by Lynne Hugo
“I can’t ask him. I can’t tell him I’ve been talking to you. You tell me.”
“CiCi, I’m sorry. I can’t go there. If going into Rid’s business is the price tag on this check, then—”
“I told you there were no strings. But don’t I have a right to know who said something to Rid about me? If that’s what got you all thinking I was involved with the lawsuit? Goddamn, this is so unfair.” She could feel her neck and face flushing with anger, and the tail of the last sentence sputtered off.
“It’s just not how we do things. I’m sorry.”
Fuming, Caroline pushed her chair back from the table as if to demonstrate the distance between them. “In other words, I’m an outsider. No better than a washashore upland owner because I don’t have a grant.”
Tomas shrugged and answered calmly. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying I only know a little piece about it. I personally apologize for being wrong about you. You’ll have to work the rest out with Rid, but you can take my word on one thing. He didn’t do anything to harm you. For one thing, CiCi, he knew you were carrying his child, if nothing else.”
“What about Mario?”
Tomas closed one eye, raised the other eyebrow, and gave a small, hands up shrug. “I admit Mario’s a wild card. I truly don’t think he was involved, and I know Rid grilled him pretty good. There was a stretch of time he didn’t even have a truck. Rid and I were carting him most everywhere. If you have the dates that things happened, I could at least tell you if he had a vehicle. But Rid musta already done that.”
It calmed her enough to hear Tomas be honest about Mario that she was embarrassed by her outburst. “Rid couldn’t rule him out, but then he talked to him and said he was okay.” Caroline’s voice was conciliatory now, and she ate a fried mozzarella stick with the last of her toddy.
Tomas glanced at his watch. “CiCi, I’ve got to run. My wife is already pacing, and since I can’t tell the truth about who I’ve been with, you know—”
“You go on ahead. I need to get to the bathroom. Baby’s dancing on my bladder again,” Caroline said with a smile, and pointing at her belly. “Thanks for hearing me, Tomas. Good luck with the purchase.”
“We’ll be on it tomorrow. You want me to let you know how it goes?”
“I meant what I said. No strings, except that you keep this between us. I’ll read it in the paper when the story breaks. It’ll be a big one.”
“You’re a gracious lady, Caroline,” he said, taking her hand. “I hope Rid—well, I wish you and the baby well, and if you need a hand with anything, I hope you’ll feel free to call me.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
They stood and picked up their coats at the same time, and Caroline started to go into her purse.
“I got the check. Billy’ll have it out at the bar.” Tomas said.
“I’ll get the tip,” Caroline answered.
“No you won’t. I got it covered,” and Tomas laid down a twenty dollar bill. “A little thank you for his discretion and the back room,” he said. “He’ll know. You sure you’re okay? Want me to wait?”
“You go on. I’m fine.”
Tomas made eye contact with her. This time he did take her hand, lightly, making a crooked swinging bridge by their thighs. “Thank you. Really, thank you,” he said, dropping her hand after a squeeze and leaving through the swinging doors without waiting for an answer. Caroline put another ten dollar bill under her mug, gathered her things together and headed to the ladies’ room. Afterwards, her hands still damp, she pulled her coat on, and went out past the bar to the door, slowing down enough to wave and say, “Thank you so much, Billy.”
“Anytime, anytime. If you give me twenty-four hours’ notice, next time I’ll try not to look exceptionally stunning. It’s probably not good for you to get upset, y’know.”
She was laughing when she went out the door. A full black night had crept in the sea and down from the sky while she’d been inside, so as the door closed behind her and she turned to the right and then right again to round the building and get to her car, she was engulfed in it, and silence.
