She watched the water as it filled the tub. Soon it will be red with blood. The fear was gone. Instead, she was filled with peace. What will be, will be. She stepped into the scalding water, and with a bar of disinfectant soap she scrubbed herself until she was raw.
Crouched in the bath, her legs apart, she took the long wire and carefully inserted it inside herself until she felt resistance. Oh mon Dieu! Give me the strength. With a sudden hard thrust, she pushed the wire further. Oh! Help me. The pain came suddenly. She bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying, and watched the blood trickling down her legs. She crawled back into her bed and sank into the pain, deeper and deeper, until there was nothing but blackness.
* * *
Chapter 5
After his frightful experience with the lovely Linda, Alex concluded that although his sexual appetite needed tending, he would have to find a way to feed it without really getting involved. No girl was worth abandoning his dreams. Soon, he found that seduction came easily to him.
On a first date, he invited a girl to dinner and talked about his dreams and goals. He made her feel privileged to be hearing his intimate thoughts. He hinted about how special he found her and talked about wanting someone in his life. The second date was similar to the first, but ended with some deep kissing and heavy petting. On the third date, he took her dancing. During slow romantic music, he held her tight and let her feel the hardness of his body. It worked nearly every time. When he asked a girl back to his apartment, she said yes. There the girl would spend the most romantic and sensuous night of her life. In the morning she would leave convinced that she had found the man of her dreams. After that, she would never hear from Alexander Ivanov again.
Whenever he felt guilty, Alex quickly reminded himself of everything he wanted to accomplish. I don't have time to fall in love. There's too much I need to accomplish.
* * *
By midterms, Alex had a problem. Even though his scholarship covered tuition fees, he still had to come up with money for food and other living expenses. His patiently nurtured bank account was diminishing quickly. With winter coming, there were new boots and a warm coat to buy, and countless other expenses that he could not afford. Although he would have preferred to concentrate all of his spare time on studying, his financial situation would not allow it.
As fate would have it, a few days later, Alex opened up a newspaper and found what seemed to be a possible solution. In the classified section was an ad for a second shift watchman, five hours a day, from four p.m. to ten p.m. He applied at Durring & Durring Construction Materials and was hired on the spot.
“It's not a hard job,” the foreman told him. “You have to check the loads as they leave. Make sure nobody tries to sneak anything out. Between inspections, you do what you like.”
Perfect, I can bring my books and study.
From then on, every night after classes, he took the subway all the way to the rusted and crumbling dockside along the equally pathetic West Side Highway. There, among a myriad of eyesores, stood the huge and decrepit warehouse that was headquarters to Durring & Durring. A high wire fence with a heavy metal gate surrounded the building and lumberyard.
He was stationed by the entrance, in a hut not much smaller than his apartment. In one corner was a cot, in the other a wood-burning stove that provided heat during the winter months, and in the center was a small table and two chairs. All the comforts of home, thought Alex.
* * *
“Hey kid.” The yard supervisor closed the door hard behind him and walked up to the table. “There's another big project going up near the airport.” As he came nearer, Alex noticed the smell of alcohol on the man's breath.
“Really? What kind of a project is it?”
“How the hell would I know? All I know is that they get their supplies from us. I have the approval sheets for them to pick up the material. I don't care about anything else.” He gave him the necessary papers and continued, “I got a fifteen minute break. Mind if I have some of that coffee? It's warmer in here than out there.” He moved closer to the small wood stove in the corner as he spoke.
Alex shook his head. “I don't mind Barney, as long as you don't mind if I read.”
“Read? What are you reading?” He was already standing over Alex's shoulder, trying to read his notes. “Basic Principles of Architecture. Well what do you know? Are you studying to be an architect?”
“That's right,” he answered exasperated. The last thing he wanted was to waste time chatting. He had hundreds of pages to read, tons of material to learn. He opened his book and buried his nose in it. Maybe the supervisor would get the hint.
“No kidding? Isn't that a coincidence? My son used to be an architect.”
Alex nodded. “Really…” he mumbled, uninterested and kept reading.
“You don't believe me do you? Well, it's the truth. He used to work with James B. Southern.” The name was one of the most respected in the profession. Barney saw the disbelief on Alex's face. “You think I'm making this up? I'll show you. I'll bring you some of the plans he drew. Then you'll believe me.”
The next evening when Alex arrived for his shift, Barney was already waiting for him. “Take a look at these.” The old man trembled with excitement as he unrolled the sheaves of paper. “I haven't taken these out in years.”
Alex bent over the plans. Even at a glance, he knew they were good. His eyes traveled to the lower right corner. There, in block letters, was the stamp, ‘Sidney R Taylor'. “These are good Barney. What is your son working on now?”
