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The story broke two days after the parents’ meeting, and Palomo Grove – which had been rocked by Arleen’s disclosures, but not overturned – sustained an almost mortal blow. The Mad Girl’s Tale had made interesting reading for the UFO sighting and Cancer Cure crowd, but it was essentially a one-off. These new developments, however, touched a much more sensitive nerve. Here were four families whose solid, well-heeled lives had been shattered by a pact made by their own daughters. Was there some kind of cult involved, the press demanded to know? Was the anonymous father conceivably the same man, a seducer of young women whose very namelessness left endless room for speculation. And what of the Farrell child, who’d first blown the whistle on what was being called the League of Virgins? Had she been driven to more extreme behaviour than her friends because, as the Chronicle was the first to report, she was actually infertile? Or had the others yet to unburden themselves of their true excesses? This was a story that would run and run. It had everything: sex, possession, families in chaos, small-town bitchery, sex, insanity and sex. What was more, it could only get better from here.
As the pregnancies advanced the press could follow the progress. And with luck there’d be some startling pay-off. The children would be all triplets, or black, or born dead.
Oh, the possibilities!
III (#ulink_e044e508-097e-52ca-bf69-022ef877565b)
It was hushed at the centre of the storm; hushed and still. The girls heard the howls and accusations heaped on them from parents, press and peers alike, but weren’t much touched by them. The process that had begun in the lake continued on its own inevitable way, and they let it shape their minds as it had, and did, their bodies. They were calm as the lake was calm; their surface so placid the most violent attack upon it left not so much as a ripple.
Nor did they seek each other out during this time. Their interest in each other, and indeed in the outside world, dwindled to zero. All they cared to do was sit at home growing fuller, while controversy raged around them. That too, despite its early promise, dwindled as the months went by, and new scandals claimed the public’s attention. But the damage to the Grove’s equilibrium had been done. The League of Virgins had put the town on the Ventura County map in a fashion it would never have wished upon itself, but, given the fact, was determined to profit by. The Grove had more visitors that autumn than it had enjoyed since its creation, people determined to be able to boast that they’d visited that place; Crazyville; the place where girls made eyes at anything that moved if the Devil told them to.
There were other changes in the town, which were not so observable as the full bars and the bustling Mall. Behind closed doors the children of the Grove had to fight more vehemently for their privileges, as their parents, particularly the fathers of daughters, withdrew freedoms previously taken for granted. These domestic frays cracked several families, and broke some entirely. The alcohol intakes went up correspondingly; Marvin’s Food and Drug did exceptional business in hard liquor during October and November, the demand taking off into the stratosphere over the Christmas period, when, in addition to the usual festivities, incidents of drunkenness, adultery, wife-beating and exhibitionism turned Palomo Grove into a sinners’ paradise.
With the public holidays, and their private woundings, over, several families decided to move out of the Grove altogether, and a subtle reorganization of the town’s social structure began, as properties thought desirable – such as those in the Crescents (now marred by the Farrells’ presence) – fell in value, and were bought up by individuals who could never have dreamt of living in that neighbourhood the summer before.
So many consequences, from a battle in troubled waters.
That battle had not gone unwitnessed, of course. What William Witt had learned of secrecy in his short life as a voyeur proved invaluable as subsequent events unfolded. More than once he came close to telling somebody what he’d seen at the lake, but he resisted the temptation, knowing that the brief stardom he’d earn from it would have to be set against suspicion and possible punishment. Not only that; there was every chance he’d not even be believed. He kept the memory alive in his own head, however, by going back to where it had happened on a regular basis. In fact he’d returned there the day after it had all happened, to see if he could spot the occupants of the lake. But the water was already retreating. It had shrunk by perhaps a third overnight. After a week it had gone entirely, revealing a fissure in the ground which was evidently a point of access to the caves that ran beneath the town.
