Save Johanna!

by Francine Pascal

  “It’s just going to be a small wedding, very informal. I don’t think it’s worth such a trip.”

  “Well . . . I suppose it would be difficult, what with the kids and all.” She’s making it easy for me. I feel rotten.

  “Thanks.”

  “Johanna? Are you OK?”

  “Just tired. I’ve been doing a lot of work, and I don’t sleep so well.”

  “The nightmares again?” she asks, referring to the terrifying dreams I used to have as a teenager. I hadn’t had them for years, but in the last couple of months I’ve begun suffering them again. Seconal helps a bit.

  “Yeah, a few,” I say. “I think I’m just overtired.”

  “Do you think you should see someone?”

  “You mean a shrink? For a few bad dreams? I hardly think so.” I hate when she plays mother.

  “Would you like to talk to me?”

  “About what?”

  “There are things we could talk about. It might help.”

  “I’m fine, Sephra, I don’t need any help—anymore.” I can’t resist the last dig. All those years, all those questions she avoided answering. Now she wants to talk. Well, it’s too late. I don’t want to hear what she has to say anymore.

  “Johanna, there’re only the two of us left. Maybe we can help each other.”

  “No.”

  “Please, there are things we should talk about. Things that have to be brought into the open.”

  Suddenly I feel overcome with terror. I must stop her. “No,” I snap. “Don’t tell me.” I don’t know what I don’t want to hear, but my fear is so intense I can barely breathe.

  “Johanna, trust me, I should have done it years . . .”

  I slam the phone onto its hook, cutting her off in the middle of her sentence. My hands are shaking, my whole body is trembling. Perspiration covers my face, and the heat in the booth becomes unbearable. I have to get out. I struggle with the door, but it’s stuck and I’m trapped. I grab the handle with both hands and shove it in and out, trying to dislodge the panels. I can’t. And then suddenly it’s opened, pulled free from the outside.

  I practically fall out, right onto the man who pulled it open.

  “Hey,” he says, grabbing me by the shoulders, “take it easy.”

  “Thanks . . . sorry. It was stuck. I couldn’t get out. . . .”

  “You were shoving it the wrong way.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble, and then he says something about not apologizing to him because it’s not his door. I’m only half listening.

  “You look like you need a drink,” he says, and for the first time I take a good look at him. I had the impression he was an older man, but he’s only about twenty-five, with longish, yellow-streaked hair that hangs straight down the sides of his cheeks. His face is bony and sallow, but he’s not homely.

  “Well, what about it?”

  “What about what?” I don’t quite know what’s going on.

  “A drink, you want one?” he asks again, leaning his face into mine. He smiles. Slightly crooked but pleasant, and I decide a drink is exactly what I need.

  I nod my head and follow him to the bar. He’s tall and slim, with surprisingly broad shoulders that strain his tight T-shirt. His arms are muscular, and he’s got one sleeve tucked up to make a pocket for his cigarettes. From the back I can see the edge of a tattoo on his arm. When he turns I see another one on his forearm.

  “What’ll ya have?” he asks.

  “Vodka, please, with a twist.” He orders bourbon for himself and vodka for me, then he says, “Hey, uh, what’s your name?”

  “Johanna.”

  “Yeah, Joanne, I’m Ron, and this here’s my friend Jimmy.” He motions to a dark-haired man standing next to him at the bar.

  “Right,” Jimmy says, “how you doing?”

  “She got stuck in the phone booth,” Ron tells him. They talk about that for a couple of minutes, and I half listen. What if Sephra called back and got David? I don’t want her to talk to David. She might tell him. I don’t know what it is, but I know I don’t want him to know.

  “Hey, wake up,” Ron says, holding out the vodka to me.

  “Thanks,” I say and take it. The music is screeching out from the jukebox, making conversation a strain. Perfect. I don’t have anything to say to these people anyway. But I smile and nod and shake my head on cue. Jimmy holds out his drink to me, and I hear him say, “To Joanne.” And we all drink.

  I finish mine first. I need the sting to numb my brain. But one isn’t enough. I tell them the next one is on me, then remember that I don’t have my pocketbook. No matter, they wouldn’t consider it.

