Chapter 45

Alix and Irene left at eleven o’clock. Shortly after midnight Carolyn awakened. She limped to the bathroom and closed the door against Val’s insistent pleas to come in with her. Val went into the kitchen.

A few minutes later, back in the bedroom, an arm gingerly around the damaged shoulders, Val held a mug of broth to Carolyn’s lips; Carolyn took several sips, muttered, “Don’t leave me,” and fell asleep.

Sitting in a kitchen chair beside the bed under a small but bright lamp, knowing the lolling of her head would jerk her awake every few minutes, Val held Carolyn’s hand and allowed herself to doze. She needed her full strength for the coming day.

Carolyn’s body had warmed; she was no longer perspiring, but she uttered tiny whimpers at any slight movement of her body. The red-purple patches on her face were swelling and had acquired a bluish tint. Her pulse continued to slow.

At seven o’clock that morning, as Carolyn fitfully slept, Neal returned to the flat. Val had decided that she must keep him out of school today. They would leave as soon as possible for the beach house, she told him, and warned him of Carolyn’s appearance, that she would be in pain. He listened somberly, asked no questions. He sat down at the card table to organize a list of what they should take with them.

She had called Susan the previous night, giving her necessary details including Carolyn’s identity. Remote as the possibility seemed, it might occur to Paul Blake to find his wife by locating Val through the gallery showing her work. “I need a safe place,” she told Susan, “maybe as long as two weeks.”

“Use the beach house,” Susan said immediately. “I would think you should stay there at least that long.”

Neal took a load of clothing down to the car. Val called Carolyn’s office. Identifying herself as a friend of Carolyn Blake’s, she told Bob Simpson that Carolyn had left for Chicago—her mother was seriously ill; she would be away indefinitely.

Val picked up Neal’s list and resumed packing. Sooner or later Paul Blake would contact Carolyn’s office—possibly even today. But she had done all she could to protect Carolyn’s job.

Carolyn awakened and went into the bathroom, her misshapen face a mask of pain. Afterward, she labored to remove her pajamas. “God,” she said faintly, looking down at herself. The bruises were newly huge and grotesque.

Val dressed her in an old wash-softened sweatshirt and sweatpants, wincing at Carolyn’s sharp intakes of breath. The clothing hung from her in shapeless folds.

Neal stared, visibly swallowed. Then he reached behind him as if to push down an imaginary tail and spoke in the voice of the Cowardly Lion: “Shucks, folks, I’m speechless.”

Val chuckled; Carolyn smiled and said weakly, “Right now, honey, I’m a horse of a really different color.”

Val and Neal alternated carrying loads down to the car; Carolyn stood in silence beside the window staring down into the street.

“Where did you park your car, Carrie?” Val asked. “I don’t see it anywhere.”

Carolyn blinked in bewilderment; her damaged face contorted and tears welled. “I can’t remember.”

The keys were not in her purse nor in the pockets of the green pants. “I’ll find your car,” she told Carolyn, “it has to be close.”

Carolyn burst into tears. “He could be out there. Waiting for you to leave.”

She’ll be terrified. I mean petrified. She’ll be looking for him under the wallpaper.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe—I promise,” Val soothed, knowing better than to reason with her.

“Stay with her,” she whispered to Neal as she prepared to take the last load down to the car. “Talk to her, tell her I’ll be right back.”

But it took ten minutes to locate the Sunbird two blocks away, its front wheel jammed into the curb, the keys still in the ignition. She drove it back and parked it in the alley behind her building.

Slipping a thermal jacket around Carolyn, she led her on a slow and painful trek downstairs to the Volkswagen.

“Where are we going?” Carolyn asked, sitting on a bed of pillows in the backseat and looking fearfully at the parked cars and traffic around them.

“Emerald City,” Neal said, kneeling on the front seat and leaning over to talk to her. Val watched Carolyn in the rearview mirror in concern; she had told her their destination twice before.

