Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

“She musta fell outta her bunk,” Ernestine Littlechap offered.

The matron walked over to Tracy's side and nudged her with her foot. “You! Get up.”

Tracy heard the voice from a far distance. Yes, she thought, I must get up; I must get out of here. But she was unable to move. Her body was screaming out with pain.

The matron grabbed Tracy's elbows and pulled her to a sitting position, and Tracy almost fainted from the agony.

“What happened?”

Through one eye Tracy saw the blurred outlines of her cell mates silently waiting for her answer.

“I — I —” Tracy tried to speak, but no words would come out. She tried again, and some deep-seated atavistic instinct made her say, “I fell off my bunk….”

The matron snapped, “I hate smart asses. Let's put you in the bing till you learn some respect.”

It was a form of oblivion, a return to the womb. She was alone in the dark. There was no furniture in the cramped basement cell, only a thin, worn mattress thrown on the cold cement floor. A noisome hole in the floor served as a toilet. Tracy lay there in the blackness, humming folk songs to herself that her father had taught her long ago. She had no idea how close she was to the edge of insanity.

She was not sure where she was, but it did not matter. Only the suffering of her brutalized body mattered. I must have fallen down and hurt myself, but Mama will take care of it. She called out in a broken voice, “Mama…,” and when there was no answer, she fell asleep again.

She slept for forty-eight hours, and the agony finally receded to pain, and the pain gave way to soreness. Tracy opened her eyes. She was surrounded by nothingness. It was so dark that she could not even make out the outline of the cell. Memories came flooding back. They had carried her to the doctor. She could hear his voice: “…a broken rib and a fractured wrist. We'll tape them up…. The cuts and bruises are bad, but they'll heal. She's lost the baby….”

“Oh, my baby,” Tracy whispered. “They've murdered my baby.”

And she wept. She wept for the loss of her baby. She wept for herself. She wept for the whole sick world.

Tracy lay on the thin mattress in the cold darkness, and she was filled with such an overpowering hatred that it literally shook her body. Her thoughts burned and blazed until her mind was empty of every emotion but one: vengeance. It was not a vengeance directed against her three cell mates. They were victims as much as she. No; she was after the men who had done this to her, who had destroyed her life.

Joe Romano: “Your old lady held out on me. She didn't tell me she had a horny-looking daughter….”

Anthony Orsatti: “Joe Romano works for a man named Anthony Orsatti. Orsatti runs New Orleans….”

Perry Pope: “By pleading guilty; you save the state the expense of a trial….”

Judge Henry Lawrence: “For the next fifteen years you're going to be incarcerated in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women….”

Those were her enemies. And then there was Charles, who had never even listened to her: “If you needed money that badly, you could have discussed it with me…. Obviously I never really knew you…. You'll have to do whatever you think best with your baby….”

She was going to make them pay. Every one of them. She had no idea how. But she knew she was going to get revenge. Tomorrow, she thought. If tomorrow comes.

Time lost all meaning. There was never light in the cell, so there was no difference between night and day, and she had no idea how long she was kept in solitary confinement. From time to time cold meals were shoved through a slot in the bottom of the door. Tracy had no appetite, but she forced herself to eat every morsel. You gotta eat, or you won't last here. She understood that now; she knew she would need every bit of her strength for what she planned to do. She was in a situation that anyone else would have considered hopeless: She was locked away for fifteen years, with no money, no friends, no resources of any kind. But there was a wellspring of strength deep within her. I will survive, Tracy thought. I face mine enemies naked, and my courage is my shield. She would survive as her ancestors had survived. In her was the mixed blood of the English and the Irish and the Scots, and she had inherited the best of their qualities, the intelligence and the courage and the will. My ancestors survived famine and plagues and floods, and I'm going to survive this. They were with her now in her stygian cell: the shepherds and trappers, the farmers and shopkeepers, the doctors and teachers. The ghosts of the past, and every one was a part of her. I won't let you down, Tracy whispered into the darkness.

She began to plan her escape.

Tracy knew that the first thing she had to do was regain her physical strength. The cell was too cramped for extensive exercise, but it was large enough for t'ai chi ch'uan, the centuries-old martial art that was taught warriors to prepare them for combat. The exercises required little space, and they used every muscle in the body. Tracy stood up and went through the opening moves. Each movement had a name and a significance. She started with the militant Punching the Demons, then into the softer Gathering the Light. The movements were fluid and graceful and done very slowly. Every gesture came from tan tien, the psychic center, and all the movements were circular. Tracy could hear the voice of her teacher: Arouse your chi, your vital energy. It starts heavy as a mountain and becomes light as a bird's feather. Tracy could feel the chi flowing through her fingers, and she concentrated until her whole being was focused on her body moving through the timeless patterns.

Grasp the bird's tail, become the white stork, repulse the monkey, face the tiger, let your hands become clouds and circulate the water of life. Let the white snake creep down and ride the tiger. Shoot the tiger, gather your chi, and go back to tan tien, the center.

The complete cycle took an hour, and when it was finished Tracy was exhausted. She went through the ritual each morning and afternoon until her body began to respond and grow strong.

When she was not exercising her body, Tracy exercised her mind. She lay in the dark, doing complicated mathematical equations, mentally operating the computer at the bank, reciting poetry, recalling the lines of plays she had been in at college. She was a perfectionist, and when she had gotten a part in a school play where she had to use different accents, she had studied accents for weeks before the play went on. A talent scout had once approached her to offer her a screen test in Hollywood. “No, thank you. I don't want the limelight. That's not for me,” Tracy had told him.

Charles's voice: You're the headline in this morning's Daily News.

Tracy pushed the memory of Charles away. There were doors in her mind that had to remain closed for now.

She played the teaching game: Name three absolutely impossible things to teach.

To teach an ant the difference between Catholics and Protestants.

To make a bee understand that it is the earth that travels around the sun.

To explain to a cat the difference between communism and democracy.

But she concentrated mostly on how she was going to destroy her enemies, each of them in turn. She remembered a game she had played as a child. By holding up one hand toward the sky, it was possible to blot out the sun. That's what they had done to her. They had raised a hand and blotted out her life.

Tracy had no idea how many prisoners had been broken by their confinement in the bing, nor would it have mattered to her.

On the seventh day, when the cell door opened, Tracy was blinded by the sudden light that flooded the cell. A guard stood outside. “On your feet. You're going back upstairs.”