Quake (24 page)

    Barbara said. 'I'm all for that. Thanks.'

    Heather muttered. 'I'm still not gonna leave, but I'm gonna eat…'

    'How many beers?' Lee asked. 'Going by Earl's Quake Factor you're all old enough.'

***

    When Stanley woke up, he knew right away where he was. Behind the Benson house, stretched out on one of the pool side loungers. He'd flopped on it after climbing out of the pool. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He'd meant only to lie down for a couple of minutes and rest while the sun dried him. Obviously, though, he'd drifted off. Drifted off and sunk into a deep slumber. Now, he couldn't move. He felt as if a huge, hot weight lay across his back, holding him down, pressing him into the cushion. It felt good, though, that weight. He knew it was only hot sunlight. And the heaviness wasn't in the light, it was in him. In his skin and muscles and bones. In his mind. Gotta get up, he told himself. But he didn't move. He felt so heavy, so peaceful. Vaguely, he wondered if anybody had found Sheila. Doesn't matter, he thought. She won't get away. She'll still be there. Or somewhere. I'd better get up, though. He couldn't bring himself to move. Whatever you do, don't fall asleep again. I won't. The cushion under his face had a fresh, clean chlorine smell. He supposed it must've gotten doused by the pool water during the quake. He wished it smelled like Sheila's lounger pad of sunlight and tanning lotion, sweat and beaches and cotton candy? Cotton candy? This is Sheila's pad, he told himself. Let's just say it is. Yes. I'm on Sheila's pad. And he sees himself, as if from a distance, stretched out on the lounger behind the ruin of Sheila's house. His hands are crossed beneath his face. His back shines with sweat. The flimsy remains of his pajama pants cling to his buttocks. Now he feels the soft, moist pad underneath him. Sheila's pad. Soaked with her lotions and juices. I've gotta get up. Gotta get back to Sheila before… 'What's the big hurry?' she asks, her voice low and teasing. Stanley knew that it was only in his mind. And so were her hands. But in his mind, her hands are big and warm on his back. They press him down, massage his shoulders.

    'You aren't going anywhere,' she tells him. 'Not just yet.'

    Then she is pulling at his shorts, sliding them down and off. She climbs onto him. She lies on him, all hot, heavier than the sunlight. He feels her thighs against the backs of his legs. His rump is tickled by her soft nest of hair. Her breasts, just below his shoulderblades, feel big and slippery and springy. As she licks and sucks the side of his neck, he squirms. Stanley squirmed, imagining it. He needed to roll over. Then he imagined a hole in the pad. A hole in the pad and in the lounger directly below his groin. As big as a softball, maybe. Big enough to fit down into. With the hole there, he wouldn't be mashed and achy anymore. Roll over. The hole would let him feel all there. And then he thought how it would be to have Sheila the lounger. She squirms in on her back until her face is the hole. Then she pushes herself up with her elbows. She takes him in her mouth. But Stanley didn't have a hole in the lounger.

    He flipped over, sweat sliding and spilling off him. His eyes were shut, he squinted as sunlight glared through the thin sheaths of his eyelids. He flung a across his eyes and tried to catch his breath. His heart racing. He felt shaky all over - buzzing - as if his blood gone fizzy in his veins and arteries. Rolled over too fast, he told himself. Should've done it sooner, before things got so urgent. I'll be fine in a minute, he thought. Just gotta settle down. Lie here and relax. It would help to stop thinking too. I can have her for real when I want, so it doesn't make any sense to get all hot. That's for losers who can't get the real thing. If don't watch out, he thought, I'm gonna screw up miss the real thing. Ben found her, didn't he? What if somebody else came along? Then it'll be just too bad for somebody else. Easy come, easy go. But maybe the next person to find Sheila wouldn't be easy as Ben. If he kept on wasting time, he ran a real risk losing his chance at her.

    He knew that he had to get up. He was already feeling better - the tremors and tightness had subsided, along with the sizzling sensation in his bloodstream. But he waited a while longer. Then he sat slowly. Sweat poured off his face, streamed down his chest and belly. He felt dizzy for a moment or two, but then his head cleared. He swung his legs over the side of the lounger. His moccasins were waiting. He slipped his feet into them, leaned forward and pushed at his knees and stood up straight. Feeling a bit unsteady, he breathed deeply and didn't try to go anywhere. Never should've laid down like that, he thought. Lucky I didn't get heat prostration, or something. Who says didn't? No, he told himself. I'm fine. Maybe a little dehydrated, that's all. That's probably why I'm feeling weird. Too much sun. Sweated too much. He wondered where he could get a drink. Depends, he thought, on whether I mind a little chlorine and blood in my water. He decided that he didn't mind.

