Ghouls (9 page)

“If you’re the man of my dreams, then all my dreams must be nightmares.” She smirked at the junk-stuffed candle orb and noticed tobacco juice in some of the empties, which she gathered up with great care. “My oh my, what fine
tailfeathers
,” another one said. Vicky told him that he must be an
expert
on
tailfeathers
, since he smelled like a henhouse.

She took a break after a few more orders.
Ah, the good life,
she thought. She sat down on the end barstool by the
halfboard
and shook out a cigarette. The music beat in her ears, a downpour of grinding heavy metal. On stage, the current dancer was stepping it out, trying her best to be erotic, but getting more laughs than applause. Vicky doubted she was much older than eighteen. Any girl with a body could get a job here; they came and went like birds, and seemed as smart. At the song’s climax, the dancer attempted a full spin, but halfway through, the heel snapped off her sandal, and she hit the dance floor butt-first with a great slapping thud. Laughter sailed up from the audience like a breaking wave.

The song played itself out, the juke thumped off. Blushing scarlet, the dancer grabbed her gown and rushed offstage to the dressing room. Vicky immersed herself in the joyous, blissful silence, wishing she could ride away in it. Cigarette smoke hung frozen in the aura of
stagelight
, glasses clinked. She touched her mouth and was immediately aware of the dull ache behind her lower lip. Lenny had smacked her in the mouth that morning, one of his better smacks. When she shifted slightly on the stool, the throb of pain between her legs reminded her of what he’d done after he’d hit her. She doubted that he’d planned it that way, to
have her
right there on the living-room floor; perhaps the blood on her chin had sparked his lust. He’d used Kurt’s appearance to punish her both ways. The inside of her mouth felt ragged and tasted faintly of rust. At least he hadn’t hit her in the eye this time; the manager always bitched at her when she came in with a black eye.

Hoots shot up, startling her. Customers began to whistle as the next dancer emerged from the dressing room. Joanne Sulley stepped coolly onto the stage, silent and lithe in high heels, black nylons, and a black transparent dress. The juke thumped back on, and Joanne went into her six-song dance set before a grating, pulsating assault of still more heavy metal. Her flesh glowed beneath the dress; she flew into the opener with wild precision, gyrating gymnastically, twirling, and dropping splits that hurt just to watch. The crowd grew riled.

Vicky looked on through a wave of disgust. Her hatred for Joanne was no secret, and the hatred was mutual. She wasn’t sure when their dislike for each other had begun; she wasn’t even sure what had caused it. Vicky knew now that Joanne was on Lenny’s regular list, but even that had nothing to do with it. She deplored Joanne simply because of the kind of person she was: a self-centered, egotistical sexpot with no regard for morality and no measure of discipline whatsoever. The average topless dancer came in, did her thing, and left, all an act. But with Joanne it was much more, it was a total, overt willingness to exploit herself via her body in order to gain the worship of weak, lonely men. She was an insult to herself and to all of womanhood, a cunning, predatory outrage.

Joanne dominated the stage, reined the focus of the audience. She spun once, perfectly, completely, and her hair and the hem of her dress flew up and down at the same time, as if by will. Another twirl, another rise of the dress, and she skimmed it over her head and off her body in one fluid movement, letting it float to the floor. Now, all she had on from the nylons, mid-thigh, to the black choker around her throat was a tiny powder-blue G-string. Something obscene and deep lurked behind her eyes, all but hidden by unabashed nakedness and a physique very close to perfect. The lights pulsed on her from above and below, tinting her flesh luridly in a meld of obscure shades. The crowd seemed breathless now, their hoots and hollers replaced by the silence of complete attentiveness. They were in awe, fixed on her as if preconditioned. Her body moved with the music, moved with the lights. Every step she took, every movement, breath, and gesture, seemed an act of precision so honed it was no longer even conscious. For every second she danced, Joanne
ruled
the crowd.

When the song ended, the audience exploded with applause. Joanne stood center stage, hands on bare hips, feet apart, and received her applause without so much as a bow or even a smile. Slowly, she panned her head, and the subtle obscenity behind her eyes raged.

Finally she broke and came off the stage to instruct the barkeep to boost the lights and volume. She grinned brassily at Vicky, as if to denote superiority. Vicky shook her head and mouthed something which could not be described as complimentary. Still grinning, Joanne pointed to her own crotch and said, “Eat me.”

“I’m probably the only one in town who hasn’t,” Vicky commented.

“Tell that to Lenny. He does it all the time, and lots of other things, too.” Joanne traced the top of her G-string with her finger. “Doesn’t that bother you, to know that you can’t even turn on your own husband? To know that he’s gotta come to me when he wants someone to do it right?”

“It doesn’t bother me at all. You two are made for each other—you’re
both
screwed up in the head.”

“You know, if I told him you said that, he’d probably beat the shit out of you again.”

“I know, and if he does,
I’m
going to beat the shit out of
you,
”
Vicky told her. “You’ll have a hard time giving blow jobs with your jaw wired shut.”

Joanne laughed and gave Vicky the finger. She started to go back to the stage, but paused suddenly and said over her shoulder, “I’m glad your dog died.” Then she hurried back into the harsh blossom of
stagelight
.

