The Heaven Trilogy (80 page)

Helen had hit the street and boarded a bus before the possibility that Ivena might not welcome her with open arms even crossed her mind. Ivena did not strike her as the kind who would extend a second chance so easily. On the other hand, she and Jan were the kind who would forgive and forget. Or at least forgive.

She cast a quick look back down the street one last time, saw no cars, and ran up to the door. Breathing as steadily as possible, she lifted a trembling hand to the doorbell and pushed it. The bell's faint chime sounded beyond the door. She smoothed her dress—the dress Ivena had insisted she buy—and waited, wanting very badly to step into the warm safety of this house.

The door swung in and Ivena stood there, wearing a light blue dress. “Hello, Helen,” she said as though nothing at all was strange about her reappearance. She might have continued with a question, like,
Did you get the milk I asked for?
Instead she stepped aside. “Come in, dear.”

Helen moved past Ivena.

“Come into the kitchen; I'm making supper.” Ivena strolled ahead. “You can help me, if you like.”

“Ivena. I'm sorry. I just—”

“Nonsense, Helen. We can speak of it later. You're not hurt?”

Helen shook her head. “No. I'm fine.”

“Well you do have a nasty bruise on your cheek. From this Glenn character, yes?”

“Yes.”

“We should put some cream on it.”

Helen looked at the older lady and felt a pleasure she had rarely known, an unconditional acceptance of sorts. It swept through her chest and clamped down on her heart for a moment. She couldn't help the dumb drop of her jaw. “So then, you aren't angry?”

“I was, child. But I released it last night. You were hoping for anger?”

“No! Of course not! I just . . . I'm not used to being . . .” She let her voice trail off, at a loss for words.

“You're not used to being loved? Yes, I know. Now, why don't you see how the stew is doing while I make a quick phone call.”

“Sure.” Ivena simply welcomed her back as if she
had
just run down to the corner for some milk. “You like?” Helen asked, curtseying in the dress.

Ivena grinned. “You wore the best for your little trip, I see. Yes, I like.”

Helen let Ivena make her phone call while she peeked under the pot of simmering stew. The smell brought a rumble to her belly; she had not eaten since leaving yesterday. Ivena was speaking in excited tones now. To Jan! Meaning what? Meaning they were celebrating the return of their little project? Or meaning that Jan disapproved of Ivena's— “Helen?” Ivena called.

“Yes.”

“Did you use the phone yesterday?”

To call Glenn; she'd forgotten. “Yes,” she said.

There was another moment of conversation before Ivena hung up and bustled into the kitchen, turning off the burner and placing the warm pot in the refrigerator. “Come along, dear. We must leave,” Ivena said.

“Leave? Why?”

“Jan says that it's too risky. If Glenn is as powerful as you say, he may have traced your call. Do you know, would he do such a thing?”

Helen swallowed. “Yes.”

“And there would be a problem if he came looking for you?”

“Yes. Good night, yes!” Helen spun around, panicked by the thought. It was true! He was probably on his way at this moment. “We have to get out, Ivena! If he finds me here . . .”

Ivena was already pushing her to the front. “Get in my car quickly.” She snatched a ring of keys from the wall and gently nudged Helen out the door. They stopped and peered both ways before running across the lawn and piling into an old gray Volkswagen Bug with rusted quarter panels. Ivena didn't so much pile as climb and Helen urged her on. “Hurry, Ivena!”

“I am hurrying! I'm not a spring chicken.”

Ivena fired the car up and pulled out with a squeal. “Thankfully I drive faster than I run,” she said and roared down the street.

Helen chuckled, relieved. “Pedal to the metal, mama. So where to?”

“To Janjic's,” Ivena said. “We will go to Janjic's mansion.”

GLENN SAT in the town car's rear seat, fussing and fuming, screaming long strings of obscenities while Buck steered the car with his one good arm and used the other as a guide. Sparks hadn't been so lucky; it would be a month before the man would have use of his arm. But Buck's bullet had done nothing more than slice into his shoulder. A few inches lower and it would've drilled a hole through his heart; the fact hadn't been lost on him.

