Reprisal (33 page)

"I see," Joanna said, because she thought she should say something.

"Went out to the lake again that evening, and had a talk with the fire people.

And they just do not have evidence of arson.--Checked on the stain. Their opinion, it was a drink of some kind spilled the evening of the fire, or a glass of water thrown on the fire. There was no residue of any flammable usual in arson cases."

"I really appreciate ... I really appreciate your doing all that." Joanna wished she had a radio in the kitchen. Early probably wouldn't mind if she turned on a radio while he was talking, kept it low.

The old man looked down at his folded hands. "Am I helping you here, or hurting you?"

"Neither one," Joanna said, and smiled so he wouldn't feel she was ungrateful.

"I don't know why--but it doesn't hurt and it doesn't help. I suppose that's strange. ..."

"Well, then I went over to White River, yesterday. ..." The chief stopped, sat uneasy as a child unsure his tale of yesterday's adventures was welcome.

"Yes?"

"I can ... I can just send you a written report of all this stuff."

"No, Chief--go ahead. It really doesn't bother me that much."

"Okay ..." The chief began to speak faster, apparently anxious to be done--and seemed to edit for brevity as he talked. "... Went over to White River yesterday, and talked with the town police, a Lieutenant di Simone--just checking whether they'd had a complaint filed on some student or person bothering girls, threatening people on campus. Stalking girls, and so forth.

... Last complaint was over a year ago, no reference at all to your daughter."

Early cleared his throat, refolded his hands, left over right. "I then spoke to the college security people--seemed to know their business--and they also had no current report of any harassment, strangers on campus, students being too aggressive with girls, and so forth. Last case of that was two years before--Egyptian boy, just come over here, was bothering a girl, sending letters to her and so forth."

"Ab Nouri."

"That's right! That's the boy."

"I remember that. I don't think he was really dangerous."

"... So, campus police had nothing current, nothing referring to your daughter. No evidence whatsoever of anything but suicide. --And I spoke to two of her instructors. They hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, except her being much quieter, obviously very upset over losing her dad." Early paused, looked up at Joanna. "I'm almost done."

"No, go ahead, Chief."

He drew a deep breath. "... And I did check with some students, summer students. Spoke to kids in her dormitory--definite odor of pot smoke, by the way. I don't think they even go after the kids for that, now. Just let them smoke that stuff and the hell with it." He shook his head. "--Anyway, talked to a couple of friends of hers. Talked to her roommate. And everybody pretty much agreed your girl was badly shocked by her dad's death--and then her grandfather on top of that apparently hit her real hard. ... Friends were still surprised at what happened, hadn't realized she was ... so upset.--Well." The old man pushed his chair back, and stood up. "Well, fact of the matter is, all of this comes out just like it did before. Two terrible accidents, one right after another--and more than a real sensitive girl like yours could take."

"Yes. ..."

Early went to the kitchen door, seemed anxious to be gone. "--Young girls, young women are delicate that age, they bruise so easy. I had a girl myself, then a granddaughter. You catch them one way, they're strong as iron. Catch them another ... if they're already troubled, some female stuff bothering them--and they break."

Joanna tried to think of something to say, but she couldn't.

"So ... so I'll be on my way. I'm sorry to have brought all this up again, but I thought you should know we went back and double-checked everything, just in case."

"I do appreciate that, Mr. Early.--And remember to thank Mrs. Early for the banana bread."

"Will do."

"... Good-bye." Joanna watched the old man go out the door--relieved to be going--and down the steps to the backyard. He'd wrinkled his suit jacket, sitting down. Early's age, concealed by his neat movements when seated and stable, was betrayed in the almost tentative way he'd descended the steps ...

the slight hesitation for balance down each riser.

She watched his handsome head--white hair gilded faint gold by the sun--as it passed the kitchen window ... then listened to his footsteps along the drive.

A few moments later, she heard his car's engine starting in the street.