    The water at the bottom of the pool's deep end still felt chilly. He waded in until it wrapped around his thighs. Then he bent over and cupped some into his mouth. It didn't taste bad. He couldn't detect any hint of blood flavor. He drank some more. And some more. Then he squatted until the water covered him to the shoulders. He dunked his head. He glided forward, leaving his feet, floating through the cool silence. He felt wonderful as he climbed out of the pool. He felt cold. Which didn't make any sense at all. Never had. It was part of the magic of a swimming pool. The hot air cooks you till you get in. But when you climb out, it wants to freeze your butt off. The thing is, the temperature of the air hadn't changed much at all. If anything, it's hotter than before. Crazy, he thought. He stood by the edge of the pool, shivering. He wished he had a pool of his own. I'll have one put in when I rebuild, he thought. Who's to tell me I can't? Mother? 'Oh Stanley, Stanley, Stanley,' he said in a whiny mimicking her. 'We are not going to have a swimming pool. What a ridiculous idea. I don't know what gets into you sometimes. Do you think we're made of money?'

    'No, Mother darling,' he said in his own voice. 'I think you're made outa dead meat, you piece of shit.'

    Laughing, he stepped into his moccasins again. He moved toward the lounger. He wanted to lie down on it. Just this time. Just for a while. Just long enough to let the sun dry him off and take away the chill.

    'No no no no no,' he said. 'And zonk out again? no way, no way.'

    He went to where he had left his saw. He bent down and picked it up, squinting as it shone in the sunlight.

    'Excalibur,' he said, and waved it high.

    He started walking toward the Bensons' driveway. Why take the long way around? he wondered. So he changed direction and headed for the back yard across from Judy's. As he hurried along, he waved the saw and proclaimed, This my sword, Excalibur. Not twenty-two caliber, not caliber, but Ex-caliber' he laughed.

    He wished Sheila could've heard that one. I'll have to tell it to her, he thought. When he came to the redwood fence, he reached over and dropped his saw. Hitting the ground on the other side, it made a whangy sound. Stanley gave the fence a shake. It creaked and wobbled. Not climbing over that, he thought. With both hands, he grabbed one of the upright slats. He pulled, throwing his weight backward. The board came with him. The nails near its top squawled as they were torn out of the upper crossbeam. The lower set of nails came out part of the way. They bent silently as he stomped the plank flat against the ground. He ripped and smashed two more slats off the fence. Then he crouched and tore all of them free at the bottom. I might be coming back this way later on. It wouldn't be any good to leave the boards where he might step on them when he returned.Not with those nails sticking up. He made a small stack of the boards, off to one side and close to the fence. Then he returned to the opening, ducked and stepped through.

    His saw had landed on a narrow, grassy strip that ran between Judy's side of the fence and the edge of her driveway. He picked it up. He was only paces away from the spot where he'd been standing when Judy had brought the water to him. He looked at the door to her kitchen. It would only take a couple of minutes, he thought, to go in and check on her. Make sure she isn't getting loose. We've already gone over that, he reminded himself. Judy isn't worth it. No way, no how. She's not close to being in the same league as Sheila. But he wondered if he should make a quick trip into kitchen. Sheila was probably awfully hungry, by now. She would be grateful for some food. I could use a bite, myself, Stanley thought. Not to mention a drink.

    'No,' he said.

    We'll wait, he decided. We'll wait till Sheila's free, then we'll come back here together and go in and have a party in Judy's kitchen. Vodka and tonic, maybe. And sandwiches made out of salami and cheese. He hurried on, crossing Judy's back yard. At the end he placed his saw on top of the cinderblock wall. Then boosted himself up. Crouching on the ledge, he took hold of the saw by the handle. Then he slowly stood, arms out for balance. From this height, he could see down to his own garden over the top of the gate, all the way into the street in front of his house.

    Where no cars passed.

    Where no people roamed.

    He gave no more than a glance to his patio and back yard, his completely collapsed garage.

    Nobody was snooping.

    Everything looked fine.

    He gazed out into the distance toward Sheila's house. If his garage were still standing, it would block his view. But it had collapsed into rubble like a polite bystander crouching to let him see what he wanted. At the sight of Sheila's house, he felt a quick thrill. The ruins weren't aswarm with rescue workers. He saw nobody. Excellent, he thought. This is excellent.