He wasn’t the only visitor to the spot. Once Arleen had unburdened herself of what had happened there that afternoon, countless sightseers came looking for the spot. The more perceptive amongst them quickly recognized it: the water had left the grass yellowed and dusted with dried silt. One or two even attempted to gain access to the caves, but the fissure presented a virtually straight drop with no ready means of descent. After a few days of fame the spot was left to itself and to William’s solitary visits. It gave him a strange satisfaction, going there, despite the fear he felt. A sense of complicity with the caves and their secret, not to mention the erotic frisson that came when he stood where he’d stood that day, and imagined again the nakedness of the bathers.
The fate of the girls didn’t much interest him. He read about them once in a while, and heard them talked about, but out of sight for William was pretty much out of mind. There were better things to watch. With the town in disarray he had much to spy on: casual seductions and abject slavery; furies; beatings; bloody-nosed farewells. One day, he thought, I’ll write all of this down. It’ll be called Witt’s Book, and everyone in it will know, when it’s published, that their secrets all belong to me.
When, on the infrequent occasions he did think of the girls’ present condition, it was thoughts of Arleen he favoured, simply because she was in a hospital where he couldn’t see her even if he wanted to, and his powerlessness, as for every voyeur, was a spur. She was sick in the head, he’d heard, and nobody quite knew why. She wanted men to come to her all the time, she wanted babies the way the others had babies, but she couldn’t and that was why she was sick. His curiosity concerning her died, however, when he overheard somebody report that the girl had lost all trace of her glamour.
‘She looks half dead’ was the way he’d heard it put. ‘Drugged and dead.’
After that, it was as if Arleen Farrell no longer existed, except as a beautiful vision, shedding her clothes on the edge of a silver lake. Of what that lake had done to her he cleansed his mind thoroughly.
Unfortunately the wombs of the quartet’s remaining members could not cast the experience and its consequence out except as a bawling reality, which new stage in the humiliation of Palomo Grove began on April 2nd, when the first of the League of Virgins gave birth.
Howard Ralph Katz was born to his eighteen-year-old mother Trudi at 3.46 am, by Caesarian section. He was frail, weighing a mere four pounds and two ounces when he first saw the light of the operating theatre. A child, it was agreed, who resembled his mother, for which his grandparents were duly grateful given that they had no clue as to the father. Howard had Trudi’s dark, deep-set eyes, and a spiral skull cap of brown hair, even at birth. Like his mother, who had also been premature, he had to fight for every breath during the first six days of his life, after which he strengthened quickly. On April 19th Trudi brought her son back to Palomo Grove, to nurse him in the place she knew best.
Two weeks after Howard Katz saw the light, the second of the League of Virgins gave birth. This time there was something more for the press to elaborate on than the production of a sickly baby boy. Joyce McGuire gave birth to twins, one of each, born within a minute of each other in a perfectly uncomplicated fashion. She named them Jo-Beth and Tommy-Ray, names she’d chosen (though she would never admit this, not to the end of her days) because they had two fathers: one in Randy Krentzman, one in the lake. Three, if she counted their Father in Heaven, though she feared he’d long passed her over in favour of less compatible souls.
Just over a week after the birth of the McGuire twins Carolyn also produced twins, boy and girl, but the boy was delivered dead. The girl, who was big-boned and strong, was named Linda. With her birth the saga of the League of Virgins seemed to have reached its natural conclusion. The funeral of Carolyn’s other child drew a small audience, but otherwise the four families were left alone. Too much alone in fact. Friends ceased to call; acquaintances denied ever having known them. The story of the League of Virgins had besmirched Palomo Grove’s good name, and despite the profit the town had earned from the scandal there was now a general desire to forget that the incident had ever occurred.
Pained by the rejection they sensed from every side the Katz family made plans to leave the Grove and return to Alan Katz’s home city, Chicago. They sold their home in late June to an out-of-towner who got a bargain, a fine property and a reputation in one fell swoop. The Katz family were gone two weeks later.
