Authors: Francine Pascal
Pinky is usually waiting on the porch with Nami, but I’m so early this morning that she isn’t down yet. I sit in one of the rocking chairs to wait. I can’t control a discreetly low off-key hum as I rock back and forth in the chair. The weather here is unbelievably beautiful.
The short, dark-haired girl from the restaurant with one of those awful names they pick, something that sounds like Urema or whatever, comes out with a message. Something’s wrong. I can tell from the smug pleasure on her face.
The note is from Pinky and says simply that she’s sorry but she can’t see me today. No explanation. Nothing.
“I don’t understand this,” I say, offering the paper so she can read it. “Where is she?”
“Upstairs.”
“Then why can’t I see her?”
“I guess she doesn’t want to.”
“Or she isn’t being allowed to.”
“There are no restrictions on any of us here. No man-made restrictions, at any rate.”
“I don’t believe she doesn’t want to see me.”
“Have it your own way.”
“And I’m not leaving until she tells me herself.”
She shrugs. “Do you want me to give her that message?”
“Yes, please.”
She goes into the house. I have no idea whether she’s going to give the message to Pinky or whether they’ll let her see me or what. I have to control my fury and keep remembering that I’m not in a position to storm the gates. I have to be clever and careful about this or I’ll lose Pinky absolutely.
Almost ten minutes pass, and then to my surprise Pinky appears at the screen door. She comes out. She looks quieter but the same.
“Can you talk?” I whisper.
“Yes.” Her voice is cool, the feel is distant.
“I don’t understand what’s happening. Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why did you write that note?”
“There’s nothing more to say. I’ve given you all the information you need, haven’t I?”
It’s as if we were meeting for the first time. All those hours together have simply been wiped out. This can’t be. Yet one look at her face and I see it is. We’re back at square one.
“Pinky, is it me? Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” she says, and some of the old closeness softens her voice. “It’s just not possible, that’s all.”
“You mean our friendship.”
She shrugs.
“Have they objected?” I motion to the house. But she shakes her head, no. “Then what is it?”
“I have all that I need in my life. Avrum’s shown me that so clearly.”
“You spoke to him?”
“No. I got a letter this morning.”
Of course, I should have guessed. It had to be something that powerful. Something the size of Avrum. Still, I’m amazed that with only a few words on paper he could negate all that we had been feeling together.
“Good-bye, Johanna. I hope I’ve been able to help you.”
It’s a total dismissal.
“I wish I’d been able to help you,” I say a little bitterly.
She smiles that vacant smile of our first meeting and turns to go back into the house.
“Pinky,” I call. She stops. “Would you mind if I looked at the letter?”
“No, I’m sorry but I don’t think you’re ready to see it yet.”
“Are you implying that one day I will be?”
“Possibly.”
“You’re very wrong. But it’s not important. I was only curious to see what he could say that would turn you around like that.”
“Have a good trip back,” she says and, opening the screen door and stepping in out of the sun, is swallowed up by the dark hall.
I leave feeling frustrated and disappointed. Disappointed that I couldn’t help Pinky and frustrated and even angry at losing to Avrum Maheely. He’s been overpowering me all week, first with Swat and Imogene, and now Pinky. It’s the power of that core I’ve got to find out about.
On the drive back to San Francisco I remember Imogene’s letters. My preoccupation with Pinky had swept them from my mind. I haven’t even looked at them. It’s time I did.
There’s a message from David back at the hotel, but when I call he’s already left the office. I try his cell, but there’s no answer. I keep trying, but no luck. The more I try the more important it becomes to talk to him. I need someone on my side—if he is anymore.
All the inspiration and energy I felt earlier this morning have been drained from me. Suddenly I feel very far from home and alone. I guess I’m not really alone; Sephra is out here, but that’s something I never seem to be ready to face. I don’t know why my initial reaction to Sephra is always uneasiness. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s really very nice and nonthreatening, and I don’t know why I tighten so at the thought of her. I should call her, say hello, maybe even stop over for a quick visit, be mature, not like those fools I’ve been dealing with for the last few days.
In the meantime a Valium helps me unloosen a little, and I lay back to enjoy a joint and study Imogene’s letters.
The first one could have been written to anyone. It reads like a cross between a sermon and a hypnotherapy session. The words are direct and electrifying, yet soothing as they work at carefully unpeeling, layer by layer, all the fears, doubts, and anxieties one would have. These negatives, once exposed, are lifted and taken from the reader, leaving comfort and peace and, I would suspect, a thick cord of dependence. Running through all of this is a strong inspirational undercurrent, the promise of a grand purpose with Avrum Maheely at its center.
