“Goddamn it, Doreen!” his voice boomed. “How the hell can you do something like this? Sit here all day!”

  Chandal glared at him with contempt as he moved further into the room. Her eyes followed him closely. “Mike,” she said steadily, “I’m afraid it’s my fault....

  He turned to face her, his anger doubling. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he spat at her. “I was talking to my wife!”

  Tight-lipped, Chandal glanced at Doreen.

  “I’m sorry,” Doreen said before Chandal could find the right words to cut Mike to ribbons. “I lost track of time. One minute it was three o’clock and then I turned around—”

  “I want dinner!” he snapped. “And 4A has been trying to find you for an hour. The halls are filthy.”

  “Mike, please—” Doreen pleaded.

  “What the hell do I care? You want people to say we keep the building like a pigsty, that’s okay, I guess!”

  Tears welled in Doreen’s eyes. With a sudden desperate courage, she took the offensive. “You have no right to talk to me like this! To treat me like this!”

  “Lower your voice,” he scowled. “You’re screaming.”

  “I’ll scream if I feel like screaming!” Doreen burst into tears.

  “Listen, never mind about dinner. I’ll eat out.”

  Before Doreen could reply, he was gone, slamming the door behind him. The sudden and total silence, now devoid of Mike’s energy, left the room with yet another sort of explosion. Something that had to do with despair.

  Doreen stood motionless by the fireplace, tears coursing down her cheeks. Seeing Chandal staring at her, she turned away and stifled her sobbing against the back of her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Chandal said softly.

  Doreen didn’t say anything for a moment, but when she turned back toward Chandal, she had stopped crying entirely. Her voice was low and even. “I’m fine now. Really. I’m all right.” She paused to rub her temple with her thumb and middle finger. “I’d better go.”

  “Are you sure you feel okay?”

  “A headache, that’s all.”

  “Can I get you anything? Aspirin, water, another drink?”

  “No, I’d better...”

  “Not yet. Stay here for a minute. I’ll fix coffee, okay? Please, sit here a moment. Don’t try to talk.”

  Doreen looked at her and smiled. Then she began to laugh, the laugh of a girl who has just had a near miss with death and emerged suddenly from the shock, to find herself alive and well.

  Disbelievingly, Chandal stared at her and forced a slight smile to her own lips. The smile felt dry and stiff, certainly nothing like the spontaneous mirth that now shook Doreen, who was laughing out loud until the tears rolled down her cheeks. After a few moments she fell silent, then opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Chandal asked. There had been something so odd about her laughter.

  “Hell,” she giggled. “I’m used to it.”

  Over coffee, Doreen said shyly, “I hope you don’t think too badly about Mike. He’s really a nice guy. No, really. He just flies off like that and he can’t help it.”

  “Why can’t he help it?” Chandal asked shortly.

  “He’s full of feeling. It comes pouring out and there’s so much of it, you know, that he can’t stop it.”

  “You’re very understanding.”

  “What sort of wife would I be if I wasn’t?” Then she added, passionately, “You’ve noticed his hand, I guess? It happened in Viet Nam. He was so shot up, they left him lying on the riverbank. They thought he was dead. When he opened up his eyes he was the only living soul in the dead of dark with a hundred corpses. Well, you see, Mike started to scream. He screamed so loud, the medics heard him from almost a mile off where they had their hut and they came and got him. They found him all torn up and his three fingers ripped off. They fixed him up—as well as they could. But, well... he’s torn up inside worst of all. He’s so cut up he’s in pain all the time. Sometimes I hear him crying in bed at night. He still has shrapnel in his skull.” Doreen laughed now, choking a bit on her tears. “Isn’t anything so bad, that there isn’t something funny, Chandal. That metal up in his skull, sometimes it picks up radio stations. No kidding, sometimes I see him snapping his fingers and I know sure as anything he’s picked up a rock station.”

  Chandal joined her in laughter. Yet despite her outward show of conviviality, she reserved a grain of her anger. Just a reminder that he had misused Doreen, and no matter what had happened, or what Doreen thought, he didn’t have that right. The scene struck some distant memory in Chandal, one she could not quite grasp, of someone... her husband?

