Floater Page 6

  Stephanie was idling around in the living room where she could watch him open the letter without seeming to watch. Roman took it back to the bedroom.

  He sat on the bed and tore open the envelope.

  Dear Roman,

  Remember the Wolfpack? How could you forget! On Saturday, July 11, the Fabulous Class of ’67 will hold its 20th reunion at the Wolf River Inn. Be There or Be Square.

  He read and reread the short message. Reunion? Why in the name of God would he want to go back to that miserable town for a reunion? Any good memories of his days as a high school hero had died in that terrible senior year.

  A couple of duty trips back to Wolf River to check on his old man was as much of the town as he could stand. After an hour or so of “How’ve you been?” they had nothing to say to each other. Roman would pass the old man some money and make some excuse to get the hell out of town.

  Now they wanted him to go back for a high school reunion? Not fucking likely.

  “Anything important?”

  Stephanie was in the doorway again, watching him. Always watching, reproaching him with those sad, droopy eyes.

  “No,” he said. “I think I’ll go into the store after all.” He crumpled the letter, jammed it into a pocket of his jeans, and went to the closet for his waterproof wind-breaker. He left the house without saying good-bye. The rain was cold on his bare head. Colder than usual.

  ALEC

  It was past eight o’clock when Alec McDowell walked up 55th Street past Eighth Avenue to his apartment building. The hooker on the corner of Eighth who used the pay phone there as an office leaned out as he passed.

  “Hi, honey. You’re getting home late. Need a massage?”

  “Not tonight, Georgia, I’m too tired.”

  “I could wake you up.”

  “I’ll bet you could, but I’ve got to work.”

  “Hell, ain’t it,” she said, and eased back inside her booth.

  Not to Alec, it wasn’t. Work was the one really meaningful thing in his life. He had no hobbies, no relatives closer than cousins, no friends to speak of, no sex life other than an occasional quick coupling with Georgia or someone like her.

  The work he did might not rank in importance with curing cancer or clearing the slums, but it was all he had, and it kept him from crumbling into dust.

  His mind tonight was filled with his current project — electing Bo Walton, an unqualified clod, to a position filled currently by Anton Scolari, a well-qualified crook. Alec had spent the afternoon and early evening talking to his client.

  The talking was done at Walton’s midtown club. Since the unsettling experience with the cleaning woman, Alec had avoided his own office at night. He came away from the meeting convinced that his client had the IQ of a radish. Luckily, elections were seldom decided on the basis of the candidates’ intelligence. Alec had got hold of something much more useful — a juicy little scandal concerning Scolari. The public will forgive a certain amount of thievery in public office, but woe to the candidate who deviates from the sexual norm.

  At the entrance to his building he glanced around automatically to make sure no one was following him, then he let himself into the foyer. There he keyed open the mailbox and gathered up the contents. Without bothering to look at the mail he headed for the elevator.

  His studio apartment on the fourth floor was tidy, as he had left it. Alec always tensed as he opened the door, wondering if a burglar had rampaged through his rooms, stealing whatever he could carry and destroying the rest. Or worse, the burglar might still be there.

  Nothing frightened Alec more than physical confrontation. He could hold his own in a battle of insults. Words were his business; talking was his forte. But the threat of violence to his person jellied his knees. He had engaged in just one fight in his life. As a high school sophomore he had made the mistake of teasing a classmate about his flagrant acne. The classmate punched Alec just once in the nose, and the fight was over. Soon after that Alec made it his business to become Roman Dixon’s friend — a situation that made it unnecessary for him to fight again.

  Since there was, on this occasion, no burglar or other threatening presence, Alec snapped on a light and eased his narrow buttocks into a chair. He sorted systematically through the mail, placing the bills in one neat pile, magazines in another, newsletters next to magazines, junk mail in the basket, letters … a letter?

  Wolf River? What the hell? Nobody in that town would write to him, even if they remembered him, which was doubtful. His parents were dead and buried. Had been for a good many years. There was no one else.

