Praise Her, Praise Diana

by Anne Rothman-Hicks

  “Clothes?”

  “I have a closet full of stuff. And, of course, we don’t need bathing suits. Right?”

  Jane had smiled at the thought of their swim together and at the prospect of waking up in a different place, sitting on the porch in the morning, the light on the hills as the sun goes down.

  “Do you promise to wake me up so I can help make the muffins this time?”

  “I swear.”

  “Let’s do it,” Jane said.

  When they reached the country house, the darkness was absolute except for the stars above and a neighbor’s porch light half a mile away. Maggie took Jane’s hand and led her across the yard and onto the porch. The storms that had doused New York City had passed through here as well and the air was fresh from the rain and cooler than it had been the week before. It was utterly quiet except for the sound of insects calling and their footsteps on the wooden porch and the key turning in the front door lock.

  Jane took a deep breath of the night air.

  “It’s so nice to be here,” she said. “I feel like I’ve come home.”

  “You have.”

  Inside, Maggie made up Jane’s bed with fresh sheets and found a well-worn work shirt for her to sleep in. While Jane undressed, Maggie got a bottle of cognac from the kitchen and two glasses. When she returned, Jane was sitting cross-legged on the bed with her back propped against pillows and the headboard. A table lamp shone beside her. She seemed lost in thought, almost surprised at the sight of Maggie.

  “This’ll take the edge off a little,” Maggie said, handing one of the glasses to Jane and sitting in a chair beside the bed.

  They touched their glasses together and each took a sip. Jane felt the liquor ease down her throat and warmth start to radiate through her. She took another sip and put the glass down, leaning backward into the pillows again.

  “This was a wonderful idea,” Jane said.

  “Shall I turn off the light and let you sleep?” Maggie asked. “You really do seem very tired.”

  “No, don’t go. I was thinking, that’s all. Years ago there was a battered old guy named Jack who stood at the corner of 86th and Third, looking like a wino wanting a hand-out. And when people walked by he would say, ‘God loves you, and so do I. God loves you, and so do I.’ He used to creep me out, but Martha would stop and shake his hand and chat. After a while I started to talk to him, also. Turned out he was a very decent man. Slightly crazy, that’s all.”

  “I guess we’re all a little crazy, aren’t we?”

  “That’s what Martha used to say.” Jane paused again. “Anyway, I thought of Jack tonight because Judith said almost the same thing to me, except it was ‘Diana loves you, and so do I’.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And I’ve been wondering, is she making this into a religion, or what?”

  “Or maybe she meant only what the words said.”

  “Judith loves me?”

  “Is it so difficult to believe that Judith might love you?”

  Jane took another sip of the cognac, finishing the glass.

  “She, or anyone, I guess.”

  “Janey, that’s silly.”

  A fleeting smile crossed Jane’s face. She shrugged and held out her glass. Maggie poured her more and Jane took another sip, and then reached over to put it on the table by the bed. Her hand shook and she stared at it, as though it belonged to someone else. Then a tear and another flowed down her cheeks. Her body trembled. Maggie came to sit beside her on the bed. She curled her arm around Jane’s shoulders.

  “It’s okay to cry, Janey. Crying’s good.”

  Jane nodded silently, using a tissue to wipe her eyes and her face.

  “Martha told me that she sometimes asked her clients to try to remember why they first got married. If they still felt even a small part of that love, she would tell them to hold onto it with both hands and do everything possible to revive it. But she also told me there were risks in asking people to remember because sometimes they have to face the worst possibility, that they never loved the person they had married and that it was a mistake from the beginning.”

  “Janey, why are you saying these things?”

  “Because now I wonder about myself, and I can’t remember what it was that pulled David and me together in the first place, other than companionship, sex, the convenience of having someone to go to a party with. Did I ever love him? Have I ever loved anyone?”

  “You’re beating yourself up for no reason, Janey. Go to sleep now.”

