Strangers (30 page)

“Sure. I guess he felt for a pulse…then checked around to see where the bleeding was coming from.”

“Well, did you feel anything…anything unusual when he touched you…anything odd?” Stefan asked carefully, frustrated by the need to be vague.

“I don’t seem to be following your line of thought, Father.”

Stefan Wycazik shook his head. “Never mind. The important thing is that you’re well.” He glanced at his watch and, feigning surprise, said, “Good heavens, I’m late for an appointment.” Before they could respond, he snatched his hat from the chair, wished them godspeed, and hurried out, no doubt leaving them astonished by his behavior.

When people saw Father Wycazik walking toward them, they were usually reminded of drill sergeants or football coaches. His solid body and the self-confident, aggressive way he used it were not what one expected of a priest. And when he was in a hurry, he was not so much like a drill sergeant or a football coach as he was like a
tank.

From Tolk’s room, Father Wycazik blitzed down the hall, shoved through a pair of heavy swinging doors, then through another pair, into the intensive care unit, where the wounded policeman had been until just an hour ago. He asked to speak to the physician on duty, Dr. Royce Albright. With the hope that God would forgive a few little white lies told in a good cause, Stefan identified himself as the Tolk family’s priest and implied that Mrs. Tolk had sent him to get the full story of her husband’s condition, about which she was not yet entirely clear.

Dr. Albright looked like Jerry Lewis and had a deep rumbling voice like Henry Kissinger, which was disconcerting, but he was willing to answer whatever questions Father Wycazik wished to pose. He was not Winton Tolk’s personal physician, but he was interested in the case. “You can assure Mrs. Tolk that there’s almost no danger of a setback. He’s coming along marvelously. Shot twice in the chest, point-blank, with a .38. Until yesterday, no one here would’ve believed that anyone could take two shots in the chest from a large-caliber handgun
and be out of intensive care in twenty-four hours!
Mr. Tolk is incredibly lucky.”

“The bullets missed the heart, then…and all vital organs?”

“Not only that,” Albright said, “but neither round did major damage to any veins or arteries. A .38-caliber slug has lots of punch, Father. Ordinarily, it chews up the victim. In Tolk’s case, one major artery and vein were nicked, but neither was severed. Very fortunate, indeed.”

“Then I suppose the bullet was stopped by bone at some point.”

“Deflected, yes, but not stopped. Both slugs were found in soft tissue. And that’s another amazing thing—no shattered bones, not even a small fracture. A
very
lucky man.”

Father Wycazik nodded. “When the two slugs were removed from his body, was there any indication they were underweight for .38-caliber ammunition?
I mean, maybe the cartridges were faulty, with too little lead in the bullets. That would explain why, even though it was a .38 revolver, the shots did less damage than a pair of .22s.”

Albright frowned. “Don’t know. Could be. You’d have to ask the police…or Dr. Sonneford, the surgeon who took the slugs out of Tolk.”

“I understand Officer Tolk lost a great deal of blood.”

Grimacing, Albright said, “Must be a mistake about that on his chart. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Dr. Sonneford today, it being Christmas, but according to the chart, Tolk received over four liters of whole blood in the operating room. Of course, that can’t be correct.”

“Why not?”

“Father, if Tolk actually lost four liters of blood before they got him to the hospital, there wouldn’t be enough in him to maintain even minimal circulation. He’d have been dead. Stone cold dead.”

Las Vegas, Nevada

Mary and Pete Monatella, Jorja’s parents, arrived at her apartment at six on Christmas morning, bleary-eyed and grumpy from too little sleep, but determined to take up their rightful posts by the brightly trimmed tree before Marcie awoke. Mary, as tall as Jorja, had once been almost as shapely as her daughter, too; now she was heavy, girdled. Pete was shorter than his wife, barrel-chested, a bantam rooster who seemed to strut when he walked but was one of the most self-effacing men Jorja had ever known. They came burdened with presents for their only grandchild.

They had a present for Jorja—plus the usual gifts they brought every time they visited: well-meant but annoying criticism, unwanted advice, guilt. Mary was hardly through the door before she announced that Jorja should clean the ventilation hood above the range, and she rummaged under the sink until she found a spray bottle of Windex and a rag, with which she performed the chore herself. She also observed that the tree looked underdecorated—“It needs more lights, Jorja!”—and when she saw how Marcie’s presents were wrapped, she professed despair. “My God, Jorja, the wrapping papers aren’t bright enough. The ribbons aren’t big enough. Little girls like bright papers with Santa Claus on them and lots of ribbons.”

