Self-Defense (29 page)

No mention of Puck or any other family
member.

The loneliness she’d grown up with became
more vivid. I felt sad and made sure to keep that out of my voice.

She sat very low in the chair, nearly
supine, ankles crossed, knees slightly apart, a fingertip on her lip.

I changed the date on the calendar to
August 14. Took her back to age six. Her eyes moved very fast and her voice
assumed a slight whine as she told me about losing a favorite doll.

Breathing deeply and peacefully.

“Okay,” I said, “now let’s flip two more
pages, Lucy. You’re four years old.”

Her breath caught and she knuckled her
eyes.

“Deeper relaxed, Lucy. So, so peaceful. Watching
the screen, so it doesn’t have to bother you.”

Her hands fell to her lap. Her legs spread
more, the feet turned on their side.

“Four years old,” I said. “What are you
watching?”

Silence.

“Lucy?”

“House.” Very soft, very high, almost a
squeak.

“Watching a house on the screen.”

“Uh
-hu-
uh.”

“A nice house?”

Silence. “House.”

“Okay. Do you want to keep watching that
house?”

Left finger.

“You want to watch something else?”

Silence. Confusion. Then: “Dark.”

“It’s dark outside.”

“Go out.”

“You want to watch yourself going out.”

“Lights. Far... go out.”

“It’s dark and you want to go to the
lights.”

“Uh
-hu-
uh.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Uh
-hu-
uh.”

“You can also tell me “yes’ with your
finger.”

Right finger.

“Very good. So you’re in the house and you
want to go out. Why don’t you just tell me in your own words what’s going on.”

She fidgeted and touched her nose. Sniffed
and blinked and opened her eyes. But she wasn’t seeing me.

They closed again.

“Sleep... walk. Sleep... walk. Door...
wood. Out... out, out... out...

She grimaced. Her breath quickened and her
chest heaved.

“Relax, Lucy. Deeper and deeper relaxed,
remembering what you need to remember, seeing what you need to see.... Good,
very good. Just keep breathing deeply. No matter what you see or hear or touch
or smell or remember, you’ll stay deeper and deeper relaxed, watching yourself
from the TV room, so safe and calm and in control... good. Okay, go on.”

“Out... lights. People yelling.” Puzzled
look. “Not my fault...”

“Deeper and deeper relaxed.”

She sighed and her head drooped. Said
something I couldn’t hear.

I moved my chair right next to hers. A
carotid pulse was beating slow and steady. Her cheeks were pink. I touched the
top of her hand. Warm. Her fingers curled around mine and squeezed.

“Walk,” she said. “Trees—pretty.”

She said nothing for a long time, but her
eyes kept moving and her head bobbed.

Walking in place.

Her head moved from side to side.

Taking in the scenery?

Suddenly, I felt her hand go cold.

“What is it, Lucy?”

“Father.”

“You see Father on the screen?”

Long pause as she gripped my hand. Then
her right index finger rose but the rest of her fingers stayed clamped.

“Deeper and deeper relaxed, Lucy.”

Slow breathing, but louder and harsher.

“You can leave this place, Lucy. You can
turn off the TV any time you want to.”

She made a growling sound, and the left
finger stayed up in the air for several seconds.

“You want to stay here.”

Right finger.

“Okay, that’s fine. Go ahead, do what you
want to do and tell me what you want to tell me.”

A long silence. “Father... men... carrying
lady. Pretty. Like Mama... dark... hair. Pretty... carrying.”

More silence. The pulse in her neck
quickened.

I said, “Other men, too.”

Right finger.

“How many?”

Concentration. Her head moved from side to
side. “Two.”

“Two besides Father?”

Right finger. Her hand remained cold.
Sweat flowed from her hairline, trickling down her cheek. She seemed impervious
as I wiped it.

“You’re just watching it,” I whispered.
“You’re safe.”

“Two,” she said.

“What do they look like?”

Silence.

“Can you see them?”

Right finger. “Carrying the lady.”

“Is she saying anything?”

Left finger.

“What’s she wearing?”

“Blouse... white blouse... skirt.”

“What color skirt?”

“White.”

“A white blouse and a white skirt. Any
shoes?”

Left finger. “Toes.”

“You see her toes.”

Right finger.

“Is she moving them?”

Left finger. “Not moving.”

“Can you see her face?”

Silence. “Pretty. Sleeping.”

“She’s sleeping.”

Confused look. “Not moving.”

“She’s not moving at all?”

Right finger.

“So you think she’s sleeping.”

Right finger. “Carrying her.”

“The men are carrying her. Is Father
carrying her?”

Left finger. “Hair... hairy lip.”

“A man with a hairy lip is carrying her?”
I thought of Terry Trafficant’s bearded, skeletal face.

Right finger.

“You can see the men now.”

She puckered her face. “Hairy Lip... other
man turned around.”

“The third man is turned around. You see
his back?”

Right finger.

“Can you see what the other men are
wearing?”

Silence. “Father … white … down to
ground.” Confused.

“Down to the ground. Long. Like a robe?”

Right finger.

“And the other men?”

“Dark... clothes.”

“Both of them?”

Right finger. “Dark outside. Too.”

