“No snowballs,” I said. “I’m warning you.”
She muttered something without turning her head and I missed it, let it go by. The snow was falling in fine little stars but I was too cold and wet to enjoy it. Once I glanced back over my shoulder at the house and though there was not a single light in a window I thought I saw the dark head and torso of someone watching me in a downstairs window — Grandma? Jomo? Bub? — but I could not be sure. Apparently the night was full of snares and sentries and I hesitated, wiping the fresh snow out of my eyes, and then I heard Miranda rattling at the wrecked car and I hurried on.
Tall weeds matted deep in the snow. Crystals as big as saucers tucked in the eaves of the rotting shed. Outline of an old wheelbarrow. And canted up slightly on one side next to the shed the smashed and abandoned body of the wrecked hot rod — orange, white, blue in the soft cold light of the snow — and in that dark and gutted and somehow echoing interior Miranda with one white naked hand on the wheel. Dense shadow of woman. Queen of the Nile.
“Hop in,” she said, and I heard her patting the mildewed seat, heard her ramming the clutch pedal in and out impatiently.
I tugged, stopped, stuck my head in, looked around — pockets of rust, flakes of rust, pockets of snow, broken glass on the floor — and slid onto the seat beside her. And the glass crackled sharply, the springs were steel traps in the seat, the gearshift lever — little white plastic skull for a knob — rose up like a whip from its socket, the dashboard was a nest of dead wires and smashed or dislocated dials. There was a cold rank acrid odor in that wrecked car as if the cut-down body had been burned out one night with a blowtorch, acrid pungent odor that only heightened the other smells of the night: rotting shed, faint sour smell of wood smoke, salt from the nearby sea, perfume— Evening in Paris—which Miranda had splashed on her wrists, her throat, her thick dark head of hair. A powdery snow was blowing against us — no glass in the windows, no windshield — and scratching on the roof of that dreadful little car, and I felt sick at last and wanted only to put my head between my knees, to cover my bare head with my arms and sleep. But I pushed the gearshift lever with the toe of my shoe instead, glanced at Miranda.
“Like it? Bub’s going to fix it up for me in the spring. It only needs a couple of new tires.”
“Your lipstick’s crooked,” I said, and sniffed, stared at her, ran my fingers along the clammy seat.
“Yours would be crooked too, for God’s sake. But you can thank Red for that.” She smiled, close to me, and the lines in her broad white face were drawn with a little sable brush and India ink and the mouth was a big black broken flower still smeared, still swollen, I knew, from the Captain’s teeth. “Need I say more?” she said, and snapped out the clutch, picked up the fuzzy end of the baby-blue cashmere scarf and rubbed it against her cheek.
“That’s all right, Miranda. I don’t care anything about your private life. Shouldn’t we be going back to the house?”
“We just got here, for God’s sake. Relax. You’re just like Don, never sit still a minute. But of course Don was love.”
Silence. Hand pulling up and down aimlessly on the steering wheel. Snow falling. Snow singing on the roof. Then a movement in her comer, sudden rolling agitation in the springs, and her tight yellow statuesque leg was closer to mine and she was reaching out, pressing the cashmere scarf against my cheek.
And quickly: “What about Cassandra?” I said. “She won’t do anything foolish?”
Another drag of the rump, leg another few inches closer, and she leaned over then — slowly, slowly — and with long moody deliberation removed the tip of the scarf from my cheek and wrapped it twice around my throat and fastened it in a single knot with one tight sudden jerk. Too vehement I thought. But tied together neck to neck. Hitched. And feeling the cashmere choking me, and seeing the head thrown back against the mildewed seat and the long leg bent at the knee and the angora sweater white and curdled all the way through — solid, not a bone to interrupt that mass, no garment to destroy the rise of the greater-than-life-size breasts — at last I felt like a sculptor in the presence of his nubile clay — to hold the twin mounts, Oh God, to cast the thighs — and quickly I flung my right hand out of the wrecked car window, heard something rip.
“Cassandra? Cassandra?” she said, showing me the deep black formless mouth, the hair on the back of the seat: “Like mother, like daughter, isn’t that about it? You and your poor little Candy Cane,” she said, and she was laughing — low mellow mannish laugh, scorn and intimacy and self-confidence — and with one foot resting on the dashboard and the other hooked to the edge of the seat she rolled up the bottom of the sweater and took the heavy canary yellow cloth in both bony hands and, tensing all her muscles, pulled down the slacks and swung herself up and away on one cold and massive hip. Away from me. Face and hands and eyes away from me. Laughing.
Icebergs. Cold white monumental buttocks. Baffling cold exposure. Classical post card from an old museum. Treachery on the Nile. Desire and disaster. Pitiless. A soft breath of snow swirling in that white saddle, settling in the dark curves and planes and along the broad rings of the spine. And laughing, shaking the car, muffling her deep low voice in her empty arms she said: “Red’s sleeping it off right now. So how about you?”
Drunk? Out of her mind with passion? Or spiteful? Who could tell? But in the rusty disreputable interior of that frozen junk heap she had mocked me with the beauty of her naked stern, had challenged, aroused, offended me with the blank wall of nudity, and I perceived a cruel motive somewhere. So I clawed at the scarf, tore loose the scarf, and supporting myself palm-down on her icy haunch for one insufferably glorious instant I gathered my weight, rammed my shoulder against the loud tinny metal of the rusted door — no handle, door stuck shut — and kicked myself free of her, kicked my way out of the car and fled. Burning. Blinded. But applauding myself for the escape.
When I reached the front of the house I realized that the snow had stopped and that the slick black hot rod under the chestnut tree was gone. When I reached Cassandra’s room, puffing through the darkness, feeling my way, I knew immediately that she was not asleep, and without pausing I dropped to my knees beside her and took her cold hand — no rings — and confessed to her at long last that Fernandez was dead. That I had found him dead at the end of my final shore patrol on Second Avenue. That I thought she should know. Pixie stirred from time to time but did not wake. Then at the doorway I stopped and glanced back at the rumpled chunky four-poster bed, the black shadow of the cradle on the warped floor, the windowpane covered with snow.
And softly: “We were wrong about him, weren’t we? Just a little? I think so, Cassandra.”
In my own room I discovered Uncle Billy’s crucifix in my pocket and pulled it out, held it in the palm of my hand and stared at it, then hung it around the neck of my white tunic on the dressmaker’s dummy. Gold was my color. Another medal for Papa Cue Ball. Someone — Miranda? Red? Jomo? Bub? even Grandma was not above suspicion — had filled the foot warmer with water, and it was frozen solid. I frowned, set it carefully outside my door — blue tit — and inched myself into the cold comfort of that poor iron bed with bars.
Sleep with a gentle thought, I remembered, and did my best.
Vile, in the Sunshine Crawling
Yes, I have always believed in gentle thoughts. Despite everything, including the long-past calumnious efforts of a few cranks in the Navy Department, I have always remained my mother’s son. And how satisfying it is that virtue — tender guardian, sweet victor, white phantom of the boxing ring, which makes me think of the days before the mutiny when Tremlow vainly attempted to give me boxing lessons every late afternoon in a space cleared among the young bronze cheering sailors on the fantail — how satisfying that virtue always wins. I have only to consider Sonny and Catalina Kate and Sister Josie and myself to know that virtue is everywhere and that we, at least, are four particles of its golden dust.