Are You in the House Alone? Read online

  “Why, no, Gail. Not a drop. I planned all along to be sober for this evening, and I am. I always knew it would be an evening, a quiet one. I’ve been very patient in my planning. I’ve been very patient with you.”

  He was nearer than I knew when he lunged at me, hooking his ankle around mine. I fell flat on my back in front of the fire screen. Then he dropped down and pinned both my wrists above my head with his hands. “I’m in very good shape, Gail. It comes from clean living, which you wouldn’t know anything about. So if you struggle much, you might wish you hadn’t. Of course, if struggling turns you on, go right ahead. But I can’t be responsible. I can’t be responsible for anything.”

  He pushed his face against the side of my head and whispered into my ear, “And don’t worry. I don’t want you to do anything you haven’t already done. Just look at it this way, Gail. You’ve had more experience in certain matters than I have. And this is your chance to share it.”

  A voice from somewhere in my subconscious sounded then, telling me to jam my knee into his groin. I made a feeble attempt, with his full weight tense and flat against me. “Ah, no, Gail, you don’t want to try anything like that. Nothing rough. Just think of me as Pastorini. He doesn’t go in for the rough stuff, does he? Let’s both enjoy this, why not? You’ve already lost what you’ve got to lose.”

  My mind was starting to withdraw from his words just as the tone of them began to get syrupy. I thought of the kids upstairs and how screaming would scare them. I tried to remember what time it was. I thought about dying, but that was just a momentary blackness. “Alison . . . so pure . . . not like you . . . but you . . . want me? Don’t you? I could have any girl I looked at, but . . .”

  My back arched when he grabbed the front of my shirt and ripped it. The buttons rattled down on the tiles in front of the fire screen. “First of all, let’s get rid of this.” He grabbed the green heart that was lying against my throat and jerked it off the chain, throwing it over his shoulder.

  Both my hands were free in the moment he took to pull his sweater off over his head. But I was afraid to try and dig my nails into his face. Go for the eyes, that subconscious voice said again. But he’d have caught my arm before I could raise it. And anyway, I was too terrified. This was the worst, and it was happening. All his promises were coming true, and my silence had been helping him all along.

  “I figured you wouldn’t have a bra on, Gail. Alison . . . Alison . . . she always has a bra on, I think. But you’re a far cry from Alison, aren’t you?”

  I guess I should have kept talking, trying to make him hear. But I couldn’t think of the right words. And I knew he was long past any reasoning I could think of. He pulled my Levi’s down. I felt the floor freezing cold under me. And while he fumbled with his own belt, my hand brushed the base of the stand that held the fireplace tools, the little brass shovel and the broom and the poker.

  I made a grab for it, and it fell over, crashing on the tiles. Phil flattened himself on me, and I could feel his body slick with sweat. He slammed his forearm against my throat. But without being able to see anything except for the madness in his eyes, I felt for the handle on the poker, and my hand closed over it. “Lie still, Gail,” he said in a soft, dreamy voice, “or I’ll have to hurt you more than I’m planning to.”

  I had one chance to bring the poker up and hit him in the side of the head. I hope I kill him. I brought it up, but it only grazed his shoulder. He was up in a sudden crouch, and I remembered the lightning moves he made on the squash court. He twisted the poker out of my hand, looked down at me, surprised, even shocked, and said, “You . . . you . . . were going to—to try . . .” The last thing I remember is the poker in Phil’s hand and the way the muscle rippled in his naked shoulder when he brought his arm back in a sportsmanlike backhand just before he swung it down at my temple.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  I thought I heard a man crying first. It could have been days later. A light glared somewhere overhead, hurting my eyes. There were screens all around, separating me from a lot of rubber-soled footsteps. The place had a hospital smell. A plastic tube was sticking into my hand and snaking off somewhere. It didn’t hurt, but it looked like it ought to.

  Someone was standing beside the table, holding my other hand. I thought I should say something to him. “You’re not crying, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.” He was in a white coat like a doctor and had a rumpled, late-night face.