  “No. You asked me before if I was worried about David,” Jane said. “And I’m not. I couldn’t care less about him at this point. But I am worried about me. Honestly. I’m over thirty years old and I’ve never had a relationship that lasted any amount of time. The one with David was one of the longest. I really thought I might have found someone this time, someone I didn’t want to get away from as soon as the sex was over. But then this went sour, the same as all of the others. Something always happens. I see some serious flaw, or the guy does. Something. Always something. What’s wrong with me, Maggie? What’s wrong with me?”

  Maggie said nothing, just held Jane and rocked her gently until her crying stopped. Then she turned to Jane and placed her two hands on Jane’s cheeks. Jane had her eyes shut tight, trying to hold back more tears.

  “I think you really are very tired and the cognac has gotten to your brain,” Maggie said gently, and kissed her once on the forehead. “Because, as God is my witness, there is nothing wrong with you, Janey, that a good night’s sleep won’t cure. And maybe a new love as well.”

  Jane opened her eyes with difficulty. Her face was inches from Maggie’s.

  “Thank you, Maggie,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” Maggie replied and kissed her again on both wet cheeks. “Now, lie down and I’ll tuck you in.”

  Jane got under the covers, smiling broadly.

  “Thank you so much.”

  Maggie walked to the door and put her hand on the light switch.

  “Maggie?” Jane asked then. “When you first started coming to this house, were you ever scared at night?”

  “At first I was. It’s so much quieter than the city. You feel like you hear everything and can’t help wondering what it is you’re hearing. And if you do wake up, it’s so much darker here without the building lights you get in New York. You can’t see anything.”

  “Exactly!”

  Maggie hesitated.

  “Soon after I bought the house, I got a pistol that I kept in a drawer by my bed.”

  “I saw it the first weekend I was here,” Jane said. “It scared me.”

  “It scares me too. I’ve never fired it. In the end, it doesn’t provide much comfort. I removed the bullets and threw them away. The fear had to be defeated another way.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Would you like me to sit with you until you go to sleep? And if you wake up and you feel scared, just call me. I’m right across the hall.”

  Maggie came back and sat down on the bed again. Jane reached out from under the covers and took her hand and pulled her face down and kissed her on the cheek and then on the lips.

  “Maggie?” she started to say, then stopped.

  “What is it, Janey?”

  “Nothing. Just good night. And thank you again.”

  * * * *

  An hour later, when Maggie had returned to her room, her cell phone rang and she got out of bed quickly to answer it.

  “You must stop calling me this way.”

  “Have I interrupted something?” the familiar voice asked in her slightly mocking tone.

  “That’s none of your business. I...”

  “So she’s there? You seduced Martha’s daughter? Congratulations!”

  “Shut up!” Maggie screamed. “Do you hear me? I did nothing of the kind!”

  There was a silence. Maggie could hear amused laughter. But when the woman spoke again her voice sent a chill through Maggie.<
br />
  “Have you forgotten who I am, my dear? I saved you once, and I can ruin you just as easily. So don’t be distracted by your new friend. You have a job to do. Write the story as you promised. Tell the truth! Just tell the truth and save your soul.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  There was a small bar near Jose’s apartment that he visited when he just wanted to drink in peace. The bartender didn’t make mindless chatter. The other patrons were intent on the beer or whiskey they were served. Nobody felt like they had to be talking all the fucking time. Asking fucking questions. Making jokes about fucking pictures from newspapers.

  Those women hadn’t scared him. Nothing scared him. He’d been surprised, that’s all, and the fucking photographer had snapped the shutter. He’d like to get his hands on that son-of-a-bitch, or the woman who had been with him. The one with the fucking purple hair and hardware hanging all over her fucking face. He wondered how hard that would be. His friend might help him catch her alone. It would be easy to find out where she lived on computers at the precinct. If they flashed a badge at her, she would undoubtedly get in the car. They would tell her someone was in the hospital—a parent, a friend—they would figure out the details. But instead, they’d bring her somewhere private and teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget.

