End of Story

by Peter Abrahams

  “No, no,” said Ivy. A whole bank of lights on the second floor dimmed. “It’s fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” said Whit. “First of all, I apologize for making you wait on this.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” A side door in the main wing of the hospital opened, framing a uniformed man in an oblong of light: security guard. He stepped out, closed the door, took the shape of a shadow in the darkness, hard to spot.

  “I’m calling about ‘Caveman,’ of course,” Whit said. “What happened is just extraordinary.”

  “Did something happen?” Ivy said.

  “To ‘Caveman,’” Whit said. “Sure this is an okay time to talk? You sound a little—”

  “Yes,” said Ivy. “Talk. I mean—it’s fine.”

  Whit cleared his throat, the way people do when they’re starting over. “In my experience,” he said, “after a story gels in a given configuration, no amount of revision ever takes it to another level. But that change you made—I’m referring to the possible cannibalism sequence—is just magical. And then, when he tries call his mother—chilling.”

  “Oh,” said Ivy. “Um.” The security guard stepped suddenly out of the darkness, just a few feet away. Ivy froze. The guard didn’t look inside the car, didn’t appear to even see it. He lit a cigarette, rested his back against the driver-side door—rocking the Saab on its springs—and tossed away the match.

  “Mind if I ask you a question?” Whit said. Maybe he took her silence for a yes. “How did it come about?”

  The guard sang under his breath: “Dooby dooby doo.”

  Ivy didn’t breathe. She pressed the phone tight to her ear to keep sound from leaking out.

  “I’m referring to the revision,” Whit said. “Was it just one of those out-of-the-blue things, or did you start with a feeling that the story needed an element like that?”

  Ivy said nothing.

  “You don’t have to answer, of course,” Whit said. “I’m curious, that’s all. I seem to remember you referring to a suggestion someone made.”

  Ivy didn’t answer.

  “I don’t mean to be intrusive,” Whit said. “The fact is I’m doing a short piece for the Atlantic on the writing process from a historical perspective. Melville’s journals are really surprising.”

  The guard pushed himself off the car, ambled back toward the hospital.

  Whit cleared his throat again. “Anyway,” he said. “All this is beside the point, which is that we’re accepting ‘Caveman.’”

  The guard flicked his cigarette away, a red pinwheel in the night, and opened the side door.

  “You are?” Ivy said, very quiet.

  “It’ll be in our debut edition,” Whit said, “featuring two other young writers you’ll meet at a little party we’re giving. Don’t have the exact pub date yet, but the check is in the mail. Literally, as it were.”

  “Thanks,” Ivy said. The guard disappeared inside.

  “You’re welcome,” said Whit. “I love making calls like this.”

  “Thanks,” she said again, this time adding, “very much.”

  They said good-bye.

  This was great news, maybe the best news Ivy had ever received in her life, even a triumph. She recognized that intellectually. As for her feelings, she felt good about it, but more like the way she’d feel if it had happened to someone else, someone she was pulling for, not her in the here and now. She knew that would change; and Harrow would be with her at the little party, and get the credit he deserved.

  Ivy stepped out of the car, hooked the bolt cutters on her belt, stripped off the tarp, and unfastened the ladder.

  A trisectional ladder, heavy but not unmanageable. Ivy carried it under her arm, across the grassy rectangle to the end of the right-hand wing. The ladder rattled but there was nothing she could do. This would only work by pressing on as though it were daylight and she was just doing her job; any other approach would paralyze her. Ivy calmed down inside, felt bigger and stronger than normal.

  Almost all the windows in the right-hand wing were dark now, and those that weren’t had drawn shades. Starlight gleamed on the ladder, but weakly; above, that line of clouds was moving faster.

  Ivy laid the ladder down, the base about ten feet from the wall, directly under that last window on the third floor, and extended it the way the Home Depot clerk had demonstrated. Next step: lifting from the other end, walking the ladder upright rung by rung. It must have been heavy, especially approaching the vertical, but Ivy hardly felt the weight. The ladder swung toward the hospital wall, Ivy tugging on a chest-level rung to slow it down. Way up there, two or three feet from the base of the window, the rubberized tips struck the bricks with a thump—not loud, she thought, although there was more rattling, and maybe even an echo. She took a last look around. Nothing moved.

