by Farris, John
Carol gagged but didn't retch. The gag reflex set off the alarm in her bloodstream, restored the coldness of rebellion to an unsteady heart. She prodded again and vomited, then went to her knees on the tile floor, too dizzy and sick to stand.
Again, she thought, feverishly, and pulled herself up. She turned on the cold-water tap and leaned backward over the tub, letting the water gush down her throat until she was bloated and choking. Then, tears streaming down her cheeks, soaked to the waist, she rolled stomach-down with her head hanging and made herself vomit again, this time into the tub.
The abuse almost caused her to faint, and Carol slipped senselessly to the floor. But after a few moments she blindly dragged a towel from the rack. She wet it, then soaked her face until it no longer felt waxen. She had the hiccups. She felt as if she was going to fly into hysterics. She was certain they had heard her and had come upstairs. They would make her drink a pint of their oversweet tea, and she would go to sleep and never wake up.
When it became possible, Carol rocked to her knees, like an old mama buffalo wallowing up out of a rice paddy, grasping the lip of the tub for support. Her head was clearer now, and she didn't feel as if she might nod off at any moment. She sank blunt teeth into her lower lip and stood erect. The whipsawing of the chain had forced the door open partway. She opened it more and looked out. She heard nothing except the cold rapping of rain against the double windows. A run of lightning turned the white bedroom to a scintillate blue. She walked back to the bed, the floor level now. Nevertheless, she put one foot in front of the other with extraordinary care. Her heartbeat was nearly normal. Her hands tingled, but there was strength in them.
She would not sleep until she was ready. She would remember what she needed to remember. It was a victory. It established her as a person again, not a cowed unthinking chain-wearing thing.
Dull shaking of thunder, like—
Like combers slamming phosphorescent against the Big Sur coast, slamming down there in the dark and dwindling away to salty foam as the next big one tucked and lunged, and oh God how safe there with Dev in the A-frame on the high spit of sand. There beside the huge stone fireplace with just enough scattered fire left to cozy up the dark and reflect from his eyes, from the hanging glossy lock, the naked chest and tanned straining thighs as he—
There was a clear arc of lightning outside the gleaming windows; involuntarily she threw up her hands.
Oh God oh God what am I doing here?
That's your blue Sting Ray parked outside?
Carol fell face down on the bed, covering her damp head with the pillow. The dog collar felt like iron at her throat. As the rain fell heavily on the roof she was swept into a drowning panic.
Please get me out of here, Dev!
But that was over. Dev was gone. She couldn't hope that he would help her.
Because of the collar she had to sit up after a while to catch her breath. She held the weight of the chain in her hands, too depressed to curse it. Above her head the square window glowed from a pulse of lightning, darkened again. The rain fell ceaselessly, and Carol shuddered. The shudder turned into a comfortable yawn. She was beginning to feel the least bit drowsy after all the punishment her body had accepted: drowsy and reconciled. But the alarm ran through her blood again, plunged like a steel needle into the heart.
She stood up on the bed, careful not to shake it, not wanting to make noise. But she sensed that the rain had effectively soundproofed the room.
She could easily reach the deep sill of the window with her hands. By climbing—bare feet gripping the Janus masks worked into the iron headboard—she found that she could raise herself high enough to see through the pane.
Not that there was anything to see. Rain, darkness.
The sill seemed deep enough and wide enough to sit in. If she could look down, then she would know just how high she was.
The bed trembled as Carol thrust herself upward; she supported herself on elbows and forearms, clawed for a handhold and found a lever of some sort, then twisted and wormed higher until she had one hip seated on the recessed sill. The space was small. She discovered that she could sit in reasonable comfort with her head and shoulders bent, one leg tucked under her, the other hanging down. There was still about seven feet of chain left.
For the first time during her captivity she was able to see in all directions from the white bedroom. Carol stared through the rain and murk, unable to read the land. Then below, off to her left, almost out of her line of vision, she saw the light of a tall window slanted across the muddy, well-trampled ground. Beyond it she could make out a shed of some sort, or a garage.
