Donald Westlake - Sacred Monster

“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! The east parlor!” And Jack sails through the air, over Hoskins’s surprised and laughing head, sweeping away toward the east parlor.

Within the east parlor, waiting, looms Dr. Ovoid, large and round and sleek and buttery and well-satisfied, with a dead-white face and tiny hands and feet. The east parlor itself is a lovely room, full of flowers and morning sun and white wicker furniture; but at the moment Dr. Ovoid stands by a prettily curtained window, smiling as he gazes out upon the rose garden in rich and luxuriant flower. And behind him, on a long table, rests a rolled-up black silk bag a bit larger and much softer than a quart whiskey bottle.

The hall door swings open of its own accord, and in a moment Jack swirls in, surrounded by fairy garlands and cherubs trilling hosannahs. “Good morrrr- ning, doctor,” sings Jack, and in great good spirits he flies around the ceiling.

Dr. Ovoid turns and beams upon his patient, happy to see this happiness, happy to be appreciated, happy to be wanted . “Good morning, Jack,” he says, and rubs his tiny hands together, and paces to the long table.

While Jack eagerly watches, dancing in place, the doctor’s tiny fingers untie the silk ribbon holding the silk bag closed. Then he unrolls the bag down the length of the table, showing the coral-colored silk lining within. The silk bag is like a half-size sleeping bag, one foot wide and three feet long, and its interior is lined with compartments displaying bottles of pills, bottles of powders, boxes of capsules and ampules, packages of inhalers and suppositories, all sorts of wonderful things for good little boys and girls. “Living better chemically,” Jack says, rubbing his hands together, smiling down at the assortment.

Dr. Ovoid steps back and spreads his hands like a showman, displaying his wares. “Well, Jack,” he says. “And how do you want to feel today?”

O’Connor watches Jack Pine’s dreamy eyes, dreamy smile. Will the man ever get down to it, get to the point? But the closer he comes to present time, of course, the harder it becomes to keep him moving. “There’s no place like home,” O’Connor says, repeating the actor’s last words in an effort to get him in motion again.

“Ohhhh, yes.” Those dreamy eyes find O’Connor’s eyes and gaze into them. “I’m safe here,” says that dreamy voice.

“The world’s left outside.”

“Yeeessss.” The eyes are filling with color, becoming less dreamy. “It’s very nice here, very restful,” and the voice gets stronger, the words faster, “after a hard day at the studio.” The voice is going up in pitch, the eyes are pinholes in a decaying face, the words are coming faster and faster: “I can warm my flank, create a cause by the crater of the Susanna sometimewhenthesoonsunsomesoonsunsoo oooo OOOO OO —!!”

“Oh, my God!” O’Connor cries, lost in the actor’s keening. “The pills!”

“YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!”

Fumbling in haste, O’Connor blunders out of his canvas chair and onto his knees beside the dead-faced, pin-eyed screaming actor. His nervous fingers chase the three red capsules around the silver tray like an overeager puppy snuffling after ants on the sidewalk. He manages to capture all three, fold them into his palm.

“YYYYYYYYYYY—”

O’Connor clutches the back of Pine’s neck with one hand, shoves the capsules with his other hand down into that black and red straining screaming maw, reaches for the waterglass.

“Y! Y! Y! Y! Y!”

O’Connor pours water into that mouth; some bubbles out again, over the actor’s chin and down onto his pale blue terry-cloth robe, but some stays, oozing past the screams and down the gullet.

“ Y- ng! Y- ng! Y- ng! Y-ng! ngngngngngngngngngngng...”

O’Connor, still kneeling, still holding the waterglass — now half empty — sits back on his heels and watches. The noises from the actor’s mouth lessen, become arrhythmic, more like burps or hiccups or dry leaves. O’Connor, his brow furrowed with guilt and fellow-feeling, says, “Mr. Pine? Jack?”

The actor grows silent. Then, all at once, he shudders all over his body, as though reacting to some strong explosion deep within. After an instant of rigidity, he begins to tremble, as though freezing cold, and a look of terror crosses his face. Folding his shoulders in defensively toward his ears, he brings his knees up to his chin and wraps his arms around his legs. The look of terror increases, becomes a rigid stare into the deepest pit, and in a small, cracking, weak, tremulous voice the actor says, “That— That— That— That can— That can... hurt .”

“I’m sorry,” O’Connor tells him, with utter sincerity, and risks touching the actor on the arm. “I’m really sorry. I forgot the time.”

Pine still stares at nothing, his head twitching from time to time. He seems to be talking mostly to himself. “That can—” he says, and trembles, and says, “hurt. Oh, boy. That can hurt. Oh. Hurt .”

“Sorry. Really.” O’Connor gets up off his knees and resumes his old position in the chair, reclaiming his pen and notebook from where he’d dropped them on the slate in that moment of panic. His expression still worried, he watches the actor’s slow recovery.

Pine, crouched over his upraised knees, rubs his arms obsessively. His breathing, which had been quick and strained, grows more level, more even. He turns his head slowly, looks at O’Connor as though he can actually see him, then looks away again, at whatever it is he sees at the farthest range of infinity. “I don’t like that part,” he says, in a half whisper. “Not that part.”

“I am sorry,” O’Connor says. What else is there to say?

The actor lifts his head, looking out and up, over the trees of his compound. The sky fills his eyes. He says, “I saw a girl...”

There’s a party going on, in a house up in Big Sur. Big, rough-hewn log house cantilevered out over the cliff. Big, comfortable, big-roomed house full of Indian rugs and Mexican pottery and all kinds of dope. Big counterculture house with state-of-the-art stereo inside Shaker reproduction cabinets. Would you believe two platinum albums were recorded in this house? Of course, you would.

Buddy had business up here, a little shmooze here and there. Somebody has to take care of the business end, make sure the IRS doesn’t get everything . And he could take care of what had to be taken care of, and still kick back and party along the way. So he brought Jack. Jack doesn’t get out of the compound much, doesn’t do much of anything much, is not at all keeping himself in trim. Not at all .

Jack fell asleep. Early in the party, sun barely overhead, people grooving in the big room cantilevered out over the cliff, with the wall of plate-glass windows showing the whole fucking ocean, man, you can almost fucking see Australia out there. And pine trees down both sides, furring the face of the cliff.

And Jack fell asleep. On a backless couch down at the end of the room, the foot of the couch against the big window, and that’s where Jack fell asleep, his back against the glass, head against the glass, mouth hanging open, eyes closed, hands limp, nothing behind his poor befuddled head but the glass and the air and the sea and Australia. Just out of sight over there, beyond the glistening horizon.

The loud party noises — people yelling their conversations over the stereo sound of a not-yet-released new soft-rock album — did not wake Jack but seemed to soothe him, comfort him, convince him he was not alone, he was safe to slumber. But the first scream troubled his sleep, made him frown, made his mouth half close in protest.