When Heaven Weeps (19 page)

It was five when Helen began to come unglued.

Ivena had gone out to deliver a batch of orchids to a floral shop. “Make yourself at home—smell some flowers, warm up some sausage,” she'd said. “I'll be back by six.” Helen retreated to her tiny room, Ivena's sewing room actually, and sat on the bed, running her hand through the clothes piled beside her. She wore a dress, the one Ivena had proclaimed the winner of the bunch before leaving—a pink dress, much like the one Ivena had loaned her yesterday, but without all the frills.

She sat on the yellow bedspread in a sudden silence, with her legs swinging just off the floor like a little girl, feeling the fabric between her fingers, when her eyes settled on the blue vein that ran through the fold in her right arm. The room was dim but she could not miss the small mark hovering there. She pulled her hand from the clothes, opening and closing it slowly. The muscles along her forearm flexed like a writhing snake. It had been some time since she'd used the vein. Heroin was too strong, Glenn insisted. It ruined her. He couldn't stomach a rag doll sapped of passion. With Glenn it was all the new rich man's drug. Cocaine.

Glenn
.

She blinked in the dim light and felt butterflies take flight in her belly again. She let familiar images crash through her mind. Images of the Palace, as he called it, where she'd lived for the last three months, on and off, but mostly on. Images of the parties, teeming with people under colored lights; images of mirrors mounded with cocaine and dishes with needles; images of bodies strewn across the floor, wasted in the wee morning hours. They were images that seemed ridiculous sitting here in the old lady's sewing room. She'd heard of sewing rooms, but she'd never expected to actually see one. And now here she was,
sitting
in one, surrounded by a pile of clothes that were presumably hers.

What do you expect to do, Helen? Use these people the way you've used the rest?

Suddenly the whole thing felt not just silly but completely stupid. And just as suddenly a craving for the mound of white powder ran through her body. An ache rose to her throat and she swallowed against it. She closed her eyes and shook her head. What was she doing?

Helen lifted a hand to her neck and rubbed the bruised muscles near the spine. She had put up with her share of abuse no doubt, and she could give it as well as she took it. A slap here and little punch there; it was all business as usual. But this strangling business—Glenn had nearly killed her! She'd had no choice but to run.

Here where there were no people she let tears fill her eyes. Now what? Now she was a little girl sitting on the bed, swinging her legs, wanting to be rescued.

Wanting a hit . . .

And she had been rescued, hadn't she? By a preacher, of all things. And his crazy old friend.

No, Helen, don't think of them like that. These are good people. Precious.

“Precious? And what would
you
know of precious?” she growled. The tears began to slip down her cheeks and she wiped them angrily with her wrist.

Helen stood to her feet, and the sudden movement left her dizzy. She blinked away the tears and paced the room. Face it, honey, this is not your world. This life with the flowers and the sausage and the strange accents and the old woman's crazy talk of love, like it was something Helen knew nothing of. All the hugs and the tears . . .

. . . and Jan . . .

. . . you'd think the world was turning inside out or something. Helen cleared her throat. Truth be told, she couldn't see why Ivena's daughter's death was such a huge deal anyway. Sure it was bad enough, but when you got right down to it, a bullet to the head wasn't so crazy. Not the big monstrous deal Ivena seemed to make of it. Like it was some new revelation of love or something. These two . . . weirdos . . . these two weirdos were just different, that was all there was to it. She was a fish; they were birds. And she was suddenly feeling short of breath up here with the weird birds. She needed to get back to her pond. After all, a fish could not live on the beach forever.

He's what they call a gentleman, Helen. A real man. The kind you've never seen. And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, girl.

“Shut up!” Goodness, he was a preacher! She felt heat flare on her cheeks.
He's not even American.

No, but he's god-awful handsome and his accent's pretty cute.

Helen hit her forehead with her palm. “You're being an idiot!”

The truth of her own words struck her and she halted her pacing mid-stride. The images of the Palace mounded with Glenn's drugs slid through her mind, whispering the promise of pleasure. Of heaven here on earth. The sound of her breathing filled the small room. Like that fish gulping up on the shore. She had no business here. This was a mistake, a stupid mistake.

