Frank De Felitta - For Love of Audrey Rose

“Yes,” Dr. Boltin said ambiguously as he drummed his fingers on the table, exchanging glances with Dr. Geddes. Neither Janice nor Hoover could decipher what the signals were, but after a long pause, Dr. Boltin raised an eyebrow and the lanky assistant went quickly from the room.

“When Bill comes in,” Dr. Boltin said more kindly, “he may be disoriented. He may not know you, or feel uncertain about expressing his feelings at seeing you, Mrs. Templeton. He may break into tears. You must just accept whatever he does as natural and support him.”

“Does he know I’ve come?” Hoover asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what did he say?”

“I don’t believe he said anything at all, Mr. Hoover.”

The door opened. Janice gasped. A travesty of Bill stood blinking in the doorway. His collarbones protruded sharply and his shoulders bent inward. His trousers hung loosely at the waist. He looked as though he were recovering from an operation.

“Bill!” Janice whispered, standing up, taking a step closer.

He gazed at her blankly, and then his face made a mask with a smile on it.

“Hello.”

Pathetically, he took a step closer to her, tried to mumble something, but only blinked rapidly. He looked around at the assembly of white-coated physicians and seemed terribly ashamed to be under their scrutiny.

“I’m so happy to see you,” he whispered, edging still closer.

As though he had recognized one friend out of the multitude, Bill shuffled in tiny steps sideways toward her, to protect him from the onslaught of the eyes that examined him and dissected him.

“I’m — okay,” he whispered confidentially. “Just — just a bit cold — and — and — it’s good to see you….”

He stood now next to her, his arms uncertain whether to touch her or not, until she put her hands on his shoulders and pressed him forward. Suddenly he trembled like a baby.

“So — good to — see you,” he cried into her shoulder, shaking.

“Oh, Bill. Darling Bill. I’ve worried so much about you.”

“Don’t go away again. Please don’t go away….”

Hoover, much affected, now felt the attention of the assembly shift slowly but inexorably onto him. Bill, with Janice holding his hand, was seated next to Dr. Geddes. It took Bill a full two minutes to realize that they were not going to ask him any questions. Slowly he became aware of the tension filling the room. Overhead, the thunder cracked abruptly, viciously.

Bill turned slowly, following his instincts, following where Dr. Geddes stared, where the two physicians gazed, where Dr. Boltin had stationed the lanky staff assistant. Down at the other end of the table, perspiring in the humidity, confident, boldly immobile and staring back, was Elliot Hoover.

Bill blinked rapidly. He looked at Janice, then at Dr. Geddes. He looked back down the long table at Elliot Hoover. He smiled an awkward, pathetically inappropriate smile. Then the smile vanished. He simply stared.

“Hello, Bill,” Hoover said softly.

Bill rubbed violently at his eyes, the way an infant might, as though some piece of grit had gotten lodged under the eyelids. It was an abrupt gesture, as though he tried to rub out what he was seeing.

“I’ve come to talk to you,” Hoover said hesitantly. “Do you mind?”

Bill pressed his lips together, stared down at the table, and his fingers violently pressed into the cheap veneer and polish. He looked up quickly at Hoover, opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Janice put a hand gently on Bill’s shoulder. A tremulous shudder rolled through Bill, and he brushed the hair from his forehead.

“I–I knew you were here,” he said in a stilted voice. “They told me.”

“Things have changed, Bill. For both of us.”

“They told me,” Bill said, louder, fighting off the mental anarchy by raising his voice against the confusion. “They told me Elliot Hoover was here.”

Hoover leaned forward, his features softened by compassion.

“Listen to me, Bill. We’ve suffered. Both of us. In the same way.”

“What?”

Bill turned, his face in a grimace, as though he was hard of hearing. His movements were jerky, exaggerated, like an abnormal child who playacts his aggression.

“I can’t hear you!” Bill complained.

Hoover slid into a seat closer to Bill, and kept his voice soft and distinct.

“We must help each other, Bill. We must forgive each other.”

“What?”

Janice had never seen a display of willed autism before. Bill was only partially in control of himself, driven by some twisted mechanism inside, some machine perpetually breaking down, trying desperately to defend itself against one more wound.

“I’ve come to talk to you, Bill — in humility — about what happened — and why.”

Bill nodded vigorously.

“Good, good,” he said in a strange monotone. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Hoover looked nervously around the conference room. Dr. Boltin gave him an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. Hoover licked his lips and leaned forward. Janice’s grip on Bill’s shoulder tightened.

“When I heard that you were searching, Bill, as I had searched,” he began, “my heart was filled with… with sorrow. And with understanding. Because I’d gone through just that very search.”

Bill stared disconsolately down at the tabletop.

“And I knew the torment of that search. The doubts, the trials, the doctrines that leap against the mind like a dark and angry sea.”

Sensing contact, Hoover moved closer. His voice took on more confidence, and Janice heard the familiar charisma of his passion, the love and strength that knew no obstacles, admitted to no impediments, the iron will that penetrated any soul placed before it.

“But the error is not renouncing ,” Hoover explained gently. “Do you recall in the Vedas, in the description of the progression of the soul, that beautiful description wherein it is written that the passions must renounce ere they possess? There is that extraordinary passage of the dawn of the soul, where the verse begins—”

“How did you know about me?” Bill interrupted, suddenly whirling to look at him, his expression sly as a wolf.

“What… what’s wrong, Bill?” Hoover said, frightened by the grinning intensity, the malevolence of the gaze.

“How did you know about me?” Bill whispered.

“Well, I–I heard…”

“Little birds in India? Singing in your dreams?”

Hoover shot a glance at Dr. Boltin, who was staring at Dr. Geddes. Dr. Geddes had gone pale. Janice and he began whispering feverishly. Meanwhile Bill’s haggard, tortured smile grew into something worse than a smile.

“Bill, listen to me. The Vedas exist for the benevolence of all mankind.”

“ Who told you about me? ” he shouted.

Hoover gazed helplessly at Dr. Boltin, who cleared his throat.

“Your wife went to India, found Mr. Hoover there, and brought him back for you.”

Bill clapped his hands over his ears. “No! No!” he shouted.

“Bill,” Janice said, touching his cheek. “I told you I would get help.”

Bill threw off her hand. He suddenly lurched to his feet and stared into Hoover’s startled face. A thousand emotions shot across Bill’s lips, cheeks, and eyes, and he seemed uncertain, then enraged, and then the trembling got the better of him and he could not speak without stuttering.

“H — h — has she—?” he began.

“Has she what?” Hoover asked defensively.

Bill came closer, whispering confidentially, his eyes gleaming, bloodshot.

“H — h — has she — she — a nice— cunt ?” he said, almost inaudible, hoarse, as though his throat had been torn out.