The Dance (13 page)

The mountains owned half the sky. Had the school been any closer to the slopes, it would have had to have been built perpendicular to the ground. Temple High was his best bet and, for that reason, Michael had saved it for the last. Parking in front of the administration building, he climbed out of his car and headed up the steps.

The receptionist-secretary was young and Hawaiian, with braided black hair and a dazzling set of teeth that made Michael think of South Pacific islands and warm green swells. It had been cold the past night and, from the forecast, would be colder still the next night for their outdoor homecoming dance. He hadn’t made up his mind whether he’d go or not. All week he had been trying to psych himself up to ask Jessica. With the SAT fiasco, though, he felt the timing would be lousy. On the other hand, she had given no indication she had a date. Bubba hadn’t heard anything about Bill having asked her, and that probably meant she needed an escort. Maybe he could give her a call, work the conversation around to the dance, and see what happened.

“Can I help you?” the young lady asked, wheeling her swivel chair back from her typewriter.

“Yes, I’d like to buy a copy of your yearbook.” He had learned at the previous two schools he had visited that people would immediately get suspicious if he asked for a list of all the students named Clark. That’s confidential information, they would say, and where are you from, and all that jive. All he needed was a picture with a name.

“The due date of ordering yearbooks was last month,” she said.

“A copy of last year’s yearbook would be fine.” He had the lie ready. “You see, I don’t actually go here. I’m on the yearbook staff at another school. I’m doing format research for our annual.” He spoke sincerely. “I’ve heard Temple’s got one of the best yearbooks in Southern California.”

Never underestimate the power of school pride. The lady smiled at the compliment and immediately went looking for a book. When she returned a few minutes later with the annual in hand, and he asked what the charge would be, she said it was a complimentary copy. He thanked her and hurried to his car.

Twenty minutes later, after a thorough search of the senior, junior, and sophomore classes, he slammed the book shut in disgust. There wasn’t a single Clark in the whole school, much less one with ugly red hair and green cat eyes. Tossing the yearbook onto the passenger seat, he rolled down the window and stared at the mountains. Far above, on a high-altitude breeze, the matchstick trees swayed in the hard blue sky.

He must have been stoned. He must have been rambling.

Michael had a couple of hours before he had to go to work. He wasn’t sure what to do next. His mom had said that she would be getting off work early that day, and he debated swinging by the house to see how she was doing. She had told her boyfriend. Daniel, about the baby, and the man was excited. Yet he hadn’t proposed, not yet. He needed to digest the news, he said. Michael could understand that. He was still digesting the idea of having a dad. At least there was no chance of the baby telling him what he could and couldn’t do. His mom appeared to be taking everything in stride.

Not making any progress proving Alice had been murdered had frustrated him. He decided to go by the school and check with Bubba on the coroner’s files.

When he arrived back at Tabb. sixth period was over and the campus was almost deserted. Crossing the courtyard, he caught a glimpse between the buildings of the huge tent being erected for the dance on the practice basketball courts. It looked like Sara had been talking to a circus.

He didn’t enter the computer room from the outside, but through the central utility room that connected all the science classes. Just before opening the door, however, he overheard Bubba talking to Clair. Because it was Bubba, and because bubba had more power than any teenager had a right to, Michal felt it was his moral responsibility to eavesdrop. He put his ear to the door.

“I can’t do it.” Bubba was saying. “It’ll be too obvious.”

“Obvious to who?” Clair demanded.

“Mike for one. He knows what I can do. And he likes Jessie.”

“Would he talk?”

“He might. And even though the votes haven t been tabulated, the word around town has you way off the mark. If you suddenly won, it could get ugly.”

“For who? You?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Clair growled. “You’re always bragging about your ability to get anything you want. And here I ask you one tiny favor and you say no. I’m sick of it, Bubba. I tell you, I won’t stand on that stage and see her crowned.”

“I know.”

“You know? Then do something about it!”

“I can’t.”

There was a long pause. Michael could readily imagine the expression on Clair’s face and was glad it was not glaring down on him. “You think of something,” she said finally, soft and deadly. “Or
I’ll
think of something.”

Bubba did not respond, or did not have a chance to. Michael listened as Clair stalked out of the room, slamming the door in the process. He waited a respectable length of time before entering. Bubba glanced up from his terminal.

“Hi, Mike. Did you discover Clark Kent’s secret identity?”

