Chapter Forty-Nine
“I’ve crossed on these boats dozens of times, but I never had a stateroom before,” Doc remarked, looking around the odd little chamber aboard the “Azteca”, the Huichol hangings, plush bedspread, and hardwood trim not really disguising the fact that it was essentially a steel box.
“Good thing, too,” Dancy said, “You’d just get the wrong kind of attention dressing my stab wound down in steerage. Why to they call it that, by the way? Is it full of steers like that damn cowpath?”
“Worse, bum steers. Quit squirming, will you? It’s just Iodine.”
Dancy made a face, placed a precise fingertip on the knot Doc was tying in her bandage, examining his profile as he completed the dressing. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you since we first met.”
“Our eyes locking across that ballroom floor.”
“That blind date in Annadale. Look, I’ll sure your parents didn’t name you Doc.”
“No, it was a mixup in the delivery room. The Doctor has been called ‘Baby Jesus’ ever since and only three people know about it.”
“Just the three, huh?”
“Well, four now. But since you bring it up, Dancy doesn’t sound like something off the Mayflower manifest, either. Is it short for something?”
Dancy gave him a sly look, “Probably something cute like ‘Dance of the Hours’.”
“Or Danse Macabre.”
“You’re just too bloody kind. Unlike you, I’m going to tell you about it.” She glanced at the dressing, then lay back on the bed, getting comfortable. Doc quietly moved to a narrow bench by the wall, giving her his full attention.
“I sort of made it up myself when I was a three year old ballerina. It’s short for Daniela. I had an older brother who died in his teens, years before I was born. Daniel, after my grandfather. Daddy never got over it.” She was staring at the ceiling, playing with stray hair, speaking in a very flat tone.
“Let me tell you, hearing ‘Danny Boy’ around our place was an overdose in poignance. I doubt I could sing ‘the pipes are calling’ even now without choking up, just remembering Daddy bawling. He used to call me ‘Danny O’ and I tried hard to make up for the loss, but of course it wasn’t the same. I lived under that portrait in the front hall my whole life. You’ll never guess who’s a ringer for him, by the way. Wow, can’t believe I never realized that before. No wonder Daddy puts up with him.”
“No wonder you married him, maybe.”
“Jesus, you’re probably right. Shit! See why I hate introspection?”
“Boy howdy. It has its uses of course.”
“I’m not supposed to introspect, you know,” she said, feigning a bored hauteur. “I’m inbred, selected over generations for the looks and poise to the grace formal do at whatever mansion.”
“To the manor bred?”
“Architecture. Opulent furnishing. Of course, you have to keep it up. The tennis, aerobics, hunting; all that’s to keep it in shape mostly, keep everything attractive. Housekeeping chores, really.”
“You need fox-hunting to look good enough for company?”
“Well, you can’t just be an empty shell, you know. You’ve gotta be lively and intelligent and informed and all. Or you’re like, oh, a Jaguar that when you start it up obviously has a Volkswagen engine.”
“You’re more than all that and you know it. You’ve got more performance than any woman I’ve ever known.”
She shook her head, emphatically, “I got some stray jock genes. But basically, I’m just an overpopularized breed, like a Golden Retriever. The sweetheart of AKC. Bred to be an ornamental, just like my mom. Just like those wolfhounds Dad used to keep around the place. Sitting there panting and getting fat because the wolves just kept never dropping by. I used to feel like killing them for humane reasons, the poor things.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
“No, if I’d gotten started on euthanasia it would have been too tempting to put Mom asleep, too.”
Her eyes drifted around on the ceiling, then came to rest on Doc’s. He stayed where he was, but leaned forward. “All I can tell you is that I found out very early in life that nothing clears up your perspective like slashing a path of blood, cum, and destruction through the jungle.”
She laughed out loud, kicking her legs on the bed, “So I’ve noticed. But sooner or later it stops, right? You don’t go back to the treehouse on the 5:10 vine; you have to go back and be a Greystroke.”
“Even when I was a kid, I thought Tarz was a moron to split to England.”
“Really! How could he stand it?” She was getting agitated, feelings floating up in a flush, “Especially after being King, mind you, of the entire fucking Jungle?”
She raised herself up on her elbows, glaring at Doc as if accusing him of something unnamed but shameful. “How do you stand it, Doc? What do you do with it?”
“With what?” Doc was watching, and wondering about, her rising emotions.
“You know, the Big Itch. You’re a man, you’ve been a stalker, a killer, a jungle beast. You could take whatever money you want. Oh man, you could just track women down and rape them. And don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“Well, not if they didn’t like it.”
“You’re such a softy, slugger. But you know what I mean. What do you do with yourself? I’d have gone crazy if it hadn’t been for tennis and horse, and cheating. I’ve got a feeling that’s not gonna be enough any more. But you…you don’t have to eat any shit. What do you do with the Itch, motherfucker?”
“I’m a photographer. That’s it. I take pictures of beautiful things. Landscapes. Animals. Mostly I like to do flowers and nudes.”
She flopped back down on the mattress, her arms spread wide, shaking her head and shoulders, “Holy Moly. That’s so weird it has to be true. What a scream.”