  “I call him the man with the radio in his head,” chortled the forgiving wife.

  “You’re too good, Doreen. No, really, you are.”

  “You’d be that way, too, if you were in my place.”

  “No. I don’t think so. Not again.”

  “Again? Did your husband... you know?”

  “No.” Chandal stared at her. “Justin never mistreated me. We had a very happy marriage.” Even as she spoke, she wondered if this was the truth.

  “Oh. Just the way you said—”

  “My mind was wandering.”

  “Chandal? Do you mind me asking... Ron. Are you in love with him?”

  With a half grin Chandal replied, “Sometimes, yes, sometimes, no. If you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.” Doreen smiled back, then murmured shyly, “I was wondering something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you think it’s so important for a man’s wife to—to have their child? Do you think Ron feels that way?”

  “I don’t know. Even if he did, I’m sure he’d understand if—” Chandal broke off, staring at Doreen.

  “We just found out. I can’t have children. Mike was terribly disappointed. I think that’s one of the things that’s been bothering him. It’s been bothering me too. I’ve become obsessed with it lately.”

  “You can adopt,” Chandal said firmly.

  “Won’t there be a difference?”

  “No difference at all.”

  Doreen smiled suddenly. “Maybe you’re right,” she murmured, meeting Chandal’s gaze. “Maybe it would be just like mine. I mean, if I were the one who took care of it—if I were the one who understood its needs—” Her face glowed and her smile widened.

  She was still smiling when she left the carriage house.

  For the next few hours Chandal kept busy, trying desperately to put the incident behind her. She washed wine glasses which were filled with years of dust, lined the kitchen shelves with bright yellow contact paper, cleaned the oven, scoured the sink and then began scrubbing the kitchen floor.

  Fighting back a sudden drowsiness, she studied her face reflected in the white tiles through hot soapy water. Grime had loosened and begun to slide down her cheeks. She shuddered. It was like watching a face under a face. The first face evaporated to reveal the second face. She couldn’t tell if she had begun to sweat or if steam merely settled on her, dampened her in a claustrophobic cloud.

  Swiftly consciousness and subconsciousness became one. Memories appeared ready to pour forth. Chandal caught her breath. She tried to will herself to let it all out. It was there, so close, so damned close. It had happened before, but never so intensely, so tantalizingly, just out of reach.

  Unaware of her actions, she reached for the knife that rested on the broad edge of the sink and ran her finger along the blade. So sharp. She pressed against it slightly and watched with fascination as a thin red line opened on her thumb.

  A flash. A knife in someone’s hand. Whose hand? Her hand. The image faded. Now she was in a museum. Vaguely, she could even see a room. Huge paintings. A phone rang in her memory. Your mother, the voice was saying. Suicide.

  “Oh, no. Mama. Why?”

  “Like mother, like daughter,” breathed a disembodied voice.

  She blinked and laid the knife aside.

  Her mind kept wandering. She was a little edgy, jumpy, and could not fully understand the moment’s reality. What the hell was bothering her? She was lonely, she knew that. She used the word unconsciously, then realized she had said it and even how ridiculous it sounded. The muscles in her cheeks twitched suddenly. She shook her head. “Like mother. Like daughter.”

  Involuntarily her eyes moved to the den. The door looked as though it had suddenly opened. It was too much—it was the final absurdity. She had to stop acting so goddamned silly.

  She threw the sponge into the bucket, shrugged and dried her hands on the dishtowel. After a swift glance at the living room clock, she reached for the telephone. She gave herself no time to think, merely dialed the familiar number as rapidly as possible.

  The voice in California did not sound pleased.

  “Ron, it’s Chandal,” she said as matter-of-factly as possible.

  “Oh,” Ron said stiffly.

  “Hey, don’t sound all Greek and tragic. Or did I catch you at a bad time, because if...”

  “No, I’m just surprised to hear from you, that’s all.”

