An Emergence of Green (26 page)

Jerry Robinson took a rapid stride backward. “Uh, Brother is everything…I uh, heard uh—” He was staring at Paul’s cheek. “I mean all these weirdos around, uh—God, the things you hear—”

Paul brushed at his cheek, saw a faint smear of blood on his palm.
Carolyn…Carolyn…did I…

“None of my business, didn’t mean to disturb but I never knew you two to—” Jerry Robinson backed down the steps. “Forget the car, I’ll—”

Paul threw the door closed, ran back into the bedroom.

The bed was empty. He staggered, faint with relief; then looked wildly around. Where was she? He glanced in the bathroom, then ran into the living room. She was in the house—somewhere, hiding from him.

The drapes over the glass door to the backyard were swaying. He hesitated. Had the door been open when he first came into the house? She often left it open…Were the swaying drapes from the breeze or—

He jerked the drapes aside and ran into the yard. It was empty…But she could have gone out the gate and down the path alongside the house…Her instinct would be to run but she couldn’t be far.

He raced into the house, into the bedroom. The sight of green silk shreds scattered over the bed and carpet filled him with sick dread.

Christ, she must have run out of the gate while Jerry was here.
She was out in the neighborhood half naked. Jerry
saw blood…Christ, let me find her.

Yanking his keys from his pocket he ran for the garage, flinging the front door shut behind him. As the electronic garage door slowly rose, as he backed the Buick down the driveway, he glimpsed Jerry Robinson on the Robinsons’ front lawn. Rolling down the electric window on the passenger’s side he yelled, “You see Carolyn?”

Jerry gaped at him, his face pale.

An idiot, the man was a fucking moron. All this was his fucking fault, if he hadn’t rented that fucking guest house…He backed out with a squeal of tires.

He cruised slowly down the block, turned at the corner, cursing in his impatience, his anxiety, straining for any sign of a moving figure. She could be anywhere, behind any tree or shrub, in someone’s backyard…Maybe she’d already run into someone’s house or found someone to pick her up. All he could do was look, and hope. If he couldn’t find her in the next few minutes he might as well go home and wait for the police, wait for the whole goddamn fucking world to come to an end.

She regained consciousness hearing Paul’s voice in the living room. Groggily, she sat up, rose weakly and painfully to her feet, struggling to pull up her pants.

She had to get out, get away…She heard the front door slam. He was coming back.

She fled into the bathroom, stepped behind the door, flattened herself into the wall, squeezed her eyes shut as he came toward her and into the room. She heard the thud of his footsteps running into the living room.

Sidling out from behind the door she decided she would make a run for it, get past him and out on the street. She heard his footsteps again, coming toward her, and she retreated again.

There was a jingling sound: keys. And his footsteps running into the living room, the slam of the front door.

He thinks I’ve left.

She was out of the bathroom, pulling a sweater from a drawer. She heard his car start. She ran into the living room, seizing her purse as she fled out the patio door. Hearing his car roar down the driveway she let herself into the garage from the backyard door.

He would look for her on the street and soon know she was here. He would he back. She had to get away now, get away from him...

She pulled the sweater down over her head, jamming her arms into the sleeves. With one shaking hand supporting the other she unlocked the car, inserted the key into the ignition. She hacked out heedlessly, striking the garage door that was slowly descending after Paul’s departure, and skidded off the driveway into the Robinsons’ front yard. She glimpsed Jerry Robinson’s stupefied face, saw him dash across his yard as if she were coming after him. Reaching the street, she straightened the car and floored the accelerator, the tires spinning and shrieking, the smell of burned rubber in her nostrils. She careened around the corner, braked sharply at the sight of slow-moving taillights. Twisting the wheel violently to turn around, she skidded across the intersection. The car behind her had stopped, was beginning to turn; it was Paul’s gray Buick. Again she floored the accelerator. The car leaped ahead on the empty street.

