Everything she’d needed to do had stopped her from confronting what Henry had done. She faced it now.
He’d covered his chest with the fentanyl patches his doctor prescribed for chronic back pain. He must have been saving up unused patches for weeks. An empty bottle of vodka was on the bedside table. Henry didn’t drink, except for a beer or two at dinner. Boxes of fentanyl carried warnings against drinking alcohol when using the patches.
The last time Susanna had spoken to him, several days before, he’d sounded fine, keeping up with politics and the news, making plans for his usual Friday night fish fry with the neighbors. He was eighty-six. He had the right to end his life whenever and however he wished, no explanations necessary. Or so Susanna tried to convince herself. Her thoughts circled . . . she should have visited more often on the weekends. She should have phoned him every day.
The wind came up, cold against her bare arms. Susanna turned and went inside. She paused at the entry to the living room to give her eyes a moment to adjust to the shadows.
Photographs filled the room. It was like a shrine, and because Susanna was the object of the shrine, it embarrassed her. Not the photos themselves, but what they represented: the hopes of the entire family, placed upon her. She was an only child, born when her mother was close to forty and had suffered several miscarriages. Henry and Greta had no children, and Henry had taken on the role of Susanna’s father. You’re our miracle baby, Evelyn had told her.
On the credenza, she was an infant, toddler, and schoolgirl. On top of the upright piano, she performed at her first ballet recital and at her first piano recital. No matter how tight money was, Evelyn always found enough for her ballet and piano lessons. On the television stand, she posed with her high school swimming team, medals around their necks. On the mantel, she graduated high school, college, and business school. On the coffee table, she was in Paris, the Eiffel Tower behind her. This photo represented the honeymoon she’d taken with Alan, her soon-to-be-former husband. The pictures that included him had been put away. She and Alan had been married for six years. They’d separated just when they were trying to have a baby, before she was too old.
She felt too old already. Too old to find someone else. Too old to begin again.
It was 1:03 a.m., according to the hotel’s bedside clock. Susanna lay in bed, gazing at the glow of downtown Buffalo through the gauzy curtains. She didn’t want to close her eyes. When she did, the images started up in her mind like a movie she couldn’t walk out of. She glanced at the digital clock again: 1:05 a.m.
Dinner with Jack and Evelyn had been silent, and the excellent food—they went to the much-praised Bacchus on Chippewa Street, near their hotel—had been wasted on them. They were simply marking time at the restaurant, doing something appropriate to fill the evening.
When finally Susanna was alone in her hotel room and checked her phone, she saw a voice mail from Alan. Before dinner, she’d texted several friends, and Alan must have heard about Henry’s death from one of them. Alan tried to be kind. She knew what he’d say about their marriage if they spoke, because he’d repeated the cliché a dozen times already: It wasn’t you, it was me. He’d beg her to forgive him, not so they could get back together, but so that he could get on with his life without feeling guilty. As far as Susanna was concerned, he could get on with his life with feeling guilty. She suspected he had a girlfriend, and some scruple stopped him from moving forward with this new woman until he had Susanna’s forgiveness. Although she considered herself understanding and forgiving, she’d never understand or forgive him. She deleted his message without listening to it.
Now 1:09 a.m. She wondered whether to admit defeat, turn on the bedside lamp, and read. She didn’t want to resume taking antianxiety medications or antidepressants or sleeping pills. She’d tried them, and they made her feel worse. More precisely, they made her feel groggy, sometimes so dull-witted that she could barely keep her head up at her desk or stay focused during meetings with Rob. She couldn’t risk losing her job on top of everything else.
For the past several months, she’d been fine without the medications. When she closed her eyes, the images didn’t prey upon her, and she was able to fall asleep.
The shock of Henry’s death had brought the images back.
The movie began running in her mind. This was the short version. The trailer, as she ruefully called it: There she was, Susanna Kessler, a happily married woman with a great job who was trying to become pregnant. One August evening, Susanna was returning home from work and had reached her own street, West Seventy-first between Central Park West and Columbus. Out of nowhere, a man pulled her down to the lower entryway of a brownstone. In the concealing shadows beneath the building’s high front stoop, he raped her.
