For Love of Audrey Rose

by Frank De Felitta

  Ivy curled into the prenatal position.

  Then, as Dr. Lipscomb’s voice droned on, urging her backward, ever backward in time, she suddenly bolted upright, eyes open.

  She seemed to look happily ahead, but then her face clouded over. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a terrible scream. Unable to bring her out of the trance, Dr. Lipscomb tried to comfort the girl, who rocked pitiably on her couch.

  Suddenly, Ivy threw herself—or seemed to be catapulted—onto the floor. Screaming in pain, she ran the length and width of the room, her lip bleeding from the fall.

  The litany, which the Templetons had heard all too often, now poured out of the twisted mouth of their daughter: “Mommydaddymommydaddyhothothothot!!” Dr. Lipscomb wrestled vainly with Ivy, unable to stop the frenzied delirium.

  Then, as she had repeatedly done in the Templetons’ apartment, she threw herself at the long glass in front of her. Her face reddened to an alarming degree, her nostrils flared, as though she were suffocating. She began writhing in convulsions that signified a disintegrating nervous coordination.

  Hoover rose against the opposite side of the great mirror and tried to shout to her, but the hypnosis chamber was soundproofed. In the melee of screaming and fainting jurors, it was Hoover who had the presence of mind to hurl a chair through the glass, and the officers of the court tumbled into the chamber just as doctors rushed in through a side door to relieve the panic-stricken Dr. Lipscomb.

  Despite the administration of oxygen and injections of adrenalin, Ivy’s respiratory system had failed for too long. The brain had gone almost five minutes without oxygen. At 10:43 A.M. she was declared dead by physician R.F. Shad. Cause of death: laryngospasm, or convulsive closing of the larynx, obstructing the intake of air into the trachea.

  • WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

  The tragedy at Darien Hospital will not be quickly forgotten, even for those who only knew of the events through the news media.

  But for those who were there, the Templetons, the attorneys, Judge Langley, what thoughts must have gone through their minds since that day? And what has happened to each of them? It has taken months to piece together the whole picture, and finally the denouement for the major participants can be revealed:

  Elliot Hoover: Acquitted of the charge of first degree kidnapping. Spent two weeks in New York City, praying at the Hompa Hongwanji Buddhist Temple at Christopher Place. Known to have purchased a one-way ticket to India. Presumed to have retreated to a temple in the central plains. Precise destination unknown.

  Judge Harmon T. Langley: Under attack from all quarters of the legal profession, Judge Langley retired early. He lives with his sister in Brooklyn Heights and refuses to see reporters. Suffered a mild stroke in early June, 1975.

  Scott Velie, prosecutor: Successfully fought to retain his license to practice in the State of New York. He is known, however, to have lost the more difficult battle against alcoholism. He has not appeared in court since The People of New York versus Elliot Suggins Hoover.

  Brice Mack, public defender: Now president of well-known firm of Mack, Lowenstein, and Fischbein. Author of moderately successful book on the trial of Elliot Hoover.

  William Templeton: Collapsed after being forcibly restrained during the final moments of the fatal test. Was treated for symptoms of dislocation, severe paranoia, and a morbid, guilt-ridden depression. Released, he returned to his apartment at the Hotel Des Artistes. He has subsequently been institutionalized and at this writing is confined to a sanitarium in Ossining.

  Janice Templeton: Supervised the cremation of Ivy Templeton. Known to have sent the ashes to India for dispersal. Now works as assistant designer for Christine Daler, Ltd., firm that specializes in women’s sport and casual wear. According to those who know her at Des Artistes, she no longer accepts the beliefs which she once, under the influence of Elliot Hoover, publicly embraced.

  No other event presented in this column has been so obliterated by time. Even Brice Mack has grown wary of public comment and no longer will speak about the trial. Nor have any of the participants, including the staff of the Darien Hospital, been willing to discuss what happened. Perhaps it can never be known: exactly what Janice Templeton believed when she testified. What did her husband believe before he collapsed and reason fled?

