Late at Night Read online

  But it would have been a serious breach of etiquette to ask her, he knew. Older people simply did not go around asking one another about their younger spouses or lovers. It simply wasn’t done. It would have served to remind the person you asked that they were decades, generations, ahead of the one they were in love with—and that one simply did not do. He could not even imagine what his reaction might be if Gloria were to open the subject up to him.

  He had one thing to be grateful for, at least. His lover’s aunt could hardly look down on him as some kind of “dirty old man”—how he hated that term—when she herself was “robbing the cradle” —and he hated that term even more. Yes, it was too bad; he and Gloria—both embroiled in similar romantic circumstances—might have given one another loads of comfort and advice, common understanding, yet they were separated by a wall of propriety that was as real and solid as an actual battlement.

  Everson saw that the lights were off in the bedroom. He felt momentary relief—it could all be avoided for one more evening. But the relief was fast replaced by anxiety. He and Lynn had to have it out before morning, before they were again surrounded by all the others, incapable of coming to terms in private. He supposed he should have gone up earlier, excused himself, and spoken to her while she was awake. But she had been so unreasonable before dinner. Thinking back, he found he was incapable of determining just when and how it had all gone wrong. Everything had been so perfect; the trip over, showing Lynn and the others their quarters, getting dressed for cocktails. They had made love while the others were still getting ready—fast, hurried love, but no less enjoyable because of it. What had happened afterwards?

  He went over on cat’s feet to the bathroom and turned on the light switch. The light from the bathroom would give him enough illumination to see by without waking Lynn. He could tell from the slow rise and fall of her chest that she was sleeping, genuinely sleeping. He knew the rhythm of her sleep well enough now to know when she was faking.

  He sat beside her on the bed and stroked her hair. She was a pretty girl— woman, he thought, reprimanding himself—she was adamant about that and he couldn’t blame her. Women often mistook his fatherly affection for condescension. She was pretty, but not beautiful. Her face was broad, her features large. Without her makeup her skin was bad, red and oily, with open pores. She was short—about five-three—and someone might unkindly observe that her body shape was squat. Yet her personality was light and airy and gentle and humorous and warm, so many, many things that he admired.

  He tried tactfully to get her to care more about her appearance, but nothing seemed to work. She was addicted to cream-colored sweaters that seemed to fall apart while on her shoulders, long, unbecoming skirts, unflattering shades and fabrics. Her hair had two styles: long and greasy, falling in limp strands onto her shoulders; and even worse what he called the B-girl style, when she pinned it up and around her head like early Connie Francis. What made her failure to fix herself up even more appalling was that she was not really an unattractive person, not like that poor Betty Sanders downstairs, sitting like a bump on a log on the ottoman.

  Yet somewhere along the way he had ceased to care about her appearance. She was a refreshing change from the women he had known before— the primping and preening heiresses, the bubble-headed debutantes, the oh-so-serious professional women who could match him step for step in the boardroom as well as the bedroom. While he knew it certainly wasn’t true of most lady executives, the ones he’d met were cold and defensive and un-feminine.

  Lynn didn’t seem to be all that interested in his money. Maybe that was the problem. He hadn’t realized it at first, but she had another kind of interest, and it was one he cared for not at all.

  And then he remembered.

  That was what the fight had been about. She had made a remark, some remark, about the island, how it fit in with certain things, certain interests she had, and he had made the mistake of making fun of her. And then it had all begun— the accusals, the recriminations, the yelling and crying. Luckily, he had been able to quiet her down by reminding her of her responsibility to her guests, how if she kept on with her childish tirade the whole house would hear her and everyone would know her business. She had an abject horror of losing her privacy, a fear of public humiliation. But she had fumed about it, and mulled it over, and finally left the dinner table to go up and stew. Just as well. She might have started carrying on at the dinner table. Oh, she wouldn’t have gone so far as to break down or tell the others her business, but the sniping would have started, the dirty looks, sullen stares, gratuitous rejoinders. Yes, it was better that she had gone upstairs.

