Life Support (17 page)

"You had an appointment, remember? They want to know why you aren't there."

She swallowed and stared at the step. She didn't dare look him in the face. She only hoped he'd accept a lie. "I forgot," she said.

"What? "

"I said I forgot."

"You are one dumb bitch. I told you this morning where you had to be."

"I know."

"You must have shit for brains."

"I got to thinking bout other things."

"Well, they're still waiting on you. You get your ass in the car." She looked up. "But I'm not ready�"

"Ready?" Romy laughed. "All you gotta do is get on the table and spread your legs." He pulled her to her feet and thrust her toward the door.

"Go on. They sent you the fuckin' limousine."

She stumbled outside onto the sidewalk.

A black car was parked at the curb, waiting for her. She could barely make out the driver's silhouette through the tinted glass.

"Go on, get in."

"Romy, I don't feel so good. I don't want to do this."

"Don't mess with me. Just get in the car." He opened the door, shoved her into the backseat, and slammed the door shut.

The car pulled away from the curb.

"Hey!" she said to the driver. "I want to get out!" There was a barrier of Plexiglas between her and the front seat. She pounded on it, trying to get his attention, but he didn't react. She looked at the tiny speaker mounted in the partition and suddenly felt a chill of recognition. She remembered this car. She had ridden in it once before.

"Hello?" she said. "Do I know you?"

The driver didn't even turn his head.

She sat back against the leather seat. The same car. The same driver.

She remembered that blond, almost silvery hair. The last time, when he had driven her to Dorchester, there had been another man waiting for her, a man in a green mask. And there had been a table with straps.

Her chill turned to panic. She glanced ahead and saw that an intersection was coming up. The last one, before the expressway turnoff.

She stared at the traffic light, praying, Turn red. Turn red!

Another car cut in front of them. Molly lurched forward as her driver slammed on the brakes. Behind them horns blared and traffic screeched to a halt.

Molly shoved open the door and leaped out of the car.

The driver yelled "Get back here! You get back here now!"

She darted between two idling cars and scrambled to the sidewalk, her platform shoes clacking on the pavement. Goddamn heels almost tripped her up. She recovered her balance and began running down the street.

"Hey!'> Molly glanced back and was startled to see that the blond man had left his car parked near the curb and was chasing her on foot, dodging through a river of honking traffic.

She ran, a clumsy, clacking gait, crippled by her shoes. At the end of the block she glanced back.

The driver was gaining.

Ww won't he leave me alone?

She reacted with the automatic response of prey�she fled.

Darting right, she turned onto a narrow street and struggled up the bumpy brick sidewalk leading up Beacon Hill. Only a block of running uphill and she was out of breath. And her calves ached� these damn shoes.

She looked back.

The driver was scrambling up the hill in pursuit.

Fresh panic sent Molly scrambling faster. She turned left, then right, worming deeper into the maze of Beacon Hill. She didn't stop to look back, she knew he was there.

By now her feet were bruised from the shoes and stinging with fresh blisters. I can't outrun him.

Rounding another corner, she spotted a taxi idling at the curb. She made a dash for it.

The driver glanced up in surprise as Molly threw herself into the backseat and pulled the door shut.

"Hey! I'm not available," he snapped.

"Just go. Go!

"I'm waiting for a fare. Get out of my cab."

"Someone's after me. Please, can't you drive around the block?"

"I'm not driving nowhere. Get out or I radio for a cop."

Cautiously Molly lffled her head and peered out the window.

Her pursuer was standing only a few yards away, his gaze scanning the street.

At once she dropped back down to the floor. "It's him," she whispered.

"I don't give a shit who it is. I'm calling a cop."

"Okay. Go ahead! For once in my life I could use a fucking cop."

She heard him reach for the radio mike, then heard him mutter "Shit!" as he racked it again.

"You gonna call one or what?"

"I don't want to talk to no cops. Why can't you just get out like I'm telling you?"

"Why can't you drive around the block?"

"Okay, okay." With a grunt of resignation he let out the parking brake and pulled away from the curb. "So who's the guy?"

