Save Johanna! (18 page)

With a deep sense of relief at finally taking some modicum of control over my life, I feel I can go home now. I get up and start to walk toward the west side of the park, forcing myself to concentrate on the people passing, the flowers, the trees, the buildings, anything that will keep me from aching.

Once home, I take a couple of Valium and keep myself busy waiting for them to work by fixing a tuna sandwich. But when I finish making it, I have no appetite. The pills have calmed me enough for me to consider working. I realize I’ve grown somewhat dependent on them, but for the moment that’s the only effective way to handle my tensions. It’s a temporary situation that I can stop any time I choose and will as soon as the book is finished. I go to the computer and begin reading yesterday’s pages.

The phone rings.

I consider not answering it, but it’s probably Wyn checking to see that I’m all right. It’s important that he knows I’m calm and under control, otherwise he might alert David.

I pick up the phone.

“Johanna.” It’s David, and I can tell from the way he says my name that he knows everything. “Are you OK?”

I answer as coolly as possible. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Wyn called me.”

I knew it. I knew I couldn’t trust him. “He had no right to.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Johanna; he didn’t discuss anything that went on in his office. He just wanted to tell me that he thought you were very pressured now, and maybe I could help you ease up a little.”

I don’t believe him, but all I say is, “Go on.”

“I think we’d do better discussing this in person.”

“There’s no need to. This will do just fine; besides, there’s no real point to any of this because I know exactly where you’re heading.”

“You do?”

“I most certainly do. You’re going straight for my work. Right?”

“According to Wyn, that’s where a lot of the pressure is coming from.”

“I thought you said you didn’t talk about anything that went on in his office.”

“We didn’t. He came to that conclusion from the things I told him. Darling Johanna, all I’m suggesting is that you take a breather for a while.”

“How long a breather would you suggest? Twenty to thirty years? Look, David, you’ve been trying to put a monkey wrench into this project from the very beginning, but I didn’t let you then and I’m not going to let you now.”

“That’s unfair, Johanna. I won’t pretend I love the book, but I certainly haven’t done anything to stand in your way. In fact, I’ve tried to overcome my initial distaste and be as supportive as possible.”

“You’ve torpedoed me at every turn. Everything I do on the book, every piece of research, is twice as hard because I know you’re back there sulking and disapproving. And you tricked me into seeing Wyn just so he could tell me not to do the book. Damn it, David, this book is my business, not yours, and I’m going to make my own decisions about it. I want you to stop interfering with my work.”

“Johanna, for God’s sake, calm down. You’re getting hysterical.”

“My voice may be raised, but I am not hysterical. I’m just telling you to keep your hands off my life. It’s mine and I’ll run it the way I want and write about whomever I choose, and, damn it, nobody’s going to tell me different! And, David, if I
want
you to call my sister I will ask you to. Otherwise, please, no more surprises.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re saying. If you’d simply told me the way you felt about your sister . . .”

I don’t want to hear any more. I hang up, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence. For the first time I really do know exactly what I’m saying and doing, and I don’t want to hear about how hysterical I am or any other damn thing. Not from David or anybody else. The only way I can stop them is to get far away from here. And fast.

I’ve had an escape plan in the back of my mind for a while now. My old college roommate, Anne Bregmann, used to own a small cottage somewhere far out on Long Island. It would be perfect for me. It’s tiny, only two rooms or so, but it’s isolated and very private. Just what I need. If she’s not using it, I’m certain she would rent it to me.

I call Anne, and luckily she’s home. Not only is she not using the cottage, but she won’t hear of my renting it and instead insists that I go out and spend as much time as I like there. The only drawback is that she was planning to sell the place and had moved most of the furniture out; but the bed and other essentials are still out there, and if all I need is some empty space to write in, it would be perfect. I tell her she’s saved my life and ask her if I could stop by and get the keys today because I want to leave immediately.

“The keys are already out there,” she tells me. “I always leave them under the cement flowerpot on the front porch. Just lift the back edge a bit and you’ll find them. The phone is still connected but there’s no heat, so if it gets cold you’ll have to use the fireplace.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say and thank her profusely. She asks if David is going with me, and I lie and say he’ll be coming out for weekends. She says we’ll both love it.

