Praise Her, Praise Diana

by Anne Rothman-Hicks

  One afternoon, Carina arrived at the house. She had paid a taxi driver hundreds of dollars to bring her there. She was waving a piece of paper, calling my name joyfully. At the time, I was on the roof patching holes with new plywood that I intended to cover with tarpaper and shingles before the day was over. She had memorized the license number on the van that day we had seen it in the city. She had tracked them down. She knew their names. She knew where they lived. Revenge was in our grasp. She was sure I would love her again. That was the reason for her joy.

  I continued to work on the roof, pounding with the hammer, not even acknowledging her presence. At some point she stopped calling to me.

  When I finally got down off the ladder, it was nearly dark. Carina was gone. I went inside the house and stripped decayed plaster off the ceiling and one wall of the rear bedroom until I was tired enough to sleep.

  Two days later, the police informed me that she had drowned herself in the Hudson River.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Diana sat in the darkness. She straightened her legs in front of her and crossed them at the ankles. The room held one tall, thin window over which the shades were drawn so that no light penetrated and she could concentrate fully. Her elbows rested on the arms of an easy chair; her hands formed a tent just in front of her face and the fingertips pressed against each other as a list took shape in her mind.

  Who deserved to die?

  Did the woman who stole a man away from his wife deserve to die? Did it matter if she didn’t try to seduce him? But what woman would say she didn’t ever try to attract a man, if only for the fun of it? Did it matter that she in fact loved him? Or that he may have loved her?

  Did the woman who refused to see the selfishness of her acts and the pain she caused deserve to die?

  Did the woman who was raped by two animals and never made any effort to have them removed from the streets deserve to die?

  Did the woman who took advantage of a vulnerable, semi-crippled woman, a love-starved old bag living beyond her era of usefulness deserve to die?

  Did the woman who stopped caring about her own children deserve to die?

  Did the woman who used the Diana killings to help her career deserve to die?

  Did the woman who would not fight to hold on to the person she loved deserve to die?

  Did the woman who was not moved by the story of even one of her fellow women being raped or abused deserve to die?

  Did the woman who did not want blood revenge for what happened to Heather deserve to die?

  Did the woman who lied to her lover and to her friends and to herself deserve to die?

  Did the woman who brought shame on the memory of her lover deserve to die?

  YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Jane’s anger began to soften halfway back to New York. She was sure that Maggie had been wrong to expect her to just give up so much of her work and life this abruptly. And yet in retrospect, her own reaction seemed excessive, all consuming. She had felt as if a fire were burning through her and her emotions were like glowing embers, flickering with flame, each one clear and focused, each with its own justification. Now it was all just gray ash.

  Something had been bothering Maggie that she could not or would not tell Jane, causing her to act as she had. Like a child excluded from a secret, Jane had lashed out. She should have been loving, gentle and insistent but instead had failed Maggie when her need was the greatest.

  She stopped the car and dialed Maggie’s number, but with her phone turned off, the cycle of resentment started inside Jane again. Maggie was making it impossible to apologize without returning to her bed. So be it.

  She left a curt message. “If you want to talk, I’m ready any time.”

  The nurses on duty at the hospital had asked Jane to wait until noon on Sunday to visit, and she arrived a few minutes before the hour. Outside on the sidewalks, film crews from the local TV networks were set up. She recognized some of the talking heads from the courthouse the day that Maureen went before the grand jury, and from previous occasions when they gathered to film a handcuffed politician on his “perp walk” to the courthouse for arraignment or to publicize the parties in a particularly salacious civil matter. Until they were on camera, projecting an image of sincerity and serious purpose, those TV personalities could be found drinking coffee, eating and making small talk, sharing jokes and flirting, oblivious and indifferent to the crime or other human foible that brought them there.

  Today, Susan Hempten was the exception among them. She was extremely agitated. Her jaw was set and she cast angry glances in the direction of every laugh she heard, every loud piece of conversation that drifted within earshot. Even her clothes reflected her glowering mood. Gone was the usual low-cut blouse or stretch top that showed off her figure to such beneficial effect. She wore a blouse buttoned to the neck with a blazer that revealed no hint of her shapeliness. A pair of slacks and flat shoes completed the transformation.

  When she saw Jane, she walked over to her with quick, jabbing steps, her leather soles seeming to assault the very sidewalk for its lack of proper compassion. No makeup hid the angry lines at the corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” she said to Jane. It was an accusation more than a statement of fact.

  “I had a problem with my phone,” Jane replied. “What did you want to tell me?”

  Susan’s face bore a mix of skepticism and condescension. Did everyone know that she and Maggie were arguing? Had it been obvious from the beginning that they were doomed to fail?

  “I’ve spoken to several of the board members,” Susan said after a moment. “We all feel that WPW needs to take an active role at this point. We need some sort of plan, some response to this travesty.”

  “Call Sheila.”

  Again there was that look on her face, tinged now with scorn.

  “None of us can reach her. That damned bitch Judith takes her calls—either Judith or one of her cronies. They tell me or whoever calls that they will deliver the message but they never do.”