  What has life been like, the apartment empty, with not even an echo of the smiling blond child who once shared their lives, and not a trace of the intruder who waited so calmly, so omnisciently, outside of Ivy’s school? All unresolved, unsolved, waiting for time to work its slow but certain cure, to transform the violence and pain to a tender acceptance.

  But perhaps the list of actors in this tragedy is not complete. Perhaps, in memory of the quiet girl whose courage could not in the end save her, we must add:

  Audrey Rose: Born September 5, 1959. Died August 4, 1964, thirty seconds before the birth of Ivy Templeton. Death due to smoke inhalation.

  Ivy Templeton: Born August 4, 1964. Died February 3, 1975, 10:43 A.M. Death due to convulsive closure of the larynx.

  Did Audrey Rose return August 4, 1964? And, if so, who died February 3, 1975, 10:43 A.M.?

  BOOK I

  BILL

  “I become the fire of life which is in all things that breathe, In union with the breath that flows in and flows out I burn.”

  The Words of Krishna

  1

  February 3, 1975. 11:45 P.M.

  It was dark. Bill tasted salt on his lips. Suddenly he became violently nauseous. Terrible images pulled at the back of his brain, grinning monsters who violated Ivy in sparkling space. There was a feeling of black pressure, of perpetually drowning.

  Bill heard a deep gurgling, like water choked in a filled drain.

  “Are you awake, Mr. Templeton?” said a soft voice.

  The gurgle had been his own voice, disembodied, with a torpor thick as tar.

  A pretty face moved into his field of vision. Soft brown eyes and short brunette hair swept up under a white cap. She smiled.

  “Can you hear me, Mr. Templeton?”

  A gentle hand and sponge wiped at his mouth and chest. Bill’s head was turned to the side and the breathing came more easily.

  A small light went on, a soft amber that glowed against cold green walls. The sheets were stained from Bill’s nausea. He became conscious of the rhythmic breathing of his own chest, drawing, expelling, drawing, expelling.

  “Janice,” he mumbled weakly.

  “Your wife waited six hours,” the nurse said. “Then she was taken to a hotel. She’ll come back in the morning.”

  Bill turned his head around. Now he knew where he was. The hospital ward had four beds in it, but his was the only one occupied. The others were freshly made and the screens pulled out of the way. It was abnormally quiet. Outside there seemed to be a black screen over the windows. Then he saw her watch. It was nearly midnight.

  “Janice,” Bill repeated.

  “Your wife is at the Darien Central Hotel.”

  Bill groaned. His lips were so parched, they had cracked. The nurse dipped her finger in a glass of water and spread it across his lips, then helped him drink. The sensation of cold water going down into his body revived him.

  Suddenly his eyes darted around the room. He stared at the nurse.

  “Where’s Ivy?” Bill whispered.

  The nurse hesitated. “There’s been an autopsy.”

  Bill’s face slowly transformed into a dolorous mask, the kind that is sold hanging on sticks for Chinese New Year, a human face distended into curved lines of grief.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse said quietly.

  Bill tried to move his limbs but all that happened was that his chest rose and his back arched away from the bed. The nurse mopped his forehead with a soft cloth.

  Bill stared into the soft brown eyes. He had the wild, distraught face of a madman.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he hissed. “The test was supposed to—to— Oh, God—” Bill fell back and began to weep.


  The nurse discreetly pressed a small plastic button by the bed. After several minutes, a physician walked into the room. His eyes were red and he needed a shave. He had a barrel chest and short, beefy arms with white hair and a thick gold wrist watch.

  The physician put a comforting hand on the nurse’s shoulder. She made room for him, and he sat down next to Bill.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Templeton. Your wife waited here almost seven hours before we insisted that she get some rest. She was in a state of near-collapse.”

  Bill’s mumbling ceased. Then his eyes narrowed. He faced the wall as though angry or afraid of the physician.

  “Where’s Hoover?” Bill asked.

  “Who?”

  “Hoover, God damn it!”

  The physician leaned forward and gently eased Bill back to face him.

  “It was all my fault. My fault—!”

