Authors: Jack Ketchum
She couldn’t help but smile. She felt better already.
The cat saw the bird flutter down into the branches of the elm tree deep in the woods behind Ed Anderson’s yard. The cat was not hungry, but since her eyes had led her to the bird she crouched into the hunter’s pose anyhow—head low, haunches tight, shoulders hunched—and moved slowly through the brush. The bird which was a blue jay, loud and squawking, was inattentive for its kind. Perhaps it too had eaten its fill, stolen its feed from a flock of sparrows it had frightened away. It perched with its back to the cat, long blue tail feathers hung low over the branch and bobbing. To the cat the bird was irresistible.
She judged she was close enough, poised herself, tensed and made her run. The elm tree gave good purchase. The cat was a black sudden streak up the trunk of the tree into and through the branches and the bird was barely a second from its death at the claws and jaws of the cat when the black eye flashed and the banded wings spread and flapped and it squawked and flew away.
The cat perched on the tree limb watching. Earth-bound, the cat watched the bird careen through thin air. Her heart was racing. She panted with excitement. She watched the bird wide-eyed until it disappeared beyond other, smaller trees in the distance and then looked around her into the branches and the leaves and then looked down.
The elm tree was a tall tree and the cat had not realized the branch the bird was on was this high up, hadn’t considered it, had only the confidence that the muscles and limbs of her body could get her to the bird, that it was possible. She had not known
she
was this high up until this very moment. The confidence and courage to climb the tree were not the same as the confidence and courage it would take to get her down again. The distance between even the lowest limb of the tree, three limbs down, to the ground beneath now seemed formidable. She essayed those three branches handily, but with only the earth below her now the distance looked even more daunting.
She stretched and placed her front paws tentatively ahead of her along the tree trunk to the left side of the branch, her claws digging into the bark, carefully scanning the terrain. The ground was rocky, hard and forbidding. She turned and repeated the maneuver on the right side. The problem was the same. She carefully paced the length of the limb studying the earth below along either side until the limb thinned and swayed underfoot and a thicket of leafy branches would not permit further passage. She returned along the limb to the trunk, sat hunched in the crook of the limb’s thick safety—which in fact was no safety at all but which was illusory, the only true safety for the cat the hard earth, the known ground below—and sat shivering, tense with anxiety, attempting to determine just what to do.
The afternoon sunlight had burnt off the morning mist.
The cat opened her mouth and gave voice to her solitary grief and confusion. Her world made no response.
He got the call at three o’clock and he could tell that Ray was pissed. He wanted his hash and he wanted it now, he said. Why the hell hadn’t Tim called him? He made up some story about a massive headache and fever which probably was the flu, and that seemed to work for the moment.
Twenty minutes later Ray was down ringing the doorbell. His parents had taken Ginnie to a matinee of Barbra Streisand in
Hello, Dolly!
at the Colony so it was Tim who let him in.
What’s up and hey and how y a doin’
and not a word from Ray in reply and they climbed the stairs in silence. Already Tim had a bad feeling about this. In his room Ray flopped down on his bed and Tim went into his drawer for the hash, took it out and tossed it over to him.
“Weigh it,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Get out the scale. Weigh it.”
“I already did.”
“So do it again.”
There wasn’t any arguing with the hooded eyes or with the flat black tone of voice. He felt like a snake had just entered the room and was having a look around—he had better be careful where he stepped. He got out the scale and set it on his bureau, hoping against hope that he hadn’t trimmed too much this time, not enough for Ray to notice. Ray got up and unwrapped the hash and examined it a moment and placed it on the scale. Then he looked at Tim.
“Short. You’ve been shavin’ it on me, Timmy.”
“I . . .”
“I figured.”
He took the block of hash off the scale and began tossing it up and down like you’d toss a rubber ball, pacing the room from bed to bureau to window to the door like he was trying to figure something out in there, like he was concentrating and the pacing and the tossing were helping him. And the strange thing was that he didn’t seem mad about the hash. Tim had no sense of that. Just concentrating, like the hash didn’t matter a bit. Which for Ray was very weird. It didn’t stop him from being worried about Ray’s being there, though. The snake had turned into something that looked more like a caged lion, that was all.
“Had a real strange visit this morning, Timmy. I mean,
strange
, man.”
Still pacing
.
“Yeah? From who?”
“Jennifer.”
He thought,
Oh shit
.
“See this little scratch here?”
He walked up close and pointed to his forehead, a tiny red pinprick scab there. Then he started pacing and tossing again.
“She threw my fucking ring at me. Said that you were screwing her and threw my ring right in my face. Said she’s through with me and fucking you and made jokes about my dick. About my dick, man! You believe that shit? This kind of shit I’m getting from
Jennifer?
If my mother hadn’t come along I’d have killed the little cunt right there in the goddamn driveway, I’d have killed her fat flabby ass right there, no doubt about it. I’m telling you, Timmy, I’ve had it up to here with them. I’ve had it with every one of these bitches.
“Fucking Katherine, right? Fucking Katherine Wallace won’t even talk to me. Says she doesn’t want to see me again, gives me all this bullshit about not wanting to get involved with anybody, won’t even discuss it. And I go out and buy coke for her. Me. I get fucking
coke
for her! You believe that? What am I, nuts? Fucking whatsername, fucking Sally Richmond, talking to me like I’m pond scum. Now Jennifer Fitch! You believe it?
Jennifer
fucking
Fitch?
