For Love of Audrey Rose (17 page)

The next day, Janice called the Hall of Records, Department of Births Registrations. Cathy recognized her voice.

“Cathy, I need to know,” Janice said. “Do you give information over the telephone?”

“I don’t get you.”

“Well, if a man should call. If he asked the same kind of question I did, would you go look it up?”

“No, Mrs. Templeton, it’s against the rules.”

“Are you absolutely, completely certain?”

“Of course I am. We don’t run a reference library here. Anybody who wants information has to come in person. And sign the register.”

“Thank God. I mean, thank you, Cathy.”

Janice hung up relieved, but the visit to the Hernandez apartment weighed on Janice. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw little Juanita kick and struggle, reach for her throat. And the dateline,
February 3, 1975—10:43 AM.
, floated like a diseased snake through the image.

That night it snowed again, huge flakes blanketing the city.

Janice entered the apartment just as the telephone was ringing.

“Yes, Bill?”

“No. It’s uh, Dr. Geddes here. I’m, uh, sorry to disturb you.”

“That’s quite all right, Dr. Geddes. Is everything all right?”

“You, um, haven’t seen Bill, have you?”

“Bill? Not since last Friday. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Well, as you know, Bill and several other patients had permission to leave the immediate grounds. Walks to Ossining, supervised, of course.”

“Yes?”

“To be quick about it, Mrs. Templeton, Bill left early this morning and hasn’t returned. We’ve notified the Highway Police and Ossining authorities.”

“Oh, my God.”

“But he’s completely rational and dressed for the cold. I wouldn’t worry about him in that sense. It’s just that we thought he might simply have wanted to visit you.”

Janice tried to shake free from the dread which gripped her.

“No, he hasn’t been here.”

“It’s quite common for patients to do this sort of thing. I regret he didn’t feel he could simply come to us and talk about it.”

“Yes, I—Oh, God, there’s more to it, Dr. Geddes.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s searching! He’s—he’s searching for Ivy! He’s not rational, doctor.”

There was a long pause at the other end. She could practically hear him thinking. At length he cleared his throat and when he spoke his voice seemed changed. Once again, he was the stern, formidable figure of authority at the clinic.

“What do you mean, searching?” he asked.

“This last month he’s been crazy, studying books and making contact with authorities—”

“What kind of authorities, Mrs. Templeton?”

“Authorities on reincarnation. I’ve spent dozens of afternoons running errands for him, gathering information from Sri Parutha at the Temple in Greenwich Village.”

“What else have you been doing for Bill?”

“Sending him books, writing to people for him.”

There was a long pause.

“This is a very serious matter, Mrs. Templeton,” he said slowly, without friendliness.

“I know. I was afraid to tell you. I couldn’t betray Bill, but now…”

“But now, what?”

Janice took a deep breath and tried to gain control of her voice again. Talking to Dr. Geddes was a much harder thing than she would ever have guessed. It was like talking to a judge.

“We’ve found a child, born on the same day that Ivy died. The same minute, in fact.”

“Oh, Christ,” Dr. Geddes cursed. “You’ve been sprinkling gasoline on a fire, Mrs. Templeton. You’ve encouraged his every delusion.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Never mind that now. Listen to me. I can’t get into the city tonight. A foot of snow’s expected. So stay where you are and try to keep calm. The main thing is to locate Bill. My guess is that he needs to see you. And if he does come to your apartment…”

“Yes?”

“Try to calm him. No more enthusiasm for his pet project.”

“I’ll try.”

“You’ve got to do more than try. He’s hanging on to reality by a thread.”

Janice agreed to keep in touch. She slipped her heavy wool coat over her shoulders and paced outside the building. Bill never showed up. She warmed herself inside the lobby, waiting. No one came. She went upstairs, left the door to the apartment unlocked in case Bill should sneak up the rear steps and find himself without a key.

Waiting on the couch, still wrapped in her coat, she fell asleep.

By morning, there was still no sign of Bill. Nor had the snowstorm let up. The papers were proclaiming it another blizzard of’48.

During the day, Janice interrupted work seven times to telephone the desk at Des Artistes.

“No sign of him, Mrs. Templeton,” Ernie said sympathetically.