  There was an awkward silence. Both the physician and the nurse felt a tremendous need to find something to say, not to let the accusatory silence mount up over the patient like an imprisoning wall. Bill’s eyes darted from one to the other guiltily. But neither could think of anything, though their minds raced, and suddenly the music became audible from the corridors, a ballad about love burning in one’s heart.

  “Shut that damn thing off,” growled the physician.

  The nurse left.

  “Look, Mr. Templeton,” the physician said, licking his lips, “the court—er, ordered the test, legally. There is a mechanism of law that works through the judge and jury and the court officers. The hospital only acted as a tool of that legal apparatus.”

  Bill realized the doctor was trying to exonerate the hospital.

  “It was my idea,” he moaned. “I fed it to Velie. I helped him come up with it. Oh, my God…”

  The nurse came back. Now the silence was complete. She had closed the doors and the air was still, smelling faintly of clean linens and antiseptic.

  “I don’t like the way he’s responding,” she whispered.

  “Some clown gave him fifteen cc’s. His system’s all junked up.”

  “Is there somebody he could talk to?”

  “Just the psychologist. Lipscomb. I sure wouldn’t bring him in here.”

  Bill heard their words, discussing him as though he were not there. The words did not reach down into his brain. Nothing reached down. Several sheets of steel separated his brain from his body, or at least it felt that way. There were no connections anymore. The body parts had retreated as though to survive on their own as best they could. Brain in one place. Feelings in another. Eyesight registering. And grief. Grief and guilt, like a whole universe, radiated through him, flowed like electricity along every nerve fiber, obliterating each and every memory, each and every hope.

  “I… meant…to save…to save…her….”

  “You did everything you could, Mr. Templeton,” the physician said, squeezing Bill’s shoulder.

  The physician conferred with the nurse, and then was gone. After a few minutes, the nurse left for other patients. Bill staggered to the closet, found his clothes, and dressed. Wobbly, he peered out into the corridor. When the desk nurse answered an emergency light, he walked, reeling, down the receding floor to the elevator, then heard steps, turned, and ran stumbling down the stairway.

  Tears flowing from his eyes, he ran across the icy parking lot, clutching his thin coat around his chest. Overhead a dim break showed pale gray between the night clouds.

  Suddenly he came upon the Darien Central Hotel. He recoiled. Had he escaped from the hospital to be with Janice? Or had he escaped to avoid seeing her later? Bill ducked into an alley. His shoes filled with icy slush, his socks were soaked, and he wandered among the garbage cans and parked buses of the Greyhound Bus depot.

  Inside, people milled about the terminal, staring at him. Surely they knew that he had killed his own daughter. He was a figure of ridicule, pathetic and morbid, a creature of the hospital, morally deformed, who had concocted a wild scheme.

  In the distance, the tall, dark silhouette of the hospital loomed. A few lurid yellow lights gleamed in long rows at the top floor. Bill wondered if that was where they stored the bodies.

  His reflection in the dirty window looked abnormal. He looked like a murderer.

  Behind his reflection, he saw a small, humpbacked clerk turn on a light. On the wall were arrival and departure schedules. Bill whirled around, saw two elderly women staring at him, and then he went quickly inside.

  The two elderly women still looked at him through the window. They were certainly discussing him.

  “May I help you?” said the clerk.

  Startled, Bill turned. The clerk was a round-faced woman, her eyes squinty, with freckles over a tiny nose.

  “You want to buy a ticket?”

  “Yes—a ticket.”

  “Where to?”

  “What’s the next bus?”

  “Southbound,” the clerk said. “Interstate to Baltimore.”

  “When?”

  “Should leave in an hour and thirty-five minutes. Depending on the roads.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “One way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Twenty-five fifty, please.”

  “Will you take a check?”

  “Sorry. Not allowed to.”

  “Credit card?”

  “What kind?”

  Bill showed her. The clerk frowned but retrieved a banged-up roller from under the shelf and filled out the credit card slips. Bill signed.

  “No baggage?”

  Bill shook his head. “I’ll wait outside by the buses.”

  “It’s your frostbite.”

  Outside, several giant buses stood in the blue shadows under a corrugated roof. Beyond the alleys and telephone poles, the west wing of the hospital rose high, cream colored, its windows reflecting the pale blankness of the snow.

