An Emergence of Green (27 page)

Efficiently but gently, Irene removed the pajamas, inspected the bruises without comment. Again she pressed her hands up and down Carolyn’s rib cage, then she took Carolyn’s hands. “Push against me. Hard as you can. Again.” She took Carolyn’s feet in her hands and repeated the instruction. “Good,” she murmured, “very good.”

Slowly she kneaded Carolyn’s stomach, studying her face. “Good,” she said. “Will you turn over now, sweetie?”

Irene placed her hands on Carolyn’s hips; then she straightened abruptly and pulled the covers up over Carolyn’s body. “Stay just as you are,” she ordered her sternly. “I’ll be right back.” Beckoning to Val, she left the room and pulled the door shut behind them.

She strode into the bathroom and scrubbed her hands vigorously with soap and hot water. “I need antiseptic, alcohol, whatever you have.”

“What, what—” Val stammered, reaching for the medicine cabinet.

“Here, let me,” Irene said, shouldering her aside. “Fine, you’ve got everything I need…There’s rectal bleeding.” She poured alcohol over her hands. “Pretty well dried from what I see but I need to clean it up and take a look…Let’s hope it’s external, that he didn’t puncture her inside.”

“You mean—”

“Let’s hope he only used a penis. And do leave me alone with her now. I’ll ask some questions she may not answer with you in the room.”

Val sat on the edge of the sofa, a hand at her throat, feeling her chest rise and fall as she breathed. Alix sat in the armchair sipping orange juice, contemplating her, the sleeves of her gray sweater pushed up to her elbows, her legs crossed, a slim, booted foot swinging back and forth.

Alix said, “She was here last night. She’s the Carolyn that Neal talks about.”

Her eyes fixed on the bedroom door, Val nodded.

“This woman and you—is this what I think it is, Val?”

Val smiled thinly. “Probably.”

“I had a feeling about her last night,” Alix said. “We look alike.” Val’s eyes swung to her. “That’s what she says too. I don’t see it.” Alix half-smiled. “Well, you’re slow to see a lot of things, aren’t you, Val?”

“I suppose I am, Alix.”

Alix sighed. “Somewhere in this I think I’ve won a moral victory. For whatever that’s worth.” She lapsed into silence.

The minutes ticked by interminably. Indistinct voices came from within the bedroom. When Irene emerged Val followed her.

Irene washed her hands; Val could smell the acrid odor of alcohol. Irene said, “The bleeding appears external.
Appears,
” she emphasized. “But if there’s blood in her urine, if her stools are black…Her bowel movements will be painful for a few days. No broken bones so far as I can tell—that’s all the good news. The bruises are extensive and deep. Her breathing’s shallow, she’s perspiring, clammy to the touch. She’ll be in a lot of pain tomorrow.”

Drying her hands, Irene looked carefully at Val. “Her pulse rate’s high. Too high. But it’s slowing just a bit. If it hadn’t started going down I’d have had to say it’s too dangerous to keep her here. She’s sleeping now, which is good. You’ll need to watch her closely tonight.”

Val followed Irene into the living room, sat beside her on the sofa. Irene said, “Then there’s her mental state to consider. Alix can give you good advice on the aftermath of sexual assault and battery.”

Val remembered listening many times to accounts of Alix’s work on a rape hotline, and always with only cursory interest—indeed, with detachment, believing herself so far removed as a potential victim that the issue itself had seemed equally far removed.

Alix asked, “What about the husband?”

“He’s a dead man,” Val stated. “I’ll take care of him myself. Smash him to a bloody pulp.”

“That’ll be very helpful, Val,” Irene said in her deep bass voice. “The husband a bloody pulp, you in jail, her staring into the wall of a psychiatric ward.”

Val slammed a hand onto the arm of the sofa. “I have to do something.”

“No you don’t,” Irene said. “Only one person can do something.”

Alix gestured toward the bedroom. “This may be difficult to accept, Val, but it’s entirely up to her. It’s her assault. She’s the only one who can decide what she should do—if anything.”

“I did talk to her,” Irene said as Val began a belligerent protest. “Told her if she’d go to a hospital and report this I’d go with her, stay with her every minute, make sure she got special treatment. I told her she could file charges, that husbands aren’t any different from street thugs when it comes to this.” She shrugged. “But they are, of course. Anyway, she refused. Most women refuse.”

