A Cry of Angels (34 page)

Later, I kind of wished he'd done it that time.

Because, as I said, the whole thing backfired anyway. When the guests had gone Gwen came out to where we were screeding cement and told Jayell in no uncertain terms she didn't want us back there anymore.

"Aw, honey, come on . . ."

"I mean it, Jayell!" she said, tossing her hair in fury. "That is absolutely the last straw!"

Jayell stood meekly, caught in a moment of Jayell weakness and confusion, looking for a way out.

"I didn't mean no harm . . ." Em began, and she whirled on him.

"Shut up, you—you filthy animal! You are undoubtedly the most—grotesque excuse for a human being I have ever met. Why don't you take that trashy kid and stay in that slimy Ape Yard where you belong!"

Jayell dropped his screed board. "Gwen, for pete's sake!"

"Jayell," said Em, "if you don't slap hell out'n her now, I might just do it for you."

"Come on, Em," I said, "let's go." I took his arm, but he wouldn't budge. He stood staring at her.

Jayell came between them, nervously rubbing his hands on his thighs. "Look fellas, she's upset. She'll cool off and . . ."

Em, trembling, turned down to me. "Well, trash, what we goin' to do now? Can't neither one of us hit her 'cause she's a woman. I reckon', Jayell, that don't leave nobody but you." And he swung a fist under Jayell's chin that lifted him off the ground. Gwen screamed and ran to him.

Jayell sat dazed, looking around, more puzzled than anything.

"You're a damn fool, Jay," Em said, "and fools are entitled to make mistakes. But anybody that makes a mistake and thinks he's got to live with it is a bigger fool than I care to be associated with."

"Heyyy . . ." Jayell pulled himself up and stood leaning on Gwen. "Hey look, fellas, we'll—get together later, huh?"

Em stopped and turned around. "You better see about gettin' yourself together," he said.

We returned to the Ape Yard, and to hunting for odd jobs again, as Em would no longer even tolerate the mention of Jayell's name.

I didn't see Jayell again for more than a month, until the night I thought the devil was trying to run me down on a motorcycle.

Fall had dried fast into a rattling, brown October. It was Halloween night. The streets were filled with little trick-or-treaters in dime-store masks, pouring past the store—where Mr. Teague and Tio had laid in an extra supply of candy for them—and on up the hill to the boardinghouse. The boarders had pushed Ruby Lampham's bed against the upstairs window and gathered round to watch Mr. Burroughs and Mr. Rampey, in sheets and horrible "dough-faces," leap out of the hedges and scare hell out of the kids.

It was freezing cold, and I was coming home from the picture show at a brisk half-trot, hands pocketed and shoulders hunched against the wind. It had been a triple horror feature, with two free passes to everyone who could sit through all three shows, and I couldn't pass that up. Em could. He sat home with the footlocker leaned against the door and the lamp turned up full wick.

Passing the courthouse, I heard a cherrybomb go off, and two boys came across the square with a policeman hot behind them, holding his flapping holster and hollering for them to stop. There would be the usual vandalism: broken windows and sugared gas tanks. A few roughnecks to be claimed at the police station in the morning. A warning editorial.

I stopped at Bullard's bicycle shop to read the signatures on his window. Old man Bullard's plate-glass window had survived generations of Halloweens through an unspoken agreement with the town's youngsters. While other merchants grumbled and swore at the graffiti they found on their windows, Mr. Bullard provided soap chips on his sill, and left the scribblings up, the clean ones anyway, until the next rain washed them away. Gradually the slogans were replaced by signatures, and it became a ritual; kids came from across town, from the Ape Yard, to sign Mr. Bullard's window. The names changed as generations grew up and moved away, most never to be heard from again, nor have their names appear in public again; but for that one brief time between Halloween and rain they stood on Bullard's window in downtown Quarrytown for all the world to see. I scribbled my name in a small space in the lower corner and stood back to look at it, wondering how long it would be before the next rain.

Then, with a curious sensation building inside me, I reached down my sleeve and rubbed it out. I wouldn't leave myself at the whim of any rain, and my name, after all, belonged to me. I puzzled over it for a moment, surprised at my own reaction, then decided I didn't really care why I had done it. I had done a lot of things lately that I couldn't really explain; I was acting more from feeling now than from thought, and was more comfortable than I had been in a long time. I shrugged and turned away, then came back and pocketed a few soap chips from the ledge. We were running low.