  Bill watched several cars pull up to the hospital parking lot by the wide revolving doors. A van without a rear window drove around to the back. A choking gasp coughed out of his lungs.

  A bus driver looked up from a clipboard at Bill. “You okay, mister?”

  “Which is the bus to Baltimore?”

  “You’re leaning against it.”

  “Mind if I get in?”

  “No, go ahead. But we don’t leave till three.”

  Bill stepped up into the cold bus, walked to the rear seat, and huddled for warmth. He saw the humpbacked clerk making conversation with the driver. Another light went on inside the station. Bill shivered and could not stop shivering. All he knew was that he had to get away from Darien.

  At 2:59 the driver stepped in, turned on the engine, and then the passengers, dressed in heavy overcoats, got in. The baggage compartment slammed shut like a coffin lid and the bus drove away. Darien slid by on both sides, wet roads and dirty stores, cars smeared with heavy, muddy slush underneath, a general air of downtown poverty. The only modern edifice was the hospital.

  Bill started to cry. When he stopped, they were rolling onto the broad Interstate, past flat white fields, in a thick, gentle snowstorm.

  Six seats in front, a mother bounced a small blond girl on her knee, drew pictures on the frosted windows, and sang softly.

  “This is the way to Grandmother’s house, Grandmother’s house,” the mother sang. “This is the way to Grandmother’s house, so early in the morning.”

  It was a melody Bill had sung to Ivy. Ivy had loved the snow. Her blond hair and fair complexion had been a throwback to Scandinavian ancestors Bill had never known. She had learned to ice skate almost before she could walk. She was happiest when the fat white snowflakes came down like a blanket, obscuring everything but the trees.

  “This is the way to Grandfather’s house, Grandfather’s house. This is the way to Grandfather’s house, so early in the evening.”

  Bill covered his ears with his hands.

  “Please stop!” he whispered hoarsely.

  Then it was
silent. The road hummed gruffly under the wheels. Bill realized that the passengers were staring at him.

  “Why did that man say stop?” said a little girl’s voice.

  “Shhhhhh,” her mother cautioned.

  The bus detoured into a small town, with the familiar series of dismal streets, an occasional pedestrian wrapped in a winter coat. But here the streets were slick with ice, and icicles hung down from garages and telephone wires.

  Bill stared at his hands. They were shaking like leaves in a storm. There was no feeling in them.

  I am a murderer, he thought.

  Deep down, he knew why he had supported the idea of the test. It had nothing to do with Ivy’s well-being. He wanted to crush Hoover. Torn to pieces by the strain of the trial, Bill had wanted to make sure that Hoover was destroyed. That was the real purpose of the test.

  Bill’s hands rubbed, gouged at his eyes as though to eradicate the images of Ivy, beating at the mirrored glass. He moaned. This time the bus driver turned around.

  “You feel okay, back there?”

  Bill did not answer.

  “We don’t allow drinking on here.”

  Two hours passed. Bill dozed. Awoke. Dozed again. He had a dream. In the dream he was sitting on the witness stand, explaining to Janice why he had left the hospital. Suddenly, Gupta Pradesh rose, dressed in a fiery red swirling cloth, and held in his arms the body of dead Ivy. Gupta Pradesh reached down, touched her leg, and then contemptuously threw gray ash into Bill’s face.

  “Ahhh—” Bill jerked awake.

  As soon as he opened his eyes, the dream vanished. All that was left was a sensation of having wanted to explain things to Janice. His mind violently obliterated the dream.

  Outside, the snow was streaked and dotted with patches of dark gray ice. Bare trees hugged the hills and hollows. Farms spread out, cold and isolated. Then there were electric transformers, auto garages, and a series of brick warehouses. The density of cars and people increased. After two stops, Bill recognized the Hudson River, troubled and turbulent, deep gray and rolling swiftly under the brown and white hills.

  “We’ll be in New York in about fifteen minutes,” the bus driver called through a static-ridden microphone. “Stopover for breakfast, thirty-five minutes.”