Zod Wallop (21 page)

The dedication had read: This book is for Jeanne, who is air, water, and fire and who loved the scoundrel flowers into bloom.

Scoundrel Flowers
was Jeanne’s favorite book.

The impulse to call was instant, and he had given the operator his telephone credit number before looking at his watch. It was almost eleven.

She answered on the first ring.

“Jeanne,” he said. “It’s me, Harry.”

“Harry! My God, Harry! Where have you been? Are you all right? We’ve all been crazy. Helen—”

“Helen’s here too,” Harry said.

Jeanne said something Harry couldn’t make out.

“What’s that?” Harry asked. Then he realized she was talking to someone else in the room with her. Harry could hear a man’s voice. She was shouting at him. He shouted back. Then she was back on the line.

“Sorry. That was Mark. Where have you been, Harry?”

“It’s a long story,” he said. The man in the room had thrown Harry off.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Virginia. I’m traveling with some friends. We’re driving down to Florida. I’ve been in a hospital and—”

“You are all right, aren’t you? You didn’t—”

“I’m fine. I can’t go into details now. I guess I just wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about you…a lot. I wanted to call and let you know I was okay, see how you were doing too. How are you?”

“I’m good. Look, what were you in a hospital for?”

“Actually, it wasn’t a real hospital. We were being held against our will. Fortunately—”

“Is Helen there? Can I speak to her?”

“Helen’s in the other room with Emily and Rene and Arbus.”

“Arbus?”

“Lord Arbus. Not a person, actually. A spider monkey.”

“Oh.”

“What I called for, what I wanted to say was I’m in the middle of something that could be very important, for both of us, something strange, fantastic, and I wanted to say…I don’t know, just to tell you I’m all right and that I’ll keep you posted.”

“You’re sure you are all right?”

“Yes.”

“You sound sort of weird.”

“That’s probably the residue of the drugs. They had us on lots of medication. And I’ve been driving for hours; you know how that will wind you up.”

“Yes. I understand. Could you go and get Helen? I just want to talk to her for a minute.”

“I expect she’s sleeping right now. I could have her call you in the morning.”

“Okay. Please. Don’t forget, Harry.”

“No, of course not—”

Harry heard the man’s voice behind Jeanne. Harry could make out none of the words, but the tone was angry. “Just a minute,” she said.

“I’d better go,” Harry said. “I just wanted you to know I was okay.”

“Harry—” The man was still talking behind her, a querulous rumble.

“I’ll tell Helen to give you a ring.”

“Give me a number where I can reach you and—”

“We’re leaving in the morning,” Harry said. “I’ll get back to you later. I love you. Gotta go.” He hung up.

The conversation had not gone as planned. He had, he realized, contracted some of Raymond’s enthusiasm for the adventure, and he had wanted to communicate that to Jeanne, and all she had sensed was the craziness, her voice full of that exasperating walking-on-eggs concern.

“I might not be crazy,” he sighed, newly aware of how very tired he was. He lay back on the pillow without turning the bedside lamp off. He closed his eyes and the panic didn’t rush him. Instead, he fell instantly and dreamlessly into sleep.

As Jeanne hung up the phone, Mark came from behind, caught her other wrist and pulled it back. She heard the snap of the cuffs as the metal band encircled her wrist.

“Hey!” she said. “I’m not in the mood.”

“No?” he said, leaning down and running his tongue up the side of her neck to her ear. “I figured your chat with the ex probably got you hot. Still got a thing for him, don’t you?”

“Give me the key,” she said. She leaned back and looked him in the eyes. He smiled down at her.

The handcuffs had been his idea. In a weak moment, when he had looked his most boyish, a playful imp, she’d agreed that it might be fun.

It hadn’t been, actually. But she had learned something. She did not trust Mark, did not know him. When her hands were locked behind her, she felt fear. He could do anything. He might hurt her.

The handcuffs had brought this knowledge to the surface, but still she hadn’t left him. To leave would have required energy she lacked.

Now he had slipped up behind her and hooked her wrist to the bedpost.

“Come on, give me the key,” she said, ice in her tone.

He tossed the key on the bed, muttered something. She heard the door slam. He might be gone all night now. That would be fine. More likely he’d return at three or four, wake her up, tell her he loved her, try to peel her nightgown over her head as proof. She might let him—the easiest solution if she were muddled with sleep—or she might tell him to get lost and then how it went would depend on just how drunk he was.

Thinking about it made Jeanne weary. Whatever.

She got up and went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. Harry’s phone call troubled her. Was he going nuts again? It sounded that way. Maybe Helen was trying to get him back in some psych ward. God bless you, Helen.

Mark and Harry were two different species, and the way Jeanne felt about them was utterly different. In the comparison, she could admit that she was beginning to dislike Mark. He was not a man she would have chosen, and he had entered her life because she had been lax, had left the door open, indifferent to burglary.

Harry. She loved Harry and so, when he disappeared, when he withdrew into vagueness and alcohol, she had despised him passionately.

But he still seemed, to her willful heart, like her friend, her confidante, and when she heard his voice she still felt that quickening, that feeling that here was the one meant to receive the news of her life, her dreams, her fears.

Often when they had made love, she would talk, regaling him with the events of her day or some thought she had come upon and wanted to share, and her casual words would not destroy the erotic impulse but would ride upon it, and she’d see, in his eyes, an intensity of pure listening and delight.

It was a hard habit to shake.

If Mark hadn’t been in the room, she would have told Harry about the postcard. Perhaps, tomorrow, she would tell him. When Helen called…

She walked to the dresser and took the postcard out from under several folded white blouses. Was she hiding it from Mark? Perhaps, but why?