Crossing over the railroad ramp to start down into the Ape Yard, I thought I heard something, and stopped and turned my ear to the wind. There was nothing. The yellow lights glowed along the hollow. Perhaps it was the wind blowing out of the Ape Yard.

Then I heard it again. Sirens. From the rear, far off beyond the warehouses. Then another sound came to me, a ripping motor, behind the warehouses and closing fast. It grew louder and louder until suddenly a motorcycle burst from between the buildings. It turned hard onto Railroad Street with skidding wheels and came blasting straight up the ramp. I dived and rolled down the embankment as it shot by me, bucketed over the railroad tracks, and went dipping down into the Ape Yard. I scrambled to my feet to catch sight of it, to be sure of what I had seen. Sure enough, the driver was dressed head to foot in a glowing red devil's costume!

The sirens came howling out of the buildings and police cars roared over the railroad tracks and went after him, their red lights whipping the darkness. But I knew they would never catch him. The devil was already out of sight, running without lights, and the Ape Yard paths led a dozen ways up into the hills.

I continued on my way, and as I drew close to Twig Creek I could see they had already lost him. The patrol cars were cruising, red lights topping a rise and descending, the sirens still. At the iron bridge at the bottom of the hollow a police car pulled up beside me and stopped.

"What you doing down here, boy?"

"Going home—I'm taking a short cut."

"Where you been?"

"To the picture show."

"You see a motorcycle come by here?"

"One passed me up at the railroad, but I ain't seen him since."

The policeman turned and repeated it for his partner. "Well, you get on home. Got no business down here this time of night."

"Yes, sir."

They drove off, and I stood stock still. I was looking straight at the devil.

He was lying in the shallow creek, pinned on his back under his motorcycle and struggling to keep his head above water.

I jumped off the bridge and splashed through the freezing current. The rider was clutching a rock and trying to kick off the bike, gasping and sucking for breath in the clinging hood. I ripped it off, and when I saw the face, the devil himself would have been less of a shock.

"Phaedra Boggs!"

"The rear wheel, damnit, try and lift it up!"

I tried. It wouldn't budge. It was the largest motorcycle I had ever seen, and it was jammed solid. She put a foot against it and we both strained. I knelt in the water and tried to dig under it, and felt it wedged so tightly in the rocks I knew we would never get it off. "I've got to get help," I said. "Can you hold on?"

"Hurry," she said, "hurry."

I splashed up the bank, my mind racing. The nearest place was Dirsey's. I ran down the hill and crossed over two streets to the back road that led to the river. I burst in, and the first person I saw, morosely draped on the bar, was Jayell Crooms.

"Jayell! Come quick, it's Phaedra!"

"What?" He blinked at me. "What is it, boy?"

"Phaedra Boggs, she's going to drown!"

The truck screeched to a halt on the bridge and Jayell and I hit the water together. Phaedra was almost under, but fighting, throwing her head, cursing and spewing water and holding on like a demon. Jayell dived under and wrapped his arms around the rear wheel and groaned with the effort and the pain he must have felt in his leg. Still he strained, backing and digging in the bottom. I grabbed on and tried to help him twist it, still to no avail. Roaring with frustration, Jayell heaved and struggled, then suddenly slipped and fell, but the weight and twisting motion loosened it from its bind. We grabbed it again, and with Phaedra off the bike pushing hard with her free foot, we finally wrenched it away. Jayell got an arm under her back and lifted her up, and they stood clinging to each other.

Shivering, Phaedra said, "Damned pot-holedy bridge."

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah, but take it slow."

We made our way to the bank. They were both limping so badly I had to pull them out. Jayell sat Phaedra on the running board and painfully knelt to feel her ankle. "I don't think it's broke," she said. "Probably just sprained." He ripped open the satiny pants leg and exposed a gaping cut across her calf. He tore a bandage off his shirt and tied it up. "We'd better get you to a doctor," he said.

"For a little cut? Naw, just get me home." She hugged herself, her whole body was shaking.