“I’ll call the police myself,” Val grated. “Report the—”

“You can do that,” Irene said. “They’ll take a report but they won’t be much interested. You’re not the victim. And when they hear it’s marital they’ll be too bored to yawn. Even if she reports it they won’t much care. Almost always the wife drops the charges. It’s a waste of time and effort, and nothing ever goes to court. And if it does, you have no idea how hard it is; it’s even more devastating for the victim-”

“I’ll get him,” Val said.

“For God’s sake, Val.” Alix expelled the words. “A man like this is real trouble. What do you know about him?”

“Not much. It’s hard to believe he’d do this. He’s your white-collar,
Wall Street Journal
type.”

“Any type’s the type,” Alix said grimly. “Maybe he’s done his deed; maybe right now he feels like total shit. But then again—”

“Then again,” Irene finished, “he may think this is just a good start. And he’s looking for her.”

“I hope he is. I’ll take care of him.”

Alix said disgustedly, “Val, stop this insanity and use your brain. A man who could do this—he could be more dangerous than a mad dog. Does he know where she is? How to find her?”

Val considered. “I’ll have to ask Carrie but I don’t think so. My phone’s not listed.”

“If he wants to find you he will,” Alix said. “You need to take her somewhere else and not just for that reason. Val, listen to me. Believe what I’m telling you. When the shock wears off she’ll be terrified. I mean petrified. She’ll be looking for him under the wallpaper. She needs to be somewhere she feels safe till she can put herself back together. She can stay with me or—”

“I’ll call Susan,” Val said. “Maybe I could use the beach house…Regardless, I’ll have her out of here tomorrow. I won’t have her afraid.” She turned to Irene. “What do I do to take care of her?”

“Keep her warm tonight. Get something into her if she’s willing—milk, broth, anything. Keep those feet elevated till her body warms. No matter how much she hurts don’t give her aspirin, any medication at all. All those bruises, there’s too much unclotted blood. Tomorrow you can use ice or cold towels, that’ll help with the pain and swelling, especially on bruises near bones—they’ll swell quite a bit overnight. Stay with her tonight, watch her pulse. If it rises, call me. If there’s any problem, call me. Stay with her. She needs that more than anything else.”

Alix got up and opened the shoulder bag she had tossed on a chair when she came in. “I’ll give you Jean Bowman’s number,” she said. “Call her tomorrow. She’s a lawyer who’s worked with a lot of battered women. Her fees are reasonable—usually whatever the woman can pay, whenever she can pay it. She’s terrific and she’ll take care of the husband. Believe me—he’ll think he’s come up against Attila the Hun. Stay away from the bastard, Val. Let Jean advise you. Let her handle this.”

Val looked at her silently. After tomorrow Paul Blake would not be able to find Carolyn. But she, Val, would know exactly where to find him…when the time was right.

Alix sat beside her. “Now you need to listen to me for a while. I’ll tell you what to expect when the shock starts wearing off for your Carolyn.”

Val sat between Alix and Irene. Feeling protected by these women in a way she had never before experienced, she extended a hand to each of them. Clasping their hands she said, “Thank you. Thank you both.”

Alix squeezed her hand, smiled at her. “Welcome to the lesbian community, Val.”

Alix and Irene left at eleven o’clock. Shortly after midnight Carolyn awakened. She limped to the bathroom and closed the door against Val’s insistent pleas to come in with her. Val went into the kitchen.

A few minutes later, back in the bedroom, an arm gingerly around the damaged shoulders, Val held a mug of broth to Carolyn’s lips; Carolyn took several sips, muttered, “Don’t leave me,” and fell asleep.

Sitting in a kitchen chair beside the bed under a small but bright lamp, knowing the lolling of her head would jerk her awake every few minutes, Val held Carolyn’s hand and allowed herself to doze. She needed her full strength for the coming day.

Carolyn’s body had warmed; she was no longer perspiring, but she uttered tiny whimpers at any slight movement of her body. The red-purple patches on her face were swelling and had acquired a bluish tint. Her pulse continued to slow.

