“Don’t wait, Johanna, why struggle alone? Wyn could help you now, and it might even help your work.”
“The thing that’s going to help me most now is finishing the book as fast as I can. It’s obvious that it’s become some kind of irritant, and when it’s out of the way and things return to normal I promise that the very next project I take on will be me.”
“I wish you wouldn’t put it off.”
“I have to.”
“I have an idea. See Wyn once. Talk to him. Maybe he can give you some interim advice that could take some of the pressure off for now.”
“I really don’t want to.”
“Just talk to him once.”
“He’s not a magician, David.”
“I know that, but from personal experience I can tell you he’s remarkably good. See him once, Johanna.”
We’re home, sipping on some wine, lying around the living room with the Sunday papers spread out on the floor and table. It seems a small request, and I suspect he needs the reassurance. “All right,” I say, “but I don’t intend to get involved in anything more than one consultation now.”
“I understand.”
It takes me the better part of the next hour to get over the feeling that David must think my need for help is truly urgent. That disturbs me, and I’m about to feel a resentment against him for trusting me so little when he practically reads my mind and assures me that I’m not at all nuts, but he just thinks that Wyn needs the extra money, making me smile my way out of a beginning sulk.
The rest of Sunday evening is glorious, and at about eight Louis comes over with Mickey, and he is just like Warren who was just like Eric. We order in some Chinese food, and it’s like old times.
When things are as good as they are now I see how destructive I’ve allowed my problems to become. I must take greater control over my life.
Chapter Eighteen
It’s Monday morning, and I admit I just got a little thrown by Wyn’s nurse. I know for a fact that he’s a very successful, busy doctor, yet inside of seconds she was able to schedule me for an appointment first thing tomorrow morning. Either I fit into a fortuitous cancellation or she’s been lying in wait for me, having cleared the calendar of the mildly mad to leave room for the big stuff like me. I suspect David’s hand in this, but if I allow myself to pursue that line of thinking I’ll never get down to work. And work I must because after the scare of Friday night and contrary to what everyone else seems to think, that’s the one thing that’s going to help me the most—working and finishing.
I edit the end of the previous chapter where Pinky is returned home to Greenwich from the Franklins’ apartment. That finished, I turn on the computer.
Souls in Darkness
Chapter Seven
It was Saturday morning and the Fowlers were just finishing a late breakfast. Canadian bacon and eggs for George Fowler and croissants and coffee for his wife Roseanne and daughter Louise, AKA Pinky.
The croissants were homemade, as was the rest of the breakfast, by Mrs. Jean Dacour, their Haitian housekeeper. Mrs. Dacour had been with the Fowlers from the time Pinky was seven, and now that both girls were grown and the house had quieted down she had more time on her hands for her favorite pastime—baking. Mr. Fowler and Pinky could always eat as much as they liked of Mrs. Dacour’s delicacies, but poor Mrs. Fowler claimed to gain pounds just at the sight of them. As long as that was the case, she said, she might as well enjoy them, and so, on this Saturday morning, with her younger daughter safely home again, she indulged herself by devouring three croissants, bending slightly to her diet by not buttering them.
Sitting there, this handsome, healthy-looking threesome at the table enjoying their breakfast under the bright sunshine streaking in through the curved bay window, they could have been a magazine ad for the comfort of the good suburban life. Both parents were bronzed from at least four days of golf weekly since the early spring, and now, in late August, they would be deciding where to chase the sun this winter.
Their daughter Pinky might have been nicknamed for the color of her face. Obviously she was a latecomer to the sun and still suffering from too fast a burn. The tip of her nose had started to peel, and it was obvious that the rest of her pretty face wouldn’t be far behind. She hadn’t been home from the Franklins’ a full week, and for the three weeks she was at their apartment hadn’t left it once. Before that, of course, she had been with Avrum. But now they had her safely home, and she appeared to be happy enough. Well, maybe not exactly happy but not the old angry, quarrelsome Pinky of the pre-Avrum days. Resigned might be a better word. Mrs. Fowler thought content, but Mr. Fowler knew better. They were being very careful with her. The Franklins had cautioned them about asking her too many questions, and by no means were they to discuss Avrum with her. And so they didn’t. For the first few days it felt as if they were all walking around on tiptoe, but now things had relaxed a little, and last night all three had gone to a movie and then afterwards, over a soda, had discussed the possibilities of Pinky’s returning to art school.
Though you couldn’t call her reaction in any way enthusiastic, she hadn’t been negative either. Since they weren’t considering the fall term there was plenty of time for more discussion before registration for the spring term.
“Teaching art can be a very rewarding career. You’ll love it,” Mrs. Fowler had said, slipping into her old habit of making people’s decisions for them. But Mr. Fowler thought that Pinky might want to consider doing something else with her talent.
“There’s no shame in teaching,” said Mrs. Fowler, “and it’s got the kind of security she’ll really appreciate later in life.”
“Let’s let Pinky make that decision,” he answered her in a tone as effective as a kick under the table, and Mrs. Fowler, who wasn’t usually too quick, took the hint.
