The Entity, page 7
“Half the trees,” Billy corrected. “The top half. They were probably sick or something. Looks stupid.”
Carlotta pulled to a stop. The house loomed in front of them. Behind the roof, darkly silhouetted against the blue and gray and rosy waves of the morning sky, the palm trees rose in a series of menacing isolated clumps. This was no more the friendly house of a week ago. The shadows were long, radiating outward from it toward Carlotta. The inner depths were lost in darkness.
“Who knows?” Carlotta said. “Who knows what’s going on anymore?”
They took their belongings inside.
The house was stuffy. Very quiet.
“Open a window, will you, Bill?”
On the kitchen counter, flies crawled sluggishly over a forgotten cookie.
“What a mess!” Carlotta said.
The night was cold. The leaves rustled outside. A bit of wind was rising.
“Hey!” Billy called from his bedroom. “My radio is broken!”
“Your what?”
“It’s all smashed on the floor!”
“Must have fallen,” Carlotta answered from the kitchen.
She reached under the sink for some detergent. Damn it! Bugs. She pulled out the soap and closed the door underneath. Billy came in from the living room, holding parts of plastic, wiring and some metal grids.
“Gosh, Mom,” he whined. “I made it myself. Remember? Seventh grade. Now it’s all busted.”
“You can’t solder it back together?”
“No,” he said, disconsolately. He walked out of the kitchen, his shoulders slumped dejectedly. “It looks like somebody ripped it apart.”
Carlotta turned the faucet. It gurgled, sputtered, then the water came out. Brownish at first. Then it warmed. Steam rose. The windows began to cover at the edges with a thin, ghostly film of vapor over the glass. It was growing colder outside.
From the bedroom came the sounds of Kim and Julie fighting.
“I’ve had it with them!” Carlotta said to herself.
She turned. A glass toppled over. It smashed over her arm in a shower of splinters.
“Damn,” Carlotta said, half out loud. Suddenly the house was silent. Her heart was pounding.
Billy stood in the doorway, a wrench in his hand.
“It’s a glass,” Carlotta said. “It fell. What’d you think it was?”
Julie poked a tear-streaked face around the corner of the kitchen door. Then Kim, her hair half out of its braid.
“Now you go back to your room, Kim. Get dressed for bed. Julie, I need your help in the kitchen. Come on. Move!”
Julie looked inquiringly at her mother. She was scared.
“Move, Kim!”
Carlotta took a threatening step toward her. Kim scampered off into the bedroom. She could hear her slamming the drawers petulantly as she dressed.
“And don’t slam the drawers!”
It grew quiet.
Julie dried the dishes that Carlotta washed. Billy could be heard from among metallic sounds in the garage. Dried bits of dead tree bark were dropping on the roof as the wind picked up. A dry, empty wind.
The doorbell rang.
Carlotta and Julie exchanged glances.
“Go to the bedroom, Julie.”
The doorbell rang again. Julie went into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. Carlotta went to the front door. She opened the door—far enough to see a vague form blocking out the street lamp overhead. Her heart was racing.
“Cindy!”
“Trick or treat!”
Carlotta fumbled with the latch and bolt and finally pulled the door open.
“Gee, I’m sorry,” Carlotta said. “Come on in. I didn’t know it was you! What on earth are you doing here?”
“It’s okay?”
“Okay? You’re a feast for sore eyes. I just didn’t expect you.”
“I knew you wouldn’t go to Pasadena,” Cindy said.
“Can’t fool old Cindy.”
They stood in the kitchen. Carlotta beamed.
“Coffee? Beer?” Carlotta offered. “There’s nothing else. This is scrounge night at the Moran residence. What you got there?”
In Cindy’s hand was a small overnight bag.
“I thought you could use a little company. I was thinking about how it would be, the first night back, and so I—”
“What about George?”
“As far as he knows I’m with my sister in Reseda.” Cindy laughed. “Not that he gives a particular damn.”
“Well, God bless you, Cindy. I was feeling a little, you know, strange about the whole thing. I sure am glad to see you here.”
“I could just use your couch.”
“Wonderful. Wonderful.”
So the night passed peaceably. Cindy, Carlotta, and Julie played cards: Old Maid. Julie won. It was time for sleep. They tucked in the girls. Cindy watched Carlotta kiss them goodnight. Cindy waved a kiss to them from the doorway. They turned the lights off, leaving the girls in total darkness.
“Pleasant dreams,” Cindy whispered.
In the living room they sat for a moment. Only one lamp was on, throwing a soft glow against the corner and the wall, where Cindy sat on the couch and Carlotta lay back in the easy chair. The rest of the room was full of long, black shadows.
“Cold for you?” Carlotta said.
“A bit.”
Carlotta went to the thermostat and turned the wheel up a notch.
“You feel scared?” Cindy said.
“Not in my mind. It’s not like I have this feeling in my brain, like it’s going to fall apart or anything. Just a kind of sensation in my body. A kind of premonition. That’s all. Scares me a little. I can almost sense it coming.”
Cindy watched Carlotta’s face, silhouetted in a dreamy light. It was the face of someone who had fought for her life before, and who knew once again she was in a battle, and that the stakes were high.