“Up ahead, sir,” Buck said.

“Where?” Glenn leaned forward. The light was already failing.

“Should be one of these houses up on the left.”

A car peeled from a driveway ahead; an old gray Bug. Some lowlife teenager showing off his new ride. They slowed and followed the numbers. 115 Benedict, Beatrice had said. 111 . . . 113 . . . 115. “Stop!” It was a small house surrounded by a hundred bushes blooming with white flowers. And if he was right, there would be one flower in that house ripe for the picking. Or squashing, depending on how it all came off.

“Isn't this the driveway that Bug came from?” Buck said.

Bug? The gray Bug! Glenn spun to the street. “Yes!” It couldn't be far. Had it turned left or right at the end? “Move, you fool! Don't just sit here, get after it!”

They squealed into pursuit and caught it thirty seconds later, cruising west. Glenn leaned over the seat, breathing heavy beside Buck and peering through the dusk. He recognized her head, immediately—that light blond head he had held just last night. If he could reach her now he would take a handful of that hair and shake her like a rag doll, he thought. And he would do that soon enough now, because he had
found
her! He'd found the tramp. Sweet, sweet Helen. It now made little difference whether she intended to hide back at the house of flowers or at the Bug's current destination. This time he would take care of things right. It would have to be a plan that lasted. One that took her completely off balance and thoroughly persuaded her to stay in her cage. Or better still, a plan that lured her back of her own choosing. Because she loved him. Yes, she did love him.
Here, kitty, kitty.

It occurred to Glenn that his mouth hung open over the leather seat before him. A string of drool had fallen to the back of the seat. He swallowed and sat straight.

“Back off!” he snapped. “Back off and follow that car until it stops. You lose it and I swear I'll put a bullet through your other arm.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Q: “What does this kind of love feel like?”

A: “The love of the priest? Imagine mad desperation. Imagine a deep yearning that burns in your throat. Imagine begging to be with your lover in death. King Solomon characterized the feeling as a sickness in his songs. Shakespeare envisioned it as Romeo's death. But Christ . . . Christ actually died for his love. And the priest followed him gladly.”

Q: “And why do so few Christians associate love with death?”

A: “Just because they're Christians does not mean they are necessarily followers of Christ. Followers of Christ would characterize love this way because Christ himself did.”

Jan Jovic, author of bestseller
The Dance of the Dead
Interview with
New York Times,
1960

JAN PACED the entryway and padded across the polished rust tile in stocking feet, feeling screwed into a knot without knowing exactly why. Ivena was on her way, bringing Helen with her. So the woman had come back after all. Ivena was right; they should show her Christian love. Christ had dined with the vagrants of his day; he had befriended the most unseemly characters; he'd even encouraged the prostitute to wash his feet.

So then, why was Jan reluctant to embrace Helen?

Father, what is happening here? You touch me with this woman; you give me this mad sorrow for her, but for what reason? Unless it was not you but me, conjuring those feelings in my own mind.

Perhaps it wasn't reluctance he felt at all, but fear. Fear for what the woman did to him both times he'd seen her. Karen's face flashed through his mind, smiling warmly. Even she had concluded that he ought to show friendship to Helen, although the conclusion had not come so easily.

Jan stopped his pacing and breathed deeply through his nose. The strong odor of vanilla from the three lit candles filled his nostrils. He'd turned the lights down, a habit ingrained during Sarajevo's siege. Turn the lights down and stay low. Of course, this wasn't Sarajevo and there was no siege. But this was Helen, and he had not imagined those two men chasing her in the park. She was in more danger than she let on.

The doorbell chimed and he started. Here already!

Jan stepped to the door and pulled it open. Ivena bustled in with Helen in tow. “Are you quite sure this is necessary, Janjic?” Ivena asked.

Jan closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and faced them. “Maybe not, but we can't take the chance of being wrong.” He turned to Helen, who stood in the shadows. “Hello, Helen. So what do you think? Is this necessary?”

