The Brownstone, page 24
Chandal looked around the room. It was the same room as in her dream: the fireplace, the fire; the wallpaper that represented an ancient stag hunt; Elizabeth sitting there pretending to do her nails—it was all the same!
“Justin doesn’t want you for his wife any longer,” said Magdalen.
Elizabeth broke into a wild scream of laughter. Magdalen ordered her to be silent.
“You’re still angry, aren’t you, Magdalen? Because I told her about him. What you two are up to.” She pointed her thin finger at her sister.
“You whore! You miserable whore!” Magdalen slapped Elizabeth savagely. Over and over again, she beat her around the neck and the face.
“No! Please stop! Please!” Chandal covered her face. The sound of Elizabeth whimpering cut through her brain. Magdalen spun in her direction. “You’re to blame for this; I will punish you for it!”
Chandal turned; lost her temper; didn’t seem to mind that she was going to pieces. “Goddamn you!” She lurched at Magdalen, who flicked her finger and hissed.
The fire went out. The candles went out. Black.
The air was cold now, but the darkness was worse and Chandal started to shake. Something snapped and struck her hand. She shuddered, pulled back. “Stop it!”
Someone was breathing to her left, circling her. Oh, my God, they’re going to kill me! Snap!—the back of her neck. “Goddamn it!” She couldn’t breathe, hadn’t been able to take a decent breath, reached out her hands—groped and now her stomach was starting to turn. Snap!—the back of her leg. She tumbled to the floor hard. Mind blank, she crawled around on all fours trying to stay alive. Kept looking; kept panting; kept reaching. Someone kicked her—she went down again. Fought hard. She thrashed her arms. Screamed—laughed. Continued to laugh, stopped only to inhale air to laugh some more.
Stopping abruptly, tears sprang to her eyes and she fell unconscious onto the floor.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JUSTIN HELD A HUMAN SKULL HIGH IN HIS HANDS. It was the first day of rehearsal and he wanted to create an effect. The actors waited eagerly for him to begin. Billy, who had agreed to understudy the two male leads, sat alone near the Coke machine. The stage manager, his coat off, but still immaculately dressed, was seated at a long wooden table prepared to take notes.
The hall was dimly lit.
Stepping onto the tiny rehearsal stage, Justin acknowledged the applause of his actors; he bowed, adjusted the skull slightly, and spoke. “...and are we to be told that Franklin here is a savage because he lived and died like a brute, and that his murderer, the honorable Professor Dorrell, is the happy creature of society because he took it upon himself to rid the world of this scum!”
At the back of the theater, the door opened slowly and two men peered in to watch as Justin continued with his eloquent description of the play.
After a brief discussion, Justin walked through the imaginary set that the actors would rehearse upon for the next four weeks. He opened the door and walked under an imaginary archway into the garden. As he moved, he heard a light voice. “You must rid yourself of your wife,” it whispered.
“I’m not sure of that,” he argued inwardly.
“Your sorrow shall be my sorrow and we will bear it together. But you must get rid of her soon.”
Justin grew more silent as he wandered through the rest of the set. He stopped suddenly, standing against the imaginary background of the very large, ornate gold-framed portrait of Professor Dorrell.
The actors watched as Justin grew pale. His body began to shake and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.
“Hey, you all right?” asked Billy, standing on the stage beside him.
Justin looked around like a man slowly coming out of a dream, trying to grow more accustomed to the familiar things of the real world. “What?” Billy came into focus.
“Are you all right?” Billy asked.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Justin turned and walked back through the garden. Now his step was quicker and more purposeful. “No,” he continued, “my point is that one cannot look upon him as an insignificant opponent. His medical history is, unfortunately, brilliant.”
The morning rehearsal went well. Justin broke for lunch at twelve-thirty P.M. Before leaving the rehearsal hall, the stage manager informed him that the playwright was back in town and would attend the afternoon rehearsal.
“Why?” asked Justin coldly.
