Hunger (3 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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I locked the outer door of my office and entered the secret retreat. With the closing of the inner door, a security system was armed; it would alert me to the presence of someone outside. The door itself had three sturdy bolts and these I secured. I turned on the light and glanced around; it had stayed relatively clean in my absence, as it was completely sealed off from the outside with no windows or doors other than the one, no dust could filter in. There were a few cobwebs and probably more than a few spiders but it made no difference. If there was any home for me, it was here.
The area consisted of a bedroom and bath on the upper level with a spiral staircase leading down to the living area and small kitchen. The kitchen was not really necessary but the refrigerator did hold a supply of my favorite wine. I poured a large glass for myself and sat down. The lack of windows was compensated for by a great variety of art prints and originals scattered on the walls. My favorite was a little–known Van Gogh acquired at auction many years ago for a ridiculously small sum. It was a wheat field on a sunny day, and the colors were so vibrant that I was often tempted to lay my cheek against it, as if to feel the warmth of its sun. All of the pictures were landscapes in daylight; it helped to alleviate the otherwise tomb-like atmosphere. If tradition and necessity dictated that I must dwell in a crypt at least it was decorated to my liking.
I finished my wine and climbed the stairs. Finding a nightgown in the closet, I changed, sat on the bed, and turned out the lights at the master switch on the wall behind the headboard. I removed my lenses and settled in for the night. The walls were well insulated so that sounds from within my rooms were not heard, but a mike installed outside insured that I would hear the first sounds from without. I pushed the thoughts of Bill Andrews' unfortunate death far from my mind, and prayed, as usual, for a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 3
I
t rained in the night, a cold November rain pounding insistently on the roof. The sound filtered into my consciousness and began to shape the dream again. I tried to fight it, to force some other into its place, but even as I fought, I knew this dream would win.
I am wearing a cotton print dress, too thin for the weather, but it accommodates my expanded waistline; I am seven months pregnant. I struggle with the voluminous skirt, now soaked at the hem and pull my shawl closer about my shoulders. It had gotten cold and begun to rain while we were inside; he drapes his coat around me while the coachman gets our carriage. After I am settled into my seat and warmly wrapped in a wool blanket, he gives the reins a shake and we begin the long ride home. The horses are skittish, dancing sideways for a few steps before they are calmed by his steady control. He looks at me and smiles.
“We could have stayed the night. Loretta readied the spare room for us.”
I snuggle against his shoulder. “I know, but I long for my own bed. And you would have been up all night talking incessantly about the possibilities of war. It is better this way.”
“I suppose so,” he admits, “just so you feel fit enough for the trip.”
“I am fine.” A rumble of thunder interrupts the steady rhythm of the rain, the horses start and whinny, then go on. The baby kicks hard against my ribs and I make a little grunting noise. He reaches over and with a mischievous grin, pats my stomach, proud of our unborn child. Our marriage, unlike many others of the time, is a match of love, but it had been a long ten years before the baby was conceived. At twenty-eight, many of the women think I am too old to carry a first baby full term. But we will prove them wrong, I think, my husband and I.
Our eyes meet for a second, and I read his love for me in them. I feel warm, despite the chill in the carriage, and realize that I have never felt so happy. Wanting this moment to last forever, wanting time to stop, I smile, stretch up to kiss his cheek, and recoil from the blinding glare of a flash of lightning.
There is a deafening crash, much louder than the previous thunder and a tree plummets onto the back of the carriage. With a sickening lurch, we topple over and crash to the ground. The horses rear and scream with fright, then drag us further down the road. Eventually they slow and stop, still restive but standing now. The only sound is the stamping of their hooves, their labored breathing and the relentless downpour of rain. I try to push up on the carriage door, but the once-warming blanket is now soaked and clings tightly to my arms and legs. It is hard to distinguish my tears from the rain, but soon all sensation drains away and I faint.
On awakening, I feel a small trickle of blood flow down my face. More disturbing is the gush of warmth between my legs; my water has broken and labor has started. And he is gone. He must be here. But where? I wonder, seeing nothing but the rain, hearing nothing but the restless shuffle of the horses. I call his name and begin to cry, in pain and fright.
