by The Demon
to put her foot on the accelerator ...
to push down on the gas ...
to turn the wheel . . .
to thrust herself at the wheel and yank it...
to turn the car onto the road ...
the road that would take her away from .. .
from her life. . . .
O God . . . O God in heaven . . .
and still there was no sound behind her ...
no
sound of someone running down the gravel driveway
no voice
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pleading for her not to leave
no waving hand beckoning for her to come back
to come back . . .
back. .. .
The car moved slowly onto the road, and instantly the driveway and home were out of sight. There was just a road in front of her that soon would merge with a highway. The shadows deepened and stretched further and further across the road as the sun continued its rapid descent.
There never is a real difference between ancient history and current events. There are only variations; the theme is always the same. The pressures within Harry were so intense and built up so rapidly after each release that his night visits to hell were happening more and more frequently. He did not stay in the city most of the time, but would wait for the pathetic alcoholic sponge next to him to pass out and then put a twenty-dollar bill in the top of the empty bottle and take the last train home.
It did not work that way this time. They were waiting for him in the hallway. He was hit on the back of the head, punched and kicked. They grabbed his money and split. The first thing he saw when he regained consciousness were roaches scurrying across the floor and under the ripped and rotting molding. The stench of urine burned his nose and the cuts on his face. He sat up and leaned against the wall and tentatively touched the painful areas of his head and face, then looked at the blood on his hand. He looked around, his vision wavering and going out of focus; then his vision cleared and he could see where he was and remembered what had happened. He saw his wallet on the floor with his cards and papers strewn around. He picked them up and put them in his pocket. He slowly got to his feet. The right side of his face pounded and burned. He couldn't bear to touch it.
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He staggered to the street and took a cab to his office building and borrowed money from the security guard. He continued to the train station, using one hand to hold a handkerchief lightly against his face.
The trip home was long and agonizing. The house was still empty. He was suddenly hollow. Rubbery. There was a tomb-like atmosphere in the house. He fell in a chair. He called out, not really believing she would be there—yet—
His
voice sounded hollow and listless as it probed the rooms. . . . O please come back ... please....
Tears
stung his battered and bloodied face His head throbbed. Burned. His body felt as if it were crumbling into itself. He called a doctor who lived near by, a member of the club he played golf with frequently. When he got to the house, the doctor looked at Harrys face for a few seconds, then called the hospital.
Is that necessary, Bob?
Definitely. Routine and necessary in a case like this. Come on, I/ll drive you over. Wheres Linda?
Visiting her folks, feeling himself flush and burn.
Do you want me to call her?
Tomorrow, shaking his head. How long will I be in the hospital?
A day. There are tests that must be taken to be certain everything is all right and that you dont have a concussion or a fracture.
When he was checked into his room, Bob stopped by to see him before leaving. Ive ordered a little something to help you sleep. I want to be sure you get a good nights rest. And dont worry about anything. I/ll call Linda tomorrow.
Harry shook his head and remained morosely silent.
I/ll see you in the morning, Harry.
Harry shook his head.
By the time Linda got to the hospital, early the next afternoon, Harry looked much better. The dried blood had been
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cleaned off and the cuts had been stitched. Yet his appearance shocked and frightened her. The drive from her parents house to the hospital had seemed endless—a couple of hours of torturous anticipation and anxiety. Bob had told her that the preliminary reports indicated that everything was fine, that there were no serious injuries, but still her mind put her through hell. She remembered every story she had ever read or heard about people being mugged and losing an eye or going blind or being paralyzed or any number of other dreadful things happening to the victim. And words like injury, suffered and victim continually rang in her head.
And intermittently forcing itself to her consciousness was the embarrassment of receiving the call from Bob at her parents home, and waiting for him to ask why she was there and if there was any problem between her and Harry, but there wasnt any question in his voice (at least she didnt think so), and all he did was tell her that Harry had been hurt and reassure her that he was all right. Yet still, from time to time, she could feel herself flush with embarrassment as she drove to the hospital.
She battled, too, with twinges of guilt, thinking that if she had not left, this would not have happened, and she kept reminding herself that that was ridiculous, and, perhaps it is, but if I had been home I at least could have taken care of him—but you couldnt have done any more than Bob, and actually less, after all he is a doctor—I know, I know, but at least I could have been there. . . . O, I dont know, I dont know ...
and Linda tried to shout her mind quiet or still it with tears, but the confusion, anxiety, apprehension and fear continued to stab and twist themselves through her.
She
walked rapidly down the corridor toward his room, and her momentum carried her within a few feet of his bed before she stopped. Harry looked at her and tried to smile, but immediately and involuntarily winced from stiffness and pain, and this propelled her forward and she put her arms around him
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and hugged him, tight, O Harry, Harry Im so sorry this happened, are you all right? And she suddenly realized that she might be hurting him and her arms sprang apart and she stepped back, O sweetheart, Im sorry. Did I hurt you? That was stupid of me. Im sorry. I—
No. No. Its all right. It looks a lot worse than it really is anyway. He looked at her, trying hard to smile and swallow all the terrors of guilt and humiliation.
