The Gilda Stories (23 page)

“Hurry, and stay there. Don't come back up. Just stay,” she said as if speaking to young puppies. Skip and Toya made their way with a small flashlight down to the boat. They climbed in and turned the flashlight off.

“Unlock the front door, Savannah.”

She did as she was told and took another large drink. Bird swung the trapdoor down; sprinted up the stairs, and closed the door behind her.

“What now?”

“We'll just sit; he's not far. Bird will watch from above to make sure he comes to the house first.”

“I can try to talk some sense into him, but I don't think he's the type to listen to sense.”

“You're right, Savannah. All we want to do is maneuver him into position.”

Gilda moved around the room inspecting objects, moving them from table to bookcase, clearing a path.

“You mustn't let him touch you, Savannah. He has the strength of ten men and not the soul of one. I'm not exaggerating, so follow my lead and stay out of his hands.”

Savannah took her gun from the fur jacket, checked the clip, then slipped it between the cushions on the sofa.

“That's not going to do you much good.”

“I ain't never seen a nigger could resist the persuasion of a .45.”

“This is the one, Savannah. Even if you get him dead in the heart that will only slow him down.”

“You talk like he's some kind of spook or something. This is 1955, girl, and I been up off the farm for quite some time.” Gilda didn't answer, so Savannah drained her glass. Both women remained still when they heard the screen door open. Fox pushed the front door gently and stepped inside knowing he was expected.

He smiled callowly at Savannah. “Well, Miss Savannah, it's a little early for the summer cabin, don't you think?”

Savannah said nothing. When his gaze settled on Gilda his light eyes closed like a cat's, seeming to look at her through the lids rather than under them. “What a surprise,” he continued. “I don't think we've met. Gilda, isn't it?”

She didn't respond but watched his body, narrow and thin under the soft silk trousers and cashmere sweater. His small frame rippled with energy; his long, thin fingers twitched impatiently. Dark hair cut close to his head ended in a sharp widow's peak on his forehead.

“This is going to be a real pleasure.” He did not move from the door, only looked around the room. “Where is she?”

“On a trip,” Savannah said before Gilda could speak.

“Really? I don't think so.” He stared at Gilda, curiosity flickering across his face. “Shall I start with her or you?”

“You can start anywhere you like. I'm only interested in your ending.”

“Ending? I don't expect that for some time,” Fox said through a thin smile.

“Funny, I thought tonight would be a good time for it.”

“Come on now, you can't be serious about this. For the sake of that simple little girl you want the true death? We two have many more things we might discuss than this little life.”

“No, we have nothing to discuss at all except the value of her life, the necessity of your death.”

Fox gave a short bellow, then lunged across the room with his fingers stretched out for Gilda's throat. She rolled from the couch, her motion almost too swift for Savannah to see. Fox maintained his balance against the back of the sofa while he reached out, grabbing Gilda's arm. He yanked backward, but she countered with a side kick that sent him tumbling over the couch. She watched him from a crouch, sure she heard the sound of bone.

Savannah moved to the counter, her breath coming quick, her mind racing. She could see no way of getting to the gun hidden in the sofa cushions. Fox sprung up from the floor, his mouth stretched into a snarl.

He jumped over the back of the couch toward Gilda, then shot for her throat like a dart. She deflected his hand with her own and twisted it, sending his body past her into the ancient sideboard. But he'd barely touched and cracked its wood when he swung his foot upward, catching Gilda in the jaw and knocking her off balance. He moved in quickly, punching her full in the face. She fell backward to the couch, and he dropped down, landing on her chest, closing his hands around her neck.

Savannah ran forward and leapt onto his back, her forearm clenched around his neck while she dug with her other hand between the pillows for the gun. Fox loosened his grip on Gilda long enough to fling Savannah across the room. She landed against the base of the counter and felt the snap of bone in the arm twisted under her. The pain kept her from passing out and brought her to her feet again. She could not hear her own voice howling with pain, only the silence of the struggle between the other two.

