The Animal Hour (35 page)

He's perfect. He wants to be governor, he has lots of money. And he wants you.

Zachie! I'm not just going to
…
go to bed with him.

Why not? You did it with Oliver.

She went quiet at that. She frowned, her eyes glistening with tears. Then slowly, in the soft, rhythmic, persuasive voice he often had to use with her, he had begun to explain. The symbolism. The idea. The concept of Martyrdom: the death on which life depends. It would be her Martyrdom this time, he said. It would redeem her from the sins she had been committing against his, Zach's, flesh, which was, through his spiritual knowledge, the body that contained all things. Symbolically speaking. And she had said that she felt bad about the pain she had caused him, hadn't she? Well, when this was over, he told her, the purpose of it would be clear to her. Then she would not feel bad about it anymore.

Still, even when she had agreed to it—as he knew she would, as she always agreed to everything—the tears were streaming down her face.
How do you even know he'll do it?
she asked him softly.

Woodlawn? Oh, he'll do it. He wants you. He told me so. And anyway
, Zach had added with a shrug,
he's a New York City politician: he'll fuck anybody.

Tiffany's frown deepened. Tears spilled down her scarlet cheeks. She stamped her feet, her wrists pressed to her hips. Her face had changed. It was a child's face. She was a crying child. She was crying because Oliver had stolen her soldiers. Oliver had stolen the soldiers and no one would believe it.
Stop shrieking
, her father said,
you sound like a little girl.
And Oliver was laughing at her, standing next to her father and laughing at her as she cried because she was a little girl.

Zach's eyes jerked open. His heart was pounding. He sat up. The apartment was almost dark. The dark was spinning around him. There was noise outside. Voices, coming in through the window, coming up from the street. Were the police here? Jesus! What time was it? Had he overslept again? Where the hell was Oliver? He felt nauseous as the dark went round and round.

“You awake?”

“Hanh!” Zach cried out as the voice came out of the shadows. He turned and saw the shadowy figure there.

“I'm sorry.” It was a woman's voice, thin but very warm. “Did I wake you up?”

A light snapped on. The standing lamp, rising out of the books on the floor. Zach squinted in its sudden glare. Slowly, the room began to settle down. “What time?” he said.

“Half past six, I think. I was trying to be so quiet. I didn't want to wake you up. I'm really sorry.”

“No. No. It's all right.” Zach brought his hand to his head. Massaged his brow.
Oliver.
“Where's … where's Ollie? Is he here?”

“No. I was sure he'd be back by now. I just came down to see if I could make you guys some dinner.”

“Dinner …” Zach stared at the floor.

“Ollie said your stomach was upset, so I made some chicken soup with rice.”

The hammering of Zach's heart was now beginning to subside. He ran his hands up over his short hair. The room was still. He could look up, get his bearings. There was the dresser. The kitchenette. The books everywhere. Half past six. Still time, he thought. Still plenty of time.

Finally then, letting out another breath, he turned to look at the woman. She was standing in the middle of the room. She was small with a pert, pretty face. Big glasses with square frames. Short dirty-blonde hair curling around her ears. She had a slim, cute figure in her white sweater and jeans and …

Zachary's breath stopped short. He stared at her. His lips parted.

She was holding the sweater.

She was holding it in both hands. Oliver's sweater—the one he'd just stained with the woman's blood. Was this another dream? She had it draped over one hand and was holding out the stained sleeve in the other. She was looking at Zach, but she was absently rubbing the bloodstain between her forefinger and her thumb.

Zach shook his head. He
must
be dreaming. He must still be dreaming.

But then the woman smiled, very naturally. “Hi, by the way,” she said, “I'm Avis Best from upstairs. I was just straightening up a little.”

I
t could be anyone
, Nancy thought.

On hands and knees, she climbed across the bed. She reached out to the light switch from beneath the canopy. Flipped it down. The room—her room—snapped back into the dusk shadows.

She could hear the newcomers in the foyer, talking low. The doorman was sure to have found the broken glass from the door panel by now, she thought. He might have checked his keys and seen which one was missing. He might have come up to check on the apartment. Or he might have phoned the cops. It could be anyone out there.

A light went on in the hall. Nancy rolled back off the bed, away from the door. She heard footsteps. They were coming down the hall, coming toward her. Had she left tracks? Disturbed anything? Would they notice the shower steam in the bathroom? She glanced across the darkened room at the window, the lace curtain dancing in the breeze. There was a ledge out there. The alabaster ledge with the gargoyles under it. She could climb out, try to escape …

She hesitated. What if it was her mother? What if she could see her mother again? She glanced over her shoulder at the closet, its open door. She stepped back. She stepped into the closet. She pulled the door closed only slightly, so she could still see out. She sank back into the wafting dark of soft blouses. The scent of talcum powder. Lingering perfume. She held her breath. The footsteps came closer. The sharp click of a woman's heels on the wooden floor. A man's heavy and muffled tread.

And then the man's voice, just outside the door. “Don't, Nora. Don't go in there. Don't torture yourself.”

Nancy covered her mouth with her hand. Nora. Her mother's name.

And then the woman's voice. Heavy. Weary. “Just leave me alone, Tom. Just leave me alone with her for a little while.”

Nancy did not move.
They think I'm dead
, she thought. She could hear it in their sad, tired voices. They were mourning her. They really believed she was dead.
Maybe I am.
Her head felt light. She felt like she was floating.
Maybe I really am.

Now the woman came into the room. She shut the door behind her. She did not turn on the light. A moment later, she was moving deeper into the room and Nancy could see her dimly. Nancy blinked, trying to keep steady. She peered out through the closet door.