  Everson undressed in the near-darkness, watching her chest rise and fall, fall and rise.

  Oh Lynn, he thought, I could put up with everything else. The age difference. Your appearance. I’m just a tired old man who needs the life blood you have to offer in your strange and unusual way, the warmth and companionship you give to me in my declining and insecure years.

  But Lynn, he thought, shutting off the bathroom light and making his way to bed, I’m not sure I can put up with your fantasies.

  As Everson maneuvered his weary old bones onto the mattress, a chilling thought came to him out of nowhere: I am not going to leave this island. It was so strange and so sudden and so clear and direct that it left him frightened and bewildered.

  Would he die on Lammerty Island, never see his home again?

  He shut his eyes but sleep came very slowly.

  Chapter 11

  Out back, inside a three-sided, weather-beaten shack that had once been some kind of storage place, Hans and Eric were playing cards. They had put the boxes of equipment in there—cables, extra lightbulbs, screws, nuts and bolts, some of which had been bought out on the first trip over— and it was on two of those boxes that they sat, and on a third that the cards were spread out between them. It was a matter of constant irritation to Eric that Hans would never play for money—even with poker he played only for chips —but Hans knew all about Eric’s money troubles due to gambling, and was determined not to go that route himself, nor to encourage Eric in any way.

  Eric flicked down a card and read it aloud. “Rummy,” he said in his trembling nasal twang. “Beat you again.”

  Hans threw down his cards with a muttered oath. “It’s not my night,” he said. ”Awww, I’m tired anyway.”

  “Wonder what everybody’s doin‘ in there,” Eric said. “Think they’re havin‘ an orgy?” Eric knew he scandalized his co-worker with such talk, but Hans had learned by now to pay Eric no mind when he made such remarks.

  “Those two who went down the beach,” the swede said, “they haven’t come back yet.”

  “Don’t worry. They ain’t lost. They’re probably fuckin’ in the bushes. They’ll come back with their clothes on backwards.”

  Hans snorted and shook his head. “I just hope we don’t have to go look for them. I’m tired. I was up at four this morning, getting things ready.”

  “I woulda helped ya, buddy, but I had a rough night.”

  Hans did not try to keep the sour look off his face. “I know all about your rough nights.” He allowed himself a smile. “They’ll be the death of you yet.”

  Eric uttered his most popular phrase. “But what a way to go, eh, sport?”

  “I don’t like this place,” Hans said suddenly, looking around at the sea, over towards the ocean.

  “I don’t like it either, but I seen worse.” Eric started sliding the collected deck of cards into the little cardboard box it came in. “I mean, it’s not too exciting. But in the daylight, it’ll be real pretty. Maybe if it’s warm enough we can go for a swim. Hey, wouldja like that, Hans old buddy? Huh? We can get to see that TV star, that Cynthia what’s-her-name, in a bikini. Would you like that, sport?”

  “She’s too rich for my blood,” Hans replied. Eric laughed.

  “Imagine owning an island,” Eric said, picking at his teeth with his fingernails, spitting on the ground.
“Man, what a useless piece of property, eh? Out in the middle of nowhere. The boats don’t even go by here no more. Think it’s really got ghosts, Hans? Do you?” He chuckled. “You believe in all that shit, don’t ya?”

  Hans got up to his feet, weary, aching for bed. “I don’t know what I believe any more. I believe I want some sleep.”

  “Sleep. What you want is to catch another look at Emily runnin‘ round in her birthday suit. Wish I knew what the hell that was all about* Weird, man.”

  Hans did not disagree. “Young girls—” He drew circles in the air around his head. “Sometimes.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Eric snorted. “Do you think she really saw sumpin‘. Or was she havin‘—what do they call it—hallucinations?”

  “Who knows?” Hans said. “Maybe being on this island, hearing all those stories. It gave her nightmares.”

