Fury

by John Coyne

  The boy’s hell was Shih Hsui-mei. He wanted her. Her old husband used to laugh at him as he sat watching her comb her hair in the bright morning sun. The old man made fun of the boy and spoke rapidly in Chinese to Shih Hsui-mei, asking her if she wanted to feel the white man’s prick.

  The boy went to the opium dives and paid to smoke in the cells. He went because she would come to him then and give him a pipe full of the sweet-smelling drug. She would look at him with her wet black eyes and her round, perfect face, and he would stare wordlessly at her.

  Then she would pass away into the den, and he would smoke the sweet opium and cough into the filthy blankets. In time he would forget her, forget his pain, and in the dimness of his consciousness, she would appear again, and he would not know if she were alive or simply in his dreams.

  He had her then as he always wanted her—in a place where they could be alone together, away from the world. Even if it was only a dream, she was with him, and he would smile and see her smiling, beckoning him farther and farther into the world of opium and dreams.

  When he woke, into the fierce pain of daylight and consciousness, he did not want to live. He wanted only more opium, more dreams of her passing him in the den, hearing her silk trousers, seeing her lovely small body. But he would have to leave the den, stumbling down the snowy path, crossing the cold river on the narrow log bridge. Sometimes he’d be sick there, falling off the bridge, tumbling into the rocky creek, puking the night’s anguish of opium onto the slippery river rocks.

  His father threw him out of his shack. He was no good to him, no good at work. The opium had destroyed his mind. He could not write down a simple claim in a government ledger or help his uncle. He wanted only Shih Hsui-mei. And now he had no money to buy opium, to

  spend the night watching her slip through the dense fog in her silk trousers, tending to the worthless lot of Chinese miners, or himself, a hopeless pale-faced white boy.

  He stole his father’s long-barreled pistol, the one he had been issued in the war, and went to get Shih Hsui-mei. He had a plan. A crazy plan. He would take her away from old Cheng-k’uan. The old man had no rights. He was a miserable Chink. The Chinese were killed by the dozens in the mines of Idaho. He would steal a horse and take Shih Hsui-mei with him across the Salmon River and into Oregon, where he had family, cousins of his mother.

  When he went to Cheng-k’uan and told him what he intended, the old man laughed and spit in his face.

  He shot the Chinaman in the head. The bullet made a small, neat black hole in the yellow man’s forehead and splashed blood and bone and brain on the whitewashed wall. The old man turned in a tight circle, dancing on his thin legs like a chicken when it’s axed.

  He ran into the side wall before he stopped moving and slid down, smearing the whitewash with his blood. The boy had to step over him to get at Shih Hsui-mei. She was screaming. He had never before heard a Chinese woman scream.

  He couldn’t get her to be silent. His hands tore her lovely embroidered silk jacket. He kept telling her to hush, talking to her as if she were a baby, but she wouldn’t stop screaming. He tore her silk blouse, and her breasts were so small and lovely he was suddenly dazed by the sight of them.

  There were Chinese coming from the mines, running up through the mud of late spring, through the snow still frozen under shack porches. He had never seen so many Chinese.

  He grabbed Shih Hsui-mei, this time with his arm around her waist. He would carry her all the way to the Snake River, he thought. But they made it only to the little creek below Cheng-k’uan’s shack. He ran through the cold water, slipping on the smooth stones, thinking that if he crossed the creek into the white part of town, he would be safe. No white man would harm him for killing a Chink.

  Her people caught him at the river. There were too many of them. They pulled little Shih Hsui-mei from his arms, and one slit his throat as he might draw a blade across a squealing pig.

  His gushing blood turned the cold creek water purple. He stumbled on the smooth rock and fell forward, grabbing his throat, and died faster than Cheng-k’uan.

  The whites came running down from town. They found him cold and stiff and bloodless. There was not a mark on his body, except for the fine, thin slice across the length of his throat. His blue eyes held a steady, unflinching gaze, as if here in death, he had finally found the answer to his young life.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “OH MY GOD,” MARGIT exclaimed, seeing Jennifer. “What on earth has happened?” She reached out and pulled Jennifer into an embrace.