It proved to be good timing. Had they delayed their departure by a few more days they would have been caught up in the last tragedy of the League’s story. On the evening of July 26th the Hotchkiss family went out for a short while, leaving Carolyn at home with baby Linda. They stayed out longer than they intended, and it was well after midnight, and therefore the 27th, when they got back. Carolyn had celebrated the anniversary of her swim by smothering her daughter and taking her own life. She had left a suicide note, which explained, with the same chilling detachment the girl had used to talk of the San Andreas Fault, that Arleen Farrell’s story had been true all along. They had gone swimming. They had been attacked. To this day she did not know what by, but she had sensed its presence in her, and in the child, ever since, and it was evil. That was why she had smothered Linda. That was why she was now going to slit her wrists. Don’t judge me too harshly, she asked. I never wanted to hurt anybody in my life.
The letter was interpreted by the parents thus: that the girls had indeed been attacked and raped by somebody, and for reasons of their own had kept the identity of the culprit or culprits to themselves. With Carolyn dead, Arleen insane and Trudi gone to Chicago, it fell upon Joyce McGuire to tell the whole truth, without excision or addition, and to lay the story of the League of Virgins to rest.
At first, she refused. She couldn’t remember anything about that day, she claimed. The trauma had wiped the memory from her mind. Neither Hotchkiss or Farrell were content with that, however. They kept applying the pressure, through Joyce’s father. Dick McGuire was not a strong man, either in spirit or body, and his Church was wholly unsupportive in the matter, siding with the non-Mormons against the girl. The truth had to be told.
At last, to keep the brow-beaters from doing any more damage to her father than they already had, Joyce told. It made a strange scene. The six parents, plus Pastor John, who was the spiritual leader of the Mormon community in the Grove and its surrounds, were sitting in the McGuires’ dining room listening to the pale, thin girl whose hands went first to one cradle then to the other as she rocked her children to sleep telling, as she rocked, of their conception. First she warned her audience that they weren’t going to like what she was about to tell. Then she justified her warning with the telling. She gave them the whole story. The walk; the lake; the swim; the things that had fought over their bodies in the water; their escape; her passion for Randy Krentzman – whose family had been one of those to leave the Grove months before, presumably because he’d made a quiet confession of his own; the desire she’d shared with all the girls to get pregnant as efficiently as possible –
‘So Randy Krentzman was responsible for them all?’ Carolyn’s father said.
‘Him?’ she said. ‘He wasn’t capable.’
‘So who was?’
‘You promised to tell the whole story,’ the Pastor reminded her.
‘So I am,’ she replied. ‘As far as I know it. Randy Krentzman was my choice. We all know how Arleen went about it. I’m sure Carolyn found somebody different. And Trudi too. The fathers weren’t important, you see. They were just men.’
‘Are you saying the Devil is in you, child?’ the Pastor asked.
‘No.’
‘The children, then?’
‘No. No.’ She rocked both cradles now, one with each hand. ‘Jo-Beth and Tommy-Ray aren’t possessed. At least not the way you mean. They just aren’t Randy’s children. Maybe they’ve got some of his good looks …’ she allowed herself a tiny smile. ‘… I’d like that,’ she said. ‘Because he was so very handsome. But the spirit that made them is in the lake.’
‘There is no lake,’ Arleen’s father pointed out.
‘There was that day. And maybe there will be again, if it rains hard enough.’
‘Not if I can help it.’
Whether he entirely believed Joyce’s story or not Farrell was as good as his word. He and Hotchkiss rapidly raised sufficient donations from around town to have the entrance to the caves sealed up. Most of the contributors signed a cheque simply to get Farrell off their doorstep. Since his princess had lost her mind he had all the conversational skill of a ticking bomb.
In October, a few days short of fifteen months after the girls had first gone down to the water, the fissure was blocked with concrete. They would go there again, but not for many years.
Until then, the children of Palomo Grove could play in peace.
