“God, Stuart!” Penelope exclaims, abruptly casting her gaze into the distance behind him, blanching as if perceiving a ghost. “I don’t know what I’m going to do! I don’t see a way out! I’m trapped and there’s no escape!” No sooner does she utter these words than she spins away from him, slams her palms against one of the elevator doors, and begins sobbing. But then, stifling her sobs as quickly as she gave way to them, she faces him again, grasps his shoulders, and fixedly gazes into his eyes. “Help me,” she says in a tone that’s a mixture of pleading, insistence, misery, and terror which rends his heart, sends chills up his spine. “I need a friend, someone who won’t get scared…someone smart, who won’t think I’m too…too crazy, out on the brink, too… A good friend, who…” She trails off again, tears welling into her eyes.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Stuart says without hesitation, endeavoring to caress Penelope’s shoulders but somewhat roughly clutching them instead, too astonished and disoriented to be fully aware of what he’s doing. He’s half under the impression someone else is enunciating his words as he continues speaking, so overtaken by conflicting feelings—including a predominance of fear, the last thing he ever thought he’d feel on Penelope’s account—is he. “Sitting down, having some water, shaking out the nerves, figuring out what went wrong and how to stop it from happening again…making sure that guy doesn’t bother you again, upset you anymore. It’ll calm you, make you better, brighten your eyes with smiles again, make you happy and confident again. I’m not going anywhere, I’ll stay all night and day, we can talk about it, I won’t leave until you’re calm, back to being the Penelope I know, the strong Penelope…always positive and cheerful and unfazed, on top of the world, master of her destiny, respected by all. Your bad experience is too fresh, it’s hard to see past it because it’s so fresh, but you soon will see past it and gain perspective, be yourself again. I know you will, it’s a sure thing, you’re too healthy and strong for it not to happen. A glass of water and relaxation, the simple things go a long way towards making people happy again…it’s amazing the way they work, how effective they are. Let everything roll off your back, unwind and surrender, become loose inside, free up your good feelings…return to your strength, heal yourself. Everything will be all right and back to normal, I won’t leave until you’re calm, don’t worry about that. My mission is to help you be your happy self again and I’ll stay until you are.”
At the sound of Stuart’s concluding words Penelope starts and takes a small step back, enveloped by rigidity; likewise do her eyes flash in a manner that’s perhaps sharp enough to be spawned by annoyance, something of offended pride; but he fails to notice these details and, in any case, they don’t last above a couple seconds, she still being overcome with tears. Casting her eyes towards the floor and nodding assent, she exchanges Stuart’s shoulders for one of his arms and leans heavily upon it, absently gesturing towards the elevators: in this case, it doesn’t escape his notice she’s conducting herself with something of reluctant resignation and he isn’t sure what to make of it, considering her emphatic request for help. Is she wavering because she’s unaccustomed to needing anyone’s help? All the same, though, she has asked for his help and isn’t withdrawing her request so he immediately presses the elevator button. As they wait for another elevator to arrive, four having already come and gone while they’ve been conversing, Penelope continues to stare at the floor.
Stuart and Penelope speak not a word during the ascent to the twenty-first floor, barely stirring as they press their backs to the wall opposite the elevator door. He’s aware of the involuntary vibrations of her body, charge they’re imparting to his arm as she continues to cling to it—aware of her breathing, increasingly strained—aware she’s ceased to cry; but, for a reason he’s unable to explain, dares not turn towards her—dares not move. At one point, though, his eyes encounter hers on the polished brass of the door: she appears to be gazing at him very intently, with something of criticism and doubt, even a trace of hostility. But before he can ascertain if he’s reading her expression correctly, on account of it being overlayed by the overhead light’s reflected glare, she averts her eyes and tightens her hold on his arm, shivering as she does so.
