And when her lover got back the $27,000 that was rightfully his, she would share in it, too.
It seemed to be dawn. Hazy tendrils of flame in the eastern sky. The venetian blinds of room 19, at the far end of the long graceless concrete-block Golden Sands Motor Lodge, were tightly drawn. On top of the TV was a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam, and greedy Earl Tunley snatched it up and gulped its contents like a thirsty man. And “Starr Bright” sighed, and was going to make a practical suggestion about a little sleep, and suddenly Earl turned on her, cursed her, “—told you not to fuck me up, didn’t I?” and when she protested he grabbed her, and they struggled, and he said, grunting, “—could smash your face, cunt—make you ugly like you deserve! Strangle you—” and she was too terrified to scream for help, knowing that no one would hear, no one would wish to hear, and she was too weak suddenly to defend herself as the man pushed her backward, threw her onto the rumpled bed, and reached with grasping fingers up inside the tight lamé skirt to take possession.
God help me.
Waking with difficulty, her head aching, pounding where he’d struck it repeatedly against a wall. Slowly she disentangled herself from the snoring man, cautious of waking him. His hairy sweaty limbs had been flung over her, pressing her to the bed; his heavy torso, slack belly. And how heavy his head, his eyes shut upon a thin crescent of white like mucus. Eddy? Earl? Though knowing he had surely lied to her she saw again a fleeting vision of chalk-white cliffs—Council Bluffs, Iowa? Her mouth throbbed with pain, the lower lip was grotesquely swollen. Like a bee sting she’d had as a child, and her sister Lily had said Oh I wish the nasty bee would sting me, too! Her left eye, too, was swollen—he must have punched her there. And the nipples of both breasts had been pinched, hard. He hadn’t removed her dress but had pushed it up to nearly her armpits. He’d threatened to kill her if she screamed and perhaps he had killed her, it was not “Starr Bright” but her child-spirit Rose of Sharon who awakened in her now. Because the spirit cannot be extinguished, the spirit liveth and abideth forever.
The man stirred, groaned as if in pain—but didn’t wake. A wet whistling snore issued from his slack mouth. Except for black silk socks on his feet, the lower half of his body was stark naked; his shirt was unbuttoned and open upon a fattish-muscular chest covered in isolated wirelike hairs. The skin was creased, the color of rancid lard. No beauty here. Only the glittering gold chain around his neck.
Recalling with shame how he’d jeeringly offered her that gold chain. As if he’d thought her a prostitute. Why hadn’t she fled him, then!
Pig, fornicator and despiser of women.
Emissary of Satan.
“Starr Bright” extricated herself from the man who’d raped her, beaten her, threatened death. It was just 7 A.M. She’d been unconscious for more than an hour. A fierce fiery light penetrated the slats of the window blind and the crack beneath the door. “Starr Bright” tried to smooth down her dress, which was badly stained, torn at the shoulder. In the bureau mirror she saw her wavering, cringing reflection. Yet the red wig was still in place. Her makeup had been rubbed virtually off, her face was white, pinched-looking, sickly; her left eye blackened, her lower lip swollen to twice its normal size. Is that me? Is that who I’ve become? God, have mercy …
“Starr Bright” would have slipped from the room and left behind the snoring man except: headed for the door, she stumbled upon the man’s jacket on the floor, and stubbed her toe against something heavy in an inside pocket.
She investigated, and discovered—a pistol.
A pistol! It shone like blue steel, with a short barrel of about four inches; compact, and deadly. “Starr Bright” stared at it in astonishment. She knew little about guns, she’d held a gun in her hand upon occasion but had never fired one and could not have identified this except to know that it was a revolver, each bullet in its chamber in the revolving cylinder. What a good clean metallic smell.
Its make was Ruger. Of this, she’d never heard.
As soon as the pistol was in her hand, “Starr Bright” felt a deep suffusion of relief. Though her hand visibly trembled, and her head and body were encased in pain. She understood that the child Rose of Sharon would be protected now, inviolate. “Starr Bright” knew that the man could not hurt her now. God had gifted her with unexpected power over the man.