  “I was mugged,” Jennifer stated, and in the comfort and safety of Margit Engle’s arms, she began to cry.

  “David!” Margit shouted over Jennifer’s shoulder. “David, come quick! Jennifer’s been mugged.”

  Jennifer pulled herself from her friend’s arms and wiped the tears from her eyes. She felt her bruised cheekbone.

  “Jennifer, are you all right?” David asked. He handed his wife his drink as he approached Jennifer. “What happened?”

  “She was mugged, David!” Margit’s voice betrayed her anxiety. “We have to call the police.”

  “No. Don’t call anyone!” Jennifer blurted out. She caught sight of herself in the living room mirror and began to cry again, but this time she let the tears flow. David guided her to the sofa and arranged a pillow behind her head.

  “I’ll get my bag and we’ll take care of these bruises. You’re okay, Jennifer, don’t be afraid.”

  Jennifer nodded, but moving her head drove a piercing wedge of pain between her eyes, and she reached up with her hand to feel the raw flesh on her forehead. It would be days, she guessed, before the bruises would be gone, and that made her start crying again.

  “I still think we should call the police,” Margit declared. She was standing in the middle of the living room, nervously twisting her fingers.

  “No!” Jennifer said. She tried to sit up but couldn’t gather her strength.

  “Jennifer is right,” David said, returning. “Jennifer has had enough trouble. And what are the police going to find anyway? Whoever did this is already long gone.” He knelt beside the sofa. “Get me towels and warm water,” he told his wife. “I want to clean up these bruises.”

  “Thank you, David,” Jennifer whispered, but her lips had swollen and she was having difficulty forming words.

  “Shhhhh,” David whispered, smiling down at her. “No need to say anything, just rest. Close your eyes. You’re all right.”

  Jennifer did close her eyes, thankful that she had made it to West End Avenue and that Margit and David were taking care of her. She did fall asleep, knowing she was safe from everyone out on those city streets. But still she was frightened of herself, of what she had done.

  When she awoke she could hear their muffled voices from the other room. She turned her head carefully on the pillow, trying to avoid the wedges of pain every time she moved, and saw through bruised eyelids that they had closed the door to the dining room. The lights were off in the living room, where she still lay, now covered with a heavy quilt. Her shoes had been removed and her skirt loosened.

  She wondered if she should get up to tell them that she was all right, but even as she wondered, she knew she didn’t have the strength. How could she tell them what had really happened, how she had killed the man? She couldn’t tell anyone the truth, ever, and when she closed her eyes again, she wished that she wouldn’t wake up, that she would never have to face the nightmare of what she had done.

  She woke crying, struggling to free herself from the hand on her shoulders. It was a moment before she realized she was being held by David. “You’re having a nightmare, Jennifer. That’s all,” he was whispering.

  One lamp was lit, and she saw David above her and Margit at the foot of the sofa, both looking pained and upset. Jennifer relaxed and slipped down into the soft pillows.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Don’t be sorry. You just had a nightmare.”

  �
�I’m sorry I’m causing you all this trouble. I really should go home.” Jennifer started to rise, but David placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “You’re going nowhere. Stay with us tonight, and I’ll take you home tomorrow, if you’re up to it. Otherwise, you’ll be our guest for a few days.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t. I have to go to Boston for a meeting.”

  “Well, we can talk about that tomorrow. You listen to me; I’m the doc here.” He kept smiling, comforting her with his gentle manner.

  “Thank you, David,” Jennifer whispered. She was relieved by his insistence. The thought of being by herself was frightening.

  “What about something to eat? A clear soup?” Margit asked.

  Jennifer tried to smile and said, “That would be wonderful, Margit. I’m famished.”

  When Margit left the room, David asked, “Jennifer, nothing else happened to you besides being struck, am I correct?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You weren’t raped, were you?”