Michael shook his head, sat down. “The more I chase this guy, the more I think he must be some kind of superman to disappear the way he has.” He nodded toward the screen. Bubba was presently in an administrative file he had no right to be in. It could very well be the file where the votes for the homecoming queen had been stored. “What are you working on?” he asked.

“Nothing important.” Bubba turned off the screen, thoughtful. “Going to the dance tomorrow?”

“I’d like to see how Nick does in the game. I don’t know, I might hang around afterward. Sara’s got the price for the dance down to five bucks.”

“I don’t know how she does it.”

“Still no word on Bill asking Jessie?”

“It just came in. Bill nabbed her this morning after political science. The slut was flattered.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Sorry. A slip of the tongue.”

Michael decided he wasn’t going to the dance after all. He couldn’t bear the thought of watching them moving hand in hand across the floor. He should have asked her himself! He honestly thought she might have said yes. Even though he had messed her up on the SAT test, she hadn’t directed one word of blame at him. She had style.

Even when unconscious.

He remembered sitting beside her while she slept off the effect of the drugs, her shiny brown hair spread over her tucked-in arm, her lips pursed like those of a dreaming child, her long, thick eyelashes flickering slightly as her chest slowly rose and fell. If he hadn’t fallen completely in love with her before, he had toppled the final distance that afternoon. He had been tempted to kiss her while she slept.

Then he thought of Alice. He always thought of Alice whenever Jessica appeared to be slipping further from his grasp. It was as if he substituted a fresh pain for one locked in memory, some kind of perverted reflex.

“When are you going to try for the autopsy report?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. But I warn you, it’ll take a while to copy all the medical group’s files over the school modem, twelve hours minimum. That’s going to cost a couple of hundred at least.”

“I’ll pay it. Can you start it in the morning?”

“For you, Mike, anything.”

“Thanks.” Michael almost made him promise to leave Jessica as homecoming queen if she had been elected to the position. He couldn’t believe she had anything to do with the slanderous gossip going around about Clair. But it wouldn’t do to hassle Bubba, he decided, until he had that report in his hand. And he remembered Bubba’s words to Clair, that nothing could be done to change the outcome of the vote, and he was reassured.

That night, the night before the dance and the ruin of a princess, Polly returned to her big house to find a message from Tony Foulton on her answering machine and a note from Russ taped to the mirror in her downstairs bathroom. She had stopped at the hospital after school to check on Philip Bart—the foreman who had gotten knocked on the head during the dynamite blast—and was late getting home. Poor Phil, initially he’d made good progress, but he’d lapsed back into a coma the previous night, and now the doctors were saying he wasn’t going to make it. Polly had run into his wife in the intensive-care waiting room and the woman had depressed the hell out of her, crying and carrying on.

But everyone’s got to die, sooner or later.

Polly got to Tony’s message first, playing it while she grabbed a carrot from the refrigerator.

“Polly, this is Tony. Just called to let you know the float will be ready tomorrow morning if you want to swing by the plant for a final inspection before we tow it to the school. I’ll be at home this evening if you want to reach me.”

Then she discovered the note.

I’ve found a new place to stay. Thanks for the hospitality. I won’t forget it.

Russ

A tidal wave of emotion began to rush over Polly, and then, as if the wave had suddenly run into a mountain of granite, there was nothing. She stood holding the note in one hand, the carrot in the other, staring at her reflection in the mirror and thinking about absolutely nothing for an indeterminate length of time. During this time, she wasn’t the least bit mad or the least bit depressed. She simply wasn’t there. Even when she began to think again, she didn’t feel much of anything, except an abrupt, intense hunger.

She blinked at her reflection. She hardly recognized herself. She was much too skinny. No wonder Russ hadn’t wanted to have sex with her!

Throwing both the carrot and the note into the toilet and flushing them out of existence, she hurried back to the kitchen. There was a two-pound box of chocolates in the cupboard above the refrigerator that some bleeding soul had given her after Alice’s funeral. Love and chocolate, she’d once read, were practically interchangeable from a hormonal point of view.

Polly found the box and began to eat, one candy after another. They were truffles: raspberry, straw-berry, mint, all her favorite flavors. She couldn’t believe how hungry she was! She finished off the top layer and started on the bottom, checking the time. It was late, but maybe a shop would be open, and she could get another box.