The letter is extremely effective. Like a good play or story, it encourages a suspension of disbelief that allows one an incredible latitude of acceptance. Even I, as an objective observer, experience an instant involvement. I’m not sure how much is a result of his powerful style and the hypnotic feel of the repetition or the joint I’ve been smoking and my own vague disturbances, but whatever it is, I find myself very receptive, and if I respond that way, Imogene must be mesmerized. And even Pinky.
The last line of the letter brings the presence of Avrum uncomfortably close. “Remember what is ours,” he writes. “Now and forever. The time is near.”
The second letter is very short and adds to the confusion. It’s a love letter, simple and caring, with a tone as gentle as David’s might be.
I can’t seem to get a fix on this man, on who he really is. One moment he’s a monster, the next a messiah, lover, healer, killer, priest . . . the closer I get, the more varied the levels. Even admitting these contradictions makes me uneasy. If anyone suspected that I thought Maheely was more than raw evil, they’d think I was bewitched.
He is bewitching though. That’s the power of charismatic people—but not their mystery. The unknown is how charisma happens. What kind of chance alignment of elements creates the phenomenon. I have to understand that in order to capture the quality for my character.
I read the first letter over and over until the written words become meaningless sounds inside my brain. With more weed, I can almost hear his voice in my head and feel his vibrations in the room. I move with them, and a heat begins to smother my body. Sliding out of my nightgown I fling it over the side of the bed. I run my hands down hard over my body, flattening my breasts, digging into the softness of my belly, and then lock them tight between my thighs.
Time passes, and the inner knots untie, and all the things that didn’t work out—David, Pinky, Sephra—all seem to be drawn from my body, and I slip off to sleep.
It’s almost six in the afternoon when I awaken, and instead of feeling rested I feel anxious. Too much weed tends to wire me, and the long plane trip looming doesn’t help. Add to that a nasty dream about Swat. She and I are fighting, punching and kicking each other on a narrow ledge high above the street. I’m winning when suddenly she grabs a piece of naked flesh on my waistline, pinching and twisting it. When I try to break her grip she rams her knee into my stomach, and I go flying off the ledge. I wake up seconds before I hit the ground.
It’s been a horrible trip, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here in a state of high aggravation simply because David thinks I take too many Valiums. They happen to relax me, and I only take them when I need them. And I need a couple now.
It’s too late to make the afternoon plane so I decide to save a couple of pennies and take the red-eye special that leaves at 10 p.m. and gets into New York at 6 a.m. That gives me some time to poop around San Francisco.
Or I could drive out and see Sephra. On the spur of the moment, that’s what I decide to do.
I call Sephra first; naturally she’s surprised to hear from me.
Maybe I’m being too sensitive, but I don’t pick up great pleasure on the phone.
“Well,” I say, “I just called to say hello and find out how everything was.”
“Aren’t we going to see you?”
“It’s so last minute, I didn’t want to barge in . . .”
“Johanna, you’re not barging in. We’d love to see you. It’s been much too long.”
“Well . . .”
“I don’t want to push you if you’re too busy . . .”
“No, actually I’ve finished my work.”
“Then why not come out?”
Incredible how those old scary, uneasy feelings wash back over me as soon as I’m in contact with Sephra. It’s nothing she says, nothing she does, it isn’t even anything about her. I don’t know what it is. But it makes me want to run.
I force myself not to this time. “You’re right,” I tell her, “it’d be dumb to miss this opportunity. I haven’t seen the kids in years.”
She sounds genuinely delighted and gives me detailed instructions. It’s a twenty-minute ride, and I tell her I’ll be leaving in about a half hour.
I throw the last few things in my suitcase and I’m checked out in less than fifteen minutes, which leaves me enough time for a nice relaxing drink at the bar. I refuse to allow myself to get uptight about this visit. I’m going to keep it short and easy, no difficult questions, nothing.
I have all kinds of trouble following Sephra’s directions. First I miss the exit on the highway, and then I can’t find the right turn on Cranston Street and end up hopelessly lost in the maze of some housing development. I can’t even find a gas station to ask directions. It makes me nervous to lose my way in a strange place where I have absolutely no bearings. I pull over to the curb, turn on the light, and read the directions again.
I don’t know where I went wrong. It seems to me I followed the directions perfectly except for missing the turnoff, but I righted that by doubling back. Sephra has to have given me the wrong directions. I know she didn’t do it on purpose, but subconsciously she probably didn’t really want me to come. I know that sounds farfetched, and maybe it is, but that’s the way my mind is working in this agitated state I’m in.
