The Comedy is Finished

Koo can barely recognize Mark in this beatific nurse, bending over him, carefully touching his arms. “Don’t,” he begs.

“Lucky fat man,” Mark says, almost tenderly. “We’ll fix you at the house.”

“Mark,” Koo whispers. “You’re all wet.”

It’s true. From head to foot Mark is wet, as drenched with water as Koo is drenched with his own blood. Mark’s eyes gleam like that far-off phosphorescence. “I’ve saved your life,” he says, quick and low and triumphant. “It’s mine. We start fresh.”

The other people are pounding across the beach, are nearly here. “Mark,” Koo whispers. “Help me.”

“You’re mine again,” Mark tells him, slipping his arms under Koo’s body, preparing to lift him.

“Help me. You’re the only one,” Koo whispers, and as Mark lifts him he faints.

27

The trouble outside roused Liz at last. She rose from the Eames chair, looking around in a dazed way like someone coming out of hypnosis, and became aware of blurred movement out on the beach, fitful in the dim moonlight, capering silhouettes against the far-off lines of wave-phosphorescence. Sliding open one of the glass doors, she stepped out onto the cantilevered deck to see the obscure cluster of figures split in two; while a part remained behind, involved with something flat on the beach, another part moved this way, weaving and tottering through the sand. Leaning on the rail, peering hard into the darkness, Liz saw that the thing approaching was a person, carrying another person. They approached, they entered the trapezoid of yellow lightspill from the house, and it was Mark, struggling through the soft sand. And in his arms; was that Davis?

They disappeared beneath her, under the deck, and she went back inside, turning the corner from the living room to the central hallway in time to see Mark struggle up the stairs from the beach door. That was Davis in his arms, unconscious or dead, and both men drenched with water and blood; survivors of some water cult’s sacrificial rite. Daubs and spatters of blood painted Mark’s face, like a marauding Iroquois. Davis was smeared all over with blood, some dripping and spraying as Mark jolted up the stairs. Liz saw the knife-hilt angling from Davis’ side just as Mark reached the first floor; she stared at it, not understanding anything she saw, and on the way by Mark said, “Bandages. Tape. Anything.”

“Yes.” But she’d been so self-involved till now that she’d barely registered her surroundings, and couldn’t remember in this strange house where the bathrooms were. She hesitated, looking back toward the living room, then ahead toward the kitchen.

Meantime, Mark continued on up the stairs toward the second floor, hurrying and yet trying not to shake Davis more than absolutely necessary. The second floor; that’s where the bathroom would be. Liz followed, while blood drops polka-dotted the gray staircase carpet.

At the head of the stairs Mark turned left, through the open doorway into the room where they’d been keeping Davis, while Liz half-instinctively went right, fumbling for a light-switch on the wall, clicking into existence a large bland bedroom with an open mirrored door off to the right. Through that she found the bathroom, a long elaborate double-sinked room with masses of storage space, most of it empty. But there were gauze bandages, there was adhesive tape, there were first-aid powders and ointments; she grabbed up a double armful and hurried to the other room, where Mark had laid Davis out on the bed, and now she saw his forearms, which didn’t look human anymore. “Jesus God,” she said, more awed than repelled.

Mark, his face grimly expressionless, slapped the supplies out of her arms onto the bed. “Cloth,” he said. “Clean cloth.”

“Yes.” Back to the bathroom she went, this time gathering up white towels and a handful of small white facecloths. In the bedroom again she found Mark tenderly folding down the flaps of flesh on the lacerated arms, sprinkling antiseptic powder on them, wrapping gauze to keep them in place. Dropping the cloth on the bed Liz said, “What happened?”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “Scissors,” he said.

Scissors. A third trip to the bathroom, and she brought back other things as well, aspirin and witch hazel, not knowing what Mark might need. “Strips of tape,” he said, as she walked into the room, not looking up from what he was doing. One forearm was now completely wrapped in gauze, like a mummy, like a Red Cross volunteer; he was working on the second.

She cut strips of tape, but as he prepared to tape the gauze on the first arm they both saw the blood already seeping through. A strange sound came from Mark’s throat then, a kind of animal noise, half bark and half whine. And he stopped, he seemed directionless all at once, as though someone had pushed a button that disconnected him from his motivations. In the humming silence he hesitated, rocking slightly, looking down at the spreading stains of blood.

Liz said, “More gauze,” to prompt him into movement, but he shook his head: “Isn’t any more. Used it up.”

She looked around at the jumble of things on the round purple bed. “These,” she said, holding up the small facecloths.

“Yes.” The solution didn’t make him pleased, or excited, it merely reactivated him. He took facecloths, folded them around the bleeding arms, wound lengths of adhesive tape to hold them in place. Watching, Liz said, “Not too tight. The circulation.”

He ignored that. He ignored everything but what was already in his head. Finishing the arms, he went to work on the wound in Davis’ side. He said, “Blankets. We have to keep him warm.”

The mirrored walls were in fact doors; she searched, and behind one mirror was a linen closet with sheets and blankets, all in tones of red and purple and orange. She helped Mark move Davis closer to the middle of the bed and then they put blankets over him, so many that by the time Mark was satisfied it looked like a great fat man lying there on the round bed; Old King Cole, perhaps, exhausted from his revels. But a very pale reveler, with very shallow breaths.

Liz and Mark were on opposite sides of the bed, from spreading the blankets. They both stood a moment, gazing at the unconscious man, and Liz was about to ask again what had happened when Mark, his manner cold and dismissing, said, “That’s all.”

She looked at him, momentarily surprised, but then realized Mark had been essentially alone through all this. He had needed her temporarily, as he had needed the scissors or the facecloths, but he was the only one who actually existed in this room. He and Koo Davis. What is there between them? she wondered, and was surprised that the question had never occurred to her before. There was something between them, some extra element none of the others knew about. It was that unsuspected weight which had thrown them all off-balance from the very beginning, creating an environment that drove the others crazy without ever knowing why. Liz said, “Did you cut him?”

He was surprised at the question, but in a remote way. Shrugging, he said, “Of course not.”

“You came out of the ocean. To help him?”

Mark looked at her with his closed secret face. “Go away,” he said.

She shook her head. “It’s too late anyway,” she said, glanced with fading interest once more at Koo Davis, and turned away.

Downstairs, she found Peter and Ginger snarling together in the studio with all the electronic equipment. She had looked for them to find out the story, but the instant she walked in Ginger turned to her, half-whispering, “Did he see me? You were up there; did he see me?”

It hadn’t taken Ginger long to win Liz’s contempt. “No one can see you,” she said.

Peter said, “What’s going on up there?”

“Mark bandaged him. What happened before?”

“Joyce,” Peter said. “She went crazy.” Peter himself looked crazier than usual, his eyes staring, his cheeks gaunt. His jaw kept making chewing motions, as though he were gnawing on a rubber band.

Liz said, “Joyce? What did Joyce do?”

“She let him go. Davis.” Peter gestured wildly, to indicate that he understood nothing of motivation in all this. “Don’t ask me why. She let him out of the house and took him down to the beach and tried to kill him.”

“With a knife,” Ginger said, smirking in Peter’s direction. “The very knife we’d been looking for ourselves, to