Quarrel with the Moon (24 page)

There it was again - the sharp creak of a floorboard. Sophie's worst fears were confirmed. Someone was in the store.

She lay frozen in bed for another minute; then she slipped out of bed and eased the drapes open. The metal hooks made a harsh sound. She sucked in her breath. The room was suddenly filled with the jaundiced moonlight. Shuddering, she tiptoed to her closet, eased the door open and felt inside for her husband's shotgun. It had not been used or cleaned since his disappearance, although it was still loaded. Sophie silently prayed that she would not have to use it.

Mustering her courage, Sophie crept into her kitchen, holding the shotgun. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the pale strip of light under the curtains leading to the store. At least the kerosene lantern in there still burned - her guardian against the night.

The nose of the shotgun went through the feed-sack curtains, then Sophie's white-knuckled hands, and finally her face.

"I've got a gun," she announced in a shrill voice, her eyes darting wildly about. The place appeared to be empty and she relaxed somewhat. It was just her imagination working overtime. She stepped into the room and had started to smile when she saw what looked like a dustrag lying on the counter. Had she left one there? She hadn't dusted that day. Still, she had to admit that she didn't remember things as clearly as she used to when she was ... well, younger. Sophie's tidiness overcame her fear. She leaned the shotgun against the wall and went to clear away the object.

Sophie smelled death before she saw it, the sour stench stinging her nostrils.

On the counter lay the deformed chicken she heard the children talk about, the one which had been born with two heads. Now both hung limply from necks which had been wrung. Tied to each broken neck was a wrinkled length of ribbon. Black satin. Nine inches in length. Two inches in width. Fifteen cents worth.

***

The gnarled trees were groaning and bending against the wind in chorus; a row of curtseying witches.

Roma looked down at Josh. His eyes burned hot from narrow slits, his mouth was wet and slack. She smiled, revealing a moist tongue and glistening white teeth. She began moving her pelvis. Josh groaned. Roma threw back her head in triumph. She reveled in being in the dominant position. She increased the pace of her movements, and Josh bared his teeth in ecstacy. He began to pant, sucking in the sultry night air as heedlessly as a drowning man sucks in water. Roma raised herself higher, arched her back and, moving her hips in a circular motion, thrust herself downwards. She rubbed her breasts with her left hand, roughly dragging the palm across her swollen nipples. Her right hand pressed against Josh's chest. His heart beat wildly beneath it like a caught bird.

Roma flexed her fingers, curved them downwards and let her sharp nails penetrate his skin. She raked her nails down his chest. Josh's flesh was rent and five thin welts of blood appeared. Roma lowered her head and licked the blood flow. Then she fell upon him, pressing her red, red mouth against his.

***

The saffron moonlight paled to cream as dawn chased away the night. Cresta licked her dry lips, then opened her eyes. Her mouth and throat were parched. It was her particular side effect from taking Valium. She lifted her head; it felt wrapped in cotton batting. She staggered into the kitchen to the refrigerator, withdrew a Tab and drank about a third of it before noticing that Josh was missing from the couch. Furthermore, the door was wide open. She went to the door. The light made her wince. The prints of Josh's bare feet marked the ground. Also the prints of something else - an animal, perhaps a large dog.

"Josh?" She followed his footprints through the woods. When she reached the last trees before the hanging bridge, she saw them.

The rising sun cast them in silhouette. They were standing locked in a passionate embrace. Cresta's hands flew to her mouth and muffled the cry which rose in her throat. Her eyes stung with hot tears. "Josh, oh Josh," she whispered.

She wanted to be sick, but her body would not allow her the physical release. Blinded by her tears, she ran back to the camper, slamming into the side of the vehicle. She felt for the open door, found it, and stumbled inside.

Her one thought was flight. She had to get away from Josh. From Roma. From the Ridge. Cresta felt ashamed, ashamed that she had put so much love and effort into a relationship which she should have known was doomed from the beginning. Finally she was left with this. She had loved Josh, and he had betrayed her. Now what was she going to do?

