Peter Straub - If You Could See Me Now

— Sourpuss. Look at ole sourpuss .

— And that movie was dumb .

— Sourpuss. Just because Billy Hummel didn’t look at you .

— Well, at least I don’t think he murdered anyone .

Suddenly she had had enough of them. They were standing in a circle around her, waiting for her to move, their shoulders slumping, their faces empty. Billy Hummel and the other boys in team jackets were walking the other way, back into town. She was tired and disappointed — with the boys, with the movie, with her friends. For a moment she wished passionately that she were grown up . — I’m fed up with the drive-in, she said, I’m going home. I’m supposed to be home in half an hour anyway . — Awcomeonnn, moaned Marilyn. The whine in her voice was enough to make Jenny turn decisively away from them and begin to walk quickly down the street .

Because she could feel them staring at her she turned into the first sidestreet. Let them gawk at an empty street, she thought, let them my goodness! one another.

She walked straight down the middle of the unlighted street. Windows shone in the houses on either side. Someone was waiting up ahead, just a shape on the grassy sidewalk, a man washing his car or getting cool evening air. Or a woman getting away from the kids.

At that moment she nearly saved her life, because she realized that she was hungry after all, and almost turned around to go back to her friends. But that was not possible. So she put her head down and walked up to the next corner, vaguely planning a route that would take most of the half hour she had of freedom. When she went past the shape on the sidewalk, she half-noticed that it was not a man but a fat bush.

The next street was shabbier, with two vacant lots between the mean houses like vast blots of darkness. Trees towered and loomed overhead, black and without definition. She heard slow steps behind her. But this was Arden and she did not begin to be fearful until something hard and blunt touched her back. She jumped and whirled around and when she saw the face looking at her she knew that the worst moments of her life were beginning.

At that moment I would have been skeptical about the odds on my returning to take up the bartender’s invitation for Sunday, but twenty-six hours later I was in Freebo’s, not this time at the bar but in a booth and not alone but in company.

I realized that I was drunk only when I found that I was pounding the VW along in second gear; chanting to myself, I messily, grindingly slotted the shift up a gear, ending the howl of anguish from the engine, and zoomed home, no doubt weaving through lanes as rakishly as Alison Greening had done on one night years before — the night I had first felt her mouth issuing warmth over mine, and felt all my senses rubbed by her various odors of perfume, soap, powder, contraband cigarettes and fresh water. About the time I reached the red thermometer in the Italian vista I recognized that the Strand girl’s death had been the reason for the hostile stares I’d received from the Arden townspeople. After I spun into the driveway I left the car slewed at a telltale angle before the garage and lurched out, half-sprawling over the front fender. The maddening envelope and blank sheet of paper, along with several torn balled-up pages of Maccabee’s book, bunched in my pocket. I heard footsteps inside the house, a door closing. I went unsteadily across the lawn to the door of the screen porch and entered. It seemed I could feel the chill of the boards even through my shoes. The cold house seemed full of noises. Tuta Sunderson appeared to be in two or three rooms at once. “Come on out,” I said. “I won’t hurt you.”

Silence.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You can even go home, Mrs. Sunderson.” I looked around, called her name in the direction of the old downstairs bedroom. Duane’s furniture was immaculately cleaned and dusted, but no one else was in the room. I shrugged and went into the bathroom.

When I emerged, the noises in the old house had magically ceased. I heard only the singing of the plumbing in the walls She had nervously decamped; I swore to myself. wondering what I would have to do to get her back.

Then I heard a cough unmistakably originating from my workroom. That I had yet to complete a sentence in that room made her offense against its privacy triply serious. I gave myself a shove toward the stairs.

But when I burst into the cold little room I stopped short. Through the window I could see the stout form of Tuta Sunderson huff-puffing down the road, her handbag bobbing on its strap; and seated in the desk chair absolutely at ease, was Alison Updahl.

“What—” I began. “I don’t like —”

“I think you scared her off. She was already pretty upset but you finished her off. But don’t worry, she’ll come back.”

July 18

When I saw him get out of that car, I knew he was drunk just pig drunk, and when he started that yelling I thought I’d better skedaddle. Now we know he was just back from that time he argued with the pastor on the street, down in Arden. I think the pastor was right in everything he said, next day, and he could have said it even stronger. Red was home from the police station by then — all shook by what he’d seen, of course — and he said, Ma, don’t you go back to that crazy man, I’ve got a few ideas of my own about him, but I said his dollars is as good as anyone else’s, isn’t it? I put that other two dollars under a lamp. Oh, I was going to come back, you can bet on that, he didn’t scare me any. I wanted to keep my eye on him.

We stayed there silently for a moment — oddly, she made me feel as though I was intruding on her. I could see her assessing my condition. To forestall any comment, I said, “I don’t like people in this room. It has to be kept private, mine. Other people louse up the atmosphere.”

“She said she wasn’t supposed to come in here. That’s why I did. It was the only quiet place to wait for you.” She stretched out her blue-jeaned legs. “I didn’t take anything.”

“It’s a question of vibrations.” At least I did not say “vibes.” Alcohol cheapens the vocabulary.

“I don’t feel any vibrations. What do you do in here, anyhow?”

“I’m writing a book.”

“On what?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m stuck anyhow.”

“A book about other books, I bet. Why don’t you write a book about something real? Why don’t you write a book about something fantastic and important that other people can’t even see? About what’s really going down?”

“Did you want to see me about anything in particular?”

“Zack wants to meet you.”

“Swell.”

“I told him about you and he was really interested. I said you were different. He wants to know about your ideas. Zack cares a lot about ideas.”

“I’m not going anywhere today.”

“Not today. Tomorrow around noon. In Arden. Do you know Freebo’s bar?”

“I suppose I could find it on a bright day. Did you hear about another of your pals getting killed?”

“It’s on all the news. Don’t you pay attention to the news?” She blinked, and I saw the fright beneath her pretended indifference.

“Didn’t you know her?”

“Sure I did In Arden you know everybody. Red Sunderson found her body. That’s why old Tula was so touchy this morning. He saw her in a field off Highway 93.”

“Jesus.” I remembered how I had treated her, and then I could feel my face begin to burn.

So the next day I found myself entering the scene of my second disgrace in the company of Alison Updahl. Underage though she was, she sailed through the door as if, given any resistance, she’d knock it down with an ax. By now I of course knew to what extent this was purely a performance, and I admired its perfection. She had more in common with her namesake than I had thought. The bar was nearly empty. Two old men in coveralls sat before nearly full glasses of pale beer at the bar and a man in a black jacket sat at the last booth The same fleshy grayhaired bartender who had been there yesterday leaned against the wall beside the cash register surrounded by the flashing sparkling lights and perpetual waterfalls of beer advertisements. His eves glided over Alison, but he looked at me and nodded.