“Thank you, God! Praise God!”
In other pockets of the jacket she discovered the man’s wallet, and a badge, and a law officer’s ID, with a photo: ERNEST D. FENKE DEPUTY SHERIFF SUMNER CO. NEBRASKA.
“Deputy sheriff—!”
And now she began to laugh. “Starr Bright” hooked up with a cop! An off-duty cop, one of the enemy.
You never could predict God’s designs. For the God of wrath was also a God of jokes, tricks. You had to have a sense of humor to comprehend Him.
Playful as a mischievous child “Starr Bright” affixed the shiny brass badge to the gold lamé fabric above her left breast. It snagged in the material, but held. Wild! She stood very tall in her bare feet, tall enough it seemed to brush the ceiling of the room with her head. She was suffused with strength and joy like a sudden fountain of clear, pure water; almost, she could stand on her tiptoes, a graceful ballerina.
“Wake up.”
She was standing above the snoring man, gripping the pistol in both hands to steady it. She’d released the trigger guard and cocked the hammer. She’d spoken calmly, with assurance, though very excited; when the snoring man failed to wake, she prodded his shoulder with the gun barrel. His eyes flew open, at first unfocused. Then he saw her. Saw the gun. The badge above her left breast.
She said, smiling, “‘Deputy Sheriff Ernest D. Fenke, of Sumner County, Nebraska.’ You are under immediate arrest.”
Fenke blinked rapidly as if a bright light was being beamed into his bloodshot eyes. A look of incredulity tightened his features, a stab of quick fear. The worst thing that could happen to a cop had happened to him: his gun had been taken from him. He said, “H-hey! Honey! Don’t kid around with that—”
“Deputy Fenke, get up.”
“Jesus, look—honey? Give that gun to me, it might go off and—you wouldn’t want—”
“So you’re a cop? That’s your secret? ‘Deputy Fenke of Nebraska’? Why’d you lie to me?”
“Please, honey—”
“You get to carry a gun, eh? Deputy Fenke? Persecute people? How many people has this gun killed, Deputy Fenke?”
“N-nobody.”
“You’re a liar.” “Starr Bright” spoke with a strange sort of authority. Her voice serene, glistening. As if the deep soothing peace coursing through her had brought with it an eloquence not her own; the purity of the child Rose of Sharon, that sweet clear delicate soprano voice.
“Out of bed, and on your knees. Now.”
And he obeyed her. Groveling, cowardly like all such craven men—he obeyed her. It was fitting that the man, part-naked, should tremble before the woman, his pig-eyes shining with fear, awe, trepidation; his limp fleshy genitalia like a skinned baby creature prominent between pale trembling thighs. “Starr Bright” saw the logic of it, how God had once again guided her hand in His shrewd wisdom. A man, kneeling before a woman of such power, has become, by mock-miracle, a woman.
“Starr Bright” said, “You raped me, and you defiled me, and you stole my money from me, Deputy Fenke—my jackpot, my one thousand silver dollars. And now you must repay me.”
Fenke pleaded, “Honey, I—I didn’t mean to hurt you! Ever! I thought we were—just—” He gestured toward the bed as if to say just fooling around, screwing around—nothing serious.
It wasn’t clear whether “Starr Bright” meant to arouse such fear in the man or whether, barefoot, her gold lamé dress riding up to her thighs, the glinting badge on her left breast, she was being playful, seductive in a new way. In almost an incantatory voice she said, “Rapist. Filthy pig. And thief—common thief, Deputy! Taking my jackpot from me when you’d promised it was m
ine to keep.”
“Honey, I’ll pay you back—I was going to pay you back—”
“You were, Deputy?”
“—I was going to draw five thousand dollars on my credit card tomorrow. Get back into action, the two of us—”
“That’s the truth? You lied to me once, Deputy Fenke, why should I believe you now?”
“Baby, I didn’t lie to you. I was maybe drinking too much—I got carried away. I’m crazy about you.”
“Yes? That’s why you raped me?”