    Somebody might be there, of course, hidden from view, maybe hunched down behind a heap of debris or a broken wall. But the situation sure looked good from where Stanley stood. What if Sheila's not there? She has to be. Somebody might're gotten her out. I've been gone for an awfully long time. She's there, he told himself. She has to be.

    The cinderblock wall, cracked in a few places by the quake but still intact, led like a narrow walk away from Stanley, along the side of his driveway, past his fallen garage to the corner where it joined the back wall. I can do it, Stanley told himself. It would be a lot easier than jumping down and cutting through his yard to the back wall, climbing over that… Quicker, too. And if he stayed up here, he wouldn't have to lose sight of Sheila's house. His mind made up, Stanley turned and started walking along the top of the wall. He gripped the saw in his left hand and held both arms out away from his sides to keep himself ballanced, and watched the block ledge just ahead of his feet. I shouldn't be doing this, he thought. I must be nuts. No. This is the best way to get to Sheila's. Long as I don't fall off. I won't fall, he told himself. This is a cinch. But what if someone's watching? The thought sent a shiver through his stomach. Here am, up here in plain sight. I shouldn't be up here, he realized. But it was a bit late to change his mind. He couldn't climb down now. A drop to the right would land him in the debris of his garage where he was sure to get hurt. To the left he would fall among Judy's rosebushes.

    He quickened his pace. They'll think I'm the Wild Man from Borneo. Yeah, he thought. But what are they gonna do anyway. Nothing, that's what. They spot me miming around and they'll figure I'm demented. Won't come near me. I've nothing to worry about. 'They're the ones better worry,' he muttered. But he felt a great surge of relief when he came to the end of the wall. He was tempted to step out into space and jump. Don't, he warned himself. It'll hurt too much. And what if I sprain my ankle?

    So he sat at the corner where the walls joined, and sat with his feet over the side. The blocks felt rough and hot against his buttocks. He tossed his saw to the ground. Then he used both hands to shove himself away from the wall. He didn't have far to drop. The landing was fairly done and he managed to stay on his feet. It was sure good to be down.

    Here below the level of the wall, he felt hidden and safe. He picked up his saw and jogged across the grass to the patio. There, he stopped to catch his breath. He gazed at Sheila's lounger. Its green pad was faded and stained. He could almost feel the heat of its fabric against his face. He knew its aromas. He knew its taste. If need to take another nap, he thought, I'll do it right there. Maybe can fuck her on it! He thought about that, pictured Sheila on the lounger underneath him, imagined the feel of her, all hot and slippery, and how the lounger would wobble as he thrust. Wobble, then smash down. It isn't strong enough to hold us, he decided. We'd probably bust the thing. Besides, we'd be out in the open. That wouldn't be any good. Somebody'd come along and try to save her. I have to take her where we won't be bothered. Judy's place for a party. Then maybe over to the pool. Stanley walked around the lounger. As he approached the remains of the house, he thought about calling out. If he called her name, Sheila might answer. Then he would know she was still here, still all right. But what if somebody other than Sheila heard him? Better to sneak in. Go in silently and keep the element of surprise. So he stepped over the broken back wall of the house and began making his way through the debris. He moved cautiously. He watched out for nails and broken glass. With each step, he lowered his feet gently, trying to make no noise. Every so often, he stopped and listened. He heard the background sounds, but nothing nearby. The carcass of Sheila's house sounded dead. What if she's dead? he wondered. Why would she be dead? She wasn't hurt, and he'd left her with plenty of water. If somebody came along and killed her… Impossible, he told himself. Absolutely. He found himself smiling as he remembered an old joke about an idiot who was caught carrying a bomb onto at airliner. The guy had carried it aboard as an act of self preservation. 'What are the odds,' he'd asked, 'of there being two bombs on the same plane?' Pretty much the same odds, Stanley thought, as two fellows like me happening to find Sheila. No way has she been murdered. Impossible. If anything, she got herself rescued while was gone. If that's what happened, he told himself, I'll find her. I'll thank her rescuer for saving me the work, and then I'll fix him with my little saw. When he spotted the hole in the debris, he whispered 'Please, please, please.' It looked the same as when he'd been here before. But he couldn't see Sheila yet. He stepped closer. The four-by-eight beam that had slanted down over the side of the tub and trapped Sheila's legs was still in place. That's a good sign. But he still couldn't see Sheila. And then he did. Yes.