Without warning, Marie’s stomach cramped, enough to make her bend over in pain. Candle in hand, she headed toward the bathroom and sat down on the toilet to relieve herself. No wonder my stomach hurt. She hoped it was a working toilet. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
She met her reflection in the mirror, the candle casting an uncanny shadow on her face. Her hair, now a mass of snarly tangles, framed her battered face. She touched the cut on her swollen lip and winced.
She unbuttoned her blouse and let it drop to the floor, shivering from the cold while she examined the rest of her body. The bruise on her upper right arm stood out from the rest, the one where Richard’s fingers had gripped her. She turned around, looked at the hideous bruises on her back, and then quickly looked away.
The nasty cut on her wrist, caused by her own hand when she broke the window, was now encased with a crimson gel-like protective scab. She tugged on the cabinet door below the sink until it popped open, one of the hinges giving way, sending her backward against the bathroom door. She rummaged through the cabinet until she found a Red Cross First-Aid kit. She removed the bloodied towel from her wrist, cleaned the cut, and bandaged it.
Back in the kitchen she opened the cabinet doors, one by one, where she found a few plates, glasses and cups, flour, sugar, a variety of spices, coffee and tea. She peaked in the canister labeled FLOUR. Dozens of tiny black bugs franticly scurried about with no place to go but in circles. She quickly closed it and put it back in the cupboard. She looked in the dingy white Kelvinator refrigerator. Except for warm stale air, it was completely empty.
The broken glass on the counter and in the sink caught her attention. She searched for something to sweep it up. Finding nothing but a butcher knife and some stray silverware, she carefully picked up the larger pieces of glass and stacked them in the corner of the counter. She used the knife to push the smaller ones into the sink.
The spigot spat and groaned for the first several seconds when she turned it on. When the water finally did come, she let it run for a while, hoping it would get clearer. It didn’t. She retrieved a glass from the cupboard, rinsed it out, and took a sip. The taste was rank, but still appeasing. She sat at the kitchen table to collect her thoughts. She figured by morning she would be rested enough to move on, wherever that may be.
Marie tried to fight off the sudden wave of dizziness after standing up, but when she went to sit back down, she missed the chair, and fell to the floor in a heap.
* * *
With legs sprawled out in front of her like two giant wet noodles, Marie rubbed the back of her head, which she had apparently banged on the chair or floor when she fell. Still physically drained from the previous day’s journey, she managed to pull herself up to a standing position by holding first on to the chair and then the table.
She shoved the card table covering the window to one side. The daylight told her she had been out for a while. She looked at her watch. Six a.m. She staggered to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Barely recognizable, even to herself, her bruised sallow skin and dark circled eyes aged her at least ten years.
Her brain worked hard to recap what had transpired over the past hours, but her thoughts were jumbled. She heard a noise—like perhaps a floorboard creaking—and gasped. She stood motionless, not able to tell where the noise had come from. She tiptoed outside of the bathroom and listened.
Nothing.
She walked into the kitchen, spread her coat out on the kitchen table, and brushed the dried mud off with her hand. She had several different plans of action rotating in her head. The most feasible next step would be to find someone she trusted to help her, but not anyone Richard knew. The only problem with that was…
She heard another noise, similar to the first one, this one definitely not a figment of her imagination. It came from upstairs. She squinted until her eyes became thin slits. It sounded like something scraping against the floor, like a peg-legged pirate walking the plank, dragging his bad leg behind him. Scrape, silence, thump, scrape, silence, thump. Back and forth the sound went. Start, stop, start, stop.
Long agonizing seconds elapsed. The bile in her stomach rose up into her throat. She took in steady breaths and let them out slowly, trying to control her breathing.
As quickly as they started, the noises stopped. Marie waited in silence, but nothing more happened.
She tiptoed around the kitchen and picked up her purse and coat, preparing to leave.
Another noise. A creaking floorboard.
Too afraid to turn around, she stood facing the cabinets. Her knees wobbled, like something was percolating beneath the linoleum.
Several more steps were all it would take for her to be out the back door. Her legs felt heavy, and it seemed to take unusually long to reach the back door. She impetuously grabbed a scarf and floppy brimmed hat from one of the hooks near the door and left the house.
The breeze on her face was a welcome relief from the stagnant air she left behind. She blinked hard against the glaring sunlight while her eyes adjusted. She walked briskly down the driveway and toward the street, embracing the feel of the outdoors. She felt liberated, but at the same time, shameful. She had never done anything so outlandishly brazen in her entire life.
Within three blocks, she came upon a gas station. After giving her the onceover, the balding, hollow-cheeked attendant handed her the bathroom key.
The array of names and phone numbers that had been written on the wall with everything from lipstick to mud was nothing short of appalling. After relieving herself, she took off the hat and looked in the mirror. She wet a piece of tissue and dabbed the dried blood surrounding the scab on her forehead to make it less noticeable. Then she adjusted the hat so that it dipped down far enough over her face that no one would recognize her or notice the bruises.
Marie walked back into the gas station to return the key. Just act natural, just act natural. She repeated the mantra in her head with each step.