Travel required two hours of slow, careful driving to minimize Carolyn’s pain. At the beach house, while Neal unpacked, Val made her comfortable on the sofa and applied ice wrapped in hand towels. Exhausted, Carolyn fell deeply asleep.

Val left the house and drove to a J. C. Penney in Santa Monica. She quickly chose a feather-soft nightgown and a fleecy robe, drawstring sweatpants, sweatshirts, tennis shoes and socks, panties and bras—selecting sizes in certain knowledge of Carolyn’s body. Swearing at the price tag, she bought a Raider T-shirt Neal had been coveting. Amid all the packages for Carolyn she must have something for him.

She called Jean Bowman from a pay phone in the store.

With well-modulated crispness Jean Bowman agreed to do what she could—but not before direct preliminary contact with the client herself.

“Of course I realize the physical and emotional shape she’s in.” Jean Bowman’s voice lowered, acquired harshness. “She needs time, she can’t make clearheaded decisions right now. But we can use some of that time to her advantage. My advice is to take no action at all for the next several days. He won’t know what’s going on; he won’t be able to find her; he’ll have no idea what she might do. He’ll be crazy. When I do contact him, I’ll have the advantage. And these next few days may turn out to be the most damage we inflict on the son of a bitch.”

Fat chance, Val thought. “We’ll do as you say,” she answered. She liked Jean Bowman—the brisk confidence of the voice, the distinct edge of steeliness. Alix had not said that this lawyer was a lesbian, but presumably she was. Irene Donovan. Jean Bowman. Some impressive women were lesbians. “I’ll be back to you in a few days,” Val said. “Thank you,” she added.

That night, with Neal bedded down on the sofa, Val lay in the upstairs bedroom listening to the sounds of the ocean, a calming hand on the body next to hers as it convulsed in brief tremors. Her own sleep thwarted by anxiety, Val spoke softly and reassuringly throughout the night as Carolyn whimpered with her pain and her dreams.

Expect her to sleep badly. Expect night terrors, even violent nightmares.

The next morning Carolyn’s eyes were dark hollows in her discolored face. Unwilling to leave her or subject her to another trip in the car, Val kept Neal out of school again. He went down to the beach for the day, telling Val, “I know for sure she doesn’t want me around her today.”

Wearing her nightgown and robe Carolyn lay on the sofa apathetically watching the television screen or staring out to sea. She drank orange juice and ate a few slices of apple from the tray of cheese and fruit Val had placed on the coffee table.

Expect loss of appetite. All you can do is put food around that might tempt her.

Carolyn spoke only once, and sharply: “Leave me alone. Stop watching me.”

Obviously, Val thought, Neal has better sense about her than I do.

The next day Val drove Neal to school with Carolyn in the back of the car on her bed of pillows. Carolyn mumbled monosyllabic responses to questions and soon would not speak at all. As soon as Neal disappeared from view tears streamed down her face. Alarmed, watching her anxiously in the rearview mirror, Val drove quickly back to Malibu. In the house Carolyn lay huddled on the sofa, her tears soaking the pillow.

That evening Alix called to inquire about Carolyn. “Physically she’s better,” Val said grimly. “Emotionally…”

“Nobody I know is jumping for joy right now,” Alix said dispiritedly.

“What do you mean?”

“For God’s sake, Val. You’re really out of it. The country had an election today. The networks projected a Reagan landslide about four seconds after the Eastern polls closed. Don’t turn on the TV unless you’re a real masochist.”

Alix continued to talk about the election, about West Hollywood becoming a city with a gay majority city council. Val listened absently, remembering that on Sunday she and Carolyn had decided to vote together this day, to cast proud votes for the first woman vice presidential candidate. Val was compiling a list in her mind under the heading of Paul Blake. She added another item.

That night in bed Carolyn’s silent tears continued, her face pressed into Val’s shoulder, the tears soaking Val’s nightshirt. When Carolyn fell asleep it was to whimper and cry out with the torment of her dreams.

The next morning, with the bruises less painful but in full violent color, Val dressed Carolyn in new navy blue sweatpants and a white sweatshirt, then brushed her hair. Carolyn accepted these attentions indifferently, and ate a scrambled egg and a piece of toast without interest.

