Authors: Carol Davis Luce
He removed his glasses, the area around his eyes looking stark and somewhat naked, but so familiar, so dear. And then he was undressing her, telling her she was beautiful, kissing her breasts and she felt she would die with the joy of his attention. Then they were on the floor making glorious love. With Gary it was making love;
lovemaking.
With Brad it was a sexual act. Gary was nowhere near as controlled or rhythmic as Brad, but Brad could never make her feel this wonderful. Ten years together had her anticipating her husband’s every move, looking forward to it, eager to please him. She chanted “I love you,” and he responded with “you’re beautiful.” And she knew then all of her efforts, the exercise, dieting, breast surgery, had been worth the pain and suffering. Amanda was smart but she, Tammy, was beautiful, and Gary was with
her.
She had him now and she’d make him stay for good.
“
... Get help.”
“
What the hell--? Oh, God…”
Those words came from John Davie’s TV. The strained voices of the man and woman in the verbal exchange were too hysterical to be anything but real. The visual was rolling and jerky, another indication it was drama in real life. Following the words “... Paramedics!” the camera panned crazily around the interior of the restroom, an angled view of wall, ceiling, and floor, then blackness.
John, with a concentrated expression on his face, reclined on a wingback chair in the dark, his stockinged feet planted on the edge of the coffee table as he watched through the opening between his legs. He popped a pistachio into his mouth, rewound the tape on the VCR, then started it again.
Kitty Winter, co-anchor on KRNN News, reported the story of the assault on Donna Lake. They ran a sixty-second clip of that afternoon’s taping of ‘City Gallery.’ The segment being aired had the guests rehashing their ill luck as finalists of the 1970 Miss Classic Pageant.
Then they ran the entire footage of the assault scene filmed by the crew member with the minicam. “Don’t adjust your sets,” Winter advised the viewers, “the first portion of the film has audio only.”
A scream filled the black void.
John felt the hairs at the back of his head bristle.
A moment later the camera picked up light in what appeared to be the hallway, moved toward the door marked WOMEN, and beyond. The lens panned left, then right to a cubicle where two women where bending over a commode. A moment later the women, clinging to each other, stumbled across the room to the row of basins. “Sam, get help!” the brunette called out as she glanced into the lens.
John flipped off the set.
Twenty years ago another woman had gone through a similar experience. Jesus, he thought with wonder, had it been that long ago?
Corinne Odett, a young woman of remarkable beauty, poise, and that additional gift —street smarts —had been a victim of acid. He wondered what had become of her? Had she managed to make a decent life for herself despite the nightmare? He’d heard she had undergone a couple of operations. But Vietnam, college, and a few years kicking around Europe—where he met and then married Darlene— had kept him busy. Eight years after the assault, when he returned to the states with his bride, Corinne Odett was but a dim memory.
He dropped his feet to the floor and rose. He had work to do. He was little more than halfway through stripping the old varnish off the upstairs banister. From the kitchen counter he picked up the can of paint remover, brush, and rags and headed for the door, thinking that he would run through the whole weird ‘City Gallery’ business once more before he turned in for the night.
Corinne sat in a tight ball in an overstuffed chair, her arms wrapped around her legs. She rubbed the ridged skin on her face back and forth across the rough denim at her knees. She hadn’t moved since watching the news report two hours earlier. In her mind she played it over and over. Donna Lake, TV hostess of one of the hottest local shows, had been maliciously burned in the face with acid. Naturally, Corinne had been mentioned, and she’d flushed hotly upon hearing her name. That segment of the news finished with, “The assailant is unknown and the SFPD say there are no suspects at the moment.”
Corinne smiled. Her heart hammered in her chest.
It occurred to her she might need an alibi. Her father would supply it. He’d better if he knew what was good for him.
She stood, walked to the coat closet, and removed a long, dark raincoat. She pulled it on, buttoned it to her throat, and flipped up the hood, tucking her hair well inside. Then she quietly opened the front door and went out.
The room was cold, gray. The pain was becoming dull at last. She wondered if there would ever come a time in her life when she would not remember the pain at its highest degree. Even now, hours later, heavily drugged, a cooling, soothing medication seeping into the ravaged tissue, she had only to bring to mind the raw sensations she had felt just moments after the liquid hit her to experience the devastating horror again.
Now that the pain had loosened its paralyzing hold on her, she could finally think of other things.
What happened?
Who would do this?
Why her?
Where was Nolan?
Donna forced her weary eyes to stay open, focusing on the wide door. As if by some mystic power, the door slowly opened, and through a narcotic haze she saw a man enter and stand to the side.
Nolan?
Terror suddenly gripped her. What if, instead of Nolan, it was the one with the acid come to hurt her again? She wanted to call, to ask if he was Nolan, but pure oxygen from a breathing apparatus flowed into her, making it difficult to speak.
