Laughing Man (9 page)

He looked hard at her, slowly lowered his arm, wrapped his hand tightly around his beer bottle. "This could have been a romantic evening for us, Patricia," he said.

T
he city bus moved leadenly through the deep, new snow. Beyond its windows, the Manhattan streets were white and gray streaked with flashes of yellow—the city's taxis moving about in the storm with the agility of rabbits.

The woman who called herself Helen sat rigidly in a seat near the back of the bus, where the bus's heater blew hot air on her legs and feet and warmed her enough that she could breathe.

The woman wasn't frightened, though she could not move. She was a creature caught up in a battle for survival, because she had chanced into the hands of her killer—the storm, the snow, the bitter cold.

She did not give time to regret or self-recrimination. She felt the awful pain that the frigid night air gave her, but she did not cry out, or weep. In her short time on the earth, she had never cried out or wept because of pain.

P
atricia had gotten up to leave Erthmun's apartment. The act surprised her. She didn't believe, rationally, that she was afraid of the man. He puzzled her, she thought, but surely he didn't frighten her.

She had gotten halfway to the door when he'd called, "Don't go out there, Patricia. Please stay." If she had listened to his words alone, she would have assumed it was a sexual invitation. But his tone seemed to be one of urgency, as if it were desperately important for her to remain in the apartment with him.

She looked back at him and said, "Why?"

"Because I want you to stay here. With me."

"I can't."

"This isn't a come-on. Do you think it's a come-on?"

"No."

"Yes, you do. Of course you do. What else would it be? But it isn't. I really do want you to stay. An hour or two. We'll have something to eat. I'll make us some food. I have lots of food here. I have steak, I have some steak. I could cook it. You must be hungry."

She stared at him a few moments and it came to her what was wrapped up in all this babble—he was trying to protect her!

T
he woman who called herself Helen did not try to understand why this cold night was so different for her than other cold nights. She did not say to herself,
It's because this is the coldest night of the year,
or
The wind-chill factor is low,
or
It's a combination of the wind and the snow and the cold.
These facts meant nothing to her. And her pain meant next to nothing to her—it was merely an obstacle to overcome.

The bus was empty, except for herself and the bus driver, and he was taking the bus back to the bus barn because his shift was done. He hadn't yet noticed her, but he did now, and he called, "You gotta get off the bus, lady." He pulled over to the curb and opened the rear doors.

She said nothing. She didn't look at him. The blast of cold air did not make her wince, but it drove her pain deeper, and made her muscles tense. And it started in her as well, an instinct, a capacity, and a power that she had used often since coming to this city, though not in a way that could draw much attention to her.

The driver said again, "You gotta get off the bus, lady." He looked at her in the rearview mirror, saw that she wasn't looking back at him, muttered, "Shit," thought,
She's drunk
,
dammit!
stood, and started walking back to her. "Come on, lady," he said. "Don't make life difficult for the both of us." He stopped walking. She had looked up at him, had leveled her gaze on him. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.

"Jesus Christ!" she whispered, and her voice was his voice.

He started backing away from her, tried to keep his eyes on her, but couldn't because she wasn't there. Then she was there. Then she wasn't. She was a part of the bus seat, a part of the advertising placard overhead—Bacardi rum—a part of the dark floor, a part of the rear window and the blowing snow, the headlights, the neon, the street lamps, the wind, the black sky. But she was teeth as well, and breasts, hips, sky-blue eyes, and dark pubic hair. She was a naked phantom, and she was a living woman, dressed garishly for an evening in cheap hotels. She was a part of the dark floor, the neon, the blowing snow, and the black sky.

The bus driver fell backward in his desperation to get away from her. He muttered little pleading obscenities at her, saw her coalesce with the air itself, saw her reappear—teeth and hands and breasts and pubic hair.

Then she was upon him.

P
atricia said, "Jack, does all of this have anything to do with the woman you called Helen?"

"Helen? Yes," he answered, "it does. She exists. There is at least a Helen."

She gave him a puzzled look.
At least a Helen?
She said, "You know this woman?"

"Know this woman? I don't think so. I've never met her. I've never met any of them."

Patricia sighed.
I've never met any of them?
What was that supposed to mean? Jesus, the man was falling apart before her eyes. She came back and stood behind her chair at the white enamel table. "What in heaven's name are you talking about, Jack? Is this all in the nature of . . . intuition, premonition, precognition? You're not making a hell of a lot of sense."

He looked at her a moment, looked out the window, looked at her again, said, "I don't know what any of that is, really." He noticed for the first time that a storm had begun.

Patricia said, "You mean you don't know the definitions of—"

He gave her a weary smile. "Sit down, Patricia."

She hesitated, then sat down. He said, "You can't go anywhere anyway. Look at it out there."

She looked, scowled. "Shit," she muttered.

"So you see, you've got to stay."

"Yes," she said.

"Yes," he said. "I'm glad."

H
elen did not eat all of the bus driver. But she ate some of him. The tender parts. His palms, his cheeks, his stomach, his thighs. He was a very overweight man, and the fat did her good. It gave her warmth and strength.

And when she was done with him, she left the bus through the rear doors that he had opened for her, and she moved quickly through the snow-covered streets. No one saw her, and no one looked. There were few out and about on the streets of Manhattan this winter night, except the taxis, and if their drivers looked in Helen's direction, they would have seen only a change in the pattern of the blowing snow, little else, and they would have thought nothing of it.