Lightning flickered a few miles away, and she received an impression of distant hills. She closed her eyes tightly and counted slowly to sixty and looked out again. Now she thought she could see pinpoints of light, moving, vanishing, reappearing. Far off. She had no sense of distance. They seemed to be the headlights of automobiles. Her discovery excited her.
The window was of the casement type, opening outward. It could be locked by means of the curved lever which she had grasped to pull herself up to the perch she now occupied. Carol played with the handle. In the up position the window was unlocked. When she pushed against it she felt the window give slightly, but it seemed stuck in the frame. Probably it had been painted over numerous times since it was last opened. Just outside, the roof dropped steeply to a metal gutter, now brimming over with rainwater.
Twenty feet, no, twenty-five to the ground, Carol judged. She looked out again. Thunder, rain, the weaving, shifting pinpoints of light. They seemed no closer. She yawned. It had been fun getting up there. But it was now time to go down, go to sleep.
The thought set off a fit of trembling. No.
No, that was what Big Jim and the others wanted. They wanted her to go to sleep and never wake up.
In the automobiles, out there, were people who could help her. If they could see her, then they would come to help. The tawny shepherd had dug himself free and had run, run, but she needed help; she could not break the chain that made her a prisoner.
Prisoner, Carol thought, shuddering violently. Oh, Dev, oh, dear Dev, Jesus, help—
If she could just open the window, climb out onto the roof, then someone would notice her there. Someone who could make Big Jim let her go.
Carol pushed against the stuck window, but she was not in a position to get her maximum strength into the effort. She stopped to catch her breath, then turned awkwardly, getting both knees under her. Her shoulders were wedged against the raked ceiling of the window space. She locked her hands and this time shoved with her forearms, straining forward, gasping with effort.
The window swung wide on a broken hinge and Carol pitched out into the rain, tumbling headfirst down the slippery roof slant. She sprawled across the gutter, which tore partly away from the roof on impact.
The flailing weight of her legs carried her over the edge. She started to plummet straight down. But the chain snapped taut and the dog collar dug cruelly into the soft flesh beneath her jaw and she came to a jarring stop in the air, her back arched, hands upflung.
In the bedroom the iron bed was jerked back a foot and a half until it crashed against the wall, inclined at an angle.
The bright links of the chain dug a quarter inch into the wood of the windowsill.
Comedy smiled blindly in the dark and Tragedy grimaced, as if in the throes of a frozen scream.
And Carol Watterson was suspended by the neck in the rain, hands brushing against her thighs, turning slowly, palely, with each pendulous motion of her body.
Chapter Six
Saturday, June 29
When the typewriter stopped and she heard Sam moving around in his room Felice shut the heavy loose-leaf book and shoved it under her pillow. Sam came in after a while, a glass with a generous portion of gin in one hand. She turned her head on the pillow. From the puffiness of his eyes and the way his mouth was stitched into a half grimace she could tell he had been d
oing an unusual amount of drinking, fueling his attack on the typewriter. But he wasn't drunk. It would be better for him if he could get good and drunk, she thought, and she smiled half sleepily, pleased to see him.
"Not sleeping?"
"Just lying here," Felice said.
"I'm sorry—the typewriter—"
"No, it doesn't bother me."
"Let me get you a drink."
"No. Just sit with me, Sam."
The rain had let up; she hadn't really been aware of the rain for the past half hour or so. It was now after midnight. And it was Saturday, she realized. But she didn't want to think about that. It was not credible. Not Saturday already. She hoped it wouldn't rain much longer. Most of the week they'd been blessed with hot sun. She and Kevin had literally worn each other out—with tennis, swimming, horses—while poor Sam had stuck close to the telephone. If she'd had to stay in the house she'd be a lunatic by now, Felice thought. Sam had known that. He'd insisted she get out, and the games and the sun had relaxed, even stunned her, as thoroughly as medication.
Felice moved over to make room for him on the side of her bed. "How's the article coming?"
"I can't tell. I haven't had the heart to stop and read through it." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. He was unshaven, his chin a stubbly gray, and his face had begun to look emaciated. "You're dark as a squaw," he said approvingly. She touched the side of his neck and felt all the stiffness and tension that was in him. It worried her.
