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Authors: J.C. Conaway

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BOOK: Quarrel with the Moon
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"Cresta," his eyes were pleading, "that only happened once."

"Once. You mean I only found out once. Why the hell don't you go West and become a Mormon? There you wouldn't have to keep up the pretense of being monogamous."

"Cresta, I swear to you it only happened once."

"How can you say that for sure, Josh? Really for sure? You don't remember what happens during these 'dark times.'"

"Why do you have to put a trendy label on everything?
'Dark times.'
It sounds like a power failure."

"Well, isn't that what it is, a blackout? What else would you call it? Christ, Josh, how can I help you if you won't help yourself?"

He finished his beer and took out another one. "I don't drink that often."

"No, you don't. But...."

"I only get drunk about once a month. God, Cresta, you're acting like I was an alcoholic."

Cresta sighed. "Well, aren't you, Josh? Dr. Benjamin said that you don't have to drink often to be an alcoholic."

"Stuff Dr. Benjamin! I don't give a shit what your fancy Park Avenue psychiatrist has to say about me. Let him take care of
your
head."

"It's not just his opinion. It's fact."

"So what do you want me to do? Go to an AA meeting? Stand up among all those stumblebums and confess my wrongdoings? I haven't
done
any thing wrong, for God's sake!"

"You're doing wrong to yourself. One of these nights you're going to get yourself killed. Or worse."

Josh began laughing. "
Or worse?
What can be worse than getting killed?"

Cresta began laughing too. "Goddamn it, you know what I mean." Josh reached out for Cresta, but she backed away. "No, no, not this time." She was half-laughing, half-sobbing. "I want what I want, Josh."

"What do you want, Cresta?" he exploded and slammed the beer can down on the counter.

Her voice was tight, brittle, and controlled. "I want you to do something - see a psychiatrist, go to AA, join
est ... anything! Just do something!
" She clenched and unclenched her hands as tears streamed down her face. "Jesus, I'm going to be a wreck in the morning. My eyes will be as puffy as poached eggs." She grabbed a paper napkin, wiped her eyes and nose and stared at Josh.

His straight black hair fell over his forehead like spilt paint, shadowing his haunting gray eyes. He returned her gaze with a pathetic little-boy look, a look she knew and loved. Cresta, at twenty, was not inexperienced in affairs of the heart. She had had two other lovers, but neither of them, neither, excited her like Josh Holman. Perhaps it was because he never catered to her; he hadn't even pursued her, for that matter. And once they were together, he accepted her with a casual affection which she found refreshing after so many overanxious men and tiresome compliments. She also loved him because he was intelligent, kind, and possessed a good sense of humor. But there was that other side to him. He was often moody, sometimes sharp, withdrawn and even cruel.

Cresta shook her head in consternation. "Josh, if you love me, then fight for me. Aren't I worth it? I love you with all my heart. I want to marry you. I want to have your children. But ...," she began crying again, "not the way things are. Please,
please
I - I can't - help you if you won't help yourself."

He touched her arm. "I'll try, love. I'll really try."

She managed a smile. "That's all I wanted to hear. Now, I'm going to sleep in the guest room tonight. When you drink, you snore, and I have precious few hours left to get my beauty sleep."

"Cresta, please."

"Josh, I have to. I'm doing close-up work tomorrow. It's that lipstick commercial. I can't go in without any sleep at all. Rudy will probably have a devil of a time making me up anyway." She kissed him lightly on the cheek and hurried out of the kitchen.

Josh finished his beer, then viciously crushed the can in his hands. She was punishing him. No matter what she said, she was not free of anger or doubt concerning his intentions. He knew that she had a right to be both angry and pessimistic. They had been through it all before. She had made the same entreaties and he had made the same promises.

Josh knew that he would break them again, and that knowledge saddened him more than anything.

2

The alarm went off at eight. Josh groaned, reached out to turn it off, and knocked it on the floor. "Cresta," he mumbled, "I knocked the Goddamn clock on the floor." Suddenly he became aware that the only warmth in the bed was emanating from his own body. He raised his head. His brains felt scrambled. Leaning against the brass headboard, he tried to wish the throbbing away. He recalled having three more beers after Cresta had gone to bed. That had raised his alcohol level to such a point that he was able to sleep. Josh kicked off the light cover and looked down at his body. His feet were dirty and cut in several places. It came back to him in a rush. Central Park ... running ... the cops. Then he remembered that he didn't remember all of it.