The carriage door opens and two strong arms reach in to ease me out. He is back, I think and sigh in relief. His embrace is comforting and I relax into it. I try to speak but he quiets me, whispering words of reassurance and love. He is kissing me, caressing me and it feels so strange, so wrong. I push away from him and peer through the rain and darkness into eyes—not his. These eyes are deep with hunger and desire, not love, and yet they seem to draw my soul from my body. His mouth finds my neck and I shudder. The tension builds in my body as he drinks; I grapple with him, pulling at his shirt and ripping it in my panic. When my teeth graze his shoulder, I bite down hard, in fear or passion or possibly both. He is startled at first, then laughs, low and cynically, as his blood washes down my throat. I am being carried away by the rapid currents of this stream; I am drowning.
I am alone, shaking and cold, lying by the side of the road. Yards behind me lies the crumpled body that had been crushed beneath the carriage. I do not recognize it, cannot seem to acknowledge the grief I should feel. My mind is filled only with the other man. As I drift into blackness, his last words, tender yet somehow bitter, echo in my mind. “If you survive, my little one, we will meet again.”
The hospital walls are white and chilling. The nurses and doctors speak in rustling whispers and shake their heads in frustrated reaction to my case. With time, I come to understand that my husband is dead, the child was stillborn and there is no hope of others to follow. My own health they describe as precarious; they don't understand how I survived the ordeal. I wish I hadn't, I keep thinking before sleep comes and the walls wash into darkness once more.
 
I was extremely disoriented upon awakening, a combination of the dream and the dawn. I could sense the rise of the sun, although I would never again see or feel its warmth. Since the accident, my instincts had become sharpened, finely honed to those of a predator. My senses of smell, hearing and touch had intensified, and although my daytime vision was impaired, my night vision was excellent. I required little light to see. I felt deep within me the change of the seasons, the phases of the moon; my body was attuned to the earth in a way I would never have imagined.
It was this adjustment that caused me distress now; my physical being screamed danger from the dawn and even though my mind knew I was safe here, my body fought its awakening. I tossed restlessly, trying to resolve the dilemma until my body accepted the wisdom of the mind and I arose.
I took my typical shower, scalding water in utter darkness, and felt considerably restored. I dressed in clothes I found in the closet; faded jeans and a soft, comfortable oversized sweater. I towel dried my hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. It would be out of the way and I could style it later before my night at the Ballroom. I appraised my image in the mirror and thought that I looked even younger than usual. After my change, I had not aged, my body had been permanently frozen at twenty-eight. Many years ago I quit looking for gray hairs and crow's feet. “Every woman's dream come true,” I scoffed at myself as I walked away.
I padded downstairs in stocking feet, found a pair of boots in the coat closet and left my sanctuary for the office.
It was still early and there was no sign of Gwen. I was pleased because I had something special that I had designed for her in conjunction with the summer line. It was a wedding dress, patterned after a ball gown from the late 1860s. I hoped it would please her, it was unconventional enough for her taste, yet elegant and romantic. I envisioned it in ivory moire satin, with pearl and lace trim, but had included several fabric choices in the initial planning so that she could pick what she liked best. Gwen had asked me to help her shop for a gown some time ago; I knew she was hoping I could do more than that, but hadn't wanted to presume upon our friendship. I never even hinted that I would provide the dress; she would be surprised.
As I put the last touches on my final sketch, I heard someone unlock the front door. After a few seconds, I recognized the footsteps; it was Gwen, switching on the lights as she came down the hall. I had been working with only the small lamp on my desk not wanting to put in my lenses until absolutely necessary. Now I realized that in my haste, I had left them in my small apartment. I couldn't function without them in full artificial light, so I would have to return. Quietly, hurriedly I slipped into the entrance, retrieved the contacts and paused, listening. There was no sound from without; I pushed the door open, and came through, gently closing it behind me. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that I had not been discovered. I could hear Gwen at the coffee machine; she always made that her first chore of the morning. I quickly inserted my contacts and went into the hall.
“Good morning.” At the sound of my voice, she jumped, whirled around and dropped yesterday's coffee grounds on the floor.
“Deirdre, I didn't know you were here. Why can't you turn on the lights when you get here? How can you stand to be in this place in total darkness? It gives me the creeps to think of it. This city is full of weirdos and worse, just waiting to . . .”