PART THREE (#ulink_43e78223-42b1-5dee-83b9-f8bf4179f319)
I (#ulink_bb356320-93e0-5d72-932d-e1523c0a5994)
Of the hundreds of erotic magazines and films which William Witt purchased as he grew to manhood over the next seventeen years, first by mail order then later taking trips into Los Angeles for that express purpose, his favourites were always those in which he was able to glimpse a life behind the camera. Sometimes the photographer – equipment and all – could be seen reflected in a mirror behind the performers. Sometimes the hand of a technician, or a fluffer – someone hired to keep the stars aroused between shots – would be caught on the edge of the frame, like the limb of a lover just exiled from the bed.
Such obvious errors were relatively rare. More frequent – and to William’s mind far more telling – were subtler signs of the reality behind the scene he was witnessing. The times when a performer, offered a multitude of sins and not certain which hole to pleasure next, glanced off camera for instruction; or when a leg was speedily shifted because the power behind the lens had yelled that it obscured the field of action.
At such times, when the fiction he was aroused by – which was not quite a fiction, because hard was hard, and could not be faked – William felt he understood Palomo Grove better. Something lived behind the life of the town, directing its daily processes with such selflessness no one but he knew it was there. And even he would forget. Months would go by, and he’d go about his business, which was real estate, forgetting the hidden hand. Then, like in the porno, he’d glimpse something. Maybe a look in the eye of one of the older residents, or a crack in the street, or water running down the Hill from an over-sprinkled lawn. Any of these were enough to make him remember the lake, and the League, and know that all the town seemed to be was a fiction (not quite a fiction, because flesh was flesh and could not be faked), and he was one of the performers in its strange story.
That story had proceeded without a drama to equal that of the League in the years since the sealing of the caves. Marked town though it was, the Grove prospered, and Witt with it. As Los Angeles grew in size and affluence towns out in the Simi Valley, the Grove amongst them, became dormitories for the metropolis. The price of the town’s real estate rose steeply in the late seventies, just about the time when William entered the business. It rose again, particularly in Windbluff, when several minor stars elected to take houses on the Hill, conferring on the locale a chic it had hitherto lacked. The biggest of the houses, a palatial residence with a panoramic view of the town, and the valley beyond, was bought by the comedian Buddy Vance, who at the time had the highest-rated TV show on any of the networks. A little lower down the hill the cowboy actor Raymond Cobb demolished a house and built on the spot his own sprawling ranch, complete with a pool in the shape of a sheriff’s badge. Between Vance’s house and Cobb’s lay a house entirely concealed by trees occupied by the silent star Helena Davis, who in her day had been the most gossiped-about actress in Hollywood. Now in her late seventies she was a complete recluse, which only fuelled rumours in the Grove whenever a young man appeared in town – always six foot, always blond – and declared himself a friend of Miss Davis. Their presence earned the house its nickname: Iniquity’s Den.
There were other imports from Los Angeles. A Health Club opened up in the Mall, and was quickly oversubscribed. The craze for Szechwan restaurants brought two such establishments, both sufficiently patronized to survive the competition. Style stores flourished, offering Deco, American Naive and simple kitsch. The demand for space was so heavy the Mall gained a second floor. Businesses which the Grove would never have supported in its early days were now indispensable. The pool supply store, the nail sculpture and tanning service, the karate school.
Once in a while, sitting waiting for a pedicure, or in the pet shop while the kids chose between three kinds of chinchilla, a newcomer might mention a rumour they’d heard about the town. Hadn’t something happened here, way back when? If there was a long-standing Grover in the vicinity the conversation would very quickly be steered into less controversial territory. Although a generation had grown up in the intervening years there was still a sense among the natives, as they liked to call themselves, that the League of Virgins was better forgotten.
