For Love of Audrey Rose

by Frank De Felitta

  It did not help that a single telegram lay on the floor, shoved under by Mario. She opened it, eyes closed, and then stared at it. There was but one word, in Western Union’s square-cut, pasty typography. So bizarre, like a ransom note from Mars. It frightened her. One single word stared back at her.

  COME.

  Suddenly adrenaline flowed into her heart. A warmth, like a soft heat, pumped outward through her breast and she became dizzy.

  “Elliot Hoover.

  3546 South Tanner Street.

  Pittsburgh, Penna.”

  A telephone number was embedded within Western Union’s code numbers. That was all. She shook her head violently as though to clear the confusion from it, then stared at the single word again. The warmth now passed along her legs, through her arms, within her entire body. So he was alive, she thought. That meant that she was also alive. She went to the telephone.

  Her hands trembled so much she sat down again, braced herself on the small table by the foot of the couch. There were clicks, strange whistles, as though she were underwater and the dolphins were speaking, and suddenly there was a loud click and a woman answered.

  Janice was so distraught at hearing a woman’s voice that she did not hear the words.

  “Is Mr. Hoover there?”

  “He is with the State Board of Medical Review this afternoon. May I take a message?”

  “No….I…He wrote to me. He is there, isn’t he?”

  There was a slight pause.

  “Mr. Hoover is the director of the Tanner Street Clinic,” said the voice calmly.

  This time there was a long pause. Patiently the voice tried again.

  “Mr. Hoover will return this evening. May I take your name and number?”

  “Yes. No. I’ll call back. Thank you very much.”

  Janice hung up. She walked quickly across the living room, rubbing her hands through her hair furiously, trying to calm down. She poured herself a brandy, left it on the end table, and went upstairs to her bedroom. She threw two skirts, two blouses, and a change of underwear onto the bed. Then she went downstairs, sipped the brandy, and looked in vain for a small suitcase in the hall closet. She suddenly remembered that her suitcase was still in South India. But there was Ivy’s in the closet upstairs. She ran back up the stairs into Ivy’s room, stood on a chair and carefully lowered a still-new brown leather bag.

  The whirlwind of thoughts accelerated. She sat down on the windowsill, Ivy’s bag in her arms. Though the room had been converted to a small work studio, it was still Ivy’s room. With a shudder of horror, Janice realized the grim irony of combing Ivy’s closet for an overnight bag, to meet Elliot Hoover. Ivy’s presence, like an obtrusive emptiness, filled the room with accusations.

  Do you understand, Ivy? she thought to herself, almost hearing the words dangle on the air like dust motes. Do you understand that I am still alive and hungry for life?

  She threw her clothes and cosmetics, hairbrush and a pair of Delman shoes into the overnight bag and carried it downstairs.

  Hoover’s telegram lay on the couch. She slipped it into her purse. The woman who answered the telephone had mentioned it was a clinic. Was Elliot Hoover also in a clinic? Was it a cry for help? Was she now between two men, both crippled and needing her? Janice thought she recalled the voice saying that he was director of the clinic. Was it some kind of religious clinic, an urban ashram meant to establish a small movement in Pittsburgh?

  Janice finished the brandy and poured herself a second. The whirlwind had died away. Thoughts came clear, analytical, and they were troubling. Why Pittsburgh? Of all the continents, all the cities on the face of the globe, why his hometown again? Janice felt, to her own surprise, a dark jealousy. Pittsburgh was Sylvia Hoover’s home. It was where he had had a life with her, and Audrey Rose, and that was why he had gone back.

  She reread the telegram. One single word. Entreaty or command, she could not decipher. Nothing was decipherable anymore. She picked up the telephone, dialed information for the number of Allegheny Airlines, and booked a seat on the next flight. Next she called the Tanner Street number and told a Mr. Radimanath of her impending arrival.