And, I decide, I don’t want to go—consciously or subconsciously. I can’t imagine why I’ve forced myself into this position. It’s always the same. The prospect of seeing Sephra starts the same old fears all over again. I suppose it’s no real mystery. She revives all the miseries of my life, the death of my parents and those terrible lonely years of growing up without a family. In a way, I love Sephra; she’s very dear to me because she’s all I have left of them. But getting to her through all that darkness is more than I can stand anymore. Especially now. I tremble from the bad feelings I get at the very thought of seeing her again.
I can’t do it. I won’t. Just saying that to myself lifts an iron weight from me. I’m getting out of here. I’m going home, back to New York.
I start the car up again and, after driving in almost endless circles, emerge finally onto a main street. It’s not the same one I took off the highway, but I head in what seems like a westerly direction and after a few minutes hit the parkway. From there it’s not hard to find my way to the airport.
I’ve hated this trip, and a three-hour wait in the airport doesn’t help. But I know what will.
People don’t understand Oxycontin. They instantly picture teenagers popping them indiscriminately and throwing themselves out windows, but if you know how to use them and you need them, they can be very helpful. There’s no way I can unwind from this terrible trip, especially this last part, unless I creep into a jug of martinis and probably get sick on the plane, or take one quiet little Oxycontin.
It annoys me that David wouldn’t approve, and then it doesn’t annoy me anymore and I know the pill is working.
Before I board the plane I send off an email to Sephra. “Urgent change of plans. Must return to New York. Will write.”
Good-bye everybody’s favorite—horrible San Francisco.
Home again and picking up the novel where I left off and armed with a name for the new character—Pinky.
Avrum, Imogene, Frank, and Nellie, having spent themselves in a feast of lust, now sleep on the cabin floor. Only Swat, life’s isolated, rejected, and unloved creature, is awake.
Sometime later there was a soft tapping at the door. At first Swat didn’t realize what it was. No one ever knocked. They simply came in. She listened for it again and then got up and went to the door. As she opened it a long rectangle of late-afternoon sunlight fell across the floor, lighting up the interwoven bodies sleeping in the center.
Outside on the step was a young girl, perhaps sixteen, no older. She was dusty and exhausted-looking but still very beautiful. Small and delicately shaped, she had straight blond hair that hung to her shoulders, hair so smooth it appeared to be one long piece of silk. Her face was perfectly carved, and colored in pale pinks and peaches, with eyes the blue of opals. She was dressed in an ordinary tie-dyed, gauzy cotton shift that fell lightly to the middle of her calves. In her right hand she carried an obviously expensive gray-suede Vuitton suitcase. She stood there, her eyes wide, staring past Swat at the sexual tangle on the floor behind her. In that instant her terrible vulnerability touched Swat who moved slightly to shield her from the shocking sight.
“Please help me.” The girl spoke in so soft and timid a voice that Swat had to lean slightly out the door to hear her. “I’m looking for Avrum Maheely.”
“What do you want Maheely for?” It came out a nasty challenge from which the young girl visibly retreated. For Swat, the threat of yet another beautiful female elicited an involuntary reaction of uncontrolled aggression. “Wait here,” she commanded, turning and closing the door behind her.
With no further explanation Swat kept the young runaway girl waiting outside the cabin until long after dark. By then Pinky’s strong determination, long since eroded by weariness and hunger and the unexpected debauchery of the still life she’d glimpsed on the cabin floor, had drained her of all but minimum strength and left her stunned and confused.
At first she’d stood outside the door waiting for what she expected was Swat’s momentary return, but when more than a half hour passed and she didn’t come back, Pinky began to look for some place to rest. She was much too intimidated by Swat’s hostility to knock again. The only spot other than the hard, dusty ground was a cutoff tree stump a few yards from the house. She sank down on it, exhausted. All the misgivings she’d been holding back since she’d fled her home nine days earlier came flooding over her, and fear and a terrible aloneness took hold. A small panic began to churn at the pit of her stomach and she pulled her suitcase closer to her legs, gripped the smooth leather handle tight, and leaned forward, as though ready to run off the moment she summoned enough courage. But before it came to her, the door opened, and then it was too late.
Avrum stood in the doorway, his body outlined by the flickering candlelight behind him. At first he didn’t see the girl. The night was fairly bright, but she was sitting so still she seemed part of the landscape. He studied the area, slowly searching the night shadows for her.
