“Stay here and I’ll go get your man,” the deputy told him.
He watched the visitors come and go. No one smiled—these were not joyful occasions. A lot of these inmates, he knew, were being processed through this facility on their way to state prison.
The deputy returned. “Okay, you’re next.”
When the next visitor, a young Hispanic girl with a tiny baby, got up from her booth, he walked over and sat down. He looked through the partition at Jeff Fenner, who seemed somewhat surprised, and picked up the phone.
CHAPTER 24
⍫
Jeff was dozing on a bunk when he heard his name on the loudspeaker. “FENNER. JEFFREY FENNER. Report to the deputy station at once.”
He was led, with no explanation, down a series of hallways and stairs, and finally to a long, dimly lit room. The deputy pointed to a booth with an empty seat. Jeff sat down and looked through the partition.
It was the guy from that SOL meeting, Ron somebody. The guy had picked up a phone and was gesturing to Jeff to do the same. What the fuck was he even doing here? He picked up the phone.
“Hello, Jeff.” The guy seemed as cheerful as if they were still at that goddamned meeting.
“Hello, Ron. What brings you out here?” He wondered if they tapped the phones. The nearest deputy was out of earshot.
Ron said, “Well, your dad told me what happened, so I thought I’d come out and say hello. How do you like it in there?”
“What kind of question is that? These fuckin’ assholes put me in here, and I can’t get bail set until Monday.”
“What fuckin’ assholes, Jeff? The fuckin’ assholes that found you drunk with a loaded gun, coming out of an apartment that you had broken into? Why would they qualify as assholes?”
He couldn’t believe it. The guy thought this was funny.
“Okay, so I fucked up. What’s that got to do with you?”
“I’ve sat right there in your seat, is all,” Ron said. “Didn’t like it a bit.”
“You were in here? What for?”
“Which time? Drunk driving, drunk driving, drunk in public, drunk driving,” Ron ticked the times off with his fingers. “You’d think I would have learned to equate drinking with jail, wouldn’t you?”
“So what are you doing here?” Jeff asked. “Is this something that SOL group does?”
“No.” The guy smiled. “I’m here as a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. Let me ask you something. Have you ever tried to not drink?”
Jeff said, “I hadn’t had a drink in over a week before this . . .” He gestured vaguely at the walls around him.
“So what happened?”
He considered the question. What happened? Kathy was drinking. He was going to get laid. What did that have to do with anything?
He shrugged his shoulders.
Ron asked, “Is it fair to say that your way isn’t working?”
He sat and stared through the partition. His life had been in the toilet even before this happened. Now it seemed like it was spiraling downward toward an even darker place that would be very hard, maybe impossible, to return from.
“Yeah,” he said, “it’s fair to say that my way isn’t working.”
“When you get out of here,” the guy persisted, “do you really think you can stay away from alcohol? Or just drink moderately?”
He closed his eyes. For some reason tears formed and spilled out. He put his hand up to his face, covering his mouth, and held his breath, but a sob came out anyway and he shook his head.
They sat in silence for a moment. When he opened his eyes Ron was gazing at him, calm, like a doctor with a practiced bedside manner.
“So here’s one more question, Jeff. Do you believe in God?”
He shrugged again. “Maybe. Whoever the fuck that is.”
“That’s good,” Ron said. “Here’s something you might like to try. ‘Dear God, whoever-the-fuck-you-are, I need your help.’”
The line went dead. The deputy came over and told him his time was up. Ron nodded briefly as he rose from his seat. Jeff hung up the phone and looked down at the scratched and mutilated surface of the table, the initials and the gang symbols. Under his breath he said, “Okay, God.” He paused and then left out the “whoever” part. “I need your help.”
CHAPTER 25
⍫
Holly moved across the darkened stage to join hands with the cast. Her knees felt weak. The theater rang with applause as the curtain went up and the lights hit her full in the face.
They had pulled it off—opening night, the house was packed, and they had it wired. It must feel like that, she thought, being in a really good jazz band, where you know the stuff so well that you can play with it, bend it and stretch it, just for fun.
The curtain went down and the applause continued, so they stayed in place until the curtain went back up again. This time people stood and clapped. It was wonderful. It was better than wonderful. She dropped the others’ hands and they all gave a slight bow, still in synch.
Someone whistled. She looked out into the audience and saw Tony in his leather jacket, clapping with his hands above his head. He looked terrific, with a smart new haircut and a broad grin on his face. She had seen him on stage so many times; it was good to have him here seeing her, when it was her night. Like it made them equals. Besides, it would be nice to have someone to be with tonight.
⍫
Earlier in the day, she had been out on her porch reading through her lines and making notes in the margins. The thought that opening night was only hours away was thrilling and frightening; trying to relax was a joke. The director had just called to discuss an idea he had and they had spent twenty minutes hashing it out. At the end, he said he would tell the others and then call her back.
When the phone rang, she picked it up and said, “Hello?”
There was a pause, and then, “Holly, it’s me.”
Tony—just what she didn’t need.
“Tony, hi. Listen, I’m expecting a call back from my director. Can we talk another time?” In another lifetime, she hoped.