  “Oh, no.” Jennifer sighed, terrified that David might guess the truth. “I managed to get away.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?” he asked.

  Jennifer shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel so stupid, getting mugged. I mean, I should know better.” She had her eyes closed and her head back. In her mind’s eye, she saw the man again, saw him lunge at her, saw rage and hunger on his face, and then she hit him, attacked him like an animal, with her bare hands.

  “You’ll feel better tomorrow,” David said reassuringly.

  Jennifer nodded, but she knew that in the morning she would feel worse, not because of her bruises, but for what she had done.

  “Here we are,” Margit announced, coming back into the living room with a bowl of soup, a place mat and cloth napkin tucked under her arm.

  Jennifer tried to sit up and again felt the wedge of pain between her eyes.

  “Easy,” David cautioned. He had taken hold of her elbow.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t try this,” Margit suggested.

  “No, I think getting something warm into Jennifer will do wonders. You can sit up, right? Otherwise, Margit will just feed you.”

  “No, I want to sit up, please.” Jennifer forced herself to swing her legs off the deep sofa. She marveled to herself that she did suddenly have the strength to overcome the stabbing pain between her eyes. Something had happened to her. She was different, somehow. She was another kind of person. She had never been able to stand pain.

  Margit stood hovering over Jennifer, her hands clasped together. “Would you like some Italian bread to go into the broth?” she asked.

  “Let’s give Jennifer room to breathe,” David suggested, moving away from the sofa and sitting down across from the coffee table. Margit stayed on the sofa next to Jennifer.

  “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to do this. I can’t feel my lips.”

  “You look as if you just did a couple of rounds with Tyson.”

  “And I feel it.” Jennifer picked up the soup spoon and realized she was no longer trembling. She smiled weakly at Margit and David.

  “Well, that’s better,” Margit said, sighing, and she reached out to touch Jennifer’s leg. “Would you like to talk about what happened?” she said softly.

  “Margit, leave Jenny alone.” He stood and went to the liquor cabinet.

  “I just think it’s better if Jennifer has the opportunity to talk it out, that’s all,” she answered back.

  “I know what you want,” David said, lowering his voice as he bent to retrieve the scotch bottle from the bottom of the breakfront. “You want all the gruesome details. And I think Jenny deserves to have her privacy.”

  They kept talking past her, as if she were a child.

  “There are no gruesome details,” Jennifer spoke up, “and I don’t mind talking about it.” She turned to Margit and tried to force her bruised face into a smile. “I didn’t lose my purse. He didn’t really hurt me. I mean, except for the obvious. I ran away, that’s all.”

  “Well, where did it happen? Right here on West End Avenue?” Margit leaned closer, her eyes widening.

  “No, it wasn’t here. It was over by—” Jennifer caught herself before she said Columbus Avenue. “It was over on Broadway.”

  “Broadway? But it’s so busy. There are always people on Broadway. Didn’t anyone come to help you out? My God, this city!” She glared at her husband as if he were in some way responsible.

  “There’s no one out tonight, Margit,” Jennifer said, returning to her soup. Eating made her feel better.

  “That’s right. It’s been snowing all evening,” agreed David.

  “I still think we should call the police,” Margit said again.

  “Why? You heard Jenny. She wasn’t robbed. She got banged up a couple times, sure, but in this city, that’s not even considered a misdemeanor.”

  “We can’t just let him get away with it.” Margit glanced back and forth, upset with Jennifer as well as her husband. “A woman isn’t safe.”

  “Margit was attacked herself last week, Jenny,” David volunteered, “and she’s still edgy.”

  “I’m not edgy, and I wasn’t attacked. Someone—a little black kid—tried to take my purse at Food City, that’s all. The guard grabbed him. But everywhere you turn, it seems, the great unwashed, all the homeless, the poor, are coming out of.their holes, or wherever they sleep at night, and attacking us. It’s the mayor’s fault, him and all these liberals.”

