Chapter 3
WHEN ZELL CAME BACK, FOLLOWED by a disheveled and hair-tangled Joy Santee, he strutted, chest out, long arms dangling. He'd shed his shirt, baring the ridged muscles of his furry chest and his flat belly. He had us cover the clams with a layer of wet sand, and the cooking fire was built over them.
In the fire-lit darkness, we waited hungrily, with the cool of tropic night creeping upon us. Our first meal here would be meager, but we were going to have to get used to cutting down on the frills. I took our shares over to where Danny sat beneath a spreading bush with the flames playing shadow tricks with his gaunt face. We ate slowly, but Danny only got through a few of the shellfish before making a pained face and shoving the rest to me.
"Sick?" I asked.
"Not the way you think. Sick in my own way, a familiar sickness. Cramps in the gut, twinges in the liver."
"From liquor."
He nodded, his cheeks sunken. "Booze has calories, but no vitamins. That plays hell with the liver. And there's no ampho-jell here to ease the cramps. I'll just have to tough it out."
I munched the tough meat and swallowed it. "You vanished earlier. You've got more whiskey hidden somewhere. Why don't you get rid of it, Danny?"
He grimaced. "The answer is simple-I can't. I can't plan beyond the next drink, if there's going to be a beyond, that is. I've been through the withdrawal symptoms before, Julie-I can't stand them again; not here, without paraldehyde to calm the shakes, to hold back the sweats and the hideous things that will come crouching around me."
I frowned at him. "But you'll have to stop sometime-when your hoard is depleted. What then?"
He held both thin hands clenched in the pit of his stomach. "What then? Exit Danny Mixon-but not laughing. Hell no-not laughing."
"It doesn't have to be like that," I said.
"The hell it doesn't." He had found a shred of anger. "What do you know? What do any of you know about it?"
"Tell me," I said. "Just whisper, so the others can't hear. It may make it better."
He'd lost the threadbare bit of rage already. "All right. It wouldn't do for the stirring saga of Danny Mixon to be lost to posterity. I'll pass it along to you, Mrs. Julie Curtis-until my last shot wears off and I have to skulk back to my cache."
Danny told me his story, haltingly, with long pauses between thoughts, as if it was difficult for him to piece together the tattered memories.
"I have six more fifths in the bag-and nine of those little two-ounce bottles, the kind drunks can hide in their pockets and suck dry in a washroom. I'll drink some more later tonight, because I have to. Oh-I won't be drunk; I'll just take enough to put me under for an hour or so of sleep.
Know what else I had in that bag? A toilet kit with the razor missing; some underwear-all dirty, and a wad of copy paper that's lumped together now by the sea. Nothing else. There had to be room for whiskey."
Across the fire, the others talked loudly, lifting their voices against the unknown terrors of an alien night. His head close to mine, Danny murmured on, telling me of going through the gates of Oakland Army Base with less than his bag had held, but with the General Discharge for alcoholism stuffed into the pocket of the GI fatigues the Army had given him when they took away the rest of his uniforms.
The Army left him what-experience useless in civilian life? Not quite; there was the writing, the GI newspaper background. It was enough to hack out stories for a smear and smut magazine; enough for a drunk to supply himself with booze. For a while. Now at least that was over; that, and everything else.
But before-before-the young, cocky Sergeant Mixon of World War II, the not noncom who knew machine guns as well as the men who built them. The Silver Star pinned to his OD shirtfront beside the Purple Heart. Was it in Tunisia?
The hills were African, but the dead man at his feet was too young for the veteran Afrika Korps, and the woman crying over there was Sicilian. Or was she French, or German, or Belgian? He couldn't remember; there were so many crying women, so many dead men.
But Sergeant Mixon was young and he was though. They'd found that out even before combat. All the old pugs he'd faced in the gym could tell them that much, all the journeymen middleweights he'd outsmarted and outfought in the civilian rings off post, the professional rings where a sharp young puncher could make a hundred bucks for six rounds-and blow it all on a party, because a soldier didn't have to pay rent or chow bills.
There might have been bigger money; there had been a real chance for it, the same chance Lew Jenkins got, coming right out of the Army and going for the title. But the war came, and Danny Mixon didn't give a damn, for a fight was a fight.
Only-when you went down in that kind of fight, you stayed down. The glory rubbed off quickly, and by the time the Big Red One of the First Infantry Division had been daubed on a Berlin Wall, Danny Mixon wasn't so tough any more.