  Carefully he slit the envelope and read the message inside.

  Dear Alec,

  Remember the Wolfpack? How could you forget! On Saturday, July 11, the Fabulous Class of ’67 will hold its 20th reunion at the Wolf River Inn. Be There or Be Square.

  A sick joke? Who wanted to be reminded of that horrible year? Who would renew those disastrous friendships? Not he. Not Alec McDowell. More reason than most to stay away had Alec McDowell.

  He tore the letter and its envelope into neat strips and let them flutter into the wastebasket. He brewed a pot of strong coffee and tried to concentrate on a campaign for his dull-witted client, but a dark part of his mind kept drifting back to Wolf River.

  THE FLOATER

  Mischief thou art afoot.

  The effort expended in preparing the letters of invitation was well repaid in the reactions of the three recipients. Let them squirm a little and wonder. Let them start to worry even as they destroyed the letters. Let them enjoy the last few days before the start of the pain.

  If the Floater had had a voice, he would have laughed.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wolf River, October 1966

  FRAZIER

  One of the pleasures for the people who lived on lower Elm Street was the piano playing of Orva Nunley. Even the time she spent practicing, they said, was a delight. And when in the early evening Orva sat down to play for her small family, the neighbors opened their windows to share in the music.

  On this October night Orva Nunley gave her full concentration to the sheet music before her as she played a Mozart sonata. It was a difficult piece, and she had worked some months at perfecting it. Orva was a tall, graceful woman, and her hands moved over the keys with a powerful authority.

  Seated in the worn wingback chair that he refused to let his wife throw out, Ellis Nunley kept time to the sonata with the stem of his pipe as he read one of the little literary magazines he subscribed to. From time to time he would glance up at Orva and nod his approval.

  Their son, Frazier, sat slumped on the couch, holding on to a polite listening attitude while his mother played. He was appreciative of her talent, and he did enjoy good music, but he had heard this piece many times, and just now his mind wanted to be elsewhere. He unwrapped an Almond Joy as quietly as he could and took a bite, letting his thoughts wander.

  The school year was more than a month old, and school activities were well under way. Old friendships had been renewed, new ones formed. Couples got together, broke up, reunited. The football team was off to a good start, winning four of its first five games. Roman Dixon was being talked about for All-State. The Halloween Ball at the Hartmans’ cabin on the lake was a week away, and everyone was busy planning costumes.

  Well, not everyone. Not Frazier Nunley.

  For Frazier Nunley it was the same old depressing story. As always, he was not a part of the action. His presence was acknowledged in a general way, but nobody ever thought to invite him anywhere. He was a snag in the stream of high school life, stuck helplessly in place while the fun flowed all around him.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to join in, or that he didn’t try. He made it a point to learn the way the kids were talking and to do his best to emulate it. He tried calling everybody “man,” said “like” a lot, and used expressions like “far out” and “bitchin’” and “outasight.”

  He practiced walking around with
an open, eager expression that would tell people he wanted to be friends. None of it worked for Frazier. It only made people back off further. Once he caught sight of himself in a mirror and was appalled at the sappy look he had been affecting. He quickly reverted to his normal vocabulary and the scholarly, distracted look that invited no one to come near him.

  He tried going to the Friday night football games even though it wasn’t much fun all by himself. He cheered wildly at all the right times, and did all the yells right along with the rest of the kids. But when the Wolves scored and everyone hugged and clapped each other on the back, Frazier remained alone, unhugged and unclapped.

  After the game was worse. No one asked him along to the Dairy Queen or to Shakey’s for pizza. He would go alone, buy himself a Coke, and hang around while the kids talked about what they were going to wear to the Halloween Ball. Nobody asked for Frazier’s ideas on costumes, and nobody came close to inviting him.