On his knees, trembling before her, the man tried to smile. A sick guilty feeble smile. Staring at “Starr Bright” with his bloodshot eyes as if trying not to see the pistol in her hands, aimed at his face; trying not to acknowledge that he saw it. He was saying, “I—didn’t r-rape you, honey. That’s a terrible thing to say. I would never force a w-woman—”
“No?” “Starr Bright” indicated her swollen lip, her throbbing eye. Lifting her skirt to show bruises, welts. Torn black-lace panties.
And the man gaped at her miserably. Could only shake his head as if in honest befuddlement. I did such a thing? No!
“Starr Bright” began an interrogation. Asking the man did he love her and he said quickly sure, oh sure he was crazy about her! She asked was she beautiful in his eyes and he said eagerly oh yes, yes she was beautiful—“Baby, you know it! You’re terrific.” And she said coyly, redheads were his good luck, yes? Was she his good luck? and Fenke was nodding yes, emphatically yes when in a gesture of triumph “Starr Bright” yanked off the red human-hair wig, revealing her ashy-blond hair flattened and matted, pinned in unflattering clumps around her head. And Deputy Fenke’s slack pale hungover face showed yet more astonishment, incredulity.
Slyly “Starr Bright” asked, “Am I beautiful, Deputy?”
He’d swallowed hard, and was stammering, “Y-yes …”
“Starr Bright” laughed in delight. Like the cruelly prankish girl she’d been long ago. Rose of Sharon who was the unpredictable Donner sister but of course you forgave little Sharon, she was so vivacious, so beautiful. Taunting the man now, “Crazy about me, eh?”
“Yes …”
Laughing heartily at the look on his face. Sick sinking flailing look of a man who’s trapped. It was cruel, it was heartless, such taunting, but she could not resist. “Say, Deputy, a law officer is supposed to be observant. How old d’you think I am?”
“I—don’t know—”
“When you picked me up last night, put your moves on me, what age were you estimating?”
“I—don’t know—”
“Starr Bright” laughed even more loudly, thoroughly enjoying this interrogation. “I’ll be thirty-seven, my next birthday.”
Fenke laughed nervously. “That’s—not old. I’m thirty-nine …”
“Would you have picked me up, if you’d known my age, Deputy Fenke?”
“Yes!”
“You do think I’m a beautiful woman?—desirable?”
“Baby, I’m crazy about you—I said. Only please—maybe you should give me the gun now? So nobody gets hurt? And we can get dressed, and go out, and I’ll get some cash, and—”
Fenke was reaching out toward her, hesitantly, in appeal; but “Starr Bright” stepped away, frowning. She waved the pistol at him.
“No! Stay right where you are, mister. Or I swear I will shoot you right in the face.”
“Jesus, Cheryl—”
“‘Sherrill.’”
“—Sh-Sherrill. I meant to say.”
“My name is ‘Starr Bright.’”
“‘Starr’—?”
“You never saw ‘Starr Bright’ dance. You aren’t the one—that was another one—did you know him? ‘Cobb.’” For a moment she was confused in time; the men were confused, interchangeable; perhaps in fact they were the same man. It seemed to “Starr Bright” that in some mysterious way the men, or the man, knew her; and knew his ineluctable fate. So they might discuss it together calmly, as if reminiscing. “They said in the papers, on TV—‘Starr Bright’ slashed a man’s throat and danced barefoot in his blood. Drew the sign of the star in pig’s blood on a wall. I don’t know if it’s truth or falsehood, it was something that happened in Sparks, Nevada, at a certain hour and it was not a choice.” The memory of what had happened in that other motel room in the desert was blurred as tissue in water; this man’s frightened dough-face was a barrier between her and the memory. Or perhaps it was no memory at all, perhaps she’d only read about it in the Las Vegas Post and studied the photographs of Cobb and the blood-smeared wall. She said, smiling, “Oh, that one bled like a stuck pig, he was a stuck pig. All of you—pigs.”
“W-what are you saying, Sherrill?”
“Cobb. You know—‘Pig Death.’ It was written up in all the papers, it was on TV.”
Fenke stared at her, his eyes glazing over in horror. In a hoarse voice he said, “You’re kidding, aren’t you? My God.”