For his part, her father was content to focus all of his discontent upon the huge tray of cookies on the kitchen counter. “These are all store-bought, Jorja. Didn’t you make any homemade cookies this year?”

“Well, Dad, I’ve been working a little overtime lately, and then there’re the classes I’m taking at UNLV, and—”

“I know it’s hard being a single mother, baby,” he said, “but we’re talking fundamentals here. Homemade cookies are one of the best parts of Christmas. It’s an absolute fundamental.”

“Fundamental,” Jorja’s mother agreed.

The Christmas spirit had been late in coming to Jorja this year, and even now she had a tenuous grip on it. Subject to her parents’ well-intentioned but infuriating nonstop commentary on her shortcomings, she might have lost the holiday mood altogether if Marcie had not put in a timely appearance at six-thirty, just after Jorja had slipped a fourteen-pound turkey into the oven for the big meal later in the day. The girl shuffled into the living room in her pajamas, as cute as any idealized child in a Norman Rockwell painting.

“Did Santa bring my Little Ms. Doctor kit?”

Pete said, “He brought you more than that, pumpkin. Look here! Just
look
at all Santa brought.”

Marcie turned and saw the tree—which “Santa” had put up during the night—and the mountain of gifts. She gasped. “Wow!”

The child’s excitement was transmitted to Jorja’s parents, and for the time being they forgot about such things as dusty ventilation hoods and store-bought cookies. For a while the apartment was filled with joyous, busy sounds.

But by the time Marcie had opened half her gifts, the celebratory mood began to change, and in crept a little of the darkness that would reappear in a far more frightening form later in the day. In a whiny voice that was out of character, the girl grumped that Santa had not remembered the Little Ms. Doctor kit. She discarded a much-wanted doll without even taking it out of its box, moving to the next package in the hope that it contained Little Ms. Doctor, clawing at the wrappings. Something in the child’s demeanor, a queerness in her eyes, disquieted Jorja. Soon Mary and Pete noticed it as well. They began urging Marcie to take more time with each present, to get more pleasure out of each before rushing on to the next, but their entreaties were not successful.

Jorja had not put the doctor play-kit under the tree; it was hidden in a closet as a final surprise. But with only three boxes left, Marcie was pale and trembling in anticipation of Little Ms. Doctor.

In God’s name, what was so important about it? Many of the toys already unwrapped were more expensive and more interesting than the play-doctor’s bag. Why was her attention so intently and unnaturally focused on that single item? Why was she so obsessed with it?

When the last of the gifts beneath the tree and the last of those from Mary and Pete were opened, Marcie let out a sob of purest misery. “Santa didn’t bring it! He forgot! He forgot!”

Considering all the wondrous presents strewn across the room, the girl’s despondency was shocking. Jorja was disconcerted and displeased by Marcie’s rudeness, and she saw that her own parents were startled, dismayed, and impatient with this unexpected and unjustified tantrum.

Suddenly afraid that Christmas was collapsing into ruins around her, Jorja ran to the bedroom closet, plucked the crucial gift from behind the shoe boxes, and returned to the living room with it.

With frenzied desperation, Marcie snatched the box from her mother.

“What’s gotten into the child?” Mary asked.

“Yeah,” Pete said, “what’s so important about this Little Doctor?”

Marcie tore frantically at the wrappings until she saw that the package contained the item she most desired. Immediately, she grew calm, stopped trembling. “Little Ms. Doctor. Santa didn’t forget!”

“Honey, maybe it’s not from Santa,” Jorja said. She was relieved to see the child she loved emerging from that strange and unpleasant mood. “Not all your gifts came from Santa. Better look at the tag.”

Marcie dutifully searched for the tag, read the few words on it, and looked up with an uncertain smile. “It’s from…Daddy.”

Jorja felt her parents’ staring at her, but she did not meet their eyes. They knew that Alan had gone off to Acapulco with his latest bimbo, the airhead blonde named Pepper, and that he had not bothered to leave so much as a card for Marcie, and they no doubt disapproved of Jorja letting him off the hook like this.