The woman moved about the room slowly. To the dresser first. Looking into the mirror. Lifting her hand to it. Running her fingers lightly over the pictures wedged into the frame. In the darkness, Nancy could only make out the woman's outline. Her small, plump shape. Her round head. The wedge of her long skirt. The skirt swayed as she moved away from the mirror.

Nancy lifted her other hand to her mouth. She began to cry.
Mom?

The woman moved to the bed. She stood at the foot of it, looking down at the quilt under the lacy canopy. She reached down and touched the quilt with her fingers. Slowly, she came around the newel post, trailing her hand wistfully over the wood. She passed right by the closet door, right by Nancy. Nancy pressed both her hands to her mouth tightly. She was crying so hard her whole body shook. The woman in the room sat on the edge of the bed.

Oh, Mom
, Nancy thought.
I am so sorry.

She could hardly think for weeping—and for the sudden rush of images. The collage of memories—if they were memories—and half impressions and spoken phrases, flashing on and off and overlapping. There was her own angry face. And her mother's features sagging with hurt and sorrow. And the face of herself as a child. And her mother's shape at the foot of her bed. The weight of her mother on the end of the bed. The empty hallway. The terrifying dark.
Because your father's gone, because your father fell …
Her mother's lullaby.
He fell into …
And her own face, her face as it was now, twisted in rage.
You leave my friends out of this, Mother. It's a little late for
you
to be worried about people's friends.

Your father fell …

Now, the woman in the dark, sitting at the foot of the bed, began to sing. Very softly. Nancy couldn't even be sure at first if it was real, if it was only another of the jumbled impressions in her mind. But no. It was true. Very softly, in a whispered croon, she was stroking the coverlet and singing: “Lullaby … and good night … little baby, sleep tight … bright angels up above … will send you …”

And then, on that “you,” the woman faltered. Her hand left the quilt. Rose to her face. She bowed her head. “Oh God,” she said, her voice squeaking with tears. “Oh God, please don't. Please. Not my little girl.”

Nancy couldn't stand it anymore. She sobbed. The woman on the bed gave a little gasp and spun around. Aching for her, Nancy stepped out of the closet.

“Mom?” she said.

At first, the woman on the bed didn't answer. Nancy heard her shuddering breath, saw her hand go to her chest. But she said nothing.

“Mom?” she tried to say again, but she was crying too hard.

“Who's there? Who is it?”

“It's me,” Nancy managed, her voice trembling. “It's me. I'm all right. I'm here.”

“Oh God.” The woman slowly rose from the bed, both hands pressed to her chest now. “Oh God.”

“I'm sick, Mommy,” Nancy heard herself say. She was crying so hard, wanting so much. She reached both hands out toward the older woman. “I'm so sick. I don't know what's happening to me. If you could help me … If you could just let me stay here a little while, I don't know … Talk to me. If you could talk to me. Mama.”

“Who are you?” the woman in the shadows whispered. She moved away. Sidled along the bed toward the wall. “Please. Who are you?”

“It's me. I'm all right. It's me.” Nancy took another step toward her, reaching out.

The woman made an inarticulate sound, a little cry of hope, a groan of pain, it was hard to tell which. She was at the head of the bed now. She was pressed up against the end table. The clock glowed red beside her. Her hand went out, trembling, toward the little bedside lamp.

And Nancy kept moving toward her. Crying. Confused. Her hands out. Her mind flashing and melding half memories, half phrases.

Your father fell into …

It should have been me …

You're not Nancy Kincaid.

Step by step, she moved toward the woman in the shadows. “Please,” she whispered. “I'm sick. Help me. I don't know where else to go. I don't have anyone else … I'm sorry. Please …” She choked on her sobs.

“Who …?” The woman fumbled with the bedside lamp. “Oh God. Oh please God.”

“Mom?”

The light flicked on. It cast a pale yellow circle of light around the table. The two women stood in that circle, the older pressed to the wall, the younger reaching out for her. Nancy saw the older woman's haggard face, the pinched mouth, the down-drawn cheeks, the frightened gray eyes. She knew that face. She recognized it. The face of the picture in her wallet. And yet, even as her hands went out to her, she was uncertain. She felt that floating sensation return. She felt cut adrift, like a spacewalker from his ship, whirling away, the cord severed, the infinite, engulfing black of night … She thought she was going to faint. She reached out. Her fingers brushed the older woman's soft cheek.

And the woman recoiled, violently. Her arm flew up before her face, knocking Nancy's hand away. Her pale eyes went wide in horror.

“You!”

Nancy tried to call to her, but her voice was slurred, her mind reeling.

“You!” And the older woman's fingers bent like claws, her hands rose up alongside her head. “You … you murderer!”

Nancy mouthed the word: Mom?

“Murderer!” the older woman shouted. “What have you done? Look at you. All of you! Murderers!” She struck out wildly, one hand slashing, then the other, driving Nancy back. “Murderer! Murderer!”

“Nora!” It was the man's voice. Coming from outside the room, from down the hall. “Nora! Are you all right?”

Nancy fell back, her arms up in front of her. Back from the hatred that contorted the woman's face.

“Murderer!” The woman stalked her. Pressing her back.

“Nora! Jesus!” And there were his footsteps now. Running down the hall outside. Running toward the door.

The woman took another step forward. Nancy fell back another step. The woman's eyes were white hot, her mouth twisted. “Murderer!”

The door flew open.

Nancy cried out. She was pressed against the wall now, the lace curtains dancing out around her. She covered her ears with her hands.

She could barely hear herself shrieking: “Mother!”