Richard Laymon - The Lake

One steep mother of a driveway. Narrow, too.

She shook her head.

The geraniums along the sides of the driveway were not skimpy.

Get off it.

Deana stepped closer to the garage. Facing the driveway, she took a deep breath. The morning air smelled sweet and clean. She did a few jumping jacks. When she started the toe-touching exercises, her rump brushed the garage door.

Thataway, back to the wall. Nobody’s gonna sneak up on you . No-sirree.

Chicken shit.

She took five steps forward—count ’em, five.

That’s better.

That wasn’t better. She felt exposed.

What’s keeping Mom?

You wanted to go running alone, remember?

She sat down. The concrete, still in shadow, was cold through her shorts and worse against the backs of her legs. She leaned forward, stretching, grabbing her shoes.

I would have been just fine except for Mom’s little talk. And she had to remind me of what Harrison said.

The way you wear your hair.

Bull.

She touched her forehead between her knees.

Saw a madman in a chef’s cap bounding down the driveway waving a meat cleaver, and looked up fast and saw no one.

Where’d you get this chef’s cap nonsense?

Oh yeah, the dream.

Lovely little dream—and all that weird shit the night before.

Legs spread wide, she leaned forward, touched her right hand to her left toe, left hand to right toe. The stretching muscles felt good.

She flinched at a sudden bumping sound, then realized it was only the front door shutting. Mom. That was pretty quick, actually. She got to her feet and hitched up the shorts that had been inching down her rump during the exercises.

“What took you so long?” Deana asked.

“Are you kidding? I’m still wet.”

Deana stared. Mom looked so normal. So good . As if this were just any other fabulous Marin County morning. Except for the blue ballcap covering her pinned-up hair, she was dressed in white—knit shirt, shorts, socks and shoes, all white. Which made her fair skin look almost bronze.

Deana had rarely seen her with her hair up.

“My gosh, Mom, you’ve got ears.”

“Anything wrong with them?”

“They’re rather large, is all.”

Mom grinned. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

Deana’s own smile slipped.

Sure have, Mom.

She remembered it well. A red-eyed girl clutching gym shorts.

“Not to change the subject or anything, I thought you promised to stay down here.”

“I did.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. Then she swept down from the waist, touched her toes, and made a quick catch as her ballcap dropped.

“Oh, you mean the newspaper.”

“That’s right, Watson. Here, hold this.”

Deana took the hat.

Mom resumed touching her toes. She had a few drops of water on the backs of her legs. No cellulite. She was in terrific shape. Always had been. Maybe that was one reason why Deana started running last year. She’d been getting a bit pudgy, and it was damned embarrassing to have a mother who looked better than you in a bikini. Some of her boyfriends—take Herb Klein, for instance—spent more time ogling Mom than…

“At least you didn’t leave without me,” Mom said.

“I didn’t bring down the newspaper. I didn’t touch it.”

“How did it get there?”

“I suppose the delivery guy was feeling energetic.”

“Geez,” Mom said, “and Christmas isn’t for six months.”

“Maybe he’s angling for a Fourth of July tip.”

“Weird.” Mom swung her arms around, then took the hat from Deana and flopped it onto her head with the bill high. She squinted up the driveway. Looked at Deana. Raised one side of her upper lip to show her distaste for the chore ahead. “Well, I’m ready when you are.”

“I’ll take it easy on you.”

“Oh, thanks. You’re so thoughtful.”

Deana started up the driveway, leaning into its slope, not pushing. Mom stayed at her side.

It was like climbing a stairway. Taking the stairs two at a time.

She thought of the stairs at the start of the Dipsey Trail. They sure nailed Allan. Let’s try not to think about Allan for a while. Let’s just think about running, the good feel of working muscles. And getting closer to the top.

Halfway there.

Three quarters. No sweat. She glanced at Mom. Mom smiled.

The mailbox at the top came into view.

Then the car.

Mom said, “That’s a great place…to leave a car.”

It didn’t block the driveway. It was parked on the other side of the street. But nobody ever parked there because of the blind curves.

Deana didn’t see anyone inside.

She stopped at the edge of the street.

“What’s the matter? Pooped?”

“Mom.”

The tone of Deana’s voice turned her mother’s face strange.

Deana’s gaze swept the street and hillside as she walked on numb legs toward the old, red Pontiac Firebird. She stepped in front of it. The grille and headlight on its right side were smashed in. “My God,” she muttered.

Mom grabbed her arm, pulled her. “Quick. Back to the house.”

They ran.

EIGHT

“It needs something.”

“ You need something,” she said. “A frontal lobotomy.”

“That’s no way to talk to the man who’s going to immortalize you.”

“My foot,” she said.

“Precisely.”

“You’d better hurry. If I fall in, I’ll tear your face off.”

“Behave.” Still squatting on the bank of the stream, he raised the Nikon to his eye and studied the situation again. “Nah, no good.”

“Kee-rist.”

He stood up. “I’ve got it. Come on back.”

