Chapter 9

The lights came back slowly, very blue and very dim, irritating because of their persistence, and lack of illumination. Bernie squinted angrily into them, trying to focus, trying to pinpoint some object that might be familiar, trying to break through the mist of intoxication that rode the air around his face like swirls of cotton candy, thick, sweet, sparkling and awesome, distorting everything into a world of make-believe. A fantastic world suspended somewhere between here and reality, blending colors together into gentler contrast and softening corners so they were less brutal, less demanding. He sighed with gratitude.

"Who-eee!" he said at last and he didn't know why he said it. Someone behind him laughed and said it too and then hands with fingers clamped over his waist, kneading his flesh and pushing him forward through the doorway into the apartment.

"Hey, man, where are you?" someone said and Bernie shrugged. He squinted through the maze of things. Shapes and placement of furnishings helped him get his bearings, and he moved instinctively to the right, and, trusting on memory, he eased himself down through space until he was on his couch. He searched over the slip cover to find the edge so he could lie down without the fear of falling off into nothingness.

"Man, it's nothing but dark in here!" someone said to him.

Bernie let his head fall back against the couch and closed his eyes. Things were clearer that way. He moved his head from side to side, trying to keep his breathing even, but it was impossible. Breathing in was no problem, but pushing the air out seemed to take all his strength.

"Whoo-eee!" He fought it desperately. The sugar mixed in the air was making him sick and he tried to avoid it, to filter it out by pursing his lips and letting in just a wisp at a time. But it only made him dizzy. He laughed and suddenly a splash of vinegar spilled up from the back of his throat and he swallowed it back and cringed.

"Oh, God," he said between breaths, "I'm sick!"

Someone laughed.

Bernie heard the laugh and he laughed too. He didn't know why. It had just become easier than talking. At first it had irritated him, like the hand that had moved along the underside of the bar and dropped onto his leg and pressed against his thigh. The music from the juke box had irritated him too.

Even now he could still hear it in his mind. It irritated him the more now because it was barely discernible, yet it persisted and he wished it would either come or go, be or not be, instead of in suspension, an in-between condition that confused him and made him fight for breath while he waited for the sickness to pass.

"Where's the lights?" he heard someone say.

"Don't turn on the lights," Bernie said. "Please!" He managed to cover his eyes in case his plea was unheeded. "I'm sick!"

"You're just a little stoned."

"More than that."

"I know how it is."

Who are you and how the hell do you know anything? Bernie tried to peer through the blue-and-silver strands that floated in front of his eyes. It was too much. It was too thick. Soon he would be asleep and the tide would pass.

"I just wanna find that bottle you were talking about."

Bottle? Well, now, tall-in-the-saddle, Ah believe it's on the counter where Ah left it, Podner. And the glass too! Ah believe you can count on that to be a fact. Bernie grinned.

What's a cowpuncher? He laughed and sure as hell someone else laughed too.

"Hey, man, lookee here-all set up and waiting for me!"

Yeah, man! How about that?

"That's good stuff," someone said and Bernie frowned because someone was coming toward him. "Wanna swig?"

Bernie shook his head. There was someone in the shadows. He tried to see past the bottle that was in front of his face, but he couldn't focus. No more, he thought. I'm sick!

The shadow slid into a big, grey ball over the black, upholstered chair. Soon it would go away. Soon the blackness would shatter into tiny specks of grey and filter out and disappear.

"Hey, don't go to sleep on me."

"I'm not asleep," Bernie said, though he was lying.

"Sure you don't wanna swig?" Bernie shook his head.

"Neither do I," someone said, "but I'm gonna need it."

It was followed by a laugh. Bernie knew it was his turn to laugh back, but he couldn't manage it. He dug his hands deeper into the couch, pressing them against his thighs. He fought back a new tide of vinegar that was pushing up into his throat. He swallowed desperately. Soon it would be conquered and he could breathe again. Soon....

"You all right?"

"I'm all right."

"Yes, sir, this is real nice." It was the cowpuncher from Texas who was talking. The rodeo boy, and Bernie wondered why he'd been so confused. It was so silly! He could have wept with relief. Why, it was a party! It was like the Wild West on television, and it was real nice! "Yes, sir, this is real nice. You must do pretty good."

"Pretty good."

"What you say your name was?"

"Bernie."

"That ain't your real name, is it?"