There were some in the town, however, who would never be able to forget. William was one, of course. The others he still followed as they went about their lives. Joyce McGuire, a quiet, intensely religious woman who had brought up Tommy-Ray and Jo-Beth without the benefit of a husband. Her folks had moved to Florida some years back, leaving the house to their daughter and grandchildren. She was now virtually unseen beyond its walls. Hotchkiss, who had lost his wife to a lawyer from San Diego seventeen years her senior, and seemed never quite to have recovered from her desertion. The Farrell family, who had moved out of town to Thousand Oaks, only to find that their reputations had followed them. They’d eventually relocated to Louisiana, taking Arleen with them. She had never fully recovered. It was – William had heard – a good week if she strung more than ten words together. Jocelyn Farrell, her younger sister, had married and come back to live in Blue Spruce. He saw her on occasion, when she came to visit friends in town. The families were still very much part of the Grove’s history; yet though William was on nodding acquaintance with them all – the McGuires, Jim Hotchkiss, even Jocelyn Farrell – there was never a word exchanged between them.
There didn’t need to be. They all knew what they knew.
And knowing, lived in expectation.
II (#ulink_d3ceb083-1e84-5e42-8a47-76770f27171b)
i
The young man was virtually monochrome, his shoulder-length hair, which curled at his neck, black, his eyes as dark behind his round spectacles, his skin too white to be that of a Californian. His teeth were whiter still, though he seldom smiled. Didn’t do much speaking either, come to that. In company, he stammered.
Even the Pontiac Convertible he parked in the Mall was white, though its bodywork had been rusted by snow and salt from a dozen Chicago winters. It had got him across country, but there’d been a few close calls along the way. The time was coming when he was going to have to take it out into a field and shoot it. Meanwhile, if anyone needed evidence of a stranger in Palomo Grove they only had to cast their eye along the row of automobiles.
Or indeed, over him. He felt hopelessly out of place in his corduroys and his shabby jacket – (too long in the arms, too tight across the chest, like every jacket he’d ever bought). This was a town where they measured your worth by the name on your trainers. He didn’t wear trainers; he wore black leather lace-ups that he’d use day in, day out until they fell apart, whereupon he’d buy an identical pair. Out of place or not, he was here for a good reason, and the sooner he got about it the better he’d start feeling.
First, he needed directions. He selected a Frozen Yoghurt store as the emptiest along the row, and sauntered in. The welcome that met him from the other side of the counter was so warm he almost thought he’d been recognized.
‘Hi! How can I help you?’
‘I’m … new,’ he said. Dumb remark, he thought. ‘What I mean is, is there any place … any place I can buy a map?’
‘You mean of California?’
‘No. Palomo Grove,’ he said, keeping the sentences short. That way he stammered less.
The grin on the far side of the counter broadened.
‘Don’t need a map,’ it said. ‘The town’s not that big.’
‘OK. How about a hotel?’
‘Sure. Easy. There’s one real close. Or else there’s a new place, up in Stillbrook Village.’
‘Which is the cheapest?’
‘The Terrace. It’s just two minutes’ drive, round the back of the Mall.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
The smile he got in return said: everything’s perfect here. He could almost believe it too. The polished cars shone in the lot; the signs pointing him round to the back of the shopping centre gleamed; the motel facade – with another sign – Welcome to Palomo Grove, The Prosperous Haven – was as brightly painted as a Saturday morning cartoon. He was glad, when he’d secured a room, to pull down the blind against the daylight, and lurk a little.
The last stretch of the drive had left him weary, so he decided to perk his system up with some exercises and a shower. The machine, as he referred to his body, had been in a driver’s seat too long; it needed a working over. He warmed up with ten minutes of shadow sparrings, a combination of kicks and punches, followed by a favourite cocktail of specialized kicks: axe, jump crescent, spinning hook and jump spinning back kicks. As usual, what warmed up his muscles heated his mind. By the time he got to his leg-lifts and sit-ups he was ready to take on half of Palomo Grove to get an answer to the question he’d come here asking.
Which was: who is Howard Katz? Me wasn’t a good enough answer any more. Me was just the machine. He needed more information than that.
It was Wendy who’d asked the question, in that long night of debate which had ended in her leaving him.
‘I like you, Howie,’ she’d said. ‘But I can’t love you. And you know why? Because I don’t know you.’