"C
an I have another beer?" Patricia asked. "If I'm staying, there's no real reason to remain sober."

Jack said, "I don't really know what that means," and smiled, got up, got another beer from the refrigerator, brought it back to her. She looked at the label, told him he had good taste in beer.

"I like beer," he said. "I like to eat, in fact."

Patricia said, "You mentioned something about a steak." She was beginning to feel more comfortable with him. Maybe it was the alcohol, though she didn't make much of an effort to analyze it. She trusted her instincts, though they seemed to be running in opposite directions tonight.

He nodded, went back to the refrigerator, withdrew two T-bones, took them to his little counter, and turned his gas broiler on to preheat. He said, as he took the steaks from their Styrofoam containers, "I'm hungry, too. I don't usually eat at this time of the night. I'm usually asleep."

This had not seemed like a rebuke to Patricia, but she said anyway, "If I'm keeping you—"

"I'll sleep another night," he cut in, smiling.

She thought that his smile had changed. There was nothing of crisis in it now. It seemed to signal that he was genuinely pleased to have her there with him, and this made her feel good.

She stood, joined him at the counter, said, "Is there something I can do?"

"Do?" he said. "Yes, you can eat what I make for you."

"I will," she said. Then, "Tell me what you meant about Helen."

"I don't know what I meant. It was a hunch, I think." He got a bottle of seasoning from a drawer. "Do you want some of this on yours?"

"No. I like it plain. And rare."

"A woman after my own heart."

"About Helen?" Patricia said.

"Not much," he said. "I don't know." He grinned oddly at her. "What's in a name, after all?"

T
he woman loved being a part of this city. She loved the buildings and the lights and the odor of diesel fuel. During the summer just passed—her first summer—she had loved going into the parks at night and stripping naked, and running, and running, and running. She loved running at night through the streets, weaving like a quirky breeze through the little knots of people, and then tossing her strange and coarse laughter back at them.

Memories meant little to her now. She remembered the name she had taken—Helen—because she loved the sound of it, and she remembered the building where she spent her days, because it was a place where no one else spent time, and so it was a place of protection.

And she remembered her birth especially, because it was a time of enormous pain and incredible pleasure.

And she remembered coming here, to this city. Remembered being drawn to it by the heady mixture of smells, by the noise, by the feel of the air and the ever-present promise of pleasure.

She slept now. She was a night hunter, her hunting was done, and so it was time to sleep. The sounds and smells of the city were distant in this place, distant enough, at least, that they did not draw her. And this early morning, the sounds of the storm covered them, too.

She curled up in her cocoon of quilts and blankets, and she dreamed only of being a clump of earth, a rock, a root. She did not remember these dreams because such things as clumps of earth, rocks, and roots have no memory.

Thirty-eight Years Earlier

Summer in the Adirondacks

C
ecile Erthmun had the words ready, and she could see that Thomas—who had just come out of the bathroom and was rubbing his face with a black towel—was looking expectantly at her, as if he knew she had something to say, but the words that came out of her were not the words she so needed to say.

"Bacon this morning, Thomas?" she said.

He looked silently at her a moment, as if trying to decide if she was being somehow dishonest, then nodded, and went back into the bathroom.

She threw her blanket off, swung her feet to the floor, heard herself call out,
Thomas, I was raped!
But she knew that she had said nothing.

She stood.

Thomas reappeared. He was a very tall man; his face was angular and his eyes intense and authoritarian. He went to a closet, opened it, rummaged in it a moment, found a white shirt, put it on. As he buttoned it, he said, "I'm going to be gone for two weeks, Cecile."

"Two weeks?" The idea frightened her—she and the girls alone at the house for two weeks! How could he let that happen? "That long?" she said.

He nodded again. "Breakfast?" he coaxed.

She nodded back, but stayed where she was, seated on the edge of the bed in her yellow, floor-length, cotton nightgown. He gave her a questioning smile. She looked away briefly, looked back, smiled a little, stood.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

She didn't answer at once. She went around the bed, found her slippers, put them on.

"Cecile, I asked you a question."

She went to a clothes tree near the bedroom door, got her green robe, put it on, looked back at him, sighed, nodded.

He said, "Is that a yes?"

She nodded again. "I think . . ." She paused. "I had some . . . difficulty yesterday, Thomas."

"Did you?" His tone betrayed no concern.

She nodded. "Thomas, I think that we should . . . leave here."

"Leave here? Leave this house?" He was clearly astonished.

She nodded a little, in pretended uncertainty.

He said, "Why in heaven's name should we leave? I have no intention of leaving."

She heard herself yell at him,
For God's sake, Thomas,
I was raped!
But she knew, again, that she had said nothing.

He repeated, "I have no intention of leaving this house, Cecile. I brought you and the girls here for a reason. The cities are turning into muck and mire. We have had this discussion. Why should I leave this house?"

She stared at him. He was so intransigent. Why had she ever married him?

He said, "Home schooling is best for the girls, as we have agreed. And you can write your poetry here. I can think of nothing more fitting for a woman such as you than to be ensconced in her country house writing poetry. It's fitting that this is something a woman should do. And we need have n4o worry about the filth of the cities infecting us."