You’re dying, Tracy.
“I’ve been dying ever since I married him.”
She said it aloud, and felt dismay at the thin sound of her voice. She filled her lungs to produce a deeper resonance; her breasts rose and brushed against the cloth, causing a shiver to spread throughout her body. She gave a shudder which rejected all clothing; her skin seemed raw all over; the robe was an unbearable weight on her shoulders, and the band of her shorts was a hand squeezing her in two.
She closed her eyes, and the lids grated like fine sand. She pressed her fingertips against her eyes, felt the eyeballs rolling beneath the lids like grapes. Got to hurry, she thought, before I get too sick—
She got her safety razor from her toilet case, grasped the rust-rimmed blade between her thumb and forefinger. Her hands began to shake. The third try produced a cut which barely broke the skin. She sat down on the stool, breathing heavily.
If I only had a cap, just enough to get straight...
Stupid. You left your purse on the boat and it’s not due back until tomorrow.
Tomorrow! What about now?
Maybe you can find some. You had stuff squirreled everywhere.
Again she searched the lining of her clothes. Her lipstick tube. Compact. Fingers of her gloves. Face powder—
Her fingers touched something round, oblong. Joy dissolved her strength, and a small sob escaped her lips. She picked out the gelatin capsule and blew the face powder from its surface. A full one, sure. Rolf always got full measure. The pushers knew better than to hand him fogged caps. Not that Rolf would mind being cheated. He treated everybody with a studied carelessness, half-hoping someone would cheat and give him an excuse.
She separated the two halves of the capsule and dumped the contents onto a sheet of paper. Her body shivered, and she could feel moisture from her nose poised on her upper lip. Her fingers seemed gnarled, blunt and clumsy, but they were steady as she used the razor blade to scrape the powder into a tiny windrow at the edge of the paper. She dumped the powder into a spoon, then held the spoon above the chimney of the lamp until there was only a clear liquid. She took the needle from her suitcase, filled it, and watched the liquid climb the spike. While it cooled she took off the belt of her bathrobe and wrapped it around her leg just above the knee. It was easier in the arm but there was already a string of purple dots like a fading tattoo...
Now the vein throbbed, swollen purple. With flawless rhythm the glass bird swooped down and thrust its glittering steel beak into the knotted worm of the vein. Its glass intestine filled with thick red blood, blended with the fluid inside and became pink. Her thumb pressed down and the fluid disappeared...
Ah...
Warmth in her chest, like an explosion of pleasure. It rippled along her skin; her lips spread in a loose smile and a faint breathy giggle escaped them. Finally she withdrew the needle and laid it on the stand. A fly came to drink of the glistening red droplet which hung from its tip. She regarded it with a benevolent smile. Get high, little fly. After a long time she carried the lamp into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. The room seemed to flatten out and relax like a cat stretching itself before a fire. Before it had been a jangling, jarring chaos of corners and angles; now it was exactly right, and there was beauty in each joining of stone. The air was filled with streamers of light, rose, purple, green and blue; they wove themselves into a net and enveloped her, swinging her gently. Smoke curled from the lamp like a satin ribbon edged with purple and orange. She felt a gratitude for the lamp and then no gratitude; she was the lamp, the house, the sea and the universe, all joined in one.
But...
Someone was standing in the door behind her. She fought to ignore it, knowing that if she came down she could never go as high again.
“Tracy.”
Rolf’s voice. How had he got here? What does he want? I’ll push him out of my mind, not even think about him...
But the effort of holding herself high caused her to lose it. She felt herself coming down, down.
“Please, Rolf,” she spoke without turning. “Later we can talk.”
“Just struck yourself, did you, baby? All squared now, eh?”
“Mmmm.”
“What are you writing?”
A hand appeared from behind her shoulder. It seemed almost to be hers, except for the long spatulate fingers. The square-cut diamond on his little finger caught the lamplight and sent yellow shards flashing around the room. She would have enjoyed the diamond universe, but Rolf was reading her letter. Why did he read aloud?
“You’ve decided what, Tracy? What have you decided? Suicide? You’ve mentioned it enough.”
Round rolling words like lumps of cold gravy dripping on her head. She knew the answers but there were more important questions, and each question had its own answer.
His hand grasped hers and held it under the lamp. She heard him laughing. “You couldn’t do it, could you? Not while you had your needle. I counted on that.” He released her hand. “How do you know death isn’t the same thing, Tracy, only better? How do you know death isn’t the biggest fix of all?”
He turned her to face him; he must have done it roughly because she felt pain somewhere behind the soft pillowing pleasure. She lowered her head, but he lifted her chin and met her eyes.
“Look at me, Tracy. You know something funny?”
She wondered if it was the lamplight which made his face seem molded in wax. Even the blond mustache looked like the ones they put on department store dummies. But the pale blue eyes were real; they held a look of amused pity as though he had somehow learned the hour of her death.
The eyes didn’t change when he slapped her.
“Answer me, Tracy. You know what’s funny about your trying to kill yourself?”
She looked out of a long dark tunnel; she was hidden up high behind her eyes, protected by the hard helmet of her skull. She would stay here quietly, warm and cozy, where he couldn’t hurt her.
He slapped her again, then again. The waxy mask seemed to crack and fall away, leaving a wizened old man’s face. His hands encircled her throat, and she realized abruptly there was no use hiding inside her skull. There was no air. She clawed at his hands, and up inside her brain the cells began blinking off like lights at bedtime.
One
Burt March sat on a coil of rope and watched the green-yellow islands of the Grenadines sail past. The schooner wallowed through a heavy sea, but there was no wind and the sails were furled. From below came the intermittent growl of the diesel engine; an occasional vile whiff of exhaust fumes reminded Burt of the city he’d left the day before.
He gazed around the open deck, crowded with islanders returning from St. Vincent after selling their vegetables, pigs and chickens. A rum bottled passed from one black hand to another; a Negro girl flashed him an over-the-shoulder look, then reached into her basket and tossed him a ripe mango. He caught it and smiled at her; she turned quickly to whisper to a girl who sat beside her. Their burst of tinkling laughter pleased him; he was glad to leave the grit and sticky July heat of Florida, to forget the pinch of a shoulder holster, and to be among people who didn’t know him as Dective Sergeant Burton March of the Crystal City Police Department. He hated the puffed, indignant faces of solid citizens, the uneasy look from those who had nothing to fear from him, and the pinched, scared faces of those who did. He hated the scared faces most, maybe because he knew others in the department who liked them scared.