“Starr Bright” laughed in girlish delight. How like performing before an audience this was. She’d known, at age thirteen, this would be her life.
She told Fenke how, immediately, she’d liked him; he’d stepped forward to offer her a cigarette in a moment of need, a weak moment of hers, and she’d been grateful to him. She had a hopeful heart, she was a professional singer-dancer and yet a woman who craved love; a woman who wanted to be respected, treated right. And she’d thought, at first, for a while last night, that he was the man for her. “But then you spoiled it, Deputy. You raped me, and you defiled me. And you stole my thousand dollars.”
“I—I—I’m sorry—oh God, Sherrill, I’ll make it up to you, I promise—”
“You are sorry? That’s the truth? You won’t do it again?—hurt me again?”
“Honey, I promise.”
“You apologize? On your knees? To me? And to all the women you’ve defiled in your life?” As Fenke nodded with pathetic eagerness, “Starr Bright” continued to point the pistol at his head. She said, “Your wife?—do you have a wife? Yes? Back in Sumner County, Nebraska?” Fenke nodded, his eyes snatching at hers guiltily. “You apologize to her, too? You, an adulterer? Fornicator? How many times, Deputy? You apologize on your knees to all the women you’ve defiled? You beg forgiveness from them, and from God?”
“Y-yes …”
“And you’ll pay me back my thousand-dollar jackpot?”
“Yes! I’ll withdraw five thousand from my account right now, Sherrill. Let me get dressed, and we can go out and find a bank—”
“Stay on your knees. Why should I trust you, Deputy?”
“Please, you can trust me …”
“Why should I believe you? Any word out of your mouth? You say you’re sorry? But men are never sorry.”
“Sherrill, baby, I am sorry …”
“Starr Bright” was speaking more rapidly, in her high sharp soprano voice like flashing shears.
“Men are masks of Satan, never sorry. They can’t get it up unless they hurt women.”
“No, no! I’m not like that,” Fenke said desperately. “Jesus, I got a daughter—I’m the father of a daughter. I’m not like that.”
“Father of a daughter?—you?”
“Please, honey, let me make it up to you? Give me the gun, and nobody will get hurt …”
“Starr Bright” stood staring at the man. This part-naked man on his knees. But his shoulders were straighter now, his head higher. He seemed less afraid. Father of a daughter—him? A terrible clarity was opening in her brain, a tiny pinprick of light like a distant star rushing closer. Almost softly she said, “You won’t be angry with me, if I give you back your gun?”
“No! I promise, Sherrill.”
Fenke reached out hesitantly to accept the gun from “Starr Bright” and for a moment it almost seemed that she would surrender it to him. But there was a tawny light in her eyes, her smile slipped sideways like grease. Nimbly she sidestepped him, and raised the pistol higher to take aim between his eyes. She laughed. “And
if I do? You won’t change your mind and be cruel again? And hurt me again? And say you’ll kill me?”
“Jesus, no. Honey, I was drunk. I didn’t mean it.”
“Because it’s in your power, Deputy. You’re a man, and a man’s got the power. And ‘Starr Bright’ has no power. Only just this.” She indicated the gun, smiling. “And if I surrender my power, what will stop you from hurting me again?”
“Sherrill, honey—no. I promise.”
“Starr Bright” backed away to the air-conditioning unit near the window, and turned the fan to high. She switched on the TV, loud. A morning talk show dissolved in peals of laughter switching abruptly to a jingly cartoon-bright advertisement for Sani-Flush.
Fenke blinked as if she’d slapped him. “W-what are you doing?”
“Deputy, tell me: are you in a state of sin?”
“S-sin?”
“Have you been washed in the blood of the lamb?”
“I—I was baptized—”
“Baptized what?”
“Catholic.”
“Catholic! You! So—you believe?”
“I … I believe.”
“In God, and in Jesus Christ?”
“Yes …”
“In Satan, and in sin?”
“Y-yes …”
“You believe God is watching over you? At this moment?”
“Yes …”
“God would not allow harm to come to you, then. Unless it was his wish.”