She sped up and down streets devoid of traffic on this early Sunday evening, too terrified to look in the rearview mirror, zigzagging erratically until her vision was caught by a green freeway sign. She roared up the on-ramp, knowing that other cars were her best concealment. Finding the courage to look in the rearview mirror, she drove an outside lane of the Ventura Freeway, exiting several miles later.

Taking a circuitous route, she drove to Val’s flat, circled the block, parked two blocks away.

Glancing fearfully around for any sign of Paul or his car, she walked the two blocks.

Val answered her knock. Carolyn stepped over the threshold and collapsed.

Val stood frozen over the crumpled body. Neal spoke in an awed voice, words she did not hear; but the sound impelled her to action. She fell to her knees, cradled Carolyn’s head. “Carrie,” she whispered through her terror.

She pressed her fingers to the side of Carolyn’s neck; the pulse was faint and rapid. Carolyn’s face shone with perspiration. Her eyes fluttered open. They were dull, unfocused.

“Ma,” Neal said, “should I call the paramedics?”

“No.” Carolyn’s voice was weak, but she reached out to him. “No honey, don’t do that. I’m okay, honest.”

She struggled to get up. Val supported her, then lifted her into her arms, feeling dampness in the clothing. She noticed that the pants and sweater were badly mismatched—pink with deep green.

“Bring some hand towels,” she instructed Neal as she carried Carolyn into the bedroom. “Wring one out in cold water.”

She lay Carolyn on the bed, sat beside her. “Carrie,” she said, her dread huge and shapeless, “what did he do?”

Carolyn looked at her in seeming incomprehension. There were rounded patches of redness on her cheekbones, as if from a fever. Val said, “I’m taking you to a hospital.”

Carolyn clutched at her. “No. No, Val.”

Neal came in with the towels. “You sure you’re okay, Carolyn?” Carolyn whispered, “Now that I’m here I’ll be fine.” She smiled weakly at him.

Feeling a small degree of relief, Val gently patted Carolyn’s face dry. “Honey,” she said to Neal, “would you leave me alone with Carolyn for a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

Carolyn’s face had again beaded over with perspiration. Her breathing was shallow; Val could see the rapid pulse beat in her throat.

“Carrie, tell me what he did.”

Carolyn turned her face away. “Just let me stay here,” she whispered, taking Val’s hand in both of hers.

The hands were clammy. Val said, “You’re cold; you’re soaking wet. I’m putting you to bed.”

From the dresser she removed flannel pajamas she kept for camping trips. Supporting Carolyn with an arm, she pulled the sweater over her head, and with a lurching sensation saw that Carolyn’s bra was twisted up around her shoulders and the shoulders were darkly latticed with bruises.

Carefully, she unfastened and pulled off Carolyn’s pants, her panties. There were red welts merging with the dark hues of bruises in a patchwork over her hips and thighs.

Gingerly, Val dressed her in the pajamas. Dampness quickly permeated the flannel. Val pulled the blanket up, sat beside her. She took Carolyn’s head in her hands. The red marks on the cheeks, she saw, had a purplish tinge. “You told Paul,” she said quietly.

Carolyn closed her eyes.

Val said, “This is what he did.”

Tears leaked from the closed eyes.

“Carrie.” She succeeded in controlling her voice. “Something could be broken. You could be bleeding inside. I’m taking you to a hospital.”

Carolyn’s hands flew out from under the covers to clutch at her. “Please no. I know I’m okay. I can tell. Please, just let me stay here with you.”

“Don’t worry,” Val said in profound anguish, “you’ll be staying with me.” Afraid to touch Carolyn’s body, afraid she might hurt her, Val again cradled her head and murmured endearments to her, seeing the tension in her face subtly diminish; but when she tried to get up from the bed Carolyn pulled her back. Val whispered, “Let me see about Neal a moment.”

In the living room she said softly to Neal, “Go in and watch her. Tell her I’ve gone to the bathroom if she asks. I need to make a quick phone call.”

She dialed Alix’s number. She said without preamble, “It’s Val and I need help. I have someone here; she’s hurt. She won’t let me take her to a hospital—”

“What happened?” Alix asked in a quiet voice. “Is she badly hurt?”

