He dozed fitfully, his sleep haunted by the leering, jeering faces of Bentley, Bucheck, Stanhope, Grossman and, most disturbingly, by the ghastly, grinning countenance of Flynn.
When he finally gave up the effort of trying to sleep and opened his eyes again, the window panes were a deep blue, tinged with pink along the top of the sash. He wondered if his mother could have come and gone while he was asleep. She had said she would be back to see him in the morning and, judging by the deepening blue of the sky, it was now approaching evening. He was not sure why, but suddenly he wanted to see her—to talk to her. It had been many years-longer than he could remember-since he had felt such a need. Communication between them had grown more sporadic and less meaningful almost from the discovery-early in his teens-that; except for a financial dependence; he was capable of ruling his own destiny. Although their relationship had remained always mutually respectful; and, occasionally, even compatible; in the last few years-largely because of the deteriorating situation with Marie-he had felt more and more constrained to say less and less of consequence to her. Their meetings-other than when Cassandra’s presence distracted them from their own concerns-had become stilted, strained and more awkwardly silent.
Now, uncharacteristically, a desire to re-kindle the flame of filial affection that he had thought had turned to ashes, flared to life again-and he lay hoping she would arrive soon before it flickered and died once more.
Dave returned bringing with him the intern-Harold Jefferson, a tall, handsome, mocha skinned young man-who had been instrumental in deterring Sally from carrying out Bent-ley’s orders for taking care of ‘little Wanda’. While he self-effacingly recounted how he had penetrated Sally’s disguise and foiled her plan, Dave checked him once again. Apparently satisfied that he was making satisfactory progress, he disengaged the tubes taped to his arms, but admonished him not to try to get out of bed.
Before they left, he had Dave crank his bed up higher and, after they were gone, he reached for the remote control unit for the television set perched on a small shelf in the corner of the room. But, after a half-hour of impatiently flicking from one station to another, he lost interest in the old movies and odd sporting events that constituted the choice of programs, and turned it off again. Laying back, he knew he could not avoid it any longer. He was going to have to resolve the question of what he should do about Elise and himself.
Since first regaining consciousness-and, at random moments throughout his conversations with Grace and Dan and Dave; the vision and memory of Elise-ephemeral at first, and then clearer and stronger as his strength returned-had insistently intruded on his thoughts. Out of a mixture of guilt and grief, he had repeatedly forced her from his mind. Even alone, he had not allowed himself to think of her-to remember what it had been like to hold her in his arms. Instead, as a sort of penance, he had compelled himself to concentrate on the fatal consequences of his actions during the past week, and on their ultimate, irrevocable culmination in the death of Marie. But, he had not been able to keep her out of his dreams and, whenever his concentration wavered, she emerged from the recesses of his mind—haunt-ingly and compellingly lovely. And, each time, he had reluctantly turned his thoughts away from her again, knowing-and dreading-the decision that-like some loathsome malignancy-had begun to throb painfully and insistently in his conscience as he became more certain of his responsibility for Marie’s death.
From what Grace had told him, it seemed evident that Elise either did not fully comprehend the extent of his culpability or, maybe, was only hoping that it was not as unforgivable as it appeared. He was somewhat surprised-but not sorry-that she had not called. He had been tempted to reach for the phone on the table by his bed to call her, more than once, but had decided it would be better to wait until he was stronger and his mind was clearer. Perhaps she had refrained from calling him for the same reasons. It would be easier to tell her of his decision over the phone-and not have to see the reflection of it in her face and eyes-but it also would be a craven evasion of his obligation to her-and he had evaded enough obligations for one lifetime. No. As painful as the confrontation would be for both of them, it was necessary and unavoidable. Besides, he wanted to see her again-just once more.
A slender, dark-skinned, owlish-eyed nurse entered and walked to his side.
“There’s a Miss Skrnczak outside who’d like to see you,” she said. “Do you feel up to talking to her?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Send her in.”
The nurse walked back and pushing open the door, motioned to Wanda-who he could see standing outside-to enter. As she approached timidly-as if afraid of what she would find-he could see that the resiliency of youth already had eliminated most of the evidence of her ordeal. Her sling-suspended arm and a few dark smudges on her face-which, if anything, only made it look even younger than he had remembered-were the only outward signs of the beating she had absorbed from Flynn and Bucheck. Presumably, her venereal problem had been checked and would also disappear in time. But, he wondered if her youth also would be able to overcome the psychological injuries that she had been subjected to in the past few years. He held out his hand to her and she came forward and grasped it eagerly-as if he had thrown her a life preserver.
“Oh, jeez, Mr. Tuesday! I’m so glad to see you’re all right! I was so worried about you when I heard what happened. I felt like it was all my fault for tellin’ you all that stuff the other night. But, I didn’t think you’d go up there by yourself-and-and, I wanted to get even with.. .with Mr. Stanhope and the sheriff, and everybody, for what they done to me! But I never figured that you.. .and.. .Mrs. Tuesday.. .I mean. I didn’t.”
The flow of words were choked off by her sobs and she fell on top of him, burying her head on his shoulder and sending waves of pain washing across his chest. But he gritted his teeth and held her, gently stroking her hair, knowing that the wracking bitter sobbing was not just for him, or Marie, but for herself as well-for what she had done and what had been done to her-with or without her complicity. He mentally joined in her tears, and in the moral anguish that had inspired them.
Gradually, the sobs subsided and, with a final shudder, ceased. But she continued to lay quietly against him snuffling softly, for a few moments longer before slowly straightening up, her face flushed from crying and embarrassment.
“Cripes, Mr. Tuesday! I.I’m sorry. I ain’t.haven’t bawled like that in years.”
