Benchley, Peter - Novel 07 (24 page)

 
          
 
Preston looked up from the floor. To his left
knelt Twist, to his right Hector. Their arms were locked together. All he could
see beyond the arms was a field of broad checks that encased enough compacted
suet to crush the life out of him.

 
          
 
"How did your daddy die?" What would
Kimberly answer? "He was fatted to death in a drunk tank somewhere in
New Mexico
. ''

 
          
 
The field of checks teetered, growing larger,
then smaller, larger, smaller. Then they grew larger and larger and larger,
until they struck Preston's hands and his face. Locked arms of muscle and bone
were driven into his chest. He was rocked back on his knees, pressed to the
floor like a limbo dancer.

 
          
 
He heard nothing but grunts, smelled an
overpowering stench of Aqua Velva, felt his lips and nose splayed by something
hard, round, bony and slick with sweat.

 
          
 
Marcia looked down and thought of a creche.
There was Cheryl, kneeling beside Lupone (eyes still closed) and holding his
hand. There were Hector and Twist, their heads jammed against Lupone's chest
because their arms were trapped beneath him. And somewhere under there was
Preston.

 
          
 
Lupone opened his eyes and looked down at the
two heads—one black, one brown—nestled against his massive breast. "Hey!"
he shouted, and he beamed. “Hey!"

 
          
 
“Yes, William?"

 
          
 
“They caught me!"

 
          
 
"Uh-huh."

 
          
 
“Be dipped in shit and rolled in
breadcrumbs."

 
          
 
"Really."

 
          
 
"Didn't bust a thing."

 
          
 
A plaintive voice, wailing like a departed spirit,
wafted up through crannies in the mountain of flesh.

 
          
 
"Here," Marcia said, extending a
hand to Lupone. "Before we have to send Scott to intensive care."

 
          
 
“Oh yeah," said Lupone, and he turned his
head and shouted to
Preston
as if he were at the bottom of a mine
shaft, "Sorry, pal."

 
          
 
There was no way Marcia could haul Lupone to
his feet, so she moved to the side and gripped his hand with both of hers and
braced herself and yanked. Lupone rolled and Cheryl pushed as Marcia pulled,
and finally, like an overturned tortoise, Lupone tipped up onto his side. A
last shove from Cheryl sent him crashing to the floor, face down.

 
          
 
"Mama!" said Twist, rubbing his arms
to restore circulation before gangrene set in.

 
          
 
Hector flopped backward on the floor and
gasped. The pack of cigarettes in his T-shirt sleeve was as flat as a Frisbee.

 
          
 
Preston was gray and twisted, like a
contortionist who had gone too far and been left to die by a disappointed
audience. He moaned and moved his limbs, and Marcia and Cheryl helped him to
his feet.

 
          
 
"That was great!" Lupone said,
tucking in his shirt. "But I still don't get it. How come they give a
shit? Me, I'da let me fall and then laughed my ass off."

 
          
 
"You ever heard of John Donne,
William?"

 
          
 
"You mean the guy writes alla time about
Harps?"

 
          
 
"No. The one who said, 'No man is an
island.' That one.

 
          
 
"Kinda fuckin' Einstein is that? Who ever
said somebody was an island?"

 
          
 
"What he was saying is, we're all in this
together. If you hurt, I hurt. We can't go it alone, and if we try, we go down
the tubes."

 
          
 
"So?"

 
          
 
"So"—she gestured at the
others—"they caught you because they were saying. We know what kind of
pain you're in because we've had the same pain and we want to help you. '

 
          
 
"Yeah?" Lupone looked doubtful.
"Never mind. I'm not a man forgets a favor." He walked over to Twist
and said, "Here." He reached in one jacket pocket, then in another.
His pockets were empty. He said, "Shit. I forgot. I owe you."

 
          
 
“Forgot what?" Marcia asked.

 
          
 
"They got all my money."

 
          
 
"What d'you want with money?"

 
          
 
"Gonna give 'em some."

 
          
 
"Why?"

 
          
 
"Why?'' Lupone looked puzzled. "They
did me a favor."

 
          
 
"They didn't do it for money,
William."

 
          
 
"So? Money's a convincer. Convinces you
you did good, so maybe next time you'll do even better. Besides, I never knew a
guy yet who couldn't use a couple bucks."