“These are good, these are wonderful,” she said out loud to herself. “These are just what the doctor ordered. And a little drink. When you eat candies you have to drink, Polly, or the sugar will make you thirsty. Yes, Mommy, I remember. Where is a glass? Here is a glass. Now let me get you a little drink, Pretty Polly.”

Polly did get down a glass and did grab a can of Pepsi from the cupboard beneath the sink. But then she thought of the paper cups she had told Alice to fetch from her parents’ closet the night of the party. She looked down at her can of Pepsi, also thinking of how soda should always be drunk out of a paper cup and not a real glass, because then it tasted like you were at a party. Then you could pretend the party wasn’t really over.

Setting down the glass and the box of chocolates, Polly ran up the stairs and dashed to her parents’ old bedroom, where Alice had died. She flipped the switch, but of course the light didn’t go on because it was still broken. She didn’t care. She didn’t need it. She just wanted the cups! Those stupid paper cups. And she knew where they were. She remembered exactly where her mommy had put them. At the top of the closet. And here was Mr. Ladder, behind Mr. Door.

Polly had set up the ladder in the dark room beside the closet and was on the third step going on the fourth when the black figure came up at her back and shoved her hard in the rear, sending her toppling toward the hard wooden floor. For an instant, caught completely by surprise, she didn’t throw out her hands to brace her fall. Actually, it seemed far longer than an instant; it seemed as if she fell forever, and had all the time in the world to decide how she wanted to hit the floor, which angle would cause her the least harm. For some reason, the fact she had the opportunity to decide made her furious. In the end she did throw out her hands, her wrists absorbing the brunt—but not all—of the impact. Her right ankle took a nasty bang. Pain shot up her leg and she let out a cry.

“What is this supposed to be?” Clark demanded, towering over her, a shadow, except for the yellow hall light filtering through his messy red hair. In his hands was Russ’s note, torn and dripping wet. For a moment, Polly had the horrible idea that Clark had been hiding deep inside the toilet when she had come home, waiting for her beneath the house with the worms and slimy things in the black smelly pipes. Then she realized the carrot and the paper must have gotten tangled together, and not flushed properly. He had never been one to knock. He must have entered through the garage and gone straight to the bathroom, and found the evidence.

“He’s just a friend who stayed here a few days,” she cried.

“You’re a liar. You’ve been unfaithful to me.”

“No!”

“You’ve been sleeping with him.” He crouched down beside her, grabbing her shirt at the neck. “Now I know why you pushed me away last time. You’d already had your fill.”

“He’s just a friend,” she said, weeping. She could feel his breath, cold and damp, on the side of her face. The pain in her ankle was making her nauseated. She feared at any second he would step on it with his hard black boot.

He paused, his fury momentarily frozen on his face, then he appeared to relax a notch. He leaned forward, draping the dripping letter over her face. “Tell me the truth, Polly,” he said softly, tightening his grip on her shirt. “And I will set you free.”

“I told you.” The water spilt over her eyes, around her nose. It stank.

“Don’t tell me, and I will break your ankle.”

Polly stopped fighting him. He was serious. “I slept with him,” she said quietly.

“Honestly?”

“I swear. It was the truth, the literal truth. It didn’t matter that Russ had never been awake to begin with.

“I believe you. Do you want me to set you free?”

“Yes.”

“Very good.” Clark let go of her shirt, lifted the veil from her eyes. “I can forgive anything, except dishonesty,” he said, the anger gone from his face.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, wiping the gook off her face and rubbing her ankle; it felt as if it might already be broken. “I won’t do it again.”

“I know you won’t.” He stood, not offering her a hand, and stepped to the east-facing windows. She was surprised to see they were open, the shades up. She thought she had pulled them down. Clark took a breath of the cold air coming through the screens. “Do you know what will happen if you do?” he asked.

“You’ll leave me?”

He turned, his face serious. “I can never do that. If leave you, I die.”

Despite her pain, she smiled. “You don’t care that much about me, do you?” she asked hopefully.

“That’s not what I said.”

“What do you mean?”

He nodded, as if she had answered a question and not asked one, turning back toward the outside, pointing a long bony finger at a damaged wooden shingle a few feet beyond the window. “That’s what I will do to you,” he said.

She lost her smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You see it, don’t you?”

“See what? You’re not making any sense.” Suddenly it wasn’t her ankle that was hurting, but her head—a thick pressure was building inside. “Never mind, I said I won’t do it again.”

