Even tear-streaked and swollen, her face was luminous in the soft light of the apartment.
"I love you, Louis. You are all that is best in a man, and there is no stain upon you. If you will be lost to me tomorrow, then I will have you tonight. I must. I must take pleasure with you, and give you what I can, if I am to face the rest of my life without you. Or I will not be able to go on."
His mouth fell open. "I never knew."
Her eyes filled with regret. "I never said. I always thought we would have time, that I would have time to unlock you."
Something tight within him came undone. He let out a long, ragged sigh, and she pulled him close again. A few moments later they arose, and she led him to her bedroom.
***
Well, he said he'd be out really late.
It was half past midnight when Christine gave up the vigil. She marked her place in her book, laid it on her nightstand, reached down to rub Boomer's head once more, and turned out the light.
Maybe tomorrow he'll have a story for me.
***
It was three AM when Louis rose from Helen's side. She did not wake. He moved as stealthily as he could, dressing in her living room to minimize the chance of waking her.
Before he left, he laid two sealed enveloped on her dinette table. One bore her name; the other, Christine's.
Five minutes later, Louis Redmond was outward bound from Onteora for the last time.
==
Chapter 30
Christine awoke to a gray October morning, and a bed occupied by her alone. It was nearer to eight than to seven.
What the hell? Is he up already?
She rose onto her elbows and saw Boomer at the foot of the bed. The Newfoundland was staring at her reproachfully.
"Oops. Sorry, big guy. We'll go for your walk in just a second."
Louis isn't here, or he would have taken Boomer out already.
She got out of bed and threw on sweat clothes. Boomer followed on her heels as she descended to the kitchen. His leash hung on the hook by the back door, where she had left it the previous evening.
After she had walked Boomer and set down his breakfast, she began to search the house for indications of Louis. All things appeared to be as she'd left them the previous evening. If Louis had come home and left again, for whatever reason, he'd done so without touching anything.
He hasn't been home. Boomer would have awakened me if either door had opened. He would have walked Boomer. He would have set up the coffeepot and had coffee waiting for me, even if he'd had to go out again. So what's up? Where is he?
The thought of coffee sent her to the pot. It wasn't something she did well, but if Louis wasn't here to do it, she would have to.
She opened the water reservoir, saw the envelope, and her heart began to pound at once. She pulled it out and studied it.
Apart from the creases from having been forced into the coffeemaker, the envelope was unmarked. She began to peel back the flap, then stopped to collect herself.
Open it, Christine.
I'm going to open it, Nag. Just give me a second to catch my breath. Are you going to read it over my shoulder?
I'm going to read it with your eyes.
What an incredible surprise.
She grasped the flap again and yanked it back. A single printed sheet resided within. She took a deep breath before unfolding and reading it.
Dear Christine,
Stay calm. First off, get showered and dressed. Wear something particularly nice. Eat a proper breakfast; there are waffles in the freezer, and I've left some bacon in the fridge. You have some important things to do today.
Second, at about nine AM, call Helen. She's going to want you to come by right away. I expect she won't sound too good.
Third, when you go, bring Boomer. I don't expect you'll be back to the house until late this evening, besides which, Boomer will be good to have around today.
Fourth, stay calm. You'll know what all this is about soon enough, and I promise you it's nothing you need to worry about.
Love,
Louis
Christine read the note four times.
"Stay calm." That's probably the hardest advice to follow that anyone's ever been given. What the hell is going on?
Stay calm, Christine.
Oh, not you too, Nag.
Me too, Christine. Do as he says.
She did.
***
Christine almost hung up before Helen answered the phone.
"Hello."
Shit, she does sound awful. "Helen, it's Chris."
"I know, dear. When could you come by?"
"I'm on my way." She hung up and grabbed for Boomer's leash. The Newf stood up and went to her side, tongue lolling and tail wagging.
"Ready for anything, eh, big guy? I'm not."
They were in her Chrysler and on their way to Helen's condo less than a minute later.
***
What answered the door didn't resemble Helen at all. Her face was swollen and deep red. She carried herself like an old woman bent over by the weight of the years, too tired to move.
"Stay calm," eh? Did you tell her to stay calm too, Louis? I don't think she was listening.
Helen escorted her to the dinette. Boomer curled himself at her feet. They sat without speaking for a long moment. Then Helen pulled an envelope from underneath the napkin holder and slid it over to Christine.
"He wanted to tell you himself."
The charge of grief on the words came close to breaking Christine's mind. The world seemed to reel around her. She laid one trembling hand on the envelope and stopped.
He's always had a good reason for anything he's done. Therefore, there's a good reason for this.
She picked up the envelope and slit it open. Three sheets of paper slid out. She unfolded them and read.
***
Dear Christine,
By now you know that something is terribly wrong, and you're probably very upset. I've asked Helen to help with this, but she's likely to be very upset too. I hope you can help one another to feel better, with some time. I doubt that this letter will help much.
