Night Corridor (14 page)

"But I can't, Ethel. I don't know how…"

"Of course you can. What's to know? You take the order and come back here and yell it out. I'm here, if you have any problem. But you won't. It'll be good for you, honey. You've come a lot farther than you realize since you started working here."

Ethel found her a pair of white nurse's shoes a waitress had left behind when she quit. They looked near new. "There'll be a lot more comfy on your feet if they fit."

They did. Perfectly. Like they'd been waiting for her. She was both excited and terrified at the prospect of going out there.

"I figured they'd fit," Ethel said. "You got dainty feet. The shoes are yours, then. They don't fit anyone else around here."

For the first half hour, Caroline was a nervous wreck, getting her orders confused, once tripping and spilling a full cup of coffee on the floor. But after awhile she settled down and actually surprised herself by enjoying waiting tables. Ethel was giving her the confidence she needed to do this. Each time she went through the swinging doors into the kitchen and called out a new order just the way she'd heard other waitresses calling out theirs. Ethel would wink and smile at her, and give her order special attention.

Aside from the pleasure of serving customers, being out in the restaurant got her away from Mike, who was becoming more and more uncomfortable to be around. Everything he said and did seemed deliberate, a taunt, mocking her.

Once when he called her Carrie, she explained as pleasantly as she could that her name was Caroline, after her grandmother. She hoped he might understand, but the look he gave her was hardly apologetic. Turning away, he made a comment she didn't catch, but knew it wasn't anything nice.

Surely she had a right to be called by her proper name, didn't she? Why would that make him angry?

And why was she making so much of it?

She must learn to ignore him. Let him call her Carrie, if he wanted to. What did it matter? It's not as if it was a bad name. Maybe if he thought she didn't care, he'd stop. But she knew this was just wishful thinking. He wouldn't stop. Just like he wouldn't stop brushing against her every chance he got, or accidentally touching her breast when he reached for a plate on the shelf. Had Ethel noticed? Was that part of the reason she was out here waiting tables this morning?

She wasn't complaining. The customers were all nice to her, and if they noticed she was a little hesitant or awkward, no one said anything. Maybe because so many were caught up in talking about the recent murder. You couldn't escape it.

"Hope you don't have to walk home after work, darlin'," one heavy-set woman with a dimpled smile said to her, as Caroline handed her the menu. "Not with that madman running around loose."

She took the menu from Caroline's hand and scanned the specials. "Of course that actress he strangled had her own car, didn't she, and it didn't save her." One crimson fingernail tapped the plastic-covered menu. "I'll have the extra-thin pancakes with maple syrup and sausages, and a glass of orange juice." She flashed her deep dimples. "And a coffee now, dear. Extra cream on the side."

Twenty-Eight

Caroline took the bus home, glad to be off her feet, and warm. Ethel said she'd be back washing dishes tomorrow, but as soon as there was an opening she'd put her out in the restaurant full time.

She changed into her yellow robe and curled up on the sofa, feet tucked under her. She surveyed her surroundings, always pleased at the coziness of her little room. At the homey touches she'd added since moving in. She looked up at the wall, where she'd hung a few family pictures she unpacked from the trunk. One a black and white photo of her grandparents, taken in front of their old house. It gave her a sense of connection having their pictures where she could see them. She'd also hung a photo of her parents, herself between them at around three years old. They each held one of her small hands, and she was smiling into the camera, at whoever held it. A child who felt loved. And she had loved them back.

"Your father made a bad judgment in forcing you to give your child away," Doctor Rosen had said. "I believe he came to regret his decision. Had you been of a different nature, who knows? It might have been the right one."

She flicked on the TV. The newscaster was talking about the murders. Women were afraid, he said, and cautioned those who lived alone to keep their doors locked. At first they were warning only young women, but now they were telling everyone to be careful, to always be aware of their surroundings. "If you have to go out at night, don't go alone."

Locksmiths were doing a thriving business, he said. Dog adoptions from shelters were at an all time high. Baseball bats stood in corners, knives hidden under pillows. Who would be next? People wondered.

Caroline wondered too. She wouldn't be going back to the park, that was sure, not until they caught the killer. She no longer felt safe there. Mrs. Bannister said she was being silly, it was perfectly safe in the daytime, but Caroline remembered the man in the park, and wasn't so sure. Not that it mattered now with the days growing colder.

She couldn't get the man in the park out of her mind. Had he really been watching her? If he was, and she was more and more convinced that he was, did he know where she lived?

Mrs. Bannister tried to convince her that no one but the tenants could gain access to this building, but Caroline knew if someone really wanted to get in, they would find a way.

"You could just come in with someone else, say you lost your key, or forgot it in your room," she told the landlady. "You could pretend you were delivering flowers to someone in the building. Or visiting someone. Or selling magazines." These were some of the things the customers and other waitresses were saying about their own residences and their words had given Caroline shivers.

Twenty-Nine

It would have surprised Caroline to know how much her words had upset the landlady. Greta could recall another monster that preyed on women living alone. She was just a girl when the Boston Strangler had terrified an entire city, but she would never forget that awful time. Albert DeSalvo murdered those women in their flats. He obviously used some ruse to get inside their homes, something of the sort Caroline had suggested. How else could you explain why all those women willingly opened their doors to him. But this killer didn't murder women in their homes, did he? she reminded herself.

Who's to stay he won't start? Certainly not the cops. They haven't a clue.

