On Broken Wings (14 page)

"There is one thing more I'd like to do," Helen said.

"Hm?"

"If we could get some red highlights into her hair, it would set off the rest of the color scheme to perfection."

"Well?"

"We need henna. I'm all out. A quick trip to the pharmacy and we'll be ready to go. Care to take a little drive?"

"Sure. Chris?"

"Okay."

***

Larry Lipinsky staggered down Grand Avenue, lurching from side to side as he went. Many terms had been applied to Larry Lipinsky. Most of them were uncomplimentary. The most recent one was "homeless."

It wasn't quite true that he was homeless, regardless of what social workers cared to believe. He lived in a middling decent tar-paper shack in the Onteora woods, on state land. It had a plywood floor and a window that opened. There was an old Franklin stove that leaked only a little, connected to a functional chimney. It didn't have indoor plumbing or electricity, but there was a nearby creek, and kerosene lanterns provided Lipinsky with what light he needed.

He wasn't there much, outside of sleeping hours. He spent most of his time scavenging the surrounding area for discarded items from which copper and brass could be reclaimed. Strictly speaking, not everything he scavenged had been discarded, but he was informal about matters of property, at least when it was other people's property. The reclamation center on Ardsley Road paid well for scrap metal, and he was one of its most faithful suppliers. The social workers didn't know about that either.

Lipinsky's needs were few and modest. Most of his income was disposable, and quickly disposed of. Whenever he had sufficient cash, as he did this evening, he went into town and got stinking drunk. Afterward, he would wander about harassing the rest of the citizenry.

He stood at the bottom of Onteora's hierarchy of ne'er-do-wells, who, grasping their place in society without actually comprehending it, mostly harassed one another. Lipinsky had no such inhibitions. He got away with it because he was big, crude, and smelled like a cesspool. The police, fearing to trespass into the social workers' domain, refrained from taking him in hand. Sensible civilians declined to confront him.

He blundered into Calabria's Pharmacy at random. The shoppers he passed gave him a lot of clearance.

***

Calabria's Pharmacy was the largest store of its kind in the region, and was as highly thought of in its field as Helen's women's department was in its own. Helen never went anywhere else for beauty supplies.

Upon entering the store, she pointed to the aisle containing the pantyhose and instructed Christine to find the shade that she liked best. Noticing how Louis started after the young woman, she took him by the arm and pulled him toward the aisle with the hair colorings.

"You watch over her much too closely, you know."

He nodded, his bearing stiff. "It's hard to stop. She's more precious than you know."

Wrong, sweet man. I know better than you do.

"You have to try to give her a little space. You're encouraging her to cling to you. She already does it too much."

Irritation flashed in his eyes. "I am teaching her how to drive, Helen."

Helen pressed her lips together and nodded. "That's a very good start. As soon as you can, start encouraging her to explore the world on her own." She paused and grinned her naughtiest grin. "That way you and I can have a little time alone. My tub has been asking about you."

His mouth dropped open.

"Louis, lighten up! You're tighter than a drumhead all the time. Yes, you have a large responsibility, and you have to take it seriously, but you're allowed to have a little fun now and then."

He emitted a weary sigh. "All right. You've said it enough times now, I've heard you, you're absolutely right, but for Christ's sake, don't needle me about it any more!"

His face had turned red as he spoke. She released his arm. "I'm sorry, Louis. I'm a terrible meddler, and I can't seem to stop. Forgive me, please?"

He made as if to shrug it off. "Of course."

What don't I know about you that would unlock your puzzle, sweet man? You don't act as if you've been hurt, or scared. It's just duty, duty, duty, twenty-four hours a day. But you won't be young and strong forever. Can't you hear the clock ticking? I can hardly hear anything else.

"Louis, would you check down at the far end for a product called Papaya Highlights, please?"

"Sure." He moved away, and she crouched to inspect another rack of hair treatments. A few seconds later, there was a loud crash a few aisles away. It was followed by a string of filthy words and salacious phrases spoken in a deep, guttural, alcohol-slurred voice. Helen turned and raced to find Christine, moving as fast as high heels would permit.

Christine was in the hosiery aisle. She stood militarily erect, facing a giant of a man in rough, mud-crusted outdoorsman's clothes, who swayed as he leered down at her. A rack of packages had been overturned behind him. A moment later his odor reached Helen, and she began to swoon. The older woman stood transfixed as Christine's soft voice issued forth.

"I have taken a lifetime's helping of shit from the likes of you, and I'm not taking any more. Get the hell out of my face."

The giant was momentarily dumbfounded. Then he roared and stumbled forward, reaching for Christine. Helen rushed toward the two, intending to interpose herself between them. Christine stood her ground, radiating contempt.

The giant hadn't taken a full step when he straightened up convulsively, pain and shock written all over his broad features. He stood on the balls of his feet, nearly on his toes, clawing at his own groin.

Someone had thrust a hand between the man's legs from behind. The hand reached up to clutch a large wad of the giant's trousers and whatever lay beneath it. It must have been a grip of iron, for the drunken Goliath apparently could do nothing about it. He seemed to be trying to speak, but a mouselike squeal was all he produced.

The next voice Helen heard was Louis's.

"Come on, big guy, you don't want to get between a woman and her shopping. I'm going to take you outside and sober you up."

The big drunk began to totter toward them, still on his toes, prying ineffectually at the invading hand and squealing comically. Louis was steering the brute from behind. From the expression on his captive's face, he wasn't being gentle.

Helen pulled Christine aside. Louis marched his odoriferous captive up the aisle and toward the store's exit. Many pairs of eyes tracked their departure.

