Black Diamond (24 page)

‘Perfect. How did you get back at them?’

‘I used to think about that a lot. It started to take me over. I couldn’t think about anything else. I had less and less of my own life left: they covered everything. Then he got out of jail. He said to forget it; we’d just leave and get married and start our family.’ She sniffed. He handed her his handkerchief. She said, ‘You know, it’s funny: in a way they were right. I mean, I love him, but he’s kind of a lunkhead. And I don’t even know if he’s always on the right side of the law. We don’t have anything in common. Honest to God, I’m lonely as hell sometimes.’ She started to sob again. She sat up from the sofa, tried to pour out some bourbon and sloshed it over the table and floor. She fell on top of him. He grabbed her around the waist, to keep her from sliding to the floor. She tried to kiss him. Then she tried to hit him in the face. She yelled, ‘For Christ’s sake, are you going to sit there all day like a store dummy? Aren’t you going to take me to bed?’

He got a firm grip on her and stood up, holding her in his arms. The chair fell over backwards behind him. The glass slipped out of his left hand on to the floor, and broke. He said, ‘Okay.’

He carried her out of the porch, through the living room and into the hallway. He knew where all the rooms were. It would have been best, and appropriate, to take her to the room she and Ray slept in, but that was upstairs and too far away. He lugged
her towards one of the downstairs guest rooms and lurched across the threshold with her.

He almost stumbled, hitting the door with the side of his arm. ‘Whoops,’ she cried gaily. He left the door open. It didn’t matter; there was no one else at home. As he turned around to drop her on top of the bedspread, her wrist caught the lamp on the night table and knocked it over with a crash.

She was out of her dress in seconds, tugging at his clothes. Twenty minutes later they were still making love when Ray ran into the room and started to shout at them. They turned and broke apart.

Ray was looking at them down the barrel of a shotgun. He fired at Bruce, who fell – deafened, blinded and bleeding – down the side of the bed. Joanna screamed at him to stop, but Ray pulled the trigger again. The blast shot half her face away.

Bruce clenched his jaws against the pain, trying not to make a noise. His hands clutched the blankets down on the floor. Everything was wet. Everything smelled like blood. He heard Ray cursing, and another cartridge going into the barrel. He tried not to breathe. But he had no reason to be afraid: Ray turned the gun around, put the barrel into his mouth and blew the top of his head off.

It took Bruce several minutes to crawl to the telephone. He was sure, all the way, that he’d bleed to death before he got there.

*

It made the papers in a big way. The county hadn’t had such a crime of passion for years. The two daughters came back from their school trip to find both parents dead, their lover in the hospital and the police telling them that he’d been discovered in bed with their mother.

The younger girl, Didi, slashed her wrists but, being ignorant about the correct method, only managed to make two shallow cuts with a breadknife across the backs of her hands, which she then held up dramatically, declaring that she wanted to die and, look: she’d cut her wrists. Her older sister, Mandy, had more intelligence. She loaded one of her father’s pistols and went to the hospital, gunning for Bruce. The policeman on duty there
stopped her before she got to his room. The nurses gave her a sedative.

The sheriff himself arrived to ask Bruce for his story. It was one of those things, Bruce told him weakly: they’d started drinking heavily and before they knew it, they were in bed and her husband was standing in the doorway.

Alma came to see him. She sat in the chair and held his hand. His voice was faint and he spoke slowly, but he kept her fingers in a tight grip. ‘So many transfusions,’ he said. ‘Blood. The source of all my troubles. I keep bleeding and they keep pouring it into me. Comes in those jars. Looks dark. Looks brown, like my dream. Could be mud.’

‘I’m sorry you were shot,’ she told him, ‘but I’m not sorry you’ve got the time to think. Something had to stop you.’

‘I guess. Didn’t stop me soon enough. I was in bed with her.’