  Janice was jostled in the rush of the passengers exiting the airplane. She stepped down the metal stairs to the pavement, where puddles rippled in a stiff cold wind. The stewardesses behind her rolled up the bottom step and the ground crew trucked it back to the terminal base. As she walked, the desolation of the Pittsburgh airport magnified with each step, until there seemed to be an unending horizon of cold, damp cement leading in all directions, like the parking lot of Goodland Sanitarium.

  “Janice….”

  The voice stopped her dead in her tracks. She peered behind her, looking for its source, the way one searches for the source of light in a tunnel.

  Elliot Hoover stood at the edge of the carpet by the terminal doors, his dark suit crumpled, somehow much taller than she remembered. Holding his hand was a small girl, lithe and dark-haired, who stared at her with a peculiarly aloof expression.

  Janice’s hand went to her mouth.

  Hoover stepped forward. His eyes anxiously searched hers. He seemed to bend slightly forward, as though desperate that she be there, yet hesitant, even unnerved by the sight of her in front of him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

  “Yes. I am now.”

  She smelled the fragrance of his soap, felt the warmth of his hand against hers as he gently clasped it.

  “Janice,” he softly uttered like a prayer, and she felt absorbed into him, his strength and his weakness, and only when he let her hand go did she really take notice of the tiny girl just behind them.

  “Ah,” he said, his voice trembling through his uneasy smile, “this is Jennie.”

  Confused, but curious, Janice stepped forward and extended her hand.

  “Hello, Jennie,” she said softly.

  The girl only stared back through Janice, a hostile glance, cold as the green of her eyes.

  “Jennie doesn’t talk. Or shake hands. Do you, Jennie?” Hoover said, running a single finger gently through the girl’s hair.

  He looked at Janice. He smiled awkwardly. Something deep inside him still seemed very sad, very lost, and the cold alienation of the airport terminal only made it worse.

  “My car is outside,” he said.

  23

  Hoover’s car was an old Ford, littered in the rear with textbooks, folders, boxes of toys, even some used clothing for children. He sat down beside her and blew into his hands for warmth. After some hesitation, the Ford kicked into life and he eased into the exit lanes. They drove nearly to the thruway, Jennie between them, and all the while Hoover looked uncomfortable, as though he had a guilty secret.

  “Jennie was diagnosed as mentally retarded,” he said, glancing into the oncoming traffic of the thruway. “But the truth is, she’s autistic.”

  Unaccustomed to driving, he swerved at the last moment and endured abuse from a passing trucker. He rolled up the window.

  “Autism is a condition in which the child refuses to learn. But she can. I know she can.”

  He said no more. Nor did she press him with questions. The rural landscape fled past, an occasional large farm, a billboard, a white truck stuck in a muddy road. It was a clean, efficient countryside, where no surprises, or ruinous poverty or abnormal mysticism could shake the tranquility. Overhead dark rain clouds gathered under the general white cover.

  “Things have become… become prepared,” he said. “You’ll see what I mean. But it was necessary for you to see it for yourself.”

  “Is it true that you’re connected with a kind of clinic?”

  He smiled modestly.

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “And the clinic is part of being prepared?”

  “It is. And so is Jennie.”

  His hand ruffled the child’s silky hair. Jennie arched her back in distaste, then went limp, collapsing against Janice. Hoover smiled fondly and pulled he
r back toward him. He stroked her cheek softly with an expression that bespoke a heartbreak no longer hidden.

  As they drove, an ominous silence grew up between Janice and Hoover. The rain increased from a few droplets spattered against the windshield to a major downpour. Though it was before noon, the traffic had its lights on.

  “I’ve come to terms with everything that’s happened,” he finally said, glancing at Janice.

  “Why did you come back to Pittsburgh?”

  “If I have work to do, I can do it here as well as anywhere.”

  Janice watched him. “You must have been curious to see your old home,” she suggested.

  “I was. I’ve gone several times. I’ve purged it from my soul.”

  Jennie suddenly exclaimed, “Five-nine-nine-two-two!”