***

When they reentered Helen's condominium, Christine went straight to the kitchenette and resumed her seat in the beautician's chair. Helen took Louis by the arm and pulled him into the living room.

"What was that you said about hidden talents?"

Louis shrugged.

"What did you do to him?"

"Not a lot. I convinced him to go play somewhere else."

"Was he drunk?"

Louis's eyebrows rose. "You couldn't tell from the aroma?"

"Never mind." Now that they were back in the comfort and serenity of her apartment, the whole affair had begun to seem unreal. Christine hadn't said a word. If she wasn't unaffected by the evening's events, she was doing a good job of simulating it.

Louis cleared his throat. "There was a favor I wanted to ask you."

"Yes?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I have to be away from the house for a few days, starting this coming Wednesday, and I don't like the thought of Chris being alone for that long. Would you like to come stay with her while I'm out of town?"

Helen considered. "Wouldn't it be better for her to stay here with me? It would be more convenient for me, what with work." She indicated the mountain of cosmetics and implements on her dinette table. "I could start teaching her how to use those."

He nodded. "It's fine with me. Chris, did you hear any of that?"

"Any of what?"

"I have to be away for a few days, starting Wednesday. Helen has invited you to stay here, so you'll have company while I'm gone. How does that sound?"

She stood, tension immediately apparent in her posture. "Where are you going?"

His answering smile was too fast and too wide. It made Helen instantly alert. The falsity of it was cartoonlike.

"I just have some personal matters to attend to. Nothing of real consequence."

Christine was visibly troubled, but she seemed to lack either the words or the will to confront him. "How many days?"

"Five, I think." The smile was an ill-fitting slice of hard plastic against his face.

How can he not know how false he looks?

Christine turned to Helen. "Will it be okay?"

Helen gathered the younger woman into a gentle embrace. "Of course it will, dear. I wouldn't want you to be alone when you could be with me instead. Would you like to come to work with me and help at the store? Do a little casual modeling?"

Christine's wide brown eyes radiated distress. Helen could feel her fighting it back, struggling to trust the two near-strangers who were all the family she had.

"Okay." She hugged Helen, and the whole room seemed to relax. Helen let her go and picked up the henna preparation from the table.

"Chris, this is best done in the tub. Care for a bath?"

The younger woman grinned. "Sure!"

Helen looked once more at Louis.

At least this time, his smile was genuine. "Do you have any new magazines?"

***

Christine said next to nothing for the rest of the evening. Not long after they'd returned home, she bade Louis good night and went to her room, leaving him alone in the living room. It suited him; he needed to be alone, if he was to separate the currents of relief and agitation that had braided his brains.

Helen's right. She needs more space and less protection if she's going to finish growing up in time. But I couldn't bring myself to leave her alone here, not yet. Thank God Helen saw it the same way.

Helen was magnificent. She charged toward that filthy brute like a lioness. For all I know, she could have taken him down herself.

Why did I have to pick up a fatal disease and a helpless young woman before I met her?

Because that's the way it is. Deal with it. It's too late for self-pity.

Yeah, but I can dream, can't I?

He shook his head, hoisted himself from the sofa and headed up the stairs. If he was going to dream, he'd do it in bed. That was the proper place for it.

***

The body of Malcolm Loughlin lay where it had been thrown three days before. Night was upon the city, and no one was near.

An ordinary corpse cools toward ambient temperature over a period of six to twelve hours. This one had not. Over the four hours after his death, Loughlin's body had dropped to a temperature of eighty-four degrees. It had plateaued there as his body fought to repair itself.

Special organelles in every cell had noted the cessation of blood flow. They had reacted by going into a "standby" mode foreign to ordinary human tissue. When Loughlin's lungs had ceased to pump air, combustion monitors at the bottommost layer of his alveoli had triggered electrochemical signals that shut down normal nutrient catalysis throughout his body. It was a hidden feature of his mitochondria that minimized waste products and mobilized a unique conversion subsystem for the task of restoring his life. While this was in progress, his central nervous system slept in a state of suspension. It was neither life nor death, but something in between, like a shock-induced coma. It preserved the potentials of life while coping with the fact of his recent, violent death.

Healing the hole in his heart was straightforward. However, it did require time and the conversion of large amounts of other muscle tissue into raw materials for the job. Anyone watching would have observed definite shrinkage in the muscles of Loughlin's chest and thighs as his revivification mechanisms cannibalized them for more vital purposes.

The blood he had bled into his chest cavity had already been absorbed and broken down by unique cells in his diaphragm and pleural membrane. The marrow of his bones was replenishing his circulatory system from the old tissue and from converted muscle mass.

The job was done. Loughlin's mitochondria shifted modes once more, sending out new signals. His heart restarted with a lurch and a momentary flutter. His pulmonary muscles surged to rekindle the fires of life. He began to breathe.

A few minutes later, the flow of glycogens into his blood had permitted his central nervous system to resume its ordinary functions. His eyes opened.

He rose from the alley floor with the memory of his recent demise rattling in his head. There was little to see in the darkness, and no one to see him. Good.

Before anything else, he had to deal with parched and spasming bowels, the consequence of three days without fluid intake. When he had finished, he began to make his way toward the outskirts of the city. He kept to the deepest of the shadows and to whatever opportunities for concealment presented themselves, knowing that he was in no condition to fight. He was weak as a kitten, dehydrated and starved. He would remain that way for some time. It would be weeks before massive emergency nutrition and a program of gradually intensifying exercise restored him to proper mastery of his body.