She said, ‘I’m glad Mom isn’t alive.’ She could see as she raised her eyes that it was the only thing anyone had ever said – except perhaps the news of his adoption – that had hurt him. ‘How could you do such a thing?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I felt sorry for her.’ He looked away and yawned, as if bored. ‘It seemed like the natural thing to do. She’d been through so much. What her parents did to her: nobody has the right. They took everything away from her at the beginning. Then she fought her way through, and found out she didn’t have a very good marriage, after all. I think she started to drink when she realized she didn’t love him any more, so it had all been for nothing. She kept talking about her lost child. Well, I just couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t say:
I’m
it
and
I’ve
been
screwing
both
of
your
daughters.
Could I?’

‘The daughters?’

‘Nothing special. Neither was she. Except at the end, of course. That was pretty special.’

‘I think they want to give you some more blood,’ Alma said.

‘Don’t go.’

‘It’s all right,’ one of the nurses told her. ‘You can stay.’

‘Violent man,’ Bruce whispered. ‘That’s what he was like. Maybe that’s what I’m like, too.’

‘Don’t make excuses for yourself.’

‘Why not? It’s true what you said. I’ve destroyed myself.’

‘And a lot of other people.’

‘Yes,’ he admitted. He turned his face to the side, looking towards the door. She thought that his mind had wandered to something else, but after a while he came back to the subject. He said, ‘But they don’t matter.’

‘Don’t you feel any sorrow for them?’

He caught his breath and swallowed in a way that reminded her of when she’d seen Bess for the last time. ‘Isn’t this enough?’ he said.

The nurses began to wheel a table into the room.

‘I’m the one you should have slept with,’ she said.

‘Brother and sister?’

‘Not by blood.’

‘Psychologically.’

‘So much the better. In spite of everything, we’re your real family. The others are still nothing to you.’ She wanted to say he should have been able to figure that out a long time ago. But he looked too tired and he’d never been able to stand criticism. ‘Try and get well,’ she told him. ‘You’re the only one I can’t spare.’

‘You always loved me, Alma.’

‘Always. And if you hadn’t been so scared of it, we’d have been all right.’

‘Think so?’ he said.

The nurses advanced with their bottles and jars and rubber tubing. His eyes dilated. He held her hand harder.

Alma said, ‘I had a dream about you. And in the dream, you lived.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it. I just saw the doctor walk down the hall. Same son of a bitch that did the other operation on me: the one that didn’t work. Why don’t they let me die?’

Alma said, ‘Stop talking like that. You aren’t going to die. I’ll be thinking of you every minute you’re in there. I’ll be praying so hard, helping you. You’re going to pull through just fine. And then you’ll get well.’

A nurse came up to the bed, saying, ‘Miss –’

Alma wouldn’t pay attention to her. She leaned forward, to catch what Bruce was trying to tell her.

*

I
had
a
dream
that
I
was
in
the
hospital
and
Alma
came
to
see
me.
My
time
was
running
out.
I
could
feel
it
trickling
away
from
me,
all
my
time.

She
said,
‘You
aren’t
going
to
get
out
of
this
so
easy.
You’re
going
to
keep
on
living.’

I
was
so
tired
that
I
wanted
to
sleep.
They
were
going
to
do
an
operation
on
me.
I
thought
I
might
sleep
through
that,
too.

A
nurse
came
into
the
room.
Alma
said,
‘I’m
not
leaving,
’
but
I
said
to
her,
just
like
the
tough
guys
in
the
movies,
‘Kiss
me
goodbye,
Alma.’

She
kissed
me
on
the
cheek.
And
I
said,
‘Not
like
that.
That’s
for
strangers.’
So
she
kissed
me
again.

Sandra and her boyfriend, Bert, worked for the same firm. She knew that that was a mistake. She’d known it from the
beginning
, but mixing business with pleasure was something
everybody
did. It was just because everyone did it that there were so many warnings against it. Where she and Bert worked,
everybody
certainly did it all the time. It was convenient. Of course, it was more convenient for people who were married, especially for the men. Bert wasn’t married, but somehow he acted as if he were – as if he had other commitments that she didn’t have the right to question him about.

