The Damned (9 page)

No, there had been nothing wrong with their love. Her arms, over the years, had been what he had wanted them to be. The children were love children. And Moira had never lost that clean-lined look or her almost maidenly modesty.

They snared friends and books and records. They had towering quarrels and made up, and were closer for having quarreled. And during the past five years they had reached that point of mutual understanding where little has to be said with words.

When should he have become aware that this Mexican escapade was a possibility?

He remembered the puzzled face of a secretary he had fired. He had been unable to give her a good reason, and, out of guilt, had found her a job that paid just a bit more than he was paying her. The firing had been precautionary, because he had found just a bit too much pleasure at looking at the ripe line of her flank, at the heavy curve of breast, and he had found himself wondering vaguely how he could arrange to give her overtime work so that they would be in the office together at night. And so he had fired her. That had been a clue, a warning.

And he remembered the way the young girls had begun to look. They had changed somehow. Become more provocative. Loneliness and restlessness and an inexplicable hunger.

Betty Mooney had fed that hunger.

He flushed as he remembered the days and the nights with her. Never, even in the early days with Moira, had he been so blindingly sensual, so unremittant in his demands, so goatily persistent. It was as though sex were a candle that had burned with a steady flame through the years, and now, reaching the end, the wick flared up and guttered and burned twice as brightly during those last moments before flickering out entirely.

It seemed almost as though, in sating this last hunger, he had consciously sought someone as unlike Moira as possible.

Betty Mooney was flabby nightmare. And Moira would detect the sick scent of her on his soul. He did not know what it might do for Moira, for such an intensely loyal woman. He knew that any infidelity on her part was inconceivable.

The image of the sick woman being carried out to the truck flickered across his brain, leaving no residue. He had seen Betty with the tough-faced man several times during the afternoon. He hoped she would go away with him, take her loot out of the car and get out of his life. He looked to be her sort. Shrewd, ignorant, acquisitive.

Moments later, two black sedans went by at a reckless speed, roiling up the dust, passing all the other cars in line. The dust made him cough. He leaned more heavily against the tree, wondering what on earth he could say to Moira. Their relationship was irretrievably lost, gone forever.

Far down the road there was some kind of scuffle, a man falling down in the dust, the pale-haired girl going to him. And then another man and a scuffle and someone falling.

Suddenly his attention was ripped away from the distant scene when one of the children playing in the road hit him in the belly with a stone hurled so hard that it felt like a blow from a hammer.

He glared around. The children were not playing any more. Some of them had drifted down the road. Others had been called back by their parents. Damn fools who couldn’t teach their children a little common consideration. The blow had given him an oddly hollow feeling.

Suddenly he felt a warm wetness, a stickiness around his groin. He opened his shirt and looked at where the stone had hit him. There was a small hole, and blood ran slowly out of the hole and down under his belt.

And he knew that there had been a shot and he said, aloud, “I’m shot!” It sounded like a remarkably stupid and self-evident thing to say. And he was filled with surprise rather than panic. Gangsters get shot. Soldiers get shot. Darby Garon, executive, does not get shot. But there was the hole, with little raw edges, and one cannot very well refute the evidence of a hole in one’s own belly. The shot, a wild one, had apparently come out of that scuffle down there by the river bank.

One must be logical in all things. If one has a bullet hole in one, it is well to have it tended to. He remembered what he had read about being shot in the belly. In Civil War days it was invariably fatal. In World War I days, it had been damn serious. But now, with sulpha and penicillin and so on, it was just an abdominal operation, with the perforated intestines sewed up, and a handful or two of magic powder tossed in the incision, and a month of bed rest.

A sudden cramp pulled his lips back from his teeth. He shook his head. It felt just like a bad case of gas. Suddenly the Mexican escapade diminished in importance, and Betty Mooney was not someone to hate. She was someone to help him. He looked around and saw her, far down the road.

