Pink



  PINK

  by Peter J. Ponzo

  Chapter 1

  Pink

  I saw her bathing, inviting evil dreams of lust and desire, and I knew she was the angel of death, sister of the devil, temptress and siren.

  I must rid the world of this harbinger of doom, precursor of ungodliness. Her worldly body must be dismantled so that no eye can behold that iniquitous and cursed carcass.

  And I did find her garbed in pink and I did destroy her.

  Great Lord of the World, Breath of Life, weep not for the damned for I have cleansed the world of the devil's kin.

  Terry Cleaver

  Buck Tormin is a bastard. He's my boss, he wears a black suit, and you can't trust a guy in a black suit. I worked for him for two years but he's no friend. I don't make friends easily. In fact, I have few friends and that's just fine with me. But Buck won't fire me. I've reprogrammed the computer, honed it to the needs of the lumber mill, I'm good at my job and no one could take my place.

  Then the black suit fired me. The bastard.

  But it was really her fault.

  The first time I met her was in June, at the pond. It's an old deserted gravel pit, now filled with spring water and I go there to escape the heat. Everyone else in Haversville swims at Moore's Lake, ringed with those crummy plywood cottages and miles of sweaty bodies lying on the sand and two hot dog stands and a ramshackle dancing arena and the oily smell of automobile exhaust.

  I swim alone, at my pond, Terry Cleaver's Pond.

  And that's where I first saw her.

  It was late Sunday afternoon and I had jogged across Benton's meadow, pushing through the bush, jumping up onto that big grey rock that juts out over the pond. I dropped my shorts then turned to dive into that sweet green pool. Then I saw her. The first thing I felt was anger; she was lying on my rock, my rock, her eyes closed, her feet hanging in the water, her body wrapped in a pink swimsuit so tight you could see her ribs. I could feel the red rising in my cheek. I clenched my fists and stood over her, growling to myself. They say that redheads have fierce tempers. That goes double for me. She was lying on my rock at my pond.

  Then she opened her eyes, slowly, as though she knew I was there - then she sat up. I was standing right above her. She pulled her towel about her shoulders and blushed, just a little. I didn't know quite what to say and stood there scowling, holding my breath, my arms hanging stiff by my side.

  Then she did the most stupid thing ... the most wonderful thing. She smiled and reached up and took my hands, and somehow my anger seemed rather stupid and childish. Then she pulled herself to her feet, still holding my hands, and she leaned against me and watched my face redden. She seemed to enjoy every moment. Then she grinned and closed her eyes, slowly, and fell backwards into the pond, pulling me after her. I didn't think about backing away. It was so sudden, so weird. When I came spluttering to the surface I thought about shouting, about hitting her hard, about pushing her roughly under the water.

  But she was gone and I didn't see her again, not for three weeks.

  It was a typical Saturday morning in July, hot and humid, and I crossed the meadow and headed for Cleaver's pond. I thought about that girl a lot and expected to see her the next few times I went swimming. I was even careful not to drop my shorts until I had looked at every rock - but the pond had been deserted, every time. Yet I couldn't get her out of my mind. A crazy girl, pulling me into the water. I had been so flustered, so caught off guard. Yet, she hadn't been frightened or even embarrassed.

  I guess I was smiling as I walked through the bush. When I think of it, she was really pretty neat. I don't really get along well with girls but she was sort of wild and unusual and that was intriguing.

  When I left the tangle of skinny trees by the edge of the pond and jumped onto my rock, she was there, again, and I found that I could barely breathe. I stood for a long while just staring at her, lying tanned on the grey rock, her hair tangled about her shoulders, her eyes closed. She was getting far too much sun. The rock must surely be rough on her skin, a pink smooth skin in a smooth pink swimsuit with ruffled collar. I walked to her side and sat down and gazed at her face. I wanted desperately to reach out and touch her. I stuck out my hand, slowly, and I found myself shaking. I held my hand above her, above that ruffled collar. I was trembling and that made me bloody angry and I could feel my face getting hot.