On Thursday night they had a quarrel because, having planned – and promised – to take her on a weekend trip, he’d changed his mind and decided to go fishing or hunting, or something like that. He said that he’d be with three other men he’d known from college days. She didn’t believe that, or at least she said she didn’t, because she didn’t want him to break his word to her. If he were really going to trade in a weekend with her for one that meant getting drunk and swapping stories with the boys, then that showed just what he thought she was worth.

On Friday morning she waited to see if he’d back down and tell her that he wanted to be with her, after all. He didn’t. He took the flightbag and the smaller tan suitcase and he went off to work, without another word to her, as if she’d agreed to it the night before and as if she hadn’t told him, ‘If you do, I’ll know how much you care about me.’ Why had she said that? It made the outcome seem inevitable. She could have waited, quietly, to see what would happen. But anyway, what she’d said only made the matter appear final for her, not for him. He wouldn’t give it a
thought. Maybe she’d better spend the weekend mulling over how much it really did matter to her whether he cared, and – if he did or didn’t – whether she ought to get out of the affair. Perhaps she should do another kind of thing everyone else did, too: let things slide and start going out with somebody else on the side.

When she got home from the office in the evening, she didn’t want to do the laundry or get into the bathtub: Bert might telephone. She walked back and forth, willing the phone to ring, until she couldn’t stand the tension. She made herself a cup of coffee, sat down in the easy chair and turned on the television.

She watched a comedy serial, two short westerns and an old black-and-white movie from the thirties. She was thinking of switching the set off when a second film followed – a romantic adventure, shot in lush color and set on a tropical island. From the instant the music began, you could tell what kind of story it would be: just her kind. She burrowed more comfortably into the chair.

At first the film presented a map of the South Seas. Then the printed names and numbers faded, turning into a real picture: a boat, off in the distance. Meanwhile, a mysterious-sounding voice said,
Legend
tells
us
that
among
the
atolls
of
these
vast,
uncharted
seas
there
lies
an
island
named
Mona
Zima,
the
place
of
the
jewel.
So
potent
is
the
lure
of
its
fame
that,
though
none
return
from
the
quest,
it
continues
to
draw
to
it
men
of
passion
and
daring.
Such
a
one
was
Joshua
Bridgewater
in
the
year
1908.
At last, young Captain Bridgewater himself was shown, standing masterfully at the wheel of his ship,
The
Dauntless,
while the ocean grew stormy. His men came up to ask him questions and he barked back orders. The sea became wild and tumultuous. Sandra took two large gulps of coffee.

As the captain’s plight became steadily more dangerous, the voice went on to tell the story: One of the volcanic islands in a little-known and as yet unmapped chain was populated by members of a secret religious cult. Its worshippers sacrificed to an idol that was inlaid with many jewels, all set around one fabulous diamond: an enormous stone (bigger than a fist) of
perfect purity. It would have made more sense for the
inhabitants
of a tropical island to revere a giant pearl and not a diamond, but that was explained; the jewel had been brought to the place by an Indian prince, who was fleeing from his brother’s army. Just as the maharajah’s ships reached the treacherous reefs, a storm blew up and the seas pounded everything to splinters. All the people were drowned. Nothing survived but a small, ornamental casket that was shaped like a boat and therefore, captainless, floated into calmer waters until it gained the shore. Inside was the diamond. From the moment of its arrival it was considered sacred, not simply on account of its great beauty, but because of the seemingly magical way it had steered itself – as if by conscious will – to a place of safety.

The cult worshippers thought that the large and still-active volcano on their island could be pacified by the light of the jewel. They also believed that the diamond would bring them good luck in general, that they were meant to guard and protect it and that all strangers wished to steal it. Any foreigner who expressed interest in it was told that it didn’t exist: it was just a story. If he managed to discover the idol and see it for himself, he was killed.