As soon as I hang up, the phone rings. It has to be David. I’ve made up my mind, and talking to him can only endanger my decision. I don’t answer. It rings and rings.

I try to pack, but the insistent jangling pounds at my nerves. Why doesn’t he hang up? Finally I can’t stand it any longer. I lift the receiver and immediately place it down on the hook. Now I take it off altogether. When David gets the busy signal he’ll know what I’ve done and come over here. I have to hurry if I’m going to get away before he comes. I throw a few necessities into an overnight bag, grab my manuscript, computer and portable printer, some blank checks, and any cash I have around the house. In less than ten minutes I’m ready to leave.

As I open the door I come face to face with Claudia. We’re both startled. She’s got her finger on the bell, ready to ring it. Of course David’s sent her, and she’s caught me, suitcase in hand, escaping. What can I say?

“Are you going somewhere, Johanna?”

I have no time to play games. He could be on his way over right now. But I have to know. “Did David call you?” I ask her.

“Yes, he said you were very upset and asked me to come over and see if I could help.”

“Why didn’t he come himself?”

“Do we have to discuss this in the hall? Can I come in?”

I move back into the house and she follows me. I’m still holding my suitcase and computer.

“Johanna, do you have time to talk for a few minutes?”

I try to sound light. “Sure, I’m early. My flight doesn’t leave for another couple of hours.”

“Where are you going?”

“Washington.” It’s the first place that comes into my head. “I have to do some research. I’ll only be gone a couple of days.” I put down my suitcase. Offhandedly I ask, “Is David on his way over?”

“Not yet. He had to wait for a long distance call; that’s why he asked me to stop over.”

“He’s not been himself lately.”

She looks surprised. “He said the same thing about you. What’s happening with the two of you?”

Obviously David didn’t elaborate, which makes it easier for me. “I suppose we’ve both been kind of edgy lately. I guess it’s a combination of the wedding and very busy work schedules.”

I can see that she’s relieved to see how calm I am but still somewhat suspicious.

“David didn’t mention that you were leaving,” she says. “Does he know?”

“Of course he does.” I hate lying to Claudia, but I refuse to tolerate any more interference in my life. “He knows I’m planning to be away for a couple of days, but he’s become impossible on the subject of my book so I simply didn’t elaborate. I don’t know why he’s carrying on this way. It makes work very difficult for me.”

“I didn’t know it was a problem.”

By now we’re both sitting in the living room, and everything is very normal. “I think he resents the book,” I tell her, “because he feels it takes time away from him. I thought we were different, but now it’s beginning to look like the same old story. His work is OK, mine is in the way.”

“I can’t believe David feels that way. That’s just not like him.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Now I feel her moving over to my side. “He sounded so concerned, I expected to come over here and find you in pieces.” She smiles apologetically.

“Hardly.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re OK, but I think David’s going to be very upset if you take off before he sees you. He should be here inside of fifteen minutes. Why don’t you stick around until he gets here and then he can see for himself that you’re all right? Johanna, for David to call me like that, he’s got to be very worried.”

Quick figuring tells me that unless I get Claudia out of here fast, David
will
catch me, and the only way to get rid of her is to make her think I’ll wait for him.

“I hate the idea of David worrying about me,” I tell her.

“He really will,” she says.

“Oh, to hell with it. I have enough time. I’ll wait.”

“Terrific. I’m so glad.”

“One thing, though, Claudia, if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d rather be alone when he gets here.”

“Absolutely. I’m on my way right now.” And, good as her word, she gets up and heads for the front door. Continuing the pretense, I thank her for her help, and she leaves, looking very pleased with herself. She’s saved the day.

God damn them all!

I wait, pressed against the inside of my door, listening for the elevator. I hear it slide open and shut, and I know that Claudia is on her way down. I grab my suitcase and computer and leave the apartment, taking the back stairs to be certain of avoiding David.

I continue all the way down to the basement and leave through the Sixty-fourth Street exit. I get a cab almost immediately and take it directly to the car rental place on Fifty-seventh Street.

