Authors: Faye Kellerman
“I’m all right.”
“That may be, but it’s more than superficial. What do you have by way of medicines?”
He reached into his file cabinet and handed her a large plastic shopping bag filled with dozens of vials of pills, creams,
ointments, and medical supplies—bandages, tape, clips, cotton balls, cotton swabs, and even a suture needle. The pills were
prescription drugs that had been tagged but were without proper labels. No dosage, no Rx, no instructions whatsoever. There
were antibiotics, anti-inflammatory medication, anabolic steroids, including a full course of prednisone, and at least ten
different types of pain medication, including codeine and morphine.
“Did you get these on the black market or something?”
“I don’t believe in paying retail.”
Rina dispensed with the lecture. She began to sort through the various medications. “What are you taking?”
Donatti sorted through the bottles. “I think I’m taking this one.”
“Amoxicillin?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that an antibiotic? I took it when I had a sort throat.”
“Except you don’t have a sore throat, Mr. Donatti. You have a bullet wound.” Rina studied the medicines. “This will do—Keflex.
It might upset your stomach. Take it anyway. You have enough for ten days. You’ll probably need more. What you
really
need is a doc—”
“Are you done?”
“No, Christopher, I am
not
done. I haven’t even started. I want to clean this up. To do it properly, it’ll take a while.”
“I’m tired.”
“So am I. The sooner we start, the faster it’ll be done.”
“Then you’ll leave?”
“Yes.”
“Anything to get rid of you.”
Rina told herself to start with the basic. “I need to wash my hands.”
He thought a moment, then reached in his file cabinet and took out several shrink-wrapped packages of latex surgical gloves.
Good ones—strong and thin. Rina stared at them, then at him. Then snapped them over her hands.
“Even better.” She sat on a chair while he stood. She took a cotton swab and began to clean the suppurated area.
He winced and jumped.
“Sorry, I know it stings.”
He wrinkled his nose. “It stings and it
stinks
.”
“It’s infected.”
She worked in silence. A minute passed, then another.
Donatti said, “You have a light touch.”
“Good.”
“You’re not very squeamish for a religious woman.”
“That’s a non sequitur.”
“You’ve done this before.”
A statement, not a question. “Yes.”
“Nursing the lieutenant’s gunshot wounds?”
“Actually, yes, I’ve done that. But my experience goes beyond that. When I first got married, I lived in Israel… during the
Lebanon invasion, about eighteen years ago. I lived in what you people in America call a settlement way back when it really
was
a settlement—”
She stopped talking, needing to concentrate for a moment.
“Today these settlements are actually towns. Besides, I prefer to think of it as resettlement, but that’s my bias talking.
Anyway, a group of us pioneer women decided to do our bit for our soldiers on the front lines. Six of us went up North to
help out. I was all of twenty. There was this medical camp at the border—makeshift of course, but it had good equipment. There
were around… oh, fifty beds maybe. The first day there was awful—the moaning, the groaning, the wounds, the smells, the injuries.
The second wasn’t any better. But by the end of a week, you either leave, or you do something useful. Once you’ve learned,
you never forget.”
Donatti was stunned. “So what did the lieutenant do while you were nursing soldiers?”
“I suppose he was doing police work in Los Angeles.” She threw pus-filled swabs into the garbage and regarded his eyes. “I
wasn’t married to Lieutenant Decker back then, Christopher. I lived in Israel with my first husband.”
Donatti was silent. Then he said, “You’re divorced?”
“Married at seventeen, two baby boys by twenty, a widow at twenty-four.”
Donatti raised his eyebrows, then stifled a yelp.
“Sorry. I need to clean out this fold. It’s a little deep.”
The room fell quiet.
Donatti said, “So Decker’s not the father of your sons.”
“Not the biological father, no.”
“Does he get along with them?”
“Very well actually.”
“How’d you meet him? Decker?”
“My first husband and I eventually moved back to the States. We lived in an insulated, religious community. My husband died
there, but I stayed on. A crime occurred and the lieutenant was in charge of the investigation. I, being unattached and tremendously
attracted to the man, acted as a go-between for the police.”
“What kind of a crime?”
“Rape. Back then, the lieutenant was a Sex Crimes detective.”
