Whom Gods Destroy (25 page)

I worked myself closer to the road and lay down in a gully about twenty yards away.

She was perfect, standing there in the sand and gravel by the side of the road. She looked as helpless as a child, as lonesome as the moon. The truck stopped.

“Goin' into the city, lady?” the driver called. He was a husky, sweating, red-faced man with small eyes and a loose grin. Vida said something but I couldn't hear what it was. Then he leaned over to open the door on the far side of the cab and I sprinted across the road and vaulted onto the back of the truck.

There was a heavy mud-crusted tarp thrown over stacks of wooden crates, and there was the acrid smell of tomatoes, not quite ripe, and the heavy-sweet smell of cantaloupes. I lifted the tarp and got under it. “By God,” I heard the driver saying, “this is a hell of a place for a woman to be all to herself.”

Vida must have said something. The driver laughed loudly. “I bet your boy friend made you walk.”

You stupid bastard of an ape! I thought. If you touch her I'll kill you.

“Well, from the looks of you, you put up one hell of fight,” he said and laughed again. “Who won?”

I sat rigid, smothering as the sun blazed down on the tar smelling tarp. There was no talking for a minute, but I could hear the movement up front, in the cab. “Well, by God,” the driver said finally, “is that any way to act? I'm just trying to be friendly.”

A great surge of relief flowed through me when I heard the starter grind, and the truck began to move forward. If there was any talking in the cab, I couldn't hear it. I stopped worrying about Vida and began thinking about what we were going to do when we got to Houston. A ship—that would be the best thing, if we could swing it. If not, then I'd have to think of something else. It was a big town and there were plenty of places to hide.

The truck began slowing down, and I thought: We must be nearing the highway. Then the truck rocked to a stop, pulled over to the side of the road, and I listened for the sound of traffic that would tell me where the highway was.

The only thing I heard was a muffled scuffling up front in the cab.

I heard the driver say, “God, you'd think it'd never been done before!”

The sound of scuffling became more frantic, and an enormous anger exploded inside me. The revolver seemed to grow in my hand as I whipped my arm up to throw the tarp back. Touch her, I thought savagely, and I'll kill you!

Then I froze, almost as though a giant hand had been pushed against my chest to hold me back.

Kill him, I thought, and where are you? Another body left behind to help them follow your trail. And how will you get away from here? You can't drive now—the highway will be swarming with cops. And Vida couldn't do it. This is the time for straight thinking.

“All right!” the driver said angrily, out of breath. “Go on, get the hell out of my truck. Walk all the way to Houston and see if you like that.”

There was no sound at all from Vida. Was she waiting for me to do something? But what could I do? We had to get away from here and that driver had to take us.

The scuffling began again and the truck driver laughed. “I thought you'd come around!” My insides rolled. I can't vomit, I thought. He'll hear me.

But I could hear them. The rhythmic rustling, the gasping, the banging of heels against the dashboard. It can't be happening! I thought wildly. I had the gun in my hand, squeezing it tight enough to break it, bur I couldn't move. I kept thinking: Everything is all right. Vida can take care of herself. It really isn't happening: it's the heat and you're imagining things.

God, a voice inside me said, How you must hate yourself! How Vida must hate you!

Heat swirled under the tarpaulin and I clung to a wooden vegetable crate, telling myself to do something. I didn't move. It seemed a long, long time before the truck began to move again.

It was dark and the night was old when I began to hear the blatant, impersonal rumble of the city. I raised the tarp and looked out in amazement at a million shimmering lights holding back the darkness of the night. Cabs and buses and cars darted through a thousand lighted streets. A cop stood, hands on hips, gazing up at an electric sign. He wasn't looking for Roy Foley. He didn't give a damn about Roy Foley.

The truck stopped.

“All right,” the driver said, “this is the end of the line. I go to market from here.”

I heard the cab door open and knew that Vida was getting out. As the driver put the truck into gear, I eased off the back of the truck and dropped to the pavement. I thought quickly: if she says anything, I'll say I was asleep.

But when I walked up to her and looked at her, I knew I wouldn't say anything, for she would never mention it.

“We're lucky it's dark,” I said. “We won't have to be in too much of a hurry looking for a place to stay.”

I started up the street and Vida followed along beside me. Not until we passed a street light did I see that she had been crying.

22

THAT WAS ALMOST SIX DAYS ago.

