If this young woman was a junkie, which she surely was, she wasn't meant to be a junkie, Jan thought.
“And what does this man have to do with you?” he asked.
“I really don't want to talk about him, if you don't mind. He wants to kill me; isn't that enough?” Her voice wavered and suddenly Jan felt regret for having asked the question at all.
“He's your boyfriend?” Jan asked.
“No.”
He nodded and looked through the front windshield. They were winding through an industrial part of town now, not so far from Ivena's house. Red-brick buildings passed on either side. Steve's reflection smiled at him in the mirror. He nodded and returned the man's gesture of support.
You did what?
I rescued a junkie from two goons in the park, but she really has no business being a junkie. Really she is quite witty.
And if not a junkie, what should she be?
I don't know.
Jan turned back to Helen. “You said Glenn wanted toâ”
“Actually, I thought I said I didn't want to talk about the pig.” She looked at him apologetically. “Didn't I say that? I mean, it wasn't two minutes ago and I could swear I asked you not to speak about the man.”
Jan glanced to the front. Steve had lost his smile.
“Look, Reverend. I know you don't run into my type every day. I'm sure this is quite a shock to youâriding in your white Cadillac beside some lowlife running for her life. But in my world you can't just go around talking about every deal that goes down or you might find yourself on the wrong end of one of those deals.” Her voice had softened. “If you knew what I'd been through in the last twenty-four hours, you might not be so critical.”
He turned to her. “And if you knew what I had been through in the last twenty-four years you would not be so defensive.”
They looked at each other for a long moment, each caught in the other's direct stare. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she turned.
Easy, Jan. She's a wounded one. You know about wounding, don't you? Perhaps she's not so different from you.
He cleared his throat and sat back.
They rode in an awkward silence for a few minutes.
“So,” he finally said. “Now that I've saved your neck, is there any particular place you would like to go?”
The brick buildings had evolved into a heavily treed suburban neighborhood and Helen studied the homes. “He's got eyes everywhere.”
“Glenn?”
She nodded.
“Then perhaps my friend can help until you decide what to do.”
Helen looked at him. “Is he as kind as you?”
“He is a she. And yes, she is very kind.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.” Jan smiled. “Heavens no. We're just very close.”
“Then I think that would be okay.”
“Good.” Ivena would know what to do. Jan would drop Helen off at Ivena's house and ask her to set the girl on a course that removed her from any immediate danger. Perhaps call the authorities if Helen would allow it. He breathed deep. It was a thing to think about, this strange encounter. Something to think about, indeed.
Q: “You've been criticized by some for your attention to detail in the suffering of the martyrs. They say it's not decent for a Christian writer to dwell on such pain. Do you cross the line between realistic description and voyeurism?”
A: “Of course not. Realism allows us to participate in one's suffering and voyeurism takes pleasure from it. The two are like white and black. But many Christians would shut the suffering of the saints from their minds; it's not what Christ had in mind. He knew his disciples would want to forget, so he asked them to drink his blood and eat his body in remembrance. The writer of Hebrews tells us to imagine we are there, with those in suffering. I ask you, why is the church so eager to run from it?”
Jan Jovic, author of bestseller
The Dance of the Dead
Interview with Walter Cronkite, 1961
THE TINY green shoot at the base of Nadia's dying rosebush had grown two inches overnight. Two inches of growth was too much for one night. Unless her memory of the previous morning was a bit fuzzy and it had already been two inches then.
Ivena bent over the blackened plant and blinked at the strange sight. The small shoot curled slightly upward, like a relaxed finger. The texture of its skin was different from any rose stem she knew of. Not as dark either.
She gently stroked the base of the shoot. By all appearances it was a graft, which could only mean one thing: She had grafted this shoot into Nadia's rosebush.
And then promptly forgotten it.
It was possible, wasn't it? She could've been so distressed over the prospect of Nadia's bush dying that her mind had wiped out a whole sequence of events. It could've been a week ago, for that matter, and judging by the growth it had been a week ago. At least.