  “Shit. She wasn’t sleepin‘. She was takin’ a shower, man.” He started giggling, laughing at some unspoken joke. “Ah ha! I know what it was, you old devil. Bet you snuck up on her while she was in the shower for a look-see.” Hans held up his hands, wanting no part of Eric’s obscene suggestion. “Yeah, you snuck up on her, like that guy in that movie—what’s the name of it—when the girl gets chopped in the shower?”

  Hans didn’t go to the movies. “I heard screaming. I was in my room. Margaret called me. I rushed out and saw her struggling with Emily. I tried to help. That was all there was.” That was that. Hans started to walk towards the house. “Are you coming? We must be up early.”

  “Naw. I want to have a smoke first. I like it out here.”

  “Okay. See you in the morning.”

  “G’night.”

  Eric lit a cigarette, and watched Hans go into the side entrance to the kitchen. There was a chilly breeze in the air, and the leaves on the trees were swaying delicately, and a pleasant island fragrance came in from the sea. Eric wondered where those two people were, the couple that had gone for a walk. Well, it wasn’t his problem. Some of the others were still up. He could see the lights around the corner from the living room, heard Anton’s deep voice now and then, and a kind of high-pitched giggle—the little fat one, probably. He supposed when those other two didn’t come back someone would wake him up out of a sound sleep and expect him to find the bodies. Shit. Oh well, it was too early for bed, he wasn’t that tired —was restless, in fact—so he might as well stay out here awhile longer.

  Only maybe all those stories were working on his nerves, too. Maybe he was too—suggestive-like that silly girl who “saw something” and ran about screaming in the nude. But God damn it, out here alone in the dark it was as if the forest were closing in on him, as if the shadows held secrets and the tree branches were reaching fingers. Everything was so—silent and hushed and sinister. In fact, he was giving himself the creeps.

  Five minutes later, Eric put out his cigarette and went to bed.

  Chapter 12

  Up in the room she was sharing with Andrea, Cynthia stood before the mirror sipping a vodka tonic and practicing provocative poses. She always did that when she got drunk, or high, or whatever it was she was. An uncommonly attractive woman, she was nonetheless unsure of her looks and, as the soaps’ best “bad” girl, wanted to make sure she gave them all their money’s worth and stayed up high in the ratings—both the Neilsens and the more personal ones.

  Damn that Gloria for ruining her fun! The old cow! Cynthia and Jerry had been talking about movies and TV shows and hitting it off just swell until the old bag announced that she was feeling a little giddy and wanted to go to bed, and practically ordered Jerry to escort her to their room. She had just summoned him from the bottom of the stairs as if he were a little boy, impatient because he was taking too long saying good night to the others. She must be rich, the witch. Why else would Jerry put up with her?

  Andrea had already snagged the only other good-looking man on the island—moon-lit strolls indeed! Mr. Thesinger was tall, mustachioed, and not at all bad to look at, although not quite the adonis Jerry was.

  She closed her eyes, moved her body sinuously, and imagined Gloria’s kept boy making love to her. She felt those muscular, suntanned arms wrapping around her, felt herself enveloped in his six-foot body, his handsome face nuzzling her neck. She was a sucker for the blond beachboy type and always had been, and Jerry certainly fit the mold. Perfect rows of white teeth. Deepset blue eyes. A boyish face with even features, cleft chin, short-cropped hair he wore in a kind of old-fashioned fifties style. Yes, imagining herself in his arms was enough to drive her to distraction.

  Then she imagined Jerry in Gloria’s arms and it was enough to drive her to drink.

  She gulped down the rest of her vodka tonic, wondering if she should venture downstairs for another. She would have done so in an instant if she’d been sure that the living room was deserted, but she hadn’t heard anyone else come upstairs since she had announced her “retirement.” She’d left her wrist watch home. What was it, all of eight o’clock? Sickening.

  No, she was not in the mood for Anton’s wry cynicism, nor could she deal with it if he attempted to make a pass at her. She didn’t know Betty Sanders .very well, and didn’t particularly want to know her better. She’d been a wallflower in college and would be a wallflower until the day she died if her bland behavior this evening and on the trip over was any indication. What did Lynn see in her? Lynn had mentioned that they’d shared common interests, but she couldn’t imagine what those interests might be. What was Lynn’s problem anyway? It wasn’t like her to retreat to her room when there was a party going on. Some party.