The Honda was a huddle of black against black. She needn’t have worried that Rid might see it there. For a moment she was uneasy and then, internally, laughed at herself. You’re not in Chicago, dodo bird. This is Wellfleet. In the middle of winter. Every damn parking lot looks like this. Next time, park in the front like a normal person, over there, across from the shellfish shack, where it’s all lit. She turned her head toward the shellfish shack just as a bag of rough fabric was dropped over her head and jerked tight, while her right arm was grabbed and yanked up behind her in a grotesque, excruciating hold. Someone, a man she was sure by size and shape, was dragging her now by the head and bent arm, blind face up, her ankles and heels scraping in the ice and slush. She got out a muffled scream and he pressed the arm under her throat and jammed her right wrist deeper and higher into her own shoulder blade.
With her left arm, Caroline tried to punch at her assailant’s face, but he just leaned out of reach as he dragged her. She clawed at the arm on her throat, tried to maneuver to bite him. He was choking her with his arm and she felt herself blacking out. “Baby … don’t hurt … please … Mario? No!” Her voice was a gasp, and through her fog she thought that if she was right, if it was Mario, she’d done the worst thing she could by saying his name.
Then there were heavy running steps, a male voice shouting. Then it was close, upon her, and suddenly she was wrenched loose and falling. Two heavy kicks to her side, a sear of pain as she tried to roll, get her right arm pulled back around her body to meet her left and protect her mid-section, her clothing quickly soaked in the icy slush puddling in the gravel. More kicks. Caroline was on the ground between two grunting, fighting men, huddled, the bag still over her head, but if she raised her arms to pull it off, she’d leave the baby unprotected. Another kick, then no breath, a tangle of stumbling blows as someone fell over her head. She tried to wriggle away, just as one of the men stepped over her, landing on part of the bag over her chin. “Caroline, get away, get away,” she heard. “I got this fuckah.” South Boston. Billy.
She wasn’t right beneath them anymore, but the effort to get to her feet failed. She heard flesh hard on flesh, the terrible noise of fists on bones, the wet, gruff noises of hurt, and Billy shouting. Caroline wrestled the bag off her head. A man in military fatigues was just getting off the ground. He used the momentum to launch a body blow to Billy’s sternum, his own skull as the weapon. From where she was, the man’s face seemed to have been cut out of wax paper—a perfect round circle, its own source of eerie pale light. Billy staggered back, arms windmilling. The man managed to keep his footing and kept going. The night swallowed him.
Billy tottered, regained his balance, his eyes still on his opponent, then looked to Caroline, on the ground. His hands went to his both sides of his head. “Fuck” he spit, and limped to Caroline’s side.
“You all right?” he said, kneeling.
“I think so. It hurts. Bad—my side. Hard to breathe.”
“He got away, Caroline. I’m real sorry.”
“S’okay. Thank you. You’re bleeding.”
“Can you stay put while I call for help?”
In the other parking lot opposite the shellfish shack, on the other side of the restaurant entrance, a motor started. Billy got up in a hobbled run toward the sound. A truck exited the parking lot and headed toward town. Caroline was seized by a pain that took her breath, and then finally let her go as she fainted into a place as lightless as the Cape night, oblivious to the panicked flurry led by Billy when it spilled from the restaurant to gather around her.
Chapter 27
She was on a train, or no, a plane. Only a dim light somewhere in front of her eyes, but that sound, a dull roar of engines reverberating in her head. Then distant, but again, louder, her name. Not a voice she knew. She thought of opening her eyes but it was as if she didn’t remember how. Co
ncentrate. Open your eyes. Was the voice saying that or was that her own voice? Open your eyes. “Open your eyes. Caroline, can you open your eyes for me?”
She opened her eyes and winced, blinded.
“Good, good. Sorry, I’ll swing that light out of your eyes. Try again now. Do you know where you are?”
“No,” she croaked, a hoarse whisper, although she could see that the man talking to her wore a stethoscope and she was probably in a hospital. Her breaths were narrow wary slits like her eyes.
“Sir, can you step up here?” he said, stepping aside. Billy appeared, one cheek scraped and swollen. “Hey girl. At least you kept your jewelry.” He took her hand in his, which was moist and icy. “Remember what happened? Parking lot of The Oyster, you were—” As he spoke, Billy switched an ice pack from one hand to the other.
