On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  They had met in the Crazy Clown. Rollo had bought him a drink and complimented him on his customized Sportster. They had begun to talk animatedly about motorcycles and the pleasures of the road life. It had been during the first search for Christine, which Rollo had told him about in tones of disgust. When Rusty had commented on the pointlessness of expending such efforts in pursuit of a mere woman, the light he had been waiting for came on in Rollo's eyes.

  They had been together only two nights when Rollo suggested that the Butchers might accept Rusty. Rusty, who had been slowly recovering from an orgasm miles beyond anything he had ever known, knew at once that there was no other way for him.

  The ordeal of his initiation was just the price of his love. He paid it gladly. There were other prices, of course, chief among them the need to keep his relationship with Rollo secret. Rollo had told him what the pack would do to the two of them if they were ever smoked out. Rusty believed every word.

  It ain't that different from the Army, really. At least the uniform looks better.

  Now, here he was, expending his own precious time in pursuit of the same Goddamned woman. He had joined up expecting to spend his time tearing down the road with the wind in his face. Of course, he had joined the Army expecting to spend his time killing people, and that hadn't worked out either.

  This bitch must really be something.

  It would never matter to him, of course. At least, not while he had Rollo. But as long as Tiny decreed it, he had to take it seriously.

  He pulled himself out of his reverie and returned to scanning the crowds around Albrecht's for a mop of curly brown hair above a pale olive face and a traffic-stopping figure. He was serious about the undertaking, but he was handicapped in a way he did not understand. He had never seen Christine, and the Butchers were without a photograph of her. So Tiny had given him a simple but vivid description of the essentials and turned him loose.

  In Rusty's mental picture, Christine was dressed like a biker, in leather and denim, and wore the look of a hunted animal. He only glanced at the high-class pair, one tall and one short, dressed to the nines and talking enthusiastically about shoe styles, that swept past him and disappeared into Women's Fashions. He did note in passing that both of them were certainly lookers, if you liked women.

  ***

  The day had gone pleasantly enough. Helen had taken Christine to the store with her that morning. The young woman had done everything she was asked without complaint. As a model, she had been effective despite her inexperience. A number of customers had bought outfits because of the way Christine looked in them. About that part of it, Helen could not have been more pleased.

  Now that they were home, the two of them were finding it difficult to talk with Louis away. The kind of conversation that had come so easily to them seemed impossible to sustain. After an uncomfortable dinner, Helen retreated into professional reading, Christine pulled out a book that Louis had given her, and they passed the evening in silence.

  At about eleven, they retired together. Helen noted that Christine had no pajamas, and decided to forgo her own. They came together in Helen's bed with the awkwardness of strangers.

  Helen beckoned the younger woman into her arms. Christine complied silently, laying her head on Helen's breast like a small child. For some time they lay unspeaking in the darkness, savoring the warmth and comfort of one another's flesh.

  "You're worried about him, aren't you?" Helen said.

  Christine's reply was soft. "Aren't you?"

  How could I not be, after the performance he gave?

  "Yes, dear. But he's not the kind of man it does any good to worry about."

  "Huh?"

  Helen sighed. "I've known a lot of men, sweetie. Some of them just don't respond to a woman's worries. They do what they do, and we have to learn to live with it."

  "I wish I knew what he's doing. Why didn't he level with us?"

  "Because we're the enemy, dear."

  "What?" Christine propped herself up on one elbow to stare down at her friend.

  "Your enemy is the person who might be able to stop you from trying to do what you're set on doing. Sometimes all he needs is a reason." Helen reached up to caress Christine's face, running her fingertips lightly over the ridges of scar tissue that had bought her freedom. "You could probably stop him from doing anything you didn't want him to do, if you knew about it beforehand."

  Christine's body tensed against her. Helen heard the younger woman's breathing accelerate.

  "He thinks I'd get in his way?"