The day was cool. Val built a fire, then carried a sturdy rocking chair down from the upstairs bedroom. She cushioned its hard seat and positioned it in front of the fire.

Looking out to sea, she held Carolyn in her arms and rocked her for hours. Carolyn dozed; periodically she turned her face into Val and soaked her shirt with the silent tears. Val rocked Carolyn and thought about what had been precipitated by her meeting with Paul Blake, and continued to add items to what she now called The List.

That night Carolyn cried again, aloud, with words and phrases meaningless to Val: “Wood, wood, like wood, nothing there…wood, wood, wood, couldn’t hear…wood, wood…” Clutching Val’s hands, she sobbed into her shoulder.

Expect emotional extremes. Expect apathy, irrationality, tears, deep depression. Don’t allow her to feel isolated.

The next morning, after they had taken Neal to school, Carolyn said, “Can’t you put the car in the garage? He could drive down this highway, he could—”

“You’re right,” Val said. “Carrie, it’s time for you to call someone, a woman who can help us…”

Smiling, Carolyn hung up from Jean Bowman. “I do like her. I feel much better now.” Then she sighed deeply. “I need to do something about my job.”

“What do you want to do?”

Carolyn moved to the window, gazed out over the ocean. “What else is there to do besides quit? I can’t go back. But I don’t know how to explain to Bob Simpson.”

Knowing how much Carolyn had loved her job and respected the man she worked for, Val added another item to The List. “Don’t explain at all,” she suggested softly. “Write a simple letter. Apologize for the lack of notice. Let it go at that. It’s best all the way around, Carrie.”

Sitting beside the fire, Carolyn said, “I hurt him. I hurt him so bad.”

Don’t be surprised if she blames herself. Victims often believe that some flaw in themselves caused the assault. If she starts to talk try to keep her talking. If she can verbalize her thoughts and feelings she’ll begin working out of the trauma much faster; she’ll start the process of integration.

Val asked cautiously, “How did you hurt him?”

“I didn’t love him enough. He needed me to love him. He thought I loved him. He believed in my love.”

“But you did love him, Carrie. For years you had love between you.”

“You don’t understand,” Carolyn said dully. “You don’t know.”

“Then help me to know. I want to understand.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Jean Bowman called for Carolyn, then talked to Val. “My client has given permission to speak to you,” she said only half-jokingly.

Her voice acquired briskness. “I called this morning, at his office. It was good strategy to wait and a good place to call him. I laid a few things out—no lies mind you, just some heavy suggestions that we have no hesitation about informing the world about this episode in its entirety. I suggested that he had exactly one chance to do business in a civilized manner in contrast to his previous behavior, and only if he was totally cooperative. He showed his cooperation a few minutes ago—three bank books arrived by special messenger.”

Val chuckled. “Jean, you’re wonderful.”

“What I want you to do, Val, is be certain Carolyn capitalizes right now on this generous impulse.” Jean Bowman’s tone was acid. “Before he recovers from it. Have her immediately open an account and deduct from those bank books what she considers community property—and make her be generous with herself. We can argue all this out with the husband later. The bank books are en route to you by special messenger.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Val said.

“He’s different, Val, this man. It wasn’t that he didn’t ask about her—it wasn’t anything he said or didn’t say. Just something in his voice. He sent ice down to my shoes.”

Carolyn, her sweatpants rolled to her knees, walked out to calf-high water. “I like my new clothes,” she said, adjusting the sweatshirt around her hips.

“I’m glad,” Val said simply. It was the first notice Carolyn had taken of herself.

Carolyn walked back to her, reaching to her. Holding hands, they walked along the surf, picking their way among the rocks. Carolyn said slowly, “I was never the person Paul thought I was.”

Val retorted, “Was he the person you thought he was?”

A breaking wave became a carpet of foam. Carolyn kicked at it as if to break its pattern. “You don’t know that. What he did—that wasn’t him. And you met him only once.”

