Frank De Felitta - For Love of Audrey Rose

“All right. I’ll try.”

When Janice explained things to Elaine, a visible disappointment surfaced on Elaine’s face.

“You don’t really have a choice, do you?”

“Believe me, I’d rather not, but—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.”

Janice caught the 12:45 northbound to Ossining. She slept the entire trip.

She stumbled wearily through the cascading rain, caught in the cone of the taxi headlights, entered the clinic, and found Bill in the infirmary. Three long red scratches trailed vividly down his face and he gazed blankly at the door where she stood.

“He’s a bit sedated,” Dr. Geddes whispered behind her, closing the door.

Janice walked quickly to the bed. Bill’s face turned to follow her, but it was not his face. Something had taken over. His forehead was damp with perspiration and he looked warily around the room.

“Bill?” she whispered, “can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you, Janice,” he said quickly. “Do I look dead?”

“But, darling…I don’t understand. What happened?”

Bill laughed derisively. Dr. Geddes sauntered closer to the bed. It was a small infirmary, and the other two beds were still freshly made.

Bill turned away.

“Nobody knew you were taking those notes,” Dr. Geddes said, as kindly as he could, “so how could we be spying on you?”

“The old man told you, of course.”

“You know there’s no covert supervision here, Bill.”

“That’s what you say, Geddes. I saw him in my room. I didn’t invite him.”

“But I don’t understand,” Janice persisted. “Why did you hit him?”

Bill whirled around, glaring at her, his eyes a lurid deep black, pinpoints of brightness flashing in the depths of the pupils.

“Because he had no business there!” he hissed.

“But what’s so important about—”

“That’s for me to say! Not you! Not Geddes! Just me!”

Dr. Geddes exchanged glances with Janice. Bill saw them looking at one another and withdrew into his pillow. One of the long scratches reopened and a thin trail of crim son dripped down onto the collar of his pajamas.

“Is he all right?” Bill asked, softer.

“Just a bad headache. No fracture.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have done it. It’s his own god-damn fault.”

“Bill, I want you to listen to Janice,” Dr. Geddes said. “You know when she lies and when she tells the truth. Will you do that for me? Just listen to somebody besides yourself for two minutes.”

After staring at Bill, who lowered his eyes, Dr. Geddes walked slowly out of the infirmary. A nurse tried to come in, but Dr. Geddes blocked her way with an arm and closed the door firmly behind him. Janice gently tried to touch the bleeding line down Bill’s cheek but he drew her hand away.

“What’s gotten into you, Bill?” she asked heatedly.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You practically killed an old man last night! Is that normal?”

“I just tapped him.”

“Bill, listen to me. You do that again and they’ll— they’ll start giving you medicine, drugs. They’ll give you electric shock.”

Bill laughed.

“There’s no shock machine here.”

“Then they’ll ship you someplace where there is! What do you think you’re playing around with?”

Worried, Bill raised himself higher against his pillows. Janice leaned closer, her face nearly white with worry.

“Bill, listen to me,” she whispered. “Whatever’s going through your head now, throw it out, because if they transfer you to some other place, some place where they’re used to violent cases — Jesus, Bill, you’ll never see the light of day!”

She broke down crying, leaned against his chest. Over and over she said, “Don’t you understand that, Bill? Never… Never… Never…”

Bill swallowed hard, and his hand gently held her around her shoulder. He squeezed softly.

“Okay, Janice,” he whispered hoarsely. “I got the message.”

Clumsily, he moved away from under her, struggled to the other edge of the bed, and sat up. He slipped into his trousers and pulled on a green checkered shirt.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Give me a hand, will you, honey? They shot me full of shit.”

Janice ran to his side, lifted his arm over her shoulder, and eased him to a standing position.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m okay now. I can walk.”

Gradually, he shuffled his way to the door. He paused and, with a gesture of his head, beckoned for her to open it.

“Come on,” he whispered, “I’ve got something to show you.”

Stumbling, Bill led her as quickly as he could, swaying into the side walls, holding his hands out as though feeling for invisible barriers, toward his room. Inside, it looked as though the fight had broken apart the bedroom walls. The edge of the desk tilted at a crazy angle. Books, chairs, pillows, and blankets were strewn violently over the floor, and everywhere were handfuls of paper, note cards, spiralbound notebooks.

Janice stumbled forward, her shoes stepping on the paper. She bent down, picked up several sheets and tried to discern them in the dark. Bill’s tight handwriting was illegible. But at the sides of the sheets were diagrams. The human body with dotted triangles emanating from the head, thorax, and groin.

“Bill, what is all this?”

“I’ve discovered things, Janice,” he said. “It’s time I told you about them.”

“What kind of things?”

“Sit down. I have to go through these things in order. So you understand.”

Janice felt for the bed, sat down slowly, still watching Bill. He was moving restlessly, and outside the rain now turned to sleet, growing so violent that it smashed into splinters around his head behind the glass, like a tortured halo.

“I’ve been studying for a long time, Janice,” he said in that chilling, moody tone that sent shivers into her back. “I played dumb. But I was studying. Now I know too much.”

He rubbed his mouth nervously and jumped at the sound of a truck passing slowly over the hill.

“I have to explain these things,” he said quickly, “because then I have to ask you some things, Janice. So just listen.”

“All right,” she said gently. “I’m listening.”

Bill licked his lips, then removed himself as far from her as he could, to the broken desk near the windows. His voice trailed coldly from him.

“It’s because of Ivy, you know,” he said, “that I started reading. Well, I found that this idea you and Hoover had— you know what I’m talking about — well, it all started before there were any Hindus. All of Hoover’s ideas about the yogis and the river Ganges and reincarnation were half-baked. I know that now. That much is plain. Hoover was right about some things. But he was confused. He didn’t get it all right!”

Bill began pacing and turning, back and forth, in front of the window.

“Now, if you look at this analytically,” he said, “if you really pore over it day and night for as long as I have, you begin to discover a few things.”

Bill paused, then straightened his back, as though in pain. His hand kneaded the back of his neck.

“Before there were any writings,” he said softly, his voice oddly in rhythm with the swaying plants and undulating grass outside. “Before there were any temples and all that. There was a belief, by the people of the plains, that when you died, you passed into a heaven. But if you were really good, if you were successful, you could go up to the chief of the heavens, and there you could be with the father of all the gods, who was Yama. Now listen to me, Janice. It was called going up to the world of light. Light. You got to remember that. And if you passed upward into that light, you could unite in some way with Yama, and drink with the gods under leafy trees, and there was constant singing all around, and lutes played, and your body was young and vigorous, without imperfection or weakness. If you passed into the light.”