Which meant she had to leave. And she
wanted
to leave, because now that she was allowing good sense to prevail, she knew that she had to have a hit. In fact, she wanted a hit as badly as she could ever remember wanting one.

It came roaring back. The urge rose through her chest with such force that for a moment she lost her orientation. She was in Ivena's sewing room of all places, a crazy place to be. She didn't belong here. She'd lost her mind!

Helen snatched a pair of Nikes, pulled them over her bare feet, and ran out to the living room. It would be best to leave out the back, in case the old woman . . .

. . . Ivena, Helen. Her name is Ivena and she's not old . . .

. . . drove up front. Helen hurried to the attached greenhouse, suddenly eager to be free. Desperate to get back into the water. She ran out to the backyard. But there were no gates in the tall fence surrounding the lawn. She gave up and ran right through the house and out the front door. It occurred to her only then that she had no ride. She should call Glenn. He would send a car. He'd be in a stew— the thought made her shiver. You pay your dues, baby. We all pay our dues. It was one of Glenn's favorite sayings. His idea of
dues
was a bit extreme.

She raced back into the house, snatched up Ivena's phone and called Glenn's private number. His secretary, the old hooknosed witch Beatrice, answered and demanded to know where she was. Helen gave her the nearest cross street and hung up.
Take a flying leap from the top story, Beatrice. And don't forget your broom.

Now she ran with the butterflies that fluttered through her belly. She took a turn at the sidewalk and did not stop for two blocks, thinking only once that she should've ditched the dress—she must look like some kind of pink butterfly in the stupid thing. But her craving for the Palace washed the thought away.

Helen sucked in the warm southern air and settled into a walk. It was going to be a good night. Not at first, of course. At first it might not be so good at all, but that would pass. It always did. A picture of all those clothes piled on that bed back there flashed through her mind.
Sorry, Ivena. At least I left them. At least I didn't take them.

Sorry, Jan.

Don't be stupid.

A long white limousine was already waiting at the corner of Grand and Mason, drawing the stares of stiff-lipped pedestrians in all directions. Yes indeed, it was going to be a good night.

BEATRICE WAS waiting for Helen when the elevator doors opened at the top of the West Tower, her nose hooked and her chin lifted like a snotty schoolmaster. She looked Helen's dress over and her lips twisted to a wrinkled frown. “So, the slug has crawled home wearing a dress. You think that's supposed to impress him?”

“Shut up, Witch. I'm not trying to impress anybody.”

Beatrice's eyes grew round and then squeezed to slits. “He's gonna tan your hide when he sees you in that ridiculous getup.” She turned on her heels and marched for the double doors leading to the Palace.

Helen hesitated, staring at those wide black doors. Her stomach seemed to have lifted into her throat. Glenn was in there, doing only God knew what, but in reality doing only one thing: waiting for her. Yes, and in truth she was waiting for him as well, right? Or at least for what he could offer. Which was bliss. Yes, indeed, Glenn could definitely offer her bliss.

She swallowed and stepped onto the thick black carpet after the witch, chills now running the length of her spine.
You're a fool, Helen. You have a death wish?
She thought about that and the chill was quickly replaced by a tingle.
No, honey, not death. Sweet life. Sweet, sweet mind-numbing life!

Beatrice walked in without knocking; she was the only one who could survive such boldness. Helen followed, stepping lightly, as if doing so would somehow make her entrance less obvious. The sprawling room reminded Helen of a casino she'd been in once; lots of mirrors, lots of colored light, none of it natural. Glenn was not in sight.

Beatrice retreated with a
humph
and pulled the doors shut behind her. Helen peered about the room, her heart now thumping in the silence. To her right, one of those large mirrored balls rotated above a dance floor, slowly spinning a thousand tiny white dots through the room. Otherwise the Palace lay absolutely still. When she'd left the party three nights earlier, a dozen bodies twisted slowly on the pink marble dance floor. Directly ahead, a large lion head roared down to a red leather couch. A couple had been sprawled on that sofa, wasted to the world that night. Other guests had passed out on a dozen similar couches, each under beasts that glared down at them. There were a hyena and a rhinoceros and a buffalo—all within her sight. The others wound about the suite. To her left a long bar sparkled with a hundred colored bottles, each hosting its own intoxicant.