Linda, her
eyes moist as she stared at him, was suddenly frozen between desire and conviction, but it seemed like ages since she had seen her husband, the man she loved, and he looked so helpless, so vulnerable—so—pained that her resolve was slowly, but steadily, being dissolved by her desire and his pain. She sat on the edge of his bed. Are you really all right sweetheart?
Harry could feel his head nodding and he wanted desperately to reach out and grab her and clutch her to him and kiss her and hug her or just touch her—her hand, cheek—just to touch her and tell her he loved her, but all he could do was nod his head as all his desires welled up inside him and battled the demon that was getting unconquerable strength from his guilt and humiliation, leaving a black pit of despair in his gut. He turned as Bob came into the room.
Hi Linda, how are you?
I dont think I know, shaking her head and attempting to smile.
Well, dont you worry, squeezing her shoulder and smiling, everything is fine. It looks like this husband of yours is going to live. Linda sighed and inwardly felt such a sudden relief that for a moment she thought she would either crumble or faint. There are no fractures or concussion, addressing himself to Harry, no cardiac involvements or other complications.
Cardiac?
Bob smiled reassuringly and put a hand on each of their shoulders. Nothing to worry about. With some people, especially older people, an experience like this can affect the heart, and so we routinely check that too. Anyway, youre in
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go
od shape, for the shape youre in, chuckling and squeezing their shoulders, youre lucky.
Linda smiled, and Harry tried to but could not quite force a smile.
When can he come home?
Right now if you want. Just take it easy for a day or two.
A sudden panic shot through Harry. I/ll be able to go to the office tomorrow, right?
I guess so, if you dont push too hard. Take a later train so you wont have to navigate through the rush-hour crowds. O.K.?
Harry nodded.
Good. Come in to the office in a week so I can take a look at you.
Thanks.
Thank you, Bob, I really appreciate everything, smiling and squeezing his hand.
Thats all right Linda. After all, thats the least I can do. He lets me beat him by a couple of strokes every time we play, and he laughed. Dont forget, a week.
Bob left. Linda and Harry looked awkwardly at each other for a moment.
Well, I guess I had better get dressed.
Harry sat down as soon as they got to the house.
Can I get you anything, sweetheart? Coffee? Juice?
No, no thanks ... honey, smiling faintly. Harry felt tired— exhausted. He suddenly felt too tired to feed the battle within him, and so a sort of truce was declared. He felt a tenderness flow through him. I guess I just want to look at you.
Linda sat on the arm of the chair and took his hand in hers. He looked at her hands for a moment, then lightly rubbed her hand with the tips of the fingers of his other hand—then leaned his head against her arm, feeling the fragile smoothness, delicacy and warmth of her hands, and, for now, feeling quiet inside.
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For the remainder of the evening there was very little movement, and sparse conversation, in the White home. Although Harry had only suffered a few cuts and bruises, the trauma of recent events had left them emotionally drained and with a desire to avoid any serious and probing conversation. They went to bed early, each enjoying the best rest they had had in many nights.
By midmorning the next day Harry was squirming in his chair and was almost tempted to go out for a walk, but instead he kept to his recent routine of staying in the office during the day and relaxed by promising himself he would go find some pig that night, maybe over on the west side near the docks. He had not forgotten what had just happened, but the knowledge that he had been beaten, and that Linda might leave again, had no power over his actions. A power greater than he seemed to be pushing him toward the gates of insanity or death.
He stopped in a restaurant for a light dinner and was waiting for the line at the cashier to thin out, feeling that leaden grinding in his gut, the apprehension and anxiety, knowing he should be going home and knowing he would not. He suddenly closed his hand around his check and put his hand in his pocket and waved in the direction of the people at the cashier. I/ll wait for you outside. I need a little air, and he walked out. He wanted to run to the door and down the street, but forced himself to walk slowly and normally the interminable distance to the door, then forced himself to stand there for a moment, then left the restaurant, turned and walked slowly, ever,
ever
so
slowly
to the next corner, then turned and walked a few more feet, then stopped and leaned against a building. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely breathe. His whole body,
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his entire being, was alive with feelings that were about to overwhelm him. He could not believe the pounding within him. That twisting in his gut that seemed to be tugging at the back of his throat. He knew he had experienced these feelings before, but so long ago, in some ancient and forgotten past that there was only confusion when he tried to identify them. He did not try very hard because he felt it was useless; he had never stolen anything before so naturally he would never have had any feelings like these. For a second he wondered why he did it. What would have happened if someone had suddenly grabbed his arm at the door? Or if they were to grab him now and perhaps call the police? He looked around and swallowed hard and rapidly. Krist, his stomach was alive. Then he knew the feeling. It flushed through him like fire. The fear and speculation about being caught disappeared. Nothing else existed except the excitement flowing through him. The same excitement as the first time he was going to get laid. He hadnt been sure he was going to get laid. Tony told him this broad was a sure piece, but he had been told that before. He remembered he was afraid he might shit his pants that day, or piss them. But he didnt. Thats how he felt. That same excitement before and after. That same apprehension. The same sweat. The same taste in his mouth. The same exhilaration. Harry White stood straight. He smiled. He looked around happily. Krist, he felt good. He felt the check in his hand in his pocket. He took it out and carefully folded it and stuck it in his wallet, then took it out and dated it before putting it back. He not only felt exhilarated, he felt free. Yeah, free. Son of a bitch. Son of a fucking bitch. Yeah. Free. There was a hint of a spring in his step as he walked to the station to get a train home.
