Cast a Pale Shadow (10 page)

"What man?"

"The man who attacked you. Even if there was no rape this time, he--"

"Rape? No! I fell! That's all. I just fell!"

"Trissa, we know that--"

"I fell, please, I fell. I've always been clumsy. It was dark. I wasn't careful." The words tumbled out of her in frantic bursts.

"Okay, all right, I'll send the policeman away. If you could just tell me your last name, we can call your parents."

"No. They wouldn't care. Don't bother them." She turned her head away from him, letting the tears roll down to the sheets. She suddenly hadn't the strength to wipe them away.

"All right, but your last name? We need--"

"No," she said softly.

"But--"

"No," she insisted, and she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep until the pretending had become real.

The breakfast tray came in and Trissa picked at it without enthusiasm, finishing only the juice and the toast. The aid's words taunted her, "We won't let you go until Dr. Edmonds says..."

But go where? Home? The railroad tracks seemed more welcoming. Still, she had to know how her father was. She had to say she was sorry again. The telephone seemed cold as stone in her hand and when the operator asked her for the number, Trissa's voice was a choked and ragged whisper.

Chapter Five

"Hello." It was her mother's telephone voice. It grated Trissa that no matter what screaming strife the ringing telephone interrupted, her mother always managed to compose her voice into melodious warmth before answering. Her tone conveyed nothing. Bob could be bleeding to death at her feet and it would sound the same. Trissa was too uncertain of her own voice to speak.

"Hello?" A slight trickle of irritation seeped into the second greeting. Trissa's finger trembled over the hang-up button. All her courage had drained from her. She had nothing to say to her mother, nothing that would explain or pardon what she had done. Nothing that she would believe. "Trissa, is that you? Don't hang up!"

Don't hang up. Did she mean to enkindle this bright flare of hope in her daughter, hope that she wanted to talk, to listen and understand? With reckless disregard for all the snuffed-out hopes of her past, Trissa sobbed, "Mom, help me. I'm sorry."

"Help you? Help you? Help you?" Each barked question was delivered with rising inflection until the last ended in a scream. "You need help all right. But it's more help than I can give you. Your father will be scarred for life. Who's to help him?"

"I'm sorry. He tried--"

"He told me what happened. I don't need to hear what your twisted mind has made out of it."

Perhaps it was best that way. If you pretended it didn't happen, maybe, in time it will seem as if it hadn't. "How -- how is Daddy?"

"How dare you ask that question? Is that why you called?"

"Yes. I just -- I have to know."

"Funny, you weren't so concerned when you ran out of here. Where did you spend the night? Where are you now?" By now her mother's voice had the cold, metallic ring of brass. All the honeyed, bell tones of her first "hello" were lost in its harshness.

"In the -- at a friend's house." Trissa had to hold her breath to keep another sob from escaping.

"Fine. Then you can just stay there. I'll put your clothes in the alley. You can pick them up there."

Trissa could not stop her startled gasp. "The alley? Please, Mommy, let me come home. Let me explain." She squeezed her eyes shut but that did not impede the stinging tears. The receiver seemed suddenly too heavy to hold up and her arm trembled with the effort. Her head throbbed and spun. She gripped the side rail of the bed tightly with her other hand to keep her balance.

She could no longer decipher her mother's words. They seemed as implacable as the train bearing down on her. The train... The roaring train...The receiver slipped from her grasp, or was it taken from her? And it was not her mother's voice any more but--

"Hello." The man spoke calmly into the receiver, holding it out from his ear so  Trissa could still hear her mother's screaming tirade.

"--and if you want them, I suggest you pick them up by noon. You know trash pick up is -- who -- who is this?"

"My name is Nicholas Brewer. I am a friend of Trissa's."

The train and its roar, the mournful wail of its whistle, the relentless rumble of its approach shuddering up through her knees melted from Trissa's memory at the sound of her name from this man. He had said it before, had called to her out of the darkness before. She remembered seeing his face loom over her in the darkness of a dream, his square jaw and kind brown eyes framed with blond waves like a Renaissance angel. He had to be a dream. Yet now here he was smiling at her while he held up one hand to caution her to silence. Who was he?