“This way,” Penelope says with a slight edge in her voice once they exit the elevator, releasing Stuart’s arm and rapidly darting ahead of him to the left: the abruptness of her manner is such that it occurs to him she’s having second thoughts regarding his presence, perhaps on the point of announcing she’s made a mistake and would rather be alone. Coming to a stop at the apartment—21C—that’s one removed from the end on the left side of the hall, she turns to him with something of irritation, extracts a set of keys from her purse, and flings the latter at the base of the door. As Stuart closes the gap between them Penelope thrusts a key into the lock and turns it; when he’s standing beside her she shoves the door open hard enough for it to bang against the entryway’s wall, kicks her purse inside, and curtly gestures for him to enter without looking at him. What’s going on? She’s bidding him enter her apartment without appearing to want him anywhere near it. She’s acting as if she’s only inviting him in because she wants to argue, even if he can’t imagine why. How long is he going to be staying before she tells him to get lost? Nevertheless, Stuart steps inside and Penelope follows, slamming the door shut, prodding him forward with firm taps on his back. By the time he turns to face her and ascertain if she’s angry at him, they’re in the living room. And it’s then that he perceives she’s breathing deeply and rapidly enough for it to approach hyperventilation; that her visage is as flushed with extremity of tight-edged emotion as it is deathly pale; that she’s gritting her teeth, white-knucklingly clenching her hands, shaking as if being electrocuted: he’s never seen distress so clearly spelled out in a person’s manner before and, sensing his legs are half turning to jelly, takes a couple firm steps in place to jolt his muscles, counter the influence of fear. Obviously Penelope’s been through far more than a date-gone-sour in any ordinary sense: something absolutely awful must have occurred and she does, indeed, need his help. She’s not angry at him after all: she’s laboring to maintain her self-possession in the face of soul-shattering trauma and it’s up to him to gather his courage and be strong for her, see to it the trauma departs. Surveying the living room, he spies a long couch, liberally supplied with pillows, situated against the left wall and says very gently, “Penelope, I know it’s tough and I’m not taking this lightly—you’ve been through a lot and it’s not easy to overcome such things, not easy at all. God knows, I’m not expecting you to behave as if tonight never happened and instantly be blissful. But you should get off your feet, lie on the couch, relax your body. Once you’re lying down the tension will lessen and your head will start to clear. I’ll get a glass of water, some fruit, make an energy smoothie, whatever you need. Just tell me what you need and where things are, I’ll get them and bring them to you. I’ll do anything and won’t leave until you’re calm, that’s a promise.
“Calm? How can I be calm?” Penelope shrieks loud enough to sting Stuart’s ears, jerking her arms towards the ceiling, incredulity leaping into her face; then, in the space of about two seconds, she stomps up him, seizes his wrists and squeezes, continues speaking in a strained voice of haphazardly alternating volume. “How is calmness possible if I’m being torn in half by opposite impulses that hate each other? If there’s always a fight brewing inside me, nervousness waiting to burst the dam and pull me apart? Calmness is a fantasy—self-dividedness doesn’t calm down! I live in constant dread of the fight, the times when nagging urges gather inside me and kick up a stress-storm—when they shatter me and I’m a fish washed up on a beach, starting to suffocate! Why do you think I dress plainly most of the time, keep my cursed body covered, wear drab shoes and everything else? It’s to keep men, and therefore also the insane part of me, away! All I want to do is hold down a job, be busy with duty and responsibility, in order to quiet dangerous urges and live an appro
ximation of a secure life! But the longer I go without surrendering to the unrest that devils me the more nastily it eventually erupts! Let me tell you something about earlier on, after I came here from work! Did I even know what I was doing when I called that man? Oh, I know him, all right! I met him last month, at a club I had no business being at! He’s someone who wants me to be a slut—who’s no good for me—who wants to ignite the bad things in me and burn me to the ground! A smothering dream, that’s what it was when I called him! I was in a nightmare daze starting from when I found his number! It’s when my peripheral vision gets dark and fuzzy—when a smudged pane of glass separates my sight from everything around me! Nearby objects seem like they’re far away and make me feel alone; faraway objects rush at me in a swarm and crowd and compress me; and then I’m not me anymore! I’m no more in control of my direction than leaves in a storm and someday I might be blown into a fire! You don’t believe me?”
