Saturday Morning (19 page)

“What? What?”

“Were here, ma’am. Let’s get you inside.” The policeman shook her arm gently.

“Here? Where?” Clarice blinked again, and the last few frightening hours came sneaking back like the fog that dimmed the streetlamps. “I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep.” She thought she remembered answering their questions.

“That you did. And you’ll have a bed here to do so again. You need a hand?”

“No, no, thank you. I can manage.” But when she put any weight on her feet, they screamed as if they’d been sliced. She swallowed and wiggled her toes, bending her ankles, anything to get the circulation going again. She felt for her purse, still under her arm where it belonged, and scooted sideways, now ignoring the pain in her feet. Holding out a hand, she allowed the officer to assist her out and clung to his arm to get her balance. “You’d think I’d been drinking.”

“Many do.” He pointed her up some broad stairs. “This here is Casa de Jesus, better known as J House. Run by a husband-and-wife team, Hope and Roger Benson. It’s a women’s shelter. They’ll get you some help.”

“How can I begin to thank you?”

The other officer came around, and they each took an arm and helped her up the steps, then pushed a lighted button by the door. “This used to be a church.”

“I see.”
But really I don’t. Theres as much fog in my mind as is floating around out here.

They waited a bit, the walkie-talkies on the officers’ belts sounding more like static than any real messages, but at one point the man on her right spoke into the microphone on his shoulder.

The door finally opened, and a man who’d obviously just gotten out of bed ushered them into the entry hall.

“Sorry to wake you. Not your normal company, Benson. We got an older lady who’s been locked out of her new house and all her accounts frozen. She needs a bed.”

“Hi, I’m Roger Benson.” He held out his hand.

“Clarice Van Dam.” Somewhere she’d dropped the Mrs. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“We’ll be on our way, then. Thanks, Roger.” The policemen said good-bye to her, too, and headed back to their patrol car.

“You can tell me your story in the morning.” Roger took the handle of her suitcase and slung her carry-on over his shoulder. “Can you walk all right?”

“Easier since I’m not carrying anything. Thank you.”

“Nothing fancy here; the one bed we have is in the dorm. All our girls are far younger than you, and we reserve the private bedrooms for mothers with children. Breakfast will be from six thirty until eight, but if you sleep in, we’ll find you something to eat. There are showers and bathrooms through that door.” He paused at the top of the stairs for her to catch up. “Sorry, can’t turn on the lights, but I’ll keep the door open so you have light from the hall. Put your cases under the bed. Your eyes will adjust, and there’s light from the windows too.”

“This will be just fine. Sure beats sitting against the wall with AA.”

“Ah, Annie sent you.”

“You know her?”

“Of course. Long story that I’ll tell you in the morning.” He patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. You are safe here. Good night.”

Never one for fussing, Clarice slid her cases under the bed, spread her coat across the bottom in the hopes that her feet might finally get warmed up again, and, laying her glasses on the small table beside the bed, tucked her purse under the pillow and crawled under the covers, too weary, too foggy to care about a nightgown or washing her makeup off. Surely, when she woke up, this would all prove to be a far too vivid nightmare.

Staggering through the fog, dodging hands that sought to drag her into lairs, rain, hills, dark, darker, streetlamps glowing amber in the dense mist,
keep going, keep going.
Fighting to catch her breath, Clarice battled her way out of the dream to find herself in a bed she’d never known, a room she’d never seen.
Gregor, where are you?
She flopped back on the flat pillow.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what has become of me?

“Shh, let her sleep.”

Clarice heard the whisper and the tiptoeing feet going away, but opening her eyes took more effort than she could marshal at the moment. Besides, floating in the fog seemed far more appropriate for now. But when her bladder insisted on attention, she forced her eyes open and let her gaze wander. Water spots, tan surreal art on the ceiling, a mural painted on the far wall, a window high above her bed, long room, two beds, and an aisle wide. Too many beds to count, and where was the bathroom?

Somewhere children were reciting, a small someone was crying, a dog was barking, a car horn was honking, a bus was shushing to a stop, then roaring to start again, a phone was ringing. The sign above the arch read Bathroom. Following signs showed she was at least
cognizant again. Last night she’d not been. Who was the young man who’d shown her to the room? No name came to mind. There’d been a ride in a police car, two officers … names, surely they’d had names.

A woman who’d befriended her on the streets, in the creep of the fog, AA, that’s right, Angel Annie. Bits and pieces of the former day returned. The key not working, the manager saying no room, no room at the hotel, her credit cards being rejected. She made her way back to her bed and sank down on the edge. Her head felt too heavy for her hands, so she lay back down. What would become of her? Who could she turn to? How to find out what terrible thing had happened to her husband?

That brought her back upright.
Get showered and dressed and go find a phone. That is the first thing you will do.
Out of long years of habit, she made her bed and took her things to the bathroom to shower and dress. With her face in place some time later, she felt strong enough to follow the smell of coffee downstairs. The young man had said something about food available, although for the life of her, she couldn’t remember where she was staying. Fear tiptoed in on feline feet and wound itself around her ankles.

Clarice shuffled down the stairs and followed her nose to the kitchen. Empty. Did she dare help herself? Yes, to the coffee at least—with a heavy dollop of half-and-half and sugar, so that hopefully her brain would begin to function. What if it never worked right again? What if she’d had a small stroke wandering the streets and hills like that last night?
Could the fog in her brain be from something like that?
Leaning against the counter, sipping coffee, she eyed the institutional-sized refrigerator. Surely a piece of cheese or …

“Hello.” A front-heavy woman in stiletto heels blew in the door. “You must be Clarice.”

“Yes.”
Although at the moment, I’m glad I don’t have to swear on a stack of Bibles as to the truth of that.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. I just came down.”

