Ash Wednesday (30 page)

"Well, look who's back." He smiled, then chuckled as her eyes darted nervously to Old Joe and back again to him. "And where have you been, my pretty one?"

"Spent the night at Barb's."

"Why for?"

"I drank too much."

"At the bar?"

"Yeah, and . . . back at her place afterward."

"Wrong. I called Barb last night, talked to her," he half lied. "She said you weren't with her. She didn't know
where
you were. So from that information Wally and I could draw only one conclusion. What is your mommy, Wally?"

The boy whispered it. "A whore."

"Louder."

"A whore."

Christine whitened, staring with wide eyes at her son. Then she turned to Brad. "You taught him that!"

"Only the word. His mommy has taught him the concept." Brad dropped the bantering tone. "What were you doing last night?"

"Wally, go to your room."

"Were you getting fucked?"

"Wally!" The boy ran down the hall.

"Huh? A little on the side? Is that what you were doing the other times?"

"No, I—"

"Don't lie to me. That's the worst. The lying is the worst. What I want is the truth. I want to know why."

"I just—"

"Why?"

"I just want to get away from here!" she flared. "I can't stand this anymore. All these
things!
I just wanted to get
away
for a night. That's all!"

"You mean you . . . picked somebody up so you wouldn't have to spend the night here in town?"

"
Yes
."

"But,"—he shook his head, his cold anger replaced by genuine puzzlement—"you can't see anything in our bedroom."

"I
know
they're there," she answered, her voice breaking in frustration. "I can
feel
them. Please, Brad, we've got to go. We've just
got
to." She had come to his side, her fear of him nothing in comparison to the fears that had sent her into a stranger's bed.

He put his arms on her shoulders, almost tenderly. "Chris, I
can't
go."

"Why not? You're strong, you're smart, you could do better than the shoe factory. Why do you want to stay here?"

His mouth quivered, and for an instant she saw the face of the man she had loved enough to move in with without benefit of marriage. His face had suddenly changed so that it looked like a little boy's, full of a trusting vulnerability that melted her. It was as though a mask had dropped away, as if a statue had become flesh. "I don't know myself," he said, the unexpected wetness in his eyes making them look larger, entranced. "I just know that I have to, that there's a reason. That there's something I have to . . . make up for. And I can't do it without you. I mean I can't bear to be alone now. Not now, when it's coming."

"What's coming?" she asked, clinging to him. "Judgment," he said. "I think judgment."

"I don't know what you mean."

"No. I didn't expect you to."

Her face fell. "You always thought I was dumb."

The moment was over. The seconds of warmth, of communication that they had shared was gone, and Brad's eyes narrowed with a hint of their former cynicism. He tried to hold on nonetheless.

"That's not what I meant."

She turned away. "You told Wally to call me a whore."

He remembered then, and he smirked. "I didn't tell him to call you a
dumb
whore."

"Don't teach my son words like that!" She whirled, snarling. "He ought to know them."

"He's
four
, for
crissake
!"

"Was he good?"

"Who?"

"Your friend. The one who traded you half an out-of-town bed for your little pussy. Was he good?" Some of the tightness went out of her jaw. He had her on the defensive now. "Well? Was he?" She didn't answer. "You know, Chris, in all the time we've been together, I have not once slept with another woman. Did you know that? And we're not even married, so it wasn't fear of God or the loss of reputation. You want to know what it was? Come on. Can I have a response here?" She nodded stiffly. "It was honor." He took his time with the word, so that it seemed to ease itself off his tongue. "Honor. You know, people don't talk about honor today. People have forgotten what the hell it is. Well, I haven't. Maybe I did once or twice before in my life. And maybe that's why it's been so important since. But I'm not forgetting now. I'm living with you, so I don't fuck anybody else, not even if they beg me, which no one's been doing anyway. And maybe I'm foolish enough to expect the same thing in return from you. Do you think that's unreasonable?"

She breathed deeply before she answered. "I think . . . that staying
here
is unreasonable."

"That's not the
point!
" he roared. "Not the goddamn point! The point here is
cunt
, and the fact that you've been spreading yours for a night at the
Rammit
Inn and a cup of in-room instant in the morning and I don't
like
that. It pisses me off." He backhanded her lightly on the left cheek, as casually as if he were brushing away a gnat. She gasped and drew back, but swerved as soon as she realized she was stumbling blindly toward Old Joe. "Uh-unh," Brad said, smacking her, this time with his open palm, on her right cheek so that she moved back onto her previous route. "You're not a very honorable lady, Chris," Brad said viciously, striking her again and again, sharp blows that stung her face, left, right, left, right, pressing her backward toward the old black man silently watching the room.

Finally she flailed at Brad with her fists, but he caught them and whirled her around so that she faced the phantom. "
Nooo
!" she cried, bringing up her knees and trying to kick him, but he evaded most of her blows, and those that connected he ignored.