The doorbell chimed and Ivena jerked up, startled. It was a delivery, perhaps. The bulbs she'd ordered last week. She pulled off her gloves, wiped her hands on her apron and wound her way through the small house to the front door.
She peeked through the viewer and saw two forms on the porch, one of which was . . .
Janjic! What a pleasant surprise!
She opened the door.
“Janjic! Come in, come in!” She leaned forward and allowed him to kiss each cheek. He was dressed in a well-worn beige shirt without a collar, Bosnian style, and his cologne smelled spicy when he bent for her kiss.
“Ivena, I would like you to meet Helen.”
The dark lines around Janjic's eyes wrinkled with a nervous smile. He ran a hand through his hair. Ivena looked at the young woman beside Janjic. Any friend of Jan's would be a friend of hers, but this one was odd to be sure. For starters, the blue-eyed girl looked as though someone had drained the blood from her face. She smiled nicely enough, but even her lips were pale. And her hair hadn't been washed in several days at the least. The T-shirt and jeans made her look very young. Gracious, what was Janjic up to?
“Hello, my dear. My name is Ivena. Come in. Please, come in. And what of Steve?” she asked, looking to the Cadillac. “Will he join us?”
“No, I can't stay long,” Janjic said, smoothing his brow.
They entered the house and followed her to the small dining room. She had bread in the oven and its warm scent wafted through the house. Why Americans purchased their bread when they could make it easily enough Ivena could not appreciate. Bread was to smell and to feel; it was to make, not just eat.
“Would you like a drink, Janjic?”
“I'm not sureâ”
“Of course you would. We must have a drink together while you tell me of your new friend.” She turned and winked at Jan.
“Yes. Yes, all right.” Jan pulled a chair from the table, and Ivena could see that his cheeks had reddened slightly. Helen did not respond. Her eyes darted nervously about the house. She looked like a wild bird newly caged. A dove, maybe, with her soft white skin, but skittish and uncomfortable just the same.
“Sit, my dear. It's okay. I'll get us some tea.”
Five minutes later they sat around a small blue pot and three porcelain cups of steaming tea, sipping the hot liquid. But really, only Jan and Ivena sipped. The girl picked hers up once and brought it to her lips, but she replaced it on the saucer without drinking. Ivena smiled politely and waited, wondering at the presence of this strange woman sitting between them.
Jan looked as though he wasn't quite sure how to begin so Ivena helped him out. “Just tell me, Jan. What would you like me to know about Helen?”
“Yes. Well, we have a problem here. Helen's in some trouble. She needs help.”
Ivena looked at Helen and smiled. “But of course you do, my dear. I could see this much the moment I opened the door.”
“That bad, huh?”
Ivena nodded. “I'm afraid so. What is the problem, child? You're hurting, I see.”
Helen blinked.
“No offense, dear. But you look as though you just crawled from a sewer,” Ivena said.
The skin around Jan's hazel eyes wrinkled with an apologetic smile. “You'll have to forgive Ivena, she doesn't really like to mince words.”
“And would you
rather
I minced words, Janjic?”
“Of course not. But Helen might prefer some discretion.”
Ivena tilted her head. “I may have passed my fiftieth year, but honestly, it hasn't yet affected my sight.” She faced Helen. “And my sight tells me that the last thing your dear Helen needs is the mincing of words. She might very well need a bath and some hot food, but she's seen enough of wordsmithing, I'm sure.”
Helen watched them with wide eyes, turning from one to the other.
“What do you say, dear?” Ivena asked.
“Wha . . . About what?”
“Would you like me to speak directly or mince my words?”
Helen glanced at Jan, then gathered herself. “Speak directly.”
“Yes. I thought as much. So where did my famous author find you?”
“Actually, Jan may have saved my life,” Helen said.
Ivena raised her eyebrows. “Saved your life? You did this, Janjic?”
“She was being chased in the park and I had the Cadillac. It was the least I could do.”
“So now you have brought her here for safekeeping, is that it?”