“It’s dark outside and it’s hard to see.
But you can see Father’s white robe and the lady’s white blouse. The other two
men are wearing dark clothes.”

Another look of confusion. She pouted. “
Ha-
ard.”

“It’s okay, Lucy. Whatever you see is
okay. Just tell me whatever you want to.”

She squinted, as if trying to focus.
Tensed and sat up.

“Shovel... digging... Hairy Lip... Father
holding the lady. Hairy Lip and the other man are digging. Digging fast,
digging. Digging and digging. Digging. Father holding... heavy. Says “Heavy’...
“Hurry the hell up!’ Angry... puts her down....”

She shook her head and sweat flew.

I dabbed her again. “Father put the lady
down on the ground?”

Right finger.

“Digging... and digging and digging....
“Roll it.’ ” Her voice deepened. “Roll it,
roll
it!’ ”

“You’re watching it, Lucy. On the screen.
You’re sa—”

Her fingernails dug into mine. The child’s
voice returned. “Lady... gone. Lady gone! Lady gone!
Lady gone!
”

She slipped into inert silence as I
flipped the calendar pages back to the present.

Before I brought her completely out, I
gave her posthypnotic suggestions to feel refreshed and successful and to be
able to remember anything she’d seen that night while remaining relaxed.

She came out smiling and yawning. “I’m not
sure what happened, but I feel pretty good.”

I had her stretch and walk around. Then I
told her.

“Three men,” she said.

“You described one as having a hairy lip.”

She rubbed the rim of her water glass. “A
mustache? I can’t really remember that—can’t remember anything—but that
feels
right. Hints of memories, distant but right. Am I making sense?”

“Perfect sense.”

“Can I go back under and try some more?”

“I think we’ve done enough.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“All right,” I said. “But promise me not
to try anything by yourself before then.”

“I promise. Now can I see that picture of
Karen?”

I went and got the clipping from the
Shoreline Shopper.

The moment she looked at the photo her
hands began to shake.

She took the paper from me, stared at it
for a long time. As she began to read, her hands stilled. But the color had
left her face and her freckles stood out like Braille dots.

Handing the clipping back to me, she
nodded. Then she cried.

At four, I drove to the Sand Dollar. The
film crew was there again and a blond beach goddess in a black thong bikini was
posing on the sand with a sweating can of beer.

As I entered the restaurant, I spotted
Doris Reingold at the bar. She got off her stool. “Hi, there.” After seating me
near the window, she said, “Back in a jiff.”

I was the only customer in the place. The
beach was unpopulated. A busboy brought me coffee and I watched the blonde
smile on command, flipping her hair, turning herself slowly like a chicken on a
spit.

“Good view?” said Doris, pad in hand.

“Hooray for Hollywood.”

She laughed. “Good to see you back. Early
dinner? We just got in some fresh local halibut.”

“No, just a snack. What kind of pie do you
have?”

“Lemme see.” She ticked her pad with her
pen. “Today we’ve got apple and chocolate cream and, I think, pecan.”

“Apple with vanilla ice cream.”

She brought me a double wedge under two
dollops of ice cream.

“Feel free to sit down,” I said.

She touched her gray hair. “Sure. Marvin’s
not in for a while, why not?”

After pouring coffee for herself, she slid
into the booth, the way she had the first time. Looking out at the blonde, she
said, “Girl like that, gonna get herself one of two things: rich or in trouble.”

“Or both.” I cut into the pie.

“True,” she said. “One doesn’t eliminate
the other. You have kids?”

“No, I’m not married.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. You know the
definition of a bachelor? No kids—to speak of.”

We both chuckled.

I said, “You said you had two, right?”

“Two boys, both grown, both army master
sergeants, both married with kids of their own. Their dad was an army man, too.
I divorced him when they were little, but somehow it rubbed off.”

“Must have been tough raising them by
yourself.”

“Wasn’t a picnic.” She freed her pack of
cigarettes and lit up, then took in a mouthful of coffee. “Tell you what I do
enjoy, being a grandmother. You buy them stuff, play with ’em, and then you go
home.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, it’s great.” She smoked and stirred
some sugar into her coffee.

“I’d like to have kids of my own,” I said.

“Why not, you’re young.”

“It’s a little scary. All those things
that can go wrong. I used to work in a hospital, saw plenty of misery.”

“Yeah, there’s plenty of that.”

“I was over by your friends’ surf shop the
other day and saw their son. Really sad.”

She appraised me, through the smoke. “What
made you go there?”

“Needed some swim trunks. When I passed by
I remembered your telling me about it. Nice place, but how’d they get a house
on the beach with that?”

She shrugged and gave a sour look.

“Still,” I said. “That kid. No money in
the world can make up for that. What is it, cerebral palsy?”

“Birth accident,” she said, but wariness
had crept into her voice. “I think he twisted his neck coming out or
something.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen or so. Yeah, it’s tough, but
we’ve all got our crosses to bear, so why dwell on it?”

She kept smoking and pretending not to
study me. I ate some more pie.

After dragging half her cigarette down,
she put it in the ashtray and watched it smolder. “I
do
feel sorry for
them. It’s a good example of what you just said—money
and
trouble.”