The Entity, page 4
Time passed very slowly. Her body felt comforted by the hard mattress, suspended, tranquilized. Yet she dozed fitfully. Her eyes kept opening. She had left the door to the hallway open. And she knew that Billy was leaving the door from his room open, too. Just in case.
It was probably around midnight. The light bulb behind the clock face had gone out. Had it blown out? Carlotta peered at it through the darkness. Why had she awakened? She listened.
Nothing. She gazed in front of her in the darkness, could dimly make out the vague form of the dresser, the mirror, and the distant reflection of the bed in the darkness.
She breathed deeply. Nothing. No smell. Nothing wrong. Then why had she awakened? Then she had a premonition, a kind of impression. That something was coming. Coming to her from many miles away over a broken-up landscape, and it was going to be there in a fraction of a second. She bolted out of bed.
“Bill!”
Billy scrambled out of bed. Carlotta leaped into the hallway, draping herself in a dress, buttoning buttons. She met Billy by the door.
“There’s something coming,” she said.
There was a crash behind her. She turned. The lamp had toppled from the nightstand. Now the nightstand was heaved against the wall. She slammed the door behind her.
“Let’s get out of here!” she cried.
The whole bedroom behind the door was crashing with thrown furniture. Then the sound of the mirror as it smashed into tiny pieces.
“Mom—” Billy was staring at her, terrified.
“Grab Kim,” she yelled. “I’ll take Julie!”
They ran into the girls’ bedroom. Billy swept up Kim, the blanket draped over the little girl’s legs.
“Should I take the blanket?!” Billy yelled.
He was panicked.
“Yes! Yes! Take it! Get out!”
Something—shoes—a dressing table full of cosmetics—slammed against the inside of the door. As they ran into the hallway she could see the door bulge and a crack begin to form in the cheap wood.
“Holy Christ!” Carlotta said.
They ran into the living room. It sounded like the bedroom was being torn apart, piece by piece, as fast as possible. Not like an explosion, but like someone systematically doing it, one thing after the other, angry, venting his fury on the objects at not finding Carlotta there. Suddenly the draperies—heavy cloth draperies—were ripped like tissue paper and the sound reverberated through the house.
“Damn! Damn!” Carlotta cried out.
Tears of fear and rage coursed down her cheeks. She was at the front door, but with Julie in her arms she couldn’t slip the bolt. She leaned forward, pinning the girl against the door. Julie involuntarily whimpered in pain. But it gave Carlotta the chance to pull the bolt. Something shot against the closed bedroom door and splintered into fragments.
“CUNT!” roared the voice.
They ran out into the night and got into the car. Behind them it seemed as though the bedroom—what was left of it—was being broken apart, as though a wrecking crew were attacking it inside with a ball. Carlotta slipped the car into reverse, shot backwards into somebody’s shrubbery, recovered, and spun the tires, squealing and roaring, out into Kentner Street.
“Christ did you hear that, Billy?”
Billy said nothing. Petrified, Carlotta whirled on him.
“Didn’t you hear it?”
“Yeah, Ma, yeah.”
Billy was looking at her strangely, she thought. His eyes glistened with tears.
Carlotta shot through a red light past the lonely intersection. There was nobody around. She drove without thinking through a labyrinth of streets, past similar looking dark, shaded houses.
“Slow down, Mom,” Billy said. “You’re going fifty.”
Carlotta looked down at the speedometer, then eased a bit on the accelerator. The panic of the flight had blinded her to what she was doing. She was operating in a vacuum, by pure instinct like a frightened animal.
“Where the hell are we?” she said.
“We’re near Colorado Avenue,” Billy said. “It’s over there, behind the factory.”
Instinctively, she drove to Colorado Avenue. She slowed down a little more. To forty miles an hour.
“Listen, kids,” she said, checking the hysteria in her voice. “We’re going to be all right. You got that? You guys okay?”
She turned and over her shoulder saw Julie in the back seat. She was silent. Sick—scared and silent. In the front seat, still wrapped in her blanket, Kim gasped, too petrified to even cry. With amusement through the fiery panic, Carlotta saw that Billy was in his underwear.
“Better wrap that blanket around yourself, Bill,” she said. “I’m going to Cindy’s.”
She drove up Colorado, turned north, and was driving, now within the speed limit, toward the bright lights of the movie theaters and motels which signified West Hollywood.
“Where the hell—”
“Turn left,” Billy said, tucking the blanket around himself. “It’s almost all the way into Hollywood.”
Miraculously, as though driving by itself, the car found its way into the streets which looked familiar: dark, cracked, crowded single-dwelling places being overrun with large apartment blocks.
“There it is,” Billy said.
Carlotta pulled up in front of a huge pink building. It said El Escobar on the front. That was about the only thing which distinguished it from the other apartment complexes down the street. And the red and blue globes which were somebody’s idea of exotic lighting, now making the palm trees in front look like horrible, sickly plants.
They climbed up the stairs, Billy holding the blanket to keep from tripping.