Fox, who had less height than Gilda, picked her up and grinned as he hurled her against the front door. The frame shook, her body splintering the seamed wood. She held onto the wall and steadied herself.

Fox turned to Savannah smiling, “Aren't you dead yet?”

She backed up involuntarily into the kitchen. The hot handle from the frying pan dug into her back. Although his movement toward her was swift, it felt like slow motion to Savannah. She turned completely around, grabbed the pan with the dishtowel, and flung the scalding tomato sauce into Fox's face. His scream was long and piercing as bits of his flesh fell away with the dripping sauce. He clawed at his face for a moment with bloodied fingers, his body shuddering. He kept coming at Savannah who stared in fascination at the glimpses of bone at his cheek and forehead.

She hardly heard Gilda scream “Now!” and did not see Bird drop down into the living room, cracking the stairs with the force of her landing. Bird was atop Fox before he understood that the person he had sensed hiding above was not Toya but another like himself, shielding her true nature with the force of her thoughts. She plunged the syringe into his back; the heroin sought out his blood like a lover looking for a haven. Savannah finally heard the screaming. It was a moment before she realized it was her own.

Pinned against the stove with this thing at her throat, Savannah felt frantically behind her with her good hand for something else to use. The empty frying pan lay at her feet. The leaking sauce and blood made the gorge rise in her mouth. But she choked it down as she felt his grip loosen. Bird and Gilda pulled Fox's leaden body away from hers, lying him face down on the hook rug. The floor was slick with sauce and blood. Savannah pushed her fist into her own mouth to stop the scream.

“Quick, we don't know how long this will last,” Bird said, as she hoisted him up by his feet.

“Savannah, bring the butcher knife!” Gilda grasped the rug around Fox's shoulders and pushed through the back door.

Savannah moved as best she could with the pain shooting through her arm. She grabbed the thick, wooden-handled carving knife she favored for barbecues, which Skip had left on the counter. The three hurried down to the shore with their burdens.

They found Skip holding tightly to Toya in a silent struggle. “It's them, it's them, O.K., O.K.,” he said, trying to keep her from breaking free and running toward the house.

Bird shouted at them in the dark. “You two get back up to the house. Skip, you're going to have to take Savannah to the hospital.” He let Toya go and rushed toward Savannah, who moved carefully. Gilda and Bird deposited Fox in the boat.

“Here,” Savannah said, her body trembling with the pain as she handed them a knife and the gun she'd retrieved from the sofa.

“Is he dead?” Toya said in a small voice. “What do we do now?”

“He's been dead for a long time, Toya,” Gilda said before turning to Skip. “Get Savannah to a doctor, to look at her arm. Take Toya with you. Don't come back before dawn.”

They heard a slight stir in the boat as Skip, Toya, and Savannah made their way unsteadily through the sand back up to the car.

Bird turned him over and pulled the shirt from his chest. His eyes were open and glazed. They knew he saw them.

“Can we do it,” Gilda stated rather than asked.

“We have to. He'll never stop until he's killed us all,” Bird said, taking the wooden handle in her hand and raising it above his chest.

Fox's hand shot upward, grabbed her thin wrist, and began to bend it backward. He did not move his body, only his forearm, as he worked to shatter the bone. Gilda took the knife from Bird's imprisoned hand and plunged it quickly into his chest. She pulled downward making the flesh open like done sausage. Still he stared blankly and held Bird's wrist as if they were bonded together. Gilda could see the pulsing heart, the organ that pushed this body forward in time. It had somehow been given the power to survive, yet had been turned to stone. Such a thing of mystery: a heart open to the air, beating like a child's, innocent and free.

Gilda looked into Fox's eyes. They were empty, like black stones.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Do it!” Bird screamed, still struggling, breaking each of his fingers away from her wrist with a raw snap.

Gilda reached inside his chest—the warmth startled her. When her fingers brushed the delicate sides of his heart, his eyes softened. Orange swirled through them for a moment before they settled into a moist brown. He looked at the women for the first time as a human, then closed his eyes. Gilda pulled the heart from his body and threw it onto the sand, glad to be rid of its disturbing rhythm.

