The Entity, page 21
The whiskey was in Carlotta’s brain. She drank little hard liquor, but she liked it with Jerry. Now, like a swarm of golden bees, it buzzed in her brain.
“Like some more?” he asked.
She nodded.
There was a clink of ice cubes, the sound of liquor gurgling. She watched the powerful male form move with its natural grace in the darkness. Now, he was only a silhouette.
“Oh—your hand,” she whispered. “It’s so cold.”
“I forgot,” he laughed. “The ice cubes.”
“No, leave it there.”
Jerry bent down low, looking into the depths of her eyes. His breath was a pleasant aroma of good whiskey and fine tobacco. A masculine smell. It was almost as dizzying as the liquor itself.
His hand was warm now. Both his hands were warm. She moved higher against the pillows to make it easier for him. Her nipples had grown erect under the bedsheet. She moved her legs. He nuzzled her gently along her neck.
“You smell so nice,” he whispered.
She laughed softly.
She grew quiet. They heard each other’s breathing in their ears. A faraway ocean of stillness, an insistent sound, regular and deep, growing warmer. The room was warmer now. Totally dark. She could not see her feet at the end of the bed. A distant drone of the highway and the breakers three hundred yards below. Her belly moved, slowly, toward him.
“Yes,” she murmured.
In a distant room a radio went on, a popular song, rough but sentimental. Then it went off. A door slammed and somebody drove away.
“Mmmmmmmmmm, yes.”
They pressed themselves so close, the world and everything in it disappeared around them. Only they were left.
“Yes,” she breathed, “yes, yes, yes . . .”
Unconscious of the sounds she made, she reached for him, wanted him, let him want her, have her, and she had him. It was as though they were in some kind of underwater world where she fought with him, held onto him, and the flowing warmth spread through her like a gathering fire. It turned her skin soft and glowing, her eyes moist, her heavy breathing turning into soft moans.
“Jerry!” she whispered.
A great peace came to her. She felt him ebbing, far away, with her. Sleepy, exhausted, the two warm bodies were unable to move. She smiled at him. It was too dark to see his face. But she could tell he was sleepy. Feeling a complete, drained, peacefulness.
Now he woke up a little. He edged closer to her, all along her side. They looked at the ceiling for a while, saying nothing, needing to say nothing. After a long while he heard her fumbling for a cigarette. He lit hers with a lighter, then his own. The glow of the lighter made her body shine.
“Hey, Carlotta,” he said, looking at her breasts, “what happened? You cut yourself.”
“What?”
“There. Down there. Farther down, too.”
She blew out the lighter. He flicked it on again. In its yellow glare, Carlotta shrank. The shadows and hillocks of her naked body undulated in the flickering light.
“Don’t hide from me,” he said softly.
“I don’t like it with the light on.”
“I’ll turn it off.”
But he traced his fingers over the small scars and bruises on her breasts, the small of her back, her thighs.
“I didn’t do that,” he said. “These are old.”
“There was an accident.”
“What’d you do, go swimming in broken glass?”
“I ran the Buick against a telephone pole.”
“Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to be worried. It wasn’t really serious.”
“Not even down here? Look. That must have hurt.”
“I was sore for a couple of days. That’s all.”
Jerry believed her. He sank back against the pillows and the headboard. He smiled.
“You know what it looks like?” he said, flicking on the lighter. “It looks like somebody beat you up. That’s what those bruises look like.”
“Turn the light off.”
Jerry extinguished the lighter.
“You know, where I come from, scars prove you’re tough. That you can take it. That’s what they meant where I grew up.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Jerry.”
Jerry put a hand on her thigh. Suddenly she seemed distant, a hundred miles away. He felt her start at his touch.
“Would you like to walk along the beach?” he asked softly.
She did not answer.
“How about it honey?” he said. “There’s a stairway down the cliff.”
Still she said nothing. She got up and went into the tiny bathroom. Jerry wondered what was wrong. He sat a moment on the bed, then got dressed.
Along the beach the moon hung fat and heavy. Nearly a full moon. The waves rolled under a blue-green night, rose out of nowhere. Foamed in a crashing thunder. All along the coast bonfires were burning. They walked, hand in hand, slowly along the wet, compact sand at the water’s edge. Far away was the radio music of teenagers in cars parked on the bluffs.
“I think we have to talk about something, Carlotta,” he said.
She said nothing, but leaned against his arm.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“I couldn’t help but think about us, Carlotta. About Billy. All the time I was gone.”
“He’s sorry about what happened. He’s just young. He can’t control his feelings. When you come over—”
“I know, Carlotta. I know.”
He put his arm around her waist. A lighthouse on the bluffs shot its beam around, a white shaft in the darkness. They stood, unmoving, as the cold, foamy water circled up past their ankles and withdrew again.
“In a way, I don’t blame him,” he said finally, uneasily. “I’d like to make it right between us all . . . you know what I mean, Carlotta?”