Might as well wait until I feel a little stronger, he thought, and then get close enough to yell to her. Said she did some nursing work once upon a time. She’ll know how to handle this.

The second cramp was worse than the first. It banged his knees up against his chest. He slowly forced them down again, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes for a bit. Panic began to stir around in the back of his mind. He forced it aside. Hell, you could live for days with a hole in your belly. Or could you? Didn’t it have to miss important organs? He squinted down at the river bank and then looked at the hole again. He carefully pulled his shirt back over the hole, tucked it in gently. He wedged his hand under his belt so that the heel of his right thumb was pressed hard against the wound. It made it feel a little better. When he didn’t look at it, it felt as big as a dinner plate. He had to keep remembering the size of it, the exact size. Now, with a slug coming from that angle, where would it be? He used his left hand to feel around in back of himself. He felt no stickiness. So the thing was still in there. A little lead pellet. He remembered buying the older boy a .22, and how they had plinked at tin cans out near the woods. You had to keep telling a kid that those little things can kill a man, or a boy.

Maybe it could lodge in a kidney or something. What would that do? Live for days. Just a case of getting attention.

A man walked by. Darby started to call to him, but just as he opened his mouth the third cramp tortured him. He felt as though a big hand was grabbing his guts and twisting hard, holding tight, then slowly letting go. When he opened his eyes again and got his knees down, the man was gone.

Damn silly situation. Make you feel a little stupid and helpless. Goddamn that girl! Why didn’t she come up and see how things were going? Be a hell of a joke on her if he died. Nice job explaining it. Executive goes on marital vacation. Dies on river bank in Mexico. Mistress implicated. Says she was not anywhere near Garon at time of death.

Stop thinking that way. There’s a lot in this thinking business. Think of something long enough and hard enough and it happens to you. Every time. Like wanting that dream house. Moira got it, too, finally. Lot of work, lot of years. But she got it.

Panic grew stronger and, with rat teeth, made lace of the edge of his mind. He got his feet under him, craned his left hand back, and braced it against the trunk of the tree. Now, one little push, Darby, and you’ll be on your feet. Then you can walk forty paces. Hell, you’ve been walking all your life. No trick to it. Just one foot in front of the other.

He shoved mightily and rocked onto his feet, doubled over. He felt curiously weak. The strength didn’t run out of a man that fast. A cramp hit him before he could take a step. The cramp pressed his buttocks down against his heels and he rocked back, the tree striking him in the back again. The world tilted and slowly regained an even keel. The cramp faded, but this time it didn’t go away entirely.

Take a little rest and then another try. This is a lot of silliness. More guts than this in the Garon clan. Remember Uncle Ralph? Chopped right through his boot and severed three toes and walked home. Nine miles, they said it was. Home with a grin and a white face and a boot full of blood, falling face down in the kitchen.

And, waiting for the strength to try again, he knew sourly that he was going to die. The panic of a few minutes before had faded utterly. Dying was now a damn inconvenience. Bonds in bad shape. Never changed the insurance options like Harry suggested. Damn little in the checking account, too. Moira would have to get a loan until the insurance was paid off. Harry would fix it for her, but she wouldn’t like having to ask. Maybe he’d have sense enough to offer it to her.

What are you talking about, man? There are a lot of years left. A lot of suns coming up. Grandchildren to spoil. And that trip to take, the trip Moira wants. Acapulco, Rio. Trip you’ve been saving for, as much as taxes will let you.

Got to get the car back, drive that bitch to San Antone. Or did she come from Houston? Hard to remember which. So you had a merry three-week roll in the hay, and now you’re shot in the belly, and a very just little punishment it is. If that hole had been four inches lower, it would have been an even juster punishment. It would have done a good job on the equipment that got you into this jam. If thine eye offend thee…

His chin was on his chest. He lifted it with great effort. The scene wavered a bit and then came clear. Startlingly clear. He could see the muddy river, the far shore. Ferry was on the other side. The black cars going up the road. And a small figure over there…

Hell, what had been the matter with his eyes! Even at that distance, you could tell the brown hair, and that sweater and skirt. Bought that outfit for her for her birthday. God, that was a long time ago. Thought she’d worn it out and thrown it away, long ago. One thing about Moira. She always used her head. One sharp girl. Traced him somehow. Came riding, riding, riding up to the old inn door. No, wrong line. Came riding to the rescue.

