The Ruins (51 page)

 "Will
you be okay?" she asked.

 Eric
nodded, reaching to drag the sleeping bag over his body. And that was
enough for Stacy; she darted off, ducking past the flap, into the rain.

 Within
seconds, she was drenched. Mathias was standing in the center of the
clearing, letting the Frisbee fill, pouring its contents into the
plastic jug. His clothes were clinging to him, his hat drooping
shapelessly on his head. He held out the Frisbee, the plastic jug,
gesturing for her to take them; when she did, he moved quickly toward
Pablo, who was lying motionless on the backboard, eyes shut, the rain
blowing in on him. Stacy waited for the Frisbee to fill, then poured
the water into the jug, repeating this process again and again while
Mathias struggled with the lean-to, trying to adjust it so that it
might give the Greek more shelter. It seemed like a hopeless task; the
wind kept gusting, knocking the rain almost horizontally through the
air. Short of bringing Pablo into the tent, there was no way to protect
him.

 Stacy
capped the jug. The pouch was filling; it seemed like it was working.
The rain fell and fell and fell, turning the clearing into mud. Stacy
could feel it deepening, her sandals slowly sinking. She noticed the
bar of soap, which was lying half-immersed beside the pouch, and picked
it up, began to scrub at her hands and face. Then she tilted her head
back, let the rain rinse her clean. It wasn't enough, though.
She wanted more, and without really thinking, she stripped off her
shirt, her pants, even her underwear. She stood in the center of the
clearing, naked, lathering her breasts, her belly, her groin, her hair,
washing the dirt—the sweat and grease and
stink—from her body.

 Mathias
was bent low over the lean-to, taping the lengths of nylon more tightly
to the aluminum poles, the wind tugging at him. He turned, as if to ask
for Stacy's help, but then just stared, his gaze passing over
her nakedness, moving slowly upward. He couldn't seem to meet
her eyes; he flinched from them, turned back to the lean-to without a
word.

 The
light, already faint to begin with, was rapidly draining from the
clearing. Stacy had long ago lost track of time, so it was difficult to
decide if this were some effect of the storm, growing ever darker above
them, or if, behind the mass of clouds, the sun had finally begun to
set, bringing the day to its abrupt close. There was
thunder—growling, low and guttural—and the rain was
falling forcefully enough to sting her skin. It kept getting colder and
colder, too. She had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from
chattering; she was shivering, the chill sinking into her bones.

 Bones.

 Stacy
turned toward the sleeping bag, the knot of vines spilling from its
mouth, the glints of white shining wetly in the fading light. She had
the odd sense that someone was watching her, felt suddenly exposed in
her nakedness, and hugged herself, hiding her breasts beneath her
folded arms. She glanced toward Mathias—who remained with his
back to her, absorbed in his struggle with the lean-to—then
toward the trail, thinking Jeff might've returned from the
bottom of the hill. But there was no one there, and no sign of Eric,
either, peering out at her from the tent. The sensation remained,
however, growing stronger, uncomfortably so. It was only when she
turned to stare off across the hillside, at the rain falling steadily
upon all those green leaves, making them duck and nod, that she
realized what the source was.

 It
was the vine: she could feel it watching.

 She
sprinted for the tent, leaving her wet clothes abandoned in a muddy
heap behind her.

 It
was even darker inside than outside; Stacy could barely make Eric out,
had to strain to discern him lying on the tent's floor, the
sleeping bag pulled tightly around his body. She thought his eyes were
open, thought she could see him peering toward her as she entered, but
wasn't certain.

 "I
washed myself," she said. "You should,
too."

 Eric
didn't respond, didn't speak or move.

 She
stepped toward him, bending. "Eric?"

 He
grunted, shifted slightly.

 "You
okay?" she asked.

 Again,
he grunted.

 Stacy
hesitated, watching him through the dimness. The wind kept shaking the
tent's walls. The nylon above her was leaking in a handful of
different places,
water
plop
-plop-plopping
to the floor, forming slowly expanding puddles. She couldn't
seem to stop shivering. "I have to get dressed,"
she said.

 Eric
just lay there.