  “Maybe Sheila doesn’t want to talk.”

  “Sheila has never been rude to any of us in all the time we’ve known her, and most certainly not to Ari, who also tried to reach her. I doubt that Sheila is taking this opportunity to abandon her friends and her sense of duty. It’s that bitch, I tell you! She’s on some sort of power trip and her cronies are already picketing outside the bar. She thinks she speaks for all women.”

  “Maybe she does.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Martha would have liked her. She does things at least.”

  “Martha’s dead, Jane. This is our problem to deal with and it’s not enough just to act. We have to act with purpose, with a view to what we can accomplish realistically.”

  Jane’s fatigue was like a weight across her shoulders, pulling her down.

  “Was Diana realistic?” she asked. “Were any of us?”

  There was a pause. Susan’s face seemed to freeze for a moment. Then the anger was there again.

  “Diana must be stopped as well,” she said. “And if WPW has to do that also, then so be it. But WPW must act.”

  “Then we’ll call a special meeting. I’m sure the by-laws allow a majority of the trustees to act without the chairwoman and to replace her if necessary. I’ll check them when I get back to the office and call you and the others. Although I have to say, I don’t think picketing is a bad idea.”

  “Demonstrating is fine. Picking a fight is not. The cops had to station several officers there 24/7 to keep Judith’s hooligans and the hooligans in the bar away from each other. We need WPW to get involved and bring sensible women and men to that bar instead.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  * * * *

  Upstairs, Jane saw David’s sister, Louisa, sitting in a waiting area near his room. She wore a black mini-skirt over heavy black tights and a short-sleeved black
top with swirling pink and cream patterns. Physically, she was a slightly less good-looking version of David, with dark auburn hair and irritated skin. In childhood photos, Louisa and David both had hair so blond it was almost white. Jane had thought that if she and David were to have children they would look like that—like angels.

  They had only met once, when Louisa and a friend had stayed overnight at Jane’s apartment, using an air mattress and sleeping bag in the living room. They had arrived late and left early, being very careful to clean up after themselves and to put everything back where it had been, leaving no trace that they had passed through at all—the very opposite of David. When Louisa wrote a thank you note a week later, Jane and David had had a huge fight after she commented on the fact that his sister, at least, knew some manners.

  Now, when they embraced, Louisa held on to Jane for a longer time than Jane had expected. Louisa was crying and trying her best to compose herself. Jane patted her gently on the back and did not pull away.

  “Thank you for coming,” Louisa said.

  “How is he?”

  Louisa started to answer and stopped. Her face seemed to tremble; she bit her lip and then started crying again.

  “I don’t know how to answer that, Jane,” she said finally. “He looks like my brother. His name is on the patient chart. But it’s not David in that room. It’s someone else.”

  “He’s had a very bad trauma, Louisa. He’ll be okay.”

  She nodded quickly in agreement, but it was only with a great effort that she held back a new flood of tears.

  “He’s just been lying in that bed until a little while ago, when he got a phone call from a woman who didn’t identify herself. I don’t know what she said to him. He barely said two words in reply, just ‘yes ... yes.’ Afterward he got out of bed at least. That was a good sign, the doctor said. But he seems even less willing to talk, at least in any meaningful way.”

  “Let’s go in together,” Jane said.

  When they entered the hospital room, Detective Smalley was sitting by David’s bed. He stood up.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane said. “I didn’t know you were here, Detective.”

  “It’s all right,” David said. “Come in. Detective Smalley was just leaving. Correct, Detective?”

  David’s voice was hoarse and slightly nasal from his broken nose, and he spoke in a monotone that was unnerving to Jane. His face was badly bruised. His eyes were puffed so that he gazed at her through slits. His left arm was in a cast. A brace held his head straight, so his entire upper body had to turn robot-like if he wanted to look in a different direction.

  Smalley nodded. He started for the door.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “Why wait?” David said. “You want to take me back over there. We can go now.”

  “I’ll be happy to come again later,” Jane said.

  “No, no, I want you to come too,” David said. “I’ve told the Detective that I have no recollection of any of the people who did this to me. I have no confidence that will change when I get there.” He twisted his body in Smalley’s direction. “But maybe Jane can help, Detective. She’s very intuitive. Like all women. Heather had an intuition, herself. She wanted to stay home on Saturday night. Not that it did her any good. I didn’t listen to her. I didn’t do anything else for her either.”

  “That’s obviously not true,” Smalley said. “Your injuries tell a different story.”

  David shrugged.

  “I’m alive,” he said. “That in and of itself is an affront to me.”

  * * * *

  On the car ride over to Jarvey’s Bar, David sat in the front beside Smalley. Jane sat in the back with Louisa, who wept intermittently.

  “Even my sister is invoking her intuitive side now, Detective,” David said. “Like comic book heroes, women hide their superpowers until they are needed, and then they whip them out. They know what we think. What we will do. Have you noticed that, Detective? Have you noticed how your wife can look into the depths of your soul to find truth—naked unadulterated truth? You are married, aren’t you? I see a ring.”