I have no trouble getting a car, and once I’m in it, heading crosstown, I begin to relax a little. There’s no way for any of them to know where I’m going. I’m safe, and my book is safe.

I arrive at the cottage in the last minutes of daylight, emotionally wrung out and exhausted from a very long and painful day that started this morning in Wyn’s office and ended with my running away. All the way out in the car I fight a torrent of emotions that threatens to overwhelm me with guilt and despair. Coming out here was rash; I hope I haven’t done wrong.

The cottage is three hours from New York, out in the middle of nowhere, on the north fork of Long Island. It’s perfect for privacy, separated from its nearest neighbor by more than a hundred yards and almost totally hidden from the road by massive rhododendron bushes and thick stands of pine and blue spruce.

Anne wasn’t exaggerating about the furniture. The living room is totally empty. There’re a bed and a dresser in the bedroom and a small table and three chairs in the kitchen. Except for a couple of lamps, that’s it for the whole house. The first thing I do is move the table and one chair into the living room. That gives me a good working office with no distractions.

On the drive out I passed through the town of Southhold and stopped at a grocery and a liquor store to pick up some supplies. Enough to hold me for at least a week. I don’t want to waste precious time running back and forth to town.

By 10 p.m. I’m settled in and ready for work, but the house has gotten a little chilly. Fortunately there was a good-sized pile of logs in the backyard, and I’d brought in a couple. Now I’m able to put together a tolerable fire, and in a few minutes the tiny living room is warm and comfortable.

Being out here alone should be good for me. With nobody leaning over my shoulder, telling me how to run my life, criticizing me, making demands and suggestions, it’s down to the essentials— Avrum and me with no apologies to anyone.

I open a bottle of red wine and pour myself a glass. Since I arrived I’ve been too busy getting organized to do much thinking, and that’s helped keep out the demons that seem always poised on the edge of my mind, ready to pounce. The wine helps stave them off, and so does the weed. They work almost symbiotically, the wine giving me a pleasant buzz and making everything feel deep red and luscious, and the weed suffusing it all with a comforting haze. Now add to that the warmth of the fire, its long orange and blue tongues of flame licking at the hickory wood and turning the room pungent with fragrance. All this conspiring to protect me from the cold and bitter assaults of the day.

I must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing I know I’m rolled up in a shivering knot on the floor in front of an almost completely burned-out fire. Foolishly I didn’t bring in any extra logs, and now it’s too cold and dark to go hunting around the unfamiliar backyard for more.

The clock on the stove says twenty after two. If that’s right I’ve slept nearly four hours, and, with so little time to spare, I must get right to work.

I set up my computer, put on my heavy Irish sweater, and get a small wool blanket off the bed to wrap around my legs. Earlier, when the fire was burning, the room seemed cozy, but now, with only the thin light of one pole lamp accentuating the empty spaces where furniture once stood and pictures hung, the room is bare and ugly.

A perfect setting for the chapter I’ve been working on. In it Avrum reveals a maniacal scheme that will satisfy both his hunger for revenge and his pathological racial paranoia. He plans to commit a heinous crime and make it look like the work of black terrorists, prematurely exposing the black revolution he’s convinced has
been secretly spawning for years. At the same time, provoking massive white retaliation that will overwhelm the blacks and crush the budding rebellion.

Somehow, sometime, somewhere in that vast underground network of information the name of Avrum Maheely will become known as the man who saved the soul of white America.

Despite the grandeur and madness of his plan, not one of his followers questions him. In true blind dedication they want only to know when and how.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t used their real names, even though this is only the first draft and I will change them in later drafts. Still, it gives them all too strong a reality, especially Avrum. So much of his real person has infiltrated the character that keeping him fictional in my mind has become difficult.

When I first started researching this project, I was the fascinated but removed observer. Then, as I began to write, I became the puppeteer pulling the strings, allowing the characters their own internal growth but, nonetheless, always in control. Now I’m so deeply involved I sometimes feel the characters no longer step to my strings but to their own. Indeed, so effortlessly do they move across the mindscapes of my imagination that, far from being pleased, I’m often increasingly disturbed. Certainly I am treating this book differently from all my previous writing projects.

