It could be a coincidence, her mind insisted feebly. It was only a Seiko, that was all I could afford. Anyone could have a watch like that. But the new voice laughed raucously, despairingly. The new voice wanted to know who she thought she was kidding. And there was more. She couldn’t see the hand under the girl’s skirt (thank God for small favors!), but she could see the arm to which it was attached.
There were two large moles on that arm, just below the elbow. They almost touched, making a shape like a figure-eight.
How often had she run her finger lovingly over those very same moles as she and Lester sat on the porch swing? How often had she kissed them lovingly as he caressed her breasts (armored in a heavy J.
C. Penney bra carefully selected for just such conflicts of love on the back porch) and panted terms of endearment and promises of unflagging loyalty in her ear?
It was Lester, all right. A watch could be put on and taken off, but moles couldn’t be… A snatch of an old disco song occurred to her: “Bad girls… toot-toot… beep-beep… “Chippie, chippie, chippie!” she hissed at the picture in a sudden vicious undertone.
How could he have gone back to her? How?
Maybe, the voice said, because she lets him do what you won’t.
Her breast rose sharply; a hissy little gasp of dismay tore over her teeth and down her throat.
But they’re in a bar! Lester doesn’tThen she realized that was very much a secondary consideration.
If Lester was seeing Judy, if he was lying about that, a lie about whether or not he drank beer wasn’t very important, was it?
Sally put the photograph aside with a shaking hand and pawed out of the envelope the folded note which accompanied it. It was on a single sheet of peach-colored stationery with a deckle edge.
Some light smell, dusty and sweet, came from it when she took it out. Sally held it to her nose and inhaled deeply.
“Chippie!” she cried in a hoarse, agonized undertone. If Judy Libby had appeared in front of her at that moment, Sally would have attacked her with her own nails, sensibly short though they were. She wished Judy were. She wished Lester were, too. It would be awhile before he played any more touch football after she got through with him. Quite awhile.
She unfolded the note. It was short, the words written in the rolling Palmer Method hand of a schoolgirl.
Darling Les, Felicia took this when we were at the Tiger the other night. She said she ought to use it to blackmail us! But she was only teasing. She gave it to me, and I am giving it to you as a souvenier of our BIG NIGHT. It was TERRIBLY NAUGHTY Of yoU to pUt your hand under my skirt like that “ight out in public,” but ’ me SO r it got HOT. Besides, you are SO STRONG. The more I looked at it the more “hot” it started to make me. If you look close, you can see my underwear! It’s a good thing Felicia wasn’t around later, when I wasn’t wearing any!!! I will see you soon. In the meantime, keep this picture “in remembrance of me.” I will be thinking of you and your BIG THING. I better stop now before I get any hotter or I’ll have to do something naughty. And please stop worrying about YOU KNOW WHO. She is two busy going steady with Jesus to worry about us.
Your Judy Sally sat behind the wheel of Lester’s Mustang for almost half an hour, reading this note again and again, her mind and her emotions in a stew of anger, jealousy, and hurt. There was also an undertone of sexual excitement in her thoughts and feelings-but this was something she would never have admitted to anyone, least of all herself.
The stupid slut doesn’t even know how to spell “too,” she thought.
Her eyes kept finding new phrases to fix upon. Most of them were the ones which had been capitalized.
But the phrase she kept returning to, the one which fed her rage most successfully, was that blasphemous perversion of the Communion rituaclass="underline" … keep this picture “in remembrance of me.”
Obscene images rose in Sally’s mind, unbidden. Lester’s mouth closing on one of Judy Libby’s nipples while she crooned: “Take, drink ye all of this, in remembrance of me.” Lester on his knees between Judy Libby’s spread legs while she told him to take, eat this in remembrance of me.
She crumpled the peach-colored sheet of paper into a ball and threw it onto the floor of the car. She sat bolt upright behind the wheel, breathing hard, her hair fuzzed out in sweaty tangles (she had been running her free hand distractedly through it as she studied the note). Then she bent, picked it up, smoothed it out, and stuffed both it and the photograph back into the envelope. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to try three times to get it in, and when she finally did, she tore the envelope halfway down the side.
“Chippie!” she cried again, and burst into tears. The tears were hot; they burned like acid. “Bitch! And you! You! Lying bastard!”
She jammed the key into the ignition. The Mustang awoke with a roar that sounded as angry as she felt. She dropped the gearshift into drive and tore out of the faculty parking lot in a cloud of blue smoke and a wailing shriek of burned rubber.
Billy Merchant, who was practicing nosies on his skateboard across the playground, looked up in surprise.
4
She was in her bedroom fifteen minutes later, digging through her underwear, looking for the splinter and not finding it. Her anger at Judy and her lying bastard of a boyfriend had been eclipsed by an overmastering terror-what if it was gone? What if it had been stolen after all?
Sally had brought the torn envelope in with her, and became aware that it was still clutched in her left hand. It was impeding her search. She threw it aside and tore her sensible cotton underwear out of her drawer in big double handfuls, throwing it everywhere. just as she felt she must scream with a combination of panic, rage, and frustration, she saw the splinter. She had pulled the drawer open so hard that it had slid all the way into the left rear corner of the drawer.
She snatched it up, and at once felt peace and serenity flood through her. She grabbed the envelope with her other hand and then held both hands in front of her, good and evil, sacred and profane, alpha and omega. Then she put the torn envelope in the drawer and tossed her underwear on top of it in helter-skelter piles.
She sat down, crossed her legs, and bowed her head over the splinter. She shut her eyes, expecting to feel the floor begin to sway gently beneath her, expecting the peace which came to her when she heard the voices of the animals, the poor dumb animals, saved in a time of wickedness by the grace of God.
Instead, she heard the voice of the man who had sold her the splinter. You really ought to take care of this, you know, Mr. Gaunt said from deep within the relic. You really ought to take care of this… this nasty business.
“Yes,” Sally Ratcliffe said. “Yes, I know.”
She sat there all afternoon in her hot maiden’s bedroom, thinking and dreaming in the dark circle which the splinter spread around her, a darkness which was like the hood of a cobra.
5
“Lookit my king, all dressed in green… iko-iko one day… he’s not a man, he’s a lovin’ machine…”
While Sally Ratcliffe was meditating in her new darkness, Polly Chalmers was sitting in a bar of brilliant sunlight by a window she had opened to let in a little of the unseasonably warm October afternoon.
She was running her Singer Dress-0-Matic and singing “lko Iko” in her clear, pleasant alto voice.