Prologue
You might not have liked Aubrey Whittaker. She acted
superior. She walked as if she were the most beautiful
woman on Earth, which she wasn't. She didn't say very
much. She was tall but wore heels anyway, and if she
finally did say something, you felt like a driver getting
a ticket. Her eyes were blue and infinitely disappointed
in you. She was nineteen.
She let him come to her place again that night, something
that had only happened once before. Strictly against
policy. But he was different than the rest, different in
ways that mattered. In her life she had learned to read
men, who were as easy to understand as street signs:
Caution, Yield, Stop. But did you ever really know one?
Aubrey had chosen a small black dress, hose with a seam up
the back, heels with ankle straps and a string of pearls.
No wig, just her regular hair, which was blond and cut
short, sticking up like a boy's. The lipstick was apple
red.
She made him dinner. She could only cook one thing well,
so she cooked it. And a salad, rolls from the bakery, a
pot of the good French roast coffee he liked, a dessert.
Flowers in a squat round crystal vase that had cost a lot
of money.
They sat across from each other at the small table. Aubrey
gave D.C. the seat with the view of the Pacific. "D.C."
was the abbreviation for Dark Cloud, the nickname she'd
invented to capture his pessimism about human nature. It
was an ironic nickname, too, because D.C. wasn't dark to
look at, but light, with a broad, tanned face, a neat
mustache, sharp eyes and a chunk of heavy blond hair that
fell over his forehead like a schoolboy's. He was quick to
smile, although it was usually a nervous smile. He was
taller than her by a good three inches and strong as a
horse, she could tell. He told stupid jokes.
She told him he could hang his gun on the chair, but he
left it holstered tight against his left side, farther
around his back than in the movies, the handle pointing
out. Whatever, she thought. The idea of safety pleased
her, made her feel compliant in a genuine way. Aubrey
Whittaker rarely allowed herself a genuine feeling,
couldn't always tell them from the ones she portrayed.
They talked. His eyes rarely strayed from her face, and
they were always eager to get back. Hungry eyes. When
dinner was over he sat there a moment, wiping the
silverware with his napkin. He was fastidious. Then he
left, at exactly the time he'd told her he'd leave. Off to
see a man about a dog, he said. Another little joke of
theirs.
At the door she put her arms around him and hugged him
lightly, setting her chin against the top of his shoulder,
leaning her head against his ear for just a moment. She
could feel the tension coming off him like heat off a
highway. She thought that the kind of guy she wanted would
be a lot like D.C. Then she straightened and smiled and
shut the door behind him. It was only ten minutes after
ten.
She flipped on the kitchen TV to an evangelist, put the
dishes in the sink and ran water over them. She watched a
car roll out of the parking area below, brake lights at
the speed bump. It might have been D.C.'s big, serious
four-door or it might not have been.
Aubrey felt warm inside, like all her blood had heated up
a couple of degrees, like she was just out of a hot bath
or had just drunk a big glass of red wine. She shook her
head and smile lines appeared at the edges of her apple-
red lips. It's just unbelievable, girl, she thought, what
you've done with your life. Nineteen going on a hundred.
You finally find a guy you can halfway stand, he trembles
when you touch him through his clothes and you let him
drive away.
Oh that you would kiss me, with the kisses of your mouth!
Song in the Bible.
I sucked you off in a theater.
Song on the radio.
Has everything changed, or nothing?
She rinsed the dishes, dried her hands and worked in some
lotion. The fragrance was of lavender. Through the window
she saw the black ocean and the pale sand and the white
rush where the water broadened onto the beach then receded.
In the middle of the living room Aubrey stood and looked
out at the water and the night. Thinking of the different
shades of black, she pried off her high heels, then got
down on all fours. Balance. She could smell the lavender.
From there she was eye level to the arm of the black
leather sofa.
Tentatively she placed her left hand out. Tentatively she
raised her right knee and slid it forward. Then the hard
part, the transfer of weight to her other hand and the
moment of peril as the left knee came up to support her.
She wavered just a little, but when her left leg settled
beneath her she was okay and very focused because she had
to repeat the whole complex procedure again. Her doctor
friend, the shrink, had advised her to do this. She had
never learned. She had walked at eleven months.
Her doctor friend had said that for an adult to develop
fully, to form certain concepts, especially mathematical
ones, she needed to know how to crawl.
Then she heard the knock at the door. A flash of
embarrassment went through her as she realized what she
was: a six-foot woman in a short black dress crawling
across her living room through the scent of lavender.
She sprang up and walked over. "Who's there?"
"Just me again, Aubrey—"
It was a little hard to hear, with all the cars roaring by
on Coast Highway.
"—Your Dark Cloud."
She flipped the outside light switch and looked through
the peephole. The bug bulb must have finally burned out
because all she saw was one corner of the apartment
building across the alley laced with Christmas lights, and
the tiny headlights out on Coast Highway, miniaturized in
a fish-eye lens clouded with moisture. She hadn't replaced
that bulb in months.
When she opened the door she was smiling because she half
expected his return, because she knew he was in her
control now. And because she was happy.
Then her smile died from the inside out and she formed her
last thought: No.