John MacDonald - Slam the Big Door

“I wouldn’t have.”

“Thank you, Mike. I felt creepy all day yesterday. Spooky, sort of.”

“Yesterday was one of my large-size days.”

“If there’s anything I can do...”

“I’ll let you know, kid. Thanks for calling. We’re going in right now.”

It was a little after nine when they arrived at the hospital. Her private room was on the third floor. Sam had already seen her and had left word for Mary that she seemed to be in pretty good shape and he was setting up the operation for the following morning.

“Can Mr. Rodenska see her too?” Mary asked the floor nurse.

“As far as I know,” the nurse said.

“Go see her alone,” Mike said. “She’d like that better.”

“I want you with me. Please.”

“Okay.”

The door was ajar. Mary tapped. The special nurse let them in, introduced herself, said the patient was feeling a little better, and left, after asking them to stay not more than ten minutes.

Debbie Ann’s bed was cranked up a few inches. The left side of her face was shocking. The split skin had been stitched and dressed. But what had been a concavity was now a high mound of dark red discoloration. The eye was pinched shut. The swelling distorted the nose and puffed the left corner of the mouth. Her jaw was taped in place. Her finger was splinted. She wore a clumsy-looking neck brace. One gray-blue eye stared at them, wearily, bitterly.

“Oh, my poor baby!” Mary said. “My poor darling.” She pushed a chair close to the bed, sat and took Debbie Ann’s left hand in both of hers. “Do you feel just horrible?”

“I feel awful, Mommy.” The high-pitched voice was very frail. “I hurt in a hundred places.”

Mike stood behind Mary’s chair. That single eye was not dulled. It was aware, and wary. Mike suddenly realized the girl had no way of knowing how much he had told Mary, and had good cause for alarm.

“It was a horrid, brutal, unspeakable thing for him to do. I think he was striking at me through you, darling.”

“Have you seen him, Mommy?”

“No, I haven’t, dear. And when I do I’m going to tell him just what I think about — all this.”

“I stopped because I wanted to talk to him and... all of a sudden he had a... terrible expression on his face... and there was a big kind of white flash, and... I woke up here. I thought... he’d shot me in the face... but the nurse said...” She slowly closed her eye.

“Darling! Are you all right?”

The eye opened just as slowly. “I’m all right.”

“Why did he hit you? Have you any idea?”

The single eye glanced quickly up at Mike, then looked away. He knew the question in her mind had been answered. He felt his muscles tensing.

“I... don’t want to tell you, Mommy. I’m ashamed.”

“Ashamed of what? You must tell me.”

The girl’s voice was halting, remote — her diction impeded by the taped jaw. She had to speak through clenched teeth. “Shirley and I went to the Hutchasons’ party Saturday night. Then we went back to the house. We had some drinks. Mike and Troy were there, drinking. We sort of — went right on drinking. Troy was making my drinks. I guess they were strong ones. I lost track. Then we were... walking on the beach... Troy and me. And he said... let’s go look at the Skimmer in the moonlight. We went below... to see if there was any liquor aboard. When... he grabbed me I thought it... was like a joke. And then... I knew it wasn’t. I guess I screamed. But Shirley and Mike were playing records. I... could hear the music. “Begin the Beguine.” He... tore my clothes. They’re in... the back of my closet... on the floor. Before he... finally let me go he made me promise I wouldn’t tell. He said he’d kill me. By then Mike and Shirley were gone. Yesterday... I went for a long ride to think things over... and I decided I... would tell. But first I wanted to find out... if he was sorry or anything. I saw him and he wouldn’t talk. So I got out of the car, right in front of him. I said... we should both tell you what happened, Mommy. And he... hit me. That’s why he hit me. I think he... thought he killed me.” She gave a long gasping sigh through clenched teeth and then made what must have seemed to Mary like a pathetic little attempt at a joke. “If that’s what rape is like... it’s pretty hard to do like they tell you to do — relax and enjoy it.”

Mary stood up so suddenly the chair banged back against Mike’s knees. She turned blindly, her face like dirty chalk, and plunged toward the doorway. Mike looked at the wide gray-blue eye. In its expression he read smugness, mockery, satisfaction.

“Bitch!” he said softly, and hurried after Mary.

He caught up with her at the hallway desk near the elevators. She had picked up a phone. The floor nurse was objecting. Mary was ignoring her, and requesting an outside line. When she got it, she dialed zero, waited a moment and then said, “Connect me with the police, please.”

Mike leaned past her and pushed the cradle down, breaking the connection. She looked at him in complete fury.

“Stop interfering!”

“I want to talk to you first.”

“Get away from me!” She pushed at him and dialed zero again.

Mike took a deep breath. As he firmly, forcibly, took the phone out of her hand, he smacked her solidly on the cheek with his left hand, harder than he had intended. It staggered her slightly. The rigidity of outrage left her — her eyes reflecting the sudden comprehension of a person coming out of shock.

“Why did you—”

He hung up the phone and grasped her upper arm firmly enough to cause a little movement of pain across her lips. He pulled her close to him and said, “Do I have any damn reason in the world to lie to you?” He made his face and voice angry.

“No, but—”

“I want to talk to you before you go off like a rocket.”

“But he should be—”

“Make your call fifteen minutes from now if you still want to. Where can we talk privately, Nurse?”

“The treatment room is empty. The second doorway on the right.”

He walked Mary down the corridor, pushed her in ahead of him, closed the door behind them.

When she turned to face him he could see that she was beginning to be furious again. “I know you’re a good friend of Troy’s, Mike, but you can’t cover up something like—”

“Shut up! You’re here to listen, not argue. I’m not protecting Troy. The hell with Troy. I’m keeping you from making a damn fool of yourself — from setting up a public scandal. The girl isn’t worth it, Mary. She’s lying. And she’ll keep right on lying to you in that silly little voice, and if it ever came to the point of a trial, any punk little attorney Troy wanted to hire would tear her testimony to small dirty pieces.”

“But—”

“I know what actually happened. Shirley McGuire knows, and Troy knows and Debbie Ann knows. And you haven’t the faintest idea what happened or what she’s like. I was gutless last night. I should have told you what happened the night before. She didn’t pull this act until she made damn sure I hadn’t told you.”

“How can you sound so hateful about that poor baby—”

“Listen, will you? And keep remembering I’m not grinding an ax for anybody. I’m the innocent bystander people keep shooting at.”

So he told her. He knew he couldn’t do it delicately, because then she would refuse to believe. It had to be shock treatment. Harsh words. Factual. He put it all in. Her bath-towel routine. Her anecdote about Rob Raines. Her public reputation. Her deviousness. He had always been able to remember dialogue, the special way people fit words together, so that in repetition it has the distinctive flavor of truth. So, after he had told her graphically of his two visits to the Skimmer III , he repeated his conversation with Shirley, with Debbie Ann at breakfast, and finally with Troy.