Reprisal

by Mitchell Smith

  "Hi. ..." Rebecca hoped Charis wasn't going to keep on with the not-talking.

  "--Greg told you he was going to come up?" She started to say something more, about how weird this whole thing was--but Charis just smiled as if she understood all that, and it wasn't important and she wasn't angry anymore. She came up to Rebecca at the parapet, and kissed her cheek.

  "Forgive me, Rebecca," she said, and was definitely smiling. Then she hugged her, a big hug; Charis was very strong, for a girl.

  It was such a relief things were okay. Before Rebecca could say anything, Charis asked, "Do you forgive me?" and she held Rebecca's arms, stepped back a little, and began to turn them both, whirl them around as if they were dancing. They spun, and Charis leaned back, turning, and swung Rebecca around and around so fast that Rebecca's feet weren't touching the roof "... Forgive me, Rebecca." It was so much like the way Daddy had done it when Rebecca was little, that it wasn't scary when Charis suddenly let her go.

  It was just surprising to be over the parapet, out so far. ... Then she realized ... and saw Charis watch her fall.

  Joanna slept as if her bed were warm sand that smoothed and stirred and turned with her through the night, so she was always comfortable. In this softness and support, she dreamed of weather, of being able to call up clouds to shadow a landscape she'd seen from the mountain, but had never descended to.

  She drifted through leafed greenery in her dream, peering down through its foliage along the slope of her mountain, to see the cloud shadows she had called by name--names she'd already forgotten in her dream--to see those shadows slowly shade the valley below ... turn its fields to forest green, darken its sinuous river from silver to bronze.

  Joanna woke still seeing a veil of rain, distant drapery, sweeping slowly across the valley she knew so well, though she'd never gone down from her mountain.

  She stretched--her muscles slightly stiff from gardening, her knees still a little sore--then got up and went to a window, stepping into a rectangular block of white-gold sunlight to look out at a perfect morning, and the distant sea.

  She went into the bathroom, peed, and changed her Tampax. Though she'd showered the night before, she showered again to wash her hair ... stepped out to towel ... then stood blow-drying at the sink, combing her hair up for the hot air, and studying her reflection. Her face was still a little flushed from yesterday's sun and sea wind. There were familiar lines at the outer corners of her eyes ... at the corners of her mouth. Sunblock--foolish not to use it.

  Joanna brushed her hair, pulled it back and through a maroon elastic tie into a ponytail, then went to the dresser for underwear ... the closet for worn work pants--caving pants till the knees gave out--an old T-shirt and weary sneakers. Paint clothes.

  Dressed, she went downstairs considering breakfast, and decided on cold cereal. There'd be island blueberries with it, later in the summer. ... In the kitchen, she made tea--Russian Caravan--then sectioned an elderly orange for eating out of hand, and used the last of the milk on a bowl of shredded wheat.

  She ate sitting at the kitchen table, looking into the backyard ... looking past the sea grape out along Sand Hill's irregular crest, the dune ridges lit various colors of toast by the morning's slanting light. ... The orange sections were seedy but sweet, the cereal richly coarse.

  When she was finished, she sat awhile longer, sipping the dark, complicated tea, and trying to remember her dream ... what the names of the clouds had been, that came when called. When she finished her tea, she got up and went to the sink, washed the cup and cereal bowl, and put them in the drainer.

  Then she spread pages of last week's edition of The Islander out on the table with a half-roll of paper towels and an old mixing bowl full of water, for cleanup. She brought her small can of paint and the brush from the counter and set them out.

  The paint can was hard to open. Joanna pried the lid up with a table knife ...

  then stirred the paint carefully to keep from spilling any. The brush was not a great stirrer; paint got on the handle. ...

  She started with the inside members of the window frame, standing holding the small can in her hand, and dipping and wiping the little brush for every two or three strokes. ... She covered the slender sticks with great attention, enjoying the paint's perfect white--brushing lightly up and down-dressing so nicely the fir's coarse grain. As she painted, and as if the smooth white were smoothing over her, perfect as a field of snow, Joanna began to imagine at least the possibility of limited happiness.