  “What’s that tube in my hand for?”

  “It’s just what we call a ‘keep-open’ I.V. in case we need to give you fluids—a standard procedure. I expect you have a headache, don’t you?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Somebody hit you just over your right eyebrow, and you’re getting a nice black eye from it. We’ve already taken skull X rays and have had to put a few stitches in. Do you feel like talking? If you do, I’ll know you’re really awake.”

  Then I knew I was awake, and it wasn’t a dream. I even remembered what happened, up to a point. I even knew what I didn’t remember. “Am I in Oldfield Hospital?”

  “Yes. I’m the emergency room physician. I know Dr. Cathcart takes care of your family, but I’d like to look after you if you don’t mind. And I’ll be having another doctor see you.”

  “I guess that’s all right. How did I get here?”

  “Well, I didn’t admit you, but there are several people in the waiting room outside. I expect your parents brought you in.”

  “Oh no,” I said. I tried to shake my head, but there seemed to be a heavy stone lying on my forehead, just above my right eye. “I was at Mrs. Montgomery’s, babysitting, and I opened the door, and he came in.”

  There was a space between the tall white screens, and somebody stepped in. It occurred to me then that except for some kind of extra-short hospital gown, I felt naked under the sheet. The emergency room doctor—What was his name? Had we been introduced? Dr. X, I presume—Dr. X laid my hand down gently on the edge of the table and said something quietly to the man who’d come in. Something to do with the fact that I was lucid.

  Voices mumbled, and the light over the table was dazzling. I couldn’t think about anything but my head, which felt too heavy to lift, and I wondered if this hospital dispensed aspirin.

  “Is it still night?” I said, but Dr. X was gone, and the other man was standing there instead.

  “Yes,” he said, “just after one. Don’t you know me, Gail? We’ve met before.” There was an image floating before my good eye. I did know who he was. I just couldn’t place him. “Dr. Reynolds. I’m a gynecologist, and I saw you before—at Planned Parenthood.”

  “Oh. Yes. You’re the one with—”

  “With what?”

  “Cold hands.”

  He smiled then. “Poor circulation. I have to give you an examination, Gail. And I need to ask you some questions as part of it. Do you feel like answering?”

  “Yes.” I already felt like a lab specimen with the miraculous gift of speech. I seemed more lucid than I was. This was the moment I’d been waiting for all along. The it’s-over moment when everybody comes rushing expertly to my side to . . . do whatever experts do to solve all problems. But I hadn’t meant anything like this. Not this Marcus Welby scene. Still, I was calm. Even then maybe I knew I seemed too calm.

  A nurse was standing behind Dr. Reynolds. I thought she was Mrs. Danko from The Rookies. She never said anything, but Dr. Reynolds was talking. “This is all strictly routine, but it may be a little uncomfortable. Afterward, though, you’ll have a good night’s sleep.”

  “At home?”

  “No, here. For several days, I expect.”

  Mrs. Danko, or whoever she was, put my feet into the stirrups at either side of the table and pulled the sheet up until it was a green tent balancing on my knees. She took my hand then, the one without the tube in it. “Now, Gail,” Dr. Reynolds said, “you’ve had a pelvic examination before. Do you know why you’re going to have an
other one now?”

  I didn’t want to answer, but he waited. “Yes. Because I’ve . . . been raped.”

  “This examination is to determine if you’ve had recent intercourse, and if you’ve suffered any damage. I’m going to have to insert a speculum.” Something metal flashed in his hands. “I’ve had it in warm water so it’s not cold, but you may feel some discomfort, probably more than during the exam I gave you last spring.”

  He began then, and I understood why the nurse was there beside me. I was clinging to her. Waves of almost-pain began. I tried not to make a sound, though when I tensed and shut my eye tight, my head began to roar and pound. “Okay, Gail, try to relax. I’m going to check your cervical lumen for traces of sperm. The lumen is the entrance to your uterus. I have to take a smear and place it on a slide to look at under the microscope. Now I’m looking at your posterior fornix. That’s a small pouch under the entrance of the uterus which I also have to check for secretions and sperm.”

