T. Boyle: After the Plague

Jordy made a bolt for the other room and I could see she was naked, and I knew right then he must have raped her because there was no way she’d ever consent to anything with a slime like that, not Jordy, not my Jordy, and the thought of what Bud had done to her made me angry. The gun was on the floor now and I kicked it under the bed and let go of Bud’s wrists and shut up his stream of curses and vile foul language with a quick stab to the bridge of his nose, and it was almost like a reflex. He went limp under the force of that blow and I was upset, I admit it, I was furious over what he’d done to that girl, and it just seemed like the most natural thing in the world to reach out and put a little pressure on his throat till the raw-looking stumps of his legs lay still on the blanket.

That was when I became aware of the music again, the violins swelling up and out of a black plastic boombox on the shelf till they filled the room and the wind blew through the doorway and the splintered door groaned on its broken latch. Jordy, I was thinking, Jordy needs me, needs me to get her out of this, and I went into the front room to tell her about the snow and how it was coming down out of season and what that meant. She was crouched in the corner across from the stove and her face was wet and she was shivering. Her sweater was clutched up around her neck, and she’d got one leg of her jeans on, but the other leg was bare, sculpted bare and white all the way from her little painted toenails to the curve of her thigh and beyond. It was a hard moment. And I tried to explain to her, I did. “Look outside,” I said. “Look out there into the night. You see that?”

She lifted her chin then and looked, out beyond the doorway to the back room, beyond Bud on his bed and the dog on the floor and into the gaping hole where the door had been. And there it was, coming down like the end of everything, snow, and there was only one name for it now. I tried to tell her that. Because we weren’t going anywhere.

She wasn’t tender, she wasn’t soft, she wasn’t sweetly yielding or coquettish, and she was nobody’s little woman and never would be. That had been her mother’s role, and look at the sad sack of neuroses and alcoholic dysfunction she’d become. And her father. He’d been the pasha of the living room, the sultan of the kitchen, and the emperor of the bedroom, and what had it got him? A stab in the chest, a tender liver, and two feet that might as well have been stumps. Paula Turk wasn’t born for that sort of life, with its domestic melodrama and greedy sucking babies — no, she was destined for something richer and more complex, something that would define and elevate her, something great. She wanted to compete and she wanted to win — always, shining before her like some numinous icon was the glittering image of triumph. And whenever she flagged, whenever a sniffle or the flu ate at her reserves and she hit the wall in the numbing waters of the Pacific or the devilish winds at the top of San Marcos Pass, she pushed herself through it, drove herself with an internal whip that accepted no excuses and made no allowances for the limitations of the flesh. She was twenty-eight years old, and she was going to conquer the world.

On the other hand, Jason Barre, the thirty-three-year-old surf-and-dive shop proprietor she’d been seeing pretty steadily over the past nine months, didn’t really seem to have the fire of competition in him. Both his parents were doctors (and that, as much as anything, had swayed Paula in his favor when they first met), and they’d set him up in his own business, a business that had continuously lost money since its grand opening three years ago. When the waves were breaking, Jason would be at the beach, and when the surf was flat he’d be stationed behind the counter on his tall swivel stool, selling wax remover to bleached-out adolescents who said things like “gnarly” and “killer” in their penetrating adenoidal tones. Jason liked to surf, and he liked to breathe the cigarette haze in sports bars, a permanent sleepy-eyed, widemouthed California grin on his face, flip-flops on his feet, and his waist encircled by a pair of faded baggy shorts barely held in place by the gentle sag of his belly and the twin anchors of his hipbones.

That was all right with Paula. She told him he should quit smoking, cut down on his drinking, but she didn’t harp on it. In truth, she really didn’t care all that much — one world-beater in a relationship was enough. When she was in training, which was all the time now, she couldn’t help feeling a kind of moral superiority to anyone who wasn’t — and Jason most emphatically wasn’t. He was no threat, and he didn’t want to be — his mind just didn’t work that way. He was cute, that was all, and just as she got a little frisson of pleasure from the swell of his paunch beneath the oversized T-shirt and his sleepy eyes and his laid-back ways, he admired her for her drive and the lean, hard triumph of her beauty and her strength. She never took drugs or alcohol — or hardly ever — but he convinced her to try just a puff or two of marijuana before they made love, and it seemed to relax her, open up her pores till she could feel her nerve ends poking through them, and their love-making was like nothing she’d ever experienced, except maybe breaking the tape at the end of the twenty-six-mile marathon.

It was a Friday night in August, half past seven, the sun hanging in the window like a piñata, and she’d just stepped out of the shower after a two-hour tuneup for Sunday’s triathlon, when the phone rang. Jason’s voice came over the wire, low and soft. “Hey, babe,” he said, breathing into the phone like a sex maniac (he always called her babe, and she loved it, precisely because she wasn’t a babe and never would be — it was their little way of mocking the troglodytes molded into the barstools beside him). “Listen, I was just wondering if you might want to join me down at Clubber’s for a while. Yeah, I know, you need your sleep and the big day’s the day after tomorrow and Zinny Bauer’s probably already asleep, but how about it. Come on. It’s my birthday.”

“Your birthday? I thought your birthday was in December?”

There was the ghost of a pause during which she could detect the usual wash of background noise, drunken voices crying out as if from the netherworld, the competing announcers of the six different games unfolding simultaneously on the twelve big-screen TVs, the insistent pulse of the jukebox thumping faintly beneath it all. “No,” he said, “my birthday’s today, August twenty-sixth — it is. I don’t know where you got the idea it was in December … but come on, babe, don’t you have to load up on carbohydrates?”

She did. She admitted it. “I was going to make pancakes and penne,” she said, “with a little cheese sauce and maybe a loaf of that brown-and-serve bread….”

“I’ll take you to the Pasta Bowl, all you can eat — and I swear I’ll have you back by eleven.” He lowered his voice. “And no sex, I know — I wouldn’t want to drain you or anything.”

She wasn’t soft because she ran forty-five miles a week, biked two hundred and fifty, and slashed through fifteen thousand yards of the crawl in the Baños del Mar pool. She was in the best shape of her life, and Sunday’s event was nothing, less than half the total distance of the big one — the Hawaii Ironman — in October. She wasn’t soft because she’d finished second in the women’s division last year in Hawaii and forty-fourth over all, beating out a thousand three hundred and fifty other contestants, twelve hundred of whom, give or take a few, were men. Like Jason. Only fitter. A whole lot fitter.

She swung by Clubber’s to pick him up — he wasn’t driving, not since his last D.U.I., anyway — and though parking was no problem, she had to endure the stench of cigarettes and the faint sour odor of yesterday’s vomit while he finished his cocktail and wrapped up his ongoing analysis of the Dodgers’ chances with an abstract point about a blister on somebody or other’s middle finger. The guy they called Little Drake, white-haired at thirty-six and with a face that reminded her of one of those naked drooping dogs, leaned out of his Hawaiian shirt and into the radius of Jason’s gesticulating hands as if he’d never heard such wisdom in his life. And Paula? She stood there at the bar in her shorts and Lycra halter top, sucking an Evian through a straw while the sports fans furtively admired her pecs and lats and the hard hammered musculature of her legs, for all the world a babe. She didn’t mind. In fact, it made her feel luminous and alive, not to mention vastly superior to all those pale lumps of flesh sprouting out of the corners like toadstools and the sagging abrasive girlfriends who hung on their arms and tried to feign interest in whatever sport happened to be on the tube.