  “You were once one yourself, dear,” David remarked coolly. “And the mayor certainly isn’t one anymore, either.”

  Margit stood and began to pace the long living room.

  “Margit, why don’t you go to bed?” David suggested, speaking softly. “Jenny would probably like to get some sleep, too.”

  “I’m not going to sleep. I’m too upset.” Margit kept pacing.

  “Darling, it was Jenny who was mugged, not you.”

  “I know that,” she replied, biting off the words, “but it could have been me. I’m on Broadway all the time.”

  “Oh, if you’re going to start talking like that, then you might as well move out of the city.”

  “I’m not moving alone,” Margit snapped.

  David glanced at Jennifer and smiled apologetically. “We’re sorry about all this, but you caught us in the middle of a long argument. Margit has had it with the city, wants to leave, move up the Hudson somewhere—”

  “Or New Jersey.”

  “—and I don’t. I’m not going to start commuting, not at my age.” He drained his scotch.

  “I don’t blame you, Margit. Getting attacked like this is terrifying.” Jennifer finished the soup and tried to wipe her mouth, but when she touched her face with the cloth napkin, she winced. “I’m going to feel terrible tomorrow,” she moaned. “And I have to go to Boston.”

  “Well, thank God nothing serious happened.” David stood up. “Margit, have you finished pacing? Ready to turn in?” He smiled over Jennifer’s head at his wife. He was a big, sloppy, overweight man, but when he smiled, he looked like a giant, lovable panda.

  He had been Jennifer’s doctor since she was in law school, and then she had met and become good friends with Margit. Jennifer always felt that Margit treated her like the daughter she never had.

  Margit seemed calmer. “Jennifer, I’ve made up Derek’s room. You can sleep there tonight. The boys are away at school.”

  “Oh, Margit, thanks. I’m really sorry I’m causing so much trouble.” She limped out from behind the coffee table, knowing that she couldn’t walk to their son’s room by herself.

  “If you wish, Jennifer, I’ll give you a sedative. It might help you sleep.”

  “Thanks, David. I think I do need something. My whole body hurts.”

  “Go with Margit. I’ll get you the pill.”

  When he left, Margit whispered to Jennifer, “I’m sorry we carried on so. We’re going through a bad pa
tch, David and I.”

  “Margit, it’s okay, I understand.” She tried again to smile.

  “No, I’m not sure you do,” Margit answered back. “It’s not what you think. We’re not fighting over where to live. David

  well, David has found himself someone else, someone younger, and

  ” Margit began to cry. She was holding on to Jennifer as they walked to the bedroom.

  “Oh, Margit, I’m so… I didn’t…”

  “Of course. Of course. Why would you? He just told me.” Margit straightened up to turn on the light in Derek’s room. It was still littered with his teenage belongings, and a huge poster of Madonna posing half naked was pinned to the wall.

  “Do you think you can sleep with her staring at you?” Margit asked, trying to laugh.

  “I’ll keep the lights off.” Jennifer eased herself down on the narrow bed.

  “Here you are, Jenny,” David said, returning with the pill and a glass of water. “You can take it when you want. It will give you at least six good hours.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Good night. In the morning I’ll have another look at those bruises.”

  “Thank you, David. Thank you for everything.” She smiled up at him.

  When he left them alone again, Margit said, “I shouldn’t bother you with my concerns. You’ve had enough for one night. How’s Tom? Do you want me to telephone him?”

  Jennifer shook her head. She looked up at Margit, her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know. It’s not, you know, working out.”

  Margit nodded. “It hardly ever does, does it?” She sighed.

  “Margit, you’re going to be okay

  We both are.”

  “I had the best husband in the world for twenty-three years, and now he tells me he’s in love with a thirty-six-year-old woman—one of his patients, I might add—who’s an investment banker on Wall Street and makes more money than he does. She’s madly in love with him, he says. Now, how do you think that makes me feel?” She shook her head. “No wonder I hate this city. You know, Jennifer, I wish it had been me and not you that got mugged. I would have let that man kill me.”