“It wasn't my idea, I swear,” Helen said quickly. “He could've dropped me off on a corner. Really.”
Ivena looked at the girl carefully. For all the dirt and grime hovering about her, she possessed a refreshing look in her face. A certain lack of presumption. “Well, I would certainly agree with him, my dear. I can see that the corner is no place for you. He was right in bringing you here, I think. Did Janjic tell you how I came to be his friend?”
“No. He said that you were as kind as he.”
“Indeed? And do you find him a kind man?”
“Sure. Yes, I do,” Helen said, looking at Jan, who smiled awkwardly.
“Then I suppose that there's hope for everyone,” Ivena said. “That includes you, my dear.”
“You're saying I need help? Like I said, the corner would've been fine. I'm not askin' for your help here.”
“Maybe not. But you would like it, wouldn't you?”
Helen held Ivena's gaze for a moment and then shifted her eyes and shrugged. “I can manage.”
“Manage what?”
“Manage like I always managed.”
Ivena lifted an eyebrow, but she held her tongue. Perhaps this little ragged junkie had been led to them. Perhaps Helen played a part.
“What do you think, Janjic?”
“I don't know,” he answered.
Helen gazed from one to the other.
Ivena nodded. “And you want me to keep her?”
“Maybe.”
“Wait a minute,” Helen said, glancing between them. “I don't thinkâ”
“Well, she certainly can't stay at the office,” Ivena interrupted. “Karen would have none of it, I can promise you that.”
“Karen?” Helen asked.
“Janjic's agent,” Ivena said with a small grin. “His fiancée.”
Helen looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Have you considered the possibility that I might not want to stay here?”
“And you would go where?” Ivena asked. “Back to whoever put that bruise on your neck?”
Helen blinked. “No.” She obviously hadn't expected that.
“Then where else?”
“I don't know. But I can't stay here! You people have no idea what my life's like.”
“You don't think so? Actually, it seems pretty plain. You've never understood love and so in your search for it you've managed to mix with the wrong people. You have abused your body with drugs and unbecoming behavior and now you are fleeing that life. And perhaps most importantly you are now sitting between two souls who understand suffering.”
Helen stared at Ivena as if she had just reached a hand across the table and slapped her. Ivena spoke softly. “You are fleeing, aren't you?”
“I don't know,” Helen said.
“You despise your past, don't you? In moments of clarity, Helen, you hate what has happened to you and now you would do anything to get away, wouldn't you? You would risk your own life to escape this monster breathing down your back.”
A heavy blanket seemed to fall over them. Their breathing thickened. It was her simple way with the truth. Yes, of course she'd managed to offend some in her time. But truth-seekers always welcomed her direct approach as they might welcome a spring of water in the hot desert. And
she
certainly didn't have the stomach to handle the truth with kid gloves; it seemed rather profane when held next to her own schooling in Bosnia. When stood up next to Nadia's death.
“You have been badly wounded, dear child. I see it in your eyes. I feel it in my spirit. It's something we share, you and I. We've both had our hearts torn out.”
A mist covered Helen's eyes. She blinked, obviously uncomfortable, perhaps panicked at the emotion sweeping through her.
A knot rose to Ivena's throat and she swallowed. In that moment she knew that a child screamed to be free before her. Deep behind those blue eyes wailed a soul, confused and terrified.
She looked over to Janjic. He was staring at Helen, his mouth slightly agape. He too had seen something within her. His Adam's apple bobbed. Ivena turned back to the girl. A tear snaked down her right cheek.
“You'll be safe with me, Helen.”
Helen looked quickly about the room, scrambling for control now. She wasn't used to showing her emotions, that much was obvious. She cleared her throat.
“It's okay. You may cry here,” Ivena said.
It proved to be the last straw. Helen lowered her head into her hands, stifling a soft sob. Ivena rested a hand on her shoulder and rubbed it gently. “Shhhh . . . It's okay, dear.”
Helen cried and shook her head. Veins stood out on her neck and she struggled to breathe.