  "No, dear. Louis loves you more than he can say, and that gives you a hold on him. Whatever it was he was thinking of doing, if you could stop him, it would be because you could stop him from wanting to do it. But you couldn't impede him. No one impedes a man like him."

  Oh, for a man like him. Where have they all gone? Where has he been hiding all my life? And what on Earth do I do about it now?

  Christine's soft voice cut through Helen's moment of reverie.

  "I don't know from love."

  Helen pulled her friend's head down and kissed her full on the mouth. She moved her lips and tongue over Christine's with an insistent sensuality that forced her to respond. Soon they were both quivering from the intensity of it. Christine broke the kiss and laid her head next to Helen's as the older woman caressed her.

  "We know, dear. We're trying to fix it, he and I. Will you trust us a little longer, while we find our way?"

  "Yes...yes." Christine was still shuddering.

  Helen pulled her young friend tightly to her. They said no more that night.

  ***

  Louis shuttled in and out of delirium. Sometimes he knew where he was and what had been done to him. At other moments he seemed to wander a surreal landscape stippled with archetypes and abstract forms, a place with no boundaries, no pathways, and no point. At all times, his body was suffused with pain, the sense of weakness, and the memory of radical violation.

  It is no small thing to have one's abdominal wall cut open. It is even more a ravagement to have so many of one's vital organs pared and sliced like so much ripe fruit. To experience such a thing and survive requires the application of powerful drugs, incredible life-sustaining technology, and fantastic surgical skill. Louis Redmond's preoperative physical state had been such that the unlimited application of all these things was barely enough.

  Onteora General Hospital and Miles Jefferson had done what they could. The hospital was the best in the region. Jefferson, though young, was one of the best in the world. Louis's life was in the hands of fate.

  In his lucid intervals, he fought for life, straining towards it as a drowning swimmer strains toward the surface of the water. In part, what he struggled against was the lingering effect of the surgical anesthetics, drugs which induce a state so closely akin to death that the body recoils from it in a kind of cellular horror. But that was only a part. In his rational moments, he could sense how tenuous was his grip on life. Those moments were filled with a continuous silent prayer.

  Dear God, let me not pass away with my work undone. Grant me enough time to finish what I have begun before You call me to stand before You.

  ====

  Chapter 15

  It was a beautiful Sunday morning, the kind of gently sunny, gently breezy, fleecy-skied mid-May day that, together with the autumn foliage season, persuades so many central New York residents to endure the otherwise foul regional weather. The winter's chill was only a memory. The heat, humidity, and insect-ridden days of summer were still distant.

  At eleven-thirty, Helen made up the small table on her balcony, announced the cancellation of lunch, and invited Christine to join her in a round of delicacies. She had done it every Sunday, and many other days when her time was her own, for many years. The two of them demolished a considerable amount and variety of finger foods. They lingered over mimosas, taking in a little more of the day before cleaning up.

  "How are these made again?" Christine held
up her empty glass.

  "It's just champagne and orange juice, dear. Would you like another?"

  "No, that's okay." The young woman set down her glass and sat back. She looked more at ease than at any time since Helen first met her.

  "What would you and Louis be doing if he were home?" Helen had refrained from mentioning his name for most of Christine's visit. He was scheduled to return for her that evening.

  "He wouldn't be home. He leaves the house about ten on Sundays, comes home about twelve-thirty."

  "Really? Where does he go?"

  Christine shook her head. "He's never said."

  And you won't ask him, will you, dear?

  "I'd bet he goes to church."

  Christine perked up at that. "You mean, with priests and funny clothes and stuff?"

  Helen chuckled. "Yes, dear. He's got a French-Canadian name, so he's probably a Catholic --"

  "He is, I know."

  "-- and Catholics go to church on Sundays. Most of them, anyway."

  "When do you go?"

  It was the last question Helen would have expected. She found that she was embarrassed by her answer. "I don't, dear. I haven't been in a church in many years."

  "Oh." Christine's gaze wandered over the landscaped grounds of Amherst Estates. "Do you have anything planned for us today? Are we going to the store?"