“Holly, look, I know you’re angry with me, and I owe you a big apology. Can we just talk for a minute?” Tony had never apologized for anything. She said, “Sure.”
Tony said, “I was out of line. Totally. I was stressed and crazy, I got too drunk, and I was jealous. I miss you, and I’m sorry.”
She didn’t know what to say. What could she say? He sounded normal—that was a good sign.
“You sound good, Tony. Are you staying straight?” she asked.
“Absolutely. Life’s too good to throw away, you know what I mean?”
She said, “Yes, absolutely,” and couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Holly?”
“What?”
“We used to have good times together, didn’t we?”
“We’ve had good times, yeah.” She wondered where this was heading.
Tony said, “I made a mistake. Can you forgive me for that?”
She said, “Well, it’s hard to forget. But yes, I can forgive you for it.” Thinking, what the hell, it can’t happen again.
Then Tony said, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking, but I’m straight as an arrow. How about having dinner together tonight?”
“Can’t,” she said. “Tonight’s a big night for me.”
“Really? What’s going on?” He didn’t sound suspicious; it was just a question.
She said, “The play starts tonight.”
“Jesus, really? That’s great. Hey, that’s really great—I want to see it. Where?”
“Tony—” she began.
He interrupted. “Listen. I know you must think I’m a complete asshole. I don’t blame you. I was one. I just flipped out. I need to see you and apologize in person. Tell you what—h
ave you eaten lunch?”
She hadn’t had anything except toast and coffee that morning.
“No, I was going to—”
“Great. Look, just see me for lunch. I’ve got all kinds of great news. Promise to behave. If I do, maybe you’ll let me come tonight. What do you think?”
She hesitated. He really was a great guy when he was straight, which he seemed to be at the moment. And, not only was she hungry, but it would be good to get her mind off the evening ahead, stop obsessing about it and try to have a normal day.
“Where?” she asked.
Tony said, “Let’s meet at Factor’s like we used to, and split the chef’s salad.”
That cinched it. Factor’s was nearby, and she and Tony had spent a lot of time there back when things were good.
⍫
Now, looking out from the stage, she watched the curtain go down for the last time as the house lights went on. Steve, who had acted in and directed the play, said, “Come on. It’s Cinderella time.”
CHAPTER 26
⍫
Holly woke on Sunday morning feeling like she had just survived a shipwreck. Her head throbbed, her eyes hurt, and her throat was constricted and dry. She put her fingers to her neck and pressed, then swallowed. The whole area was sore and tender; it felt as if she were trying to swallow a peach pit—she couldn’t complete the action.
Walking to the bathroom, she staggered as her head suddenly throbbed in pain. Okay, she thought, so I hate drinking, but what’s with this sore throat? She had had three glasses of champagne last night, at the party after the show.
When she turned on the bathroom light, the rest of the evening came back to her in a rush. She looked in the mirror at the bruises on her throat and remembered her head slamming into the wall again and again.
She gazed at herself and began to cry, feeling both furious and helpless. How pathetic I am. How totally pathetic. She wanted to smash the mirror, kick through the glass shower door, break something, hurt herself. When she realized where her mind was going, she said, “Jesus Christ” and walked out to the kitchen.
Her cell rang. She hesitated, not wanting to deal with Tony. The screen said it was Art calling. She closed her eyes and took the call.
“Holly, top o’ the mornin’ to ye,” he said in a mock Irish brogue. “I let you sleep in for as long as I could, but I’ve got to know how last night went.” He had apologized for not being able to show up for the play, something about a professional obligation.
She tried to say hello. Nothing came out except a dry croaking sound. She forced a cough, which made her wince in pain, but couldn’t find her voice.
“Holly? Holly, what’s going on?” Art sounded genuinely concerned, but what could she do? She whispered, “Wait a minute” and filled a glass with water from the tap. After she drank it she tried again.
“My voice is gone.” It was half whisper, but at least she could talk.
“What happened? Did you get laryngitis overnight?”
“No,” she croaked, “that son of a bitch Tony choked me.”
“He choked you? Where did this happen? Did he break into your apartment?”
“No, I let him in. I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I let him back in.”
“Ah, you let him back in. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He called me to apologize and we went to lunch. He was fine. Then he came to the show and we went to a party after that.”
“So what happened?” Art asked.
“When we got back here, we put on some music and talked. We got a little, um, intimate. Then Tony went to the bathroom and when he came back it was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He just flipped on me.” Speaking was becoming more painful, so she went back to a whisper.
There was a pause and then Art said, “Holly, it’s very important that we get together today. Can you make it to my office at noon?”
She thought about leaving home, about the marks on her throat, and shook her head.
“Holly?”
“No,” she whispered. “I can’t go anywhere.”
“Okay, then I’ll pick you up. It’s imperative for your recovery. I’ll be there at eleven thirty.”
“No. I can’t. Not today.”
“Holly, let me ask you just one thing. Is your life working?”
She thought about it and remembered Tony, charming at lunch, sweet and funny last night, and then shaking her like a rag doll, his huge hands on her throat. She shook her head again.