He lowered his finger and almost instantly her head began to feel better. “How is your foot?” he asked in an offhand fashion.

“It’s fine,” she lied, before remembering what he had said about honesty. “It hurts.” Now it was her turn to be angry. “Why did you push me off the ladder?”

“I didn’t push you. You slipped.” He grinned. “You won’t be able to dance tomorrow. You have the perfect excuse.” He took a step toward her. “Jessie and Sara will be at the dance, won’t they? They’ll be on the stage—up there beneath the lights while you’ll still be laying here on the floor in the dark. Do you know why that is, Polly?”

“No,” she said, defiant. She wished he would help her up, and she wished he wouldn’t talk this way. Yet, at the same time, she felt an obligation to listen. Clark had a certain perspective on things that most people didn’t have. She supposed that was one of the reasons she liked him.

“It’s because of what’s in this room,” he said, lowering his voice, standing over her again, the windows at his back. “What’s
inside
it.” He shut his eyes briefly, and it seemed to Polly he was suddenly uneasy; he trembled slightly, and his breathing was heavy. When he opened his eyes again, he was staring, not at her, but at the spot on the floor near the windows where they had found Alice. He added, “What’s inside for now. It could escape.”

“Clark?”

He dropped his head back and looked at the ceiling, and then stared again at the spot on the floor. Polly couldn’t be sure, but it seemed he was mentally drawing a line from high above to far below. “Your aunt’s asleep beneath us,” he said finally.

“So?”

He tapped the floor with the heel of his right boot. “What’s beneath us feels solid. People always think that way. The fools! The ground can drop out from beneath you at any moment, and leave you falling forever. Nothing’s real.” He nodded toward the floor, and Polly thought she could see the stains in the wood, even though she knew they had been washed away long ago. “Drops of her blood seeped through the floor,” he said. “They escaped.”

“No.”

“Yes. Alice’s dead blood. The drops seeped through the wood and dirt, and now one of them has finally landed on your aunt’s face, on her lips.” He wiped the back of his hand across his nose and glanced down at her. “Do you know what that means?”

She was afraid she might. “She’s not going to die!”

“But she is. She’s going to smother to death on Alice’s blood.” He moved toward the door, past her. Desperate, Polly reached out and grabbed his leg.

“No!
You’re
going to smother her!”

He regarded her with calm indifference as she clung to his smooth black boot. “It has to be done. Let me go and I can do it now, and it will be over. I’ll use a soft pillow.”

Holding on to his leg, Polly tried to get up, to put weight on her foot. She screamed in agony when it gave out beneath her. She fell to her knees, her head banging against his knee. Any moment she expected him to shake her off. Yet he continued to stand above her, at ease, watching her crawl at his feet.

“You can’t do this to me,” she said, weeping. “I’ll be alone in this house. There’ll be no one to talk to. They’ll all be gone. Leave Polly. Who cares about Polly? Please don’t do it. I don’t mind taking care of her. I really don’t, I swear.”

“But she won’t let you live until she’s dead. Be-sides, she smells.” He shook his leg. “Let go, Polly, and I’ll set you free of her like I promised.”

“No!” she pleaded, tightening her grip, her tears smearing the leather hide of his pants leg. “No promises! Nothing! You don’t have to do anything for me! I can do it myself!”

She hadn’t meant to say that.

Clark began to chuckle, soft and steady. Reaching down and undoing her grasp, he helped her to her feet, setting her against a wall where she hobbled on one foot. “All right,” he said.

She stopped her crying. “All right, what?”

“All right, it’s your show.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “No.”

He nodded, smiling. “Keep your promise, Polly, or I’ll be back to keep it for you.”

Then he was gone, down the stairs and out of her sight. It seemed like a long time to her before the front door opened, but then she definitely heard him leaving; his motorcycle starting, its motor fading into the distance.

Bastard. Alice was right about him.

Polly crawled downstairs—moaning the whole way—straight to her aunt’s bedroom. With relief bordering on hysteria, she found the lady snoring peacefully, undisturbed by all the commotion, her face clean and old.

Only later did Polly discover the message from Tony Foulton on her answering machine had been replayed.

That night there was a lightning storm, and Polly slept poorly, and had a bad dream that went on until dawn. An ax was chopping somewhere above her bed, cutting holes into the ceiling, narrow splintered holes from which drops of fresh red blood dripped into her open mouth.