  Hoover laughed at Janice’s startled expression.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to Jennie’s own language. She speaks fluently in numbers.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I don’t know. We’re trying to decode it. So far we’ve got about five phrases. Most of which translate roughly as ‘Bug off!’”

  Janice, perplexed, studied the little girl who so suddenly had come to life. Jennie stared in animated wonder at the passing urban scene, bounced around in the front seat, captivated by the gleaming displays in shopwindows.

  “Eight-eight-seven-nine!” she yelled.

  “Maybe the numbers stand for letters in the alphabet,” Janice offered.

  “We tried that. Nothing worked. But she’s developing fast. Something will blossom soon.”

  The Ford choked and sputtered. Hoover started the ignition again. Ahead of them was Tanner Street, a small lane with an odd collection of broken cars and spilled garbage cans. The rain was letting up, and dirty streaks covered the front windshield.

  Hoover stopped the car.

  “When do you go back?” he said quietly.

  “It depends—on a lot of things.”

  He got out of the car, scrambled through the brisk wind that stirred up dust and grit in erratic gusts, and opened her door. When she got out, Hoover reached in and pulled Jennie gently to his shoulder.

  “Poor little angel is tired out,” he said. “But I wanted you to meet her right away.”

  Puzzled, Janice accepted his hand in the crook of her elbow, and he led her up three cement steps to a green two-story building. Tall bare trees poked up over the roof from behind. A tall security fence girded the structure. Other than that, it looked vaguely like a jerry-built motel.

  They ducked in out of the wind, which still threw rainwater into their faces. Hoover slammed the door. For a second it was dark. Then he switched on the light. Janice saw a boy, totally limp, on the floor, crumpled into what appeared to be a lifeless heap.

  “That’s James,” Hoover whispered. “Just step over him.”

  Cautiously, Janice stepped past the inert form. Before she could ask a question a long, low, painful howl reverberated through the carpeted corridors.

  “That’s Henry,” Hoover explained. “He’s been doing a lot of that lately.”

  Astounded, Janice followed Hoover and Jennie into the recesses of the building. A tall man with brown skin held a screaming child. The man’s eyes were closed in what appeared to be holy rapture. The child kicked, bit, poked at the restraining arms in terror.

  “The gentleman is Mr. Radimanath. He took your message. You’ll meet him later.”

  “That child? Is he hurt?”

  “No. Like Gertrude, in Hamlet, however, he protests too much.”

  Hoover opened a door and they were in his office. The red carpet and red curtains gave a curious flavor to the room where the charts, typewriter, desk, and filing cabinets were located. So did the cushions on the floor in lieu of chairs. Hoover closed the door and the child’s screaming subsided.

  “Henry fights against love,” Hoover said quietly, turning on a small lamp, “precisely because he needs it so desperately.”

  He turned, smiling, Jennie’s hand reaching absently over his face. Janice, mystified, could only laugh in confusion.

  “It will make sense,” he promised. “But you must keep your mind alert, and your eyes open.”

  He slid Jennie to the floor, where she lay against a brightly colored cushion. Hoover watched her fondly. Then his shoe toyed with her stomach. She wriggled away.

  Something seemed to trouble him again, and a look of distress crossed his face.

  “I’ll tell you about Jennie later,” he said softly.

  He reached down, found a small blanket at the foot of the desk, and tucked it around Jennie’s small shoulders. Evidently the girl had made a second home for herself in Hoover’s office. Janice saw a red plastic cup with Jennie’s name on the windowsill.

  “Who are her parents?” Janice asked.

  Hoover shrugged.

  “The city of Pittsburgh considers her an abandoned child. A woman named Ora Dunn found her on a bench in a bus station. With a note on her. That’s all we know.”

  “And they never tried to find her parents?”

  “The city always tries, but seldom succeeds.”

  Jennie sighed in her sleep and rolled off the cushion onto the floor. Hoover smiled as he watched her.

  “Some day we will have her add numbers for you,” he whispered. “And multiply them. She’s a marvel.”