For example, I’ve never before been so secretive about my work. At home I kept the manuscript hidden. David hasn’t seen one word of it yet. No one has. Even the idea of revealing it to my editor makes me intensely uncomfortable. And, too, I am not unaware of the changes my life has undergone in the last few months. Before that it was relatively quiet and controlled, moving along in a well-thought-out direction, and then? Avrum and the book? David and the wedding? My sister? My memories? Or a collision of all of them causing an earthquake of emotions that’s rocking my very core. Maybe David is right. Maybe I can’t handle them. Take away the Valium, the Oxycontin, the weed, the wine, whatever holds me up, and I might crumble.

Wyn says I have to turn and look my problems in the face. Stare them down and make them go away forever. The key to that is Sephra. She’s the only one who can tell me what’s tearing at my soul. But I’m so damned frightened of knowing.

Time moves in giant steps—great strides of daytimes and nighttimes. Full days pass as chapters. Words grow and pages mount. The book alone is supreme. Any outside pressures that threaten it meet an army of Oxycontin and Valiums. I let nothing interfere. I keep myself free of any world but Avrum’s, now that I’m so close to the end.

How could both bottles be almost empty? Two Oxycontin in one and five Valium in the other. That’s impossible. I must have put them someplace else.

I hunt through the house for them; my legs are stiff and clumsy from sitting so long at the computer.

They have to be here. All I have to do is calm down and think carefully. But I can’t because I need something to calm me down. I take three Valium. I have to save the Oxycontin. I wait five, ten minutes, but nothing happens. I drink some wine. And then some more wine. I can’t allow myself to surface because they’re all up there waiting for me. All the terrors.

I have to take one of the Oxycontin. They always work when I feel jumpy, but this time instead of taking me down they’re charging me up. My heart is starting to race and I’m beginning to fly. I don’t like it. I feel out of control and I don’t know how to regain it.

I get up and walk around, back and forth, fast, walk it off. Maybe outside. No, I don’t want to go out there. It’s dark and I’m afraid. I wish I wasn’t alone. . . .

I have no one to turn to. If I believed in God again I could bring all my misery to Him, and He would take it from me. I could trust Him the way Pinky trusts Avrum. How safe to be like Pinky. No one can get past Avrum to hurt her. Maybe I could have some of that safety. I would trust Pinky. We’re alike. We share a secret. The secret of Avrum.

She would help me. I want to tell her that, to talk to her.

I have her phone number in my book. In my suitcase.

I haven’t unpacked yet so I have to push through all the clothes.

Maybe I left some more Oxycontin in here, but when I pull everything out I don’t find any. But the phone book is at the bottom, and I get Pinky’s number.

I dial, and a man’s polite voice answers and says he’ll get her for me.

“Hello,” Pinky says.

“Pinky. It’s Johanna Morgan.”

“Johanna, it’s good to hear from you. Are you in San Francisco?”

“No. I’m in New York.”

“You sound strange. Is there something wrong?”

“No. I’m just working hard.”

“How is the book coming?”

“It’s almost finished. That’s why I’m calling. I need some information, and only you can give it to me.”

“Johanna, your voice sounds so weak. Are you sick?”

Maybe I can’t trust her either.

“I had the flu,” I tell her.

“I can hear it in your voice.”

“Avrum. I want to ask you more about Avrum.”

“Maybe we should talk tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”

I knew it. She’s trying to trick me, but I don’t let her. “I need the information now, Pinky. Can’t you spare the time?”

“Sure, I just thought you sounded so awful.”

“I’m fine.”

“All right, Johanna. How can I help you?” She stops resisting, knowing that I’ve outsmarted her.

“Tell me about Avrum.”

“What would you like to know?”

“You trusted him. He took care of you.”

“Yes.”

“Did he love you?”

“Completely, as I loved him and love him now.”

“What about the others? Did he love them too?”

“That was the power of his love, that we could all share its fullness. You could too, Johanna, if you needed him.”

I hold my temper at the insult. “Why would I have such a need?” I ask her.

“I don’t know,” she says, and then pauses and asks, “Why do you?”