“Thank you, Ernie. If he should come—”

“I’ll give you a call. We have your number.”

Slowly, Janice depressed the cradle, then dialed the Hall of Records, Department of Birth Registrations.

“Hello?” said a strange male voice. “Room One thirty-one.”

“Is Cathy there?”

“She’s on vacation. Can I help you?”

Janice’s hand went involuntarily to her mouth. She swiveled in her chair, but there was no hiding from the curious stare of the assistant at the next desk.

“How—How long has she been gone?” Janice stammered.

“Since today. Is this a personal call?”

“No, I—Has a man called? A man called about a birth registration?”

The voice at the other end chuckled with self-importance.

“We get a lot of inquiries,” he said. “I couldn’t possibly tell you—”

“February 3, 1975.”

“No, we’ve received no inquiries for that date.”

Dazed, she slowly hung up. For a long time, she stared at the wall. When she telephoned Dr. Geddes, he advised her to go home and wait for Bill. They discussed alerting the New York City Police, but in the end, decided to hold off.

Slogging through the snowdrifts in the direction of Des Artistes, Janice kept her eyes open for taxis. None came. She stopped in a bar to escape the bitter weather. Warming in the humid entrance, she peeked over the heads of the burly men crowded around the long bar and saw the television perched high on a shelf.

“For New York, it looks like Christmas will be more than white,” the announcer said somberly. “Forecasts range from fifteen to twenty inches and winds are expected to reach thirty to thirty-five miles per hour.”

A chorus of ribald shouts greeted the report, all epithets of New Yorkers who knew exactly what a storm of that dimension would do to their city.

Janice left the bar. Miserably, she trudged to the next intersection. Still no taxis. Ruefully, she considered that a horse-drawn carriage from the gates of Central Park stood a better chance of making it home than a four-wheeled vehicle.

Gradually, a raw premonition made itself felt. From a corner phone booth, she called the Hall of Records just as it was closing.

“Hello?” she said, breathing hard from the cold. “I called earlier today.”

“I’m sorry,” said the unctuous voice. “We get
many
calls.”

“February 3, 1975.”

“Oh, yes. There was an inquiry. A man… let’s see… Name of William Templeton. He left about an hour ago.”

Janice gasped. “Did you—did you show him the birth registrations on that date?”

“Yes, of course. We’re legally obligated—”

Janice slammed the receiver down, fighting tears. Urgently, she turned back into a world of swirling white.

Through the downcoming particles, she saw the gleaming windows of a city bus, like a whale from some macabre cartoon, its huge headlights on, unblinking like morbid eyes, staring into the twilight. She ran to the open door, mounted the steps.

“How far north do you go?” she asked the driver.

“Top of the park, then east.”

Janice paid, then sat down. She could feel the wheels of the bus squirming for traction underneath, grinding, groaning against the road. At every stop, she held her breath, not knowing whether the enormous mass of the bus could be held by the brakes. The windshield wipers, working furiously, clotted with wet snow.

“This is the worst goddamn snowfall I ever seen,” the driver said, wiping off his window with a white cloth.

“They say there’s another foot on the way,” a passenger chimed in.

“I tell you one thing. This city is shutting down. Ain’t nobody gonna drive out in weather like this.”

Ahead of them, another taxi, trying to make the light, applied its brakes without result. The wheels curved, but the taxi kept on in a straight line, digging huge tracks right through the intersection.

“Lucky bastard,” commented the driver.

This time the bus refused to move. The rear wheels ground out a plainsong of high-pitched protest, until it sounded like a scream. Janice held her hands over her ears.

“That’s it,” the driver said. “Everybody out.”

“But I—” Janice began.

“You want to sleep here? I’ve got instructions not to drive when there’s no traction!”

Dismally, the passengers filed out, looking in vain down the deserted streets. Janice crossed the avenue, found herself at the north edge of Central Park, went quickly across to Park Avenue, cut over, and waded through the snow under bare trees hanging down with the weight of long spears of ice.

As she crossed into 110th Street, she saw clusters of blue-coated patrolmen slogging through snowdrifts, heading north, where two long shafts of light cut across the clouds.