“Beats me. He wrote the damn thing. You’d think he’d be sick of it by now.”
“What a time to meet the playwright!” Justin threw on his jacket.
“You mean you two haven’t met yet?” asked Billy, sticking his script into his coat pocket.
“No. He’s been in Europe. I wish to hell he’d stayed there!” It had been difficult to convince the producers not to sit in on rehearsals. Now he had to convince the playwright.
Pushing their way through the Broadway crowd, Justin and Billy ducked into Charlie’s for lunch. Shouts of laughter and a dribble of singing hit them as they walked through the door. The tables were packed tight with producers, actors, models, and writers.
Moving slowly into the room, Justin waved to several people he knew. All were a little tight and very talkative. Billy stopped at the bar to say hello to an actress friend. She was half-tipsy, giggling, and unpleasant.
Justin finally managed to secure a table and they sat down.
“A refined gathering, wouldn’t you say?” Justin felt uncomfortable. It was the first time since he’d moved into the brownstone (two days short of a month) that he’d actually stepped into a theatrical pub, and it annoyed him.
The two men from the theater had followed Justin to Charlie’s and were now standing at the bar. Each ordered Scotch and drank it slowly, watching Justin and Billy as they ate lunch. Finally, they faced the bartender and began to talk between themselves.
Justin watched Billy salt the last half of his cheeseburger and couldn’t help but envy his appetite.
“What’s the matter, aren’t you hungry?” Billy asked.
“Not really.” Justin continued to nurse his drink, ignoring the chef’s salad that he’d ordered.
“I’m starving,” said Billy. And Justin said, “I can see that.”
Billy motioned. “Do you see Pacino sitting over there?”
Justin nodded.
Billy’s appetite for food varied with his state of mind. The sight of his excellent appetite was a sure sign that he was once again an employed actor.
“What happened to you at rehearsal today? You looked awful.”
“I don’t know.” Justin paused for a moment, then added, “Have you ever had times when you couldn’t remember where you were or what you were doing?”
“Yeah, every time I’m with my girl!” He threw more salt on his burger.
“I’m serious.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Lately, at home—I go down into the basement at night to work on a few pictures. Next thing I know, three, maybe four hours have passed, but I can’t seem to remember what I’ve done during that time. Everything has been changed around, but I still don’t remember doing anything.”
“You’re in love.”
Justin smiled sadly. “I wish you were right.”
“Why, you and Chandal aren’t getting along?”
“Not really. I find it easier to talk with Magdalen.”
“Magdalen who?” Billy polished off the last of his coffee, wiped his lips with his napkin, and lit a cigarette.
“Would you like more coffee?” asked the waiter.
“No, thanks.”
Justin waited for him to clear away the plates before he answered Billy.
“The woman at the party. I introduced her to you.”
“What party?”
“Chandal and I—to celebrate the new—” He cut himself off. Thinking of the baby had a strange effect on him. It had brought death back into his life, made him more aware of his own mortality. It shook him a little, because he couldn’t see anything beyond this life. He had refused to see beyond it, just as an audience refuses to see beyond the scenery in a theater. He had thought about the baby from time to time, which brought back the headaches, which brought back the fact that he had once lost his sight in one eye. Besides, he had always secretly thought that at the moment of his own death, he would be able to get around it somehow, that he would be able to cheat death. The baby had made that seem impossible.
“You mean the old lady from the brownstone—Magdalen?”
“Yes.” He was beginning to perspire.
“You find it easy to talk to her? I didn’t. She kept busting my balls when I was over there painting. ‘You’re too loud. It’s late. Couldn’t you finish tomorrow?’ I told her to take a walk!”
“She’s a nice woman.”
“To each his own.” Billy glanced around, waved to the tall blonde at the bar.
Justin sat quietly and let the images of Magdalen run through his mind. He knew her every feature. He knew her birthday, her favorite music, books, food, and flowers. There wasn’t a single aspect of her life that he wasn’t aware of.