“I know, Gwen. I'm sorry I startled you,” I interrupted, all the while inwardly pleased that my secret was still safe. My current lifestyle was making me too complacent and trusting. It was not good. “The security here is very thorough. I don't think those weirdos you keep lecturing me about could get past the front guard. Anyway, I've not been afraid of the dark for years.” I helped her clean up the mess I had caused and while the coffee was dripping I invited her into my office. “I have something to show you, that I hope you'll like.”
“Oh, Deirdre,” she gushed after seeing the sketches, “it's beautiful. But . . .” she hesitated.
“But what? Don't you like it?”
“I love it, but I thought you always said you wouldn't get into a wedding line.”
“I'm not, dummy, you are. Did you think I would let you walk down the aisle wearing anyone else's dress? Just think of the scandal it would cause if you were reported wearing anything but a Griffin gown. It would be very bad for business.” I was touched by her reaction, but did not want to let it show.
“Thank you so much.” She practically flung herself over the desk to give me a small hug. “The gown is wonderful.” Suddenly, I felt her stiffen. “Deirdre, there's someone here, behind the curtain.” I could hear the tension in her whispered voice.
“Don't be silly, Gwen.” I turned around and saw what had scared her. The door that I had tried to close so quietly had not latched properly, but swung open behind the drapes. It did look a bit like a person standing there, if you didn't know what it was. Now I would have to reveal one of my best kept secrets. Gwen was someone I trusted, yet I still felt like a fool and cursed myself for my carelessness. “Welcome to my other life.” I tried to smile as I pulled back the curtain, exposing the entrance. “You didn't really believe that I slept on the office couch all those nights, did you?” I pitched my voice to sound its most reassuring and reasonable.
“No, I guess not, now that you mention it. But why the secrecy? Lots of people who work in a position like yours have this sort of arrangement.” She had recovered from her fright and seemed to be enjoying my embarrassment.
“I like my privacy. Let's keep it between us two, please, I don't want the models thinking they can use it for their own personal dressing room.” There was almost enough anger in my voice to stop any further discussion.
“Since it's important to you, Deirdre, my lips are sealed. But I want a guided tour some day, okay?” She was smiling, thinking, I supposed, about the midnight trysts she imagined between Max and me happening right here through the walls of our office. She wouldn't mention it to anyone, I felt sure. And it did not seem out of the ordinary to her; it probably only added to my image in her eyes.
We kept quite busy that day, working through to the late afternoon. Gwen went out to pick up some lunch at one point and, as usual, I declined. I could eat solid food on occasion, but I generally took in only liquids. It was all a poor substitute for my mainstay. Now and then, I did enjoy a rare steak; as a rule I stayed away from most other foods, especially the type Gwen would bring back for lunch. It was assumed that l followed a stringent regimen of diet and exercise and had often been asked to share my secrets with readers of the women's magazines for whom I had granted an occasional interview. I always demurred on the question, laughing to myself at the havoc that would be created by my truthful answer. And, horribly enough, there would be people sick or obsessed enough to try to emulate my lifestyle.
The sun was setting as Gwen and I prepared to leave. We had made enough progress on the line and show to both earn a day off tomorrow. Beginning Monday, the next two weeks would probably be non-stop work and worry, so it was best to start in well-rested, and, I thought to myself, well-fed. I let her go ahead of me, so that I could straighten up a few things in my office and apartment. I looked at the clock and decided that I should call Max. I wanted to let him know I'd be at the club tonight; I also wanted to discuss Bill Andrews' death with him. Thoughts of the intimacies shared that night, the feel of his warm body pressed against me, juxtaposed against my vision of him now, lying cold and lifeless on a table in the morgue, had plagued me during the day. I still believed, I needed to believe, that I had nothing to do with his murder, but I wanted Max's confirmation and reassurance.
I dialed the phone and lit a cigarette while I waited for an answer. It was not long in coming.
“Good evening, and thank you for calling the Ballroom of Romance. How may I help you?”
It was Larry. I was a bit surprised because I had dialed Max's private number. “Larry, this is Deirdre Griffin. Is he in yet?”
“Hello, Miss Griffin. How are you tonight?”
“Fine, thank you. May I speak to Max?”
“Well, he's not here right at this moment. But he sort of expected you to call and asked me to give you a message.” He hesitated, but I didn't feel much like being put off tonight and my irritation showed.
“Go ahead, Larry, I'm listening,” I said sharply.

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