Derailed Page 6

  He pressed a wet towel up against his nose, where it stung, as if he’d applied iodine. He smoothed down his hair and tried to wipe the blood away from his cheeks.

  When he came back into the room, she was more or less dressed. One stocking ripped, skirt slit where it wasn’t before, yet she was put back together in a reasonable facsimile of a dressed woman. The way a mannequin is a reasonable facsimile of a dressed woman — minus the thing that actually makes a woman alive.

  “What do we do?” Charles asked her, not just her, but himself as well, because he didn’t know.

  And she said, “Nothing.”

  Nothing. It sounded so ridiculously preposterous. So blatantly ludicrous. The criminal was still at large, his victims beaten and bleeding, and what does she propose doing? Nothing.

  Only the opposite of nothing is something, and he couldn't think of a something.

  Go to the police?

  Of course you go to the police. You’ve been robbed and raped and beaten, so you go to the police. Only . . .

  What were you doing at the Fairfax Hotel?

  Well, we were . . .

  What were you doing at the Fairfax Hotel in the middle of the morning?

  Well, the thing is . . .

  What were the two of you doing at the Fairfax Hotel?

  If I could take a minute to explain . . .

  Maybe they could ask for some discretion here, maybe you were allowed to ask for a little discretion, and the police detective would wink at them and say, I understand. That he’d be sure to keep this just between them, no need to worry. Only . . .

  There was a criminal here, and sometimes criminals get caught—you report them to the police, and sometimes the police actually apprehend them and bring them to court. And then there are trials, public forums that make the front pages, where witnesses have to get up and say, He did it, Your Honor. Those witnesses being him. Him and Lucinda.

  And what were you doing at the Fairfax Hotel?

  Well, we were . . .

  What were you doing at the Fairfax Hotel in the middle of the morning?

  Well, the thing is . . .

  Just answer the question.

  What do we do? That was the question.

  Nothing. Maybe not as ludicrous as it first appeared. Maybe not so ridiculous.

  Yet was it possible that they could just ignore what had happened to them? That she could just forget about it, like a rude comment or a vulgar gesture? Go to sleep and wake up and poof — gone.

  Lucinda said, “I’m going.”

  “Where?”

  “Home.”

  Home. To the blond five-year-old who never met a playground swing she didn’t like. To the husband with the nine handicap who might or might not notice the sudden pallor in her cheeks, the bit lip and shell-shocked disposition.

  “I’m sorry, Lucinda,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He was sorry for everything. That he’d asked her up here in the first place. That he hadn’t seen the man lurking in the stairwell opposite their room. That he’d sat and watched as the man raped her again and again. That he hadn’t protected her.

  Lucinda trudged to the door — that amazingly elegant gait turned plodding and ungainly. She didn’t look back, either. Charles thought about offering to call a car for her, but he knew she’d turn him down. He hadn’t been able to provide the one thing she’d really needed him to. She’d want nothing more from him.

  She opened the door, stepped through the open space, and shut it behind her.

  ATTICA

  Sorry, I have to interrupt here.

  I think I should come clean.

  Three things happened.

  On Wednesday, a man rang our doorbell to see the house. He’d gotten the listing from a real estate agent, he said.

  My wife answered the door and told him the house wasn’t for sale. It must be some kind of mistake.

  Your husband’s a teacher, isn’t he? he said.

  Yes, she said. But it was still some sort of mistake. The house wasn’t for sale.

  The man apologized and left.

  He didn’t look like a man who was in the market for a house, she told me later.

  Well, what did he look like? I asked her.

  Like one of your students, she said.

  A high school kid? I said.

  No. Like one of your other students.

  Then the second thing happened.

  A CO called Fat Tommy informed me in the lounge that I was going to be ass out soon.

  What did that mean? I asked him.

  It means you’re going to be ass out soon, he said.

  Fat Tommy was over three hundred pounds and had been known to sit on unruly prisoners who’d been shackled face-down on the floors of their cells.

  Why? I asked him.

  Cutbacks. I guess somebody finally realized they’ve got better things to do with our taxes than teach coons to read.

  I asked him if he knew when.

  Nah, he said. But I wouldn’t start teaching them War and Peace.

  When Fat Tommy laughed, his three chins jiggled.

  Then the third thing happened.

  The writer penned a note on the bottom of chapter 10. At first I thought it was just part of the story, something Charles said to Lucinda or even to himself. But it wasn’t. It was to me — a kind of editorial aside.

  “Like the story so far?”

  That’s what he wrote.

  The answer, by the way, was no.

  I didn’t.

  For one thing, the story lacked suspense.

  It was missing the one crucial ingredient needed to make it suspenseful.

  Surprise.

  Because suspense depends on not knowing what’s going to happen.

  But I did know what was going to happen.

  I knew, for example, what would be on the other side of the door of room 1207. I knew what was going to come in when they opened that door. I knew what that man was going to do to Lucinda over and over for the next four hours.