 Stacy
stepped to the rear of the tent, crouched over the backpacks, dug
through them until she found a skirt, a yellow blouse. She quickly
rubbed herself dry with a T-shirt, then pulled the skirt and blouse on,
naked underneath—she couldn't bear the thought of
wearing a stranger's panties. The skirt was short, riding up
her thighs; the blouse was tight. Whomever they'd once
belonged to must've been even tinier than she was.

 Stacy
was feeling somewhat better—not good, exactly, but not quite
as wretched as before. The humming in her head had nearly vanished. Her
hunger, too, seemed to have diminished; she felt empty,
husklike
, but strangely serene
within this. She was still shivering, and she thought briefly of
climbing in under the sleeping bag with Eric, cuddling up against him,
that heat radiating off his flesh. But then she remembered Mathias, out
in the clearing, fighting to create some small measure of shelter for
Pablo, and she crept back to the flap, peered into the gathering dark.
The light was almost completely gone now. Mathias, only ten feet away
from her, was little more than a shadow. He was sitting beside Pablo,
in the mud, hunched beneath her sunshade. He'd managed to
lower the lean-to, but it was hard to tell how much good it was doing
the Greek.

 "Mathias?"
Stacy called.

 He
stared toward her through the downpour.

 "Where's
Jeff?" she asked.

 Mathias
glanced over his shoulder, as if he expected to find Jeff lurking
somewhere in the clearing. Then he turned back to her, shook his head.
He said something, but it was hard to decipher above the sound of the
rain.

 Stacy
cupped her hands, called out, "Shouldn't he be
back?"

 Mathias
rose to his feet, stepped toward her. The sunshade seemed more symbolic
than practical: it wasn't really doing anything to block the
rain. "What?" he said.

 "Shouldn't
Jeff be back?"

 Mathias
shifted his weight from foot to foot, thinking, the tops of his tennis
shoes vanishing into the
puddled
earth, then reappearing, then vanishing again. "I guess I
should go down and see."

 "See?"

 "What's
keeping him."

 Stacy's
head started to hum again. She didn't want to be left alone
up here with Eric and Pablo. She tried to think of something to say, a
way to keep Mathias near the tent, but nothing came.

 "Can
you watch Pablo?" he asked.

 She
hesitated. She was clean and dry, and the idea of relinquishing these
two tenuous comforts filled her with dread. "Maybe if we
wait, he'll—"

 "It's
just going to get darker. I won't be able to see if I wait
much longer." He held the sunshade toward her, and she
reached to take it, extending her arm into the rain, goose bumps
forming on her skin. Mathias dragged his hat off his head, wrung it
out, put it back on. "I'll try to be
quick," he said. "All right?"

 Stacy
nodded. She gathered her courage, ducked out though the tent flap. It
was like stepping into a waterfall. She moved toward Pablo's
lean-too, crouched beside it, trying not to see the Greek—his
gaunt, mud-spattered face, his wet hair—too frightened to
confront his misery, his suffering, knowing that there was nothing she
could do to ease it. She held the sunshade above her head,
pointlessly—it was just something for the wind to yank at.
Mathias remained there for another moment, watching her, the rain
pouring down upon them. Then he turned and strode off across the
clearing, vanishing into the darkness.

E
ric had curled into a ball,
burrowing beneath the sleeping bag, trying to find some warmth. The
rain was falling, and Stacy and Mathias were outside in it. The wind
kept gusting, shaking the tent. Eric was exhausted, but he
wasn't going to let himself sleep, not without someone
watching over him. He was just going to shut his eyes, only for an
instant, a handful of seconds, shut his eyes and breathe, resting, not
sleeping. Then Stacy was back, quite suddenly, stooping over him,
asking if he was okay. She was wet, she was naked, and she was dripping
on him; the roof was also dripping. And Eric
thought,
I'm
asleep, I'm dreaming.
But he wasn't, or
only half so. He was conscious of her in the tent with him, could hear
her rummaging through the backpacks, patting herself dry, pulling on
new clothes. He felt with his hand, searching out his wounds, worried
that the vine might've attacked him while he'd lain
there drowsing, but he discovered no sign of this. He
ached—his entire body seemed to be throbbing. Even his
fingertips felt bruised, the soles of his feet, his
kneecaps—everything.