  "No, dear, I don't work on Sundays. Why do you ask?"

  The young woman stood up and collected the dishes into a pile.

  "There's somebody I'd like you to meet."

  ***

  Father Schliemann had just removed his Mass vestments when the doorbell rang. He was surprised to find Christine on the rectory steps with an unfamiliar companion, a petite, elegantly dressed woman about forty years old. Louis was nowhere to be seen.

  "Christine! Come in, dear, it's delightful to see you. And this is -- ?"

  "This is my friend Helen, Father. Can she come in, too?"

  He chuckled. "Of course. Welcome, Helen. Make yourselves comfortable in the sitting room while I fix some coffee. Christine knows the way."

  When he brought the coffee service into the sitting room a few minutes later, he found the two women in the guest armchairs. He put the tray down on the low table between them and sat on the old sofa.

  "To what do I owe the honor of a Sunday visit from two such lovely ladies?"

  Christine sat forward. "I wanted Helen to meet you, Father. She said she hasn't been in a church in years, so I figured I'd bring her to this one."

  Helen gasped and blushed brightly. Schliemann clasped his hands over his middle and bent all his powers upon the challenge of not releasing a gale of laughter.

  Christine looked puzzled. "Did I say something wrong again?"

  Helen bit her lip and looked the other way. Schliemann had never seen anyone turn that particular shade of crimson. He fought down his urge to guffaw and said, "Not exactly, child, but most people don't like to have that kind of thing said about them to a clergyman. Besides, this isn't a church. It's just where I live."

  "Oh. Oops. I'm sorry, Helen."

  "It's all right, Chris." Helen's voice was faint.

  The priest decided to divert the conversation. He said, "I notice that Louis isn't with you. Is he well?"

  Christine frowned. "I was going to ask you if you know where he is. Isn't this where he comes on Sundays?"

  Where he had been roiled with mirth, the old priest now found a rising tide of alarm. He had missed Louis at Mass. Louis missed Mass on Sunday about as often as the Moon shone blue. "When did you last see him?"

  "Wednesday morning. He said he had some personal business to take care of and would be away until tonight. I thought you might know more about it. I've been worried."

  "Well, child, if he said he'd be away, and he's not yet supposed to be back, there's no real reason to worry, is there?" How much do you know, child? And how much do I have the right to tell you?

  "He hasn't called, Father. Why wouldn't he call?"

  Schliemann shook his head. Maintaining an expression of friendly interest untainted by fear cost him considerable effort. "I don't know, Christine. He said nothing to me. But did he say he'd be calling you?"

  Christine thought for a moment. "No."

  "Then he might have had to go somewhere he can't do that."

  "Why wouldn't he be able to call?"

  "Oh, it could be any number of reasons." He could be lying dead in a ditch, for example. "Louis is his own employer, and he sometimes has to go places on business where it would be very hard to call you at a normal hour."

  "Yeah, you're probably right." Christine turned to Helen, who had regained most of her composure. "He didn't tell you he'd call, did he? Just that he'd be back tonight?"

  The petite woman shook her head. "That's all, Chris. Just that he'd be back tonight."

  Schliemann turned to Helen. "Has Christine been staying with you, Helen?"

  Helen colored again. The priest was surprised to see her hand snake out to grasp Christine's. It looked like a very strong grip.

  "Yes, Father." There was a note of defiance behind the words.

  He noticed himself nodding in the characteristic manner of the aged, with his entire torso, and forced himself to stop. You look as if you're on a rocking horse when you do that.

  "Well, it appears you're being well cared for, child. And I'm sure Louis will be back in touch this evening, as he promised."

  Christine shook her head.

  "No, you're not." Her face had gone hard. "Don't lie to me, Father. You think I can't tell when I've taken someone by surprise? You're as worried as I am, or I'll eat your next pound of shit."