Bernie frowned. Wasn't it? He tried again to focus on the glob of grey that was sprawled on his armchair. Wasn't it? What a ridiculous question! He peered at the figure, following the outline of his shadow, remembering more than seeing the denim shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders, the bulbous, chocolate-stained arms with biceps that swelled out, the face with the piercing eyes that seemed friendly, yet that hinted at times they could as easily be venomous.

"Sure it is," Bernie said and he wondered if he had missed something again. This was his day for missing things. He looked around, wondering if there were someone else in the room.

"Mine's Jack."

Bernie nodded. That was Jack. Terrific! "See, here's my I.D."

Bernie winced at the hand and the wallet that pushed through the darkness and brushed against his face. He drew back, twisting away from it. Who the hell can read in the dark? I'm not that drunk. What's your game? What?

"What?"

"I just wanna show you I'm not lying."

Bernie shrugged. His hands twitched under the slip cover, simulating a gesture, and he thought, how ridiculous ... How ridiculous! and the couch suddenly dipped and he slid against something that was coarse like cloth, scraping his face as it jerked away. Then his face brushed against a cool surface that was firm and hard and felt like skin.

"C'mon," Bernie said, angrily. He strained against the arm that locked around his neck and half-scowled, half-grinned. "C'mon, Mike, dammit!"

"What's the matter," someone whispered.

"I got a headache, dammit!"

"What you need is a drink. How about a swig?"

"No, dammit, I'm sick!"

"Hey, I got something for you. I got something you'll like," someone whispered.

Bernie swung out in the darkness at the figure that was upsetting his couch. He pushed it and it laughed. He pushed it again, trying to free himself of it.

"You damn little fool, let go!" he said hotly.

"What's the matter, baby?"

"I'm sick!"

"What you need is a drink."

"No!" Bernie felt the bottle pushed against his mouth. "I said, no!" Strong fingers clamped over his head, grabbing his hair and tilting his head back.

"Come on, hen, swig!"

"No-please! I'll be sick!"

"Drink up!"

"Honest to God!"

"One more!"

"I'll be-"

Bernie forced the liquor down because he was too tired to fight. Surprisingly it didn't come back up. In fact it warmed him and he thought maybe he did need it. He slid forward on the couch, lying on his back, and covered his face with an arm. So tired ... tired....

A vise gripped his wrist, pulling it away from his face. Bernie turned his head from side to side as he felt a great weight crushing him, jabbing at him, pinning him down on the couch. Why didn't they just go away and let him sleep?

"So tired."

"Hey, you asleep?"

"So tired."

"Hey, I got something for you, baby. Lookee here!"

"Tired."

"That's all right. Just relax."

The voice became a whisper and it lulled him. He was suddenly freed and looked up at the figure that stood over him, peering through his drapes. Bernie frowned. Why was he looking through the drapes? Was he looking for help? The damn fool! There was nothing out there. He could have wept with pity for this fool who peered through his drapes for help.

"Don't go," Bernie said suddenly.

"Just relax," someone said. "I'm coming."

"I said come here!" Bernie said and his voice was a command.

How funny that he would say that! How dare he be left alone! Things began to spin and he spun with them, deeper and deeper, as he felt himself drawn down. He let his body go limp while he was swept away and under his breath, he said, "It is, it is, it must be . .

Madge looked at the clock again. It was ten minutes to one. She frowned impatiently. Why the hell didn't he call her? All day she had waited around her apartment, waiting for the telephone to ring. With each hour her irritation had increased. She'd waited till the last possible minute before leaving for work.

Maybe he got tied up with Mike and Sarah. She wondered if Sarah's father had arrived. He must have. And Bernie probably had to go somewhere with them or entertain them. But he could have called. He could have slipped away sometime. It would only take a few moments ... unless he didn't want to!

Bastard! He'd nodded his head as though he understood. Shallow hollow imitation of a man! Pathetic whimpering child-man! He had played the game until he could get away. In his mind he must have been laughing at her, leading her to think she had given him something wonderful, something more than just her flesh, something deeper.

Madge glanced about the dining room of the Pancake House. It was almost deserted now. She tried to forget the clock. She glanced at the guy sitting at the far end of the counter. She was aware he'd been watching her. When their eyes met, he grinned. Madge turned away, taking a deep drag from her cigarette. Not now, she thought. Not any more.