His grip finally loosened. Bird slid his shoes off and looked again at his dark face. He didn't appear at all as he had in life.

“So here it is at last…,” Gilda said as she gazed down at the boyish quiet that had transformed his face.

“…the distinguished thing,” Bird said, finishing the quote they'd heard from Sorel.

“I'll take the boat out a bit ” She waded into the salty water. Its insistent tide made her uncomfortable but was unable to draw her strength from her. Her native soil rested snugly in her shoes and the hem of her pants. She used the knife to cut Fox's protective clothing from his body, leaving it in a bloody heap in the boat. She pressed the small anchor into the sandy bottom and stood for a moment feeling the bump of the boat against her body.

She waded back in and found Gilda in the backyard trying to start a fire in the brick barbeque. The paper and twigs finally caught and the fire burned low under the dark, fleshy thing. They continued to feed twigs and paper into the flames until the red turned to ash.

They were sitting side by side on the sofa when both realized they needed to go out for their share of the blood, or daylight would find them too weak. Neither relished a hunt now, nor the blood, wanting only to rest and forget. Instead they left together, winding their way toward a clump of houses to the south and entered two separate places. They were relieved to find what they needed, eager to return to the bungalow. They both washed the blood and sand from their bodies in the narrow shower when they got back. They sat on the sofa watching the first pink light push its way into the sky; then they heard the others at the door. Savannah's eyes were dulled by painkillers the doctors had given her, but she looked around the room in panic. She held onto the huge cast with her good hand.

“Is it done?”

“We think so,” Bird answered. Skip led Savannah to the chair and gently put her feet up on the ottoman.

“I guess I better clean up some of this mess.” He scrubbed away the red stains, trying to pretend it was all tomato sauce.

“When the sun is up full, I want one of you to go out to the boat and pull it in. Come back and tell me what you see.”

Savannah rested her head on the back of the chair. Toya paced around the shuttered room until Skip told her to sit down. Bird pulled the girl's head into her lap and rubbed her forehead. Gilda sat on the floor beside the couch, her head back against the cushions. Skip mopped the floor. Although their eyes were closed, no one slept. All seemed afraid to disturb the silence.

Finally Gilda opened her eyes and said, “It's time. Someone check the boat.”

“I'll go,” Toya said.

“No! Let Skip go,” Savannah said, shuddering at the memory of the bleeding face.

“I can do it,” Toya said sharply. “If it's really over I want to be the first to know. If it's not over now, then it don't matter who goes out, does it?” She went out the back door, her long, thin braid hanging down her back. Savannah and Skip watched from the step as she waded into the water, unhooked the anchor, and pulled the row-boat in without looking inside. She hauled it up on the shore, then turned to look down, unsure what she expected to see. There were fragments of the sweater and pants, stained and crusty with blood and salt water.

She ran back to the house, her laughter and words floating behind her. “There's nothing there! Only clothes,” she screeched.

The band of tension across Savannah's face refused to be broken by relief until she saw for herself. She rushed down to the boat. Toya stopped and waited, her laughter suspended until Savannah turned back toward them and screamed, “Clothes!”

Gilda and Bird retreated to the attic while the others packed. When the afternoon sun began to fade, Skip pulled the car around to the front of the house. He had burned the clothes and thrown the tarp back over the boat. They piled into the car, silent, unbelieving.

“I still want to leave,” Toya said.

“Me and Skip will get you to the train,” Savannah told her. “I think you need a little rest first, and we'll fix you up with some clothes. Can't have you goin' home from Boston lookin' like something the cat drug in.”

Gilda and Bird listened to the plans. When the car turned off of Route 3 into the South End they were unsure where they should go next.

“Drop us on the corner of Mass. Ave.,” Gilda said. “I think we'll stop in at the 411.”

“Why break up the party now?” Savannah challenged, her laughter booming as Skip swerved the car smoothly around the corner. “I haven't had so much fun since I totaled my powder-blue Cadillac.”