Not after the dead Legionaires at Oran, the dead desert fighters of Rommel, the dead Wop soldier on a Sicilian mountain top, the dead kids and dead old men at Aachen. Not after all the women crying.
Stiff-lipped, droning in a heart-aching monotone, Danny Mixon made me see him after the war, the Danny still fighting, but losing now in tank town rings, losing more to the bottle than to his opponents. But still not giving a damn because the Army was always there and the bottles were always there, and the other kind of fighting was forever done and over with.
But it wasn't. Korea had dead men and babies frozen blue in icy ditches, and crying women, too. No Silver Stars for Danny this time, because the guts were gone-pickled, burned out, raw and quivering. But Sergeant Mixon wasn't looking for medals; he had a knack for stringing words together, and found a new slot as combat correspondent. Yet he was looking only to get away from the terrible, hurt country.
And then-where was Sergeant Mixon, next corporal, next private? In an orderly room in Japan with seventeen years service behind him and a hard faced major in front of him, the major saying that the next drunken brawl would be the last one, that the next stay in the NP ward of Tokyo hospital would be the last one, because the Army is tired of Danny Mixon; it has no place for alcoholics.
Danny believed that CO, because he'd have said the same thing if they'd been on opposite sides of the desk. He saluted the major, thanked him, and left the man's office. Then he went out of the back gate of Camp Zama and into the tawdry ginmill called the Club Naha. A week later, medics of NP Ward 18 were standing by as MPs unlocked the handcuffs. There was a board of officers, the general discharge stateside, and civilian Danny Mixon, thirty-eight years old, standing at the gate with a battered toilet kit, seven dollars and twenty cents in his pocket, and no place to go.
Her name was Marilyn, and once they'd been married. She was ashamed and nervous, but she gave him a place to sleep and fed him. Marilyn made two conditions-that he didn't touch a drop of whiskey, that he didn't touch her. Danny didn't want to touch either, and for two months, he didn't. Then he got the magazine job, and after ten months dry in a furnished room, the expense money, the ticket to Japan, where he'd interview a movie star in hiding.
Danny celebrated the big job. He got drunk. He went back to the apartment and threw Marilyn on a couch. She screamed, she hated him as he ripped off the nightgown, but what the hell? He was Danny Mixon on top of the world again, and it wasn't like it was Marilyn's first time. All white legs and quivering breasts and a hating mouth, and somehow, he didn't feel big anymore. Before he caught the plane in San Francisco, he bought three fifths of bourbon.
The firelight flickered. The others were asleep, all but the wide-shouldered woman in the bedraggled WAC jacket; Corporal Jessie Marawski was pulling guard-at Zell's orders. The lean-tos were occupied; a faint whimper came from one of them, a low-pitched giggle from another-from the one Zell and Joy Santee were in.
Danny's head was nodding; his hands lay limply across his knees. In another moment, his chin sagged to his chest, and I saw him slip into dreams-dreams whose horror I could only imagine. I watched him, wanting to help, but not knowing how I could-no more than the woman named Marilyn had been able to help him before.
Slowly, he eased down upon his back, legs twitching, Danny's hands came up in the protective shell of a fighter who is taking a beating. But soon the hands sagged, went to his shrunken belly to cover it.
I saw that he was crying now, softly and quietly, the tears mingling with a thin film of sick sweat on his cheeks. He turned on his side and his knees drew up close to his chest. His hands went hugging around them, and his forehead drew down to his knees. Curled into the fetal position, his shoulders soon ceased to shake, and the little whimpers stopped.
I stared down at him for a long time, but he didn't move again. I lifted his shaggy head gently, easily, surprised at its lack of weight, and slid his near-flattened flight bag under it. There was only a towel to cover him with, but I arranged it to keep the chill off his thin chest.
Why, I wondered, did I feel drawn to this shell of a man, to this self-tortured creature so single-mindedly bent upon destruction of himself? My own man had been-but that was the point: had been. And, I told myself, I wasn't interested in Danny Mixon like that. I'd never be sexually interested in anyone else; my Jim had always been enough, and now that he was gone, what other male could possibly take his place? The answer was simple-none.
What I felt for Danny Mixon wasn't man-woman, but more like woman-child. Danny was like that-a child, lost and alone just now, terribly sick. Maybe I was dead inside, but I was still woman, still a mother, and I couldn't turn away from this manchild who needed me.