  I remembered it all from a previous life.

  In this previous life, I woke up every morning wondering why I preferred to remain sleeping.

  I showered and dressed and tried not to look at a blood meter sitting on the kitchen counter. I took the 8:43 to Penn Station, with the exception of one morning in November when I didn’t. The morning my daughter made me late and I took the 9:05. The morning that I looked up from my paper and was asked for a ticket I didn’t have.

  This was my story.

  I’ll take over from here.

  ELEVEN

  After Lucinda left, I went to the doctor.

  It was 130 blocks uptown from the Fairfax Hotel. I walked because the man had taken my wallet and all my cash in it.

  I had a broken nose and a bloodstained jacket, but no one seemed to notice. There were other things to look at, I suppose — a homeless man with no clothes on, for instance. A woman on Rollerblades dressed entirely in purple. A black man shouting about something called the Sons of Jonah. My swollen nose and bloody jacket slipped right under the average city dweller’s radar.

  A funny thing happened as I walked. And walked and walked.

  I started counting blocks but ended up counting blessings.

  Because there were blessings. I was alive, for instance. That was blessing number one. I’d been half-sure the man was going to shoot me. So being alive was a blessing. And then there was my wife and daughter. Blessings, both of them. My unknowing wife, blessedly ignorant of the fact that I’d just spent the morning in room 1207 of the Fairfax Hotel with a woman other than her. Watching that woman get brutally and repeatedly raped, of course — but still.

  And Anna . . . how could I have done a thing like this to her? I felt as if I’d been deathly sick for a long time and that my fever had finally broken. I could think clearly again.

  Dr. Jaffe asked me what happened.

  “I fell getting out of a cab.”

  “
Uh-huh,” Dr. Jaffe said. “You’d be surprised how many times I hear that.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Dr. Jaffe set my nose and gave me a sample bottle of codeine. “If the pain gets bad,” he said.

  I felt like telling him that the pain was already bad, but then I was kind of welcoming the discomfort. Like the 130 blocks of arctic air I’d just stepped out of, it grounded me.

  I walked all the way to the office. I suppose I could’ve gone home, but I was going to make this a day like any other. A late-starting day, a day with a morning I’d rather not think about, but wasn’t there a whole afternoon ahead? And another morning and afternoon after that, and so on? I was jumping back in with both feet.

  When I got to the office, I trotted out the same story for anyone who asked. And everyone who saw me did. Winston, Mary Widger, and three-quarters of my creative group. The cab, the street hole, the unfortunate fall. They were all sorry for me; they all tried not to look at my nose and the two raccoon like rings appearing under both eyes.

  When I finally sat down in my office, I felt the kind of relief that comes with being back in your own environment, an environment that had been feeling a little sad and hopeless lately, but suddenly felt warm and welcoming. Life itself feeling warm and welcoming—richer than I’d been willing to give it credit for. There were all my things, for example. My very own phone and computer and couch and coffee table. And all those industry awards I’d managed to garner—gold and silver and bronze—and who could say, despite recent setbacks, that there wouldn’t be more to come? And on my desk, a photograph of us: Deanna and Anna and me, taken somewhere on a beach in the Caribbean. My family, secure in the knowledge of my love. And I did love them.

  But looking at that picture made me think about that other picture, the one in my wallet. The one the man had ogled, then polluted by holding in his hand. The one he still had with him.

  “Darlene,” I called.

  “Yes?” My secretary appeared at my door, wearing a look of motherly concern.

  “I just realized I lost my wallet. It must’ve fallen out when I broke my nose.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Can you call the credit card companies for me and cancel the cards?”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “No.You’ve got to call them yourself. They’ll only listen to the cardholder.”

  “Oh. Right.” I probably should’ve known that. I probably should’ve known a lot of things. For instance, that shabby-looking hotels look shabby for a reason—because they are shabby. The kinds of places that attract lowlifes and persons with criminal intent. Persons who loiter in stairwells, waiting for persons with adulterous intent to cross their paths. I was in my forties and still learning.

  I called the card companies. American Express and Visa and MasterCard. Canceling your cards is an easy thing to do these days; you just tell them your mother’s maiden name — Reston — and poof. Your card number ceases to be. And I pictured the man standing in some store being told that his card was no good. That one, too. And this one as well. All of them no good.

  Only I suddenly pictured Deanna in a store, being told the same thing. I had to call her. It was after three — she’d be home.

  She picked up on the fourth ring, and when I heard her voice saying, “Hello,” I was overcome with a kind of gratitude. Grateful to God, I suppose—assuming that there was one, assuming that he’d care enough to see that I’d made it out of the Fairfax Hotel in one piece. Minus a whole nose, maybe, minus a lover, sure, but other than that, reasonably intact.

  “You won’t believe the day I had,” I told her. And she wouldn't have believed it.

  “What happened?”

  “I broke my nose.”

  “You broke your what? ”

  “My nose. I fell down getting out of a cab and broke my nose.”

