The Dark Descends Page 16

  ...

  "Your pad's a drag. A place for everything and everything in its place. Reminds me of a ship's cabin. A ship on the way to nowhere. Gives you the feeling that when you tuck in for the night you ought to leave your brains in one comer and your balls in another. But the bathroom's okay, I have to admit." The young man reclining in the bathtub concluded his critique with an airy wave of his hand.

  Joyce said nothing. Perched on the toilet seat with one foot drawn up in front of her, she appeared indifferent to everything except the task of clipping her toenails.

  The young man wriggled in the water, showing his pleasure as a child might. "Man, what a treat. A real bath. You know, if it hadn't been for this, I wouldn't be here. I don't go home with broads as a rule. I like my independence."

  "You have a fascinating life style, Sunshine." Joyce put her foot down on the floor and yawned flagrantly. "Sometime you'll have to tell me how it evolved. I'm dying to know."

  "Quit coming on like a dominating female, doll, or else you can find yourself another stud."

  "Now, now, you shouldn't take things to heart so. It makes for too much wear and tear on the nervous system." Joyce stood up, turned her back to the tub, and began removing her clothes.

  "No point in trying to hide the boobs, doll." Relaxed, with his hands locked behind his head and his shaggy black beard just clearing the water, he looked the picture of animal content. "I remember they're not much."

  "Chacun à son goût." Her disrobing was mechanical, without coquetry. "Maybe I could start doing exercises."

  He guffawed and, at the instant she bent over to pull down her panties, scooped up a handful of water and flung it at her.

  The spray struck her buttocks. She gasped, took an involuntary kangaroo leap. "Idiot!"

  He guffawed again. "The ass is okay, I have to admit. The proportions aren't bad either."

  "A line of patter like that must quicken a lot of heartbeats." She wrapped her crimson robe around her and turned to face him.

  "It seems to me you're a lot skinnier than I remember. Has that photographer you work for been keeping you hopping?"

  "I don't work for a photographer. I'm a proofreader. For a legal firm on Wall Street."

  "You don't say. I could have sworn you were the chick who has that boring job arranging displays for the camera? Not that yours doesn't sound pretty boring, too."

  "It is." She came over to the tub and sat down on the rim. "It's something a trained robot could probably do better than I can. But there's a lot to be said for going through the same mechanical motions day after day, knowing that when the bell rings you sit down or get up or do whatever it is you're supposed to do."

  "Aw, come off it. You can't possibly enjoy a job that makes you feel like Pavlov's dog."

  "I didn't say I enjoy it. But it fills the void and keeps me from thinking, so everything's fine."

  "It doesn't sound so fine to me."

  "I didn't ask for your opinion!"

  "Now who's taking things to heart?"

  "Touché, Sunshine." She gave him a wintry smile that failed to get as far as her eyes. "Sorry I snapped. I've been a bit jumpy lately, since"—she hesitated—"since the murder. There was a murder in the building. Upstairs. I—I heard the murderer leave."

  "And you've been having nightmares about it ever since, I bet. Sad, doll, sad. On the other hand, maybe not so sad. Maybe just plain nothing. What building doesn't have its tiny drama?"

  "Well put, Sunshine. You're a real philosopher, aren't you?" She stretched out a hated and tugged at his beard. "A real, honest-to-God philosopher."

  "Cut the comedy." He grasped her wrist. Hard. "Instead of coming on like Queen Shit, let's have a little, action. He pulled her hand into the water and down on his penis. “Do your stuff, cunt."

  "Later." She wrenched her hand away, reached up to the shelf over his head for a washcloth, waved it in front of his eyes. "First I'm going to give you a nice, thorough scrubbing. The kind Mommy used to give you on Saturday nights."

  "Like hell you are." With a ferocious thrashing, he raised himself to a sitting position.

  Joyce took hold of his hair and forced him down again. "Don't be bashful, Sunshine. You're in for it, so just lie there and enjoy the fun. It's quirky of me, I know, but I like my studs clean."

