End of Story

by Peter Abrahams

  He drank it all down then sighed a deep sigh that shook his torso. “I was thirsty and didn’t even know it,” he said. He gazed at her.

  “Want more?”

  “More,” he said. “Yes.”

  She went for more. Taneesha was snoring softly.

  Harrow drank. He started looking better before he’d even finished the cup. Normal flesh tones spread across his face, driving out the pallor, as though some tide were turning inside him.

  “What kind of care are you getting?” Ivy said.

  “This minute?” he said, his voice still low, but not as grainy. “State-of-the-art.”

  “I meant the doctors.”

  “No complaints.”

  “What about this infection?”

  He glanced up at the IV bag.

  “What does the doctor say?” Ivy said.

  “Not much.”

  “What kind of infection is it?”

  “In the blood, maybe,” Harrow said. “I’ve been a little out of it.” He looked at her, his eyes not quite so dull now. “Pull up a chair.”

  Ivy pulled up a chair, sat by the bed.

  “Hungry?” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, sounding a little surprised.

  “I’ve got a banana,” Ivy said. She took it out of her folder, a lustrous, richly yellow banana; it almost seemed to glow. Ivy half peeled it, held it to his mouth. He took a bite.

  “Ah,” he said.

  Ivy fed him the rest of the banana. He ate, slow and careful, as though savoring a delicacy.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He gazed at her. Faint snoring sounds drifted through the doorway.

  Harrow’s eyes moved toward the folder in Ivy’s lap. “I never got to hear what you wrote in that last class.”

  Ivy reached back in the folder, found the page. She read silently.

  Where was that photograph taken—you, Betty Ann, Claudette, Frank Mandrell? Claudette showed it to me. Did you know she lives on Ransom Road?

  Ivy looked up. His eyes were on her; almost back to normal, that dark brown so intense. The piece itself seemed dated—she knew so much more now. Not only that: she had the actual picture. Ivy fished it out of the folder, held it so Harrow could see.

  “I wrote about this,” she said.

  Harrow stared at the photograph, his eyes slowly tracking across the faces. Ivy found she’d leaned close to him, her mouth not far from his ear.

  “I know you’re innocent,” she said, her voice very low. “Nothing you say can change my mind. Nothing.”

  Their eyes met. She saw something new in his—maybe not new, but now unconcealed—something that made, or induced, or compelled her to scan his body, past his bare chest, to where the sheet covered him up. The sheet now rose in a tent shape over his groin.

  Ivy reached down, pulled the sheet away, freeing him. Some force took over, a completely righteous force, impossible to stop, as though the immediate future had already happened. Ivy was wearing a skirt that day, not quite knee length, not tight. It hiked up easily. She hiked it up, climbed onto the bed and straddled him. He pressed against her. She reached down, tugged the crotch of her panties aside. A sound rose from her throat, a sound she’d never made before, almost a growl. Then she thrust herself down on him, not gentle, but hard and all the way at once, so she felt his hipbones against the insides of her thighs.

  Ivy started coming right away, no buildup, not her at all. Then another, and another, followed by a tiny little wait, as though some inner cells were gasping for breath—and why wouldn’t they, because of course there’d been buildup, weeks and weeks—and then more, like a symphony that was all climaxes. His chains clinked as he tried to get his arms around her but couldn’t. Right then, the metallic sound still in her ears, Ivy had her last orgasm, the biggest of all, very close to pain. His whole body went rigid and he made a little growl, too.

  She fell on top of him, their faces pressing together, the IV tube twisted around her leg. They breathed. Ivy felt dampness on her skin. She opened an eye. It was right next to his. His was overflowing. She started crying, too.

  Ivy pressed her mouth right against his ear. “It’s going to be all right, baby.”

  What was that? A creaking sound from the hall.

  Taneesha poked her head in the door.

  “Everything all right in here?” she said.

  Ivy sat in the chair, the folder in her lap hiding the fact that she had her skirt on backward. Harrow lay on the bed, all covered up.