He smiled, squeezing the hand he still held in his. “Well, I’m glad you picked my shoulder to do it on. But, I don’t want you blaming yourself for what happened. You told me what I wanted to know. And what I did about it-and what happened as a result-is my responsibility. There’s no need-or reason-for you to feel sorry or apologize-for anything.” She seemed reassured and tentatively returned his smile. “That’s better, Wanda. Now, tell me. How do you feel?”
She made a motion with her slung arm. “Except for this, I’m fine. But, it don’t bother me too much, and Dr. Blumenstein says it will be okay in a coupla weeks.”
Except for the faint remains of her bruises, her face now looked like the typical teenager’s-fresh, pink and unlined. The cosmetic hardness and insolence which had been so obvious and repugnant in the truck stop had completely disappeared. Only the too bleached hair-which was beginning to show it’s naturally darker roots-still remained to detract from the aura of youth and innocence which she now exuded. Looking at her, he found it difficult to imagine the abuse-and misuse-that she had endured-and the venereal evidence of it that she still carried with her.
“You look fine, Wanda. Very pretty in fact.”
She grimaced. “It’s nice of you to say so. But, I don’t feel so pretty. Not after what those two deputies done to me, and all.”
“Try not to think about the past, Wanda. There’s not a thing you can do to change it, any of it. But, you’re still very young, and you can still do something about your future. I’d like to help, if you’ll let me.”
Her grip on his hand tightened with an almost involuntary reflex, as if he had triggered a hidden nerve. “Oh, gee, Mr. Tuesday! I.I was hopin you would. Only.I don’t know what you can do. I mean, after what I’ve done, and all.” Her eyes clouded again, but she blinked rapidly and managed to hold back the tears.
He was not sure himself, but he was not prepared to come to grips with the problem at that moment. “It’s all right, Wanda. After I get out of here and back on my feet, we’ll have a long talk about it and decide what would be best for you. In the meantime, you can be thinking about what you would like to do, or be.” She nodded and he asked, “Are you going back to live with your parents?”
She made a wry mouth. “I haveta. Mr. Hollander said he’d haveta put me in a juvenile home, otherwise.”
Dan had not told him that but, perhaps, Hollander had not told Dan either. Still, despite the overcrowded conditions and lack of privacy that was so important to a girl her age, she would be better off in her own home than anywhere else she might have wound up, if things had turned out differently. The juvenile home might have been only the first step-followed inexorably by a whorehouse, jail, the street and the grave. Not necessarily in that order, but leading to the same end. But, she seemed to have realized it herself and seemed resigned toaccepting Hollander’s ultimatum without argument.
She continued to linger, obviously reluctant to leave, reviewing at length her interview with Dan and the FBI man. She seemed very proud of the list she had compiled of the dates and attendees of the parties at the lodge, and pleased at the prospect of the vengeance it would wreak on those she had named. He hoped that it would be as effective as she anticipated. Then alternating between shame, contempt and anger-she described some of the indignities to which she had been subjected by Stanhope and his guests. He tried to dissuade her from her recollections, but it was as if she were using him as a confessor, in the hope that in securing his understanding and forbearance, she would somehow expiate her sins for having been a party to such activities. Even though she only alluded to some of the more horrifying aspects of the sexual aberrations and propensities of the men she had encountered there, it was still an almost unbelievable litany of debasement and debauchery. And, throughout, she continued to hold onto his hand, as if afraid that if she let go she would be sucked back into the morass of mayhem and murder from which she now credited him with having rescued her.
Finally though, she fell silent again, apparently unwilling or unable to tell him any more. But, he had heard enough, and had no desire to hear any more.
“That’s all behind you now, Wanda,” he told her. “I realize it won’t be easy to forget, but you should try. Concentrate on what you’re going to do today and tomorrow. That’s what matters now.”
It was trite, but it was true, and it seemed to give her new hope. “You’re right, Mr. Tuesday. And that’s what I’m gonna’ do. I guess I’m lucky that my folks.still want me, after what I’ve done.. .and I’m gonna’ try real hard to make it up to them.”
“That’s fine, Wanda. Are they meeting you?”
“They’re waiting outside. They wanted to thank you for.. .for what you’ve done for me.”
He appreciated but did not feel up to accepting the gratitude that they probably wished to lavish on him. “Some other time, Wanda. I’m feeling a little tired just now.”
“Sure, Mr. Tuesday.” She smiled shyly. “I guess I been bendin’ your ear pretty good.”
“It’s all right. It will straighten itself out again in no time.” She smiled again, but made no move to leave and continued to stand by the side of the bed, clutching his hand. He could almost see the words in her mouth. “Is there something else you wanted to tell me before you go, Wanda?” he asked.
She hesitated, lowering her eyes demurely, tracing the veins in the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers. “I was just thinkin’ how.how kinda’ funny life is. Just a few days ago, when I saw you sittin’ at that table in the restaurant, I.I really.hated you, because I.I blamed you for.. .everything that had happened to me since I was in that accident with Ronny Stanhope. But now, I know it.it wasn’t your fault.it was my own. And.and I don’t hate you no more. Just the opposite. I.I love you, Mr. Tuesday.” Leaning forward; seemingly on impulse; she kissed him briefly, but firmly, on the mouth, and then turned and quickly ran from the room.
It had been a remarkable and touching statement, and indicated how far back up she already had climbed from the depths she had sunk to. He was pleased and gratified by her change of heart and her absolution of blame, but apprehensive about the literalness of her professed love for him. Despite her new-found youthfulness, she had the body, and experience, of a much older woman. He could almost understand-if not condone-how a frustrated Stanhope could have allowed his baser instincts to overcome his better judgment in order to possess her. He would not want to give her the impression that he did not want her affection, but he realized it would be better for both of them if, in the future, the kiss they had just exchanged was repeated only-if at all-on rare and fitting occasions.