When Harry called to say he would be late, Linda thought her heart had actually stopped for a moment. She continually nodded at the phone and finally managed a few words. She felt so sick when she hung up that she just sat for many long
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and agonizing minutes, shivering. She could not believe that he would let anything keep him from getting home on time tonight, her first night home since—since staying with her folks.
She repeated over and over to herself that she was afraid because of his physical condition that perhaps there was something wrong that did not show up in the tests—a—a—well, a clot or something like that . . .
but she knew that that was not
the reason. She knew that she was not afraid of losing Harry to a blood clot or some obscure physiological condition.
When Harry got home, hours before he was expected, Linda was startled and surprised. Then it registered. Through the maze and turbulence of feelings it finally registered. Harry was smiling. Through the bruises and patches he was smiling. . . .
They sat and talked for a while, drank
coffee and nibbled on some cheese and crackers. Smelly cheese. The release from dammed tensions and fears was such an incredible relief that they readily ignored their hysteria.
That night they made love. Then they lay in each others arms and spoke of the night, of the stars, of their lives and mostly of their love ...
then softly and gently sank into a restful sleep.
Harry was more than exhilarated—he was manic for many days. He felt like a new man, yeah, a Novus Homo, a man released—reprieved.
His life got back to normal rather rapidly. The door to his office was now open most of the time. He got home on time except for rare and legitimate occasions. He went out to lunch with Walt and the others most of the time. The quality and quantity of his work increased. And all with a sense of freedom. Whenever that gnawing started in his gut and his skin seemed to become alive with ants, and those vague and un-
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defined anxieties started to haunt him, he simply went out and had a free lunch. Just like that. So simple he found it almost impossible to believe. But there it was. And there he was. One free meal and he felt fine. He was amazed that he was able to do such a thing. But he was. There it was. He was doing it. From time to time he thought about being asked why he had not paid his check and he would pursue the thought just long enough to experience the thrill of apprehension, then dismiss it from his mind before it prevented him from walking out with a wave of the hand, You take care of it Henry, I/ll meet you outside. And, anyway, he could always say it was an oversight, that he was preoccupied and did not realize what he had done and simply pay the check with the proper reassurances. Actually, who was going to believe that a man in his position would try to leave without paying the check?
Linda became aware of her voice as she once more went through the house singing, and as she walked around the garden ta
lking to Harry Junior, telling him the names of the different plants and flowers. She was startled by the sound of her voice initially, and then by the realization that it had been some time (my God, how long?) since she had stopped singing.
She could also hear, and feel, her enthusiasm being rekindled; and was startled, too, by the evidence of neglect obvious in her gardens. She happily and energetically trimmed, pruned, spaded and weeded as she answered Harry Juniors endless stream of questions.
And with the passage of time, and the passing of fear and anxiety, there came an awareness of just how frightened and anxious she had been. It was only with the release from her fears and anxiety that she became aware of the extent to which they had been haunting her for what seemed to be an eternity. Her only point of reference to time was the chorus that lilted through her head, telling her things were just like they were a year ago.
A year ago? Could it really be that long since the feeling
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of despair became stronger and stronger and her husband whom she adored and loved, became more and more of a stranger? Could it really be that long? How did she survive? How did they survive? Of course there had been times when things were fine—moments and days here and there—but in looking back the pain seemed so bad she could not imagine surviving it for a week, much less a year. Well, whatever the truth might be, it was unimportant now. However long was immaterial. Things were back to normal. They talked and joked and laughed and Harry put his arms around her and kissed her and hugged her and whispered in her ear and they made love ...
and then held
hands and thrilled to the softness of night. And Harry did not suddenly bolt up in the middle of the night looking as if he had come face to face with death. There was joy and love and happiness in their home once more. Yes, things were back to normal, thank God. And, she was pregnant.