  “No way, baby,” Ron says. “Broads don’t buy the drinks when we’re around. Right, Jimmy?”

  “Right,” Jimmy agrees. He orders another round for all of us. This one works better, and I feel the tightness in my jaws loosen, and Sephra and David and everyone else seems to get swallowed up in the pound of the music and the haze of smoke that dims the already low lights.

  Ron tries to pull me closer to the bar. “Come on, Joanne, it’s cold out there.”

  The strange grip on my arm brings me to the top of the thick, warm soup I’ve begun to float in. “Thanks,” I say, pulling back. “I’m OK.”

  “Sure thing,” he says, letting go instantly. “Still thirsty?”

  I smile. “Very.” He orders another vodka for me. Somewhere, far in the back of my head and receding even further, is the common sense that says I shouldn’t be accepting free drinks from strange men, but I need them now. It’s just a few dollars out of their pockets, and I am smiling a lot. The next drink makes me smile even more. A genuine smile. What could have been my problem, and who cares anyway? I’m not so high that I don’t know I’m high, which means I’m not drunk. Right? Well, maybe a little.

  “You look like you need a spot to lean on,” says Jimmy, making room at the bar.

  I move up to the bar because I am a little woozy, and I could use something to steady the rocking. Woozy feels so good.

  We’re all three touching, these two strangers and I, standing together. It’s very crowded, and I’m wedged in between them, my back squeezed against Ron. His body has arched to accommodate mine, and I can feel his hard, bulky chest jammed against me. I haven’t had such intimate contact with any man other than David for almost four years. It’s odd, and his feel is very different. He’s shorter, and new areas of my body lean against unfamiliar parts of his. His feel is sharper and bonier. He slides his hand, a large, weighty hand, across the front of my waist and pulls me in tighter to him. I feel very small and delicate. There’s a warmth radiating from him that feels good against my body.

  The other man—Jimmy, the dark one—hands me another drink, readjusting his position so that his thigh is touching mine. When he leans over to pick up his drink his genitals press against the front of my hip. Hands and legs, arms and thighs are surrounding me, closing me in into an ever-shrinking circle. Somewhere, high up in the peaks of my mind, some detached part of me observes it all. Below, the vodka, the heat, the anonymity, the need, all respond.

  The dark man gets up from his stool. He’s very tall and big, and as he leans over me, his face coming close to mine, a chill runs through my body. I know him. Not his face, his shadow. I know the feel of his darkness looming over me, trapping me. I squirm to get out from under, but his hand slides under my blouse and the fingers run over my breasts and I’m hypnotized. He talks to me, but my hearing is scrambled; bits and pieces of sentences come through; the drift is rough and hard and sexual. More and more the men play over my head, against each other, passions fed on fuck words, cock words, cunt words, and movements that grow bolder and more arrogant. I’m held, squeezed, rubbed against, used. And all the time the little girl smiles, moving with it all, curling against whatever touches me, slithering and winding, lost in the deep, good feeling of being loved.

  Another drink, and then the dark man, Jimmy, takes the empty glass from me, pulls
my hand down pressing it tight against his erection, moving it up and down slowly. I curl my fingers around him, and they feel small against his thickness. I want to sit on his lap.

  Somewhere in that small sane spot in my mind there’s a terrible shriek and a bolt of fear strikes me, but I fight it off and float back into the strange irresistible warmth of my passions.

  Keep away from me, David. You too, Sephra and Claudia, all of you. Keep out of my life.

  But I don’t have to worry, they’ll never find me here. Here, right under their noses, but so far under they’ll never think to look. They don’t know what it’s like to stroke this underbelly, taste this kind of fucking, it’s not all pills and vodka, they’re only the keys, not what’s inside. I know what’s inside. I belong there.

  There’s someone I hate, and I don’t know who it is. Oh, God, don’t let it be David.

  “OK, baby, let’s go.” It’s the blond one, Ron. His bourbon breath is unpleasant, harsh, and bitter. I pull back.