Again Justin could feel himself being removed from his surroundings. Then he heard a gentle voice—I desire you—come to me.
“Soon!” he mumbled.
“What?” Billy asked, seeing the strained lines in Justin’s face.
Justin turned sharply, looked around the room, and jumped to his feet. He was afraid to sit there any longer. He gulped down his drink and left the restaurant, leaving Billy to pay the bill. When Billy went outside, Justin had disappeared.
Justin sat alone in the darkened theater trying to understand his obsession for Magdalen. The theater was completely empty; no one had returned from lunch yet. Through a small crack at the bottom of the window, he could hear the wind blowing, a soft whistling sound like a tea kettle about to boil.
And out in the hallway the shapes of two men hovered in the shadows. Footsteps started up the stairwell and the two men ducked into the bathroom to the right.
The theater door opened and Justin could barely make out the heavily built, elderly man who entered the room. He moved nearer the work light; Justin saw that his hair was long and curly and iron-gray, his face unaccustomed to smiling. “Hi, I’m Adler. J. J. Adler.”
Playwrights always bothered Justin, and this one was no different. He proceeded to ask Justin all the usual questions that directors hear a million times. How do you see the play being done? Have you ever directed this type of play? Do you think we need better actors? Will the audiences like my play? He removed a clay pipe from his breast pocket and lit it.
“I believe that murder—any murder—will cause an audience to think. Whether they relate to Franklin or care—that depends on the actor. We have the best.” Justin wasn’t sure what he’d just said, but the playwright looked impressed. Pointless going on.
The pace picked up now. Actors milled about. Billy kicked the Coke machine trying to retrieve his money. The female lead, who was still sure Justin disliked her, nodded, smiled—asshole! If her husband hadn’t put up the money, there wouldn’t have been a play. She didn’t feel guilty for forcing herself on Justin, she decided.
Rehearsal began promptly at two P.M.
From time to time, Justin glanced at the playwright to catch his reaction. The playwright remained expressionless and just sucked on his pipe.
Chandal’s mother let the phone ring many times and then she hung up. She knew Chandal was home and was deliberately not answering the phone. Why? She hadn’t meant to upset anyone. Yes, she had left the brownstone, had left Chandal when she needed her. But that wasn’t worth this kind of treatment. It was one-forty-five in the afternoon and already she was exhausted. She wanted to talk to someone, anyone, but there wasn’t anyone.
In the room across the hall a woman was dying of cancer. Chandal’s mother watched as the woman’s eldest son prepared to leave.
“It won’t do us any good,” he said softly.
The woman said nothing. Instead, she picked up a newspaper that lay on the antiseptic white table next to her bed and began to read. The boy left without saying another word.
From where she stood, Chandal’s mother saw that the woman was crying. She understood. She rang for the nurse and waited. Chandal shouldn’t treat her this way—it wasn’t fair.
“Yes?” the nurse asked.
“The woman across the hall—she’s in pain.”
She nodded, took her hand from her blue uniformed pocket. “Thank you.” She moved across the hall into the next room. Brief discussion, needle, and the woman was soon asleep.
Chandal’s mother called the house again with no luck. She was furious now and took it out on the nurses. She complained about her lunch, the lack of heat in her room, and the constant noise in the hallways.
In the next hour, she suffered an extreme case of diarrhea. Each time the nurse was called, and Chandal’s mother had to be helped to and from the bathroom. Annoyed, the nurse finally made some comment about her illness being psychological.
“Psychological! What’s the difference? It’s enough to keep me in the hospital, isn’t it?”
“Well, that’s true.” The nurse smiled.
“Let me tell you, young lady—I’m in constant pain. Is that psychological?”
Suddenly Chandal’s mother was violently thrown against the wall! Her eyes rolled back into her head and blood started running from her nose and ears. The nurse quickly rang the emergency buzzer.
