Defiled

by Margaret Buffano

  “I remember going into the garage and opening the garage door. Just when I placed my hand on the car door, a man rushed in and started beating me. I fought back, but it was useless. …He was too strong. I tried to scream; he started hitting me in the face. Eventually, I lost consciousness.

  “When I didn’t show at the hospital and they couldn’t get me on the phone, they called the police. They found me lying on the floor of the garage.

  “I told the hospital to contact you. I didn’t want you to go to the house alone. They have your address listed with your parents. So they called your mother. …I’m sorry.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?” Helen asks.

  A look of disturbance mingles with the look of pain on Angela’s face.

  “Not really. …he wore black gloves and a black ski mask.”

  Helen releases her hand from Angela. Her face goes pale, and she begins to tremble.

  “It was him…wasn’t it?” she says.

  Angela tries to sit up. When she can’t, Helen places a pillow behind her to prop up her head.

  “I’m going to tell you something I didn’t even tell the police,” Angela says. “I don’t believe it was the same man who attacked you. I think it was someone who wanted me to think it was. The ski mask was all wrong; it didn’t have the yellow markings you told me about. While he was hitting me, he was grunting. His voice sounded familiar; everything about him was familiar. At one point, I got a clear look into his eyes. …They were wild, like an animal’s eyes…but I knew who he was.”

  “So who do you think it was?”

  “I believe it was Richard. I looked into his eyes. It was Richard – I know it!”

  “Richard? Why would he do anything like this?”

  “He came to my office. …He said things…horrible things. …He threatened me, so I kicked him out.”

  “Angela, why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “Because there’s no proof; it’s just a feeling. But in my heart, I know it was him. Helen, you must stay away from him. …He’s dangerous. I’m so sorry! I’d feel so frightened for you if you stayed at my house alone.”

  “Don’t worry. I can move back in with my folks.”

  “Just promise me you’ll stay away from Richard,” Angela orders.

  “I promise…”

  ***

  In her car, Helen still has the overnight bag from the Tannersville trip, though most of the garments need cleaning. She has some belongings at her house, but she is just not up to a private one-on-one with Richard – if he is home at all. Besides, she promised Angela she’d stay away from Richard. Only possible solution is to get her possessions from Angela’s house.

  At such a late hour, Helen’s father insists he drives her. She agrees; the company is welcomed.

  During the drive to Angela’s, her father questions her about Richard.

  “It’s your home as much as it is his,” he demands. “Why doesn’t he go stay with his folks and you stay at the house?”

  “Dad…Richard’s parents live three states away.”

  “Well, that would solve everything then!” Her father begins to laugh, and Helen joins in.

  “Dad, it’s all right. I know you and mom worry, but I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.”

  “What about the gun I gave you?” her father asks.

  Helen goes speechless for a minute. Her mind races for an answer. She has not told her parents about the Sandy Beach incident – or anything else for that matter.

  “The gun I gave you, does Richard still have it?” he insists.

  “I suppose he does.” Helen says, trying hard not to sound like she is lying.

  “I know he’s your husband, but it was wrong of him,” roars her father. “Especially since some of the goings-on around here lately…your safety is in question.”

  He is never able to call what happened to her by its true name. It embarrasses him somehow.

  He points to the glove compartment.

  “Will you open that for me, sweetheart?”

  Helen clicks the latch open. First thing she sees is a gun similar to the one he gave her.

  “The gun I gave you…originally, I bought for your mother, but she hated the thing. That one’s mine; I want you to have it.”

  “Daddy, I’m not sure.” She takes the gun in her hand.

  “Nonsense!” he bellows. “You need protection. I want you to take it. Keep it with you always…until this craziness stops.”

  He feels uncomfortable using true, clear terminology.

  “Just promise me one thing,” he continues, “Don’t tell anyone you have it…not Richard…not Angela…not the police…and definitely don’t tell your mother!”

  Before putting the gun in her purse, she checks the bullets in the cylinder of the gun – these are not blanks.

  They park in back of Angela’s house and go in the backdoor. Helen is just about to flick on the light when her father stops her.

  “Don’t turn on the light,” he says, pointing toward the large picture window in the living room. “Who the hell is that?”

  There on the front lawn is the silhouette of a man – moving about as if he is casing the house.

  Then Helen remembers Angela telling her about a strange man staring at the house for two nights in a row. Angela suspects her attacker and the strange man are one and the same – Richard. But even though it is too dark to make out his features, this without a doubt is not Richard.

  The stranger creeps alongside of the house, working his way to the back.

  “We’ll just see what this is all about,” says Helen’s father, flicking on the outside lights.

  “No…Dad…don’t!” Helen calls after him, but it is too late. He is outside confronting the stranger. Helen runs out and stands near her father. She keeps her hand in her purse, gripping the gun. She is ready to take it out and use it if necessary.

  “Can I help you?” he says to the stranger.

  The man is young – early to mid-twenties, perhaps. He is tall and lanky with an innocent face and dark wavy hair.