He would sleep now, for a while at least. I nodded good night to the WAC standing guard, and slipped into the lean-to I'd share with Ella Martin. For tonight, all of us, tired and sore, could forget this strange and frightening world we'd been hurled into together. Tomorrow would bring the problems, accentuate the fears that somehow seemed to center in Kane Zell. But tonight we could sleep; it might be the last relaxed, unterrified sleep we women would get.
We were all in a half circle on the scuffed sand, watching Zell rapidly sketching a crude map with a pointed stick. Beside him, propped against a palm, his spear gleamed in the morning sunlight. It was made of his bayonet, lashed to a long, thin pole. It looked wickedly effective.
"This is it," Zell grunted. "This island runs like this, like an egg, with the little end pointing west. That's the end we're on now, and it ain't very big-maybe three miles from tip to tip, maybe two miles across the thick part, at the most."
His stick made a circle in the sand. "Here's the spring, and there's a bigger one other side of the high ground. We followed the creek it makes, right down to the sea."
He looked around at us. Kneeling beside him, Joy Santee looked too-smugly, self-satisfied, on the right hand of this self-appointed god of the island. Beyond them, Danny Mixon lay on the sand, facing away, wrapped in his secret misery. Ella Martin sat close to me.
"There's kind of a cliff over there," Zell continued, "with a good size cave in it. It'll come in handy for storage, and for a storm cellar when the typhoons hit."
The women murmured. Zell curled his lip. "This ain't exactly the garden of Eden. Our educated drunk over there says this is a typhoon belt, and from seein' stuff jammed in the treetops, I go along with him. So, I figure tomorrow we'll haul everything we got to that other spring and set up camp there. "We'll be close to the cave if a blow comes up."
One of the girls, the one with the broken arm, muttered that she was hungry.
"Ain't we all?" Zell said. "And we all got to hustle to keep our bellies full. It could be worse. The ocean's full of stuff we can eat-and that includes seaweed. The Jap moose says its got vitamins we're gonna need. I saw some birds inland, and we run across something' the bright drunk calls 'taro'-kinda' like sweet potatoes, and he says there oughta' be breadfruit.
"I don't know about that-but there's berries and fruit. We ain't going to starve, but we ain't going to have time for pink teas. So everybody works-and that includes you, Mixon."
Danny didn't move. The long hike Zell had forced him into that morning had taken what little strength he had left. He was beaten, sick, and Zell was enjoying the sickness.
"Now," Zell said, "You-fat woman-what about the salvage?'
Mary Tetson shrugged. "Sako tells me she used to be a pearl diver. If she can go down, reach the plane itself, we should be able to bring up many things we'll need-and we need everything. But we have to wait for low tides so she can work; the water's too deep, otherwise."
"Okay," Zell said. "I want every scrap of cloth and every piece of metal. You, Ma-you're chief cook from her on out, besides supply sergeant. You understand, Ma?"
"Mary," she corrected.
"Ma is good enough," Zell grunted. "Now, you young broads see to the salt."
The girl with the broken arm frowned up at him. "Salt?"
"Yeah, stupid. The two of you go dig holes in the beach, make 'em watertight as you can by lining 'em with rocks jammed over pieces of cloth. Pour sea water in the holes, and keep pouring' until it stands. The sun will suck out the water and leave salt. We got to have salt-and you broads are gonna' provide it."
"A-all right," the girl said, and her friends helped her to her feet.
At least, I thought, Zell had given the hurt girl work she could do, and perhaps he was right in saying everyone had to work, so that all might survive-so that any of us might survive. And I had to admit, somebody had to take over, had to run things. Zell had an animal cunning that took the place of real intelligence; it might do. It had to do, since Danny Mixon was so helpless and hopeless.
Danny was on his side now, his thin chest still heaving, a blueness about mouth and nostrils. Zell must have driven him without mercy, shoved him through jungle and up steep hills until Danny was ready to collapse. Sneering, one splayed hand planted firmly upon Joy Santee's full butt, Zell had turned away, eager to get the camp moved.
I eased over to Danny's bag, almost flat in the sand. Maybe I could help him a little, if only-there was; my fingers found smooth glass, a tiny bottle hidden in the folds of the bag. Palming it, I thumbed off its cap and went to Danny. He was lifting himself by his elbows, head wobbling on a loose neck, mouth hanging open. I tried to fit the bottle to his mouth, but his head wouldn't stay still.
