Voodoo Heart (27 page)

He was gazing past me, at nothing in particular. His suit was bright red, with sequined playing cards on the lapels. His mouth hung slightly open; I could hear him breathing.

I looked away from him, back at Pearl. I was afraid that if I stayed focused on his face, even for one more moment, I’d lose it.

I tried to smile at Pearl. “You were saying?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I…I wanted to let you know how bad I felt about the police being called on you that time you came to the house. It wasn’t Dick or me who did that. We weren’t even there.” She glanced at Joan, then back at me. “I just wanted you to know that.”

Both women waited for me to say something. I felt as though I were balancing on a high post. I needed to stay very still. A breeze rolled over us, causing the lanterns above to creak and sway.

“That’s fine,” I said.

Pearl waited a moment. “I guess we should be getting back,” she said. “We’re on in a little while.”

“Good luck up there,” said Joan.

“Thanks,” she said, and then turned to me. “It was good to see you.” She smiled, but there was something very sad tucked into the corners of her mouth.

Hold on for a few more seconds, I thought. Both of them will be gone. Just be cool.

“It was nice meeting you,” Pearl finally said to Joan.

“Nice meeting you too,” said Joan. “And you,” she said to Dick, whose hand suddenly shot out in front of Joan. The fingers were bulky and callused, with dark hair growing around the knuckles.

Dick’s hand hung there between all of us, trembling.

“He wants to shake hands with you,” said Pearl. “This is wonderful. He’s hardly ever this aware offstage.”

“I’m flattered,” said Joan. She reached for his hand.

“No, no,” said Pearl. “Please. Let him come to you. It’s good for him.”

Joan held her hand above Dick’s.

All three of us stood there watching as Dick’s twitching hand slowly rose, the thick fingers straining toward Joan’s open palm. The hand seemed to take forever to ascend a few inches. When the fingers finally arrived, Joan gave them a gentle shake.

“Proud of you,” said Pearl, rubbing Dick’s arm.

After Joan broke from him, he let his hand fall back to his side. Then he took a few angling baby steps that left him pointed in my direction. I steeled myself.
Don’t even think about it,
I thought.
Don’t…
But his hand was already trembling at his waist.

“Do you want to shake hands with him, too, Dick? Is that what you want to do?” said Pearl.

She turned to me, excited. “Would that be okay? This is more than I’ve seen him try at once in I don’t even know how long.”

I studied Dick’s eyes, searching for any glimmer of mischief. Nothing at all. Still, I decided that if this was a joke in any way, I’d strangle Dick to death.

I put out my hand.

Dick’s hand began to rise again. The fingers shook violently, like the effort to lift them was too much for him. I kept my hand where it was, waiting. My heart was thudding in my chest.

“You can do it,” said Pearl. “Shake his hand!”

Dick’s hand hovered just beneath mine. I could feel the warmth from his fingers radiating up into my palm. I kept my eyes fixed on his, which, as always, peered out at nothing. It would be so easy to test him, to see if he was faking. All I’d have to do was take the hand in mine and squeeze.

“Come on, Dick,” said Joan.

His spastic hand floated there, suspended. Our fingers were practically touching.

“You can, you can!” said Pearl.

“Do it, Dick,” I said. “Go on.”

Finally, the hand fell back to Dick’s side.

Pearl sighed. “Ugh. I’m sorry. He was having such a good day.”

“He did great, right?” Joan said to me.

“He did just fine,” I said.

“Thanks. He’s trying hard. It’s a long road,” Pearl said, slipping her arm around Dick’s waist. “Well, take care. Both of you.” Then she turned him around, and the two of them walked away.

I watched her go, the bells on her skirt faintly jangling.

“That was a nice surprise,” said Joan.

I was suddenly aware of being alone on the dance floor with her. The stagehands were already setting up for the next band. I looked around to see if anyone was watching us.

“Hey, buster,” Joan said. “I’m proud of you. You handled that very well. I thought we were going to have a problem, but you acted like a true gentleman.”

I was still breathing hard. “I told you I’d be okay.”

“Let’s go home, Mr. Miller,” said Joan, leading me off the dance floor.

“We can stay,” I said, suddenly quite proud of myself. “We can dance to Dick’s singing, if you want. It’d be nice to hear him.”

“I think I’ve had enough of the fair for one night,” she said.