‘You know what I am?’ Howie had replied. ‘A man with a hole in his middle.’
‘That’s a weird way to put it.’
‘It’s a weird way to feel.’
Weird, but true. Where others had some sense of themselves as people – ambition, opinion, religion – he just had this pitiful unfixedness. Those who liked him – Wendy, Richie, Lem – were patient with him. They waited through his stumblings and stammerings to hear what he had to say, and seemed to find some value in his comments. (You’re my holy fool, Lem had once told Howie; a remark which Howie was still pondering.) But to the rest of the world he was Katz the klutz. They didn’t bait him openly – he was too fit to be taken on hand to hand, even by heavyweights – but he knew what they said behind his back, and it always amounted to the same thing: Katz had a piece missing.
That Wendy had finally given up on him was too much to bear. Too hurt to show his face he’d brooded on the conversation for the best part of a week. Suddenly, the solution came clear. If there was any place on earth he’d understand the how and why of himself it was surely the town where he’d been born.
He raised the blind and looked out at the light. It was pearly; the air sweet-smelling. He couldn’t imagine why his mother would ever have left this pretty place for the bitter winter winds and smothering summers of Chicago. Now that she was dead (suddenly, in her sleep) he would have to solve that mystery for himself; and perhaps, in its solving, fill the hole that haunted the machine.
Just as she reached the front room, Momma called down from her room, her timing as faultless as ever.
‘Jo-Beth? Are you there? Jo-Beth?’
Always the same falling note in the voice, that seemed to warn: be loving to me now because I may not be here tomorrow. Perhaps not even the next hour.
‘Honey, are you still there?’
‘You know I am, Momma.’
‘Can I have a word?’
‘I’m late for work.’
‘Just a minute. Please. What’s a minute?’
‘I’m coming. Don’t get upset. I’m coming.’
Jo-Beth started upstairs. How many times a day did she cover this route? Her life was being counted out in stairs climbed and descended, climbed and descended.
‘What is it, Momma?’
Joyce McGuire lay in her usual position: on the sofa beside the open window, a pillow beneath her head. She didn’t look sick; but most of the time she was. The specialists came, and looked, and charged their fees, and left again shrugging. Nothing wrong physically, they said. Sound heart, sound lungs, sound spine. It’s between her ears she’s not so well. But that was news Momma didn’t want to hear. Momma had once known a girl who’d gone mad, and been hospitalized, and never come out again. That made her more afraid of madness than of anything. She wouldn’t have the word spoken in the house.
‘Will you have the Pastor call me?’ Joyce said. ‘Maybe he’ll come over tonight.’
‘He’s a very busy man, Momma.’
‘Not too busy for me,’ Joyce said. She was in her thirty-ninth year but she behaved like a woman twice that age. The slow way she raised her head from the pillow as if every inch was a triumph over gravity; the fluttering hands and eyelids; that perpetual sigh in her voice. She had cast herself as a movie consumptive, and would not be dissuaded from the role by mere medical opinion. She dressed for the role, in sickroom pastels; she let her hair, which was a rich brunette, grow long, not caring to fashion it or pin it up. She wore no trace of make-up, which further enhanced the impression of a woman tottering on the tip of the abyss. All in all, Jo-Beth was glad Momma no longer went out in public. People would talk. But that left her here, in the house, calling her daughter up and down the stairs. Up and down, up and down.
When, as now, Jo-Beth’s irritation reached screaming pitch she reminded herself that her mother had her reasons for this withdrawal. Life hadn’t been easy for an unmarried woman bringing up her children in a town as judgemental as the Grove. She’d earned her malady in censure and humiliation.
‘I’ll get Pastor John to call,’ Jo-Beth said. ‘Now listen, Momma, I’ve got to go.’
‘I know, honey, I know.’
Jo-Beth returned to the door, but Joyce called after her.
‘No kiss?’ she said.
‘Momma –’
‘You never miss kissing me.’