Madge stared into her coffee cup. She tried to free herself from thoughts that were stupid and trite. She tried to think, how funny it was, how funny she was. What would anyone say who could look into her mind and her thoughts? Poor, stupid girl, she thought. Poor, stupid, dumb bitch, Madge. Perverted, she thought. She had to be to love a person like Bernie. How else could she explain the reasons for everything ever since he had grinned at her with those hollow eyes that had fascinated her, drawing by their hunger a hunger deep inside her that she hadn't even known existed. Lying in her bed from that night on, whispering into the thick cushion of her pillow, saying, "I need, I need...." and not knowing why, but knowing it was true.

"I don't!" Madge said suddenly, under her breath, but aloud so her ears could hear and understand. She clenched her hand and fought an impulse to smash the cup with it. "I don't, I don't!"

She didn't need him or anyone else. If she wanted someone, she could grab him. She could have anyone she wanted. As if she wanted anyone!

Hey, you ... Yes, you, you beautiful son-of-a-bitch, what are you staring at me for? Why do you just sit there? Why don't you say what you want? Haven't you got a tongue, you son-of-a-bitch? You want me? Why don't you ask? ... five, six, seven, eight ... Hey, dark-eyes, come on over here.

You don't have to look at the door. There's nobody better coming in. Come on over. You wanna screw me, honey? ... seven, six, five, four ... You wanna go over to my place or your place or somebody's place and get naked? Just say the word, honey, because I'm easy. Anybody'll tell you that.

Don't let this pretty face fool you ... four, five, six, seven ... You wanna put it to me? You wanna screw me and I'll screw you right back till all hell breaks loose because I'm perverted. I'm so damn perverted you'll think you're in heaven. And you can thank him, the son-of-a-bitch! Blame him, because it's his fault, the dirty goddamn useless son-of-a-bitch!

Madge got up suddenly and hurried across the dining room, heading for the restrooms. The words were still racing in her mind and she leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath and suppress the thoughts. She looked at her face in the mirror above the washbasin, and it was all suddenly funny. She laughed until the trembling played itself out.

When she came out of the restroom, the guy at the counter was gone. She didn't care. She fished through her tip money for dimes while she headed for the phone-booth. She dialed a number and waited.

"Post Bar-we're closed," a voice said. It was the owner's wife.

"This is Madge," 'she said. "Jan's neighbor?"

"Oh, how nice!" the woman said. "We were just closing up. We have a relief man, you know, till Jan gets back and Pete likes to check out himself with new help."

Madge nodded impatiently, then answered questions about Jan, Jan's mother and the trip.

"I wondered," Madge said finally. "I'm trying to locate Bernie, Bernie Evans? I thought he might have stopped there."

"Who?"

"Bernie. The fellow that works at the Casita?"

"Oh!" the woman replied, "Jan's boyfriend."

"That's right."

"He was in here for quite a while."

"Oh?" Madge frowned. "Are you sure? The tall boy with reddish hair-Bernie Evans?"

"Oh yes, because I asked him about Jan....Just a minute, Pete," she said, away from the phone, then, "Honey, I have to go. We have to check out and the kids are waiting in the car. You know how they fuss, especially at this hour. You'll have to come over some time. But I suppose you do, only I'm never here." She laughed.

"Did he say where he was going," Madge said impatiently.

"No, they just left when we closed. I'm afraid they were pretty drunk, though."

"They?" She tried to keep her voice casual. "Was Bernie with someone?"

The woman laughed. "If you're keeping tabs on him for Jan, don't worry. He's not stepping out on her. He was with another boy."

"Oh, I see," Madge said.

"One of those rodeo people I think. You know, they're in town because of the rodeo this week. We get lots of them. They practically take over Phoenix. Pete was kinda worried about this guy, though. He was an awfully big fellow, and he kind of looked like trouble. You know, you can sometimes tell. He just sat in a corner and looked at everyone who came in. Like he was waiting for someone. Kind of good-looking, I might add"-she laughed in a rough sort of way ... I'm coming, Pete-"

Madge carefully set the receiver back into its cradle while the woman was still talking. She stared at the phone for a long moment before leaving the booth. She finished her shift, working automatically, then left the restaurant, heading across the parking lot to her car.

"Hey, what's the rush?"

She looked at the red convertible pulled partway into one of the parking stalls. The guy from the counter flashed a broad smile as though he expected she'd know he'd been waiting for her.

In the dimness of the shadows Madge looked at him coldly, then forced a smile, moving toward his car.

"Got a date?" he said.

"That's up to you," Madge said, and in her mind she added, "Goddamn Bernie Evans-Goddamn him to hell!"