  The awkwardness returned. The silence surrounded them as though a large question had been asked, much too large for either to answer. They found themselves looking at one another.

  Hoover reached out a hand and touched her hand softly.

  “When I asked how you were, that was no casual question,” he said.

  “I know. I’m better than I would have thought, Elliot.”

  “Then something worse has happened with Bill?”

  “Yes. He’s been judged incurable. They don’t use that word, but he’s going to be transferred to a permanent sanitarium. Presumably to waste away.”

  The strain showed in Hoover’s face by a sudden pallor. Janice instantly regretted her outburst.

  “Maybe it’s better this way,” she added more softly. “It’s easier to live without false hope.”

  Hoover came closer. Instead of touching her or whispering comforting words, he only waited for her to look up at him. She did, and found his eyes troubled and yet containing a spark of hope.

  “Janice,” he said quietly, “I may not be too late.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Bill. We may find the key to open him up again.”

  Janice turned away.

  “We owe it to him to try,” he said, swallowing his guilt. “We can’t give up hope.”

  Janice sat wearily against the desk. Her eyes fixed on Jennie, sleeping peacefully near her feet, but she barely noticed the girl, only a general impression of vulnerable sweetness.

  “I don’t know,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I’m tired of hoping.”

  He seemed to know what she meant. Though they stood isolated, only inches apart, a radiant silence permeated the space between. Neither could have met the other without thinking of how to help Bill; yet a healthy Bill, Janice knew, would mean that she and Elliot Hoover could never be together.

  As though to dispel any abhorrent thought, or any suggestion wrought by despair and the pain of her own misery, Janice went to Jennie and knelt down. A ribbon had been wound clumsily into the black hair—by a man’s hand, she thought—and she slowly untied the ribbon and then tied it again.

  “Does Jennie hope?” Janice asked.

  “No. I don’t think she does. I expect the world is chaos for her.”

  “Well, then, do you look for some key to open her up?” Janice asked.

  “Yes,” he said eagerly. “That’s exactly how we work. We have to get into the child’s defenses, make her accept us because we accept her.” He knelt down by Jennie. “With Jennie, we accept her number language. With Jackson it’s fire, pictures of c
ar explosions. With Lily we let her eat food from the floor.” Hoover’s face took on a tinge of excitement mixed with triumph. “You see? We worm our way into the citadel. Then we storm the last defenses.”

  “And where is the key to Bill?” she asked, looking directly at him.

  Hoover licked his lips, paused, then stood up.

  “I’m hoping you’ll… that you’ll see that yourself,” he confessed. “I could tell you, but it would mean so much more if you saw it for yourself.”

  Perplexed, Janice tucked Jennie’s blanket around the small shoulders.

  “There’s only one thing Bill wants,” she said.

  “Yes. I know.”

  She looked up.

  “Have you found Juanita?”

  He turned from her. The vein along his temple throbbed, and she did not know what violent emotions caused him to retreat from her.

  “No.”

  “Did you look for her?”

  “There was no point. Whether Juanita is or she isn’t, is not important. We don’t need her, Janice. Not now.”

  She stared at him. Things were not making sense. “Why did you send for me? It wasn’t just to meet Jennie and see the clinic.” She was almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “It was to meet Jennie and see the clinic,” he said gently. “I’d like you to meet the children. It will make you understand better. Then we can talk.”

  “All right.”

  The day passed for Janice like a deranged cinema. By darkness, she had witnessed the full range of human suffering. James rocked furiously on the corner of his bed. Lily smiled in their direction, seeing very little, her freckled face hopelessly ignorant of where she was. Janeen rolled her obese body onto the floor. When Janice touched her, the girl made absolutely no response.

  Room after room, child after child, and Janice felt drawn deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of autism. It was a peculiar, silent world in spite of the howls, moans, and abrupt hyenalike chatter that erupted from the tiny throats. It was silent because there was no communication with the outer world. None of the children knew that there was anybody else in the building but himself.