“Thank you,” she muttered to the near comatose attendant as she dropped off the key, careful to keep her head slightly turned down. “Good day.”
“You too, lady,” he mumbled without looking up, the cigarette dangling from his mouth defying gravity. She looked at the public telephone on the wall with brief contemplation…and then left.
Marie threaded her way through the residential neighborhoods away from the house she just vacated, but other than that, in no particular direction. Sounds of people getting ready for the new day drifted out of open windows. It was seven thirty according to her watch. She had all day to find a place to stay. She promised herself it would be a legitimate place this time, like a hotel room.
A man in a short-sleeved shirt and lightweight trousers walking a German shepherd came toward her. She hoped he didn’t see the neon sign floating above her head that said, “HELP ME. I JUST LEFT MY HUSBAND. I BROKE INTO SOMEONE’S HOME, AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING!” He nodded as he passed her. Head down, with a palpable undercurrent of tension, she nodded in return. Suddenly realizing she was grossly overdressed for the weather, she slipped out of her trench coat and folded it over her arm.
The sound of a train whistle interrupted her thoughts. Marie zigzagged her way through the streets in the direction of the whistle, all the while trying to decide what to do. If she jumped on a train, she wanted to be sure that’s what she really wanted to do—run. If she stayed, it would mean she was either capable of dealing with the aftermath of Richard’s hostile behavior or knew someone who would protect her from him.
The train station door was locked. She peeked inside the window to a large empty room containing nothing but a few benches. She walked around the building and read the schedule posted on the outside of the building. The train had two routes. The end of the line for one route was Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The other one went as far as Mundelein, Illinois.
She nonchalantly sat on the bench waiting for the train bound for Mundelein to arrive, fearing she looked like a scared five-year-old on her
first day of school. A couple walked in front of her, arm in arm. “She’ll be with us for just a week, George. Surely you can tolerate my mother for just a week. If you would just give her a chance, you’d see she’s not that bad, you know.”
Boy, I wish I had your problems lady.
CHAPTER 15
Libertyville
Marie took a seat facing the back of the train car. She stared straight ahead at the poster for the North Shore Railway. Route of the Electroliner it stated, whatever that was. Chicago, Milwaukee, Libertywille, Mundelein and Intermediate Stations. She examined the picture of the train with its blue-green top, gold middle, and orange bottom. Not colors I would have put together.
The sound of the train riding the rails was soothing, enough to ease her racing mind if only a bit. “Where to, Miss?”
“Mundelein, please.”
“All I can sell you is a one-way. That’ll be $1.82.”
hike I would want a round trip. “Thank you. Do you have a schedule I could have of all the stops?”
He pointed to a plastic box affixed to the wall at the very front of the train car. “Up there,” he grunted. When he left, she got up and made the long walk to the far end of the train car and retrieved a schedule.
At the next stop, two nicely dressed women about the same age as Marie took the seat behind her. “He really said that?” one asked. “I told you he would come ’round. He’s a lot like my brother Edwin, you know. Stubborn as a mule, they are.” Marie felt like turning around and telling them how fortunate they were to have their freedom and to never take it for granted, but she didn’t.
Thoughts of her actions during the past twenty-four hours plagued her. Fearful of her husband and having no place to go, she could rationalize breaking into the house to some degree, but that didn’t make it any less reprehensible.
“Get down from there. You’ll hurt yourself,” a mother said to her young rambunctious son. The boy was standing up on the seat, playing with the retractable coat hook next to the window.
Marie closed her eyes and tried to relax, but all she saw was Richard’s face when he shoved her down the basement stairs. She wondered what he was doing right now. Looking for me? She wondered what he was thinking about her, if he even cared she was hurt, or gone. She wondered if he was angry at her, angry enough to do something egregious if he found her.
“I told you he’d do that. You need to stand up to him, Sarah!” one woman advised her friend in a voice loud enough for the entire train car to hear. I wish someone had warned me.
Mundelein wasn’t that far, an hour and a half by train. She was counting on there being another train line there going farther out…to somewhere. Anywhere. She didn’t care where.
“I told Dad it wouldn’t work, but do you think he would listen to me? Of course not. I’m just a kid,” a young girl said to her friend. Stand up for your convictions, she telepathically advised the girl.
“Deerpath is next. Last call for Deerpath,” the conductor shouted.
The idle chit-chat of the other passengers continued like nothing was wrong. It was both distracting and soothing for Marie. She wondered what Mundelein was like. If it didn’t have another train line, maybe it at least had a hotel. Even though it wasn’t all that far away from him, she was certain Richard wouldn’t have any idea she was there.
“Thornbury is next. Last call for Thornbury.” The conductor’s monotone voice was loud and lifeless, like maybe he was thinking about when his shift would end so he could go home. When the train stopped at Thornbury, the two women in back of Marie got off, laughing and talking. The train pulled away from the station, and Marie longingly watched them on the platform hug and go their separate ways.