  She painted carefully ... dipped a little twist of paper towel into the bowl of water to clean the few small streaks of white smeared onto the window glass.

  Finished in the kitchen, Joanna took her paint out on the steps, and closed the door behind her to get at its window's other side. She begin again the careful dipping into paint, neat strokes to cover the whatevers ... what Bobby had called them. The muntins.

  ... She was sorry when the job was done. The window frame, fresh white, looked better than it had before Bobby broke it.--Poor Bobby. She'd have to check with Tom Lowell, make sure he hadn't been mistreated, only sent into exile.

  ...

  Joanna was cleaning the bowl and little brush at the sink when the doorbell rang. And of course her hands were wet and she still had paint on them.

  "Shit. Just a second. ..."

  The doorbell rang again. She rinsed the brush once more, left it in the sink, and called "Be right there ...!" Drying her hands on her trousers, she went up the hall to the door, and opened it.

  Chief Constable Carl Early, in a gray summer suit, was standing on the front steps. An elderly woman--short, plump, and plain--was standing beside him. She was wearing a dark-blue dress, white shoes.

  "Mrs. Reed ..." The constable was looking older, less handsome.

  Trouble, Joanna thought. Trouble over that goddamn marijuana. I should have called the police. ...

  "I'm Marilyn Early," the plump woman said. "People have been trying to call--I think something's wrong with your phone."

  "I brought my wife." Early was wearing a shot-silk tie to set off his suit.

  "What is it?"

  Neither of them answered her.

  "Is it ... am I going to be arrested?"

  "Oh, my dear," Marilyn Early said. "Oh, my dear, it's your girl."

  "What do you mean, "my girl"?"

  "Mrs. Reed," the old man said, "I received a call this morning from Captain Fetterman, with the state police. ... Your daughter was found last night. She fell from a building on the campus over at White River. She fell three stories, and was killed." He stopped talking, to clear his throat.

  "--Apparently, people have been trying to call you all night, and I can't tell you how sorry we are. Everyone out here is just terribly sorry." He took a clean, squared handkerchief out of his suit pocket and wiped his forehead. "It is the worst goddamn thing on top of everything else."

  "Carl," his wife said.

  "Well, it is. It's outrageous."

  It seemed to Joanna that she was dreaming and they were speaking a dream language she didn't understand. She supposed she looked like a fool, standing looking down at them.

  "I'm sorry to be so stupid," she said. "Rebecca ..." She turned her head to stare down the cobbled street at the sunny cottages descending, their small yards bright with what seemed strange flowers. It was all part of a new world, not the one she'd known. The air was different, hard to breathe. The light hurt her eyes, pulsed in slow rhythm.

  "What's happening?" she said, and was asking what had happened to the world to change its air, its light and colors.

  "Oh, you poor thing," Mrs. Early said. Joanna understood that--and as if it were the signal she'd been waiting for, leaned out from the doorway to darkness, and fell into the constable's arms.

  Waking to light that hummed, she sat up shouting "Oh ... Oh ... Oh," until someone came and stung her left arm so she slowly slid away ... and when next she woke, it was night. Joanna woke, but drove herself back d
own into sleep as if a wakeness-tiger would catch and kill her, otherwise.

  She didn't rouse again until fading afternoon. And when she did--careful to open her eyes slowly, so as not to see too much, know too much--a girl was sitting by the white bed in a white room. A pretty girl with dark-blond hair was sitting in a white chair beside her bed, holding her hand.

  "Are you awake?" the girl said. "Are you awake ...?"

  And there was no answer to make but yes ... to nod yes. Of course she was awake; her eyes were open, and seeing. ... The girl was stroking Joanna's hand. She seemed very sad, very concerned. And familiar, Joanna knew her from somewhere.

  "Do you remember me? Charis Langenberg?"

  "I think so." Joanna was surprised by her own voice. It was a hoarse and harsher voice than she was used to hearing.

  "I came out with Rebecca that time. I'm ... I was her roommate."