 He
heard voices and lifted his head. Stacy was standing by the tent flap,
silhouetted there, talking to Mathias. Eric's eyes drifted
shut once more, only for a moment it seemed, yet when he reopened them,
he was alone. He checked his wounds again, thought about sitting up,
but he couldn't find the strength for it. The rain was loud
enough to make it hard for him to think; it sounded like applause.

 He
could feel himself sinking back into sleep, and he fought against it,
struggling to surface. He was teaching, his first morning at his new
job, but every time he tried to speak, the boys would start to clap,
drowning out his voice. It was a game—somehow he understood
this—yet he wasn't certain of the rules, knew only
that he was losing, and that if this kept up, he'd be fired
before the day was through. Oddly, he felt comforted by the prospect.
Part of himself was still awake—he knew he was dreaming. And
from this still-sentient sliver of consciousness, Eric could even
manage to analyze the dream. He didn't want to be a
teacher—this was what it was saying, that he hadn't
ever wanted to be one, but could only admit it to himself now, trapped
here, never to
return.
What
,
then?
he thought, and the answer came in a way that made him
understand this, too, was part of the dream—this
self-appraisal—because what he realized he'd always
wanted to be was a bartender in an old-fashioned saloon, not a real
saloon, either, but a movie saloon, from a black-and-white Western,
with swinging doors, a drunken poker game in the corner, gunslingers
dueling in the street. He'd fill mugs with beer, slide them
down the countertop. He'd have an Irish accent, would be John
Wayne's best friend, Gary Cooper's—

 "It's
making it up. Okay? Eric? You know that, don't
you?"

 The
tent was dark. Stacy was crouched above him again—wet,
dripping—prodding at his arm. She seemed frightened, jittery
with it. She kept glancing over her shoulder, toward the flap.

 "It's
not real," she said. "It didn't
happen."

 He
had no idea what she was talking about, was still half-immersed in his
dream, the boys clapping, the creak of the saloon doors swinging open. "What didn't?" he asked.

 And
then he heard, faintly, beneath the rain's downpour the
words
Kiss
me, Mathias. Will you kiss me?
It was a woman's
voice, coming from the
clearing.
It's
okay. I want to.
It sounded like Stacy, but the voice was
blurred slightly; it was her and not her all at once.

 Stacy
seemed to sense what he was thinking. "It's trying
to pretend it's me. That I said that. But I
didn't."

 Hold
me. Just hold me.

 And
then, what sounded like Mathias's
voice:
We
shouldn't. What if he—

 
Shh
. No one will hear.

 "It's
not me," Stacy said. "I swear. Nothing
happened."

 Eric
pushed himself up off the floor, sat cross-legged, the sleeping bag
wrapped around his shoulders. From outside, in the
rainswept
dark, came the sound
of panting, softly at first, but then growing in volume.

 There
was Mathias's voice again, almost a
sigh:
God
,
that feels good.

 The
panting became moaning.

 So
good.

 
Harder,
Stacy's
voice whispered.

 The
moans built slowly, inexorably, toward a mutual climax, with something
like a scream coming from Stacy. Then there was silence, just the rain
splattering down, and the start-stop rasp of Pablo's
breathing. Eric watched Stacy through the darkness. She was wearing
someone else's clothes. They were a size too small for her,
clinging wetly to her body.

 It
shouldn't matter, of course. Maybe it had happened, and maybe
it hadn't—either way, he'd be a fool to
worry over it at a time like this. Eric could see the logic in such an
argument, and he spent a few moments struggling to find a way to
achieve the proper distance for so rational an approach. He toyed with
the idea of laughing. Would that be the right strategy? Should he shake
his head, chuckle? Or should he hug her? But she was so wet, and
dressed in those strange clothes, like a whore, actually. The thought
came unbidden. Eric even tried to suppress it, but it
wouldn't let him be, not with her nipples standing so erect
beneath her blouse, not with that skirt riding up her thighs, not
with—