HEAT

The night was more than hot. It was one of those evil darknesses that stuck you to your bed, fusing skin to sheet in a passionate embrace devoid of any comfort or love. Somewhere in the alley, the wetback carpenters were loading their equipment to the thumping static of an ancient Chevy truck radio, getting a head start on the sun and sweat. He lay sleepless again, the heat that drained away energy by day also sucked at the weary stuff of sleep and tormented the mind with visions of cool mountain streams and arctic plains. In the other room he could hear Debra tossing in her own misery, rising now and again to wipe her face with a cool wash rag. The radio had informed that yesterday was the hottest day in L.A. history, with no signs of letting up. It was the same everywhere, though. From Maine to Moscow, record temperatures were being recorded. He turned his head to see the clock. It was 5:17. Soon the sun would return to eradicate any relief the night had allowed. The moon glowed with a haunting fervor, appearing in every way as threatening as the fiery god that wreaked havoc by day.

His gaze drifted to the air conditioner, dark and still as any in the nation. A blackout rendered them all helpless pieces of metal, impotent and somehow inferior to any other machine because it had failed them most. For the last week he had taken cold showers until water was rationed, and now he suffered as much as everyone else. He suffered in part worse than other people: with all media except for radio down, people were turning to books to escape, and the pressure facing a novelist were extreme, especially when it was too hot to do anything but sit and endure, let alone write. He was a writer of romance novels, quickly churned pieces of fluff that held millions of women together from week to week. His publisher had asked for a ski-ranch romance, but he failed to even reach the slopes. A blank sheet and silent typewriter screamed at him each time he had entered his study. Finally he simply locked the door and threw away his deadline notices as they appeared.

He had met Debra at a convention for such literature. She introduced herself, starry-eyed, as if meeting a god face-to-face.She had simply
melted when he asked her to dinner and weeks later didn't even hesitate at his proposal. He supposed she expected the sort of erotic fantasy paradise existence that he wrote about, and when real life had met her, she despised his presence and rejected his humanity. She'd expected Apollo and was disappointed at discovering a shy fantasizer who spent his days eating and playing tennis and his nights tapping out a minimum 2,000 words a day.

They'd been married four years now. It had been two years since they'd made love, and two weeks since they'd had sex. As hot as it was, the idea of passion was an absurd one. Last week he'd attended a dance party hosted by a friend and found a quiet room inhabited by dormant masses of sweaty flesh, not daring to move for fear of increased body heat, not speaking because everyone was just too goddamned tired of hearing how hot it was. The AM radio crackled and beat futilely, to no effect except perhaps to occupy dulled minds. Debra began sleeping in the living room downstairs where it was cooler soon after the wave began, and although he knew that was the real reason, his mind jumped to ridiculous conclusions about her being satisfied by a lover or something equally absurd. He hadn't said anything to that effect, though. Tempers were on edge as it was. Everyday you heard about somebody losing their cool and killing someone. But no one was surprised, everyone felt like killing someone now and then.

The wetbacks were laughing now, and their dismal truck sputtered and roared off reluctantly. The heat was so intense the air seemed to buzz. It was this buzzing that finally seduced him into a fitful semblance of sleep.

Morning drove away the darkness and its accompanying nightmares. Light hung on airborne dust, as if holding it in place. His eyes fluttered, and he rolled over, revealing his wet flesh, relishing the momentary coolness. He considered rising, but a tag of memory remained from the night's mental rompings. He concentrated, trying to draw it all back. It came slowly and then filled in, complete. He shuddered at the memory and felt sweat at the brief cool wind as it was sucked up by thirsty air. Once regained, he tried to dismiss the memory immediately, but like clothing and sheets, it stuck fast, unrelenting.

"Terry?" Debra stuck her head in the doorway. He focused on her briefly and then turned his attention to the ceiling. She was still beautiful, but he didn't dare look too closely at her now, fearing the sight of her wet
hair and clinging gauze shirt. There was enough to be uncomfortable about without dealing with Eros. "What?"

"I spent the rest of your advance."

"He didn't reply. He just closed his eyes and held his hand over his forehead, wondering why he always felt dirty.

"There was a man with a white truck, down on Burman." She continued hopefully, "He was selling ice. It's the black market, so it was . . . expensive," biting her lip.

There was a lot of flame. A blinding, white fire that seemed more purifying than destructive. The dream burned in his head like fever.

" . . . so, I put the ice in the chest and bought some Michelob. I wiped all the bottles clean, so that after the cold beer is gone, we'll have clean ice water to drink." She emphasized the words cold and Ice, hoping to elicit a reaction, but prepared to take up the defensive should Terry suddenly enrage.

Finally, the blaze diminished, leaving in its stead a white hot coal which eventually turned red, then black, and then faded as a cinder. "How much did you spend?"

"I got a cubic foot block for, ah, seventy dollars."

"So we have sixteen more."

"Well, yes, but we have to eat until..."

He looked at her now, surveying her as one would eye a little girl who knew she had been naughty.