  “You don’t have a date over there, do you? Some starlet who made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?” She laughed shortly, and then discovered in the silence which followed that Ron was not amused. “Hey, you’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “Why? Just because you haven’t called me in a week? Why should I be mad?”

  “Ron....”

  She was surprised that she had forgotten how much this man mattered to her.

  “Okay, I’m not mad,” he acquiesced wearily. “If I was mad, I wouldn’t pick up the phone on the first ring, would I? I’d play it cool. Maybe let it ring twice or something.”

  “Thanks for not playing it cool.” She smiled into the phone.

  “So, how’s it going out there?” he asked. “Don’t you miss all the sunshine? Your friends?”

  “Yes, I do. And you. I miss you.”

  “Well, does that mean good news or something? Like maybe you’re calling from the airport with your packed bags at your feet?”

  “Ron, I’m sorry. I’m going to stay on here. For a while. I don’t know how long.”

  An instant of chilled silence passed between them.

  Chandal hurried on then with news: The address and phone number of the carriage house, the description of the carriage house, the agent she had made contact with last Friday who was already sending her to a reading on Monday. Finally she added that she had gotten into a good ballet class at Carnegie Hall.

  “Well,” he interjected, “it sounds like you’re all set up, doesn’t it? Like, say, permanently.”

  “I didn’t say that.” She hesitated.

  “Jesus, Del. You’re in New York. About as far from me as you can get, without leaving the country.”

  “Ron, have a little faith in me. There’s no hope for us if you don’t....”

  “What about the screen test?” Ron interrupted. “Can I at least tell Coppola you’re willing to come back for that?”

  “It’s out of the question.”

  “Out of the question?” he repeated incredulously. “I’ll pay for the flight, Del. I can’t let you blow this opportunity.”

  She felt her temper explode. “Just tell him,” she said sharply, “if he wants me for the picture, he can look at all the other screen tests I made for all the other pictures I didn’t get.”

  “That’s not fair, Del. It takes time. I did my best for you out here.”

  She heard the hurt in his voice, felt the space between them growing larger. “I don’t know,” she whispered past the lump in her throat, and then quietly said, “Ron, I can’t talk anymore, okay? I’ll call you.” But she did want to talk to him. She did.

  “When?”

  “Soon,” she replied vaguely. “Okay?”

  “I guess it will have to be,” he muttered.

  “Yeah.”

  After a pause, she added, “Goodnight, Ron.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She clung to the receiver for a moment, then slowly, hesitantly, she let it drop into its cradle. She felt a dull ache inside. It carried her to the window as if to look for an escape. Pulling back the curtains at the side, she peered out into the dark shadows of the courtyard. She could see nothing in clear form, just outlines in a black landscape.

  She folded her hands primly.

  “I guess we showed him, didn’t we?” she said in a low self-satisfied voice. “We’ve never needed a man. Not in the past, not for the future.” The tone was prudish, self-satisfied. Underneath was a well of hatred. Always carefully hidden, of course. She’d hated now for such a long time. Most of all she hated the girl on whom she depended for life.

  Blinking now, Chandal seemed to come up into a different level of reality. As if she’d lost a few seconds, maybe, of time. Yawning, she decided she felt terribly tired. She had to get some sleep if she was going to do a good reading tomorrow.

  She washed carefully and dressed herself in a long-sleeved flannel nightgown. It was a warm, comfortable gown. She had found it that morning tucked away in a bureau drawer and had washed it out. Perfect, she thought, then climbed into bed. Perfect for sleeping on a cool night.

  Outside the rain began to fall quite heavily. It gave her an isolated feeling to lie there on her back and study the long shadows that cast themselves over the ceiling. Ron... why was she so confused about her feelings toward Ron?

  Her eyes closed, then opened. She heard herself sweetly humming a familiar song. She felt anxiety slip away.

  Sleep, dear. I’ll sing you to sleep. You like this song, don’t you?

  Yes. Yes, I like this song. Her eyelids drooped again.