Captain Bridgewater had started out as a freebooter, but his travels had changed him. He’d been moderately chastened by his ordeal in the storm, although through the exercise of his superb seamanship he’d managed to save his vessel. And as soon as he landed on the island – as the sole survivor of his ship’s company – he became a better man: he fell in love. The girl who won his heart was a curvaceous strawberry blonde: she caught his eye as she was about to be sacrificed to the idol. The diamond – so she told him haltingly, in her newly learned English – was angry. It had to be appeased. She had been chosen for the job on the basis of her unusual appearance and perhaps also because her parents had been foreign; they had died many years ago when she was still a baby. No one would tell her how they met their fate, but she guessed that the jewel had claimed them. She herself had never been persecuted. She’d been treated as an honored guest. Now she wondered if, all along, the priesthood hadn’t been saving her for this moment.

As soon as the commercials began again, Sandra ran to the bathroom and then to the kitchen. There wasn’t time to make another cup of coffee. She settled for a glass of water. She sipped slowly as the movie continued.

The hero, as she might have suspected, was captured. But, since he’d done a good deed earlier in the story when he’d rescued two men from execution, he had helpers in the
community
. So hope was not completely lost, in spite of the fact that he was tied up in ropes when the girl was being led off to the place of sacrifice. As the camera switched back and forth between the hero in his bonds and the heroine, being dragged towards a bed of coals, the helpers struggled with the hundreds of knots and Sandra – not daring to swallow the last drops of water in case she missed something – whispered, ‘Hurry, hurry up.’

The ending used the same back-and-forth device: although the captain was now freed, he had to get to the girl in time. He raced across the island, while she – surrounded by a muttering mob of fanatic acolytes – gained a few minutes of life; the high priest had to chant the right words over her before she could be thrown into the fiery pit. Close by her stretched a long, burning track of live coals. That was the testing place for liars. You were supposed to have an even chance of getting to the other side if you were telling the truth. But three people had already burst into flames halfway to the finishline and Sandra knew, from the way things were shown, that they’d been telling the truth. Of course, that kind of thing wouldn’t work. It was like those penalties for witches: if they sank, they were innocent; if they floated, they were in league with the devil. But at least on the coals you’d have the possibility of escape. If you were in the pit, you stayed there until you burned to a crisp.

The hero ran, the heroine wriggled and screamed, the high priest intoned gloatingly. Behind and above him the perfect diamond sparkled with light. It seemed like an object from another world. The mob – louder and more restive by the minute – kept looking up at it. The priest droned, the heroine moaned, the hero raced. And at last, just as the captain broke onto the scene, another element was added: a sudden, deep rumbling.
Way off in the background, smoke began to rise from the volcano. The sky darkened, the grumbling was like thunder, the earth shook. Everyone screamed, even the two hulking guards who were holding the girl. The hero ran up and took her by the hand. But the high priest, seeing him, pointed and shouted to his priestly warriors. They moved forward, their spears ready. The escape route was cut off. The only way out was to go through the fire.

Sandra leaned over to put her glass down on the floor without taking her eyes from the screen. The volcano erupted, showering sparks and ashes everywhere. Hero and heroine dashed through the mob and reached the fiery walkway, which – miraculously – they negotiated without harm, although parts of their clothing exploded into a bright, gassy cloud around them. They reached the far side and stepped out on to the ground. That was the kind of thing true love enabled you to do. The high priest was in fits. He ordered people to go after them. A few started out, but the fire engulfed them. And suddenly everybody realized that the priest wasn’t helping. In fact, he was spending most of his time sending other people to their death. What was left of the mob advanced on him. His bodyguards tried to protect him but when they saw that the maddened crowd was backing them into a corner with him, they quit worrying about their leader and tried to save themselves.

The phone rang. Sandra knocked over a stack of cassette tapes to get to it fast; she thought it would be Bert, repentant and sentimental, ready to propose something really nice, to make up.

It was her Aunt Marion. They didn’t see each other very often. Aunt Marion had always been independent. But in the past three years six of her friends had died and once more her family had become a necessity to her, though she still didn’t like them much.