The man took long, yet tentative steps toward her. Her eyes refused to focus. She stiffened, raised a hand uncertainly. He stopped at the foot of the bed. His gaze flitted around the room, over the contraption that held the intravenous bottles which fed life-supporting fluids into her body, to the tanks of oxygen, to finally settle on her face. His body flinched, as if he were surprised to find her awake.
“
I came as soon as I heard,” Nolan said in a quiet voice. “They wouldn’t let me in to see you until now.”
Donna tried to nod, but the movement set off a deep aching under her chin. She moaned.
“
They’ll only let me stay a moment.”
Donna’s wan smile was lost to him under the medicated gauze dressing wrapped loosely around the lower half of her face and throat.
A nurse strode into the room, pushing a tray filled with rolls of gauze, tubes, and jars of a milky liquid. She nodded at Nolan.
Nolan began to back away.
“
You needn’t leave, Mr. Lake. This won’t take long.” She began to remove the gauze from Donna’s face. “It might help
to ...
to pass the time if you talked to her while I work.”
If Nolan had heard the nurse, he made no acknowledgment. With a grim expression, he pivoted sharply and rushed out.
Regina waited in the hospital lounge. She was told that only the immediate family could see the patient, but she couldn’t leave until she learned the seriousness of Donna’s condition. When she saw Nolan rush out of Donna’s room, she hurried to intercept him at the elevators.
“
Nolan, how is she?”
Without looking at her he shook his head and entered the elevator.
“
Is it critical? Is she conscious?”
Turning to face her, jabbing at buttons, he said hoarsely, “She’s conscious. I don’t know what her condition is. Ask the doctor. Dr. Hemmer.” And the doors closed, leaving her to stand there taking in her own reflection in the stainless steel doors.
She found Dr. Hemmer at the nurse’s station.
“
Mrs. Lake is in serious but stable condition,” he said. “With this sort of trauma we won’t know for days. Shock and infection are our main concern. If you’ll excuse me.” Then he too was gone.
At nine o’clock, before leaving the hospital, Regina called home to Kristy. After only the second ring the answering machine clicked on, indicating a message waiting. Thinking that Kristy may have called in, Regina pressed her code number to receive the message. Background noises filled the receiver, and just when she thought the caller had decided not to speak, a gravelly voice said, “Regina Houston,” followed by more background sounds, then clicks and, finally, the dial tone.
Regina hung up slowly, disconcerted. Aside from the show that day, she hadn’t been called Houston in many years. And that voice, low, raspy ... She found it difficult to breathe.
With a growing tension that made her jumpy and impatient, Regina left the hospital and, distracted, failed to take the usual precautions. She had forgotten to take out her key ring—to which was attached a small container of mace in a leather sheath —until after she’d reached the tan station wagon. Now, fumbling in her oversized bag, the nearest street light just far enough away to create distorted shadows all around her, she heard someone walking toward her.
Regina looked up to see a man dressed in layers of clothing—too much clothing for the unusual heat and humidity of the day. The man’s hair, gritty looking, stood on end along the crown, like a cock’s comb. He was neither tall nor big, but big enough and tall enough to overcome her if that were his intent.
“
Got change for a dollar, lady?”
Her fingers curled around the container of mace. She pulled it from her purse, tripped the snap and then the safety device. With the mace palmed, she turned to the man. “I don’t have any money.”
The man looked at her hand held against her stomach. After an agonizing moment, her heart racing, he shrugged and moved away.
Trembling fingers inserted the key in the door and jerked it open. She quickly got in, closed the door, locked it, started the engine and drove away.
Sometime during the fifteen-minute drive home, with the tears blurring her vision before finally flowing down her face, she asked herself
Why?
What reason could someone have for wanting to hurt Donna Lake? Donna couldn’t have an enemy in the world. Everyone loved Donna. Damnit. Why?
And then she wondered if a mistake had been made. Had the acid been meant for someone else? For Amelia, or Tammy,
or ...
or for her? There had been a warning. And the threat carried out. Had it really mattered to the assailant who the victim was as long as it was a Miss Classic contestant?
Miss Classic.
Beauty contestant.
Kristy
She wiped her eyes with the backs of her fingers, then pressed down on the accelerator with a renewed sense of urgency. She was still five minutes from home.
John dipped the rag into the solvent, then rubbed it along the wooden banister, working loose the old varnish and stain.
As he worked he plotted, forming and reforming the perfect scenario in his head.
The door to 2B slowly opened. Kristy Van Raven, Walkman earphones draped around her neck, her expression curious, stuck her head out. A moment later she asked, “What’s that awful smell?”
“
Paint remover.” John held up the coffee can. “I kinda like the smell of it.”
“
Cheap high, huh?”
He laughed.
She inched out to stand against the door frame. Something in her face told him that she was troubled. She’d no doubt heard about the tragedy at the studio. She probably even knew the victim, since her mother obviously was acquainted with Donna Lake.
“
Something wrong?” he asked.