Out of the silence Art said, “Things will get better. Trust me. Freshen up and then rest. I’ll come and get you.”
⍫
When they got to Art’s office, she sank into the leather chair and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to be here, but didn’t want to be at home either.
Art brought her a cup of water and this time offered her two of the little orange pills. She swallowed them without argument and closed her eyes again. Her headache had gone, but she still felt sore and weary. She heard Art leaving the room and wondered when the pills would take effect, when she could go to that wonderful dreamy zone that Art had taken her to on her last visit.
When she heard the door open again, she realized that she was back in that floating place, where her body was in the chair but her mind could move free as a fish in the ocean. She noticed there was a smile on her face and experimented with it, moving her mouth into a frown, a pout, a grimace. It was all so amusing she wound up with the smile again.
“Holly.” Art sounded so gentle and friendly. “Here. I’d like you to take this.”
She opened her eyes and saw that he was offering her a teddy bear. She took it and put it on her lap. It was soft and golden with little brown button eyes.
“Now I’d like you to cradle it, that’s right, and close your eyes and rock it. That’s it.”
She held the little bear in her arms and tried to remember being rocked. She could see a rocking chair in her room. Who was in it? She didn’t know. She wanted to be held, but there was this noise that wouldn’t stop. She was making the noise; why didn’t they just pick her up and then she would stop? But now the rocking chair was empty and the light had gone out and there was only the noise and she couldn’t turn it off. She rocked the little bear harder and tried to see through the darkness, but there were only blurry shapes around her.
Art’s voice broke through and the crying noise stopped.
“Holly, I want you to open and shut your eyes rapidly over and over again.” He tapped his fingers rhythmically into his palm. “This fast,” he said, “and don’t stop. And remember, any time I say, ‘Holly, trust me, the doctor needs your help,’ any time ever, you will return to this quiet state.”
She blinked her eyes open and shut. Art sat across from her, their knees almost touching, and waved his hand back and forth about eighteen inches in front of her face. It was a weird effect, she thought, like strobe lights in a dance club.
“Now, Holly, I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to go back and find the answers. Don’t try to remember. Go back and be there. Do you understand?”
She made herself nod, though the motion made the whole room flicker and strobe.
“That’s good, keep blinking your eyes. Okay, did your daddy hit your mommy?”
She watched the hand flicker back and forth in front of her and at the same time saw herself in a kitchen, her kitchen from when she was little. She sat at the breakfast table and her mother moved toward her father, pointing her finger at him, and he was backing away.
“No,” she told Art. “He wouldn’t dare.”
“All right,” Art said, “who hit you when you were little?”
She rocked the bear again and tried to see the shapes, but all she saw was that pointing finger and the angry face.
“Nobody hit me,” she said. She wonde
red why she said the word “hit” so loudly.
“Holly, close your eyes. That’s it. Now, take a deep breath. Very good. Okay, who hurt you when you were little?”
She clutched at the bear and looked around in the dark. A shape materialized and approached her. It held her shoulders with huge hands. She tried to turn away but it wouldn’t let her. She looked at the shape and tried to see who it was but it was too dark.
“Holly, who hurt you when you were little?” Art’s voice was so quiet, it seemed like he was far away. She looked at the shape and saw a face. When she saw who it was she started to shake her head back and forth but the face wouldn’t go away. She knew the face but couldn’t say the name.
“Holly, who?” Was Art still asking her a question, or was it just an echo of the first time?
She took a deep breath and sat still.
“Uncle Dave hurt me,” she whispered.
“What did he do?” Art prodded.
“I . . .” She couldn’t find any words so she just shook her head.
“Show me,” Art said.
She kept shaking her head. “I can’t,” she whispered.
“Show me,” Art insisted. “I’m Uncle Dave now. Show me. I won’t hurt you. Trust me.”
She heard the sound of leather sliding through a buckle, the twenty-year-old noise of a zipper, a rustle of fabric. Uncle Dave took her hand and guided it to his lap, pulling her up out of her seat. The bear fell to the ground as she knelt between her uncle’s knees and bent forward. She opened her mouth and felt the warm skin thing on her tongue. This was their secret and nobody could ever know. If only Uncle Dave knew how she hated it. If only it wasn’t a secret and she could tell her dad and he would tell Uncle Dave to stop.
She felt a hand on the back of her head, pushing her downward now. The thing was huge in her mouth, she backed off so she wouldn’t gag but the hand pushed her down again, then it pulled her gently back. The hand pushed her into a slow rhythm. Tears ran down her face; she was wet with them, but nothing mattered. She didn’t have to be here. She could skate down the boardwalk at Santa Monica Beach. She could rise up into the night sky and fly anywhere she wanted. She was free now and when the hand pushed her faster and harder she flew faster and higher, until she saw the star that was calling her. She flew toward it until she was falling into it and then it came to her. . . That’s life; that’s where the pain is, and, as her mouth filled with thick warm fluid, she turned away from the sun and flew high into the darkest place between the stars.
Trust Me Page 12