  “Oh, Charles . . .”

  “Don’t worry. It’s okay, it’s fine. The doctor set it and gave me enough codeine to sedate a horse. I’m feeling no pain.” That wasn’t true—I was feeling pain, but this pain was a kind of penance and tempered by that other thing I was feeling, which was unmitigated relief.

  “Oh,Charles. Why don’t you come home?”

  “I told you. I’m fine. I have a few things to do here.” Like say three hundred Hail Marys and lick my wounds.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” I was moved by the obvious empathy in her voice, the kind of empathy made possible only through years of sticking together through thick and thin. Even if we couldn’t communicate it lately — even if we couldn’t physically express it — it was there. It had always been there. And I nearly felt like confessing and throwing myself on the mercy of the court. But then I’d never have to, would I? Life was back where it started, before I’d looked up from my paper and noticed a white thigh and swinging black pump.

  “One other thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I lost my wallet. When I fell out of the cab. I told you, you wouldn't believe the day I had.”

  “A wallet’s just a wallet. I’m more concerned about you.”

  “I already called the credit card companies and canceled them. Just wanted you to know — you better cut them up and throw them away. They’re going to send us new ones by tomorrow — at least they say they are.”

  “Fine. Consider it done.”

  I said good-bye, whispered, “I love you,” and started to hang up.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Vasquez called.”

  “Mr.Who? ”

  “Mr. Vasquez. He said he had a business lunch with you at the Fairfax Hotel. He forgot to tell you something.

  “Charles . . . ?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why didn’t he call you at the office?”

  TWELVE

  I called Lucinda at the work number she’d given me.

  Hello, this is Lucinda Harris at Morgan Stanley. I’m not here at the moment, but if you leave your name and a brief message, I’ll get back to you.

  So I did leave a brief message of sorts. Help. Not saying the actual word, of course, but then it’s the thought that counts.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” I said. “That . . .person from the hotel called me.” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice, the same way I’d tried to keep it out of my voice when Deanna had told me that Mr. Vasquez had called. I failed both times.

  Are you okay? Deanna had asked me.

  It’s the codeine, I'd said. It's making me woozy. I had wanted to say, It's Mr. Vasquez, he’s making me terrified.

  Eliot came into my office to offer condolences about my nose. Maybe to try to patch things up, too — after all, we were friends, weren’t we? More than co-workers, than simple boss and employee. Eliot had been my rabbi all these years — hadn’t he promoted me and talked me up and provided me with more than generous raises? I’d been mistaken to blame Eliot for my dismissal from the credit card account — that had been their doing, not his. Ellen Weischler and her gang of four. Eliot was burying the hatchet and saying let’s be friends again.

  And I needed a friend right now.

  How much do you love me? I used to ask Anna when she was very small.

  From the earth to the moon, she'd answer me. And sometimes, To infinity.

  Which might be how much I needed a friend right now. A need as infinite as it was immediate.

  I felt like unburdening myself to him. I'd like to tell you something that happened to me, I’d say to him. I know it’s hard to believe — I know it’s kind of ridiculous. I met this girl. And Eliot would wink and nod and smile, because Eliot had met girls before, too — three marriages to prove it and number three on life support these days.

  I met this girl, I'd say, married, and Eliot’s smile would grow only wider, if that were possible, because he’d met married girls, too. We went to a hotel together — and here Eliot would lean in even closer, all ears, because
was there anything quite as delicious as listening to a buddy give up the details, other than recounting the details yourself?

  We went to a hotel together, I'd continue, only when we got to the room, someone else came in there with us.

  And Eliot would lose that smile. Because this story took a vicious left turn and ended with this someone who came into our room raping the woman and calling my house. Talking to my wife.

  Eliot asked me if something was the matter.

  “No,” I said.

  “Maybe you ought to go home,” Eliot said. “You look a little pale.”

  “The nose,” I said.

  “Yeah — the nose doesn’t look so good.”

  “No.”

  “Well, go home, then.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Eliot patted me on the back — friends again, after all.

  So I went home.

  Why did he call you at home, Charles?

  To prove that he could, Deanna.

  I took money out of petty cash to pay for the train ride — the scene of the crime. The crime of coveting — another man’s wife, another man’s life. One night when I was eight years old and my parents’ constant sniping had reached a full-out conflagration, I’d packed my football helmet with a change of underwear and announced I was running away from home. Down the block I went — one block, two blocks, long enough to realize that no one was going to be coming after me. Eventually I stopped amid the swirling autumn leaves and started back. Thirty-five years later, I’d run away from home again. But this time I was running back.

  My cellular phone rang. For a second, I wondered if it was him — my business associate from the Fairfax Hotel. But it couldn’t be him, he didn’t have the number. But someone else did.

  “Hello,” Lucinda said.

  She sounded different from this morning. Emotion was back in her voice after all, only a different kind from what I was used to. Dread, I’d say. First dead, then dread, all in the space of one afternoon.