The next shot in the movie trailer showed her five months later, when her husband left her.
The trailer faded. It didn’t even begin to capture the reality. Now the full movie version started, from the beginning, the narrative moving in slow motion, a compulsion within her. She searched and questioned. Why did the stranger choose her? What was it about her that made him act? On each replaying of the film, she searched for a frame that would cause everything to turn out differently. If only there’d been a shorter line at the wine store. Or was it a longer line that would have made her safe? If only she’d remembered that she needed to stop at the shoemaker. If only she’d worn a different dress, or carried a different handbag.
From her office on West Fifty-seventh Street, Susanna usually walked home through the park or along Central Park West. On that particular day, however, she’d needed to pick up groceries, so she took the subway to the Sixty-sixth Street and Broadway stop. At Gourmet Garage, she bought several items for dinner and headed home. She wore a belted, pleated dress. The sweater she needed for her overly air-conditioned office was stashed in her tote bag. Because of the heat, she’d pulled back her hair and clipped it loosely with a barrette. She wore high-heeled sandals, and she swayed with each step. Alan loved the way the sandals looked, and he especially loved the way she walked when she wore them, although more than once he’d asked, “Are you sure those are comfortable?” Surprisingly, they were. Really.
As she headed to the wine store, the bearded guy who sold hats from a sidewalk stand on Columbus Avenue looked her over. “Hi, beautiful,” he said as she walked past him, and she had to admit, this made her feel good.
Life was going well for Susanna that summer. She and Alan were in a good place, as the saying went. With their baby in mind, they were having a wonderful time together, as if they’d just met all over again, only better, because they knew each other well and loved each other deeply. In June, they’d traveled to London for a week of museums and theater. They were planning a trip to the Caribbean over New Year’s (although they’d adjust this plan depending on their hoped-for baby). Their apartment had a second bedroom which they used as a study but which, she felt confident, would soon become a nursery. Already she knew where she would put the crib and the changing table. More than once, she’d slipped into Upper East Side boutiques to look at layettes.
Alan worked in finance. His clients were individual investors, and his business was thriving. Several of his college friends had already made fortunes, and these friends trusted Alan because he had a conservative bent. No shouting, bad language, drunken evenings, and no investments in risky or incomprehensible assets. Alan’s parents were high school teachers, and they’d never earned enough to be extravagant. Alan shared their caution. Your widowed mother, your disabled brother . . . their futures are protected. Whatever happens, your kids will go to college. You’ll keep your house. You’ll be safe. With me.
At the wine shop, Susanna bought a Malbec recommended by the staff, although she drank little these days, no more than a sip or two, because of the possible pregnancy. She left the wine store, heading north on Columbus, passing the small shops and cafés, the grocery, the pizza place, as well as the upscale clothing and cosmetic stores. Across
the street was a branch of Magnolia Bakery. People stood in line outside, tourists who wanted to experience the West Village bakery made famous in Sex and the City, even though this was only the uptown branch. Susanna and Alan had gone to Magnolia once and been appalled by the too-sweet cupcakes. They always told their out-of-town visitors that the cupcakes weren’t worth the calories, but their visitors ignored the advice and joined the line.
Susanna turned onto West Seventy-first Street.
As she walked down the street, she carried the bag with the wine in her right hand and the grocery bag in her left. It was a perfect evening, with low humidity and cooling temperatures. Perhaps tonight she and Alan could turn off the air conditioner and sleep with the windows open to the night breezes. The town houses and small apartment buildings glowed in the orange light of the lowering sun.
Susanna and Alan loved walking in the city, looking at the architecture, the shops, the people. Often on the weekends, they took the subway to neighborhoods they’d never visited and simply walked, to see what they might discover. Once they’d ended up watching birds at the Jamaica Bay nature preserve near JFK Airport—who could have imagined such a wilderness in New York City? Another afternoon they stumbled upon the historic Trinity Cemetery, a sylvan retreat in gritty Washington Heights. Alan had grown up in a small town in New Hampshire, and he’d embraced New York City life as fully as she did. They were both Jewish, but secular, and their family backgrounds were similar. They’d met in business school.
