Before I Kill Again!, page 9
I suppose I’m some sort of nut, going on a picnic with a man I hardly know; especially a man who is much older than me. Well, maybe I am. Who cares? I mean, I have to do something to get out of this dumb house and away from my aunt and uncle’s nagging. God, they’re driving me cuckoo.
NOEL
Mustn’t go! Mustn’t go! Mustn’t go!
But what am I going to tell her? Why I can’t go, I mean?
I don’t know. Doesn’t really matter what you tell her anyway. Just so you call her, right now, right this instant, and say you aren’t coming.
And if I don’t? If I take a chance that everything will be all right and—
“Then you’ll regret it for the rest of your life! I mean it. I’m giving your fair warning and if you’re smart you’ll take my advice and stay home—no matter what she says or how much she begs you to come.
You’re right. I know you’re right and I will call her. I honestly will. But first I have to think of some excuse to tell her, something really important, so she’ll understand why I can’t go.
CATHERINE
Noel arrived shortly after nine. Boy, was I relieved. You see, a few minutes ago, a telephone repairman called and said that our phone was in good working order again. Puzzled, I asked her what he meant by ‘again?’ “I didn’t even know it was on the blink.”
“You didn’t? That’s strange. A representative was supposed to call you late last night and tell you.”
“Well, they didn’t,” I said irritably. “No one called. Nobody!”
“Sorry, miss. But don’t you worry. I should have this all cleared up in no time at all.”
“And you will let me know when you do?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you.” I hung up, worried now that maybe Noel tried to reach me for some reason—maybe even to cancel the beach today—and couldn’t get through. Wow, some bad scene that is.
But I needn’t have worried. Because, as I said, he arrived a few minutes after nine with a big bag of potato chips, a jar of sweet pickles, and two big old huge shiny red apples that he’d bought at the Hollywood Ranch Market.
“I bet you were a big hit at school,” I said as I put the apples in my uncle’s cooler. “Bet you were really the teacher’s pet.”
I was only kidding, of course. But instead of laughing or taking it as a joke, Noel got all uptight and serious and hardly said a word as we packed all our stuff in the back of his open sports car and headed for the coast highway.
It was a super blue and gold morning. After last night’s rain everything was so sparkling bright and clear that it seemed like I was looking through binoculars. There wasn’t a single dumb cloud in the sky. The sun was already hot enough so I didn’t need my sweater, and out on the shimmering blue horizon Santa Catalina looked so clear and close I felt like I could reach out and touch it.
Wow, what a super day!
As we drove north along the ocean, with the wind tugging through our hair and the smell of the surf in our noses, I felt so free and good I wanted to wave and shout at everyone we passed how fabulous I felt and how lucky we all were for just being alive on such a fantastically groovy day.
I didn’t though, mainly because I thought Noel would think I was some kind of adolescent nut. Also, I knew nobody else would understand or appreciate some idiot young girl screaming and waving at them—God, knowing adults, they’d probably think I was stoned and was flipping them the bird! Also, I figured that sooner or later the CHP would see me and pull us over, maybe even arrest me for being high on something other than just teenage exuberance!
I find that pretty tragic, if you want the truth. And so would my dad if he was alive! He was pretty cool when it came to teenagers. Always willing to cut them some slack and—
But I mustn’t get started on my Dad. Not for any reason. It would only depress me and ruin my whole day. And right now, I’m too happy to let anything depress me; especially something as dumb and unimportant as what other people think of me.
So instead I tried to be grateful to God and whatever super lucky coincidence had guided Noel into my dull and dreary, cooped-up existence.
NOEL
Kathleen!—my love wears a shiny white rubber raincoat and this isn’t my imagination. This is real. REAL! She’s real! Real and her name is Kathleen. Kathleen!
No! Not Kathleen but Catherine. Her name is Catherine. Catherine Simpson.
You mustn’t get the two confused.
We drove without stopping, following the smooth Pacific Coast Highway as it wound its way north under the shadowy gray cliffs.
“Know what my dad called this kind of day?” she asked.
“Uh-uh.”
“A Chamber of Commerce day! When the weather is too perfect to describe.”
We continued heading north, the gold-blue ocean on one side and the sun-splashed cliffs on the other. Between cracks in the towering cliffs the sun cast broad yellow stripes across the black highway unrolling before us. Rocks gathered in little piles alongside the shoulder with signs warning, WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS.
“Trouble is,” Catherine laughed, “while you’re watching for rocks, you run off the road and the whole hillside collapses on you!”
Her laugh was contagious. “Either that,” I joked, “or you drive smack dab into the ocean!”
We both laughed. I felt better than I had in years.
We were passing through Malibu now. Elegant beach shacks lined the sand; while inland, across the highway, celebrity mansions dotted the steep green hillsides.
Soon we came to the famous Sea Lion restaurant. I slowed down so she could take a good look at it.
“I remember when they actually had sea lions out front.”
“Serious? Real live sea lions, you mean?”
“Yep. They used to keep them in a tank out in front of the restaurant. You could even buy fish to feed them with. It was a blast.”
