“You are asking me for a date,” she said, pleased.
“Yes. And it’s been a long time since I’ve been this awkward about it.” “Why is that?”
“You, I guess.”
“I make you feel awkward?”
“You make me feel young. And when I was young, I was very awkward.” “That’s sweet.”
“I’m trying to charm you.” “And succeeding,” she said.
He had such a warm smile. “Suddenly I don’t feel so awkward anymore.” She said, “You want to start over?”
“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” “Sure. How about seven-thirty?”
“Fine. You prefer dressy or casual?” “Blue jeans.”
He fingered his starched collar and the satin lapel of his tuxedo jacket. “I’m so glad you said that.”
“I’ll give you my address.” She searched her purse for a pen.
“We can stop in here and watch the first few numbers in Magyck! and then go to the restaurant.”
“Why don’t we just go straight to the restaurant?” “You don’t want to pop in here?”
“I’ve decided to go cold turkey.” “Joel will be proud of you.”
“If I can actually do it, I’ll be proud of me.” “You’ll do it. You’ve got true grit.”
“In the middle of dinner, I might be seized by a desperate need to dash over here and act like a producer.”
“I’ll park the car in front of the restaurant door, and I’ll leave the engine running just in case.”
Tina gave her address to him, and then somehow they were talking about jazz and Benny Goodman, and then about the miserable service provided by the Las Vegas phone company, just chatting away as if they were old friends. He had a variety of interests; among other things he was a skier and a pilot, and he was full of funny stories about learning to ski and fly. He made her feel comfortable, yet at the same time he intrigued her. He projected an interesting image: a blend of male power and gentleness, aggressive sexuality and kindness.
A hit show . . . lots of royalty checks to look forward to … an infinity of new opportunities made available to her because of this first smashing success . . . and now the prospect of a new and exciting lover . . .
As she listed her blessings, Tina was astonished at how much difference one year could make in a life. From bitterness, pain, tragedy, and unrelenting sorrow, she had turned around to face a horizon lit by rising promise. At last the future looked worth living. Indeed, she couldn’t see how anything could go wrong.
9
THE SKIRTS OF THE NIGHT WERE GATHERED around the Evans house, rustling in a dry desert wind.
A neighbor’s white cat .crept across the lawn, stalking a wind-tossed scrap of paper. The cat pounced, missed its prey, stumbled, scared itself, and flashed lightning-quick into another yard.
Inside, the house was mostly silent. Now and then the refrigerator switched on, purring to itself. A loose window-pane in the living room rattled slightly whenever a strong gust of wind struck it. The heating system rumbled to life, and for a couple of minutes at a time, the blower whispered wordlessly as hot air pushed through the vents.
Shortly before midnight, Danny’s room began to grow cold. On the doorknob, on the radio casing, and on other metal objects, moisture began to condense out of the air. The temperature plunged rapidly, and the beads of water froze. Frost formed on the window. The radio clicked on.
For a few seconds the silence was split by an electronic squeal as sharp as an ax blade. Then the shrill noise abruptly stopped, and the digital display flashed with rapidly chang- ing numbers. Snippets of music and shards of voices crackled in an eerie audio-montage that echoed and reechoed off the walls of the frigid room.
No one was in the house to hear it.
The closet door opened, closed, opened. . . .
Inside the closet, shirts and jeans began to swing wildly on the pole from which they hung, and some clothes fell to the floor.
The bed shook.
The display case that held nine model airplanes rocked, banging repeatedly against the wall. One of the models was flung from its shelf, then two more, then three more, then another, until all nine lay in a pile on the floor.
On the wall to the left of the bed, a poster of the creature from the Alien movies tore down the middle.
The radio ceased scanning, stopping on an open frequency that hissed and popped with distant static. Then a voice blared from the speakers. It was a child’s voice. A boy. There were no words. Just a long, agonized scream.
The voice faded after a minute, but the bed began to bang up and down.
The closet door slammed open and shut with substantially more force than it had earlier. Other things began to move too. For almost five minutes the room seemed to have come alive.
And then it died.
Silence returned.
The air grew warm again.
The frost left the window, and outside the white cat still chased the scrap of paper.
WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 31
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