“Someone try to rape you?”
She stopped. “I didn’t say anything about my being the victim.”
“I just assumed.”
Rina didn’t answer. But Donatti saw her jaw tighten. “I’ve upset you. I’ll shut up.”
“You didn’t upset me.” But she fell into silence, chewing on her swollen lip as she tried to keep her composure.
Donatti felt for her. He said, “My old man was an Irish two-fisted drunk. Used to pummel me all the time. Just beat the
crap
out of me. When I was seven, he got drunk and repeatedly kicked me between the legs. I lost a testicle.”
Rina froze. “That’s absolutely horrible!”
“It wasn’t pretty, especially because I didn’t get proper cosmetic surgery right away. I used to hide underneath a towel at
gym.” His laugh was bitter. “Guys used to think it was because I was a big guy with a small you know what.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” Rina bit hard on her lip. The scab opened up and bled into her mouth, but she continued dressing
the shot wounds.
Donatti went on. “He beat my mother, too.” His face darkened. “Cops were called in at least a dozen times. Didn’t do shit…
Bastards didn’t give a damn. They’d haul him in, put him in jail to sleep it off overnight, give him breakfast in the morning,
and spring him. A couple days, maybe a week later, same thing, same routine. ‘Hey, Patty! Don’t we always tell you to hit
her where we can’t see?’ Just one big sick joke. Worst feeling in the world…being helpless.”
“That’s terrible.”
Donatti grew black and silent.
“I can’t fathom how someone could
repeatedly
beat up on a child.” Rina’s voice broke. “You poor thing.”
“S’right.” Donatti was touched by her empathy. “I survived. And I obviously don’t have a hormone problem.”
“Obviously not.”
“Thank God for small favors.” Donatti wiped his perspiration-soaked face with a towel. “It’s not such a small favor. From
two to one is livable. One to none is not. Eventually, I got cosmetic surgery. You couldn’t tell anything just by looking.”
A grin. “Wanna see?”
“You must be feeling better,” Rina commented. “You’re making lewd remarks.”
“Just some harmless flirting.” His smile turned to a stony expression. “I don’t remember the last time I just flirted. I’m
so used to using sex as a weapon. Comes from being molested, you know.”
She stopped cold. “Your father molested you?”
Donatti noticed that she had gone pale. This time, he had hit something potent. “No, my father used me for a punching bag.
Joey Donatti—my adoptive father—he used me as his bitch.”
He looked away.
“My mother was Joey’s mistress. He was crazy about her. After she died, I was an orphan and Joey took me in. Probably a deathbed
promise he made to her. I was almost fourteen… at that weird in-between stage… not yet in full-blown puberty. Full of pimples,
gawky. I was tall but skinny. Lithe, actually. Waiting for the muscles to come. I had long blond hair at the time… down to
my shoulders.” He brushed his deltoid with his fingertips. “The fashion of the day.”
He glanced down, into Rina’s eyes.
“I looked like my mother. Joey used to take me into a room, make me kneel in front of him.” A pause. “He had me perform oral
sex on him while he ran his fingers through my hair.”
“Oh my God!”
“It went on for about a year, maybe a little longer. Then his wife finally caught on… gave him some choice words. Also, I
became too much of a man for him to pretend. But even so, whenever he’d kiss me, he’d jam his tongue down my throat. I still
kiss him that way. Only now, I jam
my
tongue down
his
throat. That’s not sex, Mrs. Decker; that’s a power position. He’s my bitch instead of the other way around.”
Rina’s eyes moistened. “The man who was responsible for the rape in my community… he molested my children… my younger son
in particular. Ten years later and my son’s still suffering. I only found out about it a year ago. You can imagine my guilt.”
“Does your son hold it against you?”
“No, not at all. Do you hold it against your mother?”
“No.”
“My son tries to protect me. My poor baby.”
“How is he suffering?”
She stared into space. “Maybe suffering is too strong a word.”
But Donatti knew it wasn’t.
Rina said, “He’s better now. But he had some drug problems, probably acted out sexually, although he’d never tell me that.”