Other hands came to help, slightly dark hands on each side of Danny's sick head, steadying it for me. I poured the small drink between his teeth, saw the pain lessen immediately, saw what passed for strength come into his face.
Sighing, Danny let his head fall back upon the knees of Ella Martin and stared up into her expressionless face. No, not quite expressionless; I saw something there in the dark eye, something like pity.
"Thanks," Danny said briefly.
I leaned forward. "I'll give you another drink when you need it, all right? The hike must have been hell for you."
Ella's soft warm thighs pillowed his head; she didn't seem to mind. "Only for me," Danny muttered. "Only because I'm soft and gutless. There wasn't too much undergrowth, but I kept stumbling over things."
Ella's fingers fluttered across his forehead. "You're all hot and dry; you may have a fever."
Danny's grin was weak. "No-just dehydrated. Alcohol does that, bums away the water."
"I'll bring some water," I said, and moved a few yards away from them.
I heard Danny say: "She's a good woman."
Ella's voice, then: "Julie is a fine woman, all right."
"Thanks for helping," Danny said.
"I'd help Julie any time."
"Oh."
"I didn't mean it like that," she said. "I know you can't help it, right now. It's just that I haven't had much to do with heavy drinkers. I saw too many mean ones-a long time back."
I scooped water from a battered metal drum, our only supply tank, and carried it to Danny in half a coconut husk. He drank greedily, droplets running over his bristly chin.
"I-" he said to Ella, "-I used to get mean, sometimes. There's no strength left for it, now, and no need. I found I was only angry with myself."
"Julie," Ella said, "can we get him some of that clam soup?"
Danny lifted his head from her lap. "Both of you-you're being too damned good to me."
Faint and fleeting a smile touched Ella's rich lips. "All of us need help, on this island."
"When we left Danny resting, I said to her: "We're all going to need help all right-and not only for food and shelter, but against Zell, too."
Ella's eyes changed, darkened. "That man better keep his hands off me; all the way off. He's got a woman. Let him stay with her."
"He won't, though," I said. "He told us that much. He sees all of us a harem-his harem."
Ella stood straight and strong, glaring across the clearing. "All the women in the world won't do a man any good-if he's dead."
I bit my lips. "Ella-be careful, if he hears-"
"I don't care," she said. "I was raped once, but it will never happen again. If Zell tries it, either I'll manage to kill him, somehow, or-"
"Or?" I prompted.
"Or he'll be making love to a dead woman."
I saw Zell staring at us, so I moved in front of Ella, whispering: "See to Danny, get him on his feet and out of sight before Zell starts riding him again. I'll-go over close and begin packing things for the trip to the new campsite."
"Julie," Ella said, "don't get too close to him. There's something wrong in that man's head-something bad wrong."
"I'll be careful," I said, and moved swiftly to kneel near Zell and Joy Santee, to keep his eyes busy with me as I stowed bits of metal and the husks we used for dishes into a man's water-stained shirt.
Joy's voice, superior and catty, pushed at me. "Wouldn't you figure it?" she asked. "The widow has to play mother to him, and that mulatto snuggling up to the man who'd have her."
I felt Zell's animal eyes boring into my back. "Mix-on ain't the only one. They're both good-lookin' women.
"No better than me," Joy pouted.
"That's right," he rumbled. "Ain't much difference in women-some fat, some skinny, some in between."
Joy kept trying. "But so many women are ugly."
"Only in the light. When it's dark, they're about the same."
Petulance crept into Joy's words now, and she was no longer striking at me, but attempting to protect herself. "Is that all you think a woman's good for, just to sleep with?"
Zell grunted. "Don't practice that slop on me. You might kid yourself that what you got between your legs is real special, but I know better."
"You shouldn't talk like that," she said, almost whispering. "Wasn't I nice to you last night? And I can be even better. You'll see."
"You'll have to be a hell of a lot better, to be good as you think you are," Zell said. "And if you want to keep blisters off those lily white hands, you're gonna' have to work at it."
I heard her breath hiss in sharply. "Kane-I-I'll try; I promise you, I'll be nice, real nice."
Zell grunted again, scornfully, and I saw that Ella had gotten Danny away. I lifted the makeshift bag and walked away, but the memory of Zell's probing eyes clung to me for a long time afterward.