bright” of all persons could be thus manipulated, “Sharon, I know you’ve been hurt. I know men have hurt you. I want to help you, you’ve come to me so that I can help you, only please let me!” And Sharon turned away cursing, and squatted beside the canvas suitcase, and removed from its lining a leather belt, a man’s belt with a brass buckle, laughing, “Yes! I’ve been hurt! Hurt like hell, by men, yes!” rising to the rhythm of her harsh, panted words, draping the belt loosely about her hips, a belt twice the size of Sharon’s slender waist; as Lily stared uncomprehending, poor Lily blinded by love as by an actual scrim before her eyes, and Sharon began to move her hips suggestively, lewdly, “Starr Bright” easing into her dance, grinning at her sister who continued to stare at her incredulously; her sister Lily who was the audience that “Starr Bright” had long sought, performing merely to men.
Lily said, “Who—was it? How did he hurt you?”
Sharon stroked the leather belt, looped her fingers sensuously about the oversized brass buckle slipping to her navel, laughed, mock-moaned and moved her hips and pelvis laughing at her sister’s expression as she chanted to the beat, beat, beat of the dance—“Name’s gone. He’s gone. All of them gone. Ashes to ashes!”
8
Making a Date
She had faith, she’d never doubted. And at last connecting over the phone. In a soft sibilant voice of no reproach, still less accusation, saying, “Sure you remember me, Mack—‘S.’” And the man who’d been Mack Dwyer repeated, quizzically, “‘S’—?” and she said, “—who was so crazy for you, she’s never forgotten you,” and Mack Dwyer said, “—What? Who?” and she said, “It was a long time ago … Mack,” and Mack Dwyer said, uneasily, trying to laugh, “Nobody much calls me ‘Mack’ now,” and she said, gently, still with no air of reproach or insinuation, “In my thoughts you’re always ‘Mack,’ that’s how I remember you,” and Dwyer said, “Look, who is this, please?” and she said, “We were crazy for each other, couldn’t keep our hands off each other. You were my first, Mack. Which is why I will never forget.” And the man who’d been Mack Dwyer laughed again, uneasily, yet with an undercurrent of excitement, as if this were a game and he was late to catch on, saying, “Your voice does sound familiar …” and she said, “Your voice sounds familiar, Mack. Like yesterday,” and Dwyer said, “But why wouldn’t you give my secretary your name? Why is it a secret?” and she said, “Yes, I’d like to keep it a secret. If we get together. Maybe you would, too,” and Dwyer said, his voice lowered, quickened, “But—who are you?” and she said, “Your little blond girl ‘S’—from the country. The minister’s daughter. Remember?” and there was a blank stunned moment, she believed she could hear an intake of breath and see the impact in the man’s eyes, that astonished look of Mack’s when, abruptly, more abruptly than he wished, he came, sometimes on her belly, or her thighs, or even her panties so she’d have to wash them out in secret not wanting her mother or Lily to know; and he murmured, “My God, is it—Sharon? Sharon—” fumbling her last name, and she didn’t help him out but said, “Might be it is,” and Dwyer said, “But where are you?” and she said, “Right here in Yewville, Mack,” and he said, “You went away?—you were a model in New York?—a famous model, people said. And now—?” and she said, for this was the truth, “Now I’m back in Yewville visiting, just a few days; seeing just a few, very special people; people I’d once—loved.”
9
The Kiss
And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.
How could she sleep! Exhausted and her eyeballs seared in their sockets as if she’d been staring into the sun but how could she sleep! Nor even force herself to undress and lie down. Not in that bed, in those smothering bedclothes. Not in that room where the ceiling and walls pressed inward. Ridiculous floral curtains, floral-wallpapered walls—she wanted to scream with laughter. As if you know me! As if any of you could know “Starr Bright.”
Every pig she’d bled to death, he’d been Mack Dwyer. Strange she had never comprehended that until now.
They’d made a date. The following evening. A weekday—a Thursday. Yes certainly he’d keep it secret. The date, and her name.
Except: how could she sleep between now and then?
Except: she couldn’t risk one of her sleeping tablets, painkillers—couldn’t risk drinking. For one drink is never enough.
Except: she was feeling sexy, hungry for—who?
Mack Dwyer. The first. Which is why I will never forget.
Impatiently she stripped. Let her clothes fall underfoot. The room was airless, smelling of her own heated body. Yet she was too shrewd to open a window even a crack—didn’t trust what might be out there.
What right had Lily to embrace her. Making such a claim.
Love. I love you. My sister.