She stopped, trying to rein in her feelings. “He’s so
brilliant
, Christopher. Brilliant and popular with boys as well as girls. He’s absolutely gorgeous. The girls
just love
him.” She studied Donatti’s face. “Maybe that’s not such a good thing.”
“It’s a double-edged sword.” Donatti paused. “Your son… does he look like you?”
Rina didn’t answer.
Donatti said, “Could be it was like Joey. That the bastard wanted you, but he took your son instead.” He laughed. “Bet you
never thought we’d have
anything
in common, Mrs. Decker. What happened to him? The unnamed molester.”
“He spent time in prison. He’s been out on parole for three years.”
“Where is he now?”
“Somewhere in the Midwest.”
“Somewhere in the Midwest, huh?” Donatti laughed. “You’ve probably memorized his address, his phone number, and everything
about him, including how many times a day he pees.”
“Two-one-five Kingsley Avenue, Medford, Indiana. And yes, I do know his phone number, as well as where he works, and what
car he drives, and which church he attends. However, I don’t know how many times a day he goes to the bathroom.”
He smiled. “Okay. Now I know you’re for real. Has he bothered you?”
“No, he has not. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my son’s problems began around the same time he was released. Hold
still, please.”
Rina continued on, grateful for his silence as she cleansed, swabbed, and dressed his sores. He managed to keep from squirming,
even though she knew the procedures had to hurt. His eyes were wet with
pain, but she wondered how much of it was physical discomfort, how much was emotional remnants of what he had just confessed.
When she was done, she stood up. “You want me to put your shirt back on?”
“No thanks, Mrs. Decker, the thought of anything touching my skin raises my hackles.”
“I suppose this is the part where I thank you for saving my life.”
“Want to pay me back?”
“No sexual comments, please.”
“None. I’d like to draw you.”
“No.”
“I’ll behave both on the paper and off the paper. Nothing you wouldn’t like or approve of. Nothing you couldn’t show in public.”
“No.”
“You know, you’re in my place. I was gracious enough to talk to you. Not to mention the fact that I prevented your children
from being motherless.”
She met his eyes with her own. “The last time you drew someone, you ended up in prison. Learn from experience, Christopher.
Besides, I have to get back to Brooklyn to pick up my daughter. That’s your cue to let me out.”
“You mean, you don’t like the stench of rotten meat?” He unlocked the door and she walked into the open space. It felt as
if she’d been released from jail. Suddenly, her head began to spin.
“You look pale,” Donatti said. “Maybe you should rest.”
Rina felt weak. “Maybe for just a few moments.” She fell into a chair, her head having exploded into a million pinpricks.
She propped her feet on a box. “Gosh, I’m so dizzy!”
“It’s breathing in all that alcohol in confined quarters.”
“It didn’t bother you.”
“I’ve sucked up more chemicals than a laboratory hood. My brain’s used to it.” Donatti regarded her. “I could draw you just
like that.”
Rina covered her face with her purse. “Go away! Go to sleep. I’ll let myself out.”
“Sure. In a minute.”
He waited a minute. In fact, he waited five minutes—the time it
took for Rina to doze off. Fifteen minutes later, her sleep was deep. The purse, which had covered her face, had slid down
to her chest and rested on her bosom, rising and falling with each breath she took. Donatti watched her slumber, his eyes
studying her face and body. Even in repose, she maintained modesty, her legs crossed at the ankles, her dress pulled down
to her knees.
He’d wake her in an hour. While he waited, he went to his art-supply cabinet and with great effort lugged out his charcoals
and several pads of paper. Though he sketched Rina, his thoughts, as always, drifted to Terry. His longing for her was so
all encompassing that his throat clogged. He wondered what she was doing, if she ever thought of him when they weren’t together.
Terry had been right about one thing. He wasn’t marriage material. Nor was he paternal material. Though he loved Gabriel on
some egotistical level—something that had emanated from his debilitated loins—he purposely kept his distance. Maybe Gabe could
live the life that fate had prevented him from having. But it wasn’t just karma that had turned him bad. Had Donatti been
of stronger character, he could have pulled away. But he wasn’t that strong—and he was
that
lazy. Equally as important, his current life was a rush—exciting, unpredictable, a chemical and sexual high. He was too entrenched
to go back. He, like Esau, was a natural hunter.