Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

Experience had taught her that life was dichotomous. People were either staunch individuals, motivated solely by self-interest, or they were what might be termed communicants who devoted their lives to interactions with families, spouses, friends, lovers, neighborhoods, cities.

It seemed to Helene the choice was easy. Being a communicant demanded sacrifice of time and energy-and life was too brief for that. Being a self-centered separate demanded less sacrifice but more risk. You were on your own, completely. So she began to equate the communicant with timidity and the individual with courage. She had, she told herself, the balls to go it alone. Gamble all, lose all or win all.

Then Turner phoned and asked her to come to his apartment and watch over nutty Felicia while he took a break. Hearing the panic in his voice-she was sensitive to overtones when men spoke-Helene immediately agreed. She recognized at once that it was an opportunity that might not soon occur again.

As she prepared to leave, she reviewed the scenario she had devised. It had the virtue of simplicity. It was direct, stark, and she figured it had a fifty-percent chance of success. But her entire life had been a fifty-fifty proposition; she was not daunted by a coin flip.

And so she started out, excited, almost sexually, by what she was about to do.

Turner had the apartment door locked, bolted, chained; it took him a moment to get it open.

"My God," he said in a splintered voice, "am I ever glad to see you, babe. Come on in."

Helene tried not to reveal her shock at his appearance: haunted eyes, sunken cheeks, unshaven jaw, uncombed hair. Even his once meticulously groomed mustache had become a scraggly blur. His clothes were soiled and shapeless.

She said nothing about the way he looked but glanced about the disordered apartment with dismay.

"Turner," she said, "you're living in a swamp."

"Tell me about it," he said bitterly. "I've tried to clean up, but then she goes on a rampage again. And I obviously can't hire someone to come in with a raving lunatic in the next room."

"She's in the bedroom?"

He nodded. "I've had to tie her to the bed. It's for her own safety," he added defensively. "And mine."

"How's she doing?"

"At the moment she's sleeping. Or unconscious; I don't know which. She had a pipe this afternoon. If she comes out of it tonight she'll be groggy for a few hours before she crashes. Think you can handle it?"

"Of course," Helene said. "Get yourself cleaned up, go have a good dinner. I'll be here when you get back."

"Thanks, babe," he said throatily. "I don't know what I'd do without you. What's it like out?"

"Absolutely miserable. Snow, sleet, freezing rain. Cold as hell and a wind that just won't quit."

"Maybe I'll run over to Vito's and grab a veal chop and a couple of stiff belts. Make me a new man."

"Sure it will," Helene said.

He went into the bathroom, and a moment later she heard the sound of his electric shaver. She didn't go into the bedroom but made a small effort to straighten up the living room, picking books and magazines from the floor, setting chairs upright, carrying used glasses and plates back to the kitchen. She took a look in the refrigerator. Nothing much in there: two oranges, a package of sliced ham, some cheese going green. There was a bottle of Absolut in the cupboard under the sink, but she didn't touch it. She didn't need Dutch courage.

Turner appeared looking a little better. He had shaved, washed up, put on a fresh shirt, brushed his hair and mustache.

"Two things," he said. "Keep the front door locked and don't, under any circumstances, untie her. She may beg you to turn her loose, but don't do it. You just don't know what she'll do. I'll be back in an hour."

"Take your time," Helene said.

After he left, she bolted the front door and glanced at her watch. Then she went into the bedroom. It was a malodorous place, furry with dust, and overheated. Illumination came from a dim bulb in the dresser lamp. The rug was littered with scraps of torn cloth, newspapers, a few shards of broken glass. And there were great, ugly stains. Felicia Starrett, eyes closed, lay under a thin cotton sheet despoiled with blotches of yellow and brown. Her breathing was shallow and irregular; occasionally little whimpers escaped from her opened mouth, no louder than a kitten's mewls. Her wrists were bound together with a strip of sheeting. Her ankles were similarly shackled, and a long, wide band of cloth had been run under the bed, the two ends knotted across her waist.

Helene thought she looked in extremis, that her next small breath might be the last. She pulled a straightback chair to the bedside, touched one of those bound claws lightly.

"Felicia," she said softly. No response.

"Felicia," she repeated and stroked a blemished, shrunken arm. "Felicia, dear, can you hear me?"

Eyelids rose, not slowly but suddenly; her eyes just popped open. Helene leaned closer.

"Felicia," she said gently, "it's Helene. Do you recognize me, darling?"

Eyes swung to her, but the focus was somewhere else. "Water," Felicia said, trying to lick dry lips. Helene went back to the kitchen, found a plastic cup, filled it with tap water, brought it to the bedroom. She held it to those parched lips while the fettered woman gulped greedily. She finished it all, turned her head aside and spewed it all over the pillow, bed, floor.

"Never mind," Helene said, controlling her own nausea at the sight, "we'll try again a little later. Is there anything you want, Felicia?"

Rheumy eyes turned to her. "Helene?" the woman asked.

"Of course! I'm Helene, dear, here to help you. How do you feel?"

"I'm sick."

"I know, Felicia, but you're going to be better real soon."

"Where's Turner?"

"He had to go out for a little while, but he'll be back before you know it."

Felicia looked down at her bound hands lying atop the soiled sheet. "Untie me," she said in a scratchy voice.

"Not right now, dear. Maybe when Turner gets back. Would you like to try a little more water now? Maybe an orange would taste good. There's a nice cold orange in the fridge. I'll get it and peel it for you."

She returned to the kitchen again, and, after searching a few moments, found where Turner had hidden the knives: on the top shelf of the cupboard over the range. Helene selected the long, pointed carving knife, the one Felicia had used to slash the furniture. She brought the knife and orange back to the bedroom.

She sat calmly, slowly slicing rind from the orange with the sharp blade, letting the peelings drop to the floor. She was aware that Felicia was watching her every move.

"There we are!" Helene said brightly, holding up the naked orange. "Doesn't that look nice? Would you like a piece right now?"

"Where's Turner?" Felicia repeated.

"He had to go out for a little while," Helene said again, "but he'll be back soon. You love Turner, don't you, darling."

Felicia blinked her eyes, tried to moisten her cracked lips. She attempted to speak, once, twice, and finally croaked, "We're going to get married." "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Helene said, hunching closer. "Now listen to me, dear, and try to understand what I'm saying."

She spoke slowly, distinctly, for almost ten minutes, repeating everything until she was satisfied the other woman had heard and comprehended, even dimly. There was no reaction, no objection. But Felicia's mouth sagged open again, eyelids shut as suddenly as they had opened.

"I'm going now, dear," Helene said. "Turner will be back soon. But let me untie you first."

Rather than attempt to loosen the tight knots, Helene used the carving knife to slice them through. Felicia lay motionless. Helene left the peeled orange and knife on the sheet alongside that flaccid body in its mummy posture.