“Your attention please,” the conductor droned. “This train is experiencing mechanical problems, and we’re putting it out of commission. Everyone must get off the train in Libertyville. There will be another train to take you the rest of the way in two hours. I repeat. Everyone must get off this train at the next stop, Libertyville. Another train will pick you up in about two hours. Take your tickets with you!” The metal screech of the train’s brakes sent a shiver up Marie’s back.
“Great,” she mumbled. Two hours of sitting in a packed train station with God only knows how many other passengers. She exited the train with everyone else where they were herded into the station like a bunch of distressed cows. She sat down at the end of one of the benches, next to the wall. Within minutes there were people sitting uncomfortably close to her.
A young boy came up to her and peered underneath the brim of her hat. His mother quickly grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away. People continued to squeeze themselves into the warm train station, their closeness suffocating.
Marie gave up her seat and walked to the back of the station where there was a little more room. She looked out the window at the nearby business district.
Having two hours to kill, she decided to take a walk through town. It was a cloudless spring day, and the downtown district of the small town bustled with people. Marie walked by the Chevy dealership and its array of new cars lined up along the sidewalk. Next door was a liquor store and then Reinbach’s Bakery & Delicatessen. Tempted to go in, she stopped short of the entrance, her stomach advising her against it.
Other shops typical of small suburban towns dotted the main street— Smith’s Shoes, First Lake County National Bank, and Keswick’s Cards and Gifts. Toward the end of the first block was Bielat’s 5¢ to $1 store. She entered the store and walked through aisles of bargain priced items— house wares, knick-knacks, clothing, toys, and gifts. Nothing like this in Chicago.
On the corner, a man in a long-sleeved shirt and red bow-tie stood in front of Titus Brothers appliances next to a crudely made sign that read, ALL APPLIANCES ON SALE. “We’re having a great sale this week, madam. If you need a new stove or refrigerator, now would be the time to buy.” Marie politely shook her head at the man and stood on the corner deciding which way to go.
Across the street was a bright white three-story Victorian mansion set far back on the large lot that took up a full square block, looking as though it had been plucked out of some other place and plopped down in the middle of this sleepy little town. Two walkways, flanked by lush bushes and trees spanned from the front of the multi-pillared house to the two front corners of the lot. Several chimneys rose to different heights above the sharply angled roof, suggesting just as many fireplaces.
She crossed Milwaukee Avenue to the other side of the street and strolled by a hardware store, Woolworth’s, Mackey’s Jewelry, and another bakery. Someone opened the door to the bakery, and the delectable aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air. The temptation was strong, but once again she resisted.
Marie stood in front of a furniture store and looked up and down the street. A “Room for Rent” sign on the door next to Smith’s Shoes caught her eye. The thought of lying down on a clean bed in a safe place tantalized her. She crossed the street to get a closer look. There was no phone number on the sign. She pushed on the door.
Maybe two people, and only if they were thin, could have stood on the landing inside the door. Marie looked up the steep stairway to the top. She made the ascent only to find six closed doors, presumably leading to the rented rooms. Confused, she went into the shoe store next door and asked the man behind the counter if he knew who to call about the room.
“That would be Mr. Berry,” the man said shaking his head. “He puts up a sign with no phone number. How does he expect to rent it?” He rolled his eyes while he searched in the drawer under his cash register for an address book. He wrote down the number and handed it to Marie who left the store in search of a phone booth.
The busy restaurant bubbled with overlapping conversations. Businessmen seated at tables of four carried on lively conversations, sometimes between tables. Mothers with small children enjoyed their grilled cheese sandwiches and milk shakes, hamburgers and fries, and tuna salad stuffed tomatoes.
“Mo
m, can we go to the park after lunch?”
“How’s your wife, Bill? Be sure to tell her that we’re thinking of her and can’t wait to see her up and about again.”
“Meet me there at three, and we’ll go over the details.”
Marie stood near the public phone waiting for it to become free, the benign conversations absorbed by the room comforting.
“Yes, we have a room for rent above the shoe store,” a woman answered. “I have to warn ya though, it’s the most expensive room we’ve got. And we rent by the week, nothing shorter. This one will cost ya fifteen dollars. We charge only twelve dollars for the others, but they’re all taken. Cash only, paid in advance. If you want to see it, I can meet ya there in an hour.” The woman talked fast, as if from a well-rehearsed script.
“Yes, I would very much like to see it. Where should I meet you?”
“Meet me in front of the shoe store. There’s a bench right there you can sit on if you get there before me. My name is Juanita Berry. What’s yours?”
“Marie…Marie Adams.” Where did that name come from?
“Okay, Miss Adams. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
“Thank you. See you then.”
As she hung up the phone, Marie wondered if it was a false sense of security she was feeling or if something might be going in her favor. Unless the room was god-awful, she had a place to stay. At fifteen dollars a week, she could take her time to figure out what she was going to do.
The aroma of the food in the restaurant taunted her. “How many?” the hostess asked her, giving her a friendly but curious smile.
Marie hadn’t intended to eat anything. She didn’t know if her stomach could handle it. She took a chance. “Just one,” she responded. “May I have that booth in the back?”
The Coach House Page 19