She watched him without giving a hint of her presence, unsure whether or not to reveal herself. Pinky had never seen Avrum, but she knew instantly it was he. Now, as his head swept around toward her, the excitement of her imminent discovery dispelled the fear and panic, and she felt instead the small thrill of anticipation. She held her breath.
Avrum stared at Pinky for several seconds before his eyes could detach her from the foliage that framed her. His first reaction was simple pleasure at solving the puzzle.
When she felt his discovery, she stood up, still clutching her suitcase. For Pinky, Avrum, with the dim light behind him, was only a bulky outline, but as he came toward her his assurance and ease instantly took command of the moment, and she relaxed. He came to her, stopping only inches from her, his face intimately close. Involuntarily, she leaned back slightly. He took her by the shoulders, his hands steadying her, and brought her body in close again. She felt him looking down at her, but shyness kept her eyes on the ground. An aura of electricity engulfed them and for silent moments they stood together, and then he spoke.
“I’m Avrum Maheely, and I welcome you to me.”
The texture of his voice brought an intimacy to the words, and Pinky could feel their strength. She started to speak, but he stopped her. “No. Don’t tell me anything now. Let me feel your presence first.”
She obeyed.
He closed his eyes, and she watched him stiffen his body, waiting to receive whatever essence she emanated. He took a deep breath and held it. A moment later he exhaled slowly and opened his eyes, then narrowing them, searched her face carefully. He gave no clue to his reaction as he wordlessly led her into the cabin.
Nothing about that first night was what she’d expected. At no time was she introduced to anyone, nor did anyone speak to her. Avrum led her past the others and into an empty room, no bigger than a walk-in closet. He put a half-burned candle stuck to a small plate on the floor and, without a word, turned and left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
Again fear descended on her, and she stood confused and helpless in the middle of the tiny room. She had nothing with her. Her suitcase was still outside where she’d put it down, her pocketbook on top of it.
She waited, hearing sounds but not the words from the other room. Nothing happened. No one came, and finally, overcome with exhaustion, she allowed her body to slide down along the wall to the floor, and within minutes, still sitting upright, she fell into a deep sleep.
Hours later she awoke to the soft click of the door being unlocked. For an instant she was disoriented, frightened, but forgetting why. Then, as the door opened and she saw Avrum, she remembered.
“Use the bathroom if you like,” he said, pointing just outside the door. She rose, straightening out her gauzy dress that had gathered up around one side of her waist, pulling it down quickly to cover her bare thigh. She ran one hand along the back of her neck, releasing the strands of long yellow hair that had caught in the creases of her neck.
He watched her, his deep-set dark eyes studying her with an intensity she couldn’t read. She slipped past him, careful to keep a good distance between them, and found the bathroom. It was small and old, with only the porcelain base of the toilet, a tiny sink balanced on three chrome legs, and a broken faucet. But the worst part was the door. There was none. All that remained were two paint-splattered hinges protruding from the door frame.
When Pinky turned away from the empty doorway she saw what she guessed were six or seven people. None of them seemed to be particularly interested in her, but all could see her just the same. There would be no way for her to achieve even a semblance of privacy.
She watched the others out of the corner of her eye. Choosing a moment when most of them had their backs to her, she quickly raised her skirt and, slipping her panties down as little as possible, sat down on the low, seatless toilet, using her skirt to cover as much of her body as possible. Lowering her head, she studied the cracked and broken floor tiles. An ant’s tiny, beadlike black body raced across the floor toward the empty doorway. Long moments passed, and it seemed forever until she had finally emptied her bladder. The wooden holder for the toilet paper was empty, but a fresh roll was sitting on the floor a few feet away. There was no way for Pinky to reach the paper without taking at least three steps. For the first time since she’d arrived last night, she found herself feeling an ordinary, everyday emotion—annoyance. Why in the world would anyone leave the toilet paper so far away from the toilet! Armed with the momentary anger, holding her skirt up in the back, she half-leaned, half-walked to the roll of paper and with a free hand snatched it up; scampering backwards, she almost fell past the toilet. Once down, she looked up and saw that some of the people were watching her, Avrum included. No one said anything. She felt a combination of acute embarrassment and humiliation. If they had meant to strip her of all sense of dignity, they had certainly succeeded.
Her toilet completed, she walked out of the bathroom to the room where the others were and stood waiting for some greeting. No one looked at her. Finally Avrum turned and noticed her and without a word nodded toward the tiny back room. At first she just looked in that direction, then she realized that he meant for her to go back into the room. She didn’t want to, and the thought crossed her mind not to move. But one look at Avrum and she knew she had to obey him.