  The Halloween Ball was supposed to be a school-sponsored event, but in truth it was run by the Wolfpack, a tightly structured group of the most popular kids. It was made up of the jocks, the rich kids, the attractive ones, and a few connivers like Alec McDowell, who managed to be included in everything without possessing any special attributes. To belong to the Wolfpack was to be in. To be excluded made you a non-person ….

  Frazier’s mother finished the Mozart piece and sat back. She frowned at the sheet music in front of her.

  “That was lovely, dear,” said Ellis, using a finger to keep his place in the magazine.

  “It’s the best I’ve heard you play it,” said Frazier.

  “I don’t know,” Orva said. “The middle part isn’t quite right. It needs work.”

  “You’re a perfectionist, Mother,” Frazier said. He swallowed a big chunk of the candy bar and stood up, hoping she wouldn’t ask them to listen to it again.

  “One does not play Mozart carelessly,” she said. “But that’s enough for now. Don’t spoil your appetite, Frazier. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

  “I won’t,” Frazier said, stuffing the rest of the Almond Joy into his mouth. He knew he should pay some attention to his diet for the sake of his complexion and his shapeless body, but the discipline a diet would require discouraged him. It didn’t seem fair. Both his parents ate exactly what they wanted to, and his father hadn’t an ounce of fat, while his mother’s graceful form had remained unchanged since girlhood.

  Frazier climbed the stairs to his room and sat gloomily at his desk. It was a room of books, chemical equipment, mounted biology specimens. Maps and charts covered the walls. Much of the floor was taken up by an eviscerated television set that he was repairing.

  Frazier licked the chocolate off his fingers and then poked through the untidy drawers of the desk. He found a bag of salted Planter’s peanuts and carried them to the bed. There he lay back and ate the nuts, popping them into his mouth and carefully chewing one at a time to make them last longer.

  When the cellophane bag was empty, Frazier folded it neatly and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about school and the Halloween Ball and how lonely he was.

  And about Lindy Grant.

  If only he could somehow make her notice him. Recognize the romantic soul that inhabited the lumpish body. What if she should be in the library sometime, frantically searching for a reference book for one of her classes. He could come along and she might ask him for help and then …

  Jesus H. Christ, you’re sounding like Charlie Brown and his little redheaded girl!

  Angrily Frazier put the fantasy out of his mind. He breathed deeply and rhythmically, willing his mind to relax. Gradually, without his consciously summoning it, a pinpoint of soft blue light appeared directly over his forehead. As he began to focus, the dot of blue irised open, inviting him through, out of his fleshy prison. Frazier let his body go limp, and his spirit rose gently from the bed and out through the psychic window.

  • • •

  Floating free, he looked down on Elm Street through the branches of the tall old shade trees. Below in the dark houses lights glowed orange and inviting in the front windows. A wind sent the dry leaves skittering along the pavement. Frazier couldn’t feel the wind; there was no feeling in this state, but he could sense it.

  He let his mind glide up the hill, between the rooftops and the pinprick stars in the black velvet sky. He didn’t think about where he was going, just let himself drift. When he eased back down among the sheltering trees and saw where he was, it came as no surprise.

  It was Lindy Grant’s house. Directly in front of him was a lighted window on the second floor. Her window. Frazier had been here many times. Sometimes in the flesh, down on the street, riding his bike past the house in feigned nonchalance. There was always the chance Lindy might come out just as he was riding by, see how easily he handled the machine, and … But she never did.

  More recently, disembodied and free, he had gazed from up here into her room, savoring at close range the things Lindy touched and wore and lived with. The pleasure he felt in even such intangible contact was enough to make him ache.

  He came to know Lindy’s bedroom as well as he knew his own. There was her dressing table with its oversize mirror and the photos stuck in the frame. Her chest of drawers that held a Raggedy Ann doll, a carnival kewpie doll, the framed photograph of a woman, and a statuette of a shepherdess. There was her record player, there the posters tacked to her wall of the Beatles and the Monkees.