“God, Alix, I think he—” Val’s voice broke. “Can you just come over?”

“I’ll try to do better than that. Be there as soon as I can.” Alix hung up.

Val shuddered, buried her face in her hands. She straightened, cleared her throat, rubbed her face vigorously. She dialed Marion Berman in the pink apartment building across the street, with whom she had arranged reciprocal child care. She spoke briefly, thanked her, hung up. “Neal, honey,” she called, “come here, will you?”

She took him into the kitchen. “I want you to take yourself and your homework over to Mrs. Berman’s and bunk with Marty tonight.”

Neal said softly, “Carolyn…he hurt her, didn’t he?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she said, “he did.” She looked into his serious, intelligent eyes.

“Ma,” he said, “let’s not let her go back…to that Frankenstein.”

In spite of herself she grinned. “Okay. But I need to see about her, what needs to be done to have her stay with us. Now get out of here. Be back first thing in the morning, and I do mean first thing or your name will be Munchkin.”

He bowed. “Yes, oh great and powerful Oz.”

Carolyn’s face was pale, shiny with moisture; she appeared to be dozing. Val smoothed damp hair from her forehead, sat beside the bed, and waited for Alix to arrive from West Hollywood.

Forty-five minutes later, as she was directing silent but continuous curses at Alix, there was a knock at the door.

Alix introduced the woman accompanying her. Short and fat, with iron gray hair, Irene Donovan appeared to be in her early fifties. She wore shapeless gold corduroy trousers, a brown plaid shirt, and the formidably competent manner of an operating room nurse.

“Fortunately Irene was off duty,” Alix said. “Unfortunately she had three friends over for dinner. They’re now cooking their own dinner.”

“I’m truly sorry,” Val said, “but I’m grateful.”

Irene shrugged. “It’s happened before.” She spoke in a breathy baritone. “What’s the problem, as if I couldn’t guess.”

Val gestured to the bedroom door. “Her husband…she won’t talk about what he did to her.”

Irene shrugged again. “Typical. It’s a defense mechanism, Val. All I can do is look at her. See what the situation is.”

“That’s all I ask. I need to know if she belongs in a hospital.”

“Even if she does you can’t make her go,” Alix said. “You can’t make her do anything.”

“In our free country,” Irene said wryly, “you can be as crazy as you want to be.”

“I’ll make her go,” Val said quietly. “If she needs to be there I’ll make her go. Irene, give me a minute with her. To tell her you’re here.”

Heedless of the women watching from the doorway, Val leaned down and touched her cheek lightly to Carolyn’s. She felt Carolyn’s arms slide around her. “Irene is here. She’s a nurse, Carrie, a friend. I want you to let her look at you.”

“No.” Carolyn pushed Val away and shook her head, wincing with the effort. “I told you I’m okay.”

“Carrie, you have to do this, I have to know you’re all right—how to take care of you. Otherwise I have no choice, I’ll take you to a hospital. Trust me, Carrie dearest, do this for me.”

Carolyn’s arms fell away; she lay with her eyes closed. Val rose and nodded to Irene. Alix, standing with her hands on her slim bluejeaned hips, stared at Val with perceptive blue-green eyes.

Irene picked up Carolyn’s wrist, scowled at the watch on her own plump wrist. She removed the pillow from under Carolyn’s head, pulled the covers down, folded the pillow and slid it under Carolyn’s feet. She felt Carolyn’s forehead, then knelt on the bed; it creaked alarmingly under her bulk. She lifted the flannel top and curved large, blunt-fingered hands over Carolyn’s rib cage.

“Breathe, sweetie.” She pressed her ear to Carolyn’s chest. “Again, sweetie, deeper. Good. Once more now.” She addressed Val and Alix. “I’m taking the pajamas off now, why don’t you—”

“Val,” Carolyn pleaded, “don’t leave me.”

“So stay,” Irene said to Val, “since she wants you here.”

Alix slid an arm around Val, quickly released her. “I’ll go get a glass of water.” She sauntered off, the heels of her boots resounding on the wood floor.