Later, when Jorja was in the kitchen, squatting in front of the oven, checking on the turkey, her mother stooped down beside her and said softly, “Why’d you do it, Jorja? Why’d you put that louse’s name on the gift she wanted most of all?”

Jorja slid the rack partway out of the oven, bringing the turkey into the light. With a ladle, she scooped the drippings from the pan and basted the roasting bird. Finally she said, “Marcie shouldn’t have her Christmas ruined just because her father’s a jackass.”

“You shouldn’t protect her from the truth,” Mary said quietly.

“The truth’s too ugly for a seven-year-old.”

“The sooner she knows what a louse her father is, the better. You know what your dad heard about this woman Alan’s living with?”

“I sure hope this bird’s going to be done by noon.”

Mary would not drop the subject. “She’s on the call list of two casinos, Jorja. That’s what Pete heard. You know what I mean? She’s a call girl. Alan’s living with a call girl. What’s
wrong
with him?”

Jorja closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Mary said, “Well, if he wants nothing to do with Marcie, that’s fine. God knows what diseases he’s picked up living with
that
woman.”

Jorja pushed the turkey back into the oven, closed the door, and stood up. “Could we not talk about this anymore?”

“I thought you’d want to know what the woman is.”

“So now I know.”

Their voices dropped lower, became more intense: “What if he comes around some day and says, ‘Pepper and I want Marcie to go to Acapulco with us,’ or Disneyland, or maybe just stay at their place for a while?”

Exasperated, Jorja said, “Mother, he doesn’t want anything to do with Marcie because she reminds him of his responsibilities.”

“But what if—”

“Mother, damn it!”

Although Jorja had not raised her voice, there was such anger in those three words that the effect on her mother was immediate. A hurt look crossed Mary’s face. Stung, she turned away from Jorja. She went quickly to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked over the contents of the overloaded shelves. “Oh, you made gnocchi.”

“Not store-bought,” Jorja said shakily. “Homemade.” She meant to be conciliatory, but she realized that her comment might be misconstrued as a snide reference to her father’s dismay over store-bought cookies. She bit her lip, and fought back scalding tears.

Still looking into the refrigerator, a tremor still in her voice, Mary said, “You’re going to have potatoes, too? And what’s this—oh, you’ve already grated the cabbage for coleslaw. I thought you’d need help, but I guess you’ve thought of everything.” She closed the refrigerator door and looked for something she could do to occupy her and get them through this awkward moment. Tears were visible in her eyes.

Jorja virtually flung herself away from the counter and threw her arms around her mother. Mary returned the hug, and for a while they clung to each other, finding speech both unnecessary and impossible.

Holding fast, Mary said, “I don’t know why I’m like this. My mother was the same with me. I swore I’d never be like this with you.”

“I love you just the way you are.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re my only. If I’d been able to have a couple others, I wouldn’t be so tough on you.”

“It’s partly my fault, Mom. I’ve been so touchy lately.”

“And why shouldn’t you be?” her mother said, holding her tight. “That louse walks out on you, you’re supporting yourself and Marcie, going to school.…You got every
right
to be touchy. We’re so proud of you, Jorja. It takes such courage to do what you’re doing.”

In the living room, Marcie began shrieking.

What now? Jorja wondered.

When she got to the living room archway, she saw her father trying to
persuade Marcie to play with a doll. “Look here,” Pete said, “dolly cries when you tilt her this way, giggles when you tilt her that way!”

“I don’t want to play with the dumb doll,” Marcie pouted. She was holding the make-believe plastic-and-rubber hypodermic syringe from the Little Ms. Doctor kit, and that unsettling intensity and urgency had taken possession of her again. “I want to give you another
shot.
”

“But honey,” Pete said, “you’ve already given me twenty shots.”

“I’ve got to practice,” Marcie said. “I’ll never grow up to be my own doctor if I don’t start practicing
now.
”

Pete looked at Jorja with exasperation.

Mary said, “What
is
it with this Little Ms. Doctor thing?”

“I wish I knew,” Jorja said.

Marcie grimaced as she pushed the plunger of the fake hypodermic. Perspiration glistened on her brow.