He did remember the disco. The Krypton Klub was the "in" discotheque for all the beautiful, with-it people. It was the last place in New York City that Josh had wanted to be. But because Cresta was a top model, she was invited to attend every screwy affair in town. It was an opening night party for a rock musical which he had also had to endure - a pretentious piece of junk about a mass murderer.

As usual, Josh had acquiesced to Cresta's wishes; he would attend the show and later the party. The musical put him in a foul mood. And Josh knew on entering the Krypton Klub that only alcohol would allow him to deal with the deafening music, the flashing lights, and the shrill crowd.

Josh and Cresta were crammed at a miniscule table with five of Cresta's "dearest friends." The fat homosexual wearing giant pink glasses was a successful dress designer and fancied himself "out
rage
ous." Josh found him merely loud and obnoxious. There were two models who worked at the same agency as Cresta. Both were vapid and pretty, and both glittered in punk rock gear. And their dates: a blandly handsome actor in a soap who experimented with kinky sex and was more than happy to tell you about it, and an advertising executive who was fighting his age. His sunlamp tan, capped teeth and dyed hair only added to the artificiality of his life. The ad exec kept all of them (except for Cresta and Josh) supplied in "the best snow in town." As the rest of the table not-so-discreetly sniffed cocaine, Josh concentrated on drinking while Cresta glared at him. An hour later she coerced him onto the dance floor, and there they had a fight. Josh didn't remember what about. The play? Probably. Her friends? Most likely. The disco? Most assuredly.

After that everything was a blank except ...
except
....

Josh staggered into the bathroom, peered at himself in the mirror and decided that he didn't look as bad as he should have. He looked in the guest room. Cresta was already off to her modeling assignment. The campaign bed was neatly made. When Josh entered the kitchen he expected to find a note from Cresta. It was a habit of hers. A note asking him to pick up something from the market or reminding him of a social engagement, or simply a reaffirmation of her love. The note was noticeably absent.

He looked around the kitchen. Well, at least she had made the coffee. Josh poured himself a mug. While he was waiting for it to cool, he dissolved two Alka Seltzers in a glass of beer, drank it down and emitted a healthy belch. He wanted to call Cresta just to measure her mood, but he couldn't remember where she had said she would be shooting that morning. He knew that he could check with Famous, Inc., the model agency that handled her, but she didn't like to have her work interrupted unless it was an emergency. And since when was a hangover an emergency?

Josh closed his eyes and savored the aroma of the coffee. Suddenly the odor became mixed with something else. A dry summer night, stagnant water and hot, fetid air. A blurred image of vegetation, rocks, and undergrowth rushed past his mind's eye like an unfinished watercolor. He was running, running faster than he ever had. Running as if he were being pursued ... or was he the pursuer? The predator or the prey?

Running in Central Park. Josh grunted, shaking off the disturbing images. It just ...
didn't
make any sense.

After finishing his coffee, Josh went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He glanced at himself in the fogging mirror, flexed his muscles, and smiled at his reflection. He was fully aware of his sensual good looks, his impressive physique, and he savored them, knowing that he looked nearly a decade younger than his actual thirty-two years. His shoulders, if not overly broad, were solid, and corded with muscle. His sharply defined pectorals were high and covered with a light spray of black hair which trailed down to his deeply set navel and exploded around his formidable genitals. He turned and examined his back. His spine was sharply defined and a soft circle of black hair grew just above the crevice of his buttocks which were deeply indented on either side. The outline of his bathing suit was still evident. Josh's skin seemed to drink up the rays from summer weekends and winter vacations and retained them the year round. Once again he examined his feet. They were not badly torn up. The soles were hard from years of going barefoot at every chance.

While the needles of water stung his flesh, Josh contemplated how he was going to deal with Cresta. Perhaps he would pick up tickets to that rock concert she wanted to see. Or else take a stroll through Bloomingdale's and select an expensive little nothing which might please her fancy.

