Frank De Felitta: For Love of Audrey Rose

A crippled black boy bent over shining black shoes on metal forms.

Bill waited until the last man left the washbasins, then he went to the stand, grabbed the shoes, and ran.

“Hey — What the hell are you doing?” the cripple yelled.

Bill escaped into the crowd.

He was lost in Central Park. He stopped. The snow was cold and wet on his bare feet, shivering within the black shoes. But he recognized the park. The configuration of black trees, paths, and the hillock over the rowing lake. It triggered primitive memories. Carefully he retraced his steps, then struck out over virgin fields of white.

“Ivy,” he whispered happily.

Nobody heard him. The streets were deserted. New York at night was a study of black recesses in dull white. Snow filled the crevices of soot and oily asphalt. Bill sensed a maze of bizarre patterns gliding by, but he kept his head down, following his black shoes. They knew where to go.

Disoriented now, he walked very carefully. He distrusted each side street that opened up — a truncated vista of fire escapes, back doors, stone steps.

“Ivy!” he called.

But the voice died away. The city absorbed all sounds. Slowly he continued toward the north.

Silently, the soul that had been frightened peered out through the eyes of Bill Templeton. He saw Des Artistes. He stopped. That, certainly, had not changed. It haunted him, that image of a different life. It sent out unpleasant signals in the darkness and cold.

He drifted toward the entrance of the building. A man in uniform beat his arms for warmth. Bill came closer, hesitated. The doorman stopped beating his arms, peering into the blackness.

“Mr. Templeton…” gasped the old man.

“Yes. I’ve come home. It’s good to be home. Very, very good.”

“Yeah… Sure…”

“I want to go in now.”

“Of course. Right this way. Goodness, but you gave me a fright.”

Bill licked his lips, afraid. He followed the doorman into the narrow vestibule, and then very slowly descended the steps into the lobby. The warmth and bright lights frightened him. He retreated. The doorman turned, surprised.

“Right this way, Mr. Templeton.”

The doorman escorted Bill to the elevator. Bill dared to look around him. The walls, the familiar entry to the restaurant and bar had a lurid, dangerous light.

Mario, shocked, stared at Bill.

“P-please, Mr. Templeton. Step in.”

Bill walked into the elevator, leaned against the wall, and saw the doors glide shut. Mario punched a button, and the elevator hummed upward through the building.

“You look great, Mr. Templeton. That is one hell of a coat.”

Bill’s jaw clenched, a nervous reaction to the claustrophobic space.

“We’ll have you upstairs in no time.”

The door glided open. Bill stared vacantly at the wall opposite. Mario waited. Bill did not move.

“You don’t have a key, do you?” Mario asked quietly. “That’s all right. I have a master key.”

Mario walked into the hallway. Bill hesitated, then followed. With each step toward the apartment door he went slower and slower. Finally, he stopped nearly ten feet away, while Mario unlocked the door. A black abyss greeted him.

“Why is it so dark?”

“What? You want me to turn on a light?”

Mario reached an arm into the apartment, flicked a switch, and three soft lights glowed from lamps.

“Where are they?”

Mario turned, shocked at the maniacal roar. Suddenly an immense force hurled him into the apartment. Ceramics showered into fragments, and a table leg crashed upward into his shoulder.

The door slammed, and a livid Bill stood over him.

“Where did they go?” he hissed.

“I–I don’t know, Mr. T-Templeton.”

A rough fist seized Mario’s hair, yanked him to his feet. A bright hailstorm passed before Mario’s eyes, and the pain leaped down into his skull. Bill shook the head violently, side to side.

“Where are they?” Bill bellowed into his face.

“P-P-P—”

Bill slapped the trembling cheeks hard with two resounding cracks.

“Tell me!”

“P-P-Pittsburgh—”

Bill stared at him in disbelief, then gritted his teeth and threw the diminutive man back against the remains of the coffee table.

“Pittsburgh?” Bill whispered.

“Mr. Hoover’s clinic, sir. The girl was sick.”

Bill wiped his sweated face, then shook himself. He stared viciously at Mario. Mario tried to crawl away, but his arms were entangled in the broken table legs.

“P-please, Mr. Templeton…”

Bill spun him around and wedged his arms behind his back with a belt. He carried Mario, who kicked furiously, toward the main closet and threw him in. He tore the electric cord from a lamp, held it out between two hands, and advanced into the closet. Mario went white, but the cord only lashed his feet.

Bill bounded upstairs. There were violent sounds of drawers being emptied, thrown onto the floor. Objects fell from dressers, more glass smashed, and he kicked something heavy away from him. Then he did the same through every room and closet upstairs until he found what he sought.

Suddenly Bill opened the closet door and seized Mario.

“Mr. Templeton! Let me get a doctor for you!”

“I have to go to the airport!”

“Rest here. Untie me….”

Bill shook Mario until his teeth rattled.

“How do I get to the airport?” Bill growled.

“G-go downstairs. Tell the doorman. He’ll get you a taxi.”

“A taxi? Yes, of course. Mario, I…”

But he lost his train of thought. Furious, he shoved Mario back in among the coats and shoes, then slammed the closet door. Mario heard the apartment door close, and footsteps pattering quickly to the stairwell.

Bill ducked against the rear seat of the taxi. It was late, but he did not want to be seen.

“Don’t turn back,” he muttered.

The taxi driver turned down his radio and leaned back.

“What’s that?”

“I said, don’t turn back.”

“I wasn’t going to turn back, mister.”

Bill muttered to himself, looked out the window as Manhattan slid by. Most of the roads were closed. Only the main arteries were open, and they were clogged with traffic.

“Man must not turn back,” he said. “Forward — always forward.”

The driver turned down his radio a second time.

“Forward,” Bill said louder.

“Where the hell do you think I’m going?”

“We are all voyagers on a dark sea. Voyaging beyond the barriers of death.”

“Well, I ain’t going that far.”

They were on a dark road now, and only a few globes of light went by, their poles invisible. They hovered like visitors from Pluto. Bill leaned forward suddenly.

“I’m going to see my daughter,” he said confidently.

“Yeah? Where’s she at?”

“Pittsburgh. She’s been sick.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No. She just got frightened.”

The driver glanced at him from the rearview mirror, studied Bill more carefully.

“Which terminal, sir?”

Startled, Bill looked in front. A complex of yellow and white lights were visible in the darkness. Signs directed the traffic to various terminals.

“I’m going to Pittsburgh.”

“American?”

“I don’t know.”

“Probably Allegheny.”

The taxi pulled up at the Allegheny terminal. The parking area was not plowed, covered high in snow. There were few passengers, and over the runway the ground crews worked furiously with snowplows.

The driver turned apprehensively.

“That’ll be ten dollars and eighty cents.”

Bill stared blankly at him.

“Ten dollars,” the driver repeated. “Eighty cents.”