She was silent. Finally it had come. So quickly. In just those few words. Jerry waited for an answer. She raised his hand and kissed his fingers. He found it difficult to speak. He tried for a while, found himself unable to say anything more, not certain if he should. Never had he felt so awkward, so lost for words. It was not coming out as he had hoped, as he had rehearsed.
“Carlotta—I swear—in a few months I’ll be in San Diego. That’s such a beautiful town. We’ll be happy there. All of us.”
He found himself unable to say anything more. He only pressed her against his chest.
“We’ll be happy, Jerry,” she said.
A few lights bobbed over the dark ocean, a tug or a small freighter heading for the port behind the mountains.
“I hate leaving you. Before I’ve even had a chance . . . to really be with you.”
“But you’ll be back soon. For good. And I’ll be better.”
Jerry smiled down at her. He cupped her face in his hands and held it up to him.
“What do you mean, better?” he said.
“Those scars. They’ll heal.”
Jerry kissed the back of her neck.
“When you come back,” she whispered. “I’ll be completely healed. I know that now.”
Strong spasms shook like waves through her body. An agony or an ecstasy that would not stop. It beat, wave upon wave, like a heat traveling upward through her, and she was delirious. She called out. Her breasts heaved spasmodically. She bucked. It was all like a heat, a slow-motion shock with its center at her private places. She twisted, gasped for air. It would not stop. Her thighs moved forward, unconsciously. Slowly the shocks spread away, came back slower, spread away, came lightly back, and left her. An ocean of pleasure surrounded her. Peaceful air encompassed her. She dissolved in the warmth of the air. She had difficulty opening her eyes. In the bedroom her breasts, nipples erect, rose and fell in the darkness. Perspiration dampened her hair at the temples. Her face was drenched with beads of sweat. She breathed long and hard. She was exhausted. She had never been so completely exhausted.
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,” laughter: soft, silken, confident.
He was gone.
She slowly turned her head. In the perfumed air she saw, at the foot of the bed, two dwarfs. Their eyes deep in impenetrable sockets, their long arms hanging, misshapen at their sides, they stood, regarding her without a word. Carlotta felt hot and dizzy inside, her belly sore, her limbs boneless with fatigue. Her glazed eyes watched them drop rose petals, one by one, onto her devastated legs, sweet-smelling petals, that gave off perfume. And slowly, one by one, without a sound, they became lighter, they became transparent, they ceased to exist.
On the morning of December 18, Carlotta felt a heavy sensation in her breasts. She felt heavy all over, and she was inclined to stay in bed.
She felt dizzy. She walked to the living room, then had to sit on the edge of the couch. When she closed her eyes it became worse. Everything inside slowly undulated. She became chilled.
She put on a sweater. Her breasts had grown tender. She carried around some strange illness in the soreness of her body. She went outside to water the garden.
She found herself sitting on the edge of a swing. It hung from the oak tree near the alley. Her face and neck were dripping with perspiration. The white fence along the Greenspan garden rose and fell in a sinister, snake-like movement.
Mrs. Greenspan, as was the agreement, tried to keep an eye on Carlotta. She hated to interfere, but Carlotta looked pale. The aged woman hesitantly put down her knitting and walked through the white picket gate, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Good morning, Carlotta,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Just enjoying the morning sun.”
“You look pale.”
“Ever since I’ve been sick, I stay in too much.”
“Well, you get some sun. That’s God’s own cure.”
Mrs. Greenspan went to the far end of her own garden. She began to pull yellowed leaves from the stems. Carlotta’s face twisted in agony.
“My God,” she moaned. “I’m being pulled apart.”
Mrs. Greenspan, not hearing, pulled weeds from between the pansies. Butterflies winked by on tiny golden wings. Then she turned, smiling, but the aged eyes watched Carlotta with concern. Carlotta waved, tried to smile, and rose unsteadily from the swing.
The insects were loud, chirping in a raucous chorus. They seemed to fill the garden, the yard, all the shadows in the neighborhood. They made a buzzing in her brain. She thought she heard voices in them.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mrs. Greenspan?”
“Of course not,” laughed the old woman.
“Not transparent things floating in the air. I mean things from the past.”
“Well, you know that the dead live on in us. In our hearts.”
“But they don’t cause us harm, do they?”
“I don’t know, Carlotta. At my age, only experience counts. I would say that the best thing is for you to trust the doctor.”
“But he’s telling me things when I see the opposite with my own eyes.”
“The best thing,” Mrs. Greenspan said, “is to trust the doctor. He knows what’s best.”
Carlotta went back to the front door, in the mad buzz of the insects. These were not the lonely sounds of the crickets outside Two Rivers. These were angry, demonic. More like Santa Ana. The memory of that hot, sweaty apartment and Franklin followed Carlotta inside, and she could not shake it.