"He was driving me someplace I didn't want to go. So I bailed out."

"Driving you where?"

"I don't know."

"You know what? I don't want to know either. I don't want to know nothing bout your messed-up life. I just want you outta my cab." He swerved to a stop. "Now get out."

"Is the guy around?"

"We're on Cambridge Street. I brought you a few blocks over. He's way the other side."

She lifted her head and took a quick look. There were plenty of people around, but no sign of her pursuer. "Maybe I'll pay you sometime," she said and stepped out of the cab.

"Maybe I'll fly to the moon."

Quickly she walked, first down Cambridge, then onto Sudbury. She didn't stop until she was deep in the maze of streets in the North End.

There she found a cemetery with a public bench in front. coPP's BtJRYING GROIJND, the sign said. She sat down and took off her shoes.

Her blisters were raw, her toes bruised purple. She was too tired to walk even another block, so she just sat there in her bare feet watching tourists wander by with their Freedom Trail brochures, all of them enjoying a surprisingly mild October afternoon.

I can't go back to my room. I can't go back for my clothes. Romy sees me, he'll kill me.

It was almost four o'clock, and she was hungry, she hadn't eaten anything except grapefruit juice and two strawberry doughnuts for breakfast. The delicious smells from an Italian restaurant across the street were driving her crazy. She looked in her purse but saw only a few dollars inside. She'd hidden more money back in her room, somehow she'd have to get it without Romy seeing her.

She put her shoes back on, wincing at the pain. Then she hobbled up the street to a pay phone. Please do this for me, Sop*ie, she thought. For once, please be nice to me.

Sophie answered, her voice low and cautious. "Yeah?"

"It's me. I need you to go into my room�"

"No way. Romy's going fucking nuts around here."

"I need my money. Please get it for me, and I'll be outta there. You won't have to see me again."

"I'm not going anywhere near your room. Romy's in there right now, tearing things apart. There's not gonna be nothing left."

Molly sagged against the phone booth.

"Look, just stay away. Don't come back here."

"But I don't know where to go!" Molly's voice suddenly shattered into sobs. In despair, she curled up against the booth, her hair falling over her eyes, the strands wet with tears. "I don't have anyplace to go . .

."

There was a silence. Then Sophie said, "Hey, Titless? Listen to me. I think I know someone who might help you out. It'd have to be for just a few nights. Then you're on your own again. Hey, are you listening?"

Molly took a deep breath. "Yeah."

"It's over on Charter Street. There's this bakery on the corner with a boarding house next door. She's got a room on the second floor."

"Who? "

"Just ask for Annie."

"You're one of Romy's girls. Aren't you?"

The woman stared out over the door chain, and through the narrow opening, Molly could make out only half her face�curlicue bangs of brilliant red hair, a blue eye smudged with a dark circle of fatigue.

"Sophie told me to come," said Molly. "She said you might have room for me�"

"Sophie should've asked me first."

"Please�can't I sleep here�just for tonight?" Shivering, Molly wrapped her arms around her shoulders and glanced up and down the dark hallway.

"I don't have anywhere to go. I'll be real quiet. You won't even know I'm here."

"What'd you do to piss off Romy?"

"Nothin'. " The woman started to shut the door.

"Wait!" cried Molly. "Okay, okay. I guess I did piss him off. I didn't want to see that doctor again . . ."

Slowly the door cracked open. The red-haired woman's gaze shifted downward, to Molly's waist. She said nothing.

"I'm so tired," whispered Molly. "Can I just sleep on your floor?

Please, just for tonight."

The door swung shut.

Molly gave a soft whimper of despair. Then she heard the chain rattle free and the door swung open again. The woman stood in full view, her belly swollen under a flowered print dress. "Come in," she said.

Molly entered the apartment. At once the woman shut the door and refastened the chain.

For a moment they looked at each other. Then Molly's gaze dropped to the other woman's belly.

The woman saw Molly staring, and she gave a shrug. "I'm not fat. It's a baby."