  “Fine,” said Ivy.

  Taneesha looked over at Harrow; her focus not on Harrow so much as the shackles.

  “Does he have to be chained like that?” Ivy said.

  “Procedure,” said Taneesha, “when there’s no bars on the windows.”

  Ivy glanced at the windows: grimy, thick, reinforced with metal filaments, but no bars. “We’re three stories up,” she said.

  “That’s nothin’,” said Taneesha. “Supper’s comin’ up soon—you want some?”

  “I’m all right,” Ivy said.

  “It’s free,” said Taneesha. She backed out of the room. Her chair creaked.

  Ivy rose, took Harrow’s hand. It was warm and dry, the steel cuff cold against her wrist. Her heart was beating like crazy. She wanted to just look at him, compose herself, understand what had just happened from all possible angles. But they didn’t have time for that. Maybe Harrow realized it, too.

  “Why do you say I’m innocent?” he said. His tone was different now in a hard-to-define way, almost as though they’d known each other for years.

  “I told you,” Ivy said. “I’ve seen the casino tape.”

  “So? What does that prove?”

  Silence. A vein throbbed in the back of his hand, under Ivy’s finger. How about climbing back on top of him, right now, and for once not giving a damn for anything but the moment? Ivy took a deep breath.

  “You really want to talk about the tape?” she said. “Okay. Explain to me why you had to push that old black guy so hard.”

  Harrow gazed at her.

  “The one with the shopping bags,” Ivy added.

  “He was in the way,” Harrow said.

  “There is no old black guy on the tape,” Ivy said. “With or without shopping bags. You weren’t there.”

  Harrow smiled, just a little smile, gone in an instant.

  “So just admit it,” Ivy said.

  “And then what?”

  “We can try to reopen the case,” Ivy said. “But it has to start with you.”

  “Never happen.”

  “You’re just going to give up?” Ivy said. “Don’t you realize the kind of future you could have?”

  “What future?”

  “With your talent,” Ivy said.

  He pulled his hand away. “Haven’t had any writing ideas lately, as I said.”

  “They’ll come,” Ivy said. “Especially when you’re free.”

  A slight change in his eyes; not a weakening of their power—a combination of animal and intellectual, unique in her experience—more like it was being directed somewhere else.

  “You know that’s true,” Ivy said.

  His eyes changed: back on her. “It’ll be even truer in eighteen years,” he said.

  Her voice rose, taking her by surprise. “What’s wrong with you?” she said. “Why are you protecting her?”

  Harrow glanced at the door. “Who?”

  Ivy lowered her voice. “Don’t treat me like an idiot,” she said. “Betty Ann.”

  Harrow didn’t answer. His silence infuriated her.

  “Why don’t you get it?” she said. “All you have to do is say where she is.”

  Keys rattled in the steel door. Harrow remained silent.

  “You don’t owe her a thing,” Ivy said. “She was having an affair with Frank Mandrell.”

  No reaction.

  Footsteps sounded on the linoleum outside.

  “Who I
tracked down, by the way,” Ivy said.

  Harrow sat up, very fast, his chains snapping taut, almost scaring her.

  Taneesha entered, followed by an unshaven man with a stethoscope around his neck.

  “Doc’s here,” she said.

  Twenty-seven

  Ivy sat beside Taneesha in the hall of the old psych ward while the doctor made his call.

  Taneesha yawned, checked her watch. “Three more hours?” She shook her head as though trying to clear it. “Know what’s crazy about this job?”

  “What?”

  “When you’re on shift,” Taneesha said, “time slows right down to almost nothin’, just like you’re an inmate. Then when you’re off, it revs up to fast-forward, makes you jittery.”

  “What about when the inmates get out?” Ivy said. “Do they end up jittery, too?”

  “Who knows?” Taneesha said. “They’re never on the outside for long.” She reached down into the magazine pile, took one for herself, passed one to Ivy.