The pipes clanked under the house. In the garage Billy was scrubbing the grease from his hands, dipping into a bucket of white soap. He wiped his hands on a dirty towel by the light switch. He walked into the house, nodded at Carlotta and Cindy, then went into his bedroom.
“He’s so grown up,” Carlotta whispered.
Cindy nodded.
“Makes me feel so old,” Carlotta said. “Good Lord, Cindy. That was sixteen years ago. Sixteen whole years. I’m an old lady.”
“You still look pretty good.”
“Yeah, but I have to work at it. All the time.”
Cindy chuckled.
After a while they heard the bed springs rustle under Billy’s weight as he lay down. Then a light went off. There was the sound of sheets moving, then it was still.
“I suppose,” Carlotta said, “it’s time for bed.”
She didn’t move.
“It’s eleven-thirty,” Cindy said.
“That late?”
“I’ll take the dishes in. You just go to bed.”
Carlotta still sat motionless in the chair.
“Tomorrow is school again. I’ll never be through.”
In the kitchen Cindy put the glasses into the sink. She turned, her figure a loose dark form in the obscurity.
“Go to sleep, Carly. I’ll be right here on the couch.”
“Okay.”
“You want to sleep on the couch?”
“No. It kills my back. I’ll be all right.”
“Just leave the door open.”
Carlotta rose reluctantly.
“Sleep tight, Cindy. And thanks again for everything.”
“You get some rest.”
“Right. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, dear.”
In the bedroom the air was dry and not so warm as in the living room. It could have been the way the house was constructed. The bedroom was a later addition and must have been made of different materials. More plaster, less wood. Anyway it was always cooler in here. She stood in front of the mirror and quickly undressed.
In the shadows her breasts defined small dark hollows. Only the small nipples rose into the pale light reflected from distant exterior lights. Her soft belly curved away into the darkness and the pubic hair totally mingled into the black areas of night. It made a shadow of her, carved out of the substance of the night. Even to herself she looked vulnerable.
She pulled back the blankets and slipped into the cool sheets. Soon the bed warmed. She looked up at the ceiling. She did not sleep. She sensed Cindy sitting on the couch, unfolding a blanket, and then lying down, nestling awhile, and then it was quiet. Billy snored and then stopped. Slowly Carlotta became drowsy. The pipes murmured under the floor boards, a low, rumbling thunder which died away into several clanks. She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling. Nothing. She closed her eyes, nestled her cheek into the smooth cotton pillowcase and drifted away into the night. She slept deeply.
7:22 a.m. October 25, 1976
Carlotta smelled something. Meat. No. Yes. Different. Bacon. She rose quickly. Sunshine streamed in through the window, throwing sparkles over the cosmetic bottles by the mirror.
“Cindy!” she called. “What are you doing?”
“Breakfast,” Cindy called from the kitchen.
Carlotta slipped on a robe and slippers and stumbled to the kitchen.
“Hey,” she said. “You don’t have to do that! Where’d you get the bacon, anyhow?”
“Bought it.”
“Already? What time is it?”
“About seven-thirty.”
“You’re a wonder.”
Carlotta yawned and rubbed her face.
“I must look a fright,” Carlotta said.
“A little informal, I’ll admit,” Cindy laughed.
Julie scampered in, wearing a sleeping gown. Behind her was Kim, clad only in underpants, smiling uncertainly, sleepily, rubbing her eyes. She dragged a worn stuffed dog across the floor.
“Well, look who’s up,” Cindy said. “Sit down, ladies. Cornflakes on the table.”
“Listen, Cindy,” Carlotta said. “I have to get dressed. Be right back.”
Carlotta went back into the bedroom. She carefully picked out a plaid suit. It had wide lapels. Over a white blouse it made her look small and busty. She loved it. Billy walked into the kitchen, hitching up his blue jeans.
“Good morning, Mrs. Nash,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Moran.”
“What’s for breakfast?”
“Sit down, Mr. Moran,” Cindy laughed. “I will serve you personally.”
Billy sat down. He stared out the window at the perfect day. His bare feet tapped against the linoleum floor. The sunshine poured in through the windows. Outside, the leaves showed a yellow-green, bright where they stretched up out of the shade of the house. And over the roofs was a clear blue sky.
“Nice day,” Carlotta said, returning.
“Perfect,” Cindy agreed.
Cindy picked up the dishes and bowls and carried them over to the sink.
“Hey!” Carlotta said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You go to school. I’ll get the kids off and clean up.”
“Nothing doing—”
“You’re going to be late.”
“Cindy—”
“I mean it. Look at the clock. It’s after eight.”
“My gosh. You’re right.”
Cindy dried her hands on an apron.
“Listen,” Cindy said. “About tonight. Maybe I should go back.”
“Sure. Of course,” Carlotta said after the slightest pause. “And listen. I’m so grateful.”
“I got a kick out of it. Now, you go. And drive carefully. I’ll get the girls dressed.”
“You’re a real angel, Cindy.”
Carlotta picked up her spiral shorthand book and a larger, faded gray loose-leaf binder from the kitchen table.
“Well, goodbye, everybody.”