“I saw the person you were around him. And I know how you talked about him. You never saw the narrowness in your lives together.”

“Yes I did,” Carolyn insisted. “After I knew you.”

As a wave sucked away sand from under her feet Val said, “Even then, I wonder if you fully saw his compulsion to control you. He never felt threatened about you before me. He and I hated each other instinctively. I think he panicked at the whole idea of me.”

“You have no idea. He…”

As she trailed off, Val looked at her wondering what Carolyn was not telling her. Val said softly, “I have the same needs and fears he does. All of us do. But I’ll never need to subvert someone to prove my worth.”

“That’s not fair. Or even right. He loved me; his loving made me feel worth something to myself. I never understood exactly how to cope with his love or his need. But I always felt…grateful.”

Val winced. Gratitude: The prime component of her own two marriages.

Carolyn fought for balance in powerful eddies that pulled at her feet. Val watched her.

She’s been utterly honest with me. She’s never told me she loves me. Maybe she’s not ready. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she never will. I grew to love her only from wanting to hurt him. And what he did to her was to hurt me. How insane that she blames herself. She should hate us both.

“Let’s go back,” Carolyn said. “The fog’s coming in.”

Carolyn rested on pillows before the fire; Val sat beside her, legs crossed yoga style.

“He found out I was a fraud,” Carolyn said in a voice filled with pain.

Val waited, but Carolyn did not speak again. “A fraud?” she prompted.

“I don’t think I really want to talk about this now.” She propped herself on her elbows. “Maybe later.” She smoothed a pattern in the carpet with slow, pensive strokes of a hand.

Amid the sounds of surf the silence between herself and Carolyn seemed to gather weight and substance. Deliberately, she waited.

“Val,” Carolyn said in a barely audible voice, “he saw us. He came home early last Sunday and saw us—I think through the yard window.”

Val felt exposed, invaded and desecrated. She struggled against enveloping fury, fighting for control; it was crucial that she focus not on herself but entirely on Carolyn.

“Val, he saw…how I was with you. And I was never like that with him. I was a fraud. That’s why he—”

“It doesn’t matter, Carrie,” she exploded. She slammed her hands on her thighs in her vehemence. “Whatever he saw, whatever we were doing, he had no right—”

“I was a fraud.”

About to vent more anger, Val broke off, the full meaning of Carolyn’s words sinking in. “But he was good for you in bed…wasn’t he? With me you’re so—”

“It’s different with you. With him it was…I loved him. At times it was…Until the first time with you. Then, going to bed with him was—I couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore.”

Astounded, Val stared at her.

Still propped on her elbows, Carolyn was gazing into the fire. “The drawing I gave you, I never felt anything like that before you. I didn’t think I was much of a woman.”

Val found her voice. “What you felt with me you could feel with anyone.”

There was no reaction to the words, as if they had not registered. Carolyn said, “I needed all those things about being married to him but I never really needed him. I never felt what he thought I felt. I was a fraud.”

Carolyn was looking up at her. Val rubbed her hands across her face and concentrated on maintaining an even tone. “I wasted years of my life, Carrie. I did feel the physical things with men. But never such exact rightness—” She broke off, seeing Carolyn’s nod.

Carolyn whispered, “That’s how I feel with you—exact rightness.”

“Carrie, tell me,” Val asked, “besides Paul how many men were there?”

“Enough. Eight.”

Val heard the number with surprise, remembering that Carolyn had married at nineteen. “Was it good with any of them?”

Carolyn smiled. “Compared to you?” She paused. “I don’t know how to answer you. I was looking, I didn’t know what I was looking for. It was as good as it ever got with Paul. The thing is, I made commitments I believed in when I married him. He gave me years of his life, he believed—”

“Carrie,” she interrupted, “it happens all the time.” The taut posture of Carolyn’s body told Val how vitally important this conversation was to her. Yet it was all so clear—why did Carolyn have to hear what was so obvious? “People make the most solemn commitments and then events change their whole lives around. What more can we do than the best we can do? It’s one thing to feel guilt at promises you couldn’t keep but—”

“Val?” Carolyn sat up to look at her. “He didn’t want to hurt me, he wanted to kill me. He tried to kill me.”