  “Yes,” Smalley said quietly, after a moment.

  “Jane and I were almost married, weren’t we, love?” David said. “But then her intuition told her I was cheating on her, and that was that.”

  He started to twist his body toward the backseat, grimaced at the pain, and resumed looking blankly at the passing street and sidewalks.

  “The detective doesn’t want to know about us, David,” Jane said.

  “Oh, but you are wrong,” David replied, still speaking with no inflection. “The detective told me he needs to know everything that I can remember. There are clues everywhere. Maybe there’s a clue in the way we broke up. Who knows? Remember the woman who accused me at the exhibit? Huh? Maybe Detective Smalley can see some connection between her and Diana and your sudden highly-evolved intuition and your friendship with Maggie and your—”

  “David, stop!” Louisa screamed. “Stop being cruel.”

  “Cruel?” David said, drawing the sound of the word out as though he had never heard it used before. “Do you know what you’re saying? Truth can’t be cruel. Truth is truth, right Detective? It is neither good, nor bad, nor grasping, nor selfish, nor petty. It’s truth. Unfortunately, in this case, the truth shall not set me free. The truth is my prison. As I said, my life is an affront to me.”

  They rode in silence for the rest of the short trip. When they reached the street where the bar was located, they had to stop at a barricade, and the police officers on duty pulled it aside to allow the car to pass. The doors at the front of the bar were open. The forensics team had finished their work, and bits of police tape remained on the doorknob and around a nearby lamppost. A man stood in the doorway. He was in his forties and thin, with cheekbones that seemed about to poke through his skin, straight brown hair that fell limply across his forehead, and an unshaven face dark with stubble. When he saw the police car arrive, he ducked into the bar and several men came out onto the sidewalk and stood in a makeshift line, arms folded across their chests.

  On the side of the street opposite the bar, Jane saw Judith. Around her were several women wearing the familiar down coats, wool caps and boots of Diana.

  “Justice!” Judith called, echoed by the women with her and one or two others who had stopped to watch. “Get ready for justice, gentlemen!”

  David got out of the car slowly, supported by Detective Smalley’s arm. One of the men in the line who was much bigger than the others, whispered something that caused the others to unfold their arms and let them hang at their sides, like soldiers awaiting review. When Jane lagged behind at the car with Louisa, David turned in his awkward way and motioned her forward. On the lampposts and parking meters along the street were signs hung by the Eumenides, calling for a demonstration starting at 6:00 p.m. Monday night. WOMEN OF NEW YORK, UNITE AGAINST YOUR OPPRESSORS!

  Jane stayed on David’s left side and Detective Smalley on his right as they walked along the row of men and then back again. The men’s expressions varied as David scrutinized them. Some were nervous. Some defiant. Some angry. Some unconcerned.

  “Justice!” Judith screamed from across the street.

  “Justice,” David said softly. “By all means, justice. But do any of these men seem capable of assaulting a woman who could not defend herself, who had done nothing to them whatsoever, who was as blameless as their own wives and daughters?” He continued to walk slowly as he spoke. “What does your intuition tell you, Jane?” He stopped in front of the very large man. “Take this man for example,” he said. “Is it conceivable to you that a man who looks like this could have participated in the rape of a blameless woman? What do you say, Jane? Shall we accuse him?”

  The man seemed to stiffen in response to David’s words. Smalley stood as still as a cat, ready to pounce.

  “David, just tell the truth,” Jane said.

  “The truth? There goes th
at word again. The truth that is never cruel.” He leaned his body close to the big man. His face was just inches away. “The truth is that all I remember is the sound of Heather’s voice calling out my name, desperately, over and over again as she was assaulted, as though to the very end she was sure I would save her. But I could not, and that is the truth. That is my prison.” He stepped back, raised his right hand to rub the side of his face, and dropped it by his side again. He continued down the line of men, stopping at each one. “Sorry, but I don’t recognize anyone here.”

  “Justice!” Judith screamed again.

  “Such a lovely word,” said David.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  On Sunday evening, Judith sat in the small study in Sheila’s apartment a few minutes before nine o’clock when the conference call was to start. Judith had not told Sheila, and the lights were off in case Sheila got out of bed and started on one of her nocturnal wanderings around the apartment. It was best if she not see a crack of light beneath the door and burst in at the wrong moment.

  Judith had intercepted the e-mail that Jane had sent to all the WPW board members advising them of the telephone conference that evening. As usual, there was a phone number for the board members to call, as well as an agenda for the meeting—the removal of Sheila as chairwoman of the board, the election of a new individual, and “such other business as may properly come before the board.” It was all very lawful and proper. Jane, the fallen warrior, was doing their bidding. Assholes! Let them try. They were powerless to stop what Judith had planned.

  She dialed in just before the time when the conference call was supposed to start and remained silent when Susan asked everyone to identify themselves and those on the line dutifully gave their names: Jane Larson, Charmaine Devon, Jenna Worley, Ellen Briars, Ari Fields.