  “Ah…I’m sorry,” the young man fumbles over his words. “I was looking for somebody. I guess I’ve got the wrong house. …I’m sorry.” He starts to back away.

  “Who are you looking for?” Helen asks, walking toward him, no longer afraid.

  “I told you,” he says, “I’ve made a mistake. The person I’m looking for obviously doesn’t live here.”

  “You’re lying,” Helen says. “You’ve been staring at this house for the last few nights. Now tell us what this is all about or I’m calling the police.”

  The young man becomes nervous; he shifts his weight onto one leg and then the other. He looks as if he is ready to bolt any second. Then he slips his hands into his pockets and seemingly calms down, as if he comes to some resolve in his mind.

  “I’m looking for Angela Mitchell. …She…she…she’s my mother.”

  “Poppycock!” says Helen’s father. “I’m calling the police.”

  “No, wait a minute, Dad. He’s telling the truth,” Helen says, carefully eyeing the face of the young man.

  Helen sees it all now – he has Angela’s nose and chin, and her eyes. He clearly has his mother’s eyes.

  “What’s your name?” Helen asks.

  “Thomas…Thomas Nyman.”

  Helen releases her grip on the gun and lets it fall to the bottom of her purse.

  “My name is Helen Haywood, and this is my father. I’m friends with your mother. Why don’t we go inside and talk about this? Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve got food.”

  For some reason, Helen feels immediately protective of Thomas. But his tone of voice implies she should not take his young and innocent appearance as a sign of incompetence.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, the atmosphere becomes more somber as Thomas tells his story. He’d been raised by a couple who adopted him at birth. They were
always loving and caring toward him, and he could not have asked for a happier childhood. When he grew older, he learned of his adoption. But on the same account, no other information was offered. There was talk about a “natural mother” who gave him up for adoption, but the identity, circumstances, and reasons never revealed to him.

  “I never understood the term ‘natural mother’,” says Thomas. “That implies my mother was unnatural, but she was the most loving woman I ever knew.

  “My father died while I was in college. He never got to see me graduate. My mother just recently died. While going through her effects, I came on some legal documents – adoption papers, hospital records – all the stuff my mother never wanted to talk about.

  “I drove over a thousand miles to speak with…Angela. I’m on a two-week holiday. I’ve got to be back to work in four days. I can’t explain why I’ve come. I just know now that mother is dead, I need to do this.”

  Helen listens intensely and then takes her time relaying what she knows – choosing her words cautiously.

  “Angela…isn’t here. …She’s had an accident, nothing serious, and she’s in the hospital. I don’t know if it would be a good idea to spring you on her now. She should be home in two days. Why don’t we wait till then? Where are you staying?”

  Thomas lowers his eyes. “I’ve been sleeping in my car.”

  “Well, that won’t do. Why don’t you go get your stuff? You can stay here,” Helen says.

  A smile grows across Thomas’ face. He jumps from his chair. “I won’t be long. …My car’s right down the block. I don’t have much stuff. I won’t be any trouble.”

  The boy heads out the backdoor to his car.

  “You sure you’re doing the right thing?” Helen’s father asks her.

  “I think I am,” Helen says. “He’s her son. …Did you see his eyes? Angela couldn’t deny him if she tried. I’m sure she would agree with my actions. Anyway, he’s not looking to do harm to anyone; he just wants some answers. I definitely know what that feels like.”

  ***

  Helen does not take Angela’s warning about Richard lightly. She moves in once more with her parents. But she knows sooner or later she and Richard will have to talk about their problems and work out their differences.

  It has been weeks since she stepped into her own home and almost as long since she last saw Richard. She chalks up his behavior to his feelings of shame at having his affair out in the open. Up till now, she left the ball in his court – and he has done nothing with it. She decides to take the initiative.

  It is clear Richard is avoiding her. She tries to phone him at home – the answering machine, which the police confiscated, he hasn’t replaced. He never answers his mobile phone – perhaps because he sees her number on caller ID. She feels tempted to call him from an unfamiliar number but decides not to, feeling it would have been as childish as not answering.

  She tries him at work, but they tell her he is away from his phone, in a meeting, unavailable, or out of town on a business trip. None of her messages receives a reply.

  She has a notion to go down to his office and confront him, but she knows how that will turn out. And she wants answers, not a confrontation.

  Finally, when all her efforts to contact Richard turn up futile, she decides to try an unexpected approach – she phones Francis Crawley.

  “Francis Crawley here. May I help you?”

  The voice sounds sophisticated, self-assured, and businesslike.

  “Hello…this is Helen Haywood and…”

  Before she can say another word, Francis hangs up on her. The hum of the line is all Helen hears.

  The ball is in Helen’s court now.

  ***

  It has been a long and tediouss day at work for Francis. All she can think of during the drive home is sipping a martini while soaking in a hot tub.

  She parks in front of her townhome and starts up the stairs. At the top stands a woman looking forlorn with piercing eyes following her every move.

  Francis stops midway. “May I help you?”

  “Francis…? My name is Helen Haywood. …I’m Richard’s wife. We need to talk and you can’t hang up on me this time.”