  Ivy climbed the ladder, her sneakers soundless on the rungs. She passed the first-floor window—dark—and the second, where a blue light glowed through the shade. She heard TV voices, kept going.

  Ivy stopped two rungs from the top. From there she could reach the sill of the third-floor window. The window: open just enough for her fingers to slide through. This was working. Ivy climbed one more step, got her hands under the window, palms up, and pushed. The window rose about a foot, maybe a little more, then got stuck. Enough.

  Ivy peered inside. Dark, except for weak yellow light coming through the doorway to the hall. It gleamed on the bed rails, the shackles, Harrow’s eyes, his gold incisor. Those eyes, like gold now, too, were turned toward her. Ivy climbed through.

  She twisted around, got her feet on the floor. The sole of her right sneaker squeaked on a sticky spot. She went still, her gaze on the doorway. Nothing moved out there. From where she stood, she could see a blue-uniformed leg from the knee down, the heel of a big black shoe—a man’s shoe—on the floor, toe raised, the pose relaxed, maybe even a sleeping pose. Stepping with the lightness of a little girl, Ivy approached the bed.

  Harrow lay there, completely still, his eyes reflecting that yellow light. No time to talk and nothing to say in any case. Ivy took the bolt cutters off her belt. Would it have been smart to have practiced with them a little first? Probably. She lowered the bolt cutters.

  “Hey!” A man’s voice from the hall. Ivy jumped. Heart-stopping, thrill of fear, blood running cold: all those clichés, all true. She came close to diving for the window. Then the man said, “Didn’t wake you, did I?” Pause. “Not much. Pulling the overnight.” Pause. “Yeah? Not with coaching like that they won’t.”

  No time, no time at all. Ivy leaned forward, got the edge of the nearest handcuff inside the blades of the cutter, and pressed the handles together hard. The blades made a snicking sound, sliced right through.

  “You seen that kid in goal? Stoned Massena Monday night.”

  Ivy stepped around the bed, cut through the other cuff.

  “Must of faced fifty shots.”

  Harrow slid his hands free and sat up. His bare shoulder brushed against her breast. Her temperature warmed up in an instant. Surely not possible.

  “Way too much politics.”

  Harrow took hold of the end of the IV tube and drew the needle out of his arm. Blood leaked out, like a line of india ink on ivory.

  “Been the trouble with this league since day one, politics.” Pause. “That asshole. When was this?”

  Harrow got his legs free of the sheet; he wore pajama bottoms, nothing else. He swung his legs over the side and rose, standing beside Ivy. She mouthed the word okay? Harrow nodded. Then, as though all his bones had dissolved inside him, he started to sag toward the floor. Ivy caught hold of him, barely, redirected the fall onto the bed. They landed together, tangled up. A loose chain clanked against the bed rail.

  “Hold on a sec.”

  Ivy grabbed the sheet, yanked it over them, leaving nothing but Harrow’s face exposed. A footstep: it advanced; paused; withdrew. The card-table chair cr
eaked.

  “Nothin’. These fuckin’ nights never end.” Pause. “Overtime? Who are you kiddin’?”

  Ivy put her mouth to Harrow’s ear. “Okay?”

  He squeezed her arm.

  “Yeah? The one with the tits?”

  They got off the bed. Ivy heard Harrow take a deep breath. She reached for his arm. They crossed the room to the window, Harrow a little unsteady. She tapped him on the shoulder, pointed outside. He got his bare foot on the ledge—a strong, well-shaped foot, even at that moment she couldn’t help noticing—twisted around with a grunt, soft but full of pain, and climbed out backward.

  Ivy stuck her head out, watched him make his slow way down the ladder, a pause on every rung except for the last few. Tendons and veins stood out like wires in his neck and shoulders.

  “Wouldn’t mind getting laid myself, comes to that.”