  He got up and left money on the bar. The bartender nodded. He nodded back. It was the way it should be among men. No fucking talk.

  He had called in to the precinct to tell them he was taking a sick day tomorrow. Give those bastards he worked with—his brothers—a few more days to stop their fucking laughing about the picture that some clown had cut out and pasted on his locker.

  He took a step and felt his leg give way, and he had to steady himself on a chair. Must have been a slippery spot on the floor. He could hold his booze.

  The bartender didn’t even look up from washing glasses. Nobody did. These were men, that’s why.

  Outside, he walked with a measured pace in the precise center of the sidewalk. At the corner, he turned right to go to his apartment. No problem. He always could hold his liquor.

  The street was dark. Two of the overhead lamps were not working. He made a mental note to call the city tomorrow. This was more proof he wasn’t drunk. Drunk people don’t think of such things.

  As he neared his building, he saw two women standing in the sidewalk facing him. In the darkness he couldn’t see faces. They both had on long coats that hung open. Their arms were crossed over their chests. The one on Jose’s left had a nice set of boobs. Big and firm. The other one was taller and had the body of a man. Ugly broad.

  As he approached, neither budged.

  “Hey, Jose!” the one with the boobs said to him. Probably had a rock-hard ass from going to the gym. Still, hard is good. “You heard from Mariana?”

  Jose stopped walking. Was she fucking kidding?

  He leaned forward, almost lost his balance, and then steadied himself.

  He started to shove her aside so he could pass between them. The woman who was built like a man stuck out a thick, muscular arm and stopped him cold. He staggered but quickly got his balance again.

  “You didn’t answer her,” she said.

  “Get the fuck out of my way,” Jose replied, spitting out the words. He stepped backward to get her hand off his chest then lowered his shoulder and moved toward the gap between the two women, intending to force his way through. In his concentration, he never saw the three other women who had come up behind him silently. Two of them had a heavy blanket that they pulled over his head, pinning his arms at his side. The third had a rope they wrapped around him so quickly that he barely knew what was happening. His cries for help were muffled by the blanket, and another rope was yanked tight around his throat. Then he was being carried back down the street to an old white van with its doors open. They pushed him inside and tied his legs together and he was completely helpless. When he continued to struggle, a woman’s hand sought out his testicles and squeezed them until a blinding pain passed through him like an electric shock.

  He screamed hoarsely and knew that he couldn’t be heard.

  When she let go, the pain subsided to a dull ache. He was conscious of two of the women in the rear of the van with him. He was breathing heavily. Sweating. Her hand was still on his testicles. Bitches! But he would find a way out. There was always a way out for a man with brains.

  She leaned over him and spoke in a voice that was deep and soft and seductive.

  “Do you want me to fondle them again, Jose? Did you enjoy that?”

  He tried to pull away from her, shaking his head violently, ‘No!’

  The other woman laughed. She had a higher, girlish voice.

  “Where’s Mariana, Jose?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said quickly. “I...”

  He was interrupted by his own cry of pain as his testicles were squeezed once more.

  “I think that soon you will be having a much better memory, Jose,” another woman said from the front of the van. She had a voice that made her sound like a witch. “Diana would like to hear the whole story, and believe me, you will remember.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The next morning, Jane awoke to the smell of fresh coffee brewing downstairs. Sitting up with the sun shining through the window, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of a cotton bathrobe on the chair beside her bed that Maggie had obviously left for her. Quickly, she pulled the robe on over the sleeping shirt and went down to the kitchen, where Maggie was hard at work. Her apron was covered with flour. Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows. The room was warm from the heat of the oven and there was a pleasant odor in the air that Jane couldn’t quite place.

  “I thought you were going to wake me up to help you,” Jane said.

  “I didn’t make muffins,” Maggie replied playfully. “I made waffles. And I have some bread rising for later.” She pointed at a pair of tins with dampened cloth draped over them near the oven. Now Jane recognized the smell of the yeast.

  “Jesus, Maggie ...”