At 115th Street, she saw two police cars edging cautiously behind a snow-sweeping machine. The orange lights bounced luridly off the dark buildings, gleamed from the windows. A few boys threw snowballs at her, taunting her.

She followed the police cars, the only secure footing on the road, until she reached 118th Street. To her horror, she knew by now where the cars were going. Dim shouts rose in the distance, a sound of far-away bullhorns, and taxi horns from congested lanes of traffic.

A fire truck blocked access to the main blocks of public housing.

“I have to go through!” Janice protested.

“Do you live here?”

“No, but—”

“Then beat it!”

The traffic cop turned away, angrily motioning a pickup truck out of the lane, backward, to where the snow was churned up by countless vehicles turning around in the grimy mud.

Janice ducked under the cross guard and ran toward the dense group of officers in front of the probing spotlights. Their silhouettes had matted together into a single obstruction; only their helmets, denoting different ranks, gleamed in the awesome blue white light.

Janice turned. From the top window, where the spotlights crossed, she heard a woman screaming. The words were run together, a litany of Spanish and English, waving her arms. Behind her, shivering on a landing, a group of neighbors stood, looking upward at the roof. But Janice could see nothing there, only the rolling clouds cut by the spotlights, and the falling snow.

“Please,” she whispered to an officer who held steaming coffee in a tin mug, “I have to talk to the officer in charge.”

“The officer in charge?” he said, smiling. “I don’t think so. The chief is busy right now trying to keep that guy on the roof.”

“But you don’t understand, I’m his—”

“Now I suggest you get back behind the barrier with the rest of the gawkers.”

Drinking coffee with one hand, guiding her with the other, he steered her back to the fire truck, the turning yellow light gleaming rhythmically off his cup.

Janice struggled free from his grasp.

“Ask the woman up there!” she yelled. “Mrs. Hernandez! Ask her who I am!”

The officer glared at her angrily, yet uncertain now.

“Exactly who are you, ma’am?” he said wearily.

“I’m Mrs. Janice Templeton. And the woman knows me!”

“Now you get back across that barrier before I lose my temper.”

“I’m Mrs. Janice Templeton!” she wept. “And that man up there is my husband!”

Janice buried her face in her hands. The officer paused, nonplussed and suspicious.

“I’ll let you tell your story to the chief,” he said tautly, “but if you’re playing games, you’re going to feel very bad in the morning.”

She mumbled her thanks, and felt him holding her up as her feet slipped sideways on the ice. As they passed the patrol cars, she heard bursts of static and
STILL UNIDENTIFIED … THE GIRL SEEMS ALL RIGHT … WRAPPED IN BLANKET … REPEAT, THE GIRL STILL ALIVE AND IN GOOD HEALTH…
Soon she was among the blue patrol cars and clusters of uniformed men, many of whom held long guns in their gloved hands, waiting for orders, sipping hot drinks.

When a patrolman offered her a plastic cup, she tried to drink. But her shaking hands spattered steaming liquid into the snow.

Now Janice saw a news team aiming its video cameras upward, at the roof of 385 118th Street. Directional microphones were pointed at the top window, trying to catch Mrs. Hernandez’s incoherent screams.

“My God! He’s got my baby! Oh, my God! He’s going to kill her!”

Evidently, the police had given up trying to calm her down, since they only watched over her head, past the iron guardrail and a rusted fire escape platform. Janice peered

into the darkness but saw nothing, only the low cloud covers. The snow had stopped falling. A bitter, calm cold froze everything and everybody. Mrs. Hernandez fainted at the window, her last shriek grown dismal and strained. Janice saw her sister gently pull her back into the apartment.

A tall man in a yellow slicker walked up quickly behind the officer.

“The chief’s got other things to do,” he said. “My name is Wilkins. I’m in charge. Now, who are you?”

“I’m Janice Templeton,” she said, intimidated. “And my husband is the man up there.”

“You sure?”

“I know it’s Bill.”

“How do you know it’s Bill?”

“Because I know what he’s looking for.”

The officer and Wilkins exchanged glances. Puzzled, angry, suspicious, they were also frustrated by the cold, the hostile crowd that had gathered around, throwing ice balls, and now this woman who had come forward acting important.

“What is he looking for?” the officer asked as patiently as he could, rubbing his gloved hands for warmth.