As Caroline shifted slightly to look at him, a new pain stabbed her. That, and seeing Billy brought her back to herself. She didn’t need to hear what he was saying. “Baby. Is the baby all right?” she gasped.
“Honey, I’m just fine,” Billy said, grinning. “But you’re not my type.” Behind him, the doctor or nurse was came forward. “Here’s the guy with the answers. I’ll get out of the way.”
“I’m Doctor Rockwell. We have you on a fetal monitor—you can see it right there—and the baby’s heartbeat looks fine.” He was middle-aged, with a southern accent, strange in this neck of the woods. Groomed formally, atypical for locals, the doctor wore a white shirt and blue print tie. “I think you’ve got some broken ribs, and a bruised kidney. We need your OB involved, obviously, so if you’ll give us a name, we’ll give him a call. We’re admitting you for tests, and as soon as you’re ready, naturally, the police want to know if there’s anything additional you might remember, about the assault. How are you feeling?”
“Hurt. OB, Dr. Silva. You sure baby’s fine?” Tears were in her eyes, running into her hair. Lifting her arm to wipe them was out of the question. She rotated her head and tried to smear them against the pillowcase. “Rid. Elsie. Noelle.” It seemed no one knew what she was talking about or no one heard her. “Billy?”
He didn’t hear her. He’d been banished to the nether regions beyond the curtain while they fussed with machines near her. She could hear the swoosh and muffled thump of swinging doors. The overhead light was still too bright, though the examination lamp had, as promised, been pushed aside. Caroline closed her eyes.
“Caroline, were you raped?” It was a nurse asking her, one with an aura of hair so red it was its own source of light, like a sunset.
“No,” she whispered, opening her eyes half way. Her head ached.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
The nurse smiled. Good, big wide-set hazel eyes beneath high cheekbones, crooked teeth. “That’s one good thing, at least,” she said. “Would you like me to wash your face?”
“Please.” Caroline was still crying, it seemed, but maybe her eyes were just watery from the light. She could hear an argument going on somewhere.
Then a voice that rose above the others, then over two other voices saying no to the first voice that she was trying to hear, like trying to catch the words to a distant song. “She’s my … won’t go that way, buddy … going in … I brought … a nurse,” as the first voice got louder. Rid. And he’d brought Elsie.
* * * *
In the morning, she opened her eyes as gray light gave shape to objects in the room they’d finally given her. The amorphous lump in the corner stirred and became angular. With effort she raised her head to look. A face. A whisper.
“CiCi? You okay?”
“Who?”
“Don’t be scared. It’s me. Just Rid.” He pushed a blanket off him and struggled out of the chair. His legs wouldn’t cooperate and he staggered. “Shit. Got stiff sleeping like that, but you can hear it’s me, right?” He’d taken his voice out of the whisper. The room was intended for two people but the other bed was empty.
“They can … hear you … down on the flats,” Caroline said, gasping as she tried to raise herself.
“Don’t do that! Wait, I’ll help you,” he said, making his way sloppily to her bed and finding the controls for her.
“I have to go to the bathroom. Did Elsie pull strings to get me a room by myself?” It was easier to talk in a more upright position.
“Yeah, told ’em you were dyin’, hospice and all,” Rid said, straight-faced, taking her hand. When she didn’t laugh, but searched his face for more, he immediately said, “CiCi, I know Brenda down in admitting. She’s married t’ Bogsie, he’s got a grant past mine, down toward Blackfish Creek. I told her you’re carrying our baby, and hey, no sweat.”
“Thank you. And thank you for bringing Elsie last night. You didn’t have to stay.”