The old man looked down at his feet and shrugged. “He’s dead.” Alex could read the misery on Barney’s face, making him look years older. He turned slowly and shuffled out of the cabin. A few autumn leaves blew inside and the door slammed shut behind him.
Fall became winter and for weeks Barney avoided Alex. One day, the door to the shack flew open and Barney stormed in. “Hey, kid, it's cold out there. Mind if I come in to warm up?”
Alex pulled out the second chair for him. “Have a seat.”
Barney closed the door and hurried to the stove. He warmed himself for a few minutes and said bitterly. “He was a good architect, you know.”
“I know.”
Alex's response took Barney by surprise. “Yeh?” he continued testily. “More than that, he was damn good.”
Alex nodded. “I saw his plans. They were great.”
Barney moved closer and his eyes shone with fervor. “You do believe me, don't you? Don't make his mistake, Alex. Damn liquor.” He looked at Alex shamefully. “That’s what did him in. And now he’s gone.”
There was nothing Alex could say. He hesitated for a moment. “Barney, I’d like to hear about your son. What was he like? What were his dreams?”
Barney's eyes lit up. “Really? You’re interested in hearing about him?”
“Do you mind?”
Nothing could have made the old man happier. Having found an audience, Barney launched into his son’s story with abandon. “Sure. I'll tell you about him. But if you want to be successful like him, I’ll tell you how he did it. The first lesson is the easiest and the hardest. Are you listening to me boy?” He searched Alex's face, to make sure he was listening. “The first lesson is learning to dream big dreams. That’s what Sidney did.”
“What do you mean?” asked Alex, surprised.
“Listen to me, boy! You go ahead and dream up the most incredible buildings, buildings that are impossible to create. Then make them possible. Sidney found a solution for every insurmountable problem. Architects who build easy buildings are a dime a dozen.” His eyes twinkled with excitement. “But my Sidney, he could dream! So tell me boy, can you dream?”
A few nights later when Barney looked at Alex's sketches, he burst out laughing. “Well, these sure aren't chicken shit. What is this? The tallest building in the world?”
“That's right,” replied Alex, without a trace of a smile.
Barney was thoughtful for a moment.
“Well, like Sidney always said, dreams are free. You’d be a fool to not dream big.”
* * *
Chapter 6
It was the noise that awakened her. Brigitte was lying on her bed, naked, when Marcel broke the door down. As he came closer, he saw the blood. “What the hell…” He turned and ran back outside. By then a small group had gathered in the doorway to see what all the commotion was about. “Get an ambulance,” he ordered the first person he saw. The woman looked at him with an expression of mild annoyance. “I said, get an ambulance,” he screamed. “Or do you want that girl to die?” The woman turned and ran. He walked back to the bed and covered Brigitte with a blanket. “Don't worry. Everything will be all right.”
* * *
The hospital was a tall gray building. On the seventh floor, the surgical team rushed to try and save the girl's life. When the bleeding stopped, the chief surgeon inspected the damage. “Peritonitis from a ruptured posterior fornix,” he said, his voice showing no sign of emotion. “She has a fever of one-hundred-and-three degrees.” He stopped and shook his head in frustration. “Why the hell do young girls risk their lives that way? Don't they know they can kill themselves?” Once again his voice became professional. “Give her one hundred percent O2, Ringer's lactate one hundred c.c. per hour and put her in I.C.U. Make sure you report her to Psychiatry.”
* * *
Brigitte hovered between life and death. One minute she shivered violently from chills only to find herself sweating profusely the next. Everything was hazy. The walls, the sheets, even the intern who adjusted the intravenous and gave her medication looked more like an apparition than like a living person. Brigitte lay in the bare room, unsure where she was and not caring. There was no more life inside of her. That was all that mattered. Nightmares of her stepfather crawling into her bed started her screaming. Seconds later, she laughed hysterically. She had no idea how close to the edge of insanity she was. When the nurse who came in to help her eat tried to talk to her, Brigitte could not make out what she said.
* * *
She slept on and off for three days. Then her fever abated. When she woke, Marcel was sitting next to her. “You're going to be all right,” he said. “You and your baby will be fine.” The words and their meaning echoed through her mind. You and your baby…baby…baby… She had not succeeded. The child was still alive.
Brigitte looked away and began to cry.
* * *
The next day, Brigitte received the visit of Doctor Swanson. With his full blonde beard and his long disheveled hair, Swanson looked more like an escapee from an insane asylum than like the reputed psychiatrist he was. He sat at the foot of Brigitte's bed with a stack of papers on his lap and stared at her intensely. He looks like he's trying to get into my mind, thought Brigitte. As though he had heard her thoughts, Swanson smiled and began to talk.
