Robert Stone - Children of Light

He called her name until his voice was gone. Then he lay down and tried to pray her back and went to sleep. Hours later the tide came in and woke him. He struck out along the dark beach toward the hotel, guiding his steps by the phosphorescent surf. The waves beat him back when he tried to wade around the point of the bay, so he sheltered against the low bluffs to wait for light. When it came he started again and got around the rocky point dry-footed. He walked, staggered, ran in short bursts, stopping when the pain forced him to.

He was terrified that she was gone. That she might be nowhere at all and her furious loving soul dissolved. He could not bear the thought of it.

When he saw a runner up the beach, he had a moment’s hope. It was so quickly dispelled that he tried to bring it back for examination. The runner was a man out for a morning jog.

The moment’s hope had been a grain of mercy. A shred of hope, a ray. There were a thousand little clichés for losers to cling to while they lost. Why should they seem so apt, he wondered, such worn words? Why should they suit the heart so well?

Watching the runner’s approach, he wondered what mercy might be. What the first mercy might have been. She had asked him if there was one and he had denied it with an oath.

He should have told her that there was, he thought. Because there was. As surely as there was water hidden in the desert, there was mercy. Her crazy love was mercy. It might have saved her.

Jack Glenn pulled up and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

“Shit,” he said breathlessly. He placed his hands palm out over his kidneys and began to walk up and down quickly. “Like … where you been? They’re having kittens, you know. Where’s Lu Anne?”

“Not back?” Walker asked.

“She’s vanished,” Glenn said. “Wasn’t she with you?”

“Yes,” Walker told him.

“So where is she?”

“In the water,” Walker told him.

“Hey, I don’t see her, Gordon.”

Walker saw another figure running up the beach toward them. It was the stuntman, Bill Bly.

“Hey, Gordon,” Jack Glenn said, “I don’t see her.” He turned to look Walker up and down. “Your eye looks bad. Where’d you get the weird duds?”

Walker did not answer him.

“Oh my God,” Jack said. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Because I’m looking, Gordon, and, you know, I don’t see her. Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

Walker nodded.

“Oh my God,” Glenn said. “Oh Jesus Christ, Gordon.”

Walker looked at the young man’s face. It kept changing before his eyes. Glenn was looking at the water, horror-stricken. For a fraction of a second, Walker thought he might be seeing her there. But when he turned there was nothing.

“I lost her,” Walker said.

Around two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon Shelley Pearce, Jack Glenn and a French actor named Celli were at the bar in Joe Allen’s. Because it was a rainy, chilling day and because they had spent the morning at a memorial service, they were drinking brandy and each of them was somewhat drunk.

They had begun to talk about the drunk-driving laws and about accidents friends of theirs had had when Gordon Walker came in. They watched in startled silence as he came up to join them.

“Well, hello, Gordon,” Jack said.

He introduced Walker to Celli. Celli gave Walker a hearty American handshake while the others watched him to see whether he knew who it was that he was meeting.

“How was it?” Gordon asked Shelley.

“Oh, it was good, Gordon. Real good as those things go.”

Walker nodded.

“I was gonna say you should have been there, but of course you shouldn’t.”

“I wasn’t asked.”

He signaled the bartender and ordered a Perrier.

“I mean,” Shelley said, “what do you mean, ‘How was it?’ It was god-awful. Her kids cried. He looked relieved, which he damn well was. There was press but they didn’t stay.” She took a long sip from her snifter. “The press likes a coffin and we didn’t have one.”

“It was a long time afterward to have it,” Celli said. “Because in France we do everything right away. The memorial, two months, it seems different.”

“Well,” Shelley said, “maybe they were waiting for her to …”

“Right,” Jack Glenn said quickly. “That was another blow. That she wasn’t found.”

“It wasn’t a blow,” Walker said. “It was better. I thought it was.”

“Did you, Gord?” Shelley asked. “That’s good. I see you’re drinking Perrier.”

“I had hepatitis,” he explained. “If I hadn’t had the gamma globulin shot I would have died.” He ran his finger around his glass. “So my drinking days are over.”

“Isn’t it tough?” she asked him.

“What have you been up to?” Walker asked her.

“Isn’t it tough not drinking? How do you manage it?”

“Oh,” Walker said. “Well, I watch television.” He laughed in embarrassment. “Evenings it’s hard, you get blue. And I drink a lot of tomato juice with Tabasco.” He cleared his throat. “I drink unsalted tomato juice because my blood pressure’s a little high.”

“That’s neat,” Shelley said. “That’s prudent. Do you jog?”

“Not yet. They say I might start in a month or so. When my blood pressure’s better. I’m starting to write again.”

“So you never really had a heart attack?” Jack asked.

“Apparently not.”

Shelley ordered another round and another Perrier for Walker.

“What brings you to the coast?” she asked him. “What’d you do, lurk outside? The mystery mourner?”

“I hear you opened your own shop,” Walker said to her.

“That’s right, man. Power to the people.”

“She says they’ll only represent women,” Jack said. “The truth is, she’s taking two-thirds of Keochakian’s clients. The poor guy’s on the phone twenty-four hours a day begging people to stay.”

“Did you go with her?” Walker asked Jack Glenn.

“You bet I did.”

“I don’t understand why you’re in town,” Shelley said. “You doing deals or what?”

“We’re moving out,” he said. “We’re relocating East.”

“We are?” she asked. “Who are we?”

Walker sipped his Perrier.

“Connie came back from London when I got sick. So we’re together. We’re relocating. East.”

“Oh, Gordon,” Shelley said. She put a hand to her chest as though it were her heart that was at risk. “Is that ever neat! Connie came home. For heaven’s sake! How about that, fellas?” she asked her friends. “Isn’t that neat?”

“Really glad to hear it,” Jack said.

Gordon thanked him. The Frenchman raised an eyebrow and looked into his glass.

“I haven’t been reading the trades,” Walker said. “How’s the picture?”

“It’s on the bottom of the Pacific,” Shelley said. “With the late Lee V.”

“They’re recutting it,” Jack said. He shrugged. “They shot some scenes with Joy. Lots of luck.”

“It’s wonderful that Connie came home,” Shelley said. “Hey,” she said delightedly, “how about that for a title? Connie Came Home ? But I suppose people would think it was an animal picture.”

Jack Glenn laughed and bit his lip.

“I think it’s wonderful, Gordon,” Shelley said. “Plumb wonderful. Really.”

Walker looked away.

“When she died, Gordon, did you think of any great quotes from Shakespeare? He can quote Shakespeare from here to Sunday,” Shelley explained to her friends. “He’s a walking concordance. So was she. Come on, Gordo,” she insisted. “You stood on the shore when she went down for number three. What did you say?”

“I was very drunk the night it happened. The truth is, I remember very little of what went on. What I remember is pretty bad. Anyway, why don’t you stop?” he said.