She moved from the window, and went out to the kitchen where she was thawing hamburger for supper. Cheeseburgers were a particular favorite of Harold's. She'd make them just the way he liked them, sliced tomato and dill pickle. Maybe it would cheer him up. Poor Harold, he was so smitten with Caroline. At his aunt's suggestion, he'd asked her to a movie but she turned him down and Greta felt bad about that. She shouldn't have made the suggestion. Poor Harold didn't need another rejection. She was a meddling old woman and should have minded her own business.

Thirty

"No time for daydreaming, Carrie, me lass," Mike said, grabbing some plates off the shelf. He lowered his voice, said in her ear, "What's the problem, got your period. Gotta get the lead out of that cute little ass. Dishes are piling up."

Her face flamed at his insulting words, tears prickling behind her eyelids. She was never behind on her dishes, and wasn't now. While he was criticizing her work, he was also letting her know he would call her by any name he chose, say anything to her he wanted, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Was he right? Was she just another version of her mother? Weak, unable to stand up for herself.

'Act strong,' Dr. Rosen said. 'And you will be.'

Gathering all her nerve, she turned and faced him squarely. "If you insult me again, I shall call you Michelle—like a girl." It was the best she could do.

His eyes shot open with surprise that she would dare to answer him back, and then they darkened with fury as he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, "Freakin' mental case."

From then on, her problems with Mike grew even beyond what they had been, and she wished with all that was in her that she had not challenged him. He launched an all-out campaign to make her life as miserable as he could. Once helpful and friendly, or so she had perceived him, now he was her tormentor, and there was no letting up. Every chance he got, he touched her, coming close enough so that she could smell the hair gel he used, and his sweat. He whispered ugly things in her ear that she tried not to hear, comments that made her feel small and dirty and ashamed. And he always made sure no one else saw or heard him. His words followed her home, and replayed in her mind even as she sat alone in her little room, which had itself lost its charm for her, turning as shabby as she felt inside.

She began to sleep poorly, even with her little white pill, her hard-won confidence crumbling like so much sand. Her nerves were frayed and she was always on the verge of tears. As much as she had enjoyed her job before, now she dreaded going in to work. She fought getting out of bed, wanting only to pull the covers over her head and retreat into a womb of darkness, where nothing could hurt her.

Mrs. Bannister stopped her on her way out the door one morning and asked her if anything was wrong, but she lied and said no, thinking no one would believe her about Mike. They would say she was paranoid. If she told anyone at work about him, she would be stamped a troublemaker and sent away. But to where?

No. The known was preferable to the unknown, so she didn't complain about Mike Handratty.

But she also knew she didn't want to crawl back inside herself again, though it was already happening. She could feel herself slipping, and it frightened her more than Mike did. She had to fight against it. I won't go back there, she vowed to the pale woman in the mirror, as she got ready for another day at work. I won't disappear from the world again. She'd have to fight him.

She hadn't expected the fight to come so soon. It was shortly after the breakfast rush and Caroline was sliding the clean knives into the butcher's block when she felt a hot breath on the back of her neck and an increasingly familiar hand squeeze her left buttock. At his touch, something snapped in her and she spun around, completely forgetting that she was still clutching a large butcher's knife in her hand, not noticing the way it flashed evilly under the fluorescent light. "Keep your hands off me," she heard herself say loudly. "Leave me alone."

Seeing him back away from her, eyes wide, surprised her even more than her own outburst. But she wasn't finished yet. Her resentment had built up to such fever pitch over these past weeks, now it spilled over like a burst dam.

"Don't you touch me again, don't you speak to me."

A dark flush crawled up Mike's neck and face and the kitchen fell silent. All eyes were on them. Caroline felt the heat rise to her own cheeks. She was shaking inside.

"I never touched you, you crazy bitch. You gonna stab me now, you nut case." His eyes darted around at the silent faces, searching out allies. "I never touched her. I ain't workin' with her anymore. That's it. She didn't even know how to operate the goddamn dishwasher when she came here; I had to show her how. Look at her; she's a basket case."

It was only then that Caroline became aware of the knife in her hand, and dropped it as if it was on fire, letting it clatter to the floor. Her eyes spilling with over with tears, she grabbed her coat off the rack and ran out of the restaurant.

She ran half a block before she slowed her step. Not knowing where else to go, and not wanting to go home and chance running into the landlady, Caroline slipped into Mr. Goldman's bookstore. He gave a surprised smile at seeing her, then frowned, and she realized she was crying in earnest now. Embarrassed, she wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her coat, like a child. Mr. Goldman turned away, pretending not to notice as Caroline made her way through the shelves of books, to the back of the store. Once there, she simply stood not knowing what to do next.

Suddenly, Mr. Goldman was there, beside her. "You're off early today. Sit, sit, my dear," the elderly man said. "I have a wonderful book for you. A little present for my good customer." He handed her the book; it had a maroon cover with the title written in silver, but she could make it out.
Stone Angel
by Margaret Laurence. "It'll make you appreciate your youth."

He wanted to make her feel better, Caroline thought. There were good people in the world. Mr. Goldman was one of them. She had known it instinctively; it was why she had come here.

"Would you like to talk about what happened?" he said now. "I'm told I'm a good listener."

It was all the encouragement she needed. It all spilled out of her. To Mr. Goldman, a stranger, yet not a stranger. "No one ever saw him do anything," she said. "So it's just my word against his. And I'm the one who was holding a knife, though I certainly wouldn't have used it on him. But no one will believe that. I'm the one who was in the mental hospital."