How she’d resented it. Lily was the stronger, always the stronger. No one had understood except Sharon. Not even Lily
herself.
“Only ‘Starr Bright’ can match you, Lily.”
That terrible strength of righteousness.
It was midnight, and then it was 1 A.M. and she could not sleep, and would not. Trying to calculate how many hours intervened between this moment of yearning and paralysis and 6 P.M. of the following day, when they would meet. In a motel room, off Route 209. Which Mack Dwyer would arrange. In secret.
There was bathwater running, pouring from the faucets. Almost-scalding water. Steam rising to calm her frantic thoughts. Except as she lay in the water naked, pale, forced to see how her breasts had shrunken and were almost flaccid, floating limply in the water, her mind leapt ahead to the motel room, and what would happen there.
Or had it happened already? Many times.
This will be the last. The last pig bled. God will release me—won’t He?
She dared not inquire of God Himself. As she dared not gaze into the fiery sun for fear of going blind.
How quickly, she wondered, could she master him? She would not be using a straight razor this time, to be left with the dead man, as she’d done with Stanley Reigel and one or two others. She would use her own knife, for there was no possibility of “suicide”—this time. All that was required was leverage, and surprise; the man would be taken by surprise; naked, probably; and “Starr Bright” was practiced with naked men; once embarked upon a course of action, she would not be dissuaded; the first splash of bright arterial blood—
“Now you remember me?—yes?”
The nape of her neck against the cool porcelain rim of the tub. By degrees she was becoming calmer. Maybe she would have a drink—to help her sleep. But only one. To help her sleep. For she must not fail, and would not fail. For if she failed, “Starr Bright” would be apprehended; “Starr Bright” would be run to earth; “Starr Bright” would be exposed to staring, avid eyes; “Starr Bright” would bring shame and confusion upon Lily and her family. But she would not fail, for God would guide her hand. For I have the keys of hell and of death.
It was 1:35 A.M. She’d drifted into a dream, and was wakened suddenly. Hearing the door of her room being opened—so slowly! (Though knowing the door could not be opened, she’d locked it from inside.) And at once she was roused, vigilant. Sitting up in the now-tepid water, listening closely. It might be Lily—returned to seek her sister’s forgiveness. It might be—Lily’s husband?—whose name she’d forgotten in her distraction.
Yes, Wes. Maybe—Wes. She’d forgotten entirely about Wes!
By this time it was almost 2 A.M. But she dressed hurriedly, excitedly. Seeming to know he would be there, waiting.
In his office in the converted sunporch. Lily was always worrying her husband slept so poorly. Distracted by finances, Lily said. Didn’t trust his bookkeeper, Lily said. People owe him money, Lily said. He tries to shield us.
Sharon bit her lower lip to keep from laughing, a good strong belly laugh. Knowing why Wes Merrick lingered in his office late at night; why he took his time going upstairs to bed with Lily.
“You know, too, Lily. Only you won’t admit it.”
It was an eye-catching, sexy outfit, but also easy to pull on over her head, a clinging red-jersey sheath she’d acquired in Palm Springs. The hem skimmed her knees, showing her long dancer’s legs. No underwear. No stockings. Damp tendrils of hair clung to her forehead but she brushed, brushed, brushed her hair until much of it was dry, and fluffed out about her face. That schoolgirl look! Cheerleader look! “Guys love it.” Hadn’t time to apply makeup carefully for that would require forty minutes and he might give up waiting for her and go upstairs to bed, so quickly she rubbed foundation on her face, which was still, she believed, peering at herself in the steamy bathroom mirror, a girl’s unlined face if not seen in too revealing a light; and subtle spots of rouge on her cheeks; and glossy maroon lipstick making of her mouth a lovely open wound to be kissed, sucked, bitten, possessed.
She forced her bare feet into high-heeled shoes. Grunting with the effort. In a zippered compartment of the canvas suitcase was a blue-sequined purse and inside the purse “Starr Bright’s” knife and these items she would take with her. For safekeeping or for protection—she could not have said, for she wasn’t thinking clearly.
Long ago “Starr Bright”—the TV hostess, blond, busty, makeup like a thick crust over her tired-looking face—had told thirteen-year-old Sharon Donner and the others backstage Once you get out there in the lights, kids—just trust your instinct. Don’t think!
It was the very best advice. It was the heart of show business.
She made her way through the darkened downstairs rooms and saw, unsurprised, that the light was on in Wes’s office, and the door partly ajar. He’d been waiting for her!—but neither of them would acknowledge it, she supposed.