No, it was me he wanted to kill. “Then why aren’t you angry? Why do you blame yourself? You gave all you knew to give; you did the best you could for eight years. Did you deserve to have him kill you? Why are you blaming yourself? Carrie, why aren’t you angry?”

Carolyn worked her wedding ring over her knuckle and dropped it onto the carpet. Val slid the ring into her pocket.

Little by little, over the next three days, Val patiently drew out every detail of Paul Blake’s assault, made Carolyn verbalize every moment of the terror. She added many more items to The List, including Paul Blake’s hand in her eviction from the Robinson guest house.

She wondered how much of Carolyn’s feeling for her had had its roots in simple guilt at her husband’s behavior. But then, did it matter? Her own love for Carolyn had evolved accidentally . .

Each night Carolyn slept in her arms, but there was no sexuality in the act. Skittish about being touched even casually, she seemed to lack all sensual awareness.

Val could hear Alix’s words: This will be difficult for you when she’s so new and wonderful, but she may have very little interest in lovemaking. You’ll have to understand that it’s not rejection of you; it’s another way she’s been damaged. You’ll have to be patient and wait, Val. And it’s impossible to predict for how long…

Carolyn was spending more and more time on the beach, her healing face turning bronze in the November sun. Sitting by herself on the rocks or playing with Neal when he was home from school, she built sandcastles, waded in the surf, walked with Neal hand in hand along the shore.

Val set up a painting table beside the front windows and occupied herself with her profession, the two people she most valued often in sight on the beach below as she worked. She was working well; the break to take care of Carolyn seemed to have brought a fresh infusion of creativity.

Her mind unceasingly occupied with Paul Blake, again and again she ordered herself to be patient. He would be there when the time was right.

Jean Bowman called while Carolyn was down on the beach. Paul Blake wanted to put the house on the market; there were papers for Carolyn to sign. He had filed for divorce, asking a fifty-fifty split on community property. Settlement seemed no problem.

“One more thing, Val. He did request a meeting with either or both of you. To personally return unspecified possessions. Of course I told him no. He requested that I relay the message anyway.”

“Thank you, Jean,” she said evenly, knowing Paul Blake’s “message” was intended for her. But why? Surely it was not physical harm he intended if he would go through Carolyn’s lawyer to arrange a meeting…and he could have assaulted her on that Sunday when she had been with Carolyn. “I’ll relay all this to Carolyn,” Val said, “and get back to you, Jean. Except his request for a meeting, of course. That would only upset her.”

“Still no word of concern about her or what he did to her,” Jean Bowman said. “Know something, Val? It’s not only this man—after fifteen years in this business I’m convinced men think we’re making it up or exaggerating when we talk about psychic scars of rape and battery. I think it’s an unbridgeable gulf between men and women.”

When Val hung up she was elated, but annoyed that the proposed meeting had been Paul Blake’s initiative and not hers.

Carolyn shrugged. “I don’t care what he does as long as I don’t have to see him. I do want your paintings and my clothes, personal things—my degree, photos of my parents, things like that.” She looked at Val miserably. “We could go there when he’s not around but I’d be petrified he might show up. I think if I saw him I’d go completely to pieces.”

“You’ll never have to see him again,” Val stated. She would take care of that. “Make a list of what you want. We’ll give it to Jean.”

Val called Jean Bowman and relayed Carolyn’s agreement to sale of the house and the conditions for an uncontested divorce. “If he’ll have everything on Carolyn’s list delivered to Bekins Storage, I’ll take care of it from there.”

“Fine. I’ll tell him he can deliver his so-called unspecified possessions to me. Any response, however profane, you’d like me to add about the proposed meeting?”

“No. Nothing.”

Jean Bowman might feel duty bound to report back to Carolyn that Val had sent word through Paul Blake’s office when she would meet him.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 473