  "Queen Shit," he muttered. But he closed his eyes and let his body go slack.

  Joyce wet and soaped the cloth, drew his limp arm onto her lap. Vigorous scrubbing turned a large area of skin above the wrist white, then red. She worked her way up the forearm deftly, efficiently. Near the elbow the skin was scaly, with black in the creases, and she began to scrub harder. Harder and harder and harder and—

  "Hey, doll, you'll draw blood in a minute."

  With a moan, Joyce flung his arm off her lap.

  "What's the commotion? On that robe it wouldn't even show."

  Postscript

  Her hip hurt. Her shoulder hurt. Everything hurt. No wonder, the way she was jammed against the wall. But she didn't dare ease the pressure, because the room might start moving again. She watched the refrigerator door. It was still now. A moment ago it had been swaying from side to side. Earthquake? Underground atomic blast? Whatever it was, it seemed to be over. Thank God.

  Cautiously she let her body relax, drew a fraction of an inch away from the wall, and at once the refrigerator door began to move again, the stainless steel handle dipping and weaving like a skiff caught in a gale. No, it wasn't over. Pressing her hip and shoulder against the wall, she closed her eyes. It. didn't help. Now things were moving inside her head. Very likely that was where the motion had been the whole time. No earthquake. No atomic test. Just an unstable head.

  She reared up on her heels and pivoted ninety degrees. Now her back was against the wall. More support. Less pain. The motion inside her head came to a stop. She opened her eyes. The room was still. Stable. Secure. Just as always.

  In a hell of a state, though. Dust everywhere. Not much, just enough to show how she'd been letting things go. The bed wasn't even made. Slatternly. Downright sluttish. The Venetian blinds were rolled all the way up and sunlight was pouring in. What on earth had possessed her to let all that sunlight in? Perhaps she had been about to start cleaning when it hit her, whatever it was. Perhaps. The idea sounded plausible enough, but somehow she couldn't believe in it.

  What a fix to be in—literally with her back to the wall. It seemed as though she had been like this for a long time. How long exactly? Minutes? Hours? No way of knowing. The alarm clock was lying on its face. He had turned it over, instead of getting up when she told him to. That had made her furious, good and furious. She had laced into him like a fishwife, practically pulling him out of bed by the hair. After that, he had taken to his heels. P.D.Q.

  Perhaps she could get herself across the room to close up the sofa bed, hide those rumpled sheets. No. Risky. Much too risky. She wouldn't be able to make it. She didn't dare part from the wall. But of course that state of affairs couldn't go on indefinitely. If she could get her mind working again, perhaps she could re-establish control over the motor faculties or the nerves or whatever it was that had conked out on her. Work, mind.

  Was it the temper tantrum that had touched it off? Had there really been a temper tantrum? Could it be that he had simply put on his clothes and gone? Or had that been some other day? That was the usual, getting dressed and racing out the door without so much as a—

  He was coming back. Or somebody was. Marching up the stairs. Two somebodies. What to do? Call for help?

  A knock at the door. She opened her mouth, closed it again. What kind of help was to be expected from him? Or from anybody else? Better to play possum.

  Another knock. Louder. "Open up, Joyce." A man's voice, husky and harsh. Not a voice she recognized, and she was death on voices. So where did he get off calling her Joyce?

  "We know you're in there, Joyce."

  The doorknob rattled. The door opened, and two men came in. The fi
rst, sandy-haired, with protuberant blue eyes and a jaw like a bulldog's, she had never set eyes on in her life, she was sure. It was harder to be sure about the other, who was dark and un-remarkable except for his plumage, a fringed buckskin shirt. Who were they, to come barging in here as though they owned the place? What did they want?

  "Go away." She was pressing so hard against the wall that her spine ached. "Please go away."

  "What a way to behave when people come visiting," Bulldog said. He came toward her, flashing a smile meant to be friendly and not making it. "You don't think we're going to hurt you, do you?"

  "No." Be brave. Conceal fear. "You don't look capable of it."

  "Now, Joyce—"

  "Who gave you permission to call me Joyce?"