Mattie reached out her hand. He grabbed it and pulled as she leaped across the running water. Her bare feet landed on twigs, and she winced.

“Right back.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“My first-aid kit’s in the car.”

“Good idea, Charlie. You may need it.”

“Buck up. We’ll be done shortly.”

Mattie rolled her eyes upward and planted her fists on her hips. “You know,” she called at his back, “real models get big beans for this kind of shitski.”

“Don’t think I’m unappreciative.”

“No, not you.”

He made the top of the wooded embankment, jogged past a deserted picnic table to the parking area, and opened the trunk of his Trans Am. He glanced around to be sure nobody was nearby, then lifted his .12-gauge Ithica shotgun, raised a corner of the blanket on which it had been resting, and took out his first-aid kit.

He hurried back to Mattie.

“What’s the big plan?” she asked.

“A Band-Aid on your toe.”

“You jest.”

“Not me. Mark my words, it’s just the touch that’s needed. An air of vulnerability to an otherwise perfect foot.” He opened the plastic case, took out a bandage, and offered it to her.

“You’d better apply it. You’re the artiste around here.”

“Fine. Sit.”

“Where?”

“On the ground.”

“It’s wet .” She wrinkled her nose. Then, with a heavy sigh, she sat. “You owe me for this, Charlie.”

“You’ll sing a different tune when your foot’s hanging in the De Young.” Tearing off the wrapper, he crouched at Mattie’s feet and picked the paper away from the adhesive strip.

“Why can’t you be normal and shoot nudes?” she asked.

“Leaves nothing to the imagination, my dear.”

She wiggled her toes. “That turn you on?”

He nodded. The bandage on the big toe might be a little too obvious. The third toe seemed best, though the Band-Aid was really too large for it.

Mattie leaned back, bracing herself up on stiff arms.

Yes, the third toe. He reached for it.

Mattie raised the knee of her other leg and swung it far to the side. “Does this turn you on?”

He looked. The cutoff jeans were very cut off—no more than a frayed seam remained between the legs. “How inelegant,” he said.

Mattie chuckled. She kept her left foot fairly steady while the bandage was being applied, but waved her bent right leg from side to side, whispering, “Now you see it, now you don’t… Now you see it, now you don’t.”

“All set.” He patted the bottom of her foot. “Assume the position.”

“Bet you can’t stand up straight.”

“Matter of fact, I already am.”

He pulled her hand, and they both stood up. Mattie bent over to check him out. “Well, shitski, hon, you could knock me over with a feather. Want me to take care of that for you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I know, I know.” Turning away, she stretched out her leg until her foot found one of the small, flattopped rocks a yard from the bank. Arms out for balance, she pushed away from shore with her other foot. Once she was perched on the rock, she carefully pivoted until she was facing him. Then she swept out her right foot, planted it on a nearby rock, and took a deep breath. “Fire away.”

Crouching, he framed the foot, the water shimmering around the rock. “Beautiful,” he muttered. He snapped the shot. The camera’s automatic advance buzzed. He clicked, straightened up a bit for a new angle, took another shot, sidestepped to the left and took more, stood up straight, took more, then waded out with the cool water filling his sneakers, bent down, and snapped a few extreme close-ups.

“What dedication,” Mattie said.

He waded ashore, changed the lens setting for six feet, picked up a stone, and tossed it underhand at Mattie’s midsection.

“Hey!” she yelped.

She caught the stone. But her quick movement was enough to upset her precarious balance. She flapped her arms as she fell backward.

He got it all on film—Mattie’s stunned expression as she snatched the stone, her flapping arms, her splash when she hit the stream back-first, feet flying into the air. Then her furious drenched face as she sat there scowling at him. He kept clicking away as she staggered to her feet and waded toward him. “I suppose you think you’re cute.”

He lowered the camera so it hung by the strap, and protected it between his arm and side. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he warned as she approached. Mattie had a brown belt in judo. She could throw him ass over head into the stream, and he had no defense short of decking her with a punch. He wouldn’t do that.

He didn’t like the way she was grinning. “Mattie, my camera.”

“Pity.”

“My beeper.”

“Oh, your precious beeper.”

“My revolver.”

“A little water won’t hurt that.”

“It’ll ruin my holster.”

“Not to mention your ego, big man.” She grabbed the front of his shirt. Instead of dropping backward, planting a foot in his gut and sending him on a trip, Mattie pulled him against her and kissed him. He put his arms around her. The wetness soaked through his shirt.

“I’m going to wait,” she murmured against his mouth. “When you least expect it, wham .”

“Fair enough.”

“Now, how about tooling me over to my place so I can get out of these duds?”

“You may feel free to get out of them at my place.”

“Haw.”

“We’ll give them a spin in the dryer, they’ll be good as new. Which isn’t saying much.”

She swatted his rump. “Let’s move it, then, Charlie.” She stepped into her sandals.

They climbed the slope. They were nearly to the top when his beeper sounded.

“I don’t believe it,” Mattie muttered. “There goes our Sunday.”