  After that, I could feel the speculum being removed, and I heard Dr. Reynolds snap on rubber gloves. “Now, Gail, the worst is over. This will be much easier.”

  Only it wasn’t. It didn’t take very long though, or didn’t seem to. I was numb anyway, wanting to feel nothing. The nurse moved away and dealt with the glass slides. There was the rattling of a metal table on wheels. “There now,” Dr. Reynolds said, “you haven’t sustained any injuries.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “I mean there was no tearing. Now I want to ask you some questions. They’re about your recent medical history. I prescribed birth control pills for you about six months ago, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was your last period?”

  “It was . . . I’m not too clear about time.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “It was probably about two weeks ago.”

  “Was it a normal period for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the period before that?”

  “They’re always the same now that I’m on the pill.”

  “Do you take your pills regularly?”

  “Yes, most of the time.”

  “Are you sure you’ve taken the pill every day since your last period?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Most of the time then?”

  “Yes. Mostly out of habit.”

  “Then you’ll be all right. Go on and take the pill until your cycle is complete. I’ll see that you get them while you’re here in the hospital. You aren’t going to get pregnant.”

  “I want to vomit,” I said.

  “Nurse.” Dr. Reynolds turned around to her, fast.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not going to. I just want to.”

  He was standing beside me then, taking my arm in his hands, swabbing it with wet cotton. “I’m going to give you a shot of Valium now, Gail, and then you’ll rest.”

  I didn’t feel the needle going in, and usually I can feel it before it hits the skin. I hoped I’d be asleep right away, probably permanently. But time passed while the examining table rocked under me like a rowboat.

  Everything got very dull except my hearing. The sound of Dr. Reynolds’ voice came very clearly through the screen. He was dictating to the nurse: “Microscopic examinations of vaginal secretions obtained from the posterior fornix indicate numerous motile spermatozoa.” Then I heard the word “police.” Thinking it was about time for somebody to mention them, I fell away down a dark well, turning as I went.

  * * *

  I opened my eyes again, mad at the Valium for not working. But the glare in the room was from sunlight, and the screens were gone. So was the tube in my hand. It was a hospital room, a very superior one. There was a TV set attached high on the wall, with its screen angled toward the bed. The walls were a restful shade of blue, with framed prints of wild flowers. The bed was very soft, and I thought, Is this a school day or isn’t it?

  There were people in the room, but one of my eyes was plastered shut, and the steel bands that seemed to be running along under the skin of my forehead kept me from looking around. I could only see the man in a chair drawn up close to the bed. And I knew it was the man I’d heard crying before. I focused on him, and he became Dad sitting there.

  “You should be at work,” I told him, very stern and businesslike. “And look at you. You haven’t shaved.”

  His mouth worked up to a smile, and he said, “But it’s Sunday.”

  “I guess I can accept that excuse just this once.” His chin was quivering, and I knew this little word game wasn’t working. I tried to think of something that would.

  “Are you going to be able to talk to . . . some people?” he said.

  “What people?” I didn’t think I could cope with anybody else. I just wanted Dad there. When did I ever have him to myself?

  “Well, Steve for one. When he hears about you, he’ll be battering down the door.”

  “I guess I don’t want to see him yet. Later. Pretty soon. Not now.”

  “And the police.”

  “Where are they when you need them?” I asked, trying to fix him with my one eye and make it sparkle. I knew he was crumpling again, and I was trying to put it off, but that was the wrong thing to say. The worst. His eyes were watering, and he was working his hands together, below the level of the bed.

  “They were pretty mad because they weren’t contacted right away—as soon as Mrs. Montgomery came home last night and . . . found you. It was the hospital that reported the—the crime.”

  “Are they here now?”

  “No. But they’ll be here as soon as we let them know you’re able to talk.”

  “Shall we get it over with?” I said, wanting to and not wanting to.

  “Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he said in a husky whisper.