Joanna sighed with great relief--and to avoid any recalling of what he'd said, all reminders, she picked the small paring knife up from the counter, and stuck it ... pushed it through the skin and down into the muscle of her left forearm. Dull-pointed, it didn't want to go in--but she made it, and a blurt of blood came out as if it had been waiting, then ran down to her wrist.

It was a sickening feeling, but so specific-and the blood so bright, even in the kitchen's shadows --that it left little room for remembering. Even less, when she tugged the paring knife free and dropped it in the sink. ... How dreadful, when men had fought with edged weapons. How personal an invasion, when the steel went in. ... Tom Lowell had felt that when she'd stabbed him.

Now, they both had sore arms.

She stood holding the wound out to bleed in the sink. It was a small steady welling flow--not broken jets of blood coming--so she'd only stabbed through muscle and little veins, not sliced an artery. But it had helped tremendously, though anyone watching wouldn't think so. It was keeping everything in three dimensions ... instead of flattening to two, like folded pieces of paper.

Joanna let the cut bleed awhile under running cold water. It hurt and felt pleasant at the same time. There was gauze, medical tape, and antibiotic ointment in the upstairs bathroom cabinet, but she didn't want to go up there.

The kitchen was far enough into the house, where those other people used to be.

She dried her arm, and wrapped it tightly with a clean dish towel--the second dish towel used as a bandage in her kitchen. She wondered if it had felt good at all to Captain Lowell, when he'd been injured. ... Probably not.

And since she was in the kitchen, Joanna felt she might as well eat some banana bread, and drink a lot of water. She opened the wrapping, and cut a piece of banana bread. When she picked that up to eat, she saw a slight smear of blood on it from the paring knife, but she ate it anyway, since the blood was hers. She chewed that piece, swallowed it, and drank three glasses of water at the sink.

Then she was very reluctant to go to the bathroom, even though the first-floor toilet was just off the hall. She was reluctant, but she did it, and was surprised to see what she looked like in the bathroom mirror.

She came back through the kitchen, and went out into the backyard. Outside seemed where people should spend most of their time. ...

Joanna gardened through the long hours of the day, weeding, clearing beds, her wrapped dish towel marked maroon with drying blood. She slowly worked her way, troweling and uprooting, crawling across the yard and back again, hands raw and aching, sore arm very sore. She wove through passing time, and only paused now and then to lie still and rest awhile, before resuming.

The sunset, after so long a time of light and heat, came as great relief ...

and weary, reluctant to go inside just for banana bread, Joanna wrapped herself in her blanket, lay down in the grass, and went to sleep.

"What are you doing? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Joanna first thought she was dreaming, then was roughly shaken.

"What the fuck are you doing out here?" Rage in a woman's voice. "Get up! Get the fuck UP!"

Her sheltering blanket was pulled away to morning light, and Joanna saw a gold-and-ivory Medusan mask--fury--and Charis hauled her up to her feet and shook her. Strong girl. ...

"I've been sleeping outside," Joanna said, still waking in that grip. "It's

... it just felt better."

"You get in--you get in here!" And Charis, an angry mother with a foolish child, chivvied Joanna across the yard and into the house.

"... Charis, I'm glad you could come back," she said a while later.

No response from a girl pale with anger, lean and beautiful in gray slacks and a man's white dress shirt. The kitchen table was cluttered with scissors, bandage tape, ointment, gauze pads, and hydrogen peroxide.

"Exams went okay ...?"

Charis had nothing to say. Her hands spoke for her, mopping crusted old blood away, squeezing new blood running from the cut ... then wiping that with cool peroxide.

"Strong hands," Joanna said, pleased to be done to, even hurt. "Have you ever done any climbing, caving?"

"No caving." Her first words in some time. "--But I know you do that."

"Well, if you're not claustrophobic ... and not afraid of the dark or falling, you might try it."

"I've rock climbed. Last summer I worked five-two leads in the Shawangunks."

"Then you can come caving with me! If you want to. When I'm better."--Joanna considered what she'd just said. When I'm better. Which must mean she wasn't better now. ...

"If this gets infected, we'll have to go to a doctor. It's deep."

