Hard Rain (21 page)

“Not too long. Less than a year, I'd say.”

“That's all?”

“Yeah. But he'd hung around before that.”

“Where was he living?”

“I don't know. Here and there.”

“So he must have had some friends.”

“Sure. But they're gone now. The only person still around from those days is me.”

“Where did they all go?”

“To flowers, everyone.” Blue piled the paper bags into a wicker basket. She returned to the table, picked up her mug, but didn't sit down. “I've got to get going,” she said. “Sorry I couldn't help you.”

Jessie gave Blue the number at the motel in Bennington. “If he shows up, get in touch with me.”

“A van with red flames.”

Jessie nodded. “And he may have shaved his head. Either that or his friend has.”

Tea slopped over the rim of Blue's mug. She put it down. “Why would he do that?”

“I don't know. None of this is like Pat. He's always been a bit … irresponsible, and he has had some trouble with drugs, but he'd never do anything disruptive to Kate. He seems to have gone off on—”

Jessie stopped talking. Someone was banging on the floor above them. “What's that?” Jessie said. She was on her feet.

“God damn him,” Blue said. She smacked the wicker basket down on the table and started out of the room. Jessie went after her. Blue turned, holding up a hand to stop her. “You'll have to show yourself out,” she said.

“Where are you going? Who's up there?”

“Disco.”

“Disco?”

“My boarder. He's bedridden.”

“There's no one else?”

“Like who?”

Jessie didn't say. Blue left the room.

Jessie stayed where she was, listening as hard as she could. She heard nothing. After a while, Blue returned. “You still here?” She picked up the wicker basket, switched off the light. “Let's go.

Jessie followed her through the cold dark house and out the door. Night. She looked up at the second story. It was dark too. “What's wrong with your boarder?”

“He got hurt in a fall.”

“Is he from around here?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Did he know Pat?”

“No. Look, I'm running late.”

“Get in touch if you see him.”

No answer. Just the unreadable blue look.

“Please.”

“Yeah. So long.”

Blue got into the pickup and waited for Jessie to back her car and turn down the road. Blue's lights followed her down the bumpy road to Route 8, left onto 9 and into Bennington. Then they swept away onto a side street. Jessie parked, sat in the car for a few minutes, then made a U-turn and headed back to the farm.

It was a dark night—no moon, no stars and no lights shining from the house. Jessie stopped beside the rusted engine block and the heap of tires and switched off the headlights. After a few moments, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness; she got out of the car and walked around to the barnyard. The cold cut through her clothing; she hugged herself as she went.

She found the kitchen. Above it was the room where the banging had come from. Its windows were dark. Jessie found the kitchen window Blue had raised to throw out the birdseed, wriggled her fingernails under the frame and pushed. The window slid open with a squeak. She stood still, listening. She heard nothing but the wind moving in the bare branches of the trees. Jessie climbed inside.

In the kitchen, darkness was complete. No amount of waiting would help: her pupils must have been fully dilated already. She should have brought a flashlight; but that would have meant a premeditated break-in, and it wasn't like that—she'd just come up to Blue's house for another look, that's all.

Jessie remained motionless, one hand on the windowsill. Without light, she would never find her way to the stairs, up them, to the back room. Time passed. Jessie felt a strange, paralyzing calm. She stood on the border—one step forward led to a country she didn't know; a land of law-breaking and looking for trouble. One step back led—where? One step back. And Kate wasn't there. Jessie's hand slipped off the windowsill. She stepped into the room.

The movement destroyed the paralyzing calm. In a moment, her pulse was racing, her pores opened, the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. Of course she'd been fooling herself about the lights: she knew the stairs were in the front hall, and she'd already been through the house twice; no need for lights. Slowly, she felt her way around the table, crossed the kitchen floor and went through the doorway.

With her weight on the balls of her feet, Jessie moved through the house. She passed one room full of shadows after another, until she saw the dim glow of night through the cracked crescent window and knew she'd reached the front hall. She put her hand on the bannister and started up the stairs. They creaked with every step.