He grinned at the figure of his wife on the far shore. Now everything was fine. Sure, even at that distance he could read her eyes. He could read the sweet forgiveness, and the understanding. She knew the answers. She’d tell him why he’d done this thing to the two of them, and he would understand when she had told him.

The sweet kid, she was standing over there with books held tightly in her arm, just like during campus days.

That was her way of showing him that everything was all right. A nice symbol. A nice gesture.

He got easily and quickly to his feet, bounded down through the ditch, and went swinging down the road, his head high.

She saw him, and she lifted her free arm and waved. And he broke into a run. Hadn’t run for years. Thought I’d forgotten how. But look at me go! Just like the coach said. Knees high and a lot of spring in the foot and stay up on your toes, Garon.

Running, running, with the wind in his face, running by all the surprised people who thought he was too old and too tired to run. And the river bank was speeding toward him, the way you’d see it from the windshield of a fast car. And Darby Garon went out in a flat dive, hitting the water, knifing down through the water, down through the blackness, feeling it against his face, like dark wings, knowing that he would rise to the surface and she would be close, and there would never again be any problems between them. With his arms straight out in front of him, and with a smile on his lips, he knifed through the blackness, waiting forever for the moment when he would begin to rise toward the surface.

RIKI, unaccompanied by her twin blonde sister, walked slowly up the road to the car. Funny kind of dusk they had here. Not like the ones they used to have in Ohio when she was a child. Here it was all yellow, glaring, one minute, and then—poom!—purple like the dresses Granny used to wear for best, and the stars began to show on the eastern horizon almost before the sun was down.

She got into the Packard, unlatched the top, pushed the button. The top went up and then slid slowly down into the well with an asthmatic whining. She climbed into the back and lit a cigarette. The tequila glow had faded to a bad taste in her mouth. She considered refurbishing the glow from one of the unopened bottles and then gave it up.

Riki and Niki. Even the names were cheap and phony. How dumb could you get?

What did Granny use to say? Would some power the giftie gie us…

Well, that guy from New York had really pulled the rug from under them.

Been a lot better if they’d gone right on from high school, even if it meant waiting on tables. Northwestern was handy.

Sooner or later they were going to have to tell Phil. A sweetie. Anxious little guy, sweating and fuming and working, with that big dream ahead of him, the dream he’d got too old for.

Gee, she thought, after we saw how that duet strip went over in New Orleans, we thought we really had something. It seemed kinda cute, damnit. Phil had worked it up. Just a simple backdrop with a doorway cut in it, and the doorway was supposed to be a mirror. They’d practiced making the same moves so that people said it really did look like a mirror. And there was a dressing table over at the side. They took turns being the girl behind the mirror. With the music going, you just sat at the dressing table and put on one of the hats and tilted it right, and then went over and looked at yourself in the full-length mirror. The girl on the other side was dressed the same as you. And with the second hat, they began to get the idea, when they saw that the mirror image was wearing fewer clothes each time, even though the girl in front didn’t take a thing off. Gee, they’d hollered and stomped enough in New Orleans, and in Mexico too. The first few times were tough, all right, because you kept thinking how Granny would have whaled the tar out of you if she’d seen what you were doing.

But Phil said a little strip kept the act alive, and you got good practice out of the rest of the routines. And so you got sort of accustomed to showing yourself off, and it helped to know that there was something to show.

God, how we used to talk it over when we were little kids. Little Mary Anne and Ruthie Sheppard, yakking to all hours of the night in that big bed, about how we were going to be an act. Singing and dancing. The Sheppard Sisters. Learning all the popular songs.