At seven o’clock that morning, as Carolyn fitfully slept, Neal returned to the flat. Val had decided that she must keep him out of school today. They would leave as soon as possible for the beach house, she told him, and warned him of Carolyn’s appearance, that she would be in pain. He listened somberly, asked no questions. He sat down at the card table to organize a list of what they should take with them.

She had called Susan the previous night, giving her necessary details including Carolyn’s identity. Remote as the possibility seemed, it might occur to Paul Blake to find his wife by locating Val through the gallery showing her work. “I need a safe place,” she told Susan, “maybe as long as two weeks.”

“Use the beach house,” Susan said immediately. “I would think you should stay there at least that long.”

Neal took a load of clothing down to the car. Val called Carolyn’s office. Identifying herself as a friend of Carolyn Blake’s, she told Bob Simpson that Carolyn had left for Chicago—her mother was seriously ill; she would be away indefinitely.

Val picked up Neal’s list and resumed packing. Sooner or later Paul Blake would contact Carolyn’s office—possibly even today. But she had done all she could to protect Carolyn’s job.

Carolyn awakened and went into the bathroom, her misshapen face a mask of pain. Afterward, she labored to remove her pajamas. “God,” she said faintly, looking down at herself. The bruises were newly huge and grotesque.

Val dressed her in an old wash-softened sweatshirt and sweatpants, wincing at Carolyn’s sharp intakes of breath. The clothing hung from her in shapeless folds.

Neal stared, visibly swallowed. Then he reached behind him as if to push down an imaginary tail and spoke in the voice of the Cowardly Lion: “Shucks, folks, I’m speechless.”

Val chuckled; Carolyn smiled and said weakly, “Right now, honey, I’m a horse of a really different color.”

Val and Neal alternated carrying loads down to the car; Carolyn stood in silence beside the window staring down into the street.

“Where did you park your car, Carrie?” Val asked. “I don’t see it anywhere.”

Carolyn blinked in bewilderment; her damaged face contorted and tears welled. “I can’t remember.”

The keys were not in her purse nor in the pockets of the green pants. “I’ll find your car,” she told Carolyn, “it has to be close.”

Carolyn burst into tears. “He could be out there. Waiting for you to leave.”

She’ll be terrified.  I mean petrified. She’ll be looking for him under the wallpaper.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe—I promise,” Val soothed, knowing better than to reason with her.

“Stay with her,” she whispered to Neal as she prepared to take the last load down to the car. “Talk to her, tell her I’ll be right back.”

But it took ten minutes to locate the Sunbird two blocks away, its front wheel jammed into the curb, the keys still in the ignition. She drove it back and parked it in the alley behind her building.

Slipping a thermal jacket around Carolyn, she led her on a slow and painful trek downstairs to the Volkswagen.

“Where are we going?” Carolyn asked, sitting on a bed of pillows in the backseat and looking fearfully at the parked cars and traffic around them.

“Emerald City,” Neal said, kneeling on the front seat and leaning over to talk to her. Val watched Carolyn in the rearview mirror in concern; she had told her their destination twice before.

Travel required two hours of slow, careful driving to minimize Carolyn’s pain. At the beach house, while Neal unpacked, Val made her comfortable on the sofa and applied ice wrapped in hand towels. Exhausted, Carolyn fell deeply asleep.

Val left the house and drove to a J. C. Penney in Santa Monica. She quickly chose a feather-soft nightgown and a fleecy robe, drawstring sweatpants, sweatshirts, tennis shoes and socks, panties and bras—selecting sizes in certain knowledge of Carolyn’s body. Swearing at the price tag, she bought a Raider T-shirt Neal had been coveting. Amid all the packages for Carolyn she must have something for him.

She called Jean Bowman from a pay phone in the store.

With well-modulated crispness Jean Bowman agreed to do what she could—but not before direct preliminary contact with the client herself.

“Of course I realize the physical and emotional shape she’s in.” Jean Bowman’s voice lowered, acquired harshness. “She needs time, she can’t make clearheaded decisions right now. But we can use some of that time to her advantage. My advice is to take no action at all for the next several days. He won’t know what’s going on; he won’t be able to find her; he’ll have no idea what she might do. He’ll be crazy. When I do contact him, I’ll have the advantage. And these next few days may turn out to be the most damage we inflict on the son of a bitch.”