This evening, walking down West Seventy-first Street, her street, with Central Park at the end of the block, and a breeze against her cheeks, Susanna felt as if she lived in a dream come true.
A hand—big, sweaty, oily—was over her mouth and nose. An arm around her waist. She was pulled backward down four steps. She dropped the bags. She heard the wine bottle hit the cement, and even as her eyes saw sky instead of street, she wondered if the wine bottle had broken. She was dragged into a concealed area where garbage cans were stored. She smelled orange peels, sour milk, cat litter. She didn’t understand. What was happening?
Then she realized, and she fought back, biting and thrashing against him. He kept his hand on her face. Gasping for air, she twisted beneath him, scratching at his face, biting his hand. She tasted blood. He was too big and too strong for her. He was alert, and she was dazed. He pushed her head against the concrete. She wouldn’t allow herself to die from him bashing her head against the ground. She tried to hold up her head. She didn’t want to look at him, but she knew she had to, to impress his features on her mind, so she could tell the police. If she got away. If he didn’t smash her skull. If he didn’t choke her to death. His skin was white. His eyes were blue. His hair was reddish and thinning, his scaly scalp showing through. His cheeks looked pudgy with baby fat, although the wrinkles around his eyes proved that he was far from infancy. His jaw was too big for his face. He wore a black polo shirt. His chest was broad and fleshy, trapping her. He put one hand on her neck and pressed down in the middle of her throat. She couldn’t scream and could barely breathe.
With the hand that wasn’t on her throat, he pushed up her dress. She wasn’t wearing stockings. The concrete flagstones were tiny knives beneath her. He pulled at her underwear. She twisted her legs, struggling to keep him away. Then he was inside her. She felt him swelling. She recoiled at the horrifying realization of the two of them linked as one.
After an instant, he groaned. Susanna felt a second of stillness, before he withdrew. He kneeled, pulling at his sweatpants. Gray sweatpants, Susanna willed herself to remember. He was gone. She was alone amid the garbage cans.
With effort, she took stock of herself. She turned her head, to make certain she could. She moved her legs a quarter inch, to test them. A warm liquid, smelling foul, seeped between them.
Rage filled her. Sitting up, she found her purse and fumbled inside for her cell phone. She called 911. She wouldn’t let him escape. His blood was on her face, on her hands, his semen was pouring out of her.
After three rings, the 911 operator answered, but Susanna had trouble understanding what the operator said.
“Hello?” Susanna didn’t recognize her own voice. She sounded hoarse. “Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I was attacked.” Her throat hurt. She forced herself to swallow. “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you. What’s your location?” The 911 operator’s tone was flat. Unemotional. Information, that’s what Susanna had to focus on.
“Seventy-first between Columbus and Central Park West.” She looked around. “Closer to Columbus. South side of the street. A man attacked me. I was raped.” She began to panic. “You have to get here. Right now.”
He’d left her alive, with her cell phone. Once he realized . . . she crouched, trying to make herself smaller. Trying to hide.
“Hold on,” the telephone voice said.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Stay with me.” The more upset Susanna became, the more calm the telephone voice sounded.
“Okay.”
“I’m notifying the police.”
“What if he comes back?” He might even be listening to her talking on the phone.
“I’m going off the line for a second.” The line clicked. Susanna was alone again. She couldn’t keep hiding. She had to move into the open, where people could see her and protect her. At this hour, the sidewalks were crowded with people returning home from work or heading out for dinner. She crawled into the open.
“Help!” Susanna realized she was screaming.
The phone line clicked. “The police are on their way,” the 911 operator said.
“Help!”
A young couple was with her, coming down the steps, finding her.
Susanna dropped her phone and reached for the young woman’s hands. Susanna was panting, unable to catch her breath.