  "I remember," Joanna said, drew in the deepest breath she could, and used that to dive ... dive suddenly and deep into sleep. She did it so quickly that nothing could catch her--not even the girl who bent from her chair to look into Joanna's eyes and watch her go, as if to follow her down.

  Two days later, Charis sat through the morning watching Joanna sleep--lying with her long black hair, threaded with ash gray, spread smoky on the pillow.

  Her face was drawn, fine lines carved into it across her forehead and at the corners of her mouth. Charis watched her sleep for a long time before bending to kiss her cheek, then sat back in the chair to watch longer.

  "I'm a friend of the family--I was her daughter's friend," she'd told the nurses. "I don't think she has anyone else, close." And they'd let her stay.

  That had been the evening of the first day, after they'd brought Joanna in from the island. They'd brought her in by helicopter. ... She'd slept, drugged, and when she woke, the doctor had put her to sleep again. Charis had sat by Joanna's bed, watching.

  The second day, she woke and Charis spoke to her, and she went back to sleep until late at night, when she woke again and refused to use the bedpan, confused, querulous as a child. Charis had helped her out of bed, and stood by the toilet holding her hand. ... And toward morning, when Joanna cried out in her sleep, Charis had wakened her from that dream, and sat on the bed to hold her until she slept again.

  But today, flowers had come and people had come.--A while ago, Charis had gone to get orange juice, and seen White River's dean and his wife, and one of the professors, McCreedy, and his wife, at the nurses station. Charis had stepped into the hall bathroom, and stayed there for a while.

  When she'd come out, the White River people had left, and left Joanna dozing, tired by the visit.

  Charis sat watching a long time, holding Joanna's hand. Then, in early afternoon, she got up from her chair and was careful to be quiet as she took her purse and safari jacket from the closet. She felt now was the time to leave for a while.--And knew she'd been right when she heard Joanna wake and call her name as she walked down the hall. ... Knew again she'd been right when she passed the nurses station and heard still another visitor--an old lady in an ancient Chanel suit--asking for Mrs. Reed.

  It was time to be gone for a while. There was a rhythm to things, like dancing. A rhythm even to contentment.

  ... The first feelings that happiness brought with it were comfort and weight.

  Charis felt those during the long drive back across the state to White River.

  She'd put the VW'S torn canvas top down, and drove one-handed, her left arm resting on the top of the car's door. The wind of driving touched and plucked at her hair, trying to get it loose. Touched her blouse front gently, as if it wished to open its buttons to reach her breasts. ...

  The results of happiness were not what she'd expected. She'd thought it might make her lighter, ease her over things like an airy high-hurdler.--But now that it was here, now that she was starting over at last and had her place prepared, she felt heavier, more solid rather than less. ... So, happiness seemed to mean settling into things, resting comfortably, as if the world were fine furniture and she could be at ease on it. A strange sensation; it made her smile, driving along, and explained the smiles she'd seen on others.

  Chapter Sixteen

  "I wouldn't call it a nervous breakdown. Don't know what that is, anyway."

  Dr. Chao was young--tall for a Chinese-American--and impatient, though he'd been gentle with Joanna. "I'd just say you had a hell of a shock. A series of personal tragedies, and the last one was one too many."

  "One too many," Joanna said. She knew she'd been repeating people's phrases.

  And that must be annoying. "--I'm sorry to always be repeating what you say."

  Dr. Chao reached down and patted her hand. "It's a way of anchoring yourself dealing with people, while you're so distraught. ... You know, we have a psychiatrist coming in part-time on staff here, and we've discussed your situation. She's really nice, might be a good idea to talk to her."

  "I'd rather not talk to her.--And I didn't mean to repeat what you'd said.

  "Talk to her." That was just part of my own sentence."

  "I know," Dr. Chao said. "Don't worry about it. Strictly your sentence." He smiled, seemed to think she was amusing.

  "Where's Charis?"

  "Charis?"

  "The girl who was here with me."

  "Oh ... she left. You were feeling better, so I suppose she thought she could go."