  Cynthia felt a little chilly, and decided to change into a nightgown and get underneath the covers. Wouldn’t it be funny, she thought, if she were to dash upstairs in her sexiest nightie and knock on Glo—she liked to be called “Glo,” the old child-stealer—and Jerry’s door and ask if Jerry could come out to play. She giggled. He wanted her, she knew it. It was in his eyes, on his lips, everywhere. And Lord—did she want him. She knew her agent would have warned her about getting on Gloria Bordette’s bad side, but hell, everyone knew the old woman was on her way out. It wasn’t as if she was the only game in town, after all. These days gossip columnists were a dime a dozen, and Gloria Bordette was not one of the biggest. Not any more. Rumor had it she was going to be dropped when her contract ran out with The Daily Journal.

  Cynthia suddenly felt a strange, almost chilling stab of compassion for the other woman. Now where did that come from? she wondered. Cynthia had worked too hard to worry about the rise and fall of other people’s fortunes. But digging into the dresser for her nightie she again felt that uncanny jab of sympathy—no, empathy—for Gloria, a woman at the end of her rope, looks-wise, career-wise, love-wise probably. Empathy, that was it. Cynthia did not feel sorry for Gloria so much as she worried about her own future, and whatever disappointment it might hold. Yes, she was smart enough to recognize her “sympathy” for what it had really been. Once “Glo” had been young and pretty, at the top of the heap. What had gone wrong? Time had caught up with her, she thought sullenly, that was all.

  Sometimes, way down deep in the back of her mind, Cynthia knew that she thought more about herself than about everyone else combined, and it bothered her, worried her, made her afraid that she was some kind of monster—but she was more afraid to be any other way. That’s when they got you, she knew. And they always got you if you weren’t careful.

  Snuggled up in bed, she wondered why her mind had taken such a morose turn. She was cold. She was horny. She wanted another drink. Where was Andrea? Cynthia was lonely, too. Wanted someone to talk at. She knew conversations with Cynthia Marcovicci were usually one-sided, but she also knew that Cynthia Marcovicci was interesting.

  Screw Glo and her old lady problems, Cynthia told herself. Those kind of problems are a long way off for you. Maybe you’ll get lucky and die in your forties, anyway. It’s this place, it’s this awful island that’s doing it to you, making you feel grim a
nd lonely and depressed. If she were back home in the city now. If she were back home in the city …

  She’d be sitting in bed feeling lonely, an open script lying on her lap, a drink on the night table beside her.

  She shook her head and made the bad thought go away.

  Damn you, Andrea, she thought. Now you’ve got me doing it. You and all your weird talk. You’ve gone and made me think I’m picking up vibrations, all the blood and tears and violence of this horrible island. She didn’t know why, but she was convinced of it: Something bad was going to happen.

  Chapter 13

  The moon was very bright and it painted a bold white stripe across the water as Ernie and Andrea walked along the beach. The air was chilly, but the island’s humidity kept them from feeling too cold. Andrea had worn a sweater. Ernie thought of rolling down his sleeves, but never got around to it. He was too busy watching the sea breeze flowing through Andrea’s hair, watching for her infrequent smile to flash in his direction, hoping that he had her approval. On one side there was the water; on the other, the woods. Both seemed quite impenetrable. They had not bothered to turn on the flashlight they had brought as there was no need for it.

  They were talking about inconsequential things —the threat of rain, the spooky blackness of the forest, the city of Boston where Andrea lived— one of Ernie’s favorite places—when Andrea suddenly fell silent. Ernie tried his best to keep up a one-sided conversation, chattering about his apartment in New York, his writing, the article assignment he’d been given on Lammerty Island. But he was running out of things to say. Finally he looked down at Andrea and asked, “Is something the matter?”