There was Wes oblivious of her, at his desk. Frowning at a computer screen, exhaling a cloud of bluish smoke. His thinning hair was disheveled as if he’d been running his hands through it and there were sharp creases in his cheeks like razor cuts. He wore those prissy reading glasses. His shirt was rumpled, opened at the throat, the sleeves carelessly rolled up to show thick, wiry hairs on his forearms. At his elbow, amid papers, was a tumbler of—what? Looked like whiskey or bourbon.
“Wes! Surprise.”
The way he turned startled at her low, throaty voice, blinking foolishly, you’d have thought he hadn’t been expecting her after all or possibly he’d given up hoping.
“Jesus. Sharon.”
Stepping forward into the light she was enjoying the slow shock of the man’s eyes taking her in, the clinging jersey dress, nipples poking against the fabric like buttons, and her long bare dancer’s legs and the warm glow of her skin and the sexy high-heeled shoes that made her stumble just a little, laughing. “I didn’t expect you’d be up, Wes,” she said, reaching over to take his burning cigarette from an ashtray and lift it to her lips, which felt greedy, “—this hour of the night.” He was staring at her, a faint smile stretching his mouth as if for a moment he couldn’t think who she was, what good luck this was for him. But she felt a stab of disappointment—her brother-in-law was so middle-aged.
Waiting for you to come to me but you’re too God-damned good for that so I’m coming to you.
He was saying, frowning, “Sharon, why are you dressed like that? You’re not going out, are you?” Staring at her the way he’d stared at Deedee in her new clothes, perplexed and annoyed as by a riddle. And she said, “Hell, I couldn’t sleep, my nerves!”—holding out a hand for him to see, trembling slightly, the cigarette in her fingers. “It’s too damned quiet around here. Washington Street.” She laughed, and Wes laughed, nervously. Not knowing why.
If he’d been waiting for her why was he wearing those ridiculous reading glasses. Bifocal lenses. That old-man look that was an insult to the glamor of “Starr Bright.” Like some pig not taking time to wash, smelling of underarms and crotch. Cock tasting of piss. Pigs.
She was furious suddenly. But continued to smile the dazzling “Starr Bright” smile. Hugging her sequined purse against her breasts.
She told him yes she intended to go out, for a walk, a walk and a drink. She couldn’t sleep she said it was so quiet her thoughts were like voices. And he said it was too late to go out, almost 2 A.M. and places would be closed. And she said she’d take a walk, then; would he like to join her? And he said, “You’re not serious, huh?” And she said, flirting, but annoyed, “I’m not? Sure I am. Try me.” And he said, “Lily told me you canceled the doctor’s appointment, why?” And she said, angry suddenly, “Why? Whose business is it, why?”
Thought you weren’t a fucking hypocrite, big guy.
Thought you weren’t like all the rest.
They were talking, and they were almost arguing. So Wes went to shut the door. In case, far away upstairs, someone should be wakened, and hear voices.
He said, “I don’t think you should be walking anywhere, Sharon, at this time of night.” Looking at her, the
spectacle of her, as if to say And looking like you do. And she laughed taking another drag on his cigarette. Saying, “What sexist crap. It’s an insult. A man can walk at night anywhere he fucking wants, a woman’s a prisoner? Fuck that.” And again the man blinked at her dumbly as if he’d never heard such words before on a woman’s lips.
She was hot in the face, incensed. She remembered the secret knife in her purse and dared him to put his hands on her. Telling “Starr Bright” what to do!
He was playing daddy saying how he and Lily were “both concerned” about her and that pissed her off, too, a husband-and-wife team shaking their heads over her. So she laughed, and shrugged, saying Christ she could take care of herself, she’d been taking care of herself since the age of eighteen when her God-fearing Christian family had washed their hands of her—“Cast me off as a polluted sinner. A fashion model.” But she didn’t hold any grudge, you could see. She’d made her way alone. Modeling, and dancing; and dance instructor; and she’d be beginning her film career soon. So she didn’t need anyone’s help thank you nor anyone’s charity.
It was like a TV speech. A close-up. She felt great, she felt in supreme control. “You know me, Wes—‘Sherrill.’ No last name. I’ve learned to take care of myself because there’s never been anyone else.”
Wes shook his head, laughed, leaning a haunch on the edge of his desk, a big-boned man going soft in the gut, but there was a certain bruised tenderness in his face, and the silvery-glinting stubble on his chin, and the graying wiry hairs on his forearms and at his throat—she felt a stab of desire, a scalding little needle at the pit of her belly. Every thought of Mack Dwyer had by this time evaporated.