  Abruptly Chandal sat straight up in bed. A tapping sound had roused her, some sort of a rhythmic series of taps, almost like a language.

  Are you there? Tap-tap-tap.

  Are you awake? Tap-tap-tap.

  The taps changed to a different sort of sound now. Like fingernails being dragged across the side of the house.

  Jesus. Tree branches. But, what a sound. Almost sensuous, personal in some way to her. She felt her heart pound.

  There was silence. The pure heavy rain surrounded her.

  “Tree branches,” she murmured. Tree branches blowing against the house. She let out her breath in a long sigh that led her back toward peace. She never felt herself come to the borderline dividing wakefulness from sleep, but somehow she had passed over the boundary, because she was dreaming.

  A real dream, terribly real. She heard a sound, loud, grating, like two pieces of metal being rubbed against each other. Trembling, she waited.

  The door to her bedroom opened and footsteps came stealthily across the floor. She strained to see the man who stood in the shadows at the edge of the bed, staring at her. He stepped forward now, his tall, muscular body moving with a natural, animal litheness emphasized by his broad shoulders and narrow hips, until he towered over her.

  Overhead there was the sound of movement again, a tapping sound. Persistent and rhythmic.

  Her eyes took sharper focus. A stranger in some way, yet familiar—Mike. It was Mike. The muscles in his face strangely immobile, yet his eyes intense, hypnotic.

  “Chandal, wake up,” he whispered, bending over her. She stared up at him silently, noticed how his bare chest, covered with thick black hair and a light layer of sweat, moved in and out as he took deep shuddering breaths.

  Repulsed, she longed to scream, to dig her fingernails into his flesh. To fight him in some way.

  “Relax,” he said, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Transfixed, she watched him smile as he slid the covers from her unprotesting body. She felt his hand running up her leg, caressing her thigh. Then, very gently, his fingers moved higher.

  “Aah,” she sighed in greedy lust, working herself against his hand.

  Then instantly a sharp thought pressed. Think, think! Chandal told herself. She was filled with frenzy. Mike mounted her. Her lungs ached for air as he began probing his erection between her legs.

  Her frenzy turned to terror. She gagged and struggled against the terrible pressure against her spine. The blood rushed and pounded in her head and ears. Her limbs thrashed and jerked, wildly trying to stop Mike from entering her. A thick, syrupy liquid gushed between her thighs. She hit him. Saw that his cheek was bleeding where she had apparently clawed him. Her tongue pushed out between her teeth and then she screamed.

  With a sudden wrenching of terror she came awake, streaming with perspiration that ran steadily down between her breasts and down the small of her back despite the chill of the room. Lying naked atop the sheets she felt tears begin to flood her eyes and she couldn’t summon up the concentration to decide what to do next. She couldn’t think or move. She could only lie there gasping for air. Her eyes were wide open and her lashes flickered out of control.

  She let one hand come away from her side but so slowly it barely seemed to move. She managed to get two fingers on the light cord attached to one of the small lights beside the bed and pulled. The room suddenly jumped to life in the dim glow of a yellow forty-watt bulb. The room was empty.

  Stunned, she tried to rise. She would never make it. She’d never be able to leave the bed. Small tremors ran through her body as seconds, minutes passed, while beneath her eyelids images hovered. Finally she managed to bring her feet to the floor. Then she lifted her hands, took hold of the headboard, and with a forceful lunge brought herself to her feet.

  In the next instant she heard the front gate of the carriage house slam shut. The room fell into a perfect silence. Was she dreaming? Had such a vivid experience been nothing more than a dream? Then, with a rush of breath... Yes. It had all been a dream. She almost fainted from the sudden release of muscle tension in her legs and back.

  Involuntarily she looked at the bed. The tightly bunched sheets were wet. Still she was motionless. She couldn’t remember all of the dream now. Only the beginning. Mike’s face. A face she despised.

  Silently she began to move, until she found herself huddled on the couch in the living room. She had put on every light in the house. Poised with a cigarette dangling from between her fingers, riveted with anticipation, she glanced at her watch. It was a little past three. She waited.

 

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