  She tucked the bolt cutters back in her belt, climbed out and went down fast, her hands and feet hardly touching the ladder. Up above the window was dark, nothing moving on the other side.

  Harrow touched her back. “The grass feels good,” he said.

  “Let’s go,” said Ivy.

  “The ladder,” Harrow said.

  “We’re taking the ladder?”

  “Everyone likes a little mystery.”

  They walked the ladder onto the ground, slid the extensions back down. Ivy carried it back to the car, Harrow at her side, gazing up at the sky. The line of clouds closed over what was left of the stars.

  In the visitors’ lot: no cars left but the Saab. They tied the ladder to the roof, covered it with the tarp, got inside. Ivy stuck the key in the ignition, turned to Harrow. He was smiling, looked like a happy kid on field-trip day.

  “Where to?” she said.

  Twenty-eight

  “Morocco,” Harrow said.

  “Betty Ann’s in Morocco?” Ivy said.

  Harrow laughed. Had she heard him laugh before? If so, not like this. It was a lovely laugh—soft, surprised, unself-conscious. “Morocco’s just a place I always wanted to see,” he said.

  “Me, too,” Ivy said.

  “There you go,” said Harrow.

  They faced each other. Then they were kissing; a complete immersion in a tiny world of its own. Ivy would have torn her clothes off then and there.

  Harrow leaned away. “No lights till we’re out of the lot,” he said.

  Yeah, Ivy thought, here we go. This was right, this was what it felt like. She backed the car, performed the quickest, tightest three-point turn of her life, and headed across the parking lot, slowing down as they came to the road.

  “Left or right?” she said.

  “Depends where Frankie is,” said Harrow. A car went by, its headlights shining on his bare chest, muscles taut, skin covered in goose bumps.

  Ivy stopped the car, looked at him, saw a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. “But I told you—they’re not together. I even went to his house. The woman he’s married to isn’t Betty Ann.”

  “I know,” Harrow said.

  “Then—then he knows where Betty Ann is?” Ivy said. “Is that it?”

  “No doubt about that.”

  “I know where he lives and where he works,” Ivy said. “But as for where he is right now, the fact is…”

  “The fact is what?” Harrow said.

  “He might be in New York.” Ivy told him about her driver’s license, and how Vic Mandrell and that huge guy had appeared outside her apartment not too many hours before.

  “Did they connect you and me?” Harrow said.

  “No,” Ivy said.

  Harrow raised his right hand, pointed north.

  Ivy turned onto the highway. “Montreal?” she said.

  “Not that far,” Harrow said. “We’ll have Frankie make the trip.”

  “How are we arranging that?” Ivy said. “And what makes you think he’ll tell us where Betty Ann is?”

  “Piece of cake,” Harrow said, “unless he’s changed an awful lot. Got his number?”

  “No,” Ivy said. “But Vic’s in the book.”

  “Slow down.”

  Ivy saw she was doing ninety-five. She slowed down to normal speed, checked the rearview mirror. Nothing. Her inside self slowed a little, too. They drove in silence for a while. That term companionable silence was familiar to her, but not the feeling itself. A very good feeling; almost impossible to believe it could happen at a time like this, and therefore even better.

  “There’s some clothes for you in the back,” Ivy said.

  “Yeah?” He twisted around, found the bag from the Marshalls she’d spotted near Home Depot. He took out the clothes—a navy-blue flannel shirt, white boxers, navy-blue cotton socks, khakis, New Balance sneakers—and examined them by the panel lights. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft.

  “You like?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Harrow started getting dressed. That meant taking off his pajama bottoms. As soon as she realized that, a hot, clogging desire built in her, and the moment those pajama bottoms came off, Ivy reached over and grabbed his cock, could not have stopped herself for anything. It hardened in her hand, real fast. He laughed, a low little laugh in which she read delight. Two separate reactions: she loved them both.

  “Better call Vic,” he said.

  She let go of him, took her cell phone, got Vic’s number from information.

  “And tell him what?”