At the top was blackness. Jessie reached out and touched a wall on either side. She was in a narrow hall. Using the walls for guidance, she followed it to the end.

Long before she got there, she smelled marijuana. The smoke was coming through the open door of the back room: a gray rectangle in the blackness. Jessie stopped at the edge and looked in. She saw night outside the windows, shadows within, and the red point of a burning cigarette in one corner.

“Pat?” she said quietly.

No answer. The red point continued to burn.

“It's me. Jessie.” She spoke a little louder, but still no answer came. She knocked on the door. Silence.

Perhaps no one was in the room. Jessie tried to imagine a nonhuman agency for the marijuana smell and the red light and couldn't. She reached into the room, felt along the wall, found a light switch, pushed it up.

A naked ceiling bulb flashed on. Jessie blinked away her momentary blindness, quickly took in the room: a bed, a chest of drawers, a man in a wheelchair. Not Pat. The man was listening to a Walkman; that's why he couldn't hear her. The reason he couldn't see her was that he had no eyes: just empty sockets with eyelids sunk into the concavities. He didn't even know the light was on.

Disco. Hurt himself in a fall, Blue had said.

Jessie stood in the doorway. Disco had legs, but they were shrunken to skin and bone, and marked with long scars. She could see them very clearly because all he wore was a sweater.

Disco's head was bald on top, but a stringy fringe grew all the way to his shoulders. His nose was flattened like a boxer's; he had scars on both brows and a rough white patch of skin on one side of his face. He also had long eyelashes—soft, curled, beautiful.

Disco's fingers were stained yellow with smoke. They held a joint. He raised it to his mouth, sucked till his cheeks were hollow. His other hand tapped once or twice on his scrawny knee, then rested. Jessie's heart was beating wildly; she wanted to fly down the stairs, jump in the car, drive far away. She started to back out of the doorway, then stopped herself. Backing out wasn't the way to find Kate. She took a deep breath and pounded on the door.

Disco jerked in his wheelchair. He fumbled with the headset; the joint fell to the floor. “Blue?” he said, turning his head in the general direction of the door.

“No,” Jessie replied, making her tone as gentle as she could. “I'm a friend.”

Disco backed the wheelchair against the wall. “I don't know your voice.” The skin on his legs was raised in goose bumps.

“I'm a friend of Blue's.”

“What's your name?”

“Jessie.”

“I never heard her mention you.” He twisted the headset in his hands.

“We met recently.”

“Where?”

“It doesn't matter. I'm looking for Pat Rodney.”

“Pat Rodney?”

“Do you know him?”

“I knew him.” He kept twisting the headset. “A long time ago. Before …”

“Before what?”

“Before I dropped acid and flew off the mountain.”

There was a long silence. Tinny music came out of the earphones in Disco's lap. He switched it off.

“When was that?” Jessie said at last.

“When I flew? Firecracker night. The fourth of July. Nineteen seventy-two. Or maybe three.”

“I meant when did you know Pat Rodney? When was the last time you saw him?”

“Before that. Everything was before that.” His lip curled. It might have been a sneer, or just an involuntary twitch caused by brain damage.

“How long before?”

His face slowly straightened itself, assuming a peaceful expression. Jessie was wondering if that was due to the soothing tones she was trying to project, when he said, “I got a good buzz coming.”

“That's nice,” Jessie said.

Disco frowned. “I'd share, but my stash is getting low and the bitch won't …” His fingers twisted in his lap.

“That's all right,” Jessie said. “I have a feeling Pat Rodney's been here recently. This week.” Disco said nothing; he clasped his hands together to keep the fingers from twisting. “Hasn't he?” Jessie said, putting more force in her voice.

“Pat Rodney?” Disco began to rock back and forth in his wheelchair. “He's been gone for years. Didn't I say that?”