On the day that we met, I was in the hospital receiving chemotherapy for abdominal cancer. Even then, the odds were heavily against my being cured. Nevertheless, Miles Jefferson, the man who saved you after your accident and did what he could to repair your face, was doing everything in his power to save my life as well. I still had some hope.
About six weeks later, Dr. Jefferson told me that there was no hope. The cancer had spread too far and was too resistant to the applicable drugs for me to expect to survive it. I asked Dr. Jefferson what might be done to extend my life a little, and we decided on surgery. That was what had me away from you for those five days in May.
Since then, I've been racing the clock, trying to prepare you to face the world on your own before I could no longer even take care of myself. Before I say anything else, I want to say this: If you hadn't been such a superb and serious student, we could never have done it. Your gifts are greater than I could ever have guessed.
For the last six months, you've been the only thing in the world of any importance to me. When I found you, you were just an injured young woman who needed to be hidden from terrible enemies. After I learned how special you are, you became a jewel that had to be protected at any cost. But I did not expect what has passed between us.
Father Schliemann likes to say that life is mostly things we never would have expected. Stay close to him, Chris. He is by far the wisest man I know.
If your situation had been any less serious than it was, I would have told you about my condition shortly after taking you in. When I found out how alone you were, and what had been done to you, I knew I could never do it. I was certain it would crush you.
Your intelligence, insight, strength and courage have repeatedly astounded me. I have never seen the like. The more substance you displayed, the more I came to love you. What I had held back a
t first out of concern, at the last I held back out of love, not to inflict unnecessary sorrow on one who was dearer to me than life itself.
And so I found myself in this sorry strait, where there was no way back, only one way forward, and no chance at all that it could be right.
You've probably already guessed the rest. Dr. Jefferson told me how to gauge the progress of the cancer. Judging by the frequency and power of the spasms I've been experiencing, I have only days to live, perhaps hours. Rather than risk dying in bed next to you, I've taken my leave to find a place where I can do it alone.
By the time you read this, I'll be hundreds of miles from Onteora. I've always loved the New York woodlands, and they're particularly beautiful in the fall, so that's where I'll go to face God. But before you start to grieve, please finish reading this letter; what comes next is the most important part.
Helen will be the executor of my estate. If you need that explained, it means simply that she has the responsibility for seeing that the property I leave behind legally reaches the people I mean to have it. Actually, the person I mean to have it: you.
You now own my house and all that was once mine. A large sum of money will pass to you, enough that you'll never need to fear being out of work, even for years at a time. I have no debts to settle and no other material obligations, so you needn't fear anyone else's claim to any of these things. It might take a little while for my body to be found and for the county to accept that I'm dead. In the meanwhile, there's plenty of cash in the safe in our bedroom.
Professionally, you're already well on your way. When in doubt, trust Dick Orloff. He's a very good man, an honest man in a field filled with chiselers and outright thieves. You'll always be able to rely on what he tells you.
Personally, you have two of the finest friends anyone could want in Helen and Father Schliemann. Both love you as deeply as I do, and they'll never let you down. You'll always be able to bring any personal problem to either or both of them. Don't be upset when they disagree.
But there's someone else you have to meet, who's likely to become as important to you as anyone you know. His name is Malcolm Loughlin. He's the man who trained me.
Malcolm is probably the greatest warrior that's ever lived. Everything I know about combat came from him. There are things I can't teach you, and things I never learned, that I want you to learn from him. I've asked him to complete your training, and he's agreed.
Malcolm is a little strange, not an easy man to like -- and I say that as one who loves him dearly. He lives alone in a trailer in the center of a huge wooded parcel about six miles from our house. He doesn't own a car. He doesn't have a phone. He's home most of the time, and to meet him, you'll have to go there.
I guarantee that when you meet him, he'll try to provoke you. It's something he does to get the measure of people. I can't predict what he'll say or do, so keep control of yourself no matter what. He respects only those who respect themselves, and he thinks self-control is the biggest piece of that. Believe me, Chris, it'll be more than worth your while to gain his respect. No one but Father Schliemann has been as valuable to me as a friend and counselor.
To find Malcolm's trailer, take NY 231 east about four miles from the north end of Alexander Avenue, turn north onto Kettle Knoll Way, and watch for a really bad road called Mill Neck on the left. About three-quarters of a mile down Mill Neck, you'll come to a semicircular indentation in the trees on the right side of the road. Park there, and head as straight as you can into the trees, on foot. You'll have to walk about a quarter mile. Either you'll find the trailer, or Malcolm will hear and find you; he's reliable that way. Bring a flashlight, just in case.
Apart from that, I have only a few things to ask of you. Mostly they're things you'd do anyway, but here goes.