  “Don’t blame me. You looked so happy there asleep, I couldn’t bear to wake you.”

  Jane stretched and yawned contentedly, thinking of the comfortable bed and the soft pillows. Remnants of dreams lingered at the edges of her mind, but she knew that they had not been troubling.

  “I did sleep very well. Although I remember a phone ringing. Or did I dream that?”

  “No, unfortunately. I have a reader who has been bothering me with phone calls at odd hours. I may have to get another number.”

  “Is it that same person you told me about before?”

  Maggie hesitated. “Yes, it is. She was telling me she enjoyed the book.”

  “I thought I heard you yell at her?”

  “I was angry at her calling at that hour. I think I convinced her to leave me alone.”

  “I think you should tell Detective Smalley, Maggie.”

  “I already lied to him about that, remember?”

  “I can get that straightened out. It won’t be a problem.”

  Maggie walked over to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. She sipped the fragrant brew, seeming to take in the aroma and the pleasant air of the kitchen in a deep appreciative breath.

  “If she calls me again, I’ll tell him,” Maggie said.

  “Promise?” Jane asked.

  “Cross my heart,” Maggie replied. “Now carry the plates onto the porch. I’ll bring butter and syrup. I got the papers. They’re out there also.”

  They had a leisurely breakfast, eating the waffles and drinking coffee and passing the papers back and forth. Heather had wasted no time, and The Portal was full of stories about Diana, the exhibit and speculation as to whether she had actually come as she had promised, or whether someone else had simply taken advantage of the situation. Ellen was blaming Judith and her group, the Eumenides, although no one had actually seen who had tripped the circuit breaker and thrown the gallery into darkness. There w
ere several pictures of Judith and members of her group taken before the incident while they stood across the street in a military-like pose, their arms clasped behind their backs, feet slightly spread, eyes set grimly forward. Among the pictures of the many in attendance was one of Maureen with the caption. “Did this woman see Diana?”

  After breakfast, Jane insisted on doing the dishes, but when she went upstairs she found her bed had somewhat magically been made and on top, along with a thick towel, washcloth and new toothbrush were a pair of soft overalls and a t-shirt. A note read, ‘Please feel free to use the desk, computer and phone in my bedroom. If you need anything, I’ll be in the back yard.’

  After a quick shower, Jane went to the rear window of her own bedroom and pulled back the curtains, and indeed there Maggie was, raking leaves in the sunlight, her blond hair already tousled with the effort, a fine film of perspiration covering her skin. Jane felt a surge of emotion as she watched—was it envy at the ease with which she worked? Was it simply the desire to be out there with her? She didn’t know. Then Maggie stopped, matter-of-factly unbuttoned the front of the coveralls and pulled off her t-shirt, exposing her breasts momentarily in the sunlight until she could re-fasten the buttons of the coveralls and return to the raking. She turned her head and Jane hid behind the curtain, embarrassed to have been staring at Maggie like some sort of voyeur. The blood rose in her cheeks and a different sort of warmth passed through her. She decided it was time to do some work of her own.

  She went back down the short hallway to Maggie’s bedroom where the computer was set up on a clear desktop. She called in to her voice mail and changed the message on her machine to let clients know she would not be in the office until Monday, but would be checking her messages, and could be reached on her cell phone in an emergency. It took longer than she had planned, and while she was on the phone, an e-mail appeared on the computer from Ellen.

  Dear Jane, I called and got your voicemail message that you wouldn’t be in your office today. (Nice boss you have). And I guess that means you won’t be at the gallery tonight either, which I can understand, of course, although I would have loved to have had you and Maggie here with me again. Anyway, I was really hoping to make an appointment. I’m at the end of my rope with Tommy and I have to get started. I’m tired of sitting around and having other people do what they want. So now I am going to be the one doing the acting for a change (and that applies to WPW too). Since I can’t see you today, can you fit an old client in on Tuesday, hopefully in the afternoon? I’m really ready this time!