Stuart’s aware it’s likely that a good amount of his amazement is visible on his face, but he doesn’t feel he’s indicated he disbelieves Penelope’s words. In fact, he believes her implicitly, even if he could never have imagined her hidden life to be half as vivid as she’s describing, or that it’s dangerous for her. “Penelope, it’s me,” he says softly, endeavoring to caress her hands. “You know me—I’d never doubt you. Why would you make things up? You wouldn’t do so, period—I know that. I only want to help in any way I can. I believe everything you’ve said and will do whatev...”
“Look at this, then—I’ll show you the proof!” she breaks in with a yell, obviously having made up her mind he needs further convincing; then she’s yanking at one of his wrists with both hands, leading him into her bedroom, stopping in front of the closet, sliding its door open with a bang. “Take a look at this, then you’ll believe me!” she resumes, parting the clothes on the front rod to expose those on the rod behind. “Guess what? It’s not the wardrobe of a respectable woman!” she announces, seizing several dresses and throwing them on the floor. “They’re all very revealing, I can tell you that! Hemlines up to my ass and necklines down to my tits and a real tight fit! And there’s leather and fur and all the slut lingerie ever made! I’m two people—a shameless hussy and an uptight priss! After every sex-binge I spend weeks not allowing anyone to think I’ve ever been laid! One day an ice maiden, the next a trollop in heat—that’s the story of my life! I’m two personalities, one hell-bent on ruining the other!” Seizing her cheeks with her thumbs and forefingers, Penelope pulls them outward, looking directly at Stuart for the first time since they’ve entered the bedroom. “Don’t you get it?” she asks, apparently still under the impression he’s refusing to believe her. “This is what’s happening inside me! This is what I deal with every day! This is my personality war!” Exhaling with a hiss, she glares at him with real menace, as if he’s insulted her and she’s daring him to attempt it again.
As for Stuart, it’s as if he’s followed a path into a forest, expecting to be soothed by verdant surroundings, and found it to be populated by prowling predators—panic doesn’t begin to describe what’s coursing through his veins. The fact that Penelope’s glaring at him, in itself, is enough to chill him to the marrow of his bones, not only because she’s doing so as if he’s against her, an all-out enemy, but because she’s never come close to doing such a thing before—never been anything but cheerful, supportive, and kind—and there’s absolutely nothing rational about it. He was convinced she was concealing part of herself and persisted in this conviction for weeks, refusing to believe her manufactured evidence to the contrary; he ignored those, and they were legion, who laughed at him for clinging to this conviction; he was determined to bring her hidden places into the open and reap the rewards; but did he ever imagine she’d scare him as she’s doing now? Did he ever imagine Penelope’s secrets included unsettling personality traits, susceptibility to frightening extremes of emotion and action? Did he ever imagine being introduced to the secret Penelope would involve very real perceptions of danger, as in that she’s capable of being knocked about by distorted interpretations of reality, dueling with phantasms in her head? Her eyes are communicating instability, and unwarranted hostility in particular, as he’s never seen it before: it’s as if she feels he’s responsible for the war in her heart. And, yet, there’s also an unavoidable amount of gratification intermixed with Stuart’s apprehension, because Penelope’s finally entrusting him with her secrets—never mind that her secrets aren’t close to being tame and knowing them isn’t easy. Already, he understands their friendship is changed forever; already, he understands being ignorant of her secrets made the innocent aspect of their friendship possible; already, he’s worried she’ll start to hate him for knowing too much. Which isn’t to imply that concern for her well-being isn’t uppermost in his thoughts—she’s divided against herself, afraid and hurting: that’s what her confession boils down to. This business of denying her healthy desires and then hating herself when she indulges them is so senseless: he’ll do whatever he can to put a stop to this pointless war and bring