The postcard had arrived two days ago, and since then she had studied it at length. It was a photo of a large, pink hotel, flanked by palm trees, white cumulus clouds billowing in the distance, the emerald ocean tranquil in the foreground. A number of elegant, antique cars filled the parking lot. The back contained no typeset description of the hotel—no name, no location, nothing. The card was postmarked St. Petersburg, Florida, and someone had written, in a childish scrawl that could have been Amy’s: “Mommy—Please don’t let Daddy get lost. Don’t be so mad at him. He is very sad and misses you.” Who would send such a card—and why?

She sat down in an armchair, the card resting in her lap. She remembered what Harry had said on the phone: “We’re driving down to Florida.”

She tapped the postcard on her thigh. Coincidence? It seemed unlikely. If she had had Harry’s number, she would have called him back. As soon as he answered, she would have said, “You’re going to St. Petersburg, aren’t you?”

She knew he would answer “Yes.”

“M
Y
N
AME‘S
A
LLAN
,” he said.

“Well of course it is,” the tall man said. “I know that.” He tore the top from a pack of cigarettes and dumped the contents on the desktop.

“Then why do you keep calling me Henry?” Allan fidgeted in the chair. He did not like talking to this man, who looked just like Lord Draining in
Zod Wallop
—except that this guy was wearing a suit.

“I guess you remind me of someone else,” the man said, staring at the loose cigarettes. “Some other young man with an authority problem.” The man plucked a cigarette from the pile with a long forefinger and thumb. He put the cigarette between his lips, delicately pushed the cigarette back into his mouth until it disappeared from sight, and began to chew. His expression was pained. He turned and hawked the contents into a wastepaper basket next to the desk.

He smiled then. “A nasty habit,” he said. “I’m trying to quit.”

“Yeah.”

“Your mother should be along shortly, Henry…ah, Allan. I still believe that a longer stay with us wouldn’t do you a bit of harm, but your mother wants you by her side, and I always respect your mother’s wishes. What really saddens me is your reluctance to tell us where your friends have gone.”

“I don’t know where they are.”

“I think you know and just don’t trust us. This saddens me.”

Allan brought a hand up to his neck and massaged a cramped muscle. “Well,” Allan said, “this counselor in group used to say it was good to feel your emotions. You know, like sadness is okay, nothing to be ashamed of.”

The man laughed, nodding his head in acknowledgment of the joke. “Henry Bottle,” he said. “That’s who I have you confused with. There’s a remarkable resemblance. Henry Bottle was the young man in that book your friends love, that
Zod Wallop
. You know what happened to Henry, don’t you?”

Allan said nothing.

“The Midnight Machines killed him.” The man picked up another cigarette, sniffed it. For a moment, Allan thought the man might shove it up a nostril, but instead he tossed it into the wastebasket.

“Henry’s problem was the same as yours, Allan. Misplaced loyalty. He thought his friends were worthy of loyalty, but they weren’t. That’s true in your case too. They ran off without you, didn’t look back. Is that any way for friends to behave? And worse than that….worse… I’ve got something for you, Allan. Take a look at this at your leisure. Think about it. Ask yourself if it’s a betrayal or not. I say it is. I say it’s not right. You have no allegiance to these people. I hope you’ll agree with me and decide to give me a call.”

Allan stared at the manila envelope that was being offered.

“Nothing to be scared of,” the man said.

Allan took the envelope. He stood up. “I can go then?”

“Of course. And give my regards to your lovely mother.”

When Allan came out of the elevator in the lobby, he saw her entering the revolving doors. She saw him too, waved, and then began to run. Her hat fell off, but she didn’t pause for it (already a security guard, one of the many bit players in her drama, was moving to retrieve it). She was dressed in something tan and formal; her stockings appeared to be silver.

She hugged Allan fiercely, the top of her head coming to just below his chin.

“Oh my prodigal son!” she shouted. She slid to her knees, her arms still encircling him.

“Mother.”

“I’ve been worried sick. I told myself I was going to practice detachment, but I could just as easily have been serene about a detached arm. When it comes down to it, you are all I have.”

“Oh, Mother.”

“If you run away again, I’ll hire someone to find you and kill you.”

“Oh, Mother.”

They stopped the next night at a motel maybe fifty miles south of the Georgia state line. The motel squatted amid scrub pines on the edge of a marsh. Its parking lot contained a single pickup truck and the
VACANCY
sign seemed sadly redundant. An unshaven old man smiled mendaciously as he checked them in, saw Arbus and noted that monkeys were an extra seven-fifty and not, as some people tried to claim, free like children under five.

Harry had planned to drive straight through to St. Petersburg, but the urgency that had initiated their flight from New Jersey was gone now, and he was tired…and, in truth, he was afraid.

What if their destination revealed, starkly and implacably, the sad madness of his delusion? What if this group hallucination, this frenzy of purpose, halted abruptly and there was nothing at the end of the line? What if there was no mysterious Duke to guide them, no salvation, no revelation?

What, after all, did he expect? That Amy be returned to him? And what was this expectation based on? A strange postcard? A clinically diagnosed schizophrenic’s belief that an alternate, happy-ending world could be discovered in some supernatural juxtaposition of a children’s book?

Harry sat outside, in a swing that was part of a small, decaying children’s playground. A rusty slide had fallen on its side and green, leafy vines climbed the jungle gym. The night sky was filled with stars and a warm breeze carried the brackish, ancient scent of marsh, a stew of tidal creatures and mud and sun-marinated vegetation.

Harry saw something moving through tall weeds and the diminutive Arbus, resplendent in a yellow jumpfsuit, came into view. The monkey walked with a sailor’s gait, clutching to his stomach a bag of popcorn purchased by Raymond at the last roadside stop. He sat down and began to eat the popcorn in earnest, stuffing handfuls of exploded kernels into his mouth.