"Accident," Joanna said. "I was prying up a can lid, and the knife slipped."

"That's a lie," Charis said. "Don't lie to me."

"... Okay. I did it because it kept me from thinking about things. Chief Early was here, and he went over everything, and there was nothing new. ... He said he talked to you."

"The old guy? He talked to everybody. ... Must have been great-looking when he was young."

"He is handsome."

Charis finished with Joanna's forearm--handling it gently now--placing the gauze pad, taping it, then bandaging lightly, neatly over that. ... She finished, and sat holding Joanna's hand. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me."

"You hungry--ready for breakfast?"

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Good." Charis stood up. "Why don't you go take a shower, and wash your hair.--Try to keep this bandage dry; if you can't, we'll just do it again. ...

Breakfast'll be ready when you are."

"I don't ... I don't really need--"

"Joanna, you need a shower. You need to wash your hair.--What is it? Don't you want to go upstairs?"

"I can go upstairs. ..."

"Then come on." And as if Joanna were a stranger, unfamiliar with the house and reluctant, Charis led her out of the kitchen, encouraged her up the hall to the staircase ... then went up behind her, insisting.

In the bedroom, she helped Joanna out of her dirt-caked trousers and sweated shirt ... sat her down on the edge of the bed to tug off old sneakers and soiled socks. Then she offered her arm for balance as Joanna stood to step out of her panties.

Naked, Joanna put her hand up to cover the scar where her breast had been. "I know I look terrible. ..."

"You don't look terrible; you have a beautiful body.--You look dirty." Charis went into the bathroom, started the shower--tested the water for heat --and folded a clean towel and Joanna's robe on the little white stool.

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me, Joanna.-Don't forget to do your nails."

"I was gardening."

"I saw you've been gardening. ..."

Joanna came downstairs into mingling odors of coffee, frying bacon, and buttered toast.

Charis was at the stove, forking the bacon strips over in the big iron skillet. She was cooking a lot of bacon.

"Good morning--now you look great."

"Good morning." Great apparently resulting from the shower, washed hair and clean nails, along with moccasins, old khakis, and a short-sleeved plaid summer shirt.

"I had to make a quick breakfast-stuff run into town. We can make a list, do the main shopping this afternoon."

"Okay." Joanna sat at the kitchen table, both uneasy and pleased with such energetic company.

"I know this is really nutritionally incorrect, but I think we need it."

Charis transferred the bacon--eight strips, fat and smoking--onto a plate. And cracking their shells in swift succession, dropped four eggs hissing into the pan. "Got toast going, too--regular, not cinnamon. Butter already on them."

"Yes," Joanna said, amused by how difficult it would have been to say even an unimportant no to the young woman at the stove, radiating light through a faint haze of smoking grease. The house seemed bearable now, filled, vibrating to this handsome creature ... a distraction offering greater relief than the paring knife had given her.

Charis leaned over the skillet, harassing her eggs as they cooked, poking them into conformity with a steel spatula. She stared down, intent, gave them a few moments more, then ran the spatula under them and served two onto each plate--swift movements--divided the bacon slices four and four, and brought the plates to the table. Then to the oven for four slices of toast--each with yellow spots of melted butter--and back to the stove to pour the coffee.

The coffee mugs came to the table, and Charis sat down, salted and peppered her food, and began to eat.

Joanna recognized the energy and task-concentration, the pleasure in a produced result. It was the way she worked ... when she worked. It was the way she'd handled classwork and grading papers--the way poems came to her, the ideas like stray puppies to be taken in.

"Charis, your classes ...."

"I'm doing papers for them, instead. Professors have agreed I can do that, so everything's okay.--Now, you eat."

Joanna broke the yolk of her first egg with a corner of toast, caught some sunny spill on it, and ate the piece runny. Started with a bite of bacon, then slowly chewed it all, greasing, oiling her throat for more eating, for the rhythms of eating.

Halfway through her breakfast--still an egg left, almost a whole piece of toast and two strips of bacon--Joanna glanced up and saw Charis looking at her, watching her with pleased affection.