Molly nodded and placed her hands on her own gently rounded abdomen.

"I've got one too."

"I spent twenty-two years looking after old people. Worked at four boarding homes in New Jersey. So I know bout how to keep them out of trouble." The woman pointed to the resume lying on Toby's kitchen table.

"I been at this a long time."

"Yes, I can see you have," said Toby, scanning the work history of Mrs. Ida Bogart. The pages reeked of cigarette smoke. So did the woman, who had carried the stench in on her baggy clothes and infected the whole kitchen with the smell. Why am I going through the motions? Toby wondered. I don't want this woman in my house.

I don't want her anywhere near my mother.

She lay the pages down on the table and forced herself to smile at Ida Bogart. "I'll keep your resume on file until I make a decision."

"You need someone right away, don't you? That's what the ad said."

"I'm still looking at applicants."

"Mind my asking if you got many?"

"Several."

"Not many people want to work nights. I never had a problem with it. r Toby stood up, a clear signal that the interview was over. She herded the woman out of the kitchen and down the hallway. "I'll keep your name under consideration. Thank you for coming, Mrs. Bogart." She practically pushed the woman out of the house and closed the front door. Then she stood with her back propped against it, as though to barricade her home from any more Mrs. Bogarts. Six more days, she thought. How will l t?nd someone in six days?

In the kitchen, the phone rang.

It was her sister calling. "So how are the interviews going?" Vickie asked.

"They're not going anywhere."

"I thought you got responses to the ad."

"One who's a chain-smoker, two who barely understand English, and one who made me want to lock up the liquor. Vickie, this isn't working. I canvt leave Mom with any of these people. You're going to have to keep her at your house at night until we can find someone."

"She wanders, Toby. She might turn on the stove while we're sleeping.

I have my kids to think of."

"She never turns on the stove. And she usually sleeps all night."

"What about the temp agency?"

"It would only be a short-term solution. I can't have new faces coming in and out all the time. It would confuse Mom."

"At least it'd be some sort of solution. It's gotten to the point where it's either that or a nursing home."

"No way. No nursing home."

Vickie sighed. "It was just a suggestion. I'm thinking of you, too. I wish there was more I could do . . ."

But there isn't, thought Toby. Vickie already had two children greedily vying for attention. To force Ellen on their family would be one more burden on an already overwhelmed Vickie.

Toby crossed to the kitchen window and looked out at the garden. Her mother was standing by the toolshed, holding a leaf rake. Ellen didn't seem to remember what to do with a rake, and she kept scraping the teeth across the brick path.

"How many other applicants are you interviewing?" asked Vickie.

"Two."

"Do their resumes look okay?"

"They look fine. But they all look fine on paper. It's only when you meet them face-to-face that you smell the booze."

"Oh, it can't be that bad, Toby. You're too negative about the whole process."

"You come and interview them. The next one should be here any minute�" She turned at the sound of the doorbell. "That must be him."

"I'm coming over right now."

Toby hung up and went to answer the front door.

On the porch stood an elderly man, face drawn and gray, shoulders slumped forward. "I'm here about the job," was all he managed to get out before he was seized by a fit of coughing.

Toby hurried him inside and sat him down on the sofa. She brought him a glass of water and watched while he hacked, cleared his throat, and hacked some more. Just a leftover cold, he told her in fits and starts.

Over the worst of it now, only this bronchitis hanging on. I)idn't interfere with his ability to do a job, no sir. He'd worked while much sicker than this, had worked all his life, since he was sixteen years old.

Toby listened, more out of pity than interest, her gaze fixed on the resume lying on the coffee table. Wallace Dugan, sixty-one years old. She knew she was not going to hire him, had known it from the instant she'd seen him, but she didn't have the heart to cut him short.

So she sat in passive silence, listening to how he had come to this sad point in his life. How badly he needed the job. How hard it was for a man his age.

He was still sitting on her sofa when Vickie arrived. She walked into the living room, saw the man, and halted.

"This is my sister," said Toby. "And this is Wallace Dugan. He's applying for the job."