“Be careful,” the man said. “The blood. That’s evidence, isn’t it?”
The woman pulled away.
“Don’t worry,” the man said to Susanna, even as he denied her the comfort of another’s hand. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
The woman was searching in her own bag, retrieving her own phone, calling 911, explaining, listening. “The police are already on their way,” she said, ending the call.
“Stay with me. Don’t leave me.”
“Don’t worry,” the man said. “We’re staying right here.”
The man and woman were college age. They both wore black T-shirts and black jeans. The man had a nose ring. The woman wore black nail polish. Her black hair was parted in the middle and hung down flat. One lock was bleached white. They were Goth, or whatever it was called nowadays.
Others began to stop, men, women, making certain she was okay. In New York City you were both anonymous and never alone. People noticed and responded when you needed help.
“What did he look like?” a male voice said.
“Gray sweatpants,” Susanna said. “Black polo shirt.”
“What direction did he go?”
“I don’t know.” How could this happen, that she didn’t know? This must be the most important fact to know. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay,” the Goth woman said.
A man came up with a dog, a chocolate lab. “Breathe deep and slow,” the dog owner said. The dog stared at her. “She’s hyperventilating. From panic,” the dog owner said to the Goth couple, as if Susanna were their responsibility.
“Breathe slow,” the woman instructed Susanna. “Slow and deep. Like this.” The woman demonstrated, and Susanna tried to imitate her, tried to bring her breathing under control. The woman reached toward Susanna’s shoulder.
“No, don’t touch her,” the Goth man said.
Evidence. Susanna needed to protect the evidence. She was the evidence. Her body was the evidence.
“Do you want us to phone someone for you?” the woman asked.
Susanna wondered what the wo
man meant by this, then realized. “Yes, yes, my husband. I can call him.”
She found her phone on the concrete. It was sticky with blood. Alan answered.
“Alan,” Susanna moaned or cried, she wasn’t sure which. She couldn’t say anything more.
With a tissue, the woman took Susanna’s phone and brought it to her own face, holding it at a distance. Speaking loudly. She explained to Alan what had happened. He was two blocks away, also on his way home from work. He’d be there soon, he told the woman. He would run.
The police arrived, the marvelous police, two police cars, four middle-aged men taking charge as if she were their daughter. Soon an ambulance and paramedics joined them. The Goth couple was gone. Susanna didn’t have a chance to thank them or say goodbye. Then Alan was with her, and she didn’t need to worry about anything anymore. Now she could cry.
Alan sat beside her in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. He reached for her hands, but since blood was on them and the blood had to be tested, he held back. Nonetheless his presence made her feel safe. She was with the man she loved and who loved her. He put his arm around her. She leaned against his shoulder. He caressed her hair.
“Don’t worry,” he said. His hand was trembling. “Everything’s fine now.” He sounded choked up. He squeezed her shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.”
She felt her pulse slow and her breathing return to normal, although she still felt disconnected from herself. Her task right now, she realized, was to stay alert and steady and to remember every detail of the man’s face and body to tell the police. Gray sweatpants. Black polo shirt. Reddish hair, thinning on top. Baby fat.
At the hospital, everything was done correctly. The rape kit, everything. By the book, as Detective Loretta Lazetera, suddenly at Susanna’s bedside, assured her. The detective was broad-shouldered and tough-talking. Susanna trusted her instinctively. The next day, Susanna went downtown to police headquarters with Detective Lazetera to work with an artist to create a composite sketch. This was easy, because Susanna saw the man in her mind whenever she closed her eyes. In fact, with each day that passed she saw the man more clearly. Caucasian. Big, but with delicate, boyish features, except for his jaw, which was too large for the rest of his face. Pale blue eyes, the kind that look almost white. Freckles on his nose. A month later, they caught him. He’d been responsible for a string of attacks on the Upper West Side, always the same MO, as Detective Lazetera described it, with DNA evidence splashed across skin, clothing, and concrete. Susanna was among three women willing to testify at the trial. He was given a long prison sentence.
And After the Fire Page 3