He knew it would take more than that. Hell, Cresta would much rather he stopped drinking. But, damn it, socializing made that impossible. Besides, he didn't always drink too much, and he didn't always have blackouts.
Not always.
After briskly drying with a towel, Josh went into the bedroom to get dressed.

Even though the other members of the New York Institute of Anthropology did not approve his mode of dress, Josh wore what he pleased to work. As he was pulling on a blue knit shirt, the running scene flashed across his mind once again. The blur of images puzzled him. He seemed to be seeing them from a speeding car.

"Maybe I run faster when I drink," he mused.

Josh put on a pair of worn jeans, sandals, and threw a faded madras jacket in shades of red and blue over his shoulder. He took one last look in the mirror and hurried down the hall of the apartment. He nearly tripped over the guitar, which was propped up next to the closet. "Goddamn it, Cresta!" He picked it up and jammed it into the closet. "Why does she keep it lying around? She's never going to learn to play."

Sometime during the night the rain had stopped. New York looked washed, battered, wrung out to dry. Ruffled gray clouds, rimmed in the west with pink, looked pinned against the sheet of startlingly blue sky. It seemed that the heat wave had passed and the people's spirits were high and their faces split by smiles. Like a gift from the gods, the clement weather had seduced the city into a false sense of security.

Josh reached Central Park West and, preferring the closer contact with nature, crossed over to walk on the park side. Sunlight streamed through the branches of the trees overhead and scattered across the sidewalk like golden coins. A whey-faced nun in her drab, modern-day garb ushered a wavering line of unruly boys into the park. They were indistinguishable from one another, wearing the same school uniforms, bandaged knees and sly smirks. Several of them gawked admiringly at Josh, momentarily making him the object of their "I want to be like that when I grow up" fantasies. As he passed the bus stop a young woman waiting for the uptown express turned to openly admire Josh. He managed a self-conscious look and stifled a desire to tell her that he appreciated her appreciation of him. Josh knew that he was thought handsome by most women - Cresta had mentioned it often enough. He turned and favored her with a dazzling smile. She burst into self-conscious giggles.

On the corner there was a newsstand where Josh picked up his morning newspaper. While he was waiting for change, his eyes scanned the magazines hanging by clothespins from wires. Cresta was on the cover of that month's
Charisma
, a leading fashion magazine. Josh was immediately struck by feelings of guilt, not only for the previous night and other nights in the past, but because of his playful game with the girl at the bus stop. He was, as always, incredulous that he was involved with somebody who was in some circles a celebrity. Josh touched the magazine cover with his fingertips. Cresta was wearing a designer's version of a farmgirl outfit and was posed against a background of straw. She was looking at the camera (and the viewer) with what one fashion wag had called "a million-dollar come-'n'-get-it look." Josh had seen that expression many times before. She unconsciously employed it when she was interested in having sex. The glossy cover shimmered in the sunlight, and Cresta the farmgirl was transformed into Cresta the beguiling bride. He recalled their meeting two years earlier in the spring of 1980.

***

It had been a green-gold morning softened by a vaporous mist. The sun was a bright, yellow knot and Josh felt that he could reach up and pull it down from the sky. He had been up since before dawn and had already run two miles. He was about to leave Central Park by the Seventy-Second Street entrance when he was drawn to a small group of people gathered around the wisteria arbor just inside the park. At first Josh reacted like any native New Yorker and assumed that there had been some sort of trouble - an early morning mugging perhaps. Then as he came closer he noticed the lights, the reflectors and the camera. Apparently someone was shooting a photograph.

Curious, Josh edged his way to the periphery of the busy circle of people. No one paid any attention to him. They were all involved in a magazine advertisement shoot. Everyone - photographer, art director, makeup man, wardrobe mistress, and a handful of assistants - had their attention focused on the entrance to the arbor.

The rustic log arbor was a structure left over from the Victorian age. It formed a tunnel of sorts over and around which the grapevines grew. The spring rains had been particularly abundant that year and the arbor was replete with lush vines and leaves. A perfect spot for a lovers' meeting.

BOOK: Quarrel with the Moon
5.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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