  And over there, the shrine: her bed — all frilly in pink and white; and propped on the pillow, a stuffed panda. Lucky panda. Frazier could imagine the sweet smell of her body still clinging to the sheets as she left the warm bed in the morning.

  Often before, he had devoured the bedroom with his imagination. He could have drawn a plan of its contents blindfolded. What happened next would change his life.

  Lindy came into the bedroom.

  LINDY

  She closed the door and hugged the big box to her. She couldn’t believe Daddy had actually gone all the way to Milwaukee just to buy this for her. Here she had been planning to wear some dumb homemade costume to the Halloween Ball and he had gone and found this simply marvelous outfit.

  She laid the box down on the bedspread, set the top aside, and unwrapped the tissue paper. Inside was the beautiful, velvety, black cat costume with glittery sequined stripes. In a way it was Daddy’s admission that she was growing up. No more clown or Dutch Girl or corny witch costumes for her.

  Judge Grant had not thoroughly approved of Wonder Woman last year, but went along with it when Lindy promised to deemphasize the boobs. This year she would absolutely be the sexiest thing at the party.

  Lindy could hardly wait to try it on. When Daddy gave it to her after dinner she had taken a quick look, squealed with delight, hugged him, and rushed up here to see how she would look wearing it.

  She shucked the bulky knit sweater over her head and tossed it aside. The bra was next. Three hooks on the back and it was free. Lindy let the brassiere fall forward over her shoulders and stood for a moment enjoying the freedom of her unrestrained breasts. Some of the girls were starting to go braless, and Lindy thought it was a neat idea, but Daddy wasn’t ready for that yet.

  She admired herself in the mirror. Her breasts were high and beautifully rounded. Lindy would have liked them to be a bit larger, but that could still come. She lifted them gently in her two hands, playing over the nipples with her forefingers. The pleasant sensation tingled throughout her body, settling in her crotch.

  She undid the plaid skirt and let it fall down over her smooth hips and long firm legs. She stepped out of the skirt and strolled back and forth in front of the dressing-table mirror.

  Damn good body, she told herself. No wonder Roman Dixon and God knew how many other guys were drooling to get their hands on it. The blue nylon bikini panties barely covered her pubic mound in front, and revealed an expanse of downy curved buttocks behind.


  Feeling sexy and good, and purposely delaying the excitement of trying on the cat costume, Lindy practiced a sensual walk, rolling her hips, jutting her breasts. She licked her lips and, with her eyes half-closed, blew an open-mouth Marilyn Monroe kiss toward her mirror. The result was less erotic than she had hoped for.

  Well, she wasn’t really the Marilyn Monroe type. Leave that to Merilee. Lindy saw herself as more a younger Elizabeth Taylor. She had the black hair/blue eyes combination, if not quite the cup size.

  She slid her hands inside the elastic band of the panties and touched herself. She was moist and ready. Slowly, sensuously, she rolled the strip of blue nylon down over the silky triangle of black hair and slid the panties on down her legs and off. Tossing them on top of the discarded skirt, she stood again before the mirror, petting the soft pubic hair. A finger slipped between the lips of her vagina and touched the secret place.

  A shiver went through her, and Lindy was tempted to bring herself to a climax, but she resisted. Reluctantly, she drew her hand away, watching herself in the mirror. Then she returned her attention to the cat costume.

  It was a one-piece outfit of elasticized fabric that zipped up the back. There were black vinyl gloves with soft make-believe claws, and her own black boots would go perfectly. A silky domino mask fit over her eyes without hiding her face, and a hood was topped with velvety black cat ears. There was a stiffly curved detachable tail she would wear into the party for the effect, then remove when the dancing started.

  When she had put on the entire costume, except the tail and mask, Lindy stepped in front of the mirror, making her movements sinuous and catlike. The effect was startling. She blushed, aroused by the way she looked. She was going to knock them dead, no doubt about it.