“I see.” The woman handed out slices of bread. “Theres the toaster over there.” She popped out of the refrigerator to point the way, then leaned back into its maw. “Butter and jam.” Pop out. “Would you rather have peanut butter? I love peanut butter.”

“No, butter and jam are fine.” Clarice crossed to the four-slice toaster and set the slices in the slots.

“There’s bacon and eggs if you want.”

“No, this is fine.”

“Lunch will be in an hour or so. Where’s Linn? It’s her day to do lunch.”

“Ah, Miss, Ms … ”

“Just call me Celia. Sorry I forgot to introduce myself. Hope’s always on my case about my manners.”

“Hope?” The name rang a bell, only so faintly she could barely hear it.

“Hope Benson runs this place, along with her husband Roger. You met him last night.”

“Thanks.”
At least now I have a name to go with the shadow.
How truly embarrassing not to remember that.

“She said for you to come to her office soon as you can. But no rush.” Celia emerged from the refrigerator with two stalks of celery and a plastic carton of white something. “I’m trying to cut back, but somehow celery just don’t cut it. Salad dressing helps.”

Clarice spread butter, then jam, on her toast and put her meal on a plate she found in the cupboard before ambling back to the coffeepot for a refill. Already, she could tell her head was clearing, at least somewhat. Dare she confide in this rather unusual woman? She’d never had a conversation with someone wearing one slash of magenta and another of fluorescent blue in her hair.

“Ah, Celia, do you think my purse and things are safe on my bed?”

“Not if you got any money in there.” She dipped her celery in the dressing and munched. “We like to hope things is safe, but I personally don’t trust nobody. Other than Hope and Roger. Ask Hope when you meet with her. That some coat you got up there.”

“Thank you. It was a wedding present from my husband.”

“You’re one lucky woman.”

“How so?” At the moment,
lucky was
not a term she would ever think of using in regard to herself.

“That you still got it, wandering the streets like you were. Actually, that you got anything left, including your life.” She nodded to the rings on Clarice’s fingers. “People get killed for a lot less than what you’re wearin’.”

“I had them turned inside so they couldn’t be seen.” Clarice studied the rings. Gregor had put them there and kissed them in place. Such a romantic. She set the plate down with a clatter. “I’d better find a phone. I’m sure something terrible has happened to my husband.”

“Plates go in the dishwasher.” Celia pointed to that appliance. “Rinse first.”

“Ah yes, of course. How careless of me.” Clarice did as told, went upstairs for her purse, and then came back down, peering into rooms that had open doors until she came to one where a woman sat staring at a computer screen. “I’m looking for Hope?”

“Aren’t we all?” Hope turned from the screen with a smile. “That’s kind of a punch line around here.” She stood and reached out a hand. “I’m Hope Benson. Welcome to J House.”

Clarice shook her hand. “Th-thank you. What do I do to find a phone?”

“You’re welcome to use the one at that desk in the corner, but I’d appreciate it if you would fill me in on a few things first.”

“Oh, of course, it’s just that—well, have you heard of any plane crashes?”

“No. And Celia keeps us up to date on any calamities, pretty much around the world. Why?”

“Well, my husband didn’t show up at the condo he bought for us, and I just know something has happened to him.” Tears threatened to choke her.

“If you’ll give me his name, I’ll get Roger to look into this. He’s an ex-policeman, so he is very good at searching for someone. What airline was your husband flying?”

Clarice removed her envelope from her purse and unfolded the sheet of paper. She started to read, then stopped. “Would it help if I just gave him this paper? You see, some things are really strange. My key didn’t work in the lock at The Frederick, and the manager says we do not own a place there. I tried to check into a hotel, but my credit cards were all maxed out.”

“How long have you been married?”

“To Gregor? A little over a year. I never dreamed someone my age could be so happy again. I was married to my Herbert for forty years, and then one day, he just keeled right over. They said he was dead before he hit the floor. I was a widow for nine years, and then … ” She stopped and looked at Hope. “Sorry, I’m rambling. And that’s not like me either.”

“Let me call Roger in, okay? He needs to hear all this.”

Clarice watched her go.
Now, you must keep the faith
, she ordered herself. After all, Gregor could be in terrible straits.
Or Gregor could have skipped.
The nasty little voice crept in and curled up on her shoulder.
Remember what Nadia told you. “Gregor is a gigolo and on the make. He’s going to take you for every dime you let him.
“But she’d so hated taking orders from her older sister. All her life she’d been the
youngest, with two bossy older sisters. Especially Nadia. For years after she and Herbert hit it big, they’d been jealous.

Her mind, which seemed on such a capricious bent today, floated back through the years. Three little girls playing dress-up in the backyard of their New Jersey home.

“You be the baby, Clarice, and I’m the mommy, and Bernice, you have to be the daddy.”

“No, I don’t. I’m the rich auntie.”

“Then who’s the daddy?”

“He’s at work. That’s what daddies do.”

And that’s what their daddy did, and that’s what Herbert did. Of course, Nadia said she was making a mistake, marrying a nonentity like Herbert. But he never went out boozing with the boys, like Nadia’s husband, Earl, or played the ponies like Bernice’s husband, who finally ran off with the hostess at the track.

Boring Herbert, they called him.
Ah, Herbert, what am I going to do? You know how I prayed to Saint Jude that I was making the right decision. And you never said anything either. You know other times I had a feeling that you wanted me to go here or do that, but nothing about Gregor. I thought you just wanted me to be happy again.

“Hi there, Mrs. Van Dam. You’re sure looking more chipper than when I saw you last.” Roger perched on the corner of his wife’s desk while Hope sat back in her chair.