‘Is something wrong?’ Sandra asked.

‘Nothing bad, dear. No, just inconvenient. I’m supposed to be away for the weekend, but now the only day the men can deliver the window is Saturday. They can’t even take it to McHutchin’s, because he’s in Bangor for his son’s wedding. And I couldn’t
cancel my outing with Elsie.’ Elsie was one of the two surviving friends. ‘I don’t suppose you could let them in for me, could you?’

‘I guess I could.’ So far, Aunt Marion had proved to be someone who appreciated and returned favors, not a person who took acts of kindness to mean encouragement towards further – and possibly, unending – imposition. ‘What time did they say they’d deliver the thing?’

‘In the afternoon. “Sometime after noon,” they said. You know how they are.’

‘What time are you leaving?’

‘Oh, early. As early as possible. But you could get the key from, um, the usual place, you know.’

Sandra knew. One of the reasons why her aunt had singled her out was that she was quick to pick up that sort of hint. There were other members of the family who were more cheerful or obliging, but some of them were pretty dense. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘I won’t repeat it over the phone. Yes, sure. I can be there about ten o’clock.’

‘How kind of you, Sandra. That really is a relief. If that window doesn’t go in soon, I can see myself waiting all winter for it. You’re an angel.’

‘As a matter of fact, it could work out very well. I’ve got a lot to think about over the next couple of days.’

‘A boyfriend?’ Aunt Marion too was fairly quick on the draw. ‘I hope it’s something nice.’

Sandra laughed. She said she wasn’t sure: she probably wouldn’t know about that until she’d done the thinking.

‘I’ll make up the bed in the guest room,’ her aunt said. ‘The second on the left, at the top of the stairs. And there’s plenty of food in the icebox.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Sandra told her. ‘And if you leave a phone number, I’ll call you.’

Aunt Marion said that that would be perfect and Sandra was truly a friend in need. She hung up.

As soon as she put the receiver down, Sandra began to think it was possible that all the time she’d been talking to her aunt, Bert
might have tried to get in touch with her. Maybe she should call him up, to find out: to see if he’d changed his mind. He could come with her to Aunt Marion’s; spend the weekend. She’d have to ask first.

She lifted the receiver and immediately put it down again. That would be weak and silly. And if she felt angry at herself, it was – naturally – his fault. He was the one she should be mad at.

The adventure movie still rampaged across the television screen. She stepped back into the living room. The mob yelled and brandished spears, while fire shot up into the sky like celebration rockets. She sat back down in her chair.

The hero and heroine made a rush for the cool jungle and the sea beyond, where his boat was waiting. In the background you could see the priest being thrown into the burning pit, his two guards following him. The sound of their screams was covered by the roaring of flames, the crack and crashing of the volcano. Sparks rained from the sky. Hero and heroine speeded up, but things didn’t look good. As they entered the tall foliage, the earth was shaken by new rumblings, the idol shuddered on its pedestal. The crowd groaned and the statue split, sending the diamond vaulting high into the air, projected like a shooting star over the heads of the embroiled mob.

It fell right in front of the escaping lovers. The heroine gasped. She bent down to where it lay nested in a halo of light, its outlines almost hidden by the twinkling sparkles of its radiance. Her hand opened towards it. But the hero pulled her back. He kicked the jewel out of the way and dragged her forward. They crashed through the trees. Behind them the vegetation became an incandescent river of writhing flames and whizzing fireballs. They reached the shore, plunged into the water, swam to the boat. And the last anyone saw of them was their embracing forms against the white sail of
The
Dauntless.
The boat slipped quickly away from the burning island. Every sail was full, straining towards freedom. And large letters spelled out the words, ‘The End’, over the two faces as they approached each other from left and right for a central clinch – the ecstatic kiss that was to be both conclusion and beginning. Sandra sighed. She
relaxed. Right up to the end, she’d been worried that something would go wrong.