She stepped forward into the yellow light; the petite woman with short blond hair and deep blue eyes, dressed in a wrinkled pink dress. It was hard to imagine that she was the cause of all this commotion. She was just a junkie. She wore no shoes and her feet were dirty—that gave her away. On closer inspection so did the round bruise on her left cheek. She'd been hit very hard there. Jan's heart was suddenly thumping in his chest.

“It could be,” she said.

“And what kind of danger are we talking about?” He swallowed, acutely aware that she was affecting him already; afraid that she might drown him with his own compassion.
Father, please.

“I don't know . . . anything. You saw the men that chased us.”

“Then we should call the police.”

“No.”

“Why not? This man has abused you. You're in danger.”

“No. No police.”

Ivena turned for the living room. “Standing here will do us no good. Come in, Helen, and tell us what has happened.”

Helen kept her eyes on Jan for a moment before turning and following Ivena. Jan watched them go. Ivena had indeed adopted Helen, he thought. They sat in a triangle—Helen on the couch, Ivena on the love seat, and Jan in his customary leather armchair—and for a moment no one spoke. Then Helen twisted her hands together, pulled them close as if to hold herself, and smiled. “Boy, it smells good in here. Is that vanilla, Jan?”

Her voice played over his mind as if it possessed life. Goodness! It was happening again! And she had said what?
Is that vanilla, Jan?
Yet those words—the simple sound of her voice—and the image of her huddled on the couch played like fingers on the chords of his mind.

“Yes,” he answered. “From the candle.”

She was looking around. “So this is the mansion Ivena keeps talking about. It's nice.”

“It's too much,” Jan said.

“You live here alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then you're right; it's too much.”

Ivena
humphed.
“I've always told him the same. He needs a good woman to make this a home. Now tell us, Helen. Why did you leave yesterday?”

There it was; Ivena had opted for the direct approach, like a good mother.

And Helen did not seem to mind this time. “I don't know. I was lonely, I guess,” she said.

“Lonely? Lonely for this fellow who put that bruise on your cheek?”

She shrugged and bit her lip.

Ivena glanced at Jan. “And why did you come back?” she asked.

Again Helen shrugged. She stared at one of the floor lamps, and Jan saw her eyes glisten in the amber light. She was as confused and desperate as they came, he thought. A child so categorically lost that she did not even know she was lost. A woman strung out by an impossible childhood and left to dangle by a single thread. In her case it might be a thread of pleasure. Give her pleasure, any form of pleasure, and she would cling to you. But give her love and she might fly away, confused by the foreign notions of trust and loyalty. Her leaving and coming were as much a matter of habit as desire.

Jan stared at her and felt his heart ache.
Helen, Helen. Sweet Helen.
He wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his palms. “You don't need to be afraid, Helen. You will be safe, here. I promise.”

She lifted her blue eyes. “I hope so.”

“But we should know more about Glenn, I think. We're involved now; we should know more.”

Helen nodded slowly and then she told them about Glenn. The simple truth, from her own eyes, of course, but honesty hung in her voice. Slowly she unveiled the ugly truth about her relationship with the demented drug dealer. And slowly, as she talked, Jan felt his ache for her increase. He arose once to check the street, but came back reporting nothing unusual.

Glenn was a man who lived for control, and beneath the city's layers he pulled a lot of strings . . . Helen believed him. She'd heard him—seen him—manipulate men much more powerful in the public eye. But really it was Glenn who pulled the strings with his huge fistfuls of money. It was a power as intoxicating as the drugs. It was a give-and-take relationship—they both gave and they both took.

Her voice droned sweetly through Jan's mind, like an airborne drug—playing on his emotions as no voice had ever played. He listened to her and his heart seemed to physically swell. It grew and ached with every new sentence she spoke. So much so that toward the end of her story, he stopped hearing her altogether.

It wasn't the way she looked. It was more, far more. It was her voice; the look beyond her eyes. A fire deep in her pupils that mesmerized him. It was her sloppy English and her giggle and her plain way with the truth. There was not a shred of plastic about her.

But more even. It was the fact that her heart was beating. She was sitting there on his couch and her heart was beating and somehow his own heart was beating with it. The thought made his palms wet.