Pinky is different now. I have to be extremely careful. “I don’t,” I tell her. “My only interest in Avrum Maheely is purely research. But I want to know about your need. How does he fill it?”

“In every way,” she answers. And, like Imogene, tells me that he is present at this very moment in every part of her life.

“Like God?” I suggest.

“Godlike.”

“What about the sexual experience? Was that Godlike too?”

“There was a spiritual essence to it.”

“I’ve heard Swat and Imogene describe him as a man of high sexual energy, but there was nothing spiritual about the sex they had with him. Why was it so different with you?”

“I don’t know, but no one before had ever given the sexual act such significance.”

“Be specific.”

“Johanna, why are you so angry at me?”

“Because you’re not telling me the truth! There was a fury and a hatred that ran through Avrum Maheely, and when it surfaced sexually it turned into an ugly power.”

“You don’t understand Avrum, Johanna.”

“Yes, I do. I know his kind of brutality.”

“That’s not true.”

“You were young and weak, and he bullied you.”

“No, Johanna, it wasn’t that way at all.”

“He took you when he wanted you. Could you have fought back?”

“I had no reason to.”

“You couldn’t. He would have overpowered you if you tried. He became every part of your life, inside and out and all around. I remember him. The power in his arms, he could hold you down, trap you under those heavy hands.”

“Johanna, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

She’s lying to me, keeping her secrets from me. Imogene would have told me. She knows the feel of Avrum. Pinky pretends to be concerned about me, but I know she doesn’t want to tell me. She doesn’t want to share Avrum with me.

“You want to keep him for yourself,” I tell her, but she doesn’t answer. Instead she changes the subject, asking me where I am, and I tell her because it doesn’t make any difference. Then she wants to know if I’m alone.

“Yes,” I say, “I’m alone. And tired. I need sleep. Do you dream about him? Does he make love to you in your dreams?”

But she won’t answer me, she keeps asking me meaningless questions to take me off the track. I can’t talk to her anymore. I hang up.

And the instant I do I feel ashamed for all the awful things I said to her. How could I be so cruel? She tried to care about me. But I’m a worthless person. I hurt them all so much, David and Sephra and now Pinky. I can’t help it. I have to hide my shame from everyone. Or confess it.

The pain of my mother comes back. So intense it takes up my whole head. I’ve got to get it out, but I can’t without Sephra. She won’t help me. She never did.

But she has to now. I drink another glass of wine, and the spinning in my head starts to wind down. When it slows up enough I dial her number. She answers.

“Sephra?” I say.

“Johanna, is that you?”

But the struggle to slip one word past the sobs choking my throat is so great that, like a fool, all I do is nod my head, yes.

But Sephra doesn’t wait for an answer. “Are you all right?” she asks, and I can hear the alarm in her voice.

“No,” I tell her, “I’m not. Help me . . . Sephra . . . please. . . .”

“Oh, God,” she says in a voice aching with remorse, “it’s my fault.” And I hear the Sephra of long ago, of long before whatever happened sealed her off from me. And I feel comforted. I love her. “Johanna, forgive me. I should have helped you before. I was the only one who could have. . . . Oh, how selfish I’ve been.”

“Help me now. . . .”

“I will, little sister, I want to.”

“Then tell me what happened.” My voice is strained, almost breaking. “Tell me about my mother. Tell me everything about that day. Why was she so furious with me? Sephra, what did I do that was so terrible?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“But she was so angry at me.”

“No, not at you. Oh, God, it’s so hard for me. . . .” I hear her inhaling deeply as she builds up her courage, and finally she finds the strength to speak, but instead of Sephra’s voice the sound is small, almost like that of a child.

“It all started a week before my tenth birthday. My first birthday without my mother. She’d died eight months before, and I remember lying in bed that night and wondering what it would be like having a birthday without her. I remember feeling uneasy and a little afraid that somehow I wouldn’t know how to handle it by myself, and I wondered whether my father would even remember. I knew that if he didn’t I would never be bold enough to remind him. He was such a forbidding figure in my life, our father, the deep-set dark eyes, the sunken cheeks. The black cassock of his ministry that he was always wearing. And his voice, so deep, so powerful. To me, God Himself couldn’t have been more awesome.