Frank De Felitta - For Love of Audrey Rose

Juanita couldn’t be Ivy! Surely it was all roaring delusions and guilts — a premature birth, clutching the throat— It meant nothing, nothing! she repeated to herself. Having gone to the Hernandez apartment was an act of madness, and it had the predictable results. Gradually, but surely, she was being drawn into the nightmare world of Bill’s sickness. She resolved not to let it happen. She would fight it, maintain her balance, her sense of reason. And somehow strive to divert Bill from the final, horrible destination his research was inexorably leading him toward.

The next day, Janice called the Hall of Records, Department of Births Registrations. Cathy recognized her voice.

“Cathy, I need to know,” Janice said. “Do you give information over the telephone?”

“I don’t get you.”

“Well, if a man should call. If he asked the same kind of question I did, would you go look it up?”

“No, Mrs. Templeton, it’s against the rules.”

“Are you absolutely, completely certain?”

“Of course I am. We don’t run a reference library here. Anybody who wants information has to come in person. And sign the register.”

“Thank God. I mean, thank you, Cathy.”

Janice hung up relieved, but the visit to the Hernandez apartment weighed on Janice. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw little Juanita kick and struggle, reach for her throat. And the dateline, February 3, 1975—10:43 AM. , floated like a diseased snake through the image.

That night it snowed again, huge flakes blanketing the city.

Janice entered the apartment just as the telephone was ringing.

“Yes, Bill?”

“No. It’s uh, Dr. Geddes here. I’m, uh, sorry to disturb you.”

“That’s quite all right, Dr. Geddes. Is everything all right?”

“You, um, haven’t seen Bill, have you?”

“Bill? Not since last Friday. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Well, as you know, Bill and several other patients had permission to leave the immediate grounds. Walks to Ossining, supervised, of course.”

“Yes?”

“To be quick about it, Mrs. Templeton, Bill left early this morning and hasn’t returned. We’ve notified the Highway Police and Ossining authorities.”

“Oh, my God.”

“But he’s completely rational and dressed for the cold. I wouldn’t worry about him in that sense. It’s just that we thought he might simply have wanted to visit you.”

Janice tried to shake free from the dread which gripped her.

“No, he hasn’t been here.”

“It’s quite common for patients to do this sort of thing. I regret he didn’t feel he could simply come to us and talk about it.”

“Yes, I — Oh, God, there’s more to it, Dr. Geddes.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s searching! He’s — he’s searching for Ivy! He’s not rational, doctor.”

There was a long pause at the other end. She could practically hear him thinking. At length he cleared his throat and when he spoke his voice seemed changed. Once again, he was the stern, formidable figure of authority at the clinic.

“What do you mean, searching?” he asked.

“This last month he’s been crazy, studying books and making contact with authorities—”

“What kind of authorities, Mrs. Templeton?”

“Authorities on reincarnation. I’ve spent dozens of afternoons running errands for him, gathering information from Sri Parutha at the Temple in Greenwich Village.”

“What else have you been doing for Bill?”

“Sending him books, writing to people for him.”

There was a long pause.

“This is a very serious matter, Mrs. Templeton,” he said slowly, without friendliness.

“I know. I was afraid to tell you. I couldn’t betray Bill, but now…”

“But now, what?”

Janice took a deep breath and tried to gain control of her voice again. Talking to Dr. Geddes was a much harder thing than she would ever have guessed. It was like talking to a judge.

“We’ve found a child, born on the same day that Ivy died. The same minute, in fact.”

“Oh, Christ,” Dr. Geddes cursed. “You’ve been sprinkling gasoline on a fire, Mrs. Templeton. You’ve encouraged his every delusion.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Never mind that now. Listen to me. I can’t get into the city tonight. A foot of snow’s expected. So stay where you are and try to keep calm. The main thing is to locate Bill. My guess is that he needs to see you. And if he does come to your apartment…”

“Yes?”

“Try to calm him. No more enthusiasm for his pet project.”

“I’ll try.”

“You’ve got to do more than try. He’s hanging on to reality by a thread.”

Janice agreed to keep in touch. She slipped her heavy wool coat over her shoulders and paced outside the building. Bill never showed up. She warmed herself inside the lobby, waiting. No one came. She went upstairs, left the door to the apartment unlocked in case Bill should sneak up the rear steps and find himself without a key.

Waiting on the couch, still wrapped in her coat, she fell asleep.

By morning, there was still no sign of Bill. Nor had the snowstorm let up. The papers were proclaiming it another blizzard of’48.

During the day, Janice interrupted work seven times to telephone the desk at Des Artistes.

“No sign of him, Mrs. Templeton,” Ernie said sympathetically.

“Thank you, Ernie. If he should come—”

“I’ll give you a call. We have your number.”

Slowly, Janice depressed the cradle, then dialed the Hall of Records, Department of Birth Registrations.

“Hello?” said a strange male voice. “Room One thirty-one.”

“Is Cathy there?”

“She’s on vacation. Can I help you?”

Janice’s hand went involuntarily to her mouth. She swiveled in her chair, but there was no hiding from the curious stare of the assistant at the next desk.

“How — How long has she been gone?” Janice stammered.

“Since today. Is this a personal call?”

“No, I — Has a man called? A man called about a birth registration?”

The voice at the other end chuckled with self-importance.

“We get a lot of inquiries,” he said. “I couldn’t possibly tell you—”

“February 3, 1975.”

“No, we’ve received no inquiries for that date.”

Dazed, she slowly hung up. For a long time, she stared at the wall. When she telephoned Dr. Geddes, he advised her to go home and wait for Bill. They discussed alerting the New York City Police, but in the end, decided to hold off.

Slogging through the snowdrifts in the direction of Des Artistes, Janice kept her eyes open for taxis. None came. She stopped in a bar to escape the bitter weather. Warming in the humid entrance, she peeked over the heads of the burly men crowded around the long bar and saw the television perched high on a shelf.

“For New York, it looks like Christmas will be more than white,” the announcer said somberly. “Forecasts range from fifteen to twenty inches and winds are expected to reach thirty to thirty-five miles per hour.”

A chorus of ribald shouts greeted the report, all epithets of New Yorkers who knew exactly what a storm of that dimension would do to their city.

Janice left the bar. Miserably, she trudged to the next intersection. Still no taxis. Ruefully, she considered that a horse-drawn carriage from the gates of Central Park stood a better chance of making it home than a four-wheeled vehicle.

Gradually, a raw premonition made itself felt. From a corner phone booth, she called the Hall of Records just as it was closing.

“Hello?” she said, breathing hard from the cold. “I called earlier today.”

“I’m sorry,” said the unctuous voice. “We get many calls.”