“I bet. Must have been a long time ago?”
“Oh, centuries,” I said.
She laughed, the sunlight dancing in her long silvery blond hair. “No, seriously, Noel. How long ago was it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ten-eleven years.”
“God, no wonder I don’t remember them. I was only six of seven then and dad and I lived up north in Ojai.”
I suddenly realized how terribly young she was. It jolted me; made me want to turn back. But I couldn’t. And taking a deep breath, I said: “Ojai—that’ s up near Santa Barbara, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh. Dad used to teach school there.” She frowned, her youthful golden face gathering up all the sadness, the memories that must have still ached inside her. “We loved it up there. Everything was so beautiful and green and, well, you know, fresh looking. Trouble was, though, when Mom died of cancer, poor Daddy couldn’t face living there anymore. So he transferred down here, to Santa Monica, and—well, I’ve been here ever since.”
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to say a lot of things, all of them personal and intimate, but every time I opened my mouth I lost courage and the words stuck in my throat.
We drove on. The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful. The colors almost too vivid to be real. But I hardly noticed them. I was too busy thinking of it lying there in the trunk of the car. And thinking, hoping as I thought of it, that it would suddenly cloud over and rain. Then she could wear it; could put it on and I could pretend that she was Kathleen, not Catherine.
But the weather remained glorious and after we’d passed the pier, there were all the surfers riding the waves.
“Oh, look!” she pointed. “The hang-ten guys!”
“Do you surf?” I asked.
“I’ve tried to. But I’m not really good at it or anything. You?”
“I got so I could paddle out and ride the small ones. But it killed my sinuses, so I quit.”
As we drove past the cove I noticed how eagerly, longingly she looked at all the blond, sunburned young men sitting astride the waves on their gay-colored surfboards. It was like a stab to the heart. I knew she would rather be with them than with me.
Why not? The voice said. They’re her own age, for chrissake. Can’t blame her, can you?
Suddenly a black and white Highway Patrol car slid out of a gas station and dropped in behind us.
Catherine saw it and tugged on my arm. “Uh-oh. The man on the pinto’s behind you. You’d better slow down. They’re death on speeders along here.”
I slowed to forty-five. Above us, on the inland side, a futuristic steel-and-stone-and-glass cliff-side jutted out over the highway.
“I love that place,” I said. “Reminds me of a flying saucer.”
“Makes me want to barf,” Catherine said.
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m not living in it,” she said enviously. “And never will, most likely.”
“Don’t be so negative,” I teased. “Who knows? You might marry a rich lawyer or architect or even a movie star—then you can live where you please.”
“Fat chance,” she said gloomily. “I’m no trophy wife and that’s what these rich guys want. Eye candy—”
“What?”
“That’s what Dad called them. You know. Gorgeous model or starlets who cling to rich guys’ arms.”
“Eye candy,” I repeated. “What a great description. I must use it in a script or novel someday.”
Ahead, the highway now climbed a long steep grade. I geared down. We slowly ground uphill. Behind us on our left lay Malibu Colony, a collection of beach homes facing the sunlit ocean. In front of them sunbathers lay basking on a rug of golden-white sand.
“Oh, look,” she pointed. “There’s the Sierra retreat. Isn’t it beautiful?”
I nodded and looked at the Spanish-style monastery perched atop a hill some five miles inland.
“Think you could do that?” she asked.
“What?”
“Live likes the monks do?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I doubt it. Seems like a pretty isolated life.”
She considered my words for a moment before saying: “I once thought of becoming a nun.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Not such a bad life. They have their faith in God, in each other, and…”
She went on talking but I’d stopped listening. Monks may be isolated, the voice in my head scoffed, but better to be a monk walking around in a long brown robe instead of a lonely sick atheist wearing a white rubber raincoat. And a stolen woman’s raincoat at that!
I’m not an atheist! I’m not. I believe there’s a God—or some kind of universal force, at least. I just don’t believe Jesus was His son.
The voice laughed mockingly. Well, whatever’s wrong about being a monk at least they don’t go around attacking helpless innocent women, not like certain perverts I know.
Don’t call me that! I’m not a pervert! I’m not!
Oh, no? Then why did you hide it in the trunk and not tell her it was there or that later, after the picnic, you wanted her to wear it—to parade around in it so you can get your rocks off?
When I had no answer, the voice continued to mock me, bringing up the past, reminding me of my childhood; of walking along the far side of the river with the ducks quacking softly in the reeds; of spying on Kathleen and the Yank officer who was putting the boots to her in the ferns.
Shut up! I yelled. Shut up and leave me the hell alone!
CATHERINE
“Penny for your thoughts,” I said to Noel. We’d left the highway and were now driving across the cliff-tops. Sprawled below us were miles of empty beach known as Point Dume. He kept glancing at me as if he wanted to ask me to do something but couldn’t because he knew I’d refuse.
“Noel,” I repeated when he didn’t answer. “What’re you thinking about?”
“Uh?” He came out of it, looked confused and embarrassed for a second, then said: “Oh-h. Uhm … just about last night. Meeting you. What a lucky coincidence it was for me.”