Pinky turned and walked back to the room. Someone closed the door behind her, and she heard the bolt snap into place.
She thought about the people on the other side. She’d been there in the big room long enough to see some of them. She knew one woman was pregnant; another was the big, ugly lady who first opened the door for her; there was possibly another woman, and the rest, maybe four or five were men. One of the men looked more like a kid, a teenager. She’d caught him staring at her, but she pretended not to notice.
She was very confused. She’d come here willingly, searching out Avrum, and now she was being treated like a captive. There was no reason, no explanation she could think of for what was happening to her. They didn’t even know who she was. No one had even asked her name or where she was from. All they knew was that she was looking for Avrum Maheely. Why were they treating her like an enemy? Could they know she’d run away? Were they holding her until the police came? No, she didn’t think so. But why the strange treatment?
An aroma of something frying wafted in, quieting her crowded thoughts and making her aware of how hungry she was.
At the same moment she heard a low drone somewhere in the distance that grew steadily stronger. She recognized it as a motorcycle heading toward the house. In seconds it zoomed to a stop outside the window. The window! She hadn’t even looked out the window. It was high off the floor, more than five feet, and open a few inches at the top.
Balancing on tiptoes, she peeked out. The cyclist was already gone, but the excitement of knowing that she wasn’t completely trapped thrilled her. She calculated that pushing out the torn outer screen would be easy enough if she could open the window. Someone had nailed it not to open more than it was, but she was small and it might be possible for her to squeeze through. Or she could break it. Either way, she would wait for nightfall before trying. The sudden possibility of options calmed her enough to allow her thoughts to drift back to the food. She tried to guess what they were frying. It smelled like some kind of meat. God, she was starving!
Within minutes the door opened, and the ugly woman came in with what looked like a hamburger on a paper plate and a can of beer. She could tell instantly that the woman didn’t like her at all and that frightened Pinky, but she took the food, smiled and said thank you. Swat said nothing and left.
The hamburger turned out to be fried Spam on a bun with a big glob of yellow mustard smeared on one side. She ate the entire thing quickly, even though she normally hated that kind of mustard and had never before in her life tasted Spam. It was not the kind of thing her mother ever had in the house.
Pinky didn’t like beer either, but she was extremely thirsty and downed the entire can in a few minutes. The alcohol made her feel lightheaded. It was hot in the room, and the greasy sandwich and the beer weren’t resting well in her stomach. And she was beginning to feel very unhappy. This sadness was a quieter and heavier feeling than the fright she’d felt before. Tears began to fill her eyes, and a sob silently caught in her throat. She dried her face with the hem of her skirt but new tears kept rolling over her cheeks, and now the sobs broke free and became gasping cries, low, long moans of misery.
She listened to herself weep and wondered why the others, the ones in the big room, didn’t care enough to come in and see why she was crying. But no one came, and soon, like a baby, she spent herself in tears and dropped off to sleep.
She couldn’t have slept more than a couple of hours, but when she got up it was silent in the other room. She tried the door. It was still locked. She looked outside and the motorcycle was gone, but she was reluctant to try the window in the daylight. It would take some doing to open the window anyway because the two nails holding it were driven deep and held fast in rust. She looked around for something with which to pry them out, but the room was totally empty. There were no utensils from lunch, and the only hard things she had were her shoes and a ring. Now she began desperately to want her freedom. A terrible thought struck her. No one knew where she was. She had completely disappeared. These people could do anything they wanted to her without leaving a trace. She felt totally vulnerable.
That night the pregnant Nellie brought her dinner, more Spam and some beans. Another beer. She asked Nellie why she had to stay in that room but got no answer.
Later, when it was dark, she went to work on the nails with her little opal and gold confirmation ring. The gold was worn and thin and bent easily. She knew she would never get the nails out that way. She cried again that night when she realized that she was hopelessly imprisoned.
She slept often in those first few days. It was her only escape. When she was awake she’d try to figure out why they were holding her captive. After all, she had come of her own free will. Was she their hostage? Were they holding her for ransom? But they didn’t know anything about her. Wait! Of course they did. They had her pocketbook with all her identification. That was it. They’d found out her father was wealthy, and now she was being held for ransom. The very thought chilled her. Maybe not even money. Maybe some impossible political demand. No wonder they weren’t treating her like a person. They meant to kill her if they couldn’t get what they wanted. That’s what people did to hostages. Or, maybe like that girl she’d once read about, they’d bury her alive.