We came to another small hotel, Vida and I, in Houston. A dirty little place with peeling wallpaper, dirt-rusted floors and sagging beds. We're almost out money and I haven't seen a newspaper for four days, or heard a radio, so there's no way of knowing what the police are doing. But I can guess.

Vida hasn't spoken more than a dozen words all day— partly because of the fight we had yesterday.

I know I should be thinking of something, doing something, but I can't seem to make myself move. All I can do is remember, and imagine things as they might have been. Sometimes I hear myself talking to the emptiness of the room.

Vida thinks I am out of my mind—I can see it in her eyes, when she looks at me—and maybe this is the thing that holds her here. I don't know. But I can't help remembering. Some of it is good, but most of it is bitter, and the worst of all is Lola, because sometimes late at night, or almost any time, for that matter, I can hear her laughing.

Vida—I still love her and I wish I could make her understand about things. But I know I can't, so I don't try.

I have been thinking of that revolver and I tell myself that I ought to hock it for whatever I can get for it, but I've been afraid to touch it.

The time has come, though, when something has to be done. I heard Vida crying last night, and when I touched her, tried to comfort her, she was as cold as marble. I held, her close, I said all the good things I could think of, but nothing seemed to help. Love, or whatever it was between us, seems to have died.

Yesterday Vida went out to get sandwiches at the joint across the street. When she came back, her face was even paler than usual.

“Roy, we've got to do something! We can't go on like this!”

She hadn't got the sandwiches. She leaned against the ancient dresser, her chest heaving as though she had been running. “Roy, two policemen stopped me in front of the hotel—”

I went cold. “Why?”

Her face colored abruptly. I knew then what had happened, and for some twisted reason it struck me as funny. I sat on the edge of the bed, almost laughed. “By God! They thought you were hustling, didn't they?”

The color in her face deepened. She turned suddenly to the mirror and stared at herself. Her face was strangely hard; her eyes had receded into dark shadows. I looked at her, thinking: Yes, I can see how they could make the mistake!

Then something else hit me, scared me. Those cops would be watching Vida every time she left the hotel. Maybe they would even follow her to the room! Cops were like that, once they got an idea, they hung onto it like a dog with a bone.

“Roy, you've got to do something!”

“What am I going to do?” I said bitterly. Then all the anger inside me directed itself at Vida. I stood up suddenly, shaking with it. “Goddamn you!” I said harshly. “Why did you let them stop you: Do you have to go out on the streets looking like a whore?”

She winced, as though I had slapped her. Then she wheeled on me, her eyes blazing. “Oh, God, why did I ever come with you? Why did I ever marry you?”

“Getting married was your idea.”

“It was a mistake and I'm paying for it,” she almost shouted.

“You can get out of it any time you feel like it,” I said, raging. “You can get out of it right now. All you have to do is walk out the door.”

“Don't tempt me!” she yelled.

“I'm not tempting you. It's an invitation. Great God, a woman who can't even walk out on the street without being taken for a tramp!”

“It's better than being taken for a murderer! Than
being
a murderer!”

I went wild for a moment. I hit her full in the face with the flat of my hand. Her head snapped back, a tiny trickle of blood formed at the corner of her mouth. The sound of the blow remained in the room.

I stood stunned, sickened at what I had done. I heard myself saying stupidly, “Forgive me, Vida. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know...”

She looked at me with fear.

I put my arms around her and I could feel her shrinking away from my touch. When I released her, she went to the bed and lay face-down, motionless.

“Is there anything I can do?” I said. “Is there anything I can say?”

She made no move and no sound.

“I must have been out of my mind,” I went on senselessly. “You're the last person on earth I would hurt, Vida. You're the only person I love.”

“It's all right.” It was all over. At that moment both of us knew it. And nothing could be done about it.

That was yesterday. Out of the emptiness, I kept thinking: What are you going to do, Foley? What are you going to do? There had to be an answer—if I could only find it. Lost somewhere in the violence and rage there was an answer, but I would have to go all the way back if I were to find it.

So that's what I have done. I've set it down on paper, all of it, carefully feeling my way back through the red maze of anger. Starting on one Burk Street. Ending on another.

The circle is complete.

Another day is past and Vida is gone. She left during the night.

I think I have the answer—the only one there is. The revolver is in my hand, as cold and deadly as a moccasin —but as yet I haven't had the guts to go through with it.

Maybe I'll never have the guts. I don't know.

THE END