Blood on the Moon (6 page)

Back in the present, he thought again of the many things Linda Deverson was, then felt his mind go blank as he tried to find a narrative line to impose on the welter of images that constituted his new love.

He sighed and locked the door of his apartment behind him, then took the photographs of Linda and taped them to the Tiffany glass window that fronted his writing desk. Sighing again, he wrote:

5–17–82

Three weeks into the courtship and as yet no access to her apartment, much less her heart–triple locks on the one door, it will take a bold gambit to get inside–I will have to risk it soon–Linda remains so elusive. Or maybe not; what has caught me so far is her sense of humor–the rueful smile that lights up her face as she pulls a cigarette out of her sweatsuit after jogging three miles down San Vicente; her firm but humorous refusals to go out with the obdurate young salesman who shares a cubicle with her at the real estate office; the way she talks to herself when she thinks no one is looking and the broad way she covers her mouth when a passerby catches her in the act. Two nights ago I followed her to the Force Field Synergistics seminar. That same rueful smile when she wrote the check for registration and again at the first “grouping” when they told her she couldn't smoke. I think that Linda possess the same detachment I have noticed in writers–the desire to commune with humanity, to have a common ground or dream–yet the concurrent need to remain aloof, to hold her intrinsic truths (however universal) above those of the collective. Linda is a subtle woman. While the first grouping (ambiguous jive talk about unity and energy) was going on, I snuck back to the registration office and stole her application. I now know this about my beloved:

1.  Name: Linda Holly Deverson

2.  Birthdate: 4/29/52

3.  Birthplace: Goleta, California

4.  Education: High school 1 2 3

College 1
3 4
Advanced degrees? No.

5.  How did you find out about F.F.S.?—I read your book.

6.  Which four of these words best describe you?

1.  Ambitious

2.  Athletic

3.  Aggressive

  Enlightened

  Tuned In

6.  Befuddled

7.  Inquisitive

  Passive

9.  Angry

  Sensitive

11.  Passionate

12.  Aesthetic

13.  Physical

14.  Moral

15.  Generous

7.  Why did you come to the F.F.S. Institute?–I can't honestly say. Some of the things in your book struck me as truthful things that could help me to better myself.

8.  Do you think F.F.S. can change your life?–I don't know.

A subtle woman. I can change your life, Linda; I am the only one who can.

Three nights later he broke into her apartment.

It was carefully thought out and bold. He knew that she would be attending the second Synergistics Seminar, which was scheduled to last from eight o'clock until midnight. At seven forty-five he was stationed across the street from the F.F.S. Institute on 14th and Montana in Santa Monica, armed with a matchbook sized circuit breaker and wearing skin-tight rubber gloves.

He smiled as Linda pulled into the parking lot, exchanged guarded greetings with other arriving F.F.S.ers and wolfed down a last cigarette before running into the large red brick building. He waited ten minutes, then sprinted over to her '69 Camaro, opened the hood and attached the circuit breaker to the underside of the car's distributor housing. Should anyone attempt to start the Camaro, it would turn over once and die. Laughing at the small perfection of it, he slammed the hood and ran back to his own car, then drove to the home of his beloved.

It was a pitch-dark spring night, and warm winds gave added audial cover. Parking a block away, he padded over to 3583 Mentone Avenue, carrying a flat-handled lug wrench and a transistor radio in a brown paper bag. Just as a huge gust of wind came up, he placed the radio on the ground outside Linda's living room window and turned the volume up full blast. Punk Rock bombarded the night, and he slammed the lug wrench full force into the window, grabbed the radio and ran back to his car.

He waited for twenty minutes, until he was certain that no one had heard the noise and no silent alarm had been sounded. Then he walked back and vaulted into the dark apartment.

Drawing curtains over the broken window, he deep-breathed and let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, then followed his most urgent curiosity straight back toward where the bathroom had to be. He turned on a light and then rummaged through the medicine cabinet; checked out the make-up kit on top of the toilet; even went through the dirty clothes hamper. His soul sighed in relief. No contraceptive devices of any kind; his beloved was chaste.

He left the door ajar and walked into the bedroom. Quickly noting that there was no overhead light, he turned on the lamp next to the bed. Its diffused glow gave him light to work by, and he flung open the walk-in closet door, hungry to touch the fabric of his beloved's life.

The closet was packed with garments on hangers, and he swept them up in a giant armful and carried them into the bathroom. There were mostly dresses, in a variety of fabrics and styles. Trembling, he fondled polyester suits and cotton shifts, pseudo-silk culottes and businesslike tweed; stripes, plaids, tattersall checks–all feminine and all pointing to the subtle, searching nature of Linda Deverson. She doesn't know who she is, he said to himself; so she buys clothes to reflect all the different things she
could
be.

He carried the bundle of clothing back to the closet and arranged it as it had been, then went looking for further evidence of Linda's chastity. He found it on her telephone stand–all the phone numbers in her address book belonged to women. Heart leaping with joy, he went into the kitchen and rummaged beneath the sink until he found a can of black paint and a stiff paint brush. He pried the can open and drew out a big glob of paint and smeared “Clanton 14 St.–Culver City–Viva La Raza” on the kitchen wall. To make it look even better, he grabbed a toaster and portable cassette player and took them with him.

Fondling the toaster on the seat beside him, he drove back to the F.F.S. Institute and removed the circuit breaker from Linda Deverson's car, then went home to meditate on the subtlety of his woman.

The following Wednesday night was the first F.F.S. “Question and Answer” grouping. He had purchased his ticket two days before at the Ticketron outlet near his shop and was curious as to how Linda would query the F.F.S. programmers, who had thus far brooked no feedback from their trainees. He was certain his beloved would interpose intelligent, skeptical questions.

There was a cordon of religious zealots outside the institute, brandishing signs that read “
Syn
ergistics is sin! Jesus is the only way!” He laughed as he walked into them; he thought Jesus was vulgar. One of the zealots noticed the ironic smile on his face and asked him if he had been saved.

“Twenty times,” he replied.

The zealot's jaw dropped; he had been on the butt end of many sacrilegious one-liners, but this was a new one. He stood aside and let the nondescript heretic enter the building.

Once inside, he gave his ticket to the security guard, who handed him a large cushion and pointed in the direction of the assembly room. He walked through a hallway adorned with photographs of celebrity F.F.S.ers and into a huge room where knots of people milled around anxiously, chattering and sizing up the new arrivals. At the back of the room he wadded his cushion up and sat down with his eyes glued to the door.

She came in a moment later, setting her cushion down just a few feet away from him. His heart shuddered and pounded so hard that he thought it would drown out all the excited psychobabble that was floating through the room. Staring into his lap, he assumed a meditation pose that he hoped would forestall any conversation she might attempt. He shut his eyes so hard and wrenched his hands so tightly that he felt like a shrapnel bomb about to explode.

Then the lights in the room were dimmed twice, indicating the session was about to begin. A hush came over the assembly as the lights went out completely and candles were lit and placed in strategic positions throughout the room. The sudden darkness gripped him and held him like a lover. He turned his head and caught a glance of Linda silhouetted in candlelight. Mine, he said to himself, mine.