Black Water Read Free Page B

been
able to see distinctly, nor had The Senator, though between them there was the
vague impression—

    —at
the same time The Senator, in high spirits, was whistling happily through his
teeth, big perfect capped white teeth, saying, sighing, with sentimental
pleasure, "God! that really takes me
back!"—as, on the radio, out of speakers in the backseat of the car though
somewhat muffled by the roar of the air conditioner which The Senator had
turned on full blast as soon as he'd turned the keys in the ignition, there
came a plaintive adenoidal instrumental version of a song not immediately
familiar to Kelly Kelleher.
    Not reproachfully so much as teasingly
The Senator said, with a nudge of Kelly's arm, "Don't suppose you even
know it, eh?"
    Kelly listened. She would have liked to
turn the frantic air conditioner down a notch but hesitated, for this was The
Senator's car after all, and she his passenger. One thing Artie Kelleher did
not appreciate was a passenger fiddling with his dashboard as he drove.
    Cautiously Kelly Kelleher said,
"Yes, I think I do. Except I can't remember the
title."
    "An old Beatles
song—'All the Lonely People.'"
    "Oh,"
said Kelly, nodding happily, "—yes."
    Except
this version had no words, this was New Age music. Synthesizers,
echo chambers. Music like toothpaste squeezed very slowly from a tube.
    "But
I bet you're not a Beatles person, eh?" The Senator said, in that same teasing
voice, "—too young," not a query so much as a statement, as, Kelly
had noticed, The Senator was in the habit of making queries that were in fact
statements, his mind shifting to the next subject, as, indeed, a new subject
presented itself now, "Here's our turn!" braking the Toyota and
turning the wheel sharply without having had time to signal so, close behind
them, an angered motorist sounded his horn, but The Senator took no heed: not
out of arrogance or hauteur but, simply, because he took no heed.
     
    The
badly rutted sandy road back into the marshes was known locally as Old Ferry
Road though there was no longer any sign to designate it—there had been no sign
for years.
    Strictly
speaking, The Senator was not lost at the time of the accident: he was headed
in the right direction for Brockden's Landing, though, unknowingly, he had
taken a road never used any longer since a new, paved Ferry Road existed, and
the turn for this road was three-quarters of a mile beyond the turn for the
old.
    At
about the time he'd finished his drink, and Kelly Kelleher gave him the one
she'd been carrying for him: for the road.
     
    They
were new acquaintances, virtual strangers. Yet, what immediate rapport!
    You
know how it is, basking in the glow of a sudden recognition, his eyes, your
eyes, an ease like slipping into warm water, there's the flawlessly beautiful
woman who lies languorously sprawled as in a bed, long wavy red hair rippling
out sensuously about her, perfect skin, heartbreak skin, lovely red mouth and a
gown of some sumptuous gold lame material clinging to breasts, belly, pubic
area subtly defined by shimmering folds in the cloth, and The Lover stands
erect and poised above her gazing down upon her his handsome darkish face not
fully in focus, as the woman gazes up at him not required to smile in
invitation, for she herself is the invitation, naked beneath the gold
lame gown, naked lifting her slender hips so subtly toward him, just the hint
of it really, just the dream-suggestion of it really, otherwise the
advertisement would be vulgar really, the perfume in its glittering bottle is
OPIUM the perfume is OPIUM is OPIUM the parfum is OPIUM it will drive you mad it will drive him mad it will make addicts of
you it is for sale in these stores...
     
    * * *
     
    And,
on their hike through the dunes, the wind whipping Kelly's hair, the gulls'
wings flashing white above them, the beat beat beat of the surf like a pulsing in the loins, how assured
his fingers gripping her bare shoulders, how shy yet eager her