  Helen gasped again. "Christine! I'm so sorry, Father, perhaps we'd better go." She rose and began to tug at the young woman's arm, trying to drag Christine out of her chair. Christine didn't budge.

  Schliemann stood and held up his hands. "Peace, Helen. She's right." He waited while the two women settled down. "I might not approve of her choice of idiom, but she's right, and I shouldn't have tried to conceal it. Now let's all calm down. If you like, I'll try to help you make some sense of what you know."

  The two women began to talk excitedly. Schliemann leaned forward and listened.

  ***

  "It's easy to worry about him, isn't it, Father?" Helen's mouth quirked into a rueful smile. "Not that it helps much."

  Schliemann nodded. "Truer words were never spoken, Helen. He's the most headlong person I know. How did you come to know him?"

  Helen glanced over her shoulder toward the lavatory. Christine showed no sign of returning.

  "I run the women's department at Albrecht's. He brought Chris to me and asked me to help buy her clothes."

  "Ah, so you're responsible for the improvement in her wardrobe! My compliments, dear. I knew it couldn't be Louis's work."

  "You mean the King of Flannel Shirts? No, mostly he watched."

  Schliemann chuckled and folded his hands over his knee. "I must admit to a preference for the fashions of bygone days myself, but then I would, being old. And a priest is supposed to disregard the communicant's worldly raiment and attend to the soul, in any case." He paused. "What faith were you brought up in, if I may?"

  Helen frowned slightly. "Episcopalian."

  "Ah, the Anglican Catholics. Lovely people, most of them, regardless of what they think of His Holiness. Do you retain any interest in matters of faith? I'm required by my professional oaths to ask, you know."

  "I, ah, haven't thought about it for a long time."

  "A pity. I enjoy talking about such things with persons not of my fold. A pastor gets entirely too much deference from his parishioners."

  Mischief entered Helen's eyes. "Do you? Well, we'll have to bring Christine to visit more often, won't we?"

  "The girl is a pistol, and no doubt of it. But you know her history. If anyone's entitled to a little plain speaking, she is."

  Helen threw another glance over her shoulder. "Father, I know a
bout clerical confidentiality, but there is one thing I'd like to ask about Louis."

  "Ask away, dear. I'll answer if I can."

  She slid forward in her seat and dropped her voice. "Is he gay?"

  Schliemann chuckled. "Louis is heterosexual, Helen."

  "He would have told you otherwise, wouldn't he?"

  "I think so."

  "Damn." She straightened up. "Excuse me, Father, it's just that --"

  "No need to explain, dear. I understand."

  Christine stepped out of the lavatory to a rumble of rushing water.

  ***

  "Louis, no."

  "Miles, I have to, so you might as well quit arguing with me about it and help me get moving." Louis struggled against a flood of pain from his abdomen as he dressed.

  Jefferson shook his head. "You won't get ten feet from the front doors before your incisions open up."

  "Is this your way of trying to tell me you might have dropped a stitch?" Closing the zipper of his jeans seemed to take all the strength he had. Thankfully, the waistband was several inches above the incision.

  "Louis, I'm trying to keep you alive!"

  He fastened the buttons on his shirt, trying not to look at his friend. "I know, Miles, and I love you for it. But I have to do this. If you sewed me up properly, I haven't got anything to worry about. Believe me, I already know about the pain."

  "What in the world do you have to do that's so Goddamned important that you can't stay here another week and finish convalescing?"

  Louis faced Jefferson squarely. The young physician's face was a picture of incomprehension. "I have a responsibility. I left it with someone else for a little while, and it's time to pick it up again. Believe me, you would do the same." He grinned. "What do you think I needed the time for, anyway? Television?"

  The resident sputtered for several seconds before hurling himself into the room's guest chair. Louis sat on the edge of his bed and studied his friend.

  "I suppose it can't hurt to tell you. Remember a motorcycle accident victim from about six weeks ago? A young woman with heavy facial damage? I'll bet a dollar to a doughnut you sewed her up, too."