  Harrow was all dressed, buttoning up his shirt. It was much too big. “Say you want to meet Frank,” he said, “settle things.”

  “Settle things?”

  “A hundred grand sounds right.”

  “Blackmail?” Ivy said. “We’re trying to get money from Frank Mandrell?”

  “That’s the story,” Harrow said. “The one he’ll buy.” He ran the back of his hand along her cheek: electric. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be teaching me.”

  “About story?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know way more about that than I ever will,” Ivy said.

  He nodded, said nothing.

  “Where’s the meeting place?” Ivy said.

  “Where do you think?”

  She thought for a moment. If it were a story, a story designed to sucker Frank in so they could find Betty Ann, the meeting place would be…“The boat ramp?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Harrow said. “Make it soon.”

  Soon: maybe before the escape was discovered, certainly before Mandrell could find out.

  Ivy called Vic Mandrell’s number.

  “Hello?” A little slow, a little vague: Gina Mandrell.

  “Is Vic there?” Ivy said.

  “No.”

  “Still in New York?” A line that just popped out, but felt good. That sighting of Vic and the huge guy: she didn’t like being followed around.

  “Huh?” said Gina.

  “Or maybe Vic doesn’t tell you where he’s going.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Ivy Seidel.”

  Gina took a quick breath.

  “Got a pencil?” Ivy said. “Here’s my number. Frank’s got an hour to get back to me.”

  “Frank?” said Gina.

  Ivy clicked off.

  Harrow put his arm around her shoulder. “Couldn’t be better, how you did,” he said.

  Ivy put the pedal to the floor, if only for a second.

  “Vroom,” said Harrow. “Like Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Except for the ending,” Ivy said.

  “Don’t worry about that.” He squeezed her shoulder.

  “You know something?” Ivy said.

  “What?”

  “We can be in Morocco soon,” Ivy said. “Like maybe next week.”

  That laugh came again, soft and delighted.

  “Had you already thought about that?” she said.

  “I will now,” Harrow said. “All I’m going to think about—Fez, Meknès, Marrakech, Tangier.”

  No traffic at all: t
he road unreeled dark and empty, like they were the only ones around.

  “Don’t forget Casablanca,” Ivy said.

  “Casablanca’s not like those other cities.”

  “No?”

  “They all go way back, ancient,” Harrow said. “Casablanca’s new. We can skip it, no problem.”

  “Casablanca’s new?”

  Harrow nodded. “You know that word cachet?”

  “Yes.”

  “French, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Gets its cachet from the movie. Casablanca the city, I mean.”

  “Yeah?” said Ivy. This was fascinating. “You must have done a lot of reading about Morocco, and all sorts of other things to—”

  The phone rang.

  Ivy answered it.

  “Got your message,” said the man on the other end.

  “Hello, Frank,” Ivy said.

  “The name’s Jake,” Mandrell said.

  “Sure,” said Ivy. Somehow, with Harrow next to her, she knew how to play this role, slipped into it naturally, as though it were very close to her real self. “A hundred grand guarantees I remember the right name.”

  Harrow grinned, his teeth tinged green from the panel lights.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Mandrell said.

  “Not worth it to you?” Ivy said. No reply. “See you at the boat ramp.”

  “Boat ramp?”

  “Couldn’t have forgotten the boat ramp, Frank,” Ivy said. She held up two fingers. Harrow nodded. “Be there at two A.M.”

  “No way I can make it by then,” Mandrell said. “Not if you want the dough.”

  “Then make it three,” Ivy said.

  “What’s your hurry?” said Mandrell. Ivy said nothing. “Five’s the earliest.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, Frank,” Ivy said. Harrow, his arm still around her, pressed the tip of his finger into her shoulder, quick, gentle. She got the message. “And you’ll be alone,” she added. “No need to even mention that.”

  “Yeah,” he said. Click.

  Ivy put down the phone.

  “Couldn’t have done better,” Harrow said.

  Ivy felt herself flushing with pride. This was getting crazy. All those Shakespeare sonnets she’d never quite understood: she understood them now.