Each time she reached out for the nurse’s hand, she was flung back against the wall.
Then, with a sudden, violent wrench, she found herself plummeted face first against the concrete wall. Something had grabbed hold of the back of her neck and kept smashing her forehead forward.
The nurse panicked, tried to grab her, tried to pull her away from the wall. Helen turned, twisting her head violently from one side to the other.
The nurse shook her. “Stop that! Stop that!”
Helen was fighting to stay alive. She lunged at the nurse, grabbing her by the hair, clawing at her face with her fingernails.
The nurse fell back, stumbled, and hit the floor with a thud.
Helen’s arms were ripped straight out, even with her shoulders, rendering her paralyzed. She screamed and something smashed across her mouth, sending her against the wall again, where she hung in a cruciform position, and then dropped to the floor.
By the time help had arrived, she lay on the cold slab floor in a pool of her own blood.
Chandal woke up screaming. She’d seen her mother lying on the hospital floor covered with blood. She sat staring; she didn’t know what had happened. Bed, bedroom, sitting up. She was desperate for something to remember. Magdalen and Elizabeth, both of them; the first fear hit her—the attic. Then she moved her hand as the second fear hit her—her mother. The phone rang. It was the hospital. They told her that her mother was in critical condition, that she should come to the hospital as soon as possible.
Chandal slammed down the receiver and called Justin. She was hysterical. When she reached him, she tried to explain what had happened, but she wasn’t making sense. Justin told her to calm down, that he would pick her up in a cab and that they would go to the hospital together. Justin left the actors with the stage manager, got into a cab, and headed north to the brownstone.
Chandal was standing outside in the freezing cold when Justin arrived. In her haste to leave the house, she’d forgotten to put on her coat. Justin helped her into the cab, removed his jacket, and wrapped it around her. She was shaking miserably and spent the rest of the time in the back seat of the cab crying.
Dr. Margolin swiftly took Chandal and Justin aside and had a difficult time explaining exactly what had happened. The head nurse was called in, along with the nurse who was in attendance when the incident occurred.
“Please,” Dr. Margolin said after the two nurses were seated, “tell Mr. and Mrs. Knight how this thing happened.” His frustration at being unable to comprehend the situation himself made him edgy, causing him to fidget with the pen and pencil set on the desk. Involved in one malpractice suit already, he wasn’t looking for a second.
The nurse simply told what had happened as she saw it. Chandal’s mother had been irritable and depressed all morning. In order to punish herself and the others in the hospital, she’d deliberately thrown herself against the wall, causing cuts across her arms and back, several nasty bumps on her head, and internal hemorrhaging.
Chandal was furious. “I don’t believe this! Just like that, my mother flung herself against the goddamn wall!”
“Honey, calm down.” Justin reached for her hand. She jerked it away.
“I won’t calm down! The whole thing is ridiculous!”
“Mrs. Knight,” the nurse said softly, “your mother attacked me when I tried to stop her.”
Only then did Chandal notice that the nurse wore a flesh-colored band-aid across her forehead, and that there were two deep gash marks across her right cheek.
“Why would she attack you?”
The head nurse moved forward in her chair. “Because your mother has always expressed a dislike for Nurse Thomas. In fact, she has stated on a number of occasions that she hates all nurses.”
“But there must have been a reason. A person doesn’t suddenly become violent!” Chandal fumbled for her cigarettes. The pack was empty.
“Would you like one of these?” The doctor held out a pack of Marlboros.
“Thank you.” She steadied her hand, but was still unable to remove a cigarette from the pack.
“Here, honey, let me.” Justin took the pack from her hand.
“If you remember, Mrs. Knight”—the doctor edged slowly into the conversation—“I told you over the phone that I was worried about your mother’s emotional well-being. I asked you then if your mother was suicidal.”
“And I told you no! My mother has never acted like this!”
“Here you go, Del.” Justin had lit the cigarette and then handed it to her.