I mean it’s incredible to me. You tell her about the rings? I guess you did, right. I mean, fuck ’em, you know? Fuck
all
of ’em. You know what I’m saying? That’s it. That’s really
it
. That’s fucking plenty. That’s enough. Don’t you think that’s enough, man? I mean,
I
think so, jesus, what do you think?”
He had the strangest sensation.
It was like Ray was talking to him but Ray wasn’t really
in the room
with him at all. Ray was somewhere else. He heard the voice, he saw the pacing. But it was like Tim was watching a movie. Like Ray was somewhere inside his own personal movie screen and all Tim was
supposed
to do was watch. He wasn’t supposed to answer. And what was
really
weird was that he still had no sense of danger.
He’d shaved Ray’s hash for chrissakes and Ray knew it.
He’d fucked
Jennifer
and Ray knew it!
Dropped that little bombshell like some guy reporting the weekend weather.
What the hell was going on here?
Whatever it was, it was scaring him. The air felt thick and close and he could smell Ray’s sweat, sour and strong like salty soup. If the rage wasn’t there—
and it wasn’t, it wasn’t, this was just some kind of crazy rant
—if it didn’t look like Tim was going to get beat to shit over this, that sure didn’t stop it from being scary. Because this wasn’t like any
version
of Ray he’d seen before. Not even drunk or stoned. Ray was always
there
at least. Even his unpredictibility had its ranges and Tim thought he’d seen all of them by now.
But he didn’t know this weird, pacing zombie looking pale and sick like’d he’d just thrown up, didn’t know him at all and when he stopped in front of his bureau and balled up his fist and suddenly screamed
fuck me!
and put his fist through the white plaster wall right next to Lennon in his granny glasses, hit the wall so hard he rattled the scales on top of the bureau, Tim’s
own wall
in
Tim’s parents’ own home
which he
never
would have dared to do at any other time in all the years he’d known him it almost didn’t surprise him. It was like Ray was pounding at his own big wide silver screen and who the hell cares where or whose house it was.
And he’d have thought
that
at least would have taken some of the steam out of him, punching the fucking wall. But it didn’t.
He wasn’t tossing the hash anymore. He was squeezing it in his fist like a ball of clay. Moving faster, wobbling in his boots, spit flying out of his mouth and going on about fucking bitches and fucking cops—
jesus, did he know about Schilling too?
—like he’d lost it completely, not angry like when he’d hit the wall but talking, talking nonstop, talking to somebody inside himself or in that silver screen of his but not to Tim, not looking once at Tim the whole time until finally and without any reason or warning he flung open the bedroom door and tromped down the stairs and out across the lawn, the block of hash still clutched in his hand.
Right out there in the open, right in plain sight. Carrying his hash to the car.
Tim didn’t so much as move till he heard it pull away.
His legs felt weak, like it was he who’d been doing all that pacing. He sat down on the bed.
Who to call
.
Somebody.
What to do
.
Something.
How to explain the goddamn hole in the wall to his parents
.
He sat there and stared at it and wondered.
When Charlie Schilling walked in Ed was glad to see him. The mood in Teddy’s was way, way off today. Nobody even bothering to feed the jukebox. Not even Teddy, who usually could be counted on to pick up the slack if his customers weren’t parting with their change. He watched Charlie walk the length of the place greeting some of the regulars and saw his smile turn to a frown along the way.
He picked up on the mood right away. He always was a quick study.
“Christ, Ed. What’s up? Joint’s like somebody up and died today.”
“Somebody did die, Charlie. Ray Hardcuff’s oldest.”
“Danny Hardcuff?”
“That’s right. Lance corporal in the Marine Corps. The VC shot his chopper down. Teddy says he was crew chief, supposed to soften up the landing zone with M-sixty fire. I guess it didn’t soften.”
“Aw, shit, Ed. Has anybody seen Ray?”
“Teddy talked to him on the telephone this morning. He asked Teddy to pass the word around for him. He doesn’t want any calls for a while. I guess Dot’s taking it real hard and so is he.”
“They’ve got another boy, right? Younger boy?”
“Two. But one’s not young enough. He’s over in that shitstorm too. Andy I think his name is.”
Teddy came over and nodded and Charlie ordered a scotch.
“Ed fill you in?” Teddy said.
“Just now.”
“I talked to him this morning. Said Dot’s sister’s flying in from Seattle to handle things for a while.”
“That’s good.”
“He was engaged, y’know, Danny was. Girl by the name of Cathy Stutz.”
“Christ, I know her too. We busted her for popping a beer in public once. Remember, Ed?”
“Sure I do. Nice girl. It was just that one time. Never had any trouble with her again.”
“Damn.”
“That’s four from this town that I know of,” Teddy said. “Town this size, four’s a lot.”
They drank awhile in silence and then Schilling ordered a second scotch and told Ed about his visits to Tim Bess and Jennifer Fitch.
“I don’t get it. What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to scare them into talking to me. They know something. I want to hear it.”
“You saying the kids were in on it?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. But Ray brags. Maybe he bragged about it to them.”
“Think he’s that stupid?”
“He might be. The tough guys usually tend to be. Anyhow I got the same feeling from both of them. They both know more than they’re telling.”
Ed finished his beer and ordered another and Schilling wondered how many he’d had already. He was slurring his words a little and that wasn’t like him at all.
“You’re really pushing the envelope with this, you know that. We’re talking harrassment, slander. All that shit.”
“I know. Anything comes of it, it’s worth risking.”