The last time she'd seen Glenn, he'd been leaning on that bar, talking to some huge black man with his back toward her. He was not there now.

“So . . .”

Her heart seized and she spun to his voice. Glenn stood ten yards to her right with his arms to his sides, in the shadow of a Greek pillar, huge and thick like the stonework beside him. A red-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt hung loosely over his torso; white slacks ran to the floor where they met his bare feet. He took a step forward then stopped, spread his legs, and clasped his hands together like a soldier at ease. From this distance his eyes looked like holes drilled through his skull; as black as midnight. His chin was stubbled and his hair unkempt.

Helen gulped and fought the overwhelming urge to flee. This had been a mistake. A terrible error on her part—coming here, back to this monster. He liked things dirty, he said, because he
could
. Weaker men had to stay clean to impress those in power. But not he. On several occasions she had suspected that he'd gone a week or more without bathing. When she was high the fact somehow held its own appeal, but now with a clear mind the very sight of him brought bile to her throat.

“So. Where have you been?” he asked.

“Hi, Glenn.” She said it straight, but her voice wavered slightly. “I've been around.”

“Around, huh? Why did you leave me?”

She smiled as best she could.
You can't be weak, Helen. He despises weakness
. “I didn't leave you, Glenn. I'm here, aren't I? Nobody forced me to come here.” She wanted to say,
You think you own me, you pig?
but she held her tongue.

Glenn walked toward her. He did not stop until he towered over her, within arm's reach, drilling her with those dark eyes. He lifted a hand and touched her cheek with a knotted finger, rolling it back and forth, intent on the feel of her flesh. “You look so much like your mother, you know.”

Her mother? Glenn knew her mother? Helen blinked. “You knew my mother?”

“Just an expression, dear,” he said, gazing with a cocked head at his fingers touching her. His body odor hit her nostrils and she turned her head, trying not to show her disgust.

“What is it, darling?” he said in a soft, labored voice. “Do I frighten you?”

His breath smelled of dead flesh. Helen felt the pressure of tears fill her sinuses. “Are you
trying
to frighten me?” she asked.
Be strong, Helen. You know how he likes that.

A soft moan ran past his lips. “Do you have any idea how much I've missed you? I was worried sick.” His finger trembled on her cheek. “I feel lost without you, you know that, don't you? Look at me.”

She held her breath and clenched her jaw and looked at his face. His unshaven jaw rested open and he ran his fat tongue over those crooked teeth. “Do you love me?” he asked.

A thousand sirens of protest raged through her mind. “Yes. Of course I love you.” She had to get some dope into her system. She had to before she threw up on the man's smelly shirt. “You have some snort for me, honey?”

His lips peeled back over yellowed teeth in a smile of sorts and a string of spittle bridged his open mouth. He was enjoying his power over her. “Where did you get the dress, Helen?”

“The dress?” She looked down at the pink dress, wishing she would have had the sense to leave it at Ivena's. She chuckled. “Oh, this? Goodness, nowhere. I stole it. I—”

Crack!
A blow struck her cheek and spun her around to the door. She gasped and instinctively jerked a hand to her mouth. It came away red and wet. Tears stung her eyes. Behind her Glenn was breathing heavy. She had to walk the line carefully now—this line between his anger and his desire to play. She turned back to him.

“What's the matter, Glenn?” she asked, forcing a grin. “Your little treasure disappears for three days and you come unglued, is that it?”

He blinked, unsure how to take the indictment. “You look like a schoolgirl,” he said. “Your hair's different.”

“Yeah, and you prefer the street girl look. Then give me what I want and I'll give you your street girl.”

He brought each foot forward one step. “And what is it that you want, Helen?”