Rot, p.9
Rot, page 9
“Must be the army food,” he said, laughing. “I was just asking if Marianne was home.”
A look flashed between the parents.
“She’s upstairs,” said Mrs. Avery. “She … hasn’t been feeling well.”
Carney’s concern was genuine. “Gee, I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“So do we,” said her mother.
“We’ve been after her to see a doctor,” said Mr. Avery, “but she won’t.”
Carney searched their faces. “Maybe it’d be better if I came back tomorrow.”
“No, son,” Mr. Avery said quickly. “It might do her some good if she sees you.”
“Frank, do you think — ” Mrs. Avery began.
Mr. Avery squeezed his wife’s hand. “It’s all right.” And to Carney, “You know where her room is.”
“Yes, sir.” With a worried look back at the parents, Carney climbed the stairs to the second floor of the big house. With every step his feeling of foreboding grew heavier.
Marianne’s door was closed. Carney rapped lightly with one knuckle. When there was no response he rapped again more loudly.
“What do you want?” The voice was deep and raspy, not at all like Marianne’s animated contralto.
“Is that Marianne?”
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Carney.”
“Carney?”
“I’m home for good.”
Nothing from inside.
“Listen, are you okay? I could come back.”
“Wait a minute.” Again the strange husky voice.
A key rattled in the door from inside the room. Since when did anybody lock a bedroom door in Bischoff?
The door opened just wide enough for Carney to enter, then closed again. The room was dark and smoky, the shades pulled down, and it took a minute for Carney’s eyes to adjust. His sense of smell, however, was unimpaired.
“What’s that, incense?”
“It’s strawberry. Do you like it?”
That growly voice was giving him the creeps. “Why is it so dark in here?”
“I like it dark.”
“Can we turn on a light long enough for me to see you?”
“No,” quickly and decisively.
“What’s wrong, Marianne? Your folks said you’re not feeling well.”
“I’m feeling fine. Want to touch me?”
She was standing in front of the window with the blind pulled down, a silhouette in the dim glow from the lights in the neighbor’s house. Carney could make out her hair, which looked tangled and unusually wild for Marianne. And under the powerful incense another smell. Something bad. Something rotting.
She took a step toward him. Fingers seized his wrist. They were not like Marianne’s, soft, warm and gentle. There were hard and cold. And the strength of the grip made him wince.
“I asked if you wanted to touch me. You used to like that. Remember?”
The cold fingers carried his hand up to her breast. She wore a soft linen blouse and nothing underneath. The breast was not firm and rounded as he remembered, but pulpy and loose like a sack of oatmeal. He tried to pull his hand away, but she held him fast.
“What’s the matter, Carney? Used to be you were crazy to get your hands on my tits. Did the army turn you queer?”
With a sudden effort he wrenched his hand free. “Marianne, what’s happened to you. You don’t sound like yourself, you don’t act like yourself.”
“You’ve been away. People change.”
“You ought to see a doctor. And what’s that smell in here?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s natural. You want to come to bed with me?”
“You’re talking crazy.”
She made a grab for his crotch. He saw it coming and jumped back before she could grasp him.
“What the heck are you doing?”
“Trying to get you into bed. Don’t you want to fuck me? Plenty of other guys do.”
“Stop it, Marianne.”
“If you don’t think so, ask your cousin.”
“If this is a joke, it isn’t funny.”
“It’s no joke,” she said in the growling voice. “I promise you, this isn’t any joke.”
A step at a time Carney moved to the table beside the bed. He reached down to the small lamp there, found the switch, snapped it on.
“Holy shit!” The words were out before he could think.
She covered her face with her hands, bony fingers spidering over the lifeless gray flesh.
“God, Marianne, what’s happened to your face?”
With a sound like an animal snarl she sprang forward and swept the lamp from the table. It smashed on the floor and the room returned to darkness.
“I didn’t know you were coming or I’d have fixed myself up,” she said. “I can be pretty again.”
“Marianne, I have to go.”
“Take me to bed, Carney. Fuck me. I know you can. You were the first, remember?”
“Really, I have to go.”
Backing away, choking down a rising panic, he found the door, yanked it open, and escaped to the hallway outside.
Mr. and Mrs. Avery were waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
“Did … did you see her?” Mr. Avery asked.
Carney nodded. He wanted to plow between the two of them, bolt out the door, and never return.
“Did she talk to you?” asked Marianne’s mother.
“She’s, like you said, not feeling good.”
“What did she say to you,” asked Mr. Avery. His voice was pleading.
“Nothing. Nothing very much. I think you ought to get her to a doctor.”
Mrs. Avery started to cry. Her husband put an arm around her and pulled her closer.
“I’ve got to go,” Carney said. “Goodnight.”
The air outside the Avery house was fresh and cool as bubbling spring water. Carney ran to the Plymouth and drove home with the windows open wide, trying to rid his nose and his clothes of the smell of strawberry incense.
And rot.
THIRTEEN
Kyle stretched out full length on the bed in his room in Uncle Bob’s farmhouse. He lay on his back with his hands clasped behind his head. He grinned at the ceiling, breathing deeply and feeling free. He could finally relax and savor this as his last night in Bischoff. Tomorrow he was outta here like a shot.