  An entertainment magazine, all about Hollywood. Ivy leafed through, not reading, not even really looking, just letting the images pass before her eyes. She almost missed Joel. But there he was, bottom of page twenty-seven, standing by a plastic flamingo with Adam Sandler. The caption read: Birds of a Feather: Adam Sandler and hot new screenwriter Joel Cutler team up on the set of Ass Backwards.

  Ass Backwards? That was the title of Joel’s screenplay?

  Adam Sandler had a big smile, on his face. So did Joel. The flamingo’s yellow teeth were arranged in a big smile, too. In the background, a waitress with a drink tray leaned over a table. She had a tattoo on her shoulder, something red, maybe a flower.

  Ivy turned to Taneesha. Her eyelids were heavy again.

  “Taneesha?”

  Taneesha’s eyelids slowly rose. “Yeah?”

  “Have they moved Morales yet?”

  “Back on the tiers, you mean?” Taneesha said. “He’s still in the infirmary, far as I know.”

  “But Sergeant Tocco said Morales would be sent to another prison,” Ivy said.

  “First I heard of it,” said Taneesha.

  “Are you saying it might not happen?”

  Taneesha shrugged. She opened a magazine, took out a pencil. “Thirteen down,” she said. “‘Rear Window director.’ Nine letters.”

  “Hitchcock,” said Ivy.

  “Oh, yeah.” Taneesha penciled it in. “I knew that.”

  “Have they found who killed Felix yet?” Ivy said.

  “Nope,” said Taneesha. “How about ‘Bergman and Boyer scarefest,’ eight letters.”

  “Gaslight,” Ivy said.

  “Don’t know that one,” Taneesha said. “Any good?”

  “Yes,” Ivy said.

  Taneesha wrote Gaslight. “You ever meet the warden?” she said.

  “No.”

  “He was pretty pissed about Felix.”

  “Did it get him in trouble?”

  “Huh?”

  “The warden,” said Ivy. “For having a fairly prominent inmate killed on his watch.”

  “Felix was prominent?” Taneesha said.

  “In some circles.”

  “Not up here,” said Taneesha. “Only way an inmate can hurt the warden is if he escapes. That was the thing with Felix.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Most of the inmates are pretty dumb, right?” Taneesha said. “Part of how come they are what they are. Felix wasn’t like that. Word was he’d put his mind to work on our security, come up with some sort of weakness.”

  “Felix was planning an escape?” Ivy said.

  “Uh-uh,” Taneesha said. “He wanted to make a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Trade this weakness he’d figured out for probation,” Taneesha said.

  “But the warden turned him down? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Never got the chance,” Taneesha said. “On account of Felix endin’ up how he did.”

  “Does that mean the Latin Kings—” Ivy began.

  The doctor came out, checking his watch.

  Ivy rose and introduced herself. “I teach—taught—the writing program at Dannemora. Harrow was in the class. I—”

  “Harrow?” the doctor said.

  “The patient,” said Ivy, her tone hardening on its own. “I was wondering how he’s doing.”

  “Amazingly well, considering,” said the doctor. “Some of these guys are like another species, physiologically speaking—might be a research paper in there somewhere. I’m recommending he goes back tomorrow.”

  “Back?” Ivy said.

  “To the prison infirmary,” the doctor said. “At this rate, he’ll be up and around in a day or two.”

  “Thank God,” said Taneesha. “I’m goin’ stir-crazy, Doc.”

  The doctor glanced around. “I hear you,” he said.

  Taneesha took out her key, turned to Ivy. “Might as well let the both of you out together,” she said.

  “But—” Ivy said.

  Taneesha tapped her watch.

  “Can I just say good-bye?” Ivy said.

  “You already got extra.”

  “Two minutes,” said Ivy.

  Taneesha’s gaze lingered on her. Then she nodded and led the doctor to the steel door.

  Ivy went back into Harrow’s room, barely able to keep herself from running. He was sitting up now, propped against the pillows.

  “Where’s Mandrell?” he said.

  “We don’t have time for that,” Ivy said. “They’re moving you back tomorrow.”