"Your turn tomorrow," she said. "Why don't you and Kevin go sailing? You've only been once, and June is almost gone." Sam shook his head automatically. "You need a break," she said insistently. "I'm fine now. I can handle it if they call." Sam sat back and rubbed his eyes, fought a yawn. Felice dropped her hand. "Besides, I don't think anyone's going to call. It's been too long."
Sam looked unbelievingly at her. She smiled back at him, calmly. "I think it's obvious now. This is like The Collector. It's some poor demented boy who had the nerve to kidnap her. But he wouldn't hurt her; he's not violent. He's lonely, and he wants companionship.
He saw Carol and fell for her and let his fantasies get out of hand. "That's what it's about, Sam." There was a shading of urgency in her voice. "So I'm not worried about her—"
"There was a ransom note. We can't ignore that."
"It was just a—ploy, meant to mislead us."
"But why write a note at all?"
"Sam," she said, trying to be patient, "there's no other explanation. He never intended to call. But Carol is perfectly all right. She's safe. Eventually she'll talk him into letting her go. Or—"
"I think you're letting your own fantasies get out of hand," he said, too sharply.
Felice said, "—or the FBI will catch up to him."
"I wouldn't put too much faith in them."
Felice sat up. "But look how much they've found out already. And Gaffney always knows more than he's willing to tell us!"
"I—I don't want you to be upset, Felice. They just don't have that much to go on. And they're already looking in a four-state area."
Felice studied him for a long time, and her face hardened and her eyes lost their light of assurance. She said in a low bitter tone, "What do you want me to believe, Sam? That Carol is dead?"
It was viciously unfair and she knew that immediately. He was shocked; his lips moved but he couldn't speak. She made a small lunge and wrapped her arms around him and said painfully, "Sam, Sam, I don't know why!" He soothed her forgivingly; he kissed a bare shoulder and then a pale breast, the dark bolt of nipple driven through the center of it. Her skin was still very warm from the sun, and he was stimulated by the heat and desperate flavor of her. She bent like a bow as his blunt fingers dug into the flesh of her back. Her eyes were wide and alert to the demonstration of need. "Sam?" she said, her breath a sharp explosion in his ear.
They were both rigid and expectant for a few seconds, then the strength went out of him. He got up. "I don't think I would do you any good," he said hopelessly.
Felice felt a clear rush of anger; she was ashamed of her reaction, and brought it under control. She sat cross-legged, uncovered, turning her head to watch him as he walked to the windows overlooking the drive. "My pleasure, then," she said, waiting patiently for her heavy heartbeat to slow, her fingers curled lightly on sensitive thighs.
"Maybe tomorrow I'll be—" His lips were white. He lit a cigarette for himself, his hands awkward; he scorched a fingernail on a quick-burning match. "I would like to get out," he said, peering nervously at the rain. "Provided this clears up. Just to get away from the damned telephone, you know?"
"I know."
"I didn't mean to be so blunt with you. You could have the right idea after all. Gaffney's thought from the beginning that there was something odd about this—snatch, as he calls it. I think he suspects Dev Kaufman could be behind it."
"Good Lord! Dev?" She gave Dev some thought. "The time I met him—what? two years ago?—he seemed intense and excitable, and—very much in love with Carol. But I can't conceive of him doing something like this to her. Besides, Dev is in Europe."
"He's supposed to be. Everyone thinks that's where he is. But he left Madrid more than three weeks ago. There hasn't been a trace of him since then."
"It would be easy to find out if he'd come back to the States."
"I think so." Sam yawned, rubbing his swollen eyes. "I'm starting to go numb," he complained. "It's the damnedest sensation. My head wants to swing around and around as if it were on a pivot."
"Go to bed," she said kindly.
"No, I thought I'd keep you company a little—"
"Sam, go to bed. You're out on your feet."
He shrugged and grinned sheepishly at her. "If you're sure you—"
"I'm fine. And you can't go sailing tomorrow without at least eight hours of sleep. You'd fall out of the boat and drown."
He mumbled, "Bob Kennedy used to say that nobody drowns in Long Island Sound anymore, they decay first."
