CHAPTER 4
Drying her tears on the edge of her sleeve, Thel got up and swept up to the door, bracing herself. The children were back. She opened the door and they paraded in, followed by their grandmother and the bluster of a dewy night-breath from the open air. Conversation with no meaning for her followed—yes, the azaleas were coming up nicely—no, Frank hadn't said anything about that—oh she didn't? I'd heard she did—while the children went into their bedrooms for the night.
"Jeffy," Billy called to his brother, "Jeffy I need someone to talk to."
"Whatsamatter, Billy?" Jeffy's shining lips were covered in his own saliva.
"Mom's collapsing, Jeffy. Mom's collapsing, and there's nothing I can do. Dad's gone, and I don't know where he is. I thought things would get better eventually, but they're not—they're just getting worse! Do you see it, too?"
"Dogs are gross! I saw Barfy eat his own puke today!" Christ, useless as always.
"Why do ya think we call him Barfy, dummy!" their sister's voice rang from down the hall.
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Bill staggered into the dimly lit bar-room. Wispy smoke danced in the air like an arabesque come to life, and the braying of a saxophone rang in his ears. He was in Hell, but he was comfortable. Misery loves company.
Suddenly he became aware of himself. The grime all over him would be hidden by the light, but he couldn't hide the stench. He hastily tucked in his shirt and ran his fingers through the wilds of his hair. At best he looked like a busy guy, hard on his luck, who hadn't had time to shave in a week. It'd take a closer examination for someone to see he was a vagrant.
He looked around for a seat. The glowing eyes of lit cigarettes shot at him through the darkness. The devils of the pit. The wild wail of the saxophone was a black paean that broke over his consciousness, sent the swirling ghosts of smoke into his eyes and made him cough and sputter. The only seat was one right next to the stage.
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Thel lay silent in her bed and gathered the sheets around herself. She buried her face into her pillow to muffle her gasps of pleasure-mingled sorrow, and then she traced the curve of her thigh with her hand and entered herself; forcefully, angrily, biting down on the tear-streaked fabric of the pillow that surrounded her face.
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Bill was on his second drink of good cheap liquor when it happened. The room suddenly became silent and dark—even darker than before. Then, on the stage, a white light rose slowly, illuminating first a single microphone stand, then the columns of against the wall and the gently swaying velvet drapery that framed the scene. The lit cigarettes became burning cherubim. The tortured ghosts were empyrean clouds. Bill looked into his glass in a daze and then he heard it.
The song was of a totally different character than the chaotic up and down of the jazzman who had just finished. This was ethereal, otherworldly. Bill looked up and through his reddening eyes he saw a figure in sparkling white. He was entranced with her, this beautiful angel singing, it seemed, only to him. Her song was sad, unmeasured but forceful and pleasant, like a gentle breeze in springtime. The notes rose sometimes unexpectedly, and when they did so they lifted his heart with them.
When love is gone away
Then speak to me, and
Never say that I--
And you and I could
Go on forever.
I lie upon the shore
Of a misty lake at night;
Where my body lies,
Lies too a mystery of life.
And love is gone away
When you speak to me, so
Never say that I--
And you and I could
Go on forever.
I'll lie here 'til dawn--
Oh hold me, I'm falling!--
Wond'ring to myself
How the mysteries of life--
Unhappy as I am,
Seem never nearer to my heart.
An unseen source of music filled the silence as she ended the stanza and prepared to begin the next, when Bill began to wail and grope at the stage, crying piteously "Hold me! Hold me, oh God!" over and over. The singer looked at him contemptuously and pulled back her leg just as he vomited a thin yellow liquid mixed with blood. Bill Keane screamed and choked on his own bile as the other patrons rose to their feet. He cried out "Hold me!" again and then vomited once more. This time it was mostly blood. It bubbled from his mouth and poured over his ragged beard. A gruff looking man grabbed Bill by the collar of his shirt and dragged him into the street. Had he not noticed the blood? The lights in the bar were dim. Couldn't he see how sick he was? Bill grappled with the man and pulled wildly at the pockets of his pants. The man, disgusted, threw Bill down and went back inside.
Bill staggered to his feet and vomited a third time. Chunks of something were mixed into it this time, even though he hadn't eaten solid food in over a day. He rolled his eyes upward, waiting for the pressure to go away. Suddenly he noticed he was holding onto something. It was a gun. Had he taken it from that man? Yes, he'd had a gun lodged in his belt.
Bill looked it over. The man would realize he was missing his weapon soon. He'd have to get away from the area. But where would he go? He smiled a black smile, his mouth and clothes spattered with frothy heart's-blood. He laughed a short, low laugh.
He was going home.