I saw a red light cruising along the ridge. "You better take that costume off," I said.

"Never mind that, let's get out of here."

We drove along the creek road past the last row of houses and the smelly Poncini quarry, then Jayell turned up through the pine thicket toward the cemetery. At the edge of the sedgefield Phaedra ordered him to stop. "I can make it the rest of the way on foot. Don't want to risk waking Mama."

But she was limping so bad she had to stop and rest on the first tombstone. Jayell got out and went to help her, but he was in as bad shape as she was. "If you two come rustling and scraping out of the cemetery that way you're just going to get yourselves shot," I said.

I got between them and Jayell clapped me on the head. "Early boy, where'd we be without you?"

The Boggs house was dark except for the light from the living-room shade. "What about your old man?" said Jayell.

Phaedra gritted her teeth. "No worry, tonight's his night with his woman in Little Holland. Just go slow and don't make noise."

The back door was unlocked. Phaedra eased it open and listened, and the three of us, trembling and breathing heavily from near exhaustion, felt our way painfully down the hall to Phaedra's bedroom.

Once inside, Phaedra's grip loosened, and she slid unconscious to the floor.

"Wouldn't you know," gasped Jayell, "she'd pull a stunt like that. Give me a hand."

Together we lifted her onto the bed. I straightened her legs and got her shoes off. Jayell unzipped the clammy costume, and when I looked around I saw why she had been reluctant to take it off at the creek. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Jayell pulled it off and she lay glistening in the moonlight.

She was a gloriously beautiful girl.

He found some dry clothing and began drying her off, dabbing the wadded clothing over her body and gently wiping the creek mud from her hair. Her eyes came open and she lay watching him, an amused expression on her face. "Having a good time, Jack?"

Jayell stopped and looked at her.

She pulled herself up and leaned against the headboard. "Hand me a cigarette, will you, sport?"

I fumbled for the pack on the bedside table. She steadied my hand with the match. She took a deep drag and exhaled, watching Jayell, the cigarette held stiffly in quivering china fingers. It was so strange: old rough-edged, beautiful Phaedra, eyes crinkling with genuine warmth, so soft and helpless-looking, and yet so tenderly strong.

And so completely naked.

"We bet—" I cleared my throat, "we better be going."

"Yeah," said Jayell. He turned to leave but her hand closed firmly on his wrist.

"No, don't go," she said. "I didn't leave you in your convalescence."

Then my memory flashed back to the time I saw Phaedra drive up through the woods the day I was leaving Jayell's house. With all else that had happened that day I had completely washed it out of my mind.

Jayell stopped, listening to the sounds of the house. "Her light is on," he whispered.

"It's always on." Suddenly she stubbed out the cigarette. "Stay with me, Jack."

"I don't think . . ." Her hands were sliding down his stomach, stroking, caressing. "Phaedra, for God's sake!" Those expert fingers were inside his thighs, rubbing, working. She was unbuttoning his shirt.

"Jayell," I said, shifting from one foot to the other, "don't you think . . ." He tried to pull away and she threw an arm around his neck and pulled him down, her mouth devouring his face. She was on her knees, squirming against him, the strong muscles of her back tensing as she crushed her breasts against his chest. She was licking his eyes, his ear, his neck. Slowly his arms encircled her.

"Hey, now, y'all get ahold of yourselves!"

Abruptly she turned and pushed him down on the pillows and knelt above him, tugging at his trousers. She ripped them open and her lips and tongue were moving again, her golden hair brushing his stomach. Jayell trembled violently, making sounds in his throat. The room was reeling. I couldn't breathe. My legs were paralyzed. "For God's sake!" I gasped, backing away. I turned and jerked open the door, and stopped. Suddenly I was alert to something else. In the cold air of the hall the night came crashing into place, the senses rushing together and warning.

The odor hit me first. A dark, rotting smell. Then I heard the sound, the soft whisper of something sliding along the floor.

I bounded back to the bed. "Jayell! Phaedra!" They were enveloped in each other in a raging heat, in the violence of each other. Phaedra's eyes were tightly shut. She moved with the rhythm of breezes, unconscious, celebrating the act in its purely animal essence, suspended, lost in the moment of her most natural self.