First, be good to Helen. Love her for both of us. She'd never admit it, but she's been very lonely, and you're more important to her than you know.
Second, never lower your standards. You're world class in every way, and you should never, ever accept anything less for yourself or from yourself than the very best.
Third, please try to forgive me for having parted from you in this way. It was the best of a bad set of choices. I hope you'll see it the way I did.
Fourth, I've asked Father Schliemann to tell you about the conversation we had just after I found out I was sick. I think it will put certain matters into proper perspective for you. Please go to see him as soon as you can stand to do so.
I cringe to think how awful all this must be for you to read. It's been damned near impossible for me to write. But as I said, it's the best of a bad set of choices, and I've never held back from doing what I must, once I was convinced that I must.
Know this for truth: since the day we met you've stood at the center of my heart. You stand there still. I don't fear to die, but the pain of leaving you is too great for words to express. Even so, I would not have missed this for anything in this world or the next. If there is nothing more to follow, I have loved Christine Marie D'Alessandro, and she has loved me, and that is infinitely more than enough. I am content.
All my love forever,
Louis
***
Christine put the letter down and closed her eyes.
There is a place deep in the human mind, hidden among the crannies of memory and pockets of primordial desire, filled with immutable silence. There is no pain nor loss there, no thought, no recrimination, and no sense of the passage of time. Faced with the extraordinary grief before which rationality fails and endurance yields, the ego flees from the world in search of that quiet place. In such extremity, those who cannot find the safe harbor within themselves are driven insane. Some do not recover. Some who find it make their refuge permanent, and do not return.
***
When Christine's sense of the world returned, Boomer was licking her hand. Helen had lain down across the table, and was apparently asleep. The clock over the sink said it was a few minutes of ten.
She rose, fetched a bowl from Helen's pantry, and filled it with water for the dog. He began to lap. She went back to her friend and began to rub the older woman's neck and shoulders, hoping to wake her without trauma. Helen stirred and began to return to consciousness.
"Are you all right, dear?" Helen said.
"I guess so." She continued to rub. "When did he leave?"
"I have no idea. It must have been the middle of the night." Helen turned to look over her shoulder at her friend. "You're so calm."
Christine put her hands to the sides of Helen's face and turned the older woman's head to face forward again. Helen's skin felt badly abused, as if from a radical sunburn or a week without sleep.
"He told me to stay calm, that there was nothing to worry about. I'm trying to do as he said."
Nothing to worry about. He's days or hours from death, he's going off into the woods to die like a wild animal, he gave me everything I have and I'll never see him again, but there's nothing to worry about. If the word-mincing son of a bitch were here to take it, I'd kick his oh-so-clever ass from here to California.
"Was he calm last night, Helen?"
"Yes, dear." Helen let her head loll back against Christine's bosom. "He was perfectly composed. It made it hard to believe what he was telling me."
Christine dropped her hands to her friend's shoulders.
"Helen..."
The older woman turned to face her.
"Did you give him a good send-off? The best you could?"
Don't try to tell me you wimped out, girlfriend. I know you.
Helen bit her lip, then nodded.
Christine looked away. "I hoped so. I would have wanted the three of us to be together, if I'd known. I'm glad you were there for me."
Helen Davenport rose from her chair and threw her arms around her young friend. The two of them held one another for a long time.
==
Chapter 31
Jimmy Ducati stomped through the forest, pissed to the max. He'd
been certain he was going to get laid today. He'd been wrong.
He was a large and unlovely youth. What might have become muscle and sinew under an appropriately severe exercise regimen was on him merely bulk. He had little control of his body. His walk was a lurch, and he hardly dared to run. His skin was greasy and sallow, and his teeth were crooked and badly kept. Only his wealth of thick black hair showed any possibility of being made an attraction. However, he didn't wash it often enough.
His personality was even less attractive. He was middling bright, but had no social skills to speak of. The most determined conversationalists could not hold a dialogue of any length with him; there was nothing on the other end. His private interests were truly private. He would not talk about any of them with others.
It would have surprised everyone who knew him to learn that he kept a diary, or that he wrote in it extensively, every day. A hardened criminologist would have been horrified to read the fantasies he had set down there, and would have been relieved to learn that they were only fantasies, not true stories nor action plans.
Jimmy knew his failings, had kept himself under control and out of trouble, and had always been sensible enough not to expect much in the way of female interest. Yet only the previous day, Angela Schellenberg had beckoned him under the high school bleachers, then practically tore his pants off. The radiant blonde cheerleader, as gorgeous a piece of adolescent ass as he'd ever seen, the Holy Grail to his school's horny young men, had worked him into a frenzy with her hands and mouth, then had run off, promising to meet him here. She was more than an hour late and nowhere in sight, but the storm in his groin was not to be bought off with excuses, as if there could be any.
On Broken Wings Page 23