Through this Pinky said nothing, and that in itself was a vast improvement over the loud and angry arguments of the past. The Fowlers thought they had a great deal to thank the Franklins for, and they did with a very generous contribution to Kenneth Franklin’s foundation. Mr. Fowler also had a good contact on the New York Post, and they did a feature story on the Franklins and what they described as their “calling.”
Now today, the beginning of another sunny, hot weekend, they all had their own plans. Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were going to spend the afternoon at the club, Mr. Fowler on the golf course and Mrs. Fowler at the bridge table, and Pinky would be at home sitting around the pool. Mrs. Fowler suggested she might want to invite a friend over, but Pinky said no, she had a new book she was looking forward to reading. With all the restraint available in her very small arsenal, Mrs. Fowler did not suggest that Pinky could read her book anytime and how much nicer it would be if she tried to renew some of her earlier social contacts. In order to make certain that she didn’t suggest either of these possibilities, Mrs. Fowler left the room on the excuse that she had to go upstairs to change for the club. For the moment she would follow the Franklins’ advice, but she was, after all, a mother who knew her daughter. Later would be time enough.
Pinky and her father sat over coffee. Most of the talk was about the lemon meringue pie Mrs. Dacour was making for tonight’s dinner. Pinky liked the way her father joked with Mrs. Dacour. Not like her mother whom she always felt sounded so condescending to the help. Pinky didn’t join in the conversation. Since she’d gotten home she’d felt very quiet. No one had mentioned it, not even her mother, but that was the way she felt. It was hard for her to talk. Everything seemed either too big and overwhelming for her to attempt or too small and unimportant to make the effort. As long as they left her alone she wasn’t unhappy. In fact, since she’d come back from the Franklins’ her mind had been too exhausted to tackle being unhappy. Worn out, too tired to think, and certainly too tired to fight, she was comfortable just waiting. For what, she wasn’t certain.
Spending the day alone at the pool was a pleasant prospect. She wouldn’t read, though; even that was too
taxing just now.
Pinky went upstairs to change into her bathing suit. After almost a week at home her bedroom still looked strange and unfamiliar. Could she ever have belonged in such a room with its ruffled organdy spread and matching dressing table skirt, leftovers from the years she’d spent fantasizing herself Betty from the Archie comics? But she hadn’t been Betty for a long, long time, nor had she thought about her until recently, until she’d come back home.
Even now the old questions about who she really was didn’t call up any of the urgency or anger she would have felt in the past. In fact, she felt remarkably empty of the frustrating emotions, the terrible guilt of the privileged that used to torture her life. The days passed, and they weren’t so bad. They weren’t so good either, but now that seemed a small price to pay for the quiet she needed so desperately. Most of the time she felt too drained to do anything but sit around the pool.
Her parents would be leaving momentarily, along with Mrs. Dacour whom they would be dropping off at the railroad station in time to make the 12:10 back to New York, and, except for the gardeners who were coming to work on the grounds, she would be undisturbed all afternoon.
Pinky put on her old blue Danskin bathing suit, didn’t check herself in the mirror, picked up the book she wouldn’t read, and went downstairs and out the front of the house. Her mother was already in the car at the wheel, Mrs. Dacour was in the back seat, and they were waiting for Mr. Fowler who had had a last-minute telephone call. He came out of the house and started walking toward the car when he seemed to have an afterthought, turned, and came to Pinky. He was smiling.
“Honey girl,” he said to her, sort of chucking her chin lightly, “I’m so happy to have you home. I missed you . . . very much.”
Pinky didn’t answer. She was too choked up to speak, but she put her arms around him and hugged him.
Roseanne Fowler leaned on the horn, and when they turned and looked she made motions to her watch and mouthed through the window that they would miss the train. George Fowler gave his daughter one last quick peck on the cheek and ran for the car.
As the white Mercedes backed down the long driveway, simultaneously from the opposite direction the gardeners came into view, trudging up the sweeping front lawn, carrying their tools. They had come from their truck parked on the street.
Pinky turned from the white car with her father’s smiling face reflecting through the windshield to the three men coming up the lawn. She only glanced at them for an instant and then turned back to wave to her father. Then she gasped. Her head shot back to the men. She had to be wrong. Please, God, let her be wrong! But she wasn’t. It was he!
The third man, the one farthest from her, almost entirely hidden by the others, that one was Frank. Pinky knew Avrum had sent him.
She spun back to the driveway. “Daddy . . . ” she called softly, but the white car was already backing through the iron gate and out of sight. An instant later she heard her mother gun the motor as the car shot down the road. And she was alone.
Except for the two gardeners and Frank.
Chapter Nineteen
Tuesday morning turns out to be magnificent, seventy-five degrees, solid blue sky and what feels like no humidity, so clear and bright and perfect that I decide to walk to Wyn’s office across town on East Eighty-third Street. That’s a good two and a half to three miles but most of it a pleasurable stroll through Central Park. The park is always beautiful on weekday mornings, especially after ten when it’s closed to cars and the serious people have gone off to work, leaving the lovely green oasis to the gently dedicated fanatics—dog owners and joggers. I’ve never had the dogged determination for either pursuit, but this morning it’s all I can do to disguise the bounce and energy in my step and keep myself from leaping across the new sod of Sheep’s Meadow. But I’m too self-conscious for anything that bold, so I settle for a big smile while I hold my shoulders far back, head high, lengthen my pace and swing my arms as wide as they’ll go. I feel good. Cured even before I reach the doctor’s office. Actually I’m doing this mainly for David. Perhaps this will ease his mind. I hate the idea of his worrying about me.