“Why’d you move out? What happened? And what the hell happened in that parking lot? Billy said it was the guy in fatigues.”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed and she pulled back deeper into the pillows even though it hurt her ribs and back. She coughed, which hurt more. “You know him? He’s your friend? I thought you said—”
“Hold on, I don’t know him, no,” he interrupted, gesturing impatiently. “Weird guy, real squashed-like moonface, y’know?” he said spreading his hand over his face as if to flatten it. “I can’t prove it, but I was sure he had a pistol in his pocket. Dressed all military and acting like he was on some top secret mission. He came around when I was at the bar a couple months ago and started saying this crazy stuff about how he was gonna take care of my problem and all I had to do was check up on some chick that lives in P-town and make sure she was all right. I just thought the guy was a whack job. But now this—if he’s the guy that did this to you—”
“A stranger comes up to you? Offers to take care of your problem?” Her voice was suspicious, sarcastic.
“Yeah.” Rid’s hands and shoulders went up as if he was carrying a tray. “I know it sounds crazy. It is crazy. I’d never laid eyes on him before or since.”
“What problem?”
“I assumed he meant the lawsuit, that it had to do with Pissario. Then Tomas and Mario thought it might have to do with you, too, because he said something about how I wouldn’t have to make any payments. They thought he might mean support payments, like child support. That’s what gave them the idea you were in on the lawsuit, see?”
“And you couldn’t have asked me?” Her voice was flinty as a drill.
“Not back then. Now I could.”
“And what about this ‘chick’ you were supposed to see was all right?”
“I have no idea what that’s about. I went to the address once. It’s some Terry DeSomething, lives on Bradford Street in P-town. I didn’t know what I was supposed to look at. I left, figured with my record I’d end up arrested for stalking. Guy said I’m supposed to make sure she gets any help she needs, like I owe him a favor.”
Caroline blinked several times, remembering the clicks on her telephone line, then lay her head back and kept her eyes closed.
“Hey, you okay? Breathe, will you?”
She released a long exhalation. Rid was right; she had been holding her breath. She turned her face toward the window away from his. Daylight was advancing deeper into the room and colors were beginning to emerge from the shadows, though they still had an overlay of pale charcoal. Still, she could see the door to the room and it made her think of an escape route now, just the way the falling-down dune fence in front of her parents’ house had when her mother was dying. It was all her fault. Everything that had happened since her mother died, all the injustice that had flown wild in her world was now folding its wings and lighting on her shoulder, back home where it had fledged.
* * * *
He might as well have been a barnacle, he stuck that close to her. “I’ve heard about how you’re not supposed to leave someone alone in the hospital,” he said. “They make mistakes, you know. Amputate the wrong leg, give the wrong medication. You’ve got to
have somebody watch out for you.”
“I’m not having an amputation,” Caroline answered, stifling a smile. The early afternoon light was in her eyes and even as she squinted, Rid was adjusting the blinds. He handed her a plastic cup of water, bent the straw toward her. “Drink,” he commanded. “Remember what the doctor said.”
They’d talked much of the morning, after Caroline picked her way through breakfast. At first, she’d just been silent with her own realization of what must have happened. Her assailant had been sent by Terry. Rid’s connection was innocent and unknown to him. Shame had covered and smothered her like a stifling blanket, and all she wanted was for him to leave. He, however, was having none of it.
“Sorry. You can tell me what to do some other time. I ain’t sayin’ I’ll pay attention, but you can try.”
“Lizzie will never speak to you again,” she whispered, trying for a light touch.
“Nice try. I called Tomas. Last night, when that shirt-and-tie doc who sounds like a Confederate general had me banned to the waiting room.”
“Just give me some time.”
“Not until you explain why you up and left when everything was going good. What did I do?”
“Nothing. It’s my fault, Rid. My fault.”
“That’s not good enough.”
And so it went, round and round, until there was nothing to do but pay what she owed and tell the truth. Who Terry was to her, and how she’d lied her way into the library day after day. How she’d found the paper in Rid’s glove compartment and thought they were conspiring against her. The ridiculous irony of that, when she was the guilty one all along.
“You’re guilty of not talking to me, that’s for sure,” he said. “But you’re not guilty of mugging yourself. Okay. So now there’s pretty good evidence that he came from this Terry person. You’ve got to file charges against both of them. I’ll call Jerry, have him get a detective back here today.”