"Bed," she told him, and got up swiftly to accompany him into his own room. There was a litter of balled-up yellow papers on the bed and floor. She moved the ink-stained typewriter and cleaned up. She made Sam take off his frayed twill work trousers and nearly buttonless shirt—his favorite costume for writing—and switched on the fan of the air-conditioner to replace the cigarette-polluted air in the room. When she looked around, Sam was fast asleep on his side, hollow-checked, his fists lightly clenched. She covered him with a sheet and a spread, turned off the lamp.
The book was Carol's. She had taken it from Carol's room. Felice experienced a residual sense of wrongness whenever she opened it, but she couldn't stop herself: these poems and essays and pages of sometimes harsh self-examination were the best link she had with her daughter now. She had become dependent upon them.
She was surprised by Carol's ability, by the rough-edged unsentimental poems. When she came upon revelations meant for no one else's eyes, Felice was often shaken, then touched by her daughter's humanness, her candor and judgment. And she would have a great deal to think about during the sleepless hours with the book weighing heavy in her lap. Carol was quick-changing before her eyes, like an actress on a runaway strip of film. It was difficult to keep up, to put aside the cherished misconceptions of who her daughter was, and why. Presumptions and prejudices had to be rolled away like heavy stones, allowing Carol room to grow and be herself, to prove her point. Felice read and reread. Eavesdropping, yes—but perhaps it could be justified, she thought.
Let me explain, Carol. When you were a child and could trust me with every emotion and every though: we had a closeness we'll never have again, and being the usual sort of mother that's what I remember best about us, and return to most often. Because it's not so easy to be sentimental about the growing-up time and the growing apart, the necessary time of becoming equals, with all that means to women. There were quarrels sometimes, with a setting-aside of trust, and I think of opportunities I had to make things
smoother for you, and missed, because I didn't always understand what you wanted. All in all we got along well while losing touch; affection was more than a habit with us, thank God, and I suppose you don't think too badly of me now.
Equals. So am I intruding, stealing what is private and untouchable? I hope you wouldn't feel that way, if you knew. I can hear your heartbeat again, and that's what I care about. We're not so different—and you can't imagine the relief I feel knowing that. We're not such strangers. I could talk to you now, easily, with more confidence than I've had in a good many years. Carol, when you come home—
Then she had to stop and close the book and work the cold fish-hook thing out of her heart a little at a time, and after it was gone her hands trembled for several minutes; her breath had a tendency to gather like cotton wadding in her lungs.
Chapter Seven
Dec. 4, 1967—Jan. 5, 1968
CAROL'S BOOK
Dec. 4
Quite a party Sunday, although that's not what we had in mind when Dev invited Paul Kobrak and his retinue over to talk about the film they're going to make. We ended up with twenty-five or so in two rooms. I suppose it was the usual thing, half of them just wandered in from somewhere else because it sounded like we had a good thing going. It was a very serious evening, with a lot of weighty discussion about The Film (Truffaut's or Resnais's names invoked at proper intervals, greeted by orgiastic sighs and profound nods). Nobody was toking up. Or could it be that overly solemn and self-conscious ritual is on its way out around here?
Anyway, the movie: It'll be called The Oakland Method, referring of course to the plans for civil disobedience worked out for the draft protests at Oakland Induction Center this year. Ergo—the film will deal with the Politics of Confrontation. Apparently Kobrak has considerable footage from here and there, but no script yet. And there won't be a script. Some overeager disciple (she must be new) brought up the subject and Kobrak gave her a full thirty seconds of his rather empty stare, then grandly raised one hand and tapped his temple with a forefinger. Meaning, I suppose, that his vision was complete, but much too precious and vital to commit to paper. Bullshit. Kobrak is an interesting-looking man, a big-shouldered, farm-boy type who reminds me of the immortal Kesey. But I doubt he has any of Kesey's talent or madness, and certainly not that lovely sense of buffoonery. Take away Mr. Kobrak's major pretense (that he's a genius) and underneath you'll find a rather stupid man. Coming up with a script would mean he'd have to write and spell, and I can't imagine he does either effectively.