"How much gas do we have?"

"A quarter tank." She paused, "Why?"

"Go ahead and put the cooler in the back seat. Let's go for a drive."

"You're not angry?"

He sat up, wiping his face on the rumpled sheet. "No. Let's put that sixteen dollars in the tank and just drive."

She was relieved, and noticeably so. She did not think about how they

would eat tomorrow, or even that there might be a tomorrow.She had
succumbed to a satisfaction of the moment and rushed away to make preparations.

Terry closed his eyes for a moment; but either light or heat still burned his vision, and slowly he delivered himself Into the hands of day.

It was a difficult thing to keep one's eyes on the road. Terry's head swam in the genesis of pain. His eyes squinting at the ever-shifting pavement. Waves of illusion rose from the black stretch of highway, shifting like smoke, swimming like steam. His eyes were wont to look away, at the city rushing by them, but having more than once been brought back to reality by the thucka-thucka of the safety dots set in the cement, his attention was unshakable.

Debra reached into the back seat and drew a beer from the cooler. Its surface was like ice. She rolled it between her palms, relishing the chill with almost orgasmic intensity. She rolled the bottle over her forehead, and then around her neck. Then she started giggling.

Terry tensed, suddenly shocked at himself. He had forgotten her giggle; it had been years. He checked his smile, suppressing in himself the sort of mutual joy he had always longed to share with this woman. His pride forbade him this thing for which he had been so startled. He bit his lip with this realization and turned his suppressions toward his emotions. His lip was bleeding now, and his eyes swam more than the pavement.

"Terry?" She had leaned back to get another bottle. This, she placed timidly on his neck. "Something wrong?"

"No." He wiped his eyes, noticing his nose was running, too. "Just, ah, thinking. That feels . . . wonderful."

She took a Kleenex and wiped his lip, wet with blood and sweat. hands clutched the wheel in a white hot fervor.

Why are you suddenly being nice to me? he screamed silently. She had not displayed the slightest affection for him since her disillusionment. Her complete change in character and the dream had succeeded in distorting any semblance of rational thought. He suddenly appeared to be with a woman that loved him in the middle of a world driven mad.

"Where are we going?" she asked, opening this bottle and wedging it between his legs. His shorts had rolled up, exposing his pink thighs to the
arctic surface of the brown bottle. Involuntarily aroused, he squirmed, uncomfortable with yet another variable with which to deal.

"Away." He toyed with this ambiguity, and realizing its injustice, added, "...from other people. I . . . I wanted to be alone with you." When they began, he had wanted to be away from her too, but now. . . .

"I need to sort things out, Deb. I need to talk, clean out my mind."

She took a drink and swallowed against the ley acid sting of the beer. "So talk."

She put her hand on his leg. This disturbed him, but he grabbed and held on as if it were his salvation.

"I want you to know that I'm very sorry . . . that I am not what you wanted me to be. I-I never understood why you were so cold to me. I'm not a French lover who seduces beautiful women into an enchanted life. I never pretended to be." He stopped, brushing his eyes out with his fingers. "Well, I might have pretended sometimes, but I never tried to deceive you-you, oh God. . ."

He trailed off, but she squeezed his hand, looking down at It. "Deb, I-I'm a dreamer-I chronicle dreams. I don't have an estate; I'm not very romantic; I'm not a good lover. But I loved you-God, I loved you! " He was yelling now and had let the car roll to a stop in the middle of the freeway. Now and then another auto would cruise past, but Terry was immersed In despair and took no notice. His tears fell freely as he resigned his mask. He had nothing to display now but his own true, terrible self, and it tore at his heart.

Minutes passed like hours, the heat drying the tears almost instantly. Terry relaxed and looked up. Debra's eyes, too, were red and drained. Her lips were set against the emotion, and when she met his eyes, she said, "Could you, please-could you . . . love me, again?"

New tears burst forth, first from her eyes, and then from his. They embraced one another as if the world would end and wept until they were dry. They had no thought for heat, their bodies a single living unit; any sweat between them was just so much blood; any clothing, just organs functioning within their unity. Finally, they opened the doors of the car and got out. Armed with fresh bottles, they stood outside In the sun's withering light, as if they had been underground for a hundred years and were just now seeing its rays again. Debra watched as Terry pulled a blanket from the back. He spread it out atop the station wagon and leapt upon it. Smiling, he offered her his hand and pulled her up beside him.

No cars had passed for some time, and the sun had begun its long descent. Terry had his arm around his wife, and she rested her head In the shape of his frame. He looked at her face, cradled in his lap, and laughed. "Just a dreamer," he mumbled. "What?" She opened her eyes and caressed his arm. "Sit up, dear. It has begun." She sat up, confused. He took her chin in his hand and moved It toward his own. he said.

"I love you,"

Just then, there was a lot of flame. A blinding white fire that seemed more purifying than destructive. Finally, the blaze diminished, leaving In Its stead a white hot coal which eventually turned red, then black, and then faded as a cinder.