Frank De Felitta - Audrey Rose

The voice in Janice continued without interruption as she tracked across the room on raw and smarting knees in pursuit of her tormented daughter.

“… Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen!”

“ Daddydaddydaddy daddyhothothot—” She was on the sofa, seeking to stand on the soft and giving cushions, losing her balance, falling to the floor.…

“Lord, have mercy on us.

“Christ, have mercy on us.

“Lord, have mercy on us.

“Christ, hear us.

“Christ, graciously hear us.

“God, the Father of Heaven, have mercy on us.

“God, the Son, Redeemer of the world, have mercy on us.

“God, the Holy Ghost.…”

—Rising; whimpering; climbing back on the sofa; standing; swaying; falling.…

“Holy Mary, pray for us.

“Holy Mother of God,

“Holy Virgin of virgins,

“Mother of Christ,

“Mother of divine grace,

“Mother most pure,

“Mother most chaste.…”

—Struggling to her feet; panting, weeping; climbing; falling; striking her head against the table edge; bleeding.…

The telephone rang.

The voice in Janice stopped. A wondrous look came into her eyes. The doctor !

She clambered to her feet and fell forward onto the sofa, as her legs gave way beneath her. She reached across to the phone and snatched it up. A hum. A long, steady hum. Still the phone kept ringing. It kept ringing distantly. Humming and ringing at the same time. With Janice poised at the fulcrum of both sounds. Her mind could not take it in, could make no sense of it.

The house phone! It was the house phone that was ringing! In all the hysteria she had forgotten to hang up the receiver upstairs, and the doctor was contacting her through the house line.

“DADDYDADDYDADDY HOTHOTHOTHOT!”

—Bruised; bleeding; climbing back onto the sofa; on her knees; swaying precariously to and fro in genuflection before the altar of her despair.…

Janice rose, pulled the cocktail table out of harm’s way, and plowed across the living room and into the hall corridor, hands grasping at furniture and walls to keep her upright, and finally falling to her knees just within reach of the telephone. With a pained cry, she grabbed at the receiver and pulled it down upon her.

“Doctor!” she gasped.

Dominick’s voice answered. “Miz Templeton, there’s a Mr. Hoover down here in the lobby.”

Janice’s tearstained face blanched, stiffened, then quieted. Her stark eyes became impassive, while the house around her shook with the cries and bleatings of her one and only child. She had asked for God’s help, and He had answered.

“Miz Templeton?”

“Yes!” she said inaudibly.

“What’d you say, Miz Templeton?”

“ Yes, send him up !” Janice cried, dropping the phone.

Holding onto the doorknob, Janice pulled herself painfully up to her feet. She felt dissociated from her body and swayed dizzily. She shut her eyes to steady herself for a moment, then directed her shaking hand to the chain bolt.

The elevator rose with a hum.

A panel of light and a clang of doors announced Hoover, dramatically spotlighting his exit, as he stepped out of the suspended vehicle and paused, hat in hand, staring down the long, dark hallway toward Janice. As the elevator descended behind him, plunging him into silhouette, he took a step forward and stopped again, testing the mood and temper of the enemy, probing the terrain for hidden pitfalls and booby traps before daring to advance further. Janice remained at the door, watching him, waiting for him to approach, but he didn’t move.

Suddenly, the shrieking voice pummeled at Janice’s back and spilled out into the hallway.

“DADDYDADDY DADDYDADDYDADDY!”

Hoover took a tentative step forward.

“ Hurry !” Janice screamed at him.

Her senses absorbed the events of the next minutes in the abstract—fleeting images, some vague, some clear, with little continuity and no particular order of importance: the smell of wet wool as Hoover sped past her through the door; his stance as he paused on the threshold of the living room, recalling the circus lion tamer she had once seen as a child; her tripping over the telephone, still on the floor, as she hesitantly closed in on Hoover’s back; her skinned knees leaving bloodstains on the hall carpet; Hoover’s booming voice dominating her own sobs of pain and the screams of her child.

“Audrey Rose! It’s Daddy! Here, darling! I’m here!”

“Daddydaddydaddydaddy!”

“NO! HERE, AUDREY ROSE! DADDY IS HERE, DARLING!”

A delirium of sound—mad patterns of movement—approaches, denials, entreaties, rejections—a lunatic kaleidoscope of sight and sound—leading finally and inevitably to the first startled suspension of disbelief—the bright look of recognition—the heart-stabbing smile of pure joy on the blood-smeared face—the quick scamper into waiting arms and the unifying embrace, bringing with it the sudden, blessed absence of sound—the descent of calm—sweet, languorous, settling peacefully on the torn air, mending the breaks, renewing silence.

Hoover remained kneeling, cradling the child in his arms, comforting her, quieting her with gentle strokes and soft whispers. Almost immediately, her wet eyelids began to flutter and close in sleep.

Janice stood, tightly clinging to the back of a chair to keep from falling, watching through tears, as Hoover rose with the sleeping child in his arms and slowly, so as not to waken her, carried her up the stairs and into her room.

Janice was scarcely aware of following them; her bruised and aching body seemed to move under some automatic compulsion. She only knew that somehow she had arrived at the bedroom door and was silently observing Hoover as he gently removed her child’s pajamas and placed her naked and sleeping form on the bed. Then, moving rapidly between bedroom and both bathrooms, Hoover assembled his makeshift clinic of towels, Bactine, Solarcaine ointment, Band-Aids, a basin of warm, soapy water, and several washcloths.

He worked on Ivy’s wounds with a sure and practiced touch, washed the encrusted blood from her face and hands, then sterilized and bandaged the cuts. He spread ointment on the raw and blistered fingers and wrapped them loosely in two towels. Janice’s numbed brain took in each motion and gesture, accepting it all without question.

“Fresh pajamas!” He flung the words crisply over his shoulder. It was the first time he had addressed Janice that night.

She stumbled to the bureau and removed a flannel nightgown. As she turned to deliver it, she found Hoover standing behind her. His eyes probed the dazed, ravaged face with a look of great sadness, then glanced down her messy, torn dress to her blood-smeared legs. He sighed deeply and gently took the garment from her hands.

After easing Ivy’s flushed body under the covers, he turned to Janice and, taking her arm, softly whispered, “Come, let me help you now.”

The warm water felt soft and soothing against Janice’s bruised, chafed skin as Hoover cleansed her knees and legs with the soapy washcloth. She sat where he had placed her on the edge of her bed and watched him as he knelt at her feet, deftly maneuvering the wet cloth around each cut, carefully avoiding direct contact with any open wounds. It vaguely occurred to her that she should be resisting these intimate ministrations, but at the moment she had neither the energy nor the mental capacity to do anything about it.