  “Montreal? Is that where you found him?”

  “Are you listening?” Ivy said. “You’re going back inside tomorrow. And Morales is still there.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? What are you talking about? Don’t you see? You’ve got to tell me where Betty Ann is, and now.”

  “Forget it,” he said.

  “But she can prove you were innocent,” Ivy said. “You can be free.” And alive.

  Harrow gazed at her. “You’re very pretty,” he said.

  Ivy stepped forward, took his face in her hands, not gentle. “Where is she?”

  “You’ll never find her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Did Frank end up owning those strip clubs?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ivy said. “She’s not with him.” Keys jingled out in the hall. Why didn’t he get it? He was going back inside. The Latin Kings would finish him off. Would she ever see him again? “Why aren’t you telling me?” she said, shaking him a little. Then it hit her. “You don’t know where she is? Is that it?”

  Harrow had a faraway look in his eyes. “I know,” he said.

  “So if you tell me, why couldn’t I find her?” Ivy said. She heard Taneesha’s footsteps, on the way. “You’re the only one who can do it?”

  Harrow nodded, a slight movement, almost imperceptible. Ivy let him go.

  Her mind was racing, pulling her ahead so fast she could hardly keep up. Harrow was the only one who could find Betty Ann. Why? Ivy didn’t know, but finding Betty Ann was the only way to prove his innocence. At that moment, she understood what went on in the hearts of a human type that had always eluded her: the woman who drops everything to work with AIDS victims in Africa or the man who stands in front of a tank. “In that case,” she said, “I’m coming to get you.” And it would have to be tonight.

  Ivy didn’t linger to see his reaction. She darted to the window. A double-hung: she unfastened the catch, raised the window half an inch, just enough room for sliding fingers underneath.

  Behind her, Harrow, very quiet, spoke two words: “Bolt cutters.”

  Ivy already knew that, although she’d never used bolt cutters, or even the term, couldn’t picture them. She turned, crossed her arms, looked innocent.

  Taneesha entered, glanced at Harrow, then at her. “Time,” she said.

  The coldest night of the year, so far. The wind had died down, but i
t must have been blowing high above because a solid line of cloud was sliding slowly across the starry sky, like the closing of a giant eyelid. Ivy had found a Home Depot over on the Vermont side of Lake Champlain, now drove back to Plattsburgh, credit card maxed out, with an extendable aluminum ladder tied to her roof and covered with a tarp. The bolt cutters, their two-foot-long steel handles coated in plastic, lay on the seat beside her. She felt nervous, but no more so than if she had to make a speech, say, or pass some entrance exam. Her mind, more logical and organized than it had ever been, was still racing along ahead of her. It had already divided the future into two possible paths.

  Path one, and her instincts told her the more likely: Betty Ann was close by, and this would all be over by morning, almost before Harrow could even be missed, certainly before her role could be suspected.

  Path two: Betty Ann was farther away, and they would need time. Ivy had a plan for that; it felt preordained. Her whole relationship to life had shifted, as though she were meeting it from a different angle, an angle that had to do with changing things—maybe just one thing—but for the better.

  Ivy turned into the visitors’ lot at the hospital, drove all the way to the back, past the last light stand into a shadowy corner. The hospital, three stories high, was T-shaped, the psych ward on the third floor at the end of the right-hand arm. That wing stood beyond a grassy rectangle about twenty or thirty yards from the end of the parking lot. Lights shone from many windows, but only faintly from the psych ward, and not at all from the last window. Ivy reached for the door handle. Her cell phone rang.

  Ivy almost didn’t answer. Then she remembered those late-night calls from inside Dannemora, and the cell phone better left unmentioned. Did he still have it?

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Ivy?” A man, vaguely familiar, not Harrow.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Whit,” he said.

  For a moment, the name didn’t click. “Whit?”

  “From The New Yorker.”

  “Sorry,” Ivy said. “I just wasn’t expecting—”

  “Is this a bad time?” Whit said. “If you want, I could call ba—”