Now I felt embarrassed. Don’t ask me why, I just did.
“I hope you still think so, after you’ve spent all day with me.”
“I can answer that right now—I will.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I kept quiet. We drove on, following the narrow paved road as it dipped and climbed and wound its way through a sprawling, recently developed housing tract called Marble Head Estates. Some of the beautiful, ranch-style homes were vacant, others still being built, but for the most part the homes were already sold and occupied by dumb rich people, who’re too busy making more money to really enjoy what they already had.
The largest, most expensive houses sat along the cliff-edge and had the kind of fantastic view of the ocean that makes you ill just thinking about it. What was worse, most of these homes also had their own corrals with training rings in back, and as we drove by all the horses came and stared solemnly over the fence at us—as if they knew how much I loved horses, have always wanted one, and were just doing it so I could see how super-beautiful they looked and become even more envious and frustrated and sick to my stomach than I already was.
“And the same to you, too,” I said, poking my tongue out at them—which I know is immature, but I just couldn’t help it.
“Why’d you do that?” Noel asked.
“I don’t know. Just felt like it, I guess.” His puzzled expression made me add: “Don’t you ever do things—dumb crazy things—just because you feel like it?”
He shrugged. “I suppose so. I never actually thought about it.”
I sensed he was trying to appease me, like my dumb uncle’s always doing, and it makes me madder than anything.
“Don’t do that!” I snapped. “Don’t ever do that!”
“Do what?”
I shrugged, sorry now that I’d attacked him. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that anyway. It’s just—” I broke off as I recognized the narrow sandy shoulder that we were passing. “Wait! Slow down,” I said. “We better park along here. Farther up, there are No Parking signs everywhere.”
He slowed up and pulled off the road. The noise of the engine frightened some quail hidden in the long grass. They burst aloft, wings hammering, and climbed rapidly into the clear blue sky. Shading my eyes from the sun, I watched them for a moment. Then as they suddenly veered left, began a wide gradual circle and headed inland once more, a sea gull drifted across my vision. It was kind of a sorry, bedraggled looking bird. It looked down at me, then at Noel who was now getting our stuff out of the trunk, and gave a mournful, hungry cry. It then headed out over the ocean, wings outspread and motionless, carried along by invisible air currents, until, abruptly, it slanted down below the level of the cliffs.
“What’s wrong?” Noel asked, watching me.
“Sea gulls,” I said. “I don’t know why, but they really depress me. “
“Serious?”
“Yeah.”
“There must be a reason. Think… maybe it will come to you.”
“What—you’re my shrink now?”
“No. Just trying to help you figure things out.”
He sounded so genuine, as if he honestly meant what he said, that I calmed down and gave it some serious thought.
“Well?” he coaxed. “Any answers?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. But then I’m not sure about a lot of things.”
“Join the club.”
“Oh, no, don’t give me that. You’re sure about everything you say and do. I can tell. Confidence just oozes out you.”
He made a scoffing sound. “Don’t you believe it. It’s all smoke and mirrors. Strictly superficial. Underneath—where the truth lies—I’m a mess just like everyone else.”
Even though I knew he was just trying to pump me up, I couldn’t help but feel better. So, digging deep, I sort of stumbled around in my mind for a few moments then said: “Well… if you must know, I think it’s because they always sound so sad and lonely—like God put them here but forgot to tell them why.”
He looked at me as if I were crazy.
“You’re right,” I said quickly. “I’m nuts, right? I mean, who in their right mind cares about sea gulls”
“I do,” he said. And he said it with as much feeling and sincerity as I’ve ever heard anyone say anything; especially an older person. Surprised, I said: “You do? Why?”
“’Cause they sound about as lonely as I feel.”
Even more surprised, I said: “You’re lonely?”
“Most of the time, yeah.”
“That’s funny. Me too.” When he didn’t say anything, I added: “Are you lonely now?”
“No.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“No. I mean, really sure?”
He nodded. He had the saddest, gentlest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Looking directly at me with them, he said quietly: “I haven’t been lonely, not for a single moment, since I picked you up this morning.”
Shaken, I sort of smiled for a moment to hide my embarrassment, and then said: “That’s funny. Neither have I.” Which wasn’t too original, I admit. But, my God, what else could I say? I knew he didn’t mean it of course, knew he was just saying it to make me feel needed—something I haven’t felt since my dad passed—but it was still nice to hear. Really nice. And as I started to help him unload our picnic stuff, I felt all warm and tingly inside—you know: same as I used to feel at Christmas, when Daddy was alive and we’d light this big old fire in the fireplace, which always smoked, then sit and drink eggnog and sing carols together. Of course, now that I’m living with my aunt and uncle, I feel more lonely and depressed at Christmas than at any other time of the year. Don’t ask me why, I just do.
Come to think of it, maybe it’s because all I have to look forward to at Christmas is the same old phony blue plastic Christmas tree and a bunch of dumb presents given you by two people who don’t know how to laugh or be happy, and who think Christmas is an unnecessary and expensive pain in the butt!