She tore off her nightgown and turned on a cold shower. She had to do something, anything, to shock herself into action. In the shower Cresta pounded her head against the wall and screamed in despair, the sounds muffled by the falling water. She eased on the hot water, and gradually she stopped shaking. When she stepped out of the shower, she knew what she had to do. She dried herself, hurried into the bedroom, and dressed. She would be out of the camper before Josh returned.

Even when she had accused him of being unfaithful with Roma, she had never,
never
really believed that it was true.

Cresta took a wicker suitcase down from the closet and began to pack, thinking of the apartment, the lease, the furniture, the magazine subscriptions....

She searched for her credit cards and found them, along with the neatly folded fifty-dollar bills that she had brought with her. That was all that she really needed to get back to New York City. She glanced at herself in the mirror and decided that she needed a bit of rouge and lipstick. The camper door shut. She dropped the lipstick tube. Cresta sucked in her breath, closed her eyes and listened to the sound of her own heart beating. Her anger overcame her hurt.

Why am I acting so guilty? I wasn't screwing in the wide open spaces.
He was.

She picked up the lipstick and used it, took a deep breath and braced herself. Josh was just scrambling under the covers as she entered. Employing a sleepy voice, he said, "You're up early."

"And you're up everything," she replied acidly.

His eyes traveled from the expression on her face to her clothing, and finally to her suitcase. He sat up. "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving, Josh. You see, I got up in the middle of the night and decided to take a little walk myself. I...." Her voice broke. "I saw you and Roma." Josh opened his mouth. "No, don't say anything. There's nothing you can say."

"Cresta," Josh began miserably, "don't do this."

"Oh, you want me to stay? I see, Roma and I could draw lots for your services. No thanks, I'm not into open relationships." She shook her head sadly. "I thought you knew that."

Josh whispered. "I'm sorry."

Cresta turned on him. "Are you? Or are you just sorry I found out?" Her lips formed a twisted smile. "Well at least you don't need to use alcohol as an excuse anymore for screwing around." He looked up. His eyes were filled with tears. "Don't cry, Josh. I don't believe it. Oh, I wish I
could
hurt you. I wish I could. But you can't hurt someone who doesn't love you. And you don't love me, you don't love anybody. I just don't think you're capable. I thought you loved me, but that was self-delusion, something like that. I'll ask my shrink. I imagine your name will be cropping up from time to time."

"Where are you going, Cresta?"

"Where? Back to the discos, the theater and the nightclubs. That's where I belong, not here in the sticks."

"How do you intend to get to Jericho Falls?"

"The same way you did. I'll ask Orin to lend me his horse, and I'll pay some yokel to bring it back to him. Then I'll take a bus to wherever there's a plane back to the Big, rotten Apple."

Josh stood up, and Cresta saw the marks on his chest. "I see you've graduated from hickies." He stepped toward her, his arms outstretched. She slammed the case against him. "Don't, Josh. Don't demean yourself any more than you already have." He sat back down, holding his head in his hands. Cresta left.

Josh went to the door and watched as she made her way toward the village. He kept hoping she would turn around, but she didn't.

***

Cresta couldn't face Avarilla. Let Josh explain her absence, using whatever lies he wished. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting back to home ground. When she got to Jericho Falls, she'd call Jason. He would be pleased that she was coming back early. Perhaps he could still arrange that European deal for her. All that money plus side trips to St. Tropez and Monaco could erase a lot of pain.

Who was she fooling? She wasn't going to get over Josh as easily as a cold. He'd infected her. It would be a long time before she would be able to get him out of her system. Anguish overtook her with its full and brutal force. She sat down on the wicker suitcase and sobs wracked her body. "Oh Josh, I love you so. I'll never love anyone else." When she was cried out, Cresta dried her tears and blew her nose. She smiled thinly to herself. "I can't go to Orin looking like this. He'll never loan me the horse."

She fixed her makeup and realized that she didn't know exactly where Orin lived. She followed the road until she came to a house. In the front yard a child was playing in a swing made from an old rubber tire. Cresta realized that it was the little girl who had given her a flower the day they had arrived. "Why, hello," she called.

Marinda rearranged her face into a beatific smile and came to lean against the tumbledown fence.

