Stone Mattress: Nine Tales(56)
Violet returned from lunch and – a deft touch here, thought Jack – was trying on her wedding dress with the aid of a pudgy, sycophantic, comic-relief dressmaker when red-faced Alf stormed in, hurled wild accusations, and began flinging underpants out of Violet’s bureau drawers. Had he gone mad? No! For look – here was the torrid letter, on Violet’s own notepaper, in Violet’s own handwriting!
Weeping touchingly, Violet – towards whom the film audiences were, by now, feeling sympathetic – protested that she had never, ever written such a thing, nor had she seen Roland for – well, for a very long time. Then she told the story of the night before, and the frightening billet-doux she herself had discovered on her pillow.
It was clear now that the two of them were the victims of a vile hoax, perpetrated no doubt by that scoundrel and jealous rat, Roland, who was attempting to break them up so he could have Violet for himself. Alf vowed he would get to the bottom of this: he would confront Roland and make him confess, and the sooner the better.
Violet pleaded with him not to do anything rash, which, however, only made Alf distrust her. Why was she trying to defend Roland from his righteous fury? If she was not telling the truth, he’d twist that beautiful neck of hers, he growled, and anyway, where was that note she’d claimed was on her pillow? Was she lying? He took tearful Violet by the throat and kissed her viciously, then threw her roughly onto the bed. By now, both reader and Violet were beginning to fear that Alf was unbalanced. The scarlet-winged Angel of Rape hovered in the air, but Alf satisfied himself with some cursing and with the flinging of his latest bouquet of roses onto the floor, where the vase shattered in a manner that gave both the Jungians and the Freudians much food for thought later.
No sooner had Alf stormed out than Violet found another note on the dressing table where no note had been just moments before: You shall belong to no one but me. Death cannot part us. Watch your neck. Eternally yours, William.
Violet’s mouth opened and closed like that of a beached grouper. She was beyond screaming. Whoever was writing these notes was right in the house with her now! And she was all alone, the dressmaker having departed. It was too horrible!
The more horrible it became, the faster Jack wrote. He mainlined instant coffee, gobbled packaged peanuts, and snatched only a few hours of sleep per night. Irena, fascinated by his manic energy, brought him plates of noodle casserole in aid of his creative efforts. She even went so far as to do his laundry for him, tidy up his room, and change his sheets.
It was shortly after the change of sheets that Jack succeeded in wrestling her into bed. Or did she succeed in wrestling him into bed? He’s never been sure. In any case his bed was where they’d ended up, and he didn’t much care how they’d got there.
He’d looked forward to such an event for a long time, he’d fantasized about it, he’d strategized; but now that the opportunity had come he was rapid in the execution and inattentive in the aftermath: he’d neglected to murmur any terms of endearment, and he’d zonked off to sleep almost immediately. He admits that wasn’t too suave. But there were reasons: he was young, he was overtired, he had a lot on his mind. His energies were needed elsewhere, because he was almost up to the dénouement in The Dead Hand Loves You.
Alf was about to batter Roland to a pulp in an insane rage. Then, covered with blood, he would stagger off to his Alfa Romeo, where the Hand was lurking in the custom leather upholstery and would attempt to throttle him from behind. This would cause Alf to lose control of the car and crash it into a viaduct, incinerating him in the process. The Hand, though badly singed, would crawl out of the wreckage and limp over to Violet’s house.
The unfortunate girl would just have been informed by the police about the murder of Roland and also the fatal accident; she’d be emotional rubble. The doctor would prescribe a sedative, and Violet would be drifting into an irresistible sleep when she would see, blistered, scarred, and charred to a crisp, the unstoppable Hand, dragging itself painfully but relentlessly towards her across the pillow …
“What are you writing about?” said Irena from Jack’s own pillow, or one of them. He now had two, the second having been supplied by Irena herself. Her visits to his attic cubbyhole were becoming a habit. Sometimes she brought cocoa, and more and more frequently she stayed overnight, though her rump was not skinny, and Jack’s old-fashioned double bed was a tight squeeze. Thus far she’d been content to cast herself in the role of handmaid to greatness – she’d even offered to retype the manuscript for him, being a fast and efficient typist, unlike Jack – but he’d fended her off. This was the first time she’d been inquisitive as to the nature of his project, though she’d assumed he was writing Literature; she had no idea that he was spinning a cheap and tawdry horror yarn about a dried-up hand.
“The materialism of our modern age, from an existential perspective,” said Jack. “Inspired by Steppenwolf.” (Steppenwolf! How could he? Jack thinks now. Forgivable, however: Steppenwolf had not yet achieved the vulgar popularity that was just around the corner for it.) This answer wasn’t exactly a lie, but, though truth of a kind, it was thinly stretched.
Irena was pleased. She kissed him lightly, put her economical black underwear back on, followed by her thick pullover and tweed skirt, and bustled downstairs to warm up some leftover meatballs for the collective mid-day meal.