As we made our way through the crowd to the parking lot, I felt better than I had in a long time; I felt as though a fog were lifting, a fog of rage and jealousy in which I’d been lost for weeks, maybe months. By the time we reached the Silver Coach I couldn’t keep my hands off Joan. I was overwhelmed by a wild and joyous horniness.

“Down,” Joan said, laughing as she unlocked the door.

But as soon as we were inside she was kissing me back, pulling my shirt off. I made for her belt, but she stopped.

“Wait. Let’s not until we get home,” she said.

I kissed her belly, unzipping the top of her jeans.

“There’s too many people around,” she said, but she was already unbuttoning her blouse. I looked out the windshield and saw no one close enough to worry about.

The coils were loud that night, groaning and crying beneath us. I held Joan’s hips as we moved. She pressed back into me, her skin hot and soft against my own. I grabbed at her, wanting to envelop her, to be touching every part at once.

“That feels so good,” she said, moving faster now.

I closed my eyes. I could feel the shuttle rocking on its wheels. The sounds the Coach made were exciting, the creaking and huffing, and yet beneath the racket I thought I heard something else, some other, deeper strain of noise. The sound was faint, but persistent. I listened harder, until I realized what I was hearing. The noise was a voice: Dick Doyle’s voice.

I opened my eyes and saw something so shocking, I nearly froze: standing on the dashboard just behind the steering wheel, guitar in hand, was a miniature Dick Doyle. He couldn’t have been more than six inches tall, a tiny doppelgänger, wearing a little red suit, a minuscule cowboy hat on his head. And he was singing to me; I could hear his voice beneath the squeaking of the seat, that high, whiny crooning of his.

But then I realized that, of course, this wasn’t a miniature Dick Doyle at all; the figure was just a reflection. Joan had left the mirror she’d won on top of her bag, and it reflected the fair’s stage. The gold stars around its border twinkled in the light. They hovered all around Dick, shimmering.

I turned away from the mirror and concentrated on Joan. I watched the shiny groove of her back, the bounce of her. I tried to listen to the sounds she made, to the rocking Coach. But beneath the noise, I could still hear Dick’s nasal, grating voice. I craned my neck to get a look at the actual stage, but the Coach’s windshield was angled toward the thoroughfare. All I could see of Dick Doyle was his reflection.

Hee-hee, went the springs beneath the seat. Hee-hee-hee. I thought back to how close Dick had let his hand get to mine a moment before, so close that I’d actually believed he was going to shake with me. I recalled that trick kids play on each other, putting a hand out, then yanking it back. Fooled you, shithead! Hee-hee-hee-hee. And there was little Dick, singing from the dashboard. The sequined playing cards flashed from his lapels.

I took off my watch and flung it at the mirror, but it missed and hit the windshield.

“What was that?” Joan said over her shoulder.

“Nothing,” I said. “Don’t stop.”

“You threw something. I saw you. What’s the matter?”

“Come on. Don’t do this,” I said, trying to get back into things.

But she was already looking out the windshield, at Dick onstage.

“Joan.”

She pulled away. Then she started dressing.

“Joan, come on. I just got nervous that we were going to get caught.”

“Don’t lie,” she said, pulling on her jeans.

“I’m not lying! I thought I saw someone peeking at us from over there. From behind that Plymouth.”

“Stop already. I need to get some air.” She pulled the lever and opened the door.

I grabbed her hand. “Joan, I’m crazy about you. I want you to come to New York with me. Joan!”

“Let me go!”

“Joan, please!”

She tried to pull away but I held on.

“Get off of me!” She yanked her hand free and got out of the shuttle.

“I’m sorry,” I called after her, watching her vanish into the crowd. “I couldn’t help it!”

A woman with a blanket under her arm walked by the Coach’s open door and I suddenly became aware of my nakedness. I yanked the door shut and sat down in the driver’s seat, which gave a loud, tired wheeze beneath my weight.

For a long moment I sat inside the empty Coach, the sweat on my body cooling. I stared out the window at Dick Doyle, trying to figure out how, exactly, he’d tricked me into becoming this—a man sitting naked and alone in a dusty parking lot. He’d led me away from my life, down, down all the way to central Florida. He’d turned me into someone I didn’t recognize. A man I despised. I thought about returning to New York without anything to show for myself, returning with no one, to nothing.

