Ed Gorman - Nightmare Child

"We didn't use to be any way but the way we are right now, Jeff-me pleading, you evading."

"Who's evasive when the subject of love comes up?"

"Oh, God, Jeff, not 'love' again! I'm twenty-four years old and I've slept with four men in my life and one of them could barely get it up-what do I know about love?"

In that whining tone of his that he despised so much, he leaned forward, palms sweating, head pounding, cheeks ablaze with shame, and said, "You know how much I love you, Brenda. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"I used to think it would mean an art directorship. To be frank, I mean."

"Well, that's a fine thing to say, Brenda. That's a fine thing."

She indicated the small room with a regal turn of her slender white wrist. "Jeff, I almost feel sorry for you. This is the Hubba-Hubba Room. This is where people come to use each other-for sex or for promotions or for a way of alleviating boredom. But nobody, Jeff, nobody falls in love in the Hubba-Hubba Room. Can't you understand that, Jeff? Can't you?"

He was about to yield to her, collapse inside and make a bitter promise (which he intended to keep) to go up-stairs and talk to Barney right then, when something that almost never happened in the Hubba-Hubba Room happened.

Behind the bar was a battered old black phone, the type Humphrey Bogart used to speak into when he was playing Sam Spade. It almost never rang (the Hubba-Hubba Room was supposed to be for uninterrupted pleasure), but now it rang as shrilly as the scream of a dying person.

Brenda said, a touch sardonically, "It won't be for me. Assistant art directors aren't that important."

He flew to the phone and snatched up the receiver. "God, I'm so glad I got you. You've got to get home immediately."

Mindy.

Glancing over his shoulder at Brenda, who was studying her perfect red-painted nails, he said, "How did you know this number?"

"Your receptionist gave it to me. She didn't want to, the bitch, but then when I reminded her about my uncle- what's her name, anyway?"

"Who?"

"Your receptionist?"

"Sandra."

"She sounds like a Sandra."

"How does a 'Sandra' sound?"

"Snotty. Bitchy. I'm going to ask Uncle Ray to have her fired." Mindy was not bluffing. Mindy never bluffed. Mindy had gotten any number of people at the Foster Dawson Agency fired. "But right now you've got to get home."

"Why?"

"Because I saw something."

"What did you see?"

Behind him, Brenda stood up and waved. He wanted to lunge at her, hold her from leaving and shout I love you! until she confessed her love for him back.

Brenda left.

"Jeff? Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Why do you sound so surly all of a sudden?"

"Mindy, I'm just buried in work and I really don't have time to-"

"She's back."

"Who's back?"

"Who do you think?"

Still irritated and forlorn over Brenda's quick exit, he said, "I don't have time for guessing games."

"I had to take three Valiums. That's the only reason I'm calm. But I started hyperventilating so I got a nosebleed."

"Please try to make sense here, Mindy. Please."

"She's back. Jenny. Jenny's home."

"Oh, Mindy. Mindy. Please call Dr. Moeller and make an appointment and-"

"She's right next door. At Diane Purcell's home. And about five minutes ago a police car pulled into the drive."

"What are you talking about, Mindy? Jenny can't be home. We-" He thought of tapped phones. Given all the palace politics of advertising, you couldn't ever be sure. "You know why that's impossible."

"It may be impossible, but it's true."

"But-"

"You get in your fancy-schmancy sports car that I bought for you and you get your buns home. Fast. Do you understand?"

"But-"

"Do you understand, Jeff? Right now."

Mindy hung up.

He looked miserably about him and thought of Brenda's ironic words. How only he, Jeff McCay, would be stupid enough to give his heart away in the Hubba-Hubba Room.

Forty-two-year-old Robert Clark had had three dates with Diane Purcell. While none were especially a disaster, neither were they memorable. Clark, a tall, shaggy, dark-haired man who frequently made jokes about being the "Chief" of a police department consisting of six officers and three cars, had hoped that he would get somewhere with this most attractive widow. At his age, he'd had enough "relationships." A Vietnam veteran who'd kicked around the world for several years following his hitch, Clark was ready for marriage. Perhaps too ready. He secretly felt that his over eagerness had terrified Diane and driven her away.

At the time Diane's call came in telling him that Jenny had just sauntered into sight in her backyard, Clark was listening to a pitch from the local Plymouth dealer who felt it highly unfair that the last two times the department had purchased cars it had gone to Ford. Not only was a Chrysler product better than a Ford product, but it offered more features for fewer dollars.

"All right, Mike," Clark said toying with the pipe he rarely smoked. He shrugged at the Plymouth dealer. "Prove it to me."

"Huh?"

"Take all the things I'll get in a new Ford Fairlane and put them in one column, and then take all the things I'm going to get from your Plymouth at the same price." The Plymouth dealer glowered.

"You said you could prove it, Mike. What's wrong with making out a comparative list?"

Which was when the phone call came through from Diane.

The Plymouth dealer, seeing immediately that Clark was going to be distracted for the third or fourth time during this presentation, stood up, waved good-bye, and exited the knotty-pine office, making no promise at all that he'd get back to the Chief with that list of comparisons.

As he pulled up on the gravel crest of the hill overlooking the Stoneridge Estates, Clark saw again how beautiful this region of the Midwest could be, especially with the trees run riot and a soft blue haze over everything. In the distance a chestnut mare ran along the grassy edge of a hill. Directly below, entering the Estates through the black iron gates, a tan Volvo passed a blue brook as a red cardinal soared above a golden collie.

The Estates spoke of a peace and comfort Clark had never known but now wanted to know quite badly.

Five minutes later, wheeling the white police vehicle into Diane's drive, Clark grabbed the two-way and told Ben Hibbs, the young officer catching squawks, that he would probably be at Diane's for at least a half-hour.

Walking up the drive, he noticed he was shaking. Nothing major, but shaking nonetheless. Diane had meant more to him than he'd cared to admit until this very moment.

Diane answered on the first ring. Even in faded work clothes, she radiated a gentle appeal.

"Come on in," she said. "I fixed some chocolate. With marshmallows, if I remember correctly?"

He smiled. "I'm flattered."

She laughed. "With the social life I have, it's not too difficult to remember things like that."

"Still a hermit?" he said as they passed through the cool, late-afternoon shadows collecting in the step-down living room.

"Afraid so," Diane said, leading him into the kitchen. Clark's first glance at Jenny told him that here was a seriously disturbed youngster.

It wasn't just the scruffy condition of her clothes, nor the fact that she looked pale and exhausted. No, it was more the blankness of her gaze. There was something… inhuman about it.

"Jenny, this is Chief Clark."

"Hi, Jenny," Clark said, breaking into a social smile. "We've been looking for you every day for the past three months."

At the worktable, pouring two cups of hot chocolate, Diane said, "I told her all about the search parties." She glanced at Clark. "I hope she was impressed." She paused. "The truth is Jenny hasn't said much since getting here." Pause. "In fact, Jenny hasn't said anything."