"What? Who? What have you done with my daughter? I'll have the police--"

"Yes, I am sure the police will be very interested to hear where and how I found Trissa last night."

Trissa gasped and shook her head wildly, the action setting the room into a dizzying whirl, but he put his fingers to his lips and crinkled his brow slightly. Something in his eyes made her know that he was bluffing.

*****

Nicholas moved a few steps toward the foot of the bed where Trissa could be spared the sound of her mother's venom.

"Why you God damned son of a bitch! Are you threatening me? My husband will have your ass in--"

"Surely we can discuss your daughter's welfare without profanity. I know we both have only her best interests at heart. As for your husband, I think it might be wise if you tried not to remind me of his existence right now, or I may imagine all sorts of causes for Trissa's bruises." Nicholas forced his voice to remain steady, investing it with sure, calm power, willing Trissa to surrender her panic to it. She sank back against the pillow and rubbed the tears from her cheeks with the palms of her hands.

"What?" her mother screamed. "What has she told you? She's lying. She--"

"She has no reason to lie to me. On the other hand, I have heard her beg you to let her explain. You refuse to let her. I require no explanations and I ask none."

"Are you trying to tell me how I should handle my daughter?"

"No. That would be senseless as you will not have the opportunity to do so again. I understand from your rantings that her things have been placed in the alley. I will see that she gets them. Goodbye." Nicholas dropped the receiver into its cradle and gave it a light slap to celebrate his victory. He smiled into Trissa's wide-eyed wonder. "I'll need the address of that alley if you want me to beat the trash truck to it."

"Ahhh, good, you're back, Mr. Brewer. Tsk, tsk, couldn't you coax your wife into eating a bit more of her breakfast? No wonder she is such a little wisp of a thing." The nurse's aid marched in and bustled about with breezy efficiency, adjusting the shade and pulling the bed curtain out to half surround them. "I'll have to ask you to leave again for now. Bath time."

Nicholas noted Trissa's puzzled shock at the words "your wife" but there was no time to defend himself as the aid shooed him toward the door. He shrugged at Trissa and reluctantly turned to go.

"Umm, wait," called a small, shaky voice from the bed. "3303 Christian Avenue. It's in Baden, near the cemetery."

*****

Nicholas flashed her a quick smile and a thumbs up, "I'll be right back," he promised and departed. Before the aid had a chance to shut the door in his wake, he was back, poking his head through the crack. "You will wait for me, won't you, Trissa?"

"Oh, go on with you," teased the aid, waving him on his way. "She ain't going anywhere withoutcha." She pulled the door closed and chuckled with her hands on her hips. "Men! Always underfoot when you least need them and scarce as Young Abe's whiskers when you don't."

"He...you said he was here all night?" asked Trissa. She had a misty memory of a figure asleep in the chair. She had dreamed it was Lonny, come to take her with him.

"Begged her to stay, so the night nurse says," Moira said. "Now, how about a warm sponge bath? Might be just the thing to brighten your appetite. I want to see more food gone from that tray, or I'll tell the doctor on you." She filled a basin with warm, sudsy water and helped Trissa remove her gown.

Trissa winced as each new muscle she used reminded her of the abuse they had taken. She was beginning to think there might have been less pain if the train had hit her. But Moira was gentle and her touch and the warm water was soothing as she kept up a constant babble of instructions.

"...and from now on, honey, you are just going to have to be more careful. It is pitiful to see a little mite like you so black and blue. There doesn't seem to be an inch of your skin that's its rightful color." Trissa held her hair to the side as Moira rubbed the sponge down her neck and back in long, silky strokes. Despite her determination to decipher the identity of her mystery man, her mind drifted with Moira's tranquilizing ministrations and her amiable scolding. It was almost like having a mother who cared for you.

"And from the looks of him, it must have been quite a tumble the two of you took."

"Him? The two of us?" Trissa's blissful composure shattered and her mind was jumbled again. "He was hurt, too," she said with deliberate slowness, hoping the saying of it would bring to mind how it happened.