peace to her heart. It isn’t what he anticipated doing when he first saw her at the firm—he only foresaw having a good time after she came clean regarding her ardent nature—but, curiously enough, helping her overcome her self-conflict and be content with herself exceeds his anticipation, if only because it’s brought stronger emotions into his life. What’s a good time, after all, compared with these contrasting reactions that swell inside him as he faces Penelope’s glare and inspire him with a greater sense of responsibility than he’s ever felt himself capable of? She’s revealed herself to be a troubled angel, in thrall to impulses that seriously unnerve and unbalance her, and he’s going to brave hell and highwater to bring lasting serenity to her gaze. “Penelope,” he says tenderly, gently grasping her hands. “There’s nothing I won’t do to make you happy, as you deserve to be. You’re an amazing woman, so strong and bright, and it tears me apart to see you this way. Please tell me what I can do, I won’t deny you anything. I only…”
But Penelope’s not listening: casting her eyes at the ceiling in alarm, as if it’s caught fire, she cuts Stuart off—cries, “My God!,” while tearing her hands from his grasp; then, rapidly wheeling about, she crosses to the other side of the room, sits on the floor, removes her shoes and throws them against the wall, furiously tugs at the waistline of her dress, and shouts, “I hate those shoes—hate everything I’m wearing! Nothing good’s ever happened when I’m in this stuff! If I’m in this stuff it means my bad side’s beating up on the good!” Then, springing back to her feet and returning to the closet, she seizes more dresses and throws them at those on the floor. “This stuff will be the death of me!” she resumes shouting. “I try hard to stay sane and resist—sometimes I can go for three whole months without reaching for this stuff! But the bad urges are always with me—always needling me, always wearing me down, always waiting for me to get weak enough for them to get me to do what they want to do! My head starts reeling and thoughts get fuzzy—I feel faint and excited at the same time—my body’s racing at a hundred heartbeats a second—I pace like a maniac and sleeping’s impossible! I try to stay away from the back of this closet, forget it’s here, but it keeps pulling at me, chasing the good things away, ruining my life! I get crazy here—look!” she shrieks and, with that, yanks the hem of her dress to her waist and points between her legs. “The tickles drive me insane and I just don’t care anymore! I give up and go with it and, anyway, there’s no choice!” Flicking her hem back into place, she stomps up to Stuart, wraps her arms around him, and squeezes with all her strength: she’s shaking, hyperventilating, digging her nails into his back.
Stuart’s surprise is such that it’s as if he’s stepped into a dream: excitement electrifies his veins, surges throughout him, inundates him with a tingling sensation of buoyancy approaching out-and-out vertigo, all but robs him of breath. Of course he’s immediately returning Penelope’s embrace—wrapping his arms around her back
and grasping her shoulders, burying his face in her hair—but it’s as if his body, unable to avoid being galvanized to action by arousal, is acting of its own accord while his thoughts partially keep their distance and struggle to discern what’s real. For one thing, he can’t help but wonder if Penelope’s entirely sane, especially because she’s commenced intoning incomprehensible emotion-slurred words. He’s wanted a willing Penelope in his arms from the moment of first seeing her, but did he want her this way? Can she even be said to be willing, in the informed choice sense? How are her advances different from those of an intoxicated woman? Does she really want to be doing this? Should he exercise restraint? Will she allow him to exercise restraint? It strikes him that, regardless of what he does, this night might not end on a positive note: is it a situation where she’ll hate him if he refuses and hate him if he gives in? Of course these thoughts whip through his mind in a matter of instants, concurrent with his excitement: it’s because of them that he’s refrained from joining his lips to hers; because of them that, even while continuing to embrace her and be dizzied by the touch and energy and scent of her, he’s waiting to see if she changes her mind and backs away.
Penelope Prim Page 4