  Then she smiled and opened her eyes, in precisely that order, as though she knew I had been sitting there and she was just waiting for the right time. I remember sucking in my breath, then I put up both hands as if begging not to be pulled into the water. That was stupid; why did I do that? She giggled and reached out and I stumbled backward to get away and together we fell off the rock.

  And when I came to the surface she was gone, again.

  For me it was a curious and novel feeling, frightening, exhilarating. I didn't seem quite in control. My mind wandered. I spent hours just staring at the computer keyboard. My boss complained. I don't like Buck Tormin. Then the black suit fired me. Just like that. And it was really her fault - the girl with the pink bathing suit.

  Connie Fenton

  I have always been papa's favorite child, carefree and sucking up life like a strawberry soda - or so they say. My two brothers usually ignored me even though we all slept in the same large room in the back of the small cottage. My mother died when I was five; I don't think I remember a thing about her. Papa made little money at the store, but we ate well and laughed a lot.

  I was only eighteen when I decided to leave the cottage and move into town. Papa pleaded with me to stay, but I had made up my mind. Even my brothers seemed a little sad when I left and that made my leaving even more delicious. I would miss them, all of them, but I had a magical life to live and I was going to live it to the fullest.

  After three months working at the dress shop, mostly sewing hems and crocheting fancy collars, I bought a bicycle and went home to Gobles for the weekend. I surprised them all by climbing through the back window and slipping into the bathtub. When they came home from the store, that's where they found me. My brothers dragged me from the tub and spanked me soundly, papa cried just a little - and I drank it all in.

  It was delicious.

  On Sunday afternoon they all stood side by side on the front porch and watched me leave, my brothers trying hard to keep from crying. I can still see it. The image was absolutely delectable.

  It was that same Sunday afternoon that I found the pond. It was hot and I could see the dust spiralling up from the front wheels of my bike. I was thirsty but the small bottle of spring water was empty so I stopped at Miller's Creek to fill it. The creek was dry so I sat on the bank and just groaned. I can remember thinking life isn't supposed to be like this. The creek is supposed to be filled with cool gurgling water, waiting for me to stop on my way back to Haversville. There must be water farther up the creek bed. That's the way it should be, just a little farther up, lying in limpid pools amid the cool green.

  So I set out to find it.

  When I came to the clearing I saw the tall rocks and knew that the pond was there, waiting for me, a giant cup brimming with water, cool and delicious. There was a narrow vertical crack which began at the top of the rock and widened as it descended. From the bottom of the crack, nearly three feet wide, the water trickled slowly out of the pond into Miller's Creek.

  I ran to the opening and looked through. I was Alice and I looked eagerly through the looking glass. It was frightening, mysterious.

  Just beyond the crack in the rock I could see green bushes, but beyond that there was a giant cup brimming with water - and it was all there, just for me. How could I have missed this paradise on earlier trips from Gobles? But then perhaps I have been here and just for
got. My memory is so poor. I forget things. Whole days seem to come and go without my knowledge.

  I pushed through the crack, through the bushes, and fell into the cool waters of the pond. Life was magical.

  I would return many times to that pond, each time leaving by the hole in the rock which fed Miller's Creek.

  Then, one Sunday afternoon, I met him. Even before I opened my eyes I could feel his presence, like a tree, protecting me. When I looked up he was silhouetted against the bright sky, yet I could see that his eyes were fierce and his cheeks red and I knew that he was angry. Yet, he was a boy and really quite naked and I could handle him as I had always handled my brothers. When I pushed my body to his I knew that he was caught off guard. When I pulled, gently at first, I knew that he would follow, leaning to me, falling with me.

  I left through the hole in the rock and it was exhilarating as I knew it would be.

  And I did it not once, but twice.

  Boys are quite foolish.

  My life was a dream, a fantasy ... until the pink letters started.

  Terry Cleaver

  The Wednesday Chronicle carried the story on the front page. It was the most bloody awful thing that had happened in Haversville in years.

  BODY FOUND IN MILLER'S CREEK

  At first I wasn't particularly interested. I had seen the headlines; the paper