I arrive early for my eleven o’clock appointment and wait in the outer office, straining to make out the muffled sounds coming from the other room. It all seems to be the same voice, female, I would guess, with a tone and rhythm that’s sharp and fast like a series of angry complaints. No surprise; you don’t come here to tell jokes. With that thought in mind, I begin to get a little nervous.
I don’t know Wyn very well. I’ve run into him at parties a few times, and once he and his wife and David and I had dinner together. He’s a pleasant sort of man, easygoing and friendly, but I had the uncomfortable feeling that night I was being analyzed. David says Wyn suffers from that all the time. People always think psychiatrists are digging into everything they say, but the truth is they’re pretty much like everyone else—they leave their work at the office. He’s probably right, but I still felt uncomfortable and now, suddenly, the discomfort of that evening comes back, and I find I’m in no mood for this kind of intrusion. I’d like to change my mind about the whole thing and head back into the safety of the park, but I can’t because if I run out now it will really look as though I need the treatment.
Soon the door opens, and the owner of the angry voice comes out. She’s a woman in her middle forties, extremely well dressed in suede pants and a rose silk blouse softly draping her trim, tall figure. A handsome woman and, from the glow on her face, a happy one. Hey, maybe the trick is to dump it all on the doctor. A delightful idea, and when Wyn calls me I go in smiling.
“Johanna.” He puts out his hand. “Good to see you. Come on in,” he says, leading me into his office.
Thirty-three years old and never been in a psychiatrist’s office before. There are such people, you know. Of course, I’ve seen reproductions in movies so I pretty much know what to expect, and this one fits the bill perfectly: a leather couch; a couple of chairs; the doctor’s desk nearly empty except for some handsome leather appointments; behind that the wall lined with bookshelves filled with reference books. Everything very neat and simple, all straight lines, undisturbing dull browns and rusts, nothing to distract you from your agony. And, within easy reach of either couch or chair or, in severe cases, window ledge, a huge box of tissues. I make a mental note never to use them.
I want to get it straight with him from the beginning that this is only a one-shot visit to calm David, but he says he knows that already and why don’t I just sit back and relax so we can talk.
And he sits there waiting for me to start. I hate him already, and furthermore I have nothing to say. We sit in silence, and I could kick myself for allowing David to talk me into this foolishness. I’m not the therapy type.
I look up at Wyn; he has a nice face. Maybe I’m being uncooperative and immature. I said I’d do it for David, and now that I’m here I should see it through.
“Things have been a little difficult for me lately,” I start tentatively.
He nods sympathetically.
“You know that David and I are getting married next month?”
“Yes, he told me, and he also said that you were working on a book.”
“I am, and it’s a tough one.”
“Avrum Maheely?”
“I see David’s been discussing my project.”
“Only very broadly. What sort of book is it?”
“Well, I’m aiming for a fictionalized composite of the whole cult culture. There’s a character very much like Maheely, and I’ve got some others who resemble his followers. But it’s not the same story.”
“How is it going?”
“I’m not sure. This is my first novel, and I guess I didn’t realize how total the immersion would be, or what it would be like dealing with such a dark and heavy subject. It’s about terrible aberrant people involved in hideous evil, about brainwashing and sexual and physical violence. Hardly something you dance through, so it’s no wonder
I’m not at my best lately.”
“How bad has it been?”
“Sometimes it can get very oppressive. There are days when I’ve spent up to seventeen hours immersed in Maheely’s netherworld. It’s hard not to allow some of that blackness to ooze over into your own life.”
“Has it?”
“I suppose it has in some ways.”
“How?”
“Possibly by accentuating the dark parts of my own life which, of course, can be very depressing.”
“Do those dark parts have to do with your sister?”
“Look, Wyn, I don’t know what David’s been telling you, but I think I object to his discussing my private life with you or anyone.”
“He’s told me very little. Only that you have a half sister, and your relationship with her has been disturbing you lately. Johanna, sibling problems are extremely common and something that can usually be worked out.”
“This is completely different. It doesn’t have anything to do with the usual rivalry of siblings.”
“Why is that?”
“Because we didn’t grow up that way. We grew up alone, without parents, so there wasn’t anyone’s love to compete for. Besides, it’s not really Sephra anyway. She hasn’t done anything wrong to me, nothing that would matter in my life now.”
“Perhaps it’s something only associated with Sephra.”
“Of course it is. As my sister she’s been closely associated with the saddest event in my life, the time my parents died. I know that already. It’s really quite simple. When I’m with her that terrible time comes back to me. No distinct memories, just the heavy weight of great unhappiness.”
“How old were you when your parents died?”
“Sephra tells me I had just turned four the week before the accident.”
Save Johanna! Page 18
