Ed Gorman - Voodoo Moon

Exhausted.

Drag myself from bed. Knocking is light, timid somehow. Open the door and there she is.

Night smells: cold air, cigarette smoke, perfume. Hers.

Leaning against the door frame. Girly grin on her face. "I'm kinda drunk, Robert." Ready to fall down and pass out.

"Gee, no fooling."

"You know what my limit ish? My limit ish two drinks a night. Sshpread out. Guessh how many I've had?"

"Ninety-three."

"You smart-ass." Then she hiccupped to complete the stereotype of the drunk. "Sixsh. I've had sixsh."

She reeled away from the door and almost went over backwards. I grabbed her. "Why don't you come in?"

"All right if I barf in your bathroom?"

"What're friends for?"

"I haven't had very mush to eat so it won't be too bad." I got her inside. Got a light on. Got her in a chair.

"How'd you get so loaded?"

Her chin was touching her chest. She had started to snore. And then her head whipped up and she said, "Huh?"

"Where've you been?"

"Thish little tavern with thish cute jukebox."

"Boy, there's a novelty. A tavern with a jukebox."

Closing one eye so she could see me better. "My sister died tonight."

"I know."

"How'd you know?" she said suspiciously, as if I might have had something to do with it.

"I found the bodies, remember?"

Her head wobbled again and she stared at the floor. "Fucking Noah Chandler. Ishjesh like 'im to kill hisshelf. Take the easy way out."

Her head wobbled in my direction again. "You shoulda been there, Robert."

"Been where?"

"This tavern."

"Oh. Who all was there?"

She grinned. "'Who all?' What're you, southern 'r something all of a sudden?" Then she giggled. "Who all? You all? See the connection, Robert?"

"I see it. So who was at this tavern?"

"Oh, lessheee. Susan. You know, the police chief. And a couple of her deputies. And-oh, yeah-Dr. Williams."

"Dr. Williams? What was he doing there?"

She shrugged. Shook her head.

"How'd you get back here?"

"This deputy."

"Fuller?"

"Yeah. 'R somethin' like that, Fuller." Giggled again. "I thought he was gonna put the moves on me. He had to help me up into his van. And talk about 'Russian hands and Roman fingers.' God!" Then, abruptly, "Oh, God, Robert, I wasn't kiddin' about usin' your bathroom."

I followed her to the john.

Frantically.

She vomited.

Twice, actually.

I held her both times.

Then I got the water running in the shower and her clothes off and gave her a good scrubbing down. The shower helped. Alternately hot and cold water. By the time she was ready for the towel, she was self-sufficient again.

Not only did she dry herself off, she partook of my toothpaste tube. She asked if I had a hair dryer. I smiled and pointed to my thinning hair. No dryer required except a towel.

I used the bathroom after her and when I came out, she was propped up in bed with the remote in her hand. The light was on. "I've never liked Bette Davis," she said.

"Well, from what I hear, Bette never thought much of you, either."

She laughed. But it wasn't the casual laugh I was used to. It was pushed a little too hard.

"She's just so mean. And the men around her are always such wimps."

She went around the dial once and then started crying. No warning.

I crawled into bed and held her. I turned the light out but left the TV on very low.

I must've held her fifteen minutes that way. My erection came back and I felt guilty as hell. Here was I trying to offer my mere and baffled solace to a woman I thought a lot of, and here all my dick could think about was sex.

Then she took my hand and slid it inside her pajama top. And then she slid her own hand inside my pajama bottom.

"I guess we should do something about that penis of yours," she said.

And so we did.

It was not the transforming sex she needed. She didn't have an orgasm. "You go ahead and finish. I'm just not in the mood for it right now."

She did a couple of wonderful little things to make sure my finish came along reasonably soon.

And afterward, we lay in the darkness, and the way she talked, I realized that she'd used sex as a bridge to conversation. Making love creates an intimacy you can't ever quite duplicate in the living room or breakfast nook.

"I want to go to confession."

"I didn't know you were Catholic," I said.

"No. But you are. Don't they have like a citizen's confession deal?"

"What's a citizen's confession deal?"

"You know, where under certain circumstances you can hear confession just the way a priest would?"

"Sort of like a citizen's arrest, only this has to do with confession?"

"Exactly."

"Well, I guess I've never heard of that."

"Well, maybe you should suggest it to the pope or something."

"I'll bring it up the next time we're having lunch."

She lay against my arm. We were silent for a few minutes. The trucks sounded lonesome on the highway. Omaha and Denver and Cheyenne coming up down the pike in the sprawling prairie darkness.

She said, "I should be thinking of her."

"Laura?"

"Yeah. But you know who I'm thinking of?"

"Who?"

"Me. I mean, I feel terrible about her. I loved her. We fought a lot but I loved her."

"I know you did."

"And that's why I got so drunk tonight. So I could hide out and the pain couldn't find me. You know what I mean?"

I remember how my drinking had soared following the death of my wife. "I sure do."

"But as shifty as I feel about her, I feel great about me. I found those bones tonight. I did. The girl nobody ever took seriously. The girl everybody said was stupid and not nearly as pretty as her sister and not nearly as much fun to be around as other girls and the girl nobody ever wanted to choose for sports or any of the important clubs or anything like that. I can do something none of those girls can ever do. You know that?"

"Yes, I do."

"I'm somebody again, Robert. I should be thinking of Laura. But half the time-better than half the time-I'm thinking of me and how it's all going to come around for me again. The cable folks are going to be so happy. And the book deal will go through for sure now. And the European tour. And I'll be rich. Really and truly rich. And my ratings will soar again, too."

I took her hand. The anger, the bitterness had never been so clearly expressed before. Almost as if she'd been afraid to confront them because they might overwhelm her. But she faced them squarely now because the power was back. She was right, the power made her somebody indeed. Who else could claim such abilities? But I didn't see her as arrogant.

The ugly duckling, the always-dismissed little girl, the girl who babysat on her prom night, she was finally getting some of the pie. And who could resent her for that?

"You're doing just fine."

"She was my sister, Robert. I loved her. And now all I'm thinking about is me."

"You'll think about her the rest of your life, Tandy. Six, seven times a day, she'll come into your mind. And you'll talk to her. Maybe not out loud. But you'll communicate with her. And you'll use her for strength and guidance."

"You talk to your wife?"

"All the time."

She hugged me. "I just wish-there are just many things I should've said."

I hugged her back. "You'll say them. But not right now. When the time is right."

She went to sleep a few minutes before I did. But I couldn't hold out much longer. I clung to sleep the way I'd clung to her.

The press was there at seven-fifteen that morning.

At their knock, Tandy started groaning, still asleep.

I crept from bed on tiptoes and went to the curtained window and peeked out.