"Scared of Joe?" he grunted, forcing her closer. "Huh? Scared of Joe? Why? He's a man, see? Maybe he'll give you a room for the night if you fuck him, huh?" Now he held her less than a foot away from the blue-yellow eyes. "Why don'tcha show him the merchandise, Chris? Huh? Come on, let's show him!"

He had her coat off and her sweater pushed up over her breasts before her terror allowed her to cry out. It was a slow, choking wail of despair that Wally heard in his bedroom, but he did not open his door. He only sat on his bed, hands in his lap, hoping that whatever the man was doing to his mother would satisfy him. He listened to the first cry, then to the high keening, and finally to the primitive, almost rhythmic grunts of pain that followed. The silence lasted then, and he thought perhaps that, for this time, it was over; he was safe.

~*~

One other person heard Christine's cries. The ears were old, yet still sharp enough to catch the sounds through the closed windows and above the purr of Saturday morning Market Street traffic. Eddie Karl frowned and spat, looking up toward the second-floor window from which the cries had come. "Mean shit," he muttered, shaking his head and shuffling through the melting snow. "Turned into a mean little shit." Eddie stepped to the curb and crossed the street. He passed the Western Auto store, glancing briefly at the makeshift plywood box that stood where the bench had been. "Mornin', Rorrie," he said as he passed it and made his way to the Hitching Post.

It was a typical small-town restaurant—six booths, a counter with red leather stools, tired-looking pies under dull plastic shells. There were greasy menus and greasier food, and a waitress called Jake who handled the whole with aplomb. When Eddie entered, only a few people were having a late breakfast, and he sat on the empty stool between Fred
Hibbs
and Tom Markley. "Howdy, Jake," he called to the chubby waitress. "Coffee 'n a doughnut, please. And how's Mr. Mayor today?" he asked Markley, who didn't look up from his coffee cup.

"Okay, Eddie," he said, taking a deep drag on his Camel. "How's the store
doin
'?"

"It . . . could be better."

"Yeah, I bet. Hell, a lot fewer customers these days. And I'm
bettin
' they don't feel much like Christmas, am I right?”

“You're right."

Eddie shook his head. "Just a
coupla
days away, and everybody's
walkin
' around with Good Friday faces. Don't know what they're so scared of."

"They're scared of what they don't understand."

"Maybe so. Thanks, Jake." Eddie dunked the doughnut in his cup and took a large, wet bite. "This Thornton guy finding out anything yet?"

Markley snorted, the smoke rushing from his nostrils in twin torrents. "
Thornton
. Biggest waste of taxpayers' money I've ever seen. Him and his fucking scientists have been here almost three months now, and
nothing
. Got the power companies and the chemical firms kissing his ass every day too."

"You think he's a crook?"

"Don't know what to think, but he sure as hell doesn't give a damn about Merridale. I had to fight like hell to get us declared a disaster area. Son of a bitch didn't
wanta
do
that
. You believe it? People running out of town, businesses gone to hell, being shut off like we're in quarantine." Markley's voice fell. "You know what would've saved our asses?
Tourists
."

Eddie grinned crookedly. "Tourists?"

"Sure!" Markley seemed obsessed with the idea. "Why, people
want
to come in here. What do you think the road, blocks are for? Personally, I think they're
sickos
, but they
want
to see these things. So why shouldn't the town make some money off of it. You could do plates, T-shirts, even religious stuff."

"Some
people'd
say that's just as sick as
wantin
' to look."

Markley stubbed out his cigarette. "It's just an idea. There's no harm in ideas."

"I ain't so sure of that," said Eddie Karl. "That Hitler had ideas."

Markley stood up and threw two singles on the counter, then turned back, pocketed one bill, replaced it with three quarters, and walked out without another word.

"Testy, ain't he?" Eddie said, turning with a friendly smile to Fred
Hibbs
. "Just 'cause I didn't agree with turning Merridale into Disneyland. Might not be too bad at that." He dunked, chewed, and swallowed. "
Deadland
. And we could have like a Dracula mascot—the Count of Merridale. You know, like they got Mickey Mouse at Disneyland? Sure. Buttons and T-shirts and beer mugs and pennants for the kids. Maybe we could even use some old '39 World's Fair stuff. You know, 'I have seen the future.' "

Jake laughed in spite of herself. "You're awful, Eddie!”

“Just thinking of ways to make a buck,
Jakie
. Just like our mayor."

"It ain't funny," Fred
Hibbs
said. "You shouldn't make fun."

"Well, I'm goddamn sorry, Loafer, but when I see some greedy
tweedly-pom
like Tom Markley all bent out of shape because his business is gone to shit, damned if it don't make me chuckle a little."

Jake refilled Eddie's coffee cup, grimacing at the multitude of crumbs that bubbled up as she poured. "Mr. Markley's not all that bad. We had worse mayors."

" 'Sides," added Fred, "it ain't just
his
store, it's the whole town. Whole town's dead." He blanched. "I didn't mean that."

Eddie sent up a whoop of laughter. "Maybe not, but you're right as rain anyway. Yep. Deadest place I ever saw."