“When did you last see him?”

“When I could see.” His hands felt along the arms of the wheelchair. “Where's my J?”

Jessie picked it up. “Here.”

As he took it, his hand brushed his naked thigh. “God fuck,” he said. “She didn't even get me dressed.”

Jessie took a blanket from the bed and draped it over him. His face turned up in her direction, as though he were giving her a careful look. “Are you a cop?”

“Why would I be a cop?”

“You know. Looking for Pat Rodney.”

“Why would a cop be looking for him? What's he done?”

Disco didn't answer. His fingers began twisting the headset. “You don't sound like a cop.”

“I'm not a cop. I was married to Pat. Out in California. He's disappeared with our daughter. I know he's in Vermont and thought he might have come here.”

Disco contemplated that; at least, he sat motionless, the joint burning in his fingers. “You were married to Pat Rodney?”

“I was.”

“When was this?”

“Until five years ago.”

Long silence. “What did Blue say?” Disco finally asked.

“She said he hasn't been here; but I thought she might not be telling me the truth.”

“Oh yeah?” Jessie thought she heard amusement in his voice. “Why not?” he said.

“Because I got the impression she might be protecting him. They were … lovers once, weren't they?”

Disco said nothing for a moment. Then he laughed, a harsh, grating laugh, but she'd been wrong about the amusement—there was no humor in the sounds he made.

“What's funny?”

“Nothing. Blue's done some things in her life, but nothing as sick as that.”

“What do you mean? What would be sick about that?”

Disco laughed his harsh laugh, but didn't reply. He put the joint to his lips for one last smoke, then stubbed the butt out on the wall and let it drop. “I'm thirsty,” he said. There'd been fear in his voice before; now it was gone.

“Do you want me to get you something?”

“What's your name?”

“Jessie.”

“You sound nice, Jessie.”

“What can I get you?”

“I had a girlfriend. She went away.”

“That's too bad.”

“Everyone went away. Except me and Blue.”

“Where did they go?”

“Who knows?”

“Where did Pat Rodney go?”

“Don't ask me.”

“When was the last time you saw him?

“When I could see.”

“That joke wasn't funny the first time,” Jessie said before she could stop herself.

“You think it's a fucking joke?” Disco's voice cracked. He made ragged crying sounds in his throat, but no tears came. Jessie saw a bottle of Coke by the bed. She opened it and put it in his hand. Abruptly, he stopped crying—it was more like a trailer for crying than a feature-length presentation—and drank. His teeth were brown and rotting. “I hate when she leaves me alone,” he said.

“Did Pat come here when you were alone?”

“No. Why do you keep saying that? I told you I haven't seen him. I haven't seen him. I haven't seen him. Now do you get it? I haven't seen him.” He lowered his voice. “It's the truth. Not since Woodstock.”

“Woodstock?”

“Yeah.”

What have you heard about Woodstock?

“Do you mean the festival?” Jessie said.

“What else?” Disco drank more Coke, then pulled the blanket closer around him. “The fucking festival.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It was the end. My friend.”

“The end of what?”

“Everything. The commune, for starters.”

“Why?”

Disco shrugged. The movement pained him. He winced.

“How was it the end of the commune?”

“Everyone went away.”

“Pat Rodney?”

“Him and all the musicians.”

“What musicians?”

“They had a band. They were fucking good. Hendrix jammed with them in the woods.”

“Jimi Hendrix?”

“The one and only.”

“Who was in the band?”

“Lots of dudes. It kept changing. But it was mainly him and Hartley Frame. The two-guitar sound. Like the Stones, you know?”

“Hartley Frame?” said Jessie.

“Pat's buddy from up at the college.”

“What college are you talking about?”

“Morgan. It's the only college around here. Just across the state line.”

Jessie had heard of it: a small liberal arts school with a stuffy tradition and a two-hundred-year-old endowment. “Is it in a town called Morgan?”

“Morgantown. Mass. Not far.”