Robert Stone - Children of Light

Lu Anne walked, as it were, in the lee of him. She wore as her church clothes a beige skirt and blouse and a Spanish mantilla. As they walked up the church steps she clutched his elbow. At the door she smiled up at him. When she went in he lingered outside on the top step, watching the faithful as they passed, playing with a straw finger trap he had picked up in the market.

Benediction had not begun and there were only a few people inside the little church. Lu Anne walked across the stone floor to a crucifix that stood beyond two rows of votive candles to the right of the main altar. The crucifix was as old as anything in that empty quarter of the country, recovered from a fire on the mainland. Its crossbars were burned black, the seared Christus figure was tortured into a shape that made it look stylized and somehow modern. Its charred condition served to enhance the sense of martyrdom and elevated suffering it conveyed. Half a dozen worshippers stood or knelt rapt before it. Lu Anne took her place among them.

My God, she prayed, be there for me. So there is something there for me. So I am not just out in this shit lonely, deluded and lost.

The day’s work, the walk through the town among strangers had made her anxious, and the drink made her head ache. Strange sounds, echoes, toneless music rang in her inward ear. There was an incessant low chatter of inaudible, half-recognized voices. The voices bore some secret inference that made her afraid.

For a moment she thought she might be alarming the people around her. When she saw that they took no notice of her, she bowed her head.

Help me, Lu Anne prayed, You who are more real than I am. My only One, my Reality.

When she looked up at the crucifix she saw that the hanged Christ nailed to the beams had become a cat. It was burned black as the figure had been, its fur turned to ash, its face burned away to show the grinning fanged teeth. She looked away and with her face averted walked to the doorway of the church where Bly was waiting for her. When she was outside she leaned against the building wall, taking deep breaths, avoiding the gazes of the people who were coming in.

“Ain’t you gonna stay for the service?” Bly asked her.

She shook her head. As he stood watching her, she took hold of his arm about the biceps and with the nail of her right hand drew an invisible line around it. Bly stood by in confusion and embarrassment.

In the worst of times, Lu Anne thought, there’s meat.

On the terrace, Jack Best was coming to himself again. His eyes were filled with tears.

“The Sands,” he sputtered, “it doesn’t …”

Axelrod helpfully interrupted him. “It doesn’t have a line, am I right, Jack?” He turned to Lowndes. “I’m hoping this isn’t where you find your story.”

Lowndes stared at him for a moment without answering, then smiled.

“Certainly not,” he said.

In the garden outside, Walker suddenly saw the figure of a woman leaning against the terrace wall. The sight brought him to his feet. As he started toward her she moved away. He went faster, trying to get to her side before she was lost in the shadows. It was as though she were running away from him.

She was wearing her hair as she had worn it fifteen years before, he thought. He knew her silhouette, her moves, her aura.

“Lu Anne,” he called.

“I’m not her,” said a small antipodean voice.

Walker halted in confusion. When he came nearer he saw that it was Joy McIntyre, a stand-in and body double who had once spent time with Quinn. Her husband was a stills photographer, Walker’s acquaintance and sometime connection. The photographer had initiated Joy’s career by spreading her frame across two pages of a slick nudie book.

“That’s twice today you fooled me,” Walker said.

“Gordon, is it? They won’t be happy to see you about.”

“You mean Drogue won’t. Where’s Lu Anne?”

“She’s in church,” Joy sniffed. “That’s what I heard.”

“Are you crying?” Walker asked. “What’s the matter?”

“Hoi,” Joy snorted. “I mean wow!”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m all right.” Her eyes in the darkness appeared wide and wondering.

“How’s Lu Anne?” Walker asked.

“Just fine,” Joy said. “Outside of being in church. Know where I’ve been?”

Walker considered his answer. “With someone?”

“I shouldn’t say.”

“O.K.”

“I’ve been up with Mr. Drogue.”

“Ah,” Walker said.

“Balling, like.”

“Well,” Walker said, “whatever turns you on, we used to say.”

“Not the younger Mr. Drogue,” Joy said unsteadily. “His dad.”

“Ah,” Walker said. “Well …” He broke off. Troubles enough of his own.

“I mean, I had to tell someone, didn’t I?”

“Strictly speaking,” Walker said, “no.”

“I said to him—‘Mr. Drogue, I’m shocked. It’s my turn to be shocked now,’ I said.”

“It’s probably for the best. He can help you. I think you probably did the right thing. Careerwise.”

“I’m not talking about it,” Joy said. “I’m going to forget it ever happened.”

“I will too,” Walker said. “I mean, I’ll forget everything you told me.”

“What have I told you?” Joy demanded. “I haven’t told you anything.”

“Right.”

“Old Ryder,” she said, “he’s your pal, isn’t he?” Ryder was the photographer, Joy’s husband.

“I don’t see him much anymore.”

“We split up, you know. Love lost its luster for us.”

“I’m sorry,” Walker said.

“Boring, like.”

“That’s life, isn’t it?” Walker said. “I mean,” he said, “when it’s there it’s there. And when it’s not it’s not.”

“Oh yeah,” Joy said. “Well, we tried getting the old moonlight and roses back. No way.” She shook her head. “He used to get me into trouble like tonight,” she told Walker. “I mean, he put me forward like that. It must be second nature to me now.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“Well, I’m not,” she told Walker. “I’m blaming him. He’s the one had me out doing that sleazy phornpone,” she said.

“Right,” Walker said.

He recalled that Ryder had coerced Joy into accepting a position as a lewd telephonist for a pack of Melrose Avenue fatsos who rejoiced in her cultured British accent. She had stayed with the job until the owner of the shop was murdered.

“Waste of time, that was,” Joy said.

“A waste of something.”

“See, we took a holiday up in Mendocino, Ryder and me did. Bloody rained. He was piss paranoid. Didn’t bloody speak. The television set was screwed. I spent the whole bloody time walking in the bloody rain.”

“It can be so pretty up there,” Walker said. “Are you sure you’re O.K.?”

“Yeah.” Joy shook her head, took a deep breath and looked at Walker once more as though she had discovered him that moment before her. “One thing,” she told him, “I saw two animals there. Two animals fighting on the beach.”

Walker brightened. “That must have been exciting,” he said. “What sort of animals?”

Joy sighed deeply. “I think they were winkles.”

“The choreographer at the Sands is dead!” Jack Best shrieked. One of the cooks had come out of the kitchen and was crossing herself. Axelrod and a waiter were struggling to get Best out the inner door. At the table where he had been sitting, Walker saw Lu Anne seated next to Dongan Lowndes.

“Well,” Joy said. “Another bloody night, eh, sport?”

“Right,” Walker said.

He walked into the bar, his heart beating faster. Once she seemed to look his way but her eyes never settled on him. He took the chair that Best had been sitting in.