 
          
 
Preston waited for Marcia's attack. He
wondered if it would be direct or oblique, savage or subtle, a club or a
stiletto.

 
          
 
But Marcia laughed. Not a snide chuckle or a
sarcastic bark but a spontaneous laugh of genuine amusement. She patted Lupone
on the shoulder and said, "William, you are one hard-ass nut to crack, but
I'm gonna do it."

 
          
 
Preston gasped. Those are the same words she
said to me! The same words! Exactly! What's going on?Does she say that to all
the guys ? He wanted to call her out, to ask her, to challenge her supposed
sincerity. But then he realized—amazed—that what he was feeling was not so much
anger or righteous resentment as simple jealousy. He was being possessive. He
wanted all the attention. He wanted to be special.

 
          
 
He was behaving like a baby.

 
          
 
Lupone winked at Marcia and said, ''Good luck,
sweetheart."

 
          
 
They gathered their chairs and formed their
circle.

 
          
 
"I should've welcomed Cheryl back first
thing," Marcia said as she sat down. She turned to Cheryl. "How'd it
go?"

 
          
 
"I don't know. I won't know till the
tests come back."

 
          
 
Bambi, Preston thought. That's what Bambi
would look like if Bambi were a bird.

 
          
 
"It's out of your hands," Marcia
said. "Right?"

 
          
 
"Right."

 
          
 
"No use worrying about it."

 
          
 
"No. But that's easy to say."

 
          
 
"Remember 'the serenity to accept the
things we cannot change.' "

 
          
 
"I remember."

 
          
 
"You been saying the prayer?"

 
          
 
"Not enough."

 
          
 
"You like us to say it with you?"

 
          
 
Cheryl hesitated. "Yes."

 
          
 
Marcia held out her arms and they all joined
hands and recited the Serenity Prayer—even Lupone, though he didn't close his
eyes and didn't know the prayer and so just muttered syllables while eyeing the
others to make sure they were serious and sincere and not engaged in some
conspiracy to make him look like an ass.

 
          
 
"Now," Marcia said when they were
done, "I think we should talk to Twist."

 
          
 
"Huh?" Twist said, evidently
surprised at the sudden attention. "About what?"

 
          
 
"About heroin."

 
          
 
"What about it?"

 
          
 
"What does it do for you?"

 
          
 
"What's it do! Man, you know what it
do."

 
          
 
"Not for you. I only know what it did for
me. Where does it take you?"

 
          
 
"Away."

 
          
 
"From what?"

 
          
 
"From ..." Twist looked at the
ceiling. "From . . . I guess all the shit."

 
          
 
"That's what I want to look at. The
shit."

 
          
 
There was a knock on the door. Marcia frowned
and left her seat and went to the door and opened it a few inches.

 
          
 
A new arrival, Preston thought. It had to be. Therapy
sessions were never interrupted except for earthquakes, terrorist attacks or
new arrivals.

 
          
 
It was Guy Larkin. He said a few words to
Marcia. She looked at her feet for a moment and then took a breath and squared
her shoulders, turned back into the room and said, "Cheryl?"

 
          
 
For the first time since he had met her,
Preston could actually see Cheryl's eyes, for they had widened so, and the skin
beneath them had tightened so, that the eyes themselves seemed to be about to
leave their stygian caves.

 
          
 
She looked terrified. She didn't speak, didn't
move.

 
          
 
Marcia came back into the room and took
Cheryl's hand. "We have to go see the doctor," she said.

 
          
 
Cheryl nodded and allowed herself to be
gentled out of her chair.

 
          
 
Marcia put an arm around Cheryl and led her
from the room. At the door, Marcia said to the others—and there was something
awful about her voice, something stale and flat—"Everybody tell somebody
else a secret."

 
          
 
They stared at each other. Then they stared at
the floor, then at their fingernails, at their shoes, at the walls, out the
window. Somebody coughed. Somebody else cleared his throat. Twist untied one of
his shoes, tied it again.

 
          
 
Preston said, "I . . ." and
everybody looked at him. He didn't know what to say. Tell somebody a secret?
Tell who? And what secret? Recite his sexual fantasies? Talk about the time he
padded his expense account?

 
          
 
They were like a car with the ignition
removed. All the machinery was in place to drive the group, but the spark,
Marcia, was gone.