“Listen,” Carlotta said. “Let me do all the talking. Whatever I say, that’s what happened. If anybody ever asks you about anything when I’m not around, you say the same thing.” She looked around. The girls nodded.
“Sure, Mom,” Billy said.
Carlotta pressed the doorbell. What a ridiculous appearance they were going to make, she thought. The sound of the doorbell—a buzzer—seemed to split open the night. But no one came. She pressed it again. What if no one answered? Then a hand parted the drapes slowly at the window. Immediately the door opened.
“Carlotta!” Cindy said. “Billy! What—”
“Oh, Cindy!”
“Don’t cry, honey. Come on in. Everybody. Come on in.”
Cindy was in her bathrobe, her hair in high, huge curlers, but to Carlotta she seemed beautiful. Especially now. In the tiny apartment, the gold carpet, frayed at the edges, the walls which cracked in two years, the look-alike chairs and table in the kitchen—the kind of apartment multiplied by tens of thousands all over the city—it seemed like the most desirable and blessed of havens to Carlotta.
“What was it?” Cindy asked. “A fire?”
“No,” Carlotta said. “We . . . got thrown out of our place.”
“You got thrown out? By who?”
“We—just had to get out . . .”
“Had to . . . I don’t get it. What happened?”
The girls started to cry.
“Aw, kids. Look,” Cindy said. “You want to stay here, is that it? Sure.”
Cindy stirred from the chair in front of Carlotta. She went to the hall closet and returned with an armful of blankets and a few pillows. In the open doorway to the bedroom Carlotta could hear Cindy’s husband George snoring grumpily. Miraculously, he had slept through the whole thing.
“Thanks, Cindy,” Carlotta said. “I don’t know what I’d have done—”
“What are friends for?” Cindy said.
She put the girls under two blankets on the couch. Billy curled up into some huge pillows nearby. Cindy leaned over and whispered to Carlotta.
“It’s man trouble? It’s Jerry, isn’t it?”
“No, no. He’s out of town for another six weeks.”
“You want to tell me alone? When the kids are gone?”
“Okay. I’d appreciate that.”
Cindy tucked in the girls. Carlotta slipped off her dress and lay on the floor.
“You going to survive like that?” Cindy asked anxiously.
“It’s actually better for my back.”
“Okay. Listen, you guys. The bathroom is right there. Go ahead if you want.”
“God bless you, Cindy,” Carlotta said. “I’m so sorry—”
“Nonsense. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“Goodnight,” Julie said. It was so absurd. As though she were camping out, being polite, knowing nothing of why she was there.
“Goodnight, doll,” Cindy said. “You all get some sleep.”
“Goodnight, Cindy,” Carlotta said.
Through the thin walls of the bedroom Carlotta heard Cindy telling something to George. George grumbled a bit but she silenced him after a while. In the silence of Cindy’s apartment Billy was already asleep. So were the girls. The panic was relaxing its grip on Carlotta. She felt increasingly drained of energy with every passing second. Then tears began to form in her eyes. Tears of exhaustion, frustration, fear. She was crying, but making no sound. Then she was through, too tired for tears, or for thoughts. She fell asleep. They all slept. Without dreams.
3
The sunshine brightened the daisies on the kitchen table and made the floor glitter. Cindy sat perplexed.
“You actually saw these things come through the wall?”
“I didn’t see them,” Carlotta said. “It felt like that. I sensed it.”
“These animals?”
“I don’t know what they were.”
“So what did they do?”
“Not much,” Carlotta lied. “They just, you know, walked all over, tried to touch me—”
“Jesus!”
“Scratched on the wall. Knocked things over.”
“You sure you were awake?”
“Cindy, I swear. I was awake as I am now. Don’t you think I’ve thought of all that a thousand times? I was absolutely awake. I was sweating scared, bug-eyed, awake.”
Cindy shook her head and whistled.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Almost a week. It happened twice, then it started happening again last night and I freaked out. I grabbed the kids and ran. I just couldn’t stand it anymore.”
“I don’t blame you,” Cindy said.
Cindy furrowed her brow in thought.
“Well,” she said finally, “you’re not insane. I know you pretty well. If you were scared, there was a reason. You’re one of the most stable persons I know.”
“Then what do you think it is?” Carlotta said. Cindy remained staring into her coffee cup, and she said nothing for the longest time. Then she looked up at Carlotta.
“Jerry.”
“What?”
“It’s Jerry. He’s at the bottom of this, sure as I’m sitting in front of you,” Cindy said.
Carlotta inhaled from the cigarette. On the television screen a master of ceremonies smiled at an audience of middle-aged women from the Midwest, but the sound was low and it was only a silent blue flickering presence, absurd, erratic, and meaningless.
“You don’t buy that,” Cindy said.
“No.”
“Look. When somebody caves in, it’s from some central problem. I mean, people don’t just decide that Thursday would be a good day to have a breakdown, do they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course not. It’s always one big thing, something basic to their lives which is eating at them.”
Carlotta squinted at the tiny television screen. Then she turned back to Cindy.