"Oh, Lord bless you, love must be blind! I never seen such a shiner as his. I suppose you'll be tellin' me that underneath all that is the handsomest man on earth. Mmm, mmm, mmm, I don't know; it'll take some imagination." Moira teased her as she patted her dry and helped her into a fresh gown. "There, now, you eat that cereal and drink that milk, you hear? And don't you be getting up without calling me. I don't like those rubber legs of yours one bit."

"Yes, ma'am," she promised and Moira left her alone. It was unsettling that she had not really found his bruises and scrapes so remarkable. It was as if, subconsciously knowing how they came to be, she had accepted them as ribbons of valor.

 Yes, it was quite a tumble the two of them had taken and she, eyes squeezed shut, praying that God would understand and forgive her, had felt the impact of his body on hers and had thought it was the train.
"Not so bad, not so bad after all,"
she remembered thinking.
"Imagine... a train and really no more painful than smacking the water with a belly flop."
And for the one brief moment that her eyes were open before the darkness captured her, she had seen his face, unbruised, unmarked, and perfect, like an archangel on a holy card.
Yes, Moira, he was the handsomest man on earth. But who on earth was he?

*****

Nicholas took a cab to work to pick up his car and explain to his boss why he wouldn't be in today, then hurried off to his rooms to shave and change. He was halfway down the back steps when he remembered he'd left his keys in the torn jacket he'd discarded. He found them stuffed in the pocket with the crumpled bus route map. He studied the map for a moment and found where Christian Avenue intersected the main route. He had stopped at that intersection on more than one occasion in his ramblings. Trissa had been just a few blocks away then. If he had known... if he had only known. Folding the map carefully, he took it with him.

As he drove down Grand and turned onto Broadway, his rage mounted until his grip on the wheel was so tight his knuckles ached. Rape, Edmonds had said. Attempted rape. And it was not difficult to deduce from Trissa's mother's tersely worded denials who the attempted rapist was. Of all people, Nicholas would know the devastation of such an attack.

He pulled the map out at the next stoplight, though the route was engraved on his heart. The mechanics of unfolding and refolding lent a structure to his thinking. Six blocks to Christian Avenue. Past the cemetery and under the viaduct. The black iron spikes of Calvary's fence ticked past him on the left. He was driving so he could not read the names on the massive stone crosses of the family plots as he did when he rode past them on the bus. But he knew them all by heart. Cantrell, Donnelly, Temme, Pizarek.... reciting them kept his mind off other things.

He drove slowly down Christian looking for the address. The house was a two story white frame with shades pulled in every window but the one on the top right. He imagined that was Trissa's room. Her mother might have needed the light to gather Trissa's things so she could cast them out. A concrete donkey and cart filled with the crisp brown heads of dead chrysanthemums graced the lawn next to the walk. A peeling white trellis twisted with the remains of last year's climbing roses partially concealed the porch. The name on the mailbox was Kirk.

It was easy to convince himself that no one was home. He did not want to risk a confrontation. The restraints on his fury were still too fragile, too freshly forged. Nicholas eased his car down the block and around the corner to the alley.

Fenced backyards with lawns the faded, nearly colorless, khaki of a colder than usual March just ending, ramshackle garages, and rusting trash bins lined the narrow alley. Trissa's mother was not bluffing. He saw the jumbled pile next to the trash bin behind her house immediately. A sad assortment of tattered shopping bags, a dilapidated black suitcase, and an old, red portable record player were this mother's parting gifts to her daughter.

Nicholas loaded them into the trunk, sorting out one change of clothing for Trissa to wear home from the hospital, and two gowns, and a robe and slippers in case she had to stay for a while. Remembering Judy's sour, accusing questions from last night, he looked for a coat but could find none. And where were her shoes and the blue backpack she always toted on the bus? Before he could let his common sense overtake his anger, he slammed the trunk lid shut and charged up the back walk.

The sound of his own fist racketing against the metal storm door of the back porch jolted his brain to think a moment. What if Trissa's father answered the door? Would he be able to keep himself from throttling the man?