  “Uh uh.” I shake my head no, twisting around to the bar. I want another drink. One of them spins me around. “We’re getting out of here,” he says, “now.”

  Their hands fall away from me, their bodies move out of touch.

  “Shit! The broad is bombed. Grab her fucking arm and let’s get her out of here.” Maybe that was Ron. I don’t know. I don’t want to go. I’m feeling dizzy and sick, but they’ve got my arms and they’re moving me out.

  Outside is better. The fresh air helps.

  “Come on, Joanne, get in the car.”

  Car? What car? “What car?”

  But nobody answers. They start pushing me toward the street.

  “Hey, don’t push me.”

  The dark one, the scary one with the black eyes, eyes like Avrum’s, comes into focus. Why is he so angry? I don’t care. I’m going home.

  “Goonigh.” I want it to sound sharp, but my clumsy tongue can’t manage the “t.” It’s hard to see which way is downtown so I start to walk to the corner to be sure. I’m still deciding which corner when somebody knocks me hard in the back, and I lose my balance and start falling. I reach out to stop myself against the fender of a car, but the blow is so strong I hit the car and bounce off, falling off the curb and into the gutter.

  The pain of my thigh hitting first the sharp edge of the curb and then the cement with a hard thump is instantly dimmed by the rush of alarm that shoots through my body. Danger sends me leaping up the second I hit the ground. The fuzziness is gone from my eyes, and I see everything clearly. The blond one is in the driver’s seat, the back door is open. They’re going to shove me in there. The dark one is going to do it. They’re going to rape me. I’ve got to run.

  Jimmy’s steel hands grip my shoulders and shove me back against the open door, his heavy body pinning me, then pushing me down into the car. I’m screaming and scratching and kicking, but he’s all over me and I can’t break away.

  Suddenly my knee catches a soft spot and he drops away for an instant, leaving me a free space, and I rush into it, simultaneously tearing off my shoes and flinging them behind me. Now I’m running and screaming down Columbus Avenue, turning the first corner I come to. I look behind me but see no one. Then I see the headlights. They’re following me in the car. I’m not screaming. I can’t scream and run. The car is up to me now, traveling alongside me.

  “Hey, slow down, Joanne,” one of them calls from the car. “He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Yeah, right. Come on in, I got a present for you.”

  Oh, God, help me please!

  They’re laughing out loud in the empty streets, but no one seems to hear.

  “Come on in, baby, or I’ll come out and get you.”

  The street is long, and my breath is searing my lungs. I can’t keep this up. I hear a car door open and scrape along the sidewalk. I take a quick look. It’s Jimmy getting out. I put everything left into one last burst of strength and charge ahead. I hear him closing in behind me. He’s going to catch me.

  “Hellllp!” I scream.

  Nobody answers. “Please! Help me!” I can’t run . . . any . . . more. He’s almost . . . up . . . to . . . me. . . .

  Suddenly a horn blasts. A cab has pulled up right alongside us, and he’s blasting his horn. He’s saving me. I hear Jimmy stop, but I keep going; then I stop and turn. Jimmy’s standing there, glaring at me. He spins around and, slow and mean, walks toward his car. I run over to the cab, jump in, lock the doors, and collapse in tears.

  “You OK, lady? Want me to take you to the police?”

  I shake my head, but I can’t stop crying. He starts the car.

  “Where are you taking me!”

  “That’s OK, lady, I was just going to pull up to Central Park West where those bastards can’t get at us.”

  “Forgive me, please, I’m just so frightened. Thank you so much. You saved my life. This is stupid, but I can’t stop crying. It was so awful”—I lean forward to read his name—“Mr. Williams. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just take it easy. Everything’s OK now.”

  The cabbie slides over from the driver’s seat and opens his partition. He’s a tan-colored black man with short-cropped gray hair. He must be at least sixty. “I saw the guy chasing you from way up the street and I knew it was bad, but there were no cops around and I didn’t know what to do. I figured I was no match for him. Besides, he could have had a gun or something. So I did the best thing I could think of. I leaned on the horn and figured it might scare him off, and it did.”

  “You were fantastic. That was a brilliant idea.”