  "Okay, I won't call you Joyce. What should I call you?"

  "Is there any reason to call me anything?"

  "I guess not." He came closer. Closer still. Now he was close enough to touch. "Why are you clinging to that wall, Joyce?"

  There he went again. What presumption! But perhaps all he knew was her Christian name. Perhaps if she told him her surname— She opened her mouth to do just that. But her tongue, lodged somewhere in her throat, wouldn't budge. All she could manage was a gurgle. Disgusting. Nausea swept over her. The room started to move again. She felt herself moving with it, moving away from the wall.

  Bulldog's arm circled her shoulders. "Take it easy."

  She let herself go limp. The coarse tweed of his jacket prickled, but so what? He had a good hold, she had to give him that. Not a rough one, but not one she could get away from easily either. Just right. She put her head down on his shoulder. That felt right, too.

  "That's a good girl." He gave her a gentle squeeze. "I'll tell you what, Joyce. Let's think about getting dressed. Okay?"

  She giggled, and that loosened her tongue. "You're dressed."

  "So I am. How about that? Well, then, I'll tell you what. Why don't you get dressed?"

  Why not? She couldn't think of a single argument against it. No doubt he thought it peculiar of her to be standing around without a stitch on. If he only knew—

  "Don't worry." He gave her another squeeze. "We'll find your clothes for you."

  So he thought that was the difficulty. The fool. She burrowed her face into the prickly tweed and listened to Buckskin walk about the room, opening and closing doors and drawers, opening, closing.

  "All set now, Joyce. Look and see."

  A hand gripped her chin, lifted her head, forced her to look. Lo and behold, her clothes were stacked on the foot of the bed in a neat pile, pantyhose on top and slacks at the bottom. Just in the order she would put them on, always supposing she wanted to put them on. Buckskin was standing beside them, looking very proud of himself. The boy thought he was a whiz, clearly.

  "Why don't you go and put them on, Joyce?" Bulldog asked.

  She was released, left without support. Oh, God! But wonder of wonders, nothing in the room moved. A miracle.

  "Go and put them on, Joyce. You don't mind us watching, do you?"

  "Our. Our watching. It's a gerund."

  "Don't be difficult, Joyce." Huffy. "Let's get a move on, huh? We haven't got all day, you know."

  "No, I don't know." She pressed against the wall again: better safe than sorry. "I don't know anything of the kind."

  "Don't panic," Buckskin said. "You're going to make it just fine, Joyce."

  Joyce, Joyce, Joyce. "Mind your own business, Tonto!"

  Buckskin flinched; his face was suffering. Anybody would think she had taken the whip to him. Well, maybe she had at that. Without any real justification. Poor guy. All he'd done was try to offer encouragement.

  "I'm sorry. Honestly."

  "That's okay," Bulldog said.

  "I didn't apologize to you. He's the one to decide whether it's okay or not."

  "It's okay," Buckskin said. "Very much okay." Very much okay? What a way to put it. And enthusiastic about it to boot. Senseless, unless he enjoyed being whipped. That could be it. That just could—

  Pandemonium on the stairs. Footsteps galloping up. The door burst open and another man rushed in, let it slam and collapsed against it, panting for breath.

  "Are—are you all right, Joyce?"

  She was Joyce to this one, too. What on earth had she been up to, that all these men were on a first-name basis with her? She didn't know any of them. No, that wasn't quite right. This one looked familiar. Very familiar. She had seen him before somewhere. Dark, slim, brooding—the type she usually went for. Nothing to distinguish him except the eyes. Brown eyes slanting upward to a network of fine lines that gave him the look of a sensitive little boy on the verge of tears. She remembered those eyes. Definitely. But from where?

  "The way you're looking at me—My God, Joyce, don't you know me?"

  "Of course I know you. If you'll just give me a minute to—"

  "Oh, my God." Brown Eyes sounded about to choke. "Oh, my God! I didn't believe it. When he telephoned the office and said— Thank God it was somebody who had sense enough to look through her address book. When I think it might have been— Some of the types she's been taking up with lately are such—" His voice broke.