I fished the keys from Joan’s bag and started up the Coach. Then I slammed on the gas.

The chain strung across the front of the lot snapped with a twang as the Coach roared up out of the gravel lot and onto the stretch of grass leading to the stage. I turned on the high beams, which cut through the darkness like the white horns of a charging bull. I was vaguely aware of people on the dance floor screaming and scattering, but I had my sights fixed on the man onstage. He seemed unaware of the commotion; he just strummed his guitar and sang, the spotlight making the sequined designs sparkle across his suit.

Lanterns popped against the windshield, one after another, sending showers of sparks across the glass. The blue floor gleamed beneath the Coach’s tires. Flecks of mica in the paint sparkled under the headlights, as though the floor were an immense body of water, an ocean I had to cross to get to Dick Doyle. Someone threw a soda against the driver’s-side door, where it splattered all over my window; I plowed through a giant teddy-bear, which burst in an explosion of stuffing. All I saw was Dick Doyle, singing away at the end of that bright shaft of light, his hairy fingers moving over the guitar.

I pressed harder on the gas; the stage loomed closer and closer. I glared at Dick, waiting for him to look over, to see the Coach speeding toward him, but his gaze was vacant, aimed blindly at the dancing crowd.
Look over here!
I thought.
Call chicken!
Still, he kept on playing. I was so close now that I could smell the hay bales onstage. I could hear his voice, not his amplified voice but the real thing. I could see the sweat stains on the brim of his white hat.

“Drop your mask!” I screamed. “Drop it!”

But Dick stayed where he was.

I stomped on the brakes, but the Coach was going too fast; the van hurtled toward Dick, screeching and fishtailing, smashing through hay bales. I pulled the emergency brake, and still the Coach skidded toward Dick, who was only now looking over, finally seeing what was about to happen. There was no fear in his face, though, only a lack of comprehension, bewilderment. He stopped playing. But that was all he had time to do before the Coach rammed into him. There was a horrible thud, and then the Coach slid to a stop.

“It’s that stalker!” someone screamed.

“Call the cops!”

I glanced in the side-view mirror and saw Dick staggering to his feet behind one of the hay bales. His guitar still hung from his neck, but its front had come loose and was dangling by the instrument’s strings over the empty wooden box of its body. Dick’s hat had fallen off too. His hair stuck up in wild shocks. He looked over at me, dazed and blinking against the stage lights. The light had been in his eyes, I realized. That was why he hadn’t seen me coming.

I put the Coach in reverse.

The tires squealed against the waxed surface of the stage. I watched in the side-view mirror as Dick wobbled on his feet, looking at me coming toward him with that same expression of confusion.
Who’s the loser now?
I thought.
Who’s the fucking fake!
Dick vanished behind the tail end of the Coach.

I was sure he’d dodge or dive to safety, but instead I heard a loud whump and a grunt and the crash of someone falling backward into stage equipment.

I jerked the Coach to a stop. The voices were closer now.

“Get him!”

“Grab his arm! Lord Christ, he’s naked in there!”

I craned my head out the window. I saw Dick’s leg hanging over a toppled speaker. The silver toe cap at the tip of his boot winked at me in the light. Beyond the boot Dick’s face appeared with what looked like a smile on it.

I stepped on the gas again. The Coach lurched backward, but an amplifier was stuck beneath the tail. The tires spun and smoked. I rammed the lever into drive, but before I could hit the gas again a hand reached inside the window and had me by the face. Another one grabbed my hair. All the stage lights seemed to go out at once.

Part Three: Ballad with Thirty-six Wheels

I
SPENT THE WHOLE OF SUNDAY AT THE POLICE STATION, LOCKED
in a common holding cell. The courts were closed for the weekend, so there would be no bail hearing until Monday morning.

All I did in the cell was lie on my cot. I hurt all over; I was covered in bruises from being dragged out of the Coach. One of my eyes was black and swollen and wouldn’t stop tearing. The cell was nicer than I’d imagined it would be, clean and well lit, with six soft cots lining the wall. The toilet had a curtain that pulled closed around it for privacy. Only two other people shared the cell with me. Both were men sleeping off drunks. One lay on his back with an arm flung over his face. The other sat curled against the wall, his jacket around his shoulders like a cape. This man was older, and for a moment, when I was first led into the cell, I mistook him for the old man from the dumpster, but he was just a stranger.