  “I knew I couldn’t take him on. . . .” He shrugs apologetically.

  “It would have been a terrible mistake if you tried. He was enormous. You did the best thing and . . . you saved me. I wish I could stop these silly tears.”

  “Maybe I should take you home?”

  “Would you, please? It’s not far.” I give him the address and it turns out we’re only a couple of blocks away. In those few minutes I try to pull myself together. There’s not too much I can do. I have no shoes, my blouse is ripped, I’m a mess, and there’s no way I can fix myself up. But nobody except the doorman is likely to be around at this hour. I’m lucky—at least I have my house keys. I hunt through my pockets for some money for the driver, but all I can come up with is three dimes. I explain my problem and say I’ll run upstairs and get some money, but he says no, he won’t hear of it. I insist. He says, OK, I can send him the money, and he writes down his address on a scrap of paper for me.

  I thank him and tell him I’ll never forget him, and then more tears choke me and I can’t go on.

  “It’s OK, lady, I’m so glad I could help you.”

  I get out of the car and watch as he slides away and blends into the light southbound traffic—a fine and decent man.

  Walter is on the door and gives me a curious look, but he hasn’t the courage to ask anything, and I don’t help him. I nod and walk past him to the elevator.

  It’s only when I get into the elevator that I remember David is at my apartment; at least he was when I left. What am I going to say to him? Now everything starts flooding back, the fight with David, the call to Sephra, but I stop there. I can’t deal with it. I know I’m not going to tell anyone what happened, certainly not David. All I’ll say to him is that I was walking around, trying to calm down, when this man attacked me. From there on I’ll tell the truth.

  I open the door quietly. Maybe he went to sleep. Maybe I can avoid all the explanations. It’s quiet in the house, but from the front entrance I can see that the light is on in my bedroom. He must be awake and waiting for me. I make some quick repairs in the hall mirror. The missing shoes don’t matter now. I always walk around barefoot in the house.

  The bedroom is empty. David’s not there, and the clothes he was wearing are nowhere in sight. He must have gone home. Or out looking for me. I hope not. I don’t want him to come back tonight.

  I undress qui
ckly and get into bed, wrapping the covers tightly around me. But I’m wide awake. Did I double-lock the front door? I think so, but I have to get up and check.

  It’s locked.

  While I’m up I check the kitchen window that leads to the fire escape to make sure the gate is locked. It’s all secure. I pour a glass of water and, glass in hand, go back to the bedroom and get into bed. When I reach for the Valium I have a flash of annoyance at David. I certainly don’t have to feel guilty taking two tranquilizers after a night like tonight.

  Once the light is out, that horrible bar scene comes back. Strangely enough, that’s what bothers me most of all, more than the fight with David or the phone call, more even than what happened later on the street. Those things were all out of my control. The bar wasn’t.

  Why didn’t I stop them? I could have at any time, simply by declaring myself—being me. Instead I stood there and allowed them to perform the most terrible indignities. And, most frightening of all, responded—hungrily. What possessed me? That’s the only word. Something seemed to take possession of me, come craving beyond my control. It surfaced in me tonight, and I was not able to control it. Oh, dear God, or David, or someone. Help me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It’s nearly 5 a.m., and I can’t sleep. The Valium hasn’t worked. Neither has the weed I tried. The horror of the night still haunts me. At least if I go to the computer I’ll have some discipline over my thoughts, but I have to take something to get my mind functioning. Oxycontin can do that for me. Only one and nothing to drink.

  Damn it, David’s really gotten to me. Here I am, making excuses for the way I run my life. I’d better stop that.

  This next chapter is very manageable for me, well outlined with a good, strong, clean direction to work in. Avrum is in a fury. Pinky has been stolen away from him. He knows the kidnappers must have come from her parents and will try to deprogram her, and the challenge angers and excites him. Will he be able to hold onto her? No one could be more completely his. He owned her soul. This becomes the ultimate test of his power. He makes his plans for revenge. First he will wait until the deprogrammers finish with Pinky and return her to her home. Then he will send one of his people with a message for her. Pinky has become the linchpin in his secret scheme.