“What it is, it’s art. It’s hard to explain, but it gets into you, takes over a lot of that itch, what I call aggression. I like making things, doing them perfect. It gets me by.”
“Well, I wish I had some kind of talent. Because all I want to do is fight, win, black out. I’ve tried music and painting and all that crap. It’s nothing. And someday I’m going to be too old for sports. Then I guess someday I’ll be to old for screwing.
“Somehow I doubt it.”
“Yeah, I probably won’t live that long. But Christ, what if I do?” She looked genuinely apprehensive.
“Knit me a scarf and I’ll send you some nice prints of rhododendrons.”
“What’s that Beatles song about getting older?”
“Don’t Bring me Down?”
She stared at the ceiling some more. “You know what? It’s been a long time since I’ve been to mass.”
“Is that why you’re doing all this confessing?”
“I never confess, boner. I’m bragging.”
“Yeah, you are.” Doc settled back against the wall, and spoke very gently. “Tell me,” he said, “Men love you. How about you loving us? The love you take’s got to equal the love you make. Do you love anybody at all, really?”
She brought her hands up to cover her eyes, said, “Sugar, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Well tell me this,” Doc said, “Has any of this changed you at all?”
She thought about it a minute and shrugged, “You mean, like made me into a better person?”
“Something like that. I know you’re a man-eater, but I’ll bet you never got any blood on you before.”
She was quiet quite awhile, then spoke low, but with conviction. “I gotta tell you, Doc, I like it better this way. Seeing the blood and all. Walking in and taking it off. The whole thing’s been one hell of a thrill. What can I say?”
“I guess you said it all.”
“And how about you? Are you a changed man? Would I be just too vain to consider myself a life-changing experience?”
“Life-threatening might be closer to the case.”
“You’re not exactly an endangered species yourself, there, Doctor Death,” she snapped. “You going back to talk it out at your Assassins Anonymous meeting?”
“I don’t like what happened and I don’t like what you do to me. I don’t like being a monster.”
“Haven’t you heard that there’s no point in denying what we don’t want, Doc? If you’ve got a monster you’ve got to let him out to run. Maybe someday he’ll run away. You’re only a monster if you think you are.”
“NO!” His intensity startled her, made her roll on her side, facing him. “I’d rather have this stuff inside than out where it can get at people. I can live with my thoughts and feelings, but once you actually do anything it’s…it’s real. I mean, there are witnesses.”
“If you leave any alive.”
“Yeah,” the intensity passed, leaving him listless. “Yeah, there’s that.”
Dancy curled up, propped her head up with her forearm. She gave Doc a bland smile, “Sorry, baby, Look, I’m just out of sorts, missing all the filth and degradation. How do you get expect me to get my rocks off on clean sheets in a place with framed prints and paper sleeves on the drinking glasses?”
Doc took a deep breath and she could see him wince. He looked her in the face and said, “I don’t. Expect you to, I mean. I’m sorry Dancy, but I’ve got to break this thing off.”
She swung up into a sitting position, staring at him. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“I thought we’d agreed on that.”
“But not so much you’d pass on a deal like this. Not to mention putting me down. Don’t bullshit me Doc, you’re nuts about me.”
Doc put his hands on his knees and leaned his head back, sighing. And winced again. “You’re right. I am. And probably just plain nuts. But I can’t keep this up. I’m really sorry. You’re the best I’ve ever had. I mean it.”
“Well, no shit, Sherlock. And you get me wet, lover. Light me up and stomp me out. What the hell are you thinking?”
“I guess it was just seeing you and your husband together. I really do have a thing about respecting marriage vows.”
“I was touched by your deep and abiding respect for Russ,” She scoffed.
“He’s yuppie scum. I can’t believe you’re married to him.”
“For a minute there you had me looking forward to widowhood.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. But not everybody is going to kill off your current squeeze for you. Get a divorce. Should be easy. Or do it the old-fashioned way–kill him yourself.”
“Then look you up?”
“Sure,” In spite of himself, Doc grinned, “It’s married women I’ve got scruples against screwing, not femmes fatale. Hell, killers are clean compared to us adulterers.”
“You’re a very odd boyscout, Doc.”
“I never quite got the handshake right either.”
“And you’re serious. Heart attack city. So this means we won’t be an item for the spring dances?”
“Not necessarily. If I need a date for the apocalypse, I’ll give you a ring.”
“I’ll be doing my hair.” she snapped, turning to the wall. “So keep your damn ring.”
Doc stood up and moved to the door. He caught himself looking longingly at the bed, knowing what a night in deck chairs would do to his wounds and dings. He didn’t dare look longingly at Dancy. He said, “Okay then, goodnight.”
“Oh sure,” she chided. “Hey, how about sending in the Little Injun That Could?”
“Sorry, with Indians you need a reservation.”
She snapped to a sitting position, her eyes stabbing at him, “Oh, fuck you, Doc, You’re going to regret this.”
“I already do.”
“Nobody else is ever going to seem like much.”
“Not for awhile. But I’m used to that.”
“Yeah,” She said under her breath. “So am I.”