By the middle of January it was clear that Carlotta’s figure had rounded. Sneidermann guessed it was water retention. He diagnosed it as a secondary hysterical symptom, and as such, not significant. Nevertheless, it could be a reaction to the medication. He took a blood sample. He found no signs of physical pathology.
And yet, she found herself prey to abrupt changes in mood. Even in the office, she snapped at Sneidermann, only to apologize later. She bathed twice, three times a day. The water relieved the awful feeling of heaviness that dragged her down.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?”
“Nothing, Julie. Nothing.”
“You look so white.”
“Mommy is just tired. She’s going to lie down now. You go out and play with Billy.”
Julie watched her mother lie down on the couch, tucking a sweater over her shoulders. The sight of Carlotta so physically weak frightened Julie.
“Go ahead, doll,” Carlotta murmured distantly. “Mommy is just tired.”
Carlotta felt an incredible lassitude. All the strength was being sucked from her. Something in her was taking the strength from her bones, turning them into air. She tried to rise, to make supper, to fight it, but the body lay back, being drained.
“Oh, God,” she breathed.
She tried once again to rise, holding onto the wall. Then the room began to turn. Faster and faster. Julie, standing at the door, saw her fall, making strange sounds.
Julie ran outside. She saw Billy pushing a lawn mower, sweating in the heat of noon.
“Billy,” Julie said. “Mommy’s sick.”
Billy stopped the lawn mower. Suddenly the sunshine all around the tract house took on a sickened quality.
“What do you mean?” he said. “Did she send you out to get me?”
“She’s throwing up.”
Billy went into the house. There he found Carlotta in the bathroom, vomiting into the white basin.
“Are you okay, Mom?” he said.
But she could say nothing. She bent farther over the basin.
“Should I call the doctor?”
She shook her head. A violent wrench shook her frame, and she leaned forward again. Billy looked away, not knowing what to do.
“Okay—I’m okay,” she mumbled.
Carlotta washed her face, poured water around the basin, gargled with mouthwash. Her face was pale, cold, and clammy, the nostrils flared.
“You better lie down,” he said.
But she stood, horror-stricken, looking at her face in the mirror.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” he said anxiously. “Don’t you want to lie down?”
Billy and Julie watched Carlotta touch her face, looking into the mirror. From time to time she softly repeated, “No—no—no—” Then the silence of the house was deafening.
Sneidermann sat back, surprised.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Absolutely. I know the symptoms.”
“Have you told Jerry?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Well. Obviously he’s going to know sooner or later.”
“It’s not Jerry’s baby.”
Sneidermann watched her eyes carefully. He was reading the nonverbal clues, the facial signs, the body as it gestured.
“What makes you so certain?”
“He can’t have babies. He was sick. Malaria. When he was in the army. It’s hard for him to talk about it.”
“Perhaps he was mistaken.”
“Dr. Sneidermann, if it had been possible with Jerry, I’d have been pregnant a long time ago.”
“Is there someone—”
“I don’t sleep around, Dr. Sneidermann. Never.”
“Then what are you trying to say, Carlotta?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No. You tell me.”
“I’m carrying his child.”
“Whose child?”
“Don’t be so stupid.”
Like a house of cards Sneidermann saw his entire construction, which had taken three months of intense labor, go crashing down. Under that veneer of cooperation she had been harboring the most serious doubts about the reality of it all. Now, under the guise of an hysterical pregnancy, she was trying to buttress her symptoms. He hid his dismay instinctively, and he was certain Carlotta never realized what had gone through his mind.
“Why do you think it’s his child, Carlotta?”
“Maybe it’s just folklore, but—”
“What’s just folklore?”
“Bob Garrett told me. In Nevada. The legend goes that a woman does not really conceive unless she—she has an orgasm. That’s the sign.”
Sneidermann felt even more depressed by the bombshell.
“Then you had an orgasm?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“With—?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon after Jerry left. That was the first time.”
“The first time?”
Carlotta nodded, blushing. “It happens all the time now. I was afraid to tell you.”
“Why were you afraid?”
“Because it’s—disgusting—these feelings he gives me. I—I try not to let it happen—but—I can’t help it.”
Sneidermann strove to bury his anguish, forced his mind into more mundane areas. He calculated the time period. Nearly two months. Certainly long enough to build up the symptoms. It was like going back to the beginning again. He almost felt like crying. She looked so pretty, so secure, so normal in every possible way until you realized what she was saying.
“I need an abortion, Dr. Sneidermann,” she said.
Sneidermann was absolutely stunned. The whole thing had burst on him without warning, one thing after the other. Then he snapped to. Of course she wanted an abortion. That would eliminate the “fetus.” There would be no baby and she could continue to believe in this fantasy creature. He suddenly got an insight into the cleverness with which a psychosis operated. It flabbergasted him. He was going to question her gently now, to find out how much this illusion meant to her.