There was a chorus of goodbyes.
Carlotta walked into the sunshine. The breeze whipped briskly, stirring the leaves over the shaded walks. The car was still cool. She got into the car, waving to Mr. Greenspan drinking his coffee, European style, from a tiny cup on his tiny porch. He waved back, brandishing a half-eaten piece of toast, nodding and smiling. She reversed the car, turned around, and drove off.
She fiddled with the radio dial. She turned it off. She passed a green light. Stopped at a red light.
There is a slight difference between Santa Monica and Los Angeles. A visitor wouldn’t notice it. But the trees are older, bigger, shadier. More elderly people on the sidewalks. Some of the buildings go back to before the Depression. In the bright sunlight, when you cruise down in a big Buick, it’s like an avenue of creamy color and blue sky. Nothing like it in the world. The morning crisp, cool air just makes the lawns and flowers stand out in the sun. And far away, very far away, so you have to know where to look to see it, a vague blue rim low in the sky: the Pacific Ocean.
“Good morning, cunt!”
Carlotta froze.
Carlotta looked through the dusty windshield. The hot wide avenue stretched endlessly through huge shady trees and gas stations on distant corners. Everything she did she did slowly. Cautiously. Waiting. It couldn’t be. Not in broad daylight! She felt the radio dial. It was off. She looked to the side.
Two male Latin faces looked down at her from a beat-up truck in the adjacent lane. Their sun-tanned faces, both darkened with small mustaches, scrutinized hers. Their eyes fell down past her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, and hips. The car behind her honked. She pressed the accelerator. The pickup truck turned left. She saw it disappear through the rearview mirror.
“Hit her! Poke her!”
Carlotta’s heart raced. She whirled around. The voice was just above her head. Behind her head. No one in the back seat. She righted the wheel, caught in the morning traffic, and touched her lip, puzzled.
“Get her on the palisades!!”
“Drive her off the pier!!”
Carlotta’s head spun about. Her eyes wide and filled with fear. Watching. Searching. But there was no one in the car. She opened the window. Her foot pressed down the accelerator. She tried to lift her foot. A force was pushing her foot down on the accelerator.
“Drive her off the cliff! Off the cliff!”
“Break the steering wheel! Fuck her on the shaft!”
Two crackling, demented voices that sounded like creaky doors. Now the car was picking up speed, moving down Colorado Avenue, beginning to pass cars.
“Stop it! Stop it!” shrieked Carlotta, holding her hands over her ears.
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” multiple laughter, raucous, commingled in her ears.
Now a groan, a deep twisted voice, whispered into her ear.
“Remember me, cunt!”
The steering wheel slipped through her hands. The car turned right. Carlotta grabbed at the wheel, but could barely budge it. The Buick fishtailed onto the main artery of Santa Monica, on its way to the ocean. Little mice hands were pulling at her hair.
“Pinch her! Pinch her!” shrieked a voice.
“Poke her!” yelled an insane, sibilant voice.
Now the wheel was locked like iron. Carlotta could not lift her foot from the accelerator. Either it was paralyzed or it was held down from above. In any case, it was immobile, dead-weight heavy, pressing down the pedal.
“Dear God, dear God,” Carlotta wept, fumbling for the seat-belt latch. But it was stuck into the crevice of the front seat. “O God, my God.”
The lock snapped down on the door with a sharp click. The automatic window rolled up with a gentle hum. In the crosswalks pedestrians hesitated, then moved back, glaring at her as the Buick sped by them.
“I’m sorry, dear God, I’m sorry for everything I ever did, please—”
“Shut up!”
“Burn her! Shove the lighter up her crotch!”
The cigarette lighter snapped in and began to heat.
Carlotta screamed. You know the end is coming. Your soul wants to fly, but it is trapped inside the body. Ahead, the statue of Santa Monica, the crude white stone shining in the sun. Beyond it the roses. Then the blue sky. Two hundred feet below, the Pacific Coast Highway, like a concrete ribbon, hugged the rocks.
“Harder!”
Something smashed her foot down to floor the accelerator. The car jumped ahead. Her brain buzzed; the blue edge of the cliff raced forward.
“Farewell, Carlotta!”
Carlotta shrieked.
Suddenly, she twisted the wheel so hard the car screeched in an arc and flew toward the last row of buildings.
“Get back, you bitch!”
The wheel rapidly turned back. But the front tire caught the curb and the Buick careened over the sidewalk. Two unemployed men, lounging in the shadows of the alley, seemed to fly backward in slow motion as the car lunged forward. In an abstraction in which Carlotta was left in all eternity, she saw the patrons on the second floor of a bar only now begin to look up from their tables.
“Please don’t let me die,” Carlotta prayed, without hope.
The window broke in like a wave. Behind closed eyes she felt the shards spread over shoulders and face like a soft, stinging rain. The metallic dull buckling of the grille and fenders, and the interior engine parts torn and thrown from the ripped hood. Violently thrown forward, her stomach felt torn by the seat belt which slammed her back into the seat. Nausea filled the world. Everything was a long, drawn out flash in the sound of exploding metal and glass, and the aura of pain was all that there was. She noticed then that everything was still.