“What exactly are you trying to say, Cindy?”
As though given the signal to release her pent-up philosophy of life, Cindy leaned forward and began talking rapidly and forcefully.
“You are suffering and you don’t know it. You’ve been avoiding it. You’ve been pretending everything is fine and dandy when it isn’t. And Jerry is at the bottom of it all.”
“I don’t see the connection—”
“Of course not. It’s never direct. Think of my aunt, the one who flipped out. What connection was there between talking to the nonexistent FBI in her living room and her real problem? None. Her real problem was being rejected by her daughter, that stinker, Jewel. The dumb kid had run off with an artist, lived in the midst of garbage and wanted money. Threatened suicide if she didn’t get it. The whole seamy works. Drove my aunt crazy. But you see, there was no direct connection. It’s always indirect, kind of around the corner. You’ve got to be able to see into the real problem. You’ve got to know what’s really going on inside you.”
“How does what’s happening to me tie in with Jerry?”
“He wants to marry you, doesn’t he?”
“I couldn’t tell you, Cindy. Our relationship was never that . . . defined. You know, we just had fun together. We like being together. I don’t know if Jerry wants to get married. But we’re kind of in it together, maybe a little more than we had thought at first.”
“Yes, but having fun is one thing. Being married is another.”
Carlotta sighed softly.
“You should be a psychiatrist.”
Cindy beamed.
“I know. That’s because I read a lot,” she said. “Look. Don’t be afraid. These decisions get made. If you’re smart, they get made in the right way.”
“Well,” Carlotta said, “maybe it’s good to get it all out into the open. I honestly never thought about it just like that. I mean, who knows, you may have a point.”
Cindy put a hand on Carlotta’s arm. To her surprise, the arm was warm, almost perspiring. A wave of pity stabbed Cindy’s heart.
“You just think about it. There’s no problem you can’t face. Just be honest with yourself.”
“Okay. It seems very remote, but I’ll think about it.”
“Everything will come out all right,” Cindy said.
On the television screen a well-dressed man in a business suit stood behind a lectern. It appeared that he was selling something with his white smile, and then he held up a huge Bible and thrust it at the camera. It seemed to Carlotta that he had thrust it at her.
In the night Carlotta woke. Bones ached. Headache. Where was she? George snored softly in the next room. The lights from cars passed over the living-room wall. There was Billy, his hair falling in his eyes, screening his face. The girls asleep in the shadows. How peaceful. Not a breeze stirred. Only vague thoughts. Thoughts beneath words. How did it come to this, that I am sleeping on Cindy’s floor? Yes, I remember. I am still sore. What is going on in me? Outside of me? What am I anymore?
But she was safe here. It was impossible that anything could happen here. There were too many people. Cindy would come to the rescue. While George slept. Everybody but George would witness it. Witness Carlotta’s insanity. She saw herself surrounded by doctors in a long corridor, struggling, screaming. Was that how it was? When you went over the edge, were you yourself anymore? Did you know your name? What were you then?
So the images of the last nights danced about in her brain: the flashing lights, the taste of cotton stuffed in her mouth, the overwhelming sensation of—of—that—that—Carlotta could no longer tell. It was neither dream nor reality. And who in the whole apartment, who in the entire city of Los Angeles, could tell her what it was?
* * *
The following day passed pleasantly. Carlotta skipped school. Instead, she and Cindy went shopping. Cindy bought a leather purse on Olvera Street, where Mexican crafts lined the ancient cobblestone road in a festoon of piñatas and colored pottery. They went home and played backgammon till it was time for Carlotta to make the long drive to West Los Angeles to pick up the kids. All in all, a pleasant day. Relaxing. The autumn sun had been good for Carlotta, like a health cure, almost. The air almost clear, fresh, and the cries of the children and the festive Mexican music—it was cheerful again. Only a small stone in the bottom of her mind, which neither of them talked about.
But as night came on Cindy could see a personality change right in front of her eyes. Carlotta became nervous, afraid. Was there something more on her mind? More than even seeing things in the dark? Cindy wondered.
Then George came home. His shirt was ringed under the arms. He hesitated when he saw Carlotta. Then he went without a word to the bathroom. There was a rumble of pipes and then the shower began to roar. Its sound was furious.
“Is he mad at me?” Carlotta whispered.
“No, that’s just George,” Cindy said.
“Look. If it’s inconvenient—”
“Not at all.”
“I mean it—”
“Love your company. Stay as long as you like.”
“It seemed like George—”
“Forget him. He came out of the womb with a frown.”
Cindy seized the moment. She gestured toward the door with a barely perceptible toss of the head. Carlotta was puzzled.
“I have to speak to you,” Cindy said. “Let’s go outside.”
They went out the door and closed it behind them.
Cindy looked Carlotta in the eye.
“There’s something you haven’t told me,” Cindy said. “What is it?”
“I’ve told you everything.”
Cindy saw the evasive look in Carlotta’s face. Whatever it was she was keeping back, it had a hold on her. But how far can you push your friends?