  There is an awkward smile on Francis’ face.

  “Sorry about that, but you can’t blame me. I suppose I have been avoiding this. Care to come in?”

  Inside, the townhouse is large and luxurious. On the mantle over the fireplace sits a framed picture of Richard. Francis heads toward the kitchen.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she calls into the living room. “I’m having a martini.”

  “This isn’t a social call, Francis,” Helen says, standing in the center of the living room.

  “No, I suppose it isn’t. Please, sit down.”

  The two women take seats opposite each other – Helen on the couch, Francis in the armchair.

  “So, what is it you want to know?” Francis asks.

  “That’s not how we’re going to start,” Helen says. “I want you to tell me everything.”

  “Everything…?” Francis says, wearing a bitter smile, “Very well…everything.”

  She gets up from her seat, walks over to the bar and makes herself a drink as she speaks. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

  Helen nods that she doesn’t.

  “Everything…” continues Francis. “A year ago, Richard and I started going to lunch together once or twice a week to discuss business. …It was all very innocent. It was clear we held an attraction for each other. There was the usual flirting…all in good fun, but I made it clear from the beginning I wasn’t interested. After all, he was married. I’ve always considered nothing good can come from being with a married man…and I mean that.” Francis says to Helen who is wearing a look of disbelief.

  Francis sits back down with her drink and continues.

  “Well, one night we were working late together at the office; we were alone. I always keep a bottle of scotch in my office. I don’t know why. …I guess I shouldn’t have, but I poured us both a drink. Well, one drink led to two and three, and one thing led to another. Next thing we knew…well, you know.”

  “Right there in the office?” Helen asks with an unyielding look in her eyes.

  “Yeah…” chuckles Francis, sipping her drink. “Sounds kind of cheap and sordid now that I think about it. Well, that’s how I was feeling the next day. I guess we both were feeling guilty. We tried to stay out of each other’s way for the next few days, but it was useless. …Our offices are right next to each other, and we had to conduct business. I knew it was wrong, as well as he, but the urge was all consuming. We started to meet here every chance we could. Richard even trumped-up an occasional false business trip now and then, so we could spend a weekend together.”

  Francis finishes her drink and walks to the bar to make another.

  “You sure you don’t want a drink?” she asks. Helen doesn’t reply.

  “Well, anyway, weeks turned into months, and here I am…against my own better judgment, having an affair with a married man. I never pressed him about what his feelings or his intentions were. We never spoke of love till recently. But, once the subject came up…I’m afraid I hounded the man. I wanted him so badly. …I love him so much. I asked him if he would consider divorcing you. For a while, that’s all we talked about, until you had your incident.”

  “You mean when I was raped,” Helen says coldly.

  “Yes…when you were…raped,” Francis downs her drink, as if that word put a harsh taste in her mouth. She makes herself another drink and continues.

  “Anyway, at that point, all talk of him divorcing you stopped.”

  Francis’ speech becomes slurred as the alcohol begins to take effect.

  “I think I will have that drink now,” Helen says.

  “Good idea,” says Francis, staggering to the bar, and then returning with two drinks. She hands one to Helen who places it down. Francis sits, and immediately sips at her new d
rink, she continues. The drinks loosen her tongue.

  “Anyway, all of a sudden, Richard says it’s best we forget about him divorcing you. He said if whoever is after you succeeded in killing you, we obviously wouldn’t have to split anything with you…you know, community property and all. And if whoever it was…that guy…didn’t kill you, you’d probably go crazy and he could have you committed. He said he was going to do everything in his power to make that happen. …I don’t know how, though.”

  Francis finishes her drink with one quick swallow. She looks at her empty glass in dismay.

  “Here, have mine,” Helen says, handing her drink to Francis. She wants to loosen her tongue even more and keep her talking. Francis takes the drink.

  “So, Richard never told you how he was going to make this all happen…how he was going to help the one who is after me?”

  “Nope,” Francis shakes her head, sipping her new drink.

  “A gun…did Richard have a gun?” Helen asks.

  “Oh, that thing…yeah, I saw it.”

  “Did Richard substitute blanks for real bullets in the gun?” Helen asks.

  “What a great idea,” laughs Francis. “You’d be trying to gun down your assailant and all you would be doing is making noise. …What a great idea! No…Richard didn’t do that…I don’t think…I mean…he’s not that smart, I don’t think.”

  Helen realizes she is slowly losing Francis.

  “Francis, I’ve been trying to get in touch with Richard lately, but he’s been avoiding me. …Do you know where he is?”

  “Welcome to the club,” laughs Francis. “I haven’t seen him in weeks. I don’t know where he is. I miss him, you know?”

  “I’m sure you do,” Helen says. She gets up and makes her way to the front door.

  “You know something?” says Francis in a drunken stupor. “Life for Richard and I would be so much better if you would just somehow die.”

  “I’m sure it would be,” Helen says, gently closing the door behind her.

  As Helen descends the townhouse stairs, her mind reels. How much of her misfortune is not from her attacker but from Richard? And what will he do next?