  “No.” It was Mother’s voice. “Not yet, Neal. She’s not ready. I don’t want her going through that yet, whatever it is.” She walked around the end of the bed. She’d been on my blind side all along. And all I could think of was that I wished she’d go away. I didn’t want any interruptions.

  But when she was standing beside Dad, wanting to reach out to me, but not doing it, I saw her face. So I knew she’d sat beside me all night. Under her eyes were the brown smudges that she usually erases before breakfast. And her hair wasn’t combed.

  I started to cry then. It was the three of us, grouped tight. I wanted Mother there. I never wanted to be out of their sight again. I could see us as three little people, three dots in this huge hateful world, and I cried and cried, and the tears made sounds when they hit the pillow.

  Then they were gone. A nurse was there instead, badly blurred, with her needle at the ready. Not the night nurse; a different one. And down the well I went again.

  When I woke up the second time, it was almost evening. I was starving for breakfast, lunch, dinner, whatever. But I didn’t move because there were people in the room again, and the conversation was about concussion.

  Nobody seemed to notice my eye flutter open and close again because Dr. Reynolds was talking. The more medical his monologue, the better I understood it. “We routinely take a culture to check for venereal disease.” This was interrupted by a murmur from Mother, not quite a protest. More a moan. “The darkfield exam for syphilis was negative, but we’ll have to wait until Tuesday for the gonorrheal culture.”

  I was struggling up on my elbows then, though my head was cracking apart. “I don’t have VD,” I said in a loud, clear voice that created sudden silence throughout the room.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Mother said, there beside me again, putting her hands out, trying to cover my ears. “Don’t listen. We’ll take care of . . . it’s a necessary procedure . . . they’ve explained it to—”

  “Yes, Mother, but I don’t have VD. I mean it’s very unlikely.”

  “But we can’t know that, Gail. How could we? It might have been some degenerate who, who—”

  “It was a degenerate, M
other, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t diseased. Not that way. It was Phil Lawver.”

  All the clocks in Oldfield Village skipped a beat. Nobody breathed in the room. Nobody moved. I could see better, propped up on my elbows. And I looked all around with my one good eye at the people looking back. Dr. Reynolds in his white coat, Dad with his hand gripped on the foot of my bed. Mrs. Montgomery was farther off with a green glass vase of dahlias from her garden, caught just in the act of setting it down on a table.

  Are you sure? Are you sane? The room was suffocating with questions nobody asked. Concussion can muddle your thinking. And shock. You’ve suffered The Fate Worse Than Death it ruins your life, starting with your brains.

  Mother’s hands hovered over me and pulled back. Her lips repeated Phil’s name, but without sound. It was Mrs. Montgomery who spoke first. She was still wearing her Saturday night dancing dress, black chiffon, under a polo coat. “Let’s not let Steve Pastorini hear that. Not until he has to know.”

  “Not a word to anybody,” Mother said quickly, “until we’re sure.”

  “Phil Lawver raped me. He sent me filthy anonymous notes. He called me on the phone, wherever I was. He spied on Steve and me and followed us. He tortured me for weeks before he picked his time. And then he raped me. It was Phil Lawver. Can you hear me? I’ll still be saying it when I don’t have concussion and when the stitches are out of my head. It’ll still be Phil Lawver.”

  I was tired again, like I’d delivered a much longer speech. “He’ll pay for it,” Dad whispered. But even then I wasn’t so sure.

  They stayed with me in the room while my head got heavier. Mrs. Montgomery fussed with the dahlias, shifting the heads of the blossoms around and around, murmuring conversation to Mother, who wasn’t answering. Dad stood at the window with his back to the room, staring out, except that the Venetian blinds were closed. His hands, clasped behind his back, tightened and loosened, like someone giving blood.

  The last thing I really heard was Dr. Reynolds saying, “I think you folks better think about getting a lawyer.” And then they were gone. When I was alone, I was fully awake for a minute, not more. There was a plaque at the foot of my bed, a bronze square. It was framed by the white mounds of my covered feet. I squinted to read the engraved words.