His red nylon roll bag was packed and buckled and propped up next to the door ready to go. The little radio beside the bed was tuned softly to an Appleton station that played Top 40s. This time tomorrow he would be breathing California air. Memories of Wisconsin, the Gerstner brothers, Dorando the Gypsy, and Marianne — especially Marianne — would fade. Life was good again.
A staccato knock interrupted his reverie. The door opened and his cousin stepped into the room without waiting for an invitation.
Kyle sat up on the bed. “Carney, what’s — ”
“Get up.”
Kyle stared, his mouth open.
“I want to talk to you.” Carney strode to the side of the bed and snapped off the radio with an angry twist of his wrist.
“What about?”
“Marianne.”
Warning bells clanged. Kyle swung his feet to the floor and stood up to face his cousin.
“What about her?”
“Something’s wrong with her. Something serious.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to tell me you didn’t see it?”
Kyle answered cautiously. “She did seem to be coming down with something.”
“What did you do to her? What did you do with her?”
“Do?”
“Saturday night. You went out together. I know that.”
“We went to a dance over at, what’s the town, Elkhorn City. That’s all. No big deal. We talked a lot about you.”
“You saw her again after that.”
“Just when she came over here to see Uncle Bob.”
“Don’t shit me, Kyle.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She said you … you slept together.”
“Hey, it wasn’t exactly that way, Carney. I mean it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t plan it.”
“Just happened, huh? Swept away by emotion. Bigger than both of you.”
Kyle spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “What can I say?” What if I told you what really happened? How she damn near dragged me out to the tool shed, pulled off my pants and sat on my dick. What if I told you how gross and disgusting it was?
Carney hit him in the side of the face. It was a slow, clumsy punch, and Kyle saw it coming all the way. He moved his head just enough to rob the blow of its force, but not to get out of the way entirely. Carney stood ready to fight, but Kyle made no move to defend himself.
“Goddammit, why don’t you hit back?”
“You deserved a shot at me.”
Carney wound up as though to hit him again, but dropped his arm and let his shoulders slump. “I was going to marry her. Marry her, for Chrissake.”
“Carney, I — ”
“Shut up. It’s not just that you slept with her. I guess you weren’t the only one. Hell, I didn’t ask her to join a convent. I went away, and I wasn’t any saint either. I could live with that. But the way she looks … the way she talks. And God, the smell in her room. There’s something really wrong with her. I don’t know her any more. I don’t want to know her.”
Kyle opened his mouth, shut it again.
“I thought I had my whole life planned out,” Carney went on, talking more to himself than to his cousin. “After I got out of the army Marianne and I would get married. We’d take a long honeymoon, come back, live here, maybe build an addition to the house. Eventually I’d take over the farm from Dad. Now, with Dad the way he is and Marianne … Oh, damn, damn, damn.”
Carney’s eyes filled with tears. He spun away and flung himself out the door, slamming it hard behind him.
Kyle sat back down at the bed and stared at the door. All the good feeling was gone. He would have liked to go after his cousin, say something to ease the pain. But there were no words. There would be no comfort for Carney, not for a while. And, Kyle now saw, not for him either.
He stripped to his skivvies and got into bed. The sheets were cool and crisp, washed and ironed that morning by Mrs. Simms. The quilt kept him warm and cozy, the open window admitted the fresh night air and the lulling song of the tree frogs.
He closed his eyes, but there was to be no sleep for Kyle on his last night in Wisconsin. Whenever he started to drift off disturbing images floated before him.
Marianne as she had been — young, pretty, smiling, clean.
Fabian Gerstner with his sneering mouth and piggy little eyes. And his face contorted in pain as it must have looked when the screwdriver blade punctured his belly.
Dorando the Gypsy. “I owe you a favor. Tell me what you would have.” And later, “Do you truly want this?”
And Marianne as she was now — disheveled, dirty, leering, corrupt. Marianne rotting away little by little.
He had been so sure of his priorities that Saturday night, standing in the cold rain, looking down at the dead girl. He had not a doubt that what he wanted most in all the world was to bring her back to life. God, if he could have that moment back, the one tiny moment out of all his life, what a different answer he would give the Gypsy.
But there was no going back. No reversing the tape of his life to erase a mistake. The best he could do was move on, go away, forget, and get on with his life. He tried to think of other things: the surf at Zuma Beach, a plump, dripping beef burrito, college in the fall. No good, the ugly images kept returning.
Dawn came at last, gray and unpromising. Kyle watched the rectangle of his window slowly lighten. He heard the night sounds of crickets and frogs fade and give way to the crow of roosters, the chirp of early birds, the bark of a dog answered by another far away.
He got out of bed, dressed, walked quietly along the hall to the bathroom. He washed and brushed his teeth, not bothering to shave, and went back to his room. He made the bed as well as he could. Mrs. Simms would surely strip it down and wash the sheets, but he wanted to leave it looking neat.