“You had us all scared there for awhile.” His manner was calm and reassuring. He paused for a moment before continuing. “Can you tell me why?”
Brigitte looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. The urge to speak was almost overwhelming. She felt a torrent of words pushing against the dam inside. Tell him. Just tell him. She held back with the knowledge that if the dam broke, there would be no controlling the pain that would come with it. She looked up at him. “The important thing,” she said, her voice steady, “is that I won't do it again.”
Swanson looked at her. Her eyes were clear and her jaw set. Instinctively he knew he would get nothing more out of her. “You're absolutely sure about that?”
“Absolutely.” Her voice was sad but firm.
“What are your plans?”
“I've given the matter a lot of thought. I'll have the baby, and I'll give it up for adoption,” she answered.
“That is probably the most sensible thing to do, but it still won't be easy.” He peered at her more closely. This girl surprised him. After the physical ordeal she had just gone through, others her age would be frightened and weepy. Instead Brigitte Dartois was firm and determined. A strong girl, he thought.
Brigitte looked at him and smiled. “Nothing is easy.”
He nodded. “You're right, but when people find themselves in difficult situations, life can be easier when they know they are doing the right thing.” He scribbled a few words on the top sheet of his pad and put his pen back in the breast pocket of his white lab coat. “I'll sign the release forms as soon as you're better.” He tore off the bottom of the sheet and handed it to Brigitte. “Here's the name and telephone number of a good adoption agency. Give them a call as soon as you can.” At the door he turned and looked at her again. “Courage,” he said and gave her a thumbs up. Then he walked out.
* * *
Brigitte waited for each of Marcel's visits with nervous anticipation. Surprisingly, and to her immense relief, he did not ask her a single question about her pregnancy. His only comment was, “You should have come to me.” He seemed to understand intuitively that the entire experience had been tragic for Brigitte, and the last thing he wanted to do was cause her any more pain.
After the initial shock, Marcel had come to the conclusion that he should not have been surprised. The girl was, after all, sixteen and on her own. Still, Brigitte was a puzzle to him. From the little he knew of her, she had struck him as being reserved and sexually immature. He had no idea what to think.
He knocked at Brigitte's hospital door.
“Come in,” Brigitte called out, and smiled as she saw him. “Bonjour pa—Marcel. I'm so happy to see you.”
“How are you?” He handed her a bunch of flowers and watched as she buried her face in the fragrant blooms.
“Lilacs, my favorite! Thank you Marcel. You spoil me.”
“This is not spoiling you my dear. This is nothing.”
“I have good news. I can go home tomorrow.” Her eyes clouded over. “I don't know what to do. The doctor says I can't go back to work right away.”
Marcel saw the flash of pain and desperation in her eyes and he immediately felt protective. If only Hélène was vulnerable like this girl, he thought. The only thing my wife wants is a slave to order around. He patted her hand sympathetically. “I don't want you to worry about a thing. I'll help you anyway I can. What are friends for?” he asked with a chuckle, amazed at how good her helplessness made him feel.
* * *
Chapter 7
Going to school all day and then working from four to ten was an exhausting schedule, one which Alex often worried would break him. There were indisputable advantages to this job, however. Aside from his generous salary and the many hours of undisturbed studying, it offered the added bonus of always knowing every new real estate development where the company's materials were used. On weekends, armed with his Durring & Durring work pass, Alex was able to visit the sites of every important project in the city, gathering valuable knowledge in the process.
Every stage of construction held magical fascination for him. Alex watched as gigantic cranes dug holes the size of football fields. As steel frames rose, so did his heart. He gazed in wonder as giant metal skeletons became beautiful modern structures of strong, rich, gleaming marble and shimmering iridescent glass. At times such as those, he knew beyond doubt that his decision to study architecture had been the right one.
Still, Alex's double life—student by day and watchman by night—was difficult. It demanded unwavering discipline and countless sacrifices. Late at night, when he counted out stacks of plywood in the back of some truck, or when he fought to stay awake during class the next morning, Alex pushed himself on with the same thought. Someday…
Three years later Alex graduated at the top of his class. He was the only graduate without a family member or friend to watch him receive his diploma. As he stood onstage looking into the sea of smiling faces in the audience, he felt a million miles away from Brooklyn.
* * *
Chapter 8
The apartment was more beautiful than any Brigitte had ever see
n. The ceilings were high and had intricately carved moldings. South facing windows offered plenty of sunshine and a lovely view of the courtyard. There was a large master bedroom and a second, smaller room with a balcony. The living and dining rooms were generously proportioned and the kitchen was equipped with modern appliances.
It was the kind of apartment Brigitte imagined was lavishly furnished and featured in decorating magazines—the kind where wealthy people lived. Not something I could ever afford, she thought soberly.
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