  "Is she coming back?"

  "Well, I suppose she could--but you're not going to be with us much longer, Mrs. Reed. You're much better; it was just a matter of shock, collapse due to shock ... call it battle fatigue. And a hospital is not the best place to recover from grief. Continued medication isn't going to be good for you, either."

  "I'm better."

  "Yes. ... So I don't see any reason why you couldn't be released tomorrow."

  "I can be released tomorrow," Joanna said, made a baby's face and began to cry. "This is so ridiculous," she said--tried to say that, and had to put her hands up to cover her face so she could speak through her fingers.

  "... Maybe day after tomorrow," said Dr. Chao.

  Greg was in Charis's room when she went up. He was sitting at her desk, reading, and looked as though he'd been waiting there a long time.

  "Jesus, I've been coming up here the last two days. Where have you been?"

  "I was with Mrs. Reed."

  "Wow. With her mother?"

  "That's right." Charis opened her closet door, put her overnight bag in--reminded herself to do a wash--and hung up her safari jacket.

  "Better you than me, man. ... Well, what are we going to do? I don't know what to say to anybody."

  "Have you talked to anyone about this, Greg?"

  "You said not to."

  "That's right. We don't need to say anything, Greg. It would be really smart just to keep quiet about it--because believe me, people are going to be asking." Charis sat on her bed, kicked off her loafers. "--It's a death.

  Campus cops and plenty of people are going to keep coming around." Tired from the drive, the nights sitting up at the hospital, she stretched out and closed her eyes. She could do the wash when Greg left, take a hot shower, then sleep.

  "--There's nothing to say, anyway. You never even got a chance to talk to her, try to make her feel better."

  "She was gone--I mean, I went up on the roof and it was dark and there was nobody there ... just people yelling down on the sidewalk."

  "I know, Greggis." She could take a nap now, shower and do the wash later.

  "--ation your fault. If it was anybody's fault, it was mine. I should have gone to the college clinic, no matter what Becky said. I should have told them she was just so ... sad, so desperate." Charis yawned; it was hard to stay awake.

  "What did you tell her mom?"

  "Like as little as possible." She could do the wash tomorrow; it was just underwear, socks, jeans, and a sweatshirt. "--And when the campus cops get around to you, you do the same. I'm damn sur
e going to keep my mouth shut."

  "Why? We were trying to help her."

  "Why? Listen, if you tell people about our being so concerned and trying to help ... and she was in love with you and so forth? If you do that, Greg, then believe me--long after the details, the facts of Becky's suicide, are forgotten, your part in it is going to be remembered. You will be the guy who had something to do with a young girl's death-period."

  "Shit. ..."

  "You just let people know you were personally involved with her at all--and thanks to campus gossip, and the dean's office, and the net chat rooms, that will follow you all the time you're at White River, and right into graduate school. For the rest of your life, Greggis, you'd never know when Becky's death could rise up and bite you."

  "Oh, man. No good deed goes unpunished --and I never even talked to her!"

  "I know.--Anyway, I intend to keep my mouth shut about having anything to do with this, except being shocked and saddened--and that's true enough. I've done my crying for Rebecca."

  "Okay ... okay. You know, I never knew anybody who killed themselves. It's extremely unreal."

  "Yes, it is.--So, no matter who asks us, we were really surprised, and we're very sad about it because Becky was a nice girl. But she did seem pretty upset by those deaths in her family. Period."

  "Period. ... You know, this is the first tragedy I've been involved with."

  "What a lucky guy. ..."

  Joanna lay in summer light made brighter by reflection of her room's cool white. The window blinds slatted sunshine to fine stripes across the walls.

  She lay resting, reflecting on being alone--with no one left to love or be loved by. Her family now stood separate, on the other side of everything. They were there--or nowhere--and she was here, solitary as a wandering animal, with only food and shelter as necessary concerns. A cheeseburger, a clean motel room, some pleasant landscape view ... those sorts of limited pleasures, like the coolness of her bed's sheets as she lay, lunch over.