Finally he sat down at the table and penned a short note to Uncle Bob. He thanked him for the hospitality, promised to send what he still owed for repairs to the Plymouth. He apologized for not staying to say goodbye in person.
He would have liked to leave a note for Carney too, but just as last night when they were face to face, there were no words for his cousin. It was too bad, but Carney was going to have to deal with the situation his own way.
He shouldered the roll bag and walked quietly down the hall and out the front door. He eased the door shut and started across the lawn toward the dirt road leading to the highway.
Fritz came nosing out of his doghouse with a little whuff. He recognized Kyle and came wagging over to him.
Kyle hunkered down and scratched the collie behind the ear where he liked it. “You’re one guy I’m gonna miss. Take care of your master. He’s going to need it.”
He rose then and walked away, not looking back. The dog followed him part of the way across the lawn. Then, when he saw Kyle was heading for the highway, he returned to the doghouse, lay down, and watched him go.
The sky was gunmetal gray. A fine mist hung in the air. Kyle pulled the windbreaker tight at his throat and strode down the dirt roadway to the blacktop. There he took up a position beside the Reuthman mailbox and waited for a ride headed into Bischoff.
Two cars driven by women, and a milk truck passed him. When someone finally stopped it took Kyle a moment to recognize the beatup camper. When he did, he hesitated. The door opened and a dark familiar face looked down at him. The black eyes of Dorando the Gypsy burned into his.
“Do you want a ride or don’t you?”
“I’m just going into Bischoff. To the bus station.”
“Get in.”
He jammed the camper into gear and they lurched forward. Kyle perched uncomfortably, leaning forward in the passenger seat.
“You’re leaving town.”
“That’s right.” Kyle turned and studied the man’s profile below the brim of his battered felt hat. Dorando had a high forehead, hawk nose, and a long, sharp chin. “How do you happen to be driving along here at this particular time. It’s too much to be a coincidence.”
“It is no coincidence. I feel that my debt to you is not fully paid.”
“Oh, yes, it is. I don’t know who you are, or what you are, but you did exactly what I asked. Don’t do me any more favors. Please.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t suppose you could take me back to that night for another chance?”
“There are no second chances,” said the Gypsy in an eerie echo of Kyle’s own thoughts of the night before. “If there is another way I can help you …”
“No thanks,” Kyle said. “Last time you helped me into the worst thing that ever happened in my life. I’ll handle it myself from here on.”
“As you wish.”
The camper rattled on into the town of Bischoff with no more conversation between the two men. When Dorando stopped and let Kyle off in front of the Rexall store and bus depot, they exchanged a nod, but no goodbyes. It was with a feeling of a weight lifting from his shoulders that Kyle watched the camper disappear around the bend in Main Street at the far end of town.
The morning sidewalks of Bischoff were deserted. An occasional car rolled by, the riders casting a curious look at the young man standing alone in front of the bus depot. Kyle ignored them and settled down on the wooden bench to wait for the Greyhound. It was not due for more than two hours, but he would rather wait here with his own thoughts than force conversation back at the farm with his uncle, his cousin, and Mrs. Simms.
A little after eight o’clock Mr. Avery’s Buick rolled up in front of the New Emporium. Frank Avery hesitated as he got out, and looked across the street. For a moment Kyle thought he was going to come over. Then he appeared to think better of it, crossed the sidewalk to the New Emporium, unlocked the door, and went in.
The sun began to push through the heavy overcast just as the Greyhound rumbled into view around the bend in Main Street. Kyle saw it as a providential sign. He climbed gratefully aboard, stowed his roll in the overhead rack, and settled into a seat. He smiled at his seatmate, a thin-lipped lady who sniffed once, then ignored him.
The doors flapped shut, the diesel engine growled, and the bus pulled away up Main Street. Kyle watched the small cluster of buildings that was Bischoff, Wisconsin, flow past the window and recede into the distance, and into the past.
• • •
The route taken by the Greyhound through Elkhorn City did not pass Zenith Mobile Home Park. If it had, the passengers would have seen an unusual amount of activity for this hour of the morning. The residents were gathered outside their trailers, talking in low, excited voices. At the back of the park a blue and white Sheriff’s car and an ambulance from the County Hospital, both with emergency lights flashing, were parked in front of the rusting trailer that had been occupied by two of the Gerstner brothers.
“How is it nobody found him till today?” the sheriff asked. “He’s gotta be dead a good twenty-four hours.”
A deputy shrugged. “Nobody much came around. Wasn’t for the smell, them kids wouldn’t of peeked in either.”
Jesse Gerstner’s tongue protruded from his mouth like the head of a dead lizard. His face was bloated, the color of eggplant.
“Two murders,” the sheriff said, shaking his head sadly. “We ain’t had one around here in ten years, not counting Indians. The only good thing is the election was last year.”
He rose from his examination of the corpse and stepped outside the trailer for some fresh air.
• • •
Unaware of the police activity, Kyle Brubaker relaxed and leaned back in the upholstered seat of the Greyhound. He let the farm country flow past his window and enjoyed the feeling of a prisoner released as the miles stretched out between him and the horror of the recent past.