  "It's rough," Bulldog said.

  "I can't believe it, I just can't believe it. She's always been so strong. Sailed on such an even keel. Everything under control."

  "Probably she bottled things up too much," Bulldog said.

  Elementary psychology, my dear Brown Eyes.

  "I can't believe it. I knew she'd gone downhill, but to see her like this— It's unbearable,"

  They were talking about her as though she weren't there, damn them. "I hate to be inhospitable, but couldn't you three stooges hold your powwow somewhere else?"

  "Simmer down, Joyce," Bulldog said. "Just simmer down now. I thought we were going to get dressed."

  "We weren't. Watch those pronouns, buddy. Why should I get dressed? Give me one good reason."

  "You have visitors. You don't entertain visitors in your birthday suit."

  "Why not? Anyway, who invited you?"

  "Please, Joyce," Brown Eyes said. "Please get dressed. Do it for me. Please."

  For him? Why should she do anything for him? They always seemed to think that looking woebegone was enough to turn any woman to putty.

  "Please, Joyce. For me. Please."

  Well, why not? Where was the harm? "All right." She took a step away from the wall, and immediately Bulldog's arm shot around her. She shook it off. "I can manage by myself, thank you. All by myself." She took a step forward. Another.

  "Atta girl," Bulldog said.

  "I can do without kibitzers, if you don't mind." How she would have loved to turn her head to glower at him, but she didn't dare. She had to concentrate on walking. One foot went down on the floor. Then the other. There. She was getting the hang of it. The target was Buckskin, who stood beside the bed, ready to leap to her side if necessary. Damned if it would come to that. One foot. The other foot. Walking a tightrope couldn't be much harder. But here was the bed.She sank down with a sigh.

  "Atta girl," Bulldog said again.

  Now it was safe to glower. "I'd prefer it if you didn't watch. Or would that put too much of a strain on your voyeurism?"

  "Joyce, please!" Brown Eyes said, all choked up again. "Just do as he says. Please."

  Importunities, importunities. But she had consented, after all. Her word was her bond. She picked up the pantyhose, rolled one leg, slipped it over one foot; rolled the other leg, slipped it over the other foot. Slowly, carefully, she drew the hose to the knee, smoothing and smoothing inch by inch. She stood up, continued smoothing until they were up to the waist and the crotch was exactly in the fight place. Who could say that she couldn't cope? Who could even have the nerve to suggest it? Panties. Brassiere. Sweater. Slacks. Voilà—everything. No, not quite. She needed shoes, and there they were, on the floor. Buckskin had thought of everything. Clever Buckskin. She sat down and slipped a shoe on.


  "Atta girl," Bulldog said yet again.

  She picked up the other shoe. "If you say that one more time—"

  "Please, Joyce," Brown Eyes said.

  Bulldog was coming toward her. Purposefully. As though he meant to disarm her by force. "Come along now, Joyce. We have a long way to go."

  Be brave. Conceal fear. "Have we? I can't think of anything less appealing than going anywhere with you."

  "For God's sake, Joyce, do as he says, just do as he says. Please!"

  "Put your shoe on," Bulldog said.

  She put her shoe on. Bulldog and Buckskin were right on top of her now. Each took hold of an arm, and together they pulled her to her feet. Not roughly. Not gently either. She tried to shake loose, but they hung on like limpets. Panic flooded over her.

  "They'll take good care of you, Joyce," Brown Eyes said.

  Panic ebbed away as suddenly as it had come. They would take good care of her: what a nice ring that had. Probably untrue, like all pretty phrases, but what the hell. She let them propel her to the door.

  Brown Eyes stepped aside to make way for them. "Goodbye, Joyce."

  Still all choked up. Anybody would think the sky had fallen. The boy needed a mother, that was his trouble.

  Bulldog gave her arm a pinch. "Aren't you going to say goodbye to your husband, Joyce?"

  Well, why not? Where was the harm?

  "Goodbye, husband."

  The end.