"You really? That was all?" She'd pulled a tiny lace-edged square of cloth from somewhere and was dabbing at her eyes with it. "Was that really all, Aubrey?"
"Yes, it was, Sharon."
"What was it you and Mr. Sawyer were discussing, then?"
"Just military matters. Things you wouldn't under — I mean, that you wouldn't be interested in."
"I'm interested in everything you do, Aubrey. But you weren't making it up? You weren't with, another woman, tonight?"
"Oh, no. You're lady enough for me." He took her hand and pressed it warmly. "You know I love only you."
"Oh, Aubrey, I'm so glad to hear you say it, though." She sniffled and laughed and tilted the rearview mirror. "There now, see what you've done. My mascara's all runny. I'll bet I look a mess."
"You look lovely."
"Would you mind, Aubrey — really, I've been so upset, I could use just a tiny drink—"
"Want me to get you one?"
"I'd be so grateful — I've been worrying all night, worrying about us—"
The rain was heavier and its coolness soaked into the uniform as he ran for the porch. Damn. Well, the maid would have a fresh one ready when he got up. He unlocked the front door and slipped inside. The light came on before he touched the switch and he looked up.
"Hello, Mother."
Mary Rae Quidley was, at fifty-three, a slim, erect, active woman. She stood at the landing of the grand stairway and looked at her son. After a moment she raised one eyebrow in the gesture fashionable in English girls' schools in the mid-forties. "Aubrey. You're as wet as a damned dog."
"Yes, Mother. Mother, Sharon's out in the car. If I could get her a glass of something—"
"You know where the liquor cabinet is." She came down the stairs, stopping a step or two away. "But why don't you bring her in? She talks a blue streak, and that awful Tennessee whine — but she seems a nice girl. Use the parlor."
"Thanks, Mother, but—"
"Suit yourselves." She turned away. "I'm going up to bed anyway, and the people have Sunday off; you'd be alone. Bring her in. At least you'll be dry."
"Thanks, Mother."
"Good night, Aubrey."
"Good night, Mother." He looked after her for a moment as she ascended the stairs, then stepped into the parlor. Bourbon? No, Sharon was a fanatic about good bourbon; he'd take her out a brandy.
The courtesy light of the car was on when he stepped out onto the porch, but she turned it off as he came down the steps. "Oh, thanks, darling," she said, gulping at the drink. "What is this? Brandy? It tastes sweetish, sort of." She giggled. "Aubrey, would you — what we did before?"
"Sharon—"
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I shock you? But I liked it." Her eyes were fevered in the dim light from the parlor windows. "Kiss me."
Her lips were sweet from the strong drink, and she clutched at him. He felt confused. What did she want? When she began to pant he pushed her back. "Sharon — this is — not like you," he gasped.
"I'm sorry, Aubrey. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she whimpered, like a scolded child. "I'm — I don't know what you'll think if I say this, but I do love you too, and it's hard to act like a lady, to wait—"
"Perhaps I'd better drive you home."
"No. I can drive." Cloth rustled in the darkness. "Aubrey — will you call me?"
"I'll call, Sharon Sue."
"You don't — dislike me now?"
"No. I love you. But I think you're tired and worried."
"I have been working late over't the hospital. I'll be good. I'll go now, I'll go right straight home and to bed and I'll think of you till I fall sound asleep." She pecked his cheek and waited for him to open her door. Snuggled into the little car, she smiled up wanly, a tear glistening on one cheek. "Good night."
"Good-bye," he said.
When she was gone he stared after her, into the dark of the driveway, the drumming of the rain loud in his ears; and for the first time he began to doubt.
SEVEN
There…
There….
He thought… where? The burning light ate into him, into his brain. Sleep. Sleep. Jesus, no, there was no sleep, would be none… Vyry. Bo. Where are you? I am in the hands of the white man. I am in the very hell of the Book. I am my head is not here I am someone I never thought I was who am I?
Who am I?
"Who are you?" said the voice, echoing, making his knees hurt with the sound.
"Turner. Turn… er. My name Johnny Turner." A gasp. His teeth flamed. The world spun crazily.
Time, that elastic molasses, flowed by him like a snail raced by a bullet, the snail winning. He gaped up at the light from the bed he lay in. It was soft. He was gradually, slowly, easily melting into it, becoming one with it. Sinking in. The voice stopped, or he no longer understood it, and he slid backward and down into a pain-lit past, flickering visible by green lightning.
Eight. He was sick a lot at eight. He lay under the house, with the soft friendly bugs, hearing somewhere above his mother's curses. He lay staring upward and the roll of the planet turned in his pulse. His mouth was filled with sandpaper-rough noodles. Tall silver single-eyed figures pursued him. He was fevered, that he knew. The rotting bottom of the house rotated dimly above his staring eyes.
Agony. His limbs stiffened and writhed out like those of a dying starfish. He screamed through fused teeth. The pain — oh, Jesus, Vyry the pain in his head in his soul —
"Who are you?"
What could he answer. They knew he was Johnny Turner. He was Johnny Turner. Wasn't he Johnny Turner?
"Who are you?"
Turner, I'm —
"Who are you?"
"Turner," he screamed. "Turner, Turner, Turner, Turner."
Something in his head moved. He felt it there. It was small, it was cool, and it was inside his head. Now he felt the padded cuffs on his arms and legs. Couldn't move them. He felt his swollen tongue. He felt the insinuation into his arm through which liquids dripped. He felt the close-fitting Turner around his shaven cool head. He felt the thing inside him. Yes. What he decided. Only what he decided.
No = pain = death
Yes = love = pleasure = life
Yes, no, yes — Turner, Turner, Turner —
Something moved inside him and clicked to a new position and asked
Why were you out?
Why was I out
Why were you out?
Shotgun barrel draped over the door of the Dixie Get in nigger into the trunk don't bleed on my spare Pat pink face eager with hate
Why were you out?
Why was I out
PAIN PAlN PAIN PAIN
Why were you out?
Why was I out?
PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN
Why were you out?
Out… I was out…
PAIN PAIN PAIN PAlN
Why were you out?
….
PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN
PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN
"Turn it off," said Quidley, looking down at the staring eyes. Sanchez pressed a switch in the console. Lights died. The eyes stared upward, blinking with reflex every twenty seconds.
"How long has he been on the loop?"
"About six hours, sir."
"What did you get?"
"Very little," said the Cuban, unplugging Turner from narcolepsis and sending glucose and saline into his body. "Just his name. He has a barrier up for anything beyond that."
"Barrier?"
"Yes, sir." Sanchez turned a valve and sat back, watching life drip back into the man on the cot. "This happens sometimes. The mind, she is so complex… sometimes a man protects one thing, all the rest dies. Dies, absolutely. No more. He will never write his name again, maybe never speak. A vegetable, perhaps. But he will not release this one thing. I have had it happen. Once I was—"