The next song came on, thundering. For an instant, Vicky had almost lost control; she could see herself dragging Joanne off the stage by her hair and mopping the floor with her. It was an exciting fantasy; perhaps one day she would.

««—»»

At a quarter past one, only a few customers remained. Vicky could taste closing time; the thought of bed and sleep titillated her. She went to the farthest corner and began wiping the tables down, a scurrying shape in the dark. Someone touched her shoulder then, and she cringed before turning, suspecting a late visit from Lenny; but the dread lifted when she saw Kurt standing behind her.

“Did I miss last call?”

“No, no, we’re open till two,” she said. “Sit. I’ll get you something.” She got him a beer from the bar, returning in seconds. She was surprised at how happy she was to see him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been in here,” he said. “I remember once when I was about sixteen, Glen and I made fake mustaches out of our own hair and tried to get a seat. We thought it would make us look older. We weren’t two steps into the place before the bouncer threw us out. He told us to come back when we could grow real ones.”

“The curiosity of youth, right?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing wrong with that.” Kurt glanced across to the dark, empty stage. “What happened to the ‘speculative’ dancers?”

“They usually knock off at one. That’s when everyone starts going home.” She thought that he looked almost vulnerable in normal street clothes, and younger. The candlelight brought his face out in relief, flickering softly. She caught herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him. “What brings you out so late?” she asked.

“Wasn’t tired when I got off work, nothing but kung
fu
movies on the tube. That’s what I hate about four-to-
twelves
, it’s always too late to do anything when the shift’s over.” He sipped his beer and seemed to experience a childish rush.

“What’s the latest on Cody Drucker?”

Kurt couldn’t help but smile. “We still haven’t found the old coot. I just can’t figure out what anyone would want with a dead body, especially
his
dead body.”

Vicky grinned at the grim hilarity of it all. She reached into her apron for a cigarette. “It’s weird, even for this town.”

He reached across the table and lit her cigarette, but he held the flame up, suddenly staring at her.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

He strained his eyes on her face. “Your— You look like you have cotton in your mouth. What—”

Vicky looked down at the table, frowning.

“He hit you again, didn’t he? He punched you in the mouth.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. She trained her gaze on the orb. “So what else is new?”

He gripped the table edge, his face suddenly ugly with anger in the reddish light.

“Lenny got pissed this morning when you came over. He thinks I’m cheating on him, I guess, and he smacked me.”

Kurt closed his eyes and winced. “Christ, I’m sorry. If I hadn’t come over, it never would have—”

“It’s not your fault, it’s just… It’s nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing?” he said, leaning over and trying not to raise his voice. “Every time I see you, you have new bruises on your face from that guy.”

“Forget it.”

“He shouldn’t hit you. ”

“I know, but he does, and there’s nothing I can do.”

“There’s plenty you can do.”

“Look, Kurt, you don’t understand.” She was trying hard not to be mad at him, and herself. “You worrying about it only makes it worse—”

“Hey,
Vik
” came the coarse, boisterous voice of the barkeep. “you gonna blab all night or maybe think about getting the rest of these tables done so we can get out of here?”

Fat tool,
she thought.
Clean them yourself.
She glanced back and saw that the Anvil was empty. “I have to go now,” she told Kurt. “Got a lot to do.”

“I’ll hang around and drive you home when you’re done.”

“No, that’s okay. If Lenny saw us…well, you know. Thanks anyway. And thanks for coming by.”

Kurt smiled at her, warmly now. He grabbed his beer and left.

The closing chores were rushed, frenzied; she needed to get out. Her back aching now, she mopped the floor, wiped down the rest of the tables, but the task she hated most of all was cleaning the stage mirror. It wasn’t easy getting all those butt-prints and fingermarks off the glass without leaving streaks. At last, haunted by the smell of Windex, she grabbed her jacket and slipped out, deliberately avoiding the barkeep’s endless offer to drive her home; he had black teeth and was always trying to peer down her blouse. Outside, she zipped up her jacket—the temperature surprised her—and when she was a dozen steps across the empty gravel parking lot, the electric ANVIL sign winked off, and she was submerged in darkness. She walked off the lot faster than she would have, never used to this sightless ritual. The Route was strangely lacking streetlights; she could barely see. Perhaps the state had a mandatory quota of nighttime traffic fatalities and sexual assaults before they could spend the money. From the woods, the rustling of animals mocked her. What if they weren’t animals? She could scream all night and who would hear? The moon watched her from treetops. She drew her collar close and quickened her pace.

The road stretched on, silent, vacant. She hurried without knowing why, stoked by phantom thoughts. It made the short walk home seem miles long, but then the house loomed into view, its traits reduced to a growth of shadow, an extension of the forest’s blackness. Lenny wasn’t home yet—at least the night might end on one good note. She had to slide her way up the front walk to the porch, had to feel for the proper key, and by the time she’d gotten inside, her actions had grown frantic. The deadbolt clicked heavily, and she sighed.

Safe again,
she thought, and put aside her purse and coat. Dim light accompanied her as she went through the house and up the stairs, each light flicking on in turn, her hand sliding blindly along the walls for the next switch.

Safe.