"I used to have a swing just like that," said Cresta.

"Did you?" replied Marinda noncommitally. "What are you doin' carryin' a suitcase?"

"I'm going on a trip."

"Really."

"I'm going back to New York City."

"Why?"

"Well, I - have to go back to work."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a model."

"I'd like to be a model." Framing her oddly pretty face with her grotesque hands, she asked, "Don't you think I'd make a good model?"

Cresta swallowed. "Well, yes, I think you'd be very photogenic."

"You don't think my hands would get in the way?"

"Well you don't always see the model's hands. I remember once when I was a bride, the bouquet I was holding covered them." Cresta hoped she was convincing.

"Then," Marinda went on, "I should only appear in pictures with bouquets." She looked at Cresta sharply. "What do you want?"

"I was looking for Orin's house," Cresta said. "Is it near here?"

Marinda's smile returned, meanly. "Orin's house?" she repeated, making it sound dirty. "You got to cross the covered bridge, then after a stretch of cornfield there's a branch in the road off to the left. You can't see his house though." She grinned. "It's hidden by a bouquet of trees, but it's there all right."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome ... Cresta," Marinda replied and waved goodbye with both of her hands.

Cresta walked on, feeling guilty that she didn't like the little girl. But it wasn't because of her deformity, but rather her acerbic personality. Cresta felt she had been mocked. She thought that Marinda must have given her the wrong directions when suddenly she saw the house appear behind the trees. Cresta was surprised to find it so plain and unassuming. Not like Orin at all. But what did she expect? A mountain version of a sultan's love palace?

She was out of breath when she reached the porch. She knocked on the door. No answer. Then she called, "Orin? Orin?" He didn't appear. Cresta opened the door and entered the parlor. It was like stepping into a surrealistic dream.

The room was completely empty. There was no furniture, no rug, no curtains, not even a lamp, and nothing of a personal nature. Sunlight filtered through the dirt-streaked windowpanes, capturing dust motes in its piercing shafts. Cresta felt a cold breeze stir around her ankles. One of the windows was broken. Leaves and pine needles had drifted in and filled the corners of the room. It was empty, and yet there was a life force here, an unmistakable odor of habitation. A pungent, human aroma of sweat and desire.

The walls, plain wood planking bereft of paint or varnish, were scarred with deep scratches. Fingerprints tarnished the window panes. They resembled a strange breed of insects which were attempting to escape to the outside world. Parts of the floor were more worn than others, and there were stains, dark and wine-colored like giant birthmarks.

Cresta, standing in the center of the room, had the unsavory feeling that she was standing at the bottom of an open grave. An acute wave of nausea swept over her, causing the entire room to shimmer and pulse. She was suddenly aware of movement behind her. She turned her head. Orin was standing in the doorway, wearing tight leather pants.

"Orin," she gasped weakly.

"Yes, Cresta." He smiled. "I'm here."

2 PETER, 5:8

September arrived and the mountains underwent a subtle metamorphosis. Mornings came later, wearing a cloak of crisp, invigorating air. The ground was laced with spiderwebs spun overnight and decorated with dewdrops, like misplaced strands of pearls. Pigments of fall paint began to dapple the trees with blazing color. Creeks flowed faster, and the water bubbling against the rocks created a distinct musical message for the inhabitants of Chestnut Ridge. It said that autumn was coming early and would only have a brief stay. Winter would make its appearance sooner than usual and, like a thoughtless guest, it would wear out its welcome.

The message was understood by all, and preparations were begun for Summer's End.

It was ten days since Cresta's abrupt departure.

Josh had spent every night with Roma, as well as most of each day. With her as guide, Josh explored his own sexuality as completely as a zealous explorer might investigate a newly discovered territory. When he happened to encounter one of Cresta's left-behind possessions - a scarf, a pair of panties, her unplayed guitar - he gave her nothing more than a passing thought. He was utterly preoccupied with Roma. He did not even reflect upon his purpose in coming to Chestnut Ridge. The mountain road had been cleared, but it did not occur to Josh to leave the community, even to inquire about the safety of Harry Evers and company.