February 1
“This is Lynda with the morning’s Cascade Ski Report. Snoqualmie Pass is 27 degrees with snow and ice patches on the road. They’ll be running Pacific Crest, Little Thunder, Julie’s, Upper Magic Carpet, and Wildside today. Stevens Pass is 15 degrees and overcast with packed snow on the roadway. Skyline, Hogsback, and Daisy are open from four P.M. to ten P.M., conditions permitting.”
There stand three infernal Furies flecked and spattered with blood.
I see they have the limbs of women, and their devious ways,
but what is it they wear as girdles?
Snakes of deepest radiant green?
“Yeah, we’re at Dante’s. Hmm? Me, Joanne, and Ginger. Oh, and Pete, too. He was here when we got here. With some friends, I don’t know. No, we won’t be long, just enough for a beer or two. I have to get up at 5:30 as usual. On my bike, again, of course. It’s not that far, the streets are empty then. So, are you coming tomorrow night? You are? Oh, good. We’ll have fun. Yeah, just Mom and Dad, and whoever from the house wants to. I don’t know. OK, great, I’ll see you tomorrow. Can’t wait. Bye.”
“Joanne? Can you grab that table in the corner for us? I’ll get a pitcher and tell Pete we’re back here. Oh, excuse me, I didn’t see you there.”
Where’d he come from? I could have sworn he wasn’t standing there a minute ago. Creepy eyes, like he’s searching inside his skull for something. And that smell, eew . . . but he is kind of handsome. If he just got himself cleaned up, he’d be cute.
“Pete. There you are. What’s going on? Dice? Really? OK. We have a table in the back. See where Ginger is? Bring a couple more glasses, would ya?”
“So, your parents? Tomorrow night?”
“Yes, and Bob and Laura. I thought I’d make beef stroganoff.”
“That sounds yummy. But isn’t that a little rich for your stomach?”
“Oh, it’s fine now. The cramps are gone. I don’t know why, they just went away.”
Now that I can see her clearly, she’s quite beautiful. Tall, slender, with chestnut hair to the waist, clear blue eyes, dark lashes. It’s hard to tell in the dark, leaving by the backdoor early in the morning with her bicycle, covered up by that rain slicker and . . . what do you call it? A sou’wester?
What a surprise to see these girls up here. But maybe not. Their house is just a couple blocks down. I should have known. A few beers on a Friday night. What a cliché. Isn’t that what all the slutty little students do?
Accurséd spirit, though you’re disguised by filth, can I guess your name?
Tiny serpents and horned vipers crawling in your hair.
Furiously you tear at your breast with twisted, taloned nails.
And with knobby palms, beat your face and gnarled hide.
“No, I’ve given up on a musical career.”
“But I love your voice. You could be an actress. You were such a star in Brigadoon. I thought they should have featured you more in that folk mass at church.”
“Oh, you’re such a little sycophant. I suppose you want me to set you up with Barry, don’t you?”
“What? No? How could you even? He’s not . . .”
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play dumb. I know you know he’s back in town. Bonnie said she told you.”
“Maybe I do, what of it?”
“Hey girls, I’m going to take off. I’ll have to catch the 9:40 bus if I’m going to make it home tonight.”
“OK, well, we should go, too. Bottoms up, girls. Let’s walk Pete to the bus stop.”
“Did you remember your key?”
“No, but the spare should be in the mailbox.”
I thought I saw some movement, a hunched shadow, behind us as we turned onto 12th. Was that him? From Dante’s? It’s almost like I can smell him. But I don’t see anything. Just my imagination maybe. Two beers, I really am a lightweight.
“Do you really think we should keep the spare key out here? Anyone could see us. There was that girl that was attacked last month. Just a few blocks away, I think.”
“You’re right. We should find another place for it. Around back, maybe, but those bushes on the side of the house are so overgrown. Remind me to ask the landlord about it.”
Across the turbid, frothy waves there passes a reboantic fracas, a horrid sound,
enough to make the bloody shoreline quake. It strikes the forest,
ear shattering, beating down trees, shearing off pale branches,
pushing and whirling clouds of dust before its tireless fury.
February 3
“The University of Washington psychology major disappeared two nights ago from her house in the University District, which she shared with four roommates, all students. She was first reported missing when she failed to show up for her job as morning announcer for the Cascade Ski Report. We’ve probably all heard her voice. Imagine that, Cindy.”
“That’s so sad, Bob.”
“The police first treated it as a standard missing-persons report, thinking perhaps that she had a new boyfriend she had neglected to tell her roommates about. But when detectives searched her room, they found blood on her pillow and sheets, as well as on the neckline of her nightgown, which was hanging in the back of her closet. The roommates hadn’t noticed the blood earlier, because her bed had been made up. The only things missing were the clothes she had worn the previous day and a small, red backpack. And the basement door was unlocked, which was unusual, according to her roommates. So it appears that someone entered the house, most likely by the front door, assaulted her in her bed in the middle of the night, dressed her in her clothes, and then, after taking the time to make her bed and hang up her nightgown, abducted her, leaving through the basement door.”
Who are you, who have become so ugly?
You know me. I’m the one who weeps.