The Hungry House (19 page)

CHAPTER FORTY

My
screams eventually brought several nurses to my bed. Within a few minutes a doctor had ordered a tranquilizer that was safe for use during pregnancy. After that, I hung on for several days in a state of terror, unable to eat. I could not sleep without medications. When asleep, nightmares tormented me. The hospital staff increased their vigilance, and my friends doubled up their watches in my room, so that someone was always there. My doctor spoke of having to insert a feeding tube, if I did not begin to eat. A psychologist came to visit me every day.

On
my fourth day in the hospital, John and Betts arrived at 8:00 a.m. to relieve Jennifer and Eileen, who had spent the night in my room. They found me sitting up in bed eating my breakfast on a tray.

"I can't be
lieve you're eating on your own." Betts said.

John walked over
and planted a kiss on my forehead. "Victoria, it's so good to see you sitting up with a little color in your cheeks."

"Well, they told me at 6:00 a.m. that if I would eat and drink like a
'real girl,' then they would take away the IV.”

"That's right." Jennifer said
. "And, she slept on her own last night without medication."

"I had to do something, so all you goofy nuts would stop sleeping in chairs in here.
" They all laughed with relief. She sounded like her old self.

Upon my
release from the hospital, I went to live at John's. I felt somewhat like a nomad and sometimes longed to go back to the little converted garage and have tea with Mom. On the other hand, I realized how truly fortunate I was to have such a great number of helpful friends and strived to keep that thought uppermost in my mind.

I
wondered how I would ever be able to repay John for his kindness. He treated me as if I were a close family member who was dear to him. There was none of the lewdness in John's manner that had so often characterized Frank's attitude toward me.

John insisted on hiring security
for me, better known as a bodyguard. Actually, he had intended on hiring two, but after much negotiation I had convinced him that one would be enough. The man was to be introduced to everyone as a financial type from the studio, who would be temporarily staying at John's home to prevent production costs from going over budget. Only John, Matt, Edna, and I would know his true purpose.

On his
day of arrival, Mark Bingham's appearance was exactly as one would expect. He was a tall, bulky man with an inscrutable expression in his blue eyes and a military haircut. As soon as he had come in and had refused all offers of refreshments, John asked him about his acting abilities.

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"As I told the agency, I don't want anyone outside this home to know that you're security."

"Sir?"

"Didn't they tell you?"

Mark thought for a moment
. "Yes, they did."

John's manner became uncharacteristically agitated as he
waved his hand in the air with frustration. "Your haircut is all wrong. Don't they have anyone who doesn't have a buzz cut?"

"Not many, sir."

"And stop calling me sir. Call me John. I want everyone to believe that you're a studio financial type."

He looked Mark up and down
. "Your suit's too cheap. Ditto your shoes. I'll get you hooked up with a new wardrobe."

Mark ope
ned his mouth as if he were about to protest and then seemed to change his mind.

"I understand we're dealing with a stalker."
Mark said.

"Yes
. A billionaire stalker. He has developed an unhealthy fixation, actually obsession, on Vicky here.

Mark turned his attention to
me. "Well, you are a very attractive young woman, ma'am.

"Please, call me
Vicky."

“I’m
sorry to have to ask this, but was there a prior romantic relationship with this man?"

"Only in his mind. My doctor thinks he might have raped me, using Rohypnol."

Mark's eyes narrowed
. "So, he's a sick bastard."

John answered
. "Exactly."

We
explained everything that had happened, from beginning to end, culminating with Frank's appearance at the hospital.

Mark nodded
. "Okay. I've got the picture. I've dealt with guys like this before. The next thing I need to do is get the layout of this house, beginning with your bedroom, ma--Vicky."

Once upstairs, Mark opened one of the large windows and looked down
. "Are there any bedrooms available without trellises or trees near the window?" A rambling rose trellis led from the ground to the window and above. John began to think.

Matt
spoke up. "She could switch rooms with me. It’s clear under my window. Then, her room would be right between John's and mine."

Mark was already walking
. "Let me have a look." Once he had checked out both John's and Matt's room, he said, "Yes. This room is much better for her. An alarm is going to have to be installed onto her window. And, Vicky, do not, under any circumstances, ever open your bedroom window. If you feel stuffy, the air conditioning can be turned up."

Turning to John, he asked,
"I'd like to have unbreakable glass installed in her window, if that's okay. It's just a precaution, in case someone forgets to turn on the alarm."

"Sure, that's fine.
" John was just beginning to realize how complex this situation would be.

"And, s --, John, I know you only asked for one person
. But, after everything you've told me, I think you need a couple guys."

"How so?" John asked.

"Well, since this guy likes to just 'show up,' I think it would be good to have one guard awake and watching the downstairs at night."

  John thought for a moment
. "Yes, it's a little over the top to have one at night but not unheard of. Okay, we'll do it."

T
he next few weeks flew by, and I felt much safer. I still lived on edge, wondering when and where Frank would turn up next, but I felt better. My next shock was still to come.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

I focused all of my will and attention on nothing but my safety and my unborn child's health. I had not seen Paul for a long time. He had called, but I had put off his requests to see me with one excuse after the other. And now, my pregnancy was beginning to show. One day, as I sat on the front verandah with Mark, a tall man opened the front gate and began making his way along the winding path that led to the front door. Mark stood and braced himself, ready for anything. It was Paul.

"It's okay
. He's a friend."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"I'll be just inside, if you need me."

Paul looked unsure of himself. "I'm sorry to just bust in on you like this, but I haven't seen you in such a long time I'm a little worried about you."

"Please, have a seat.
It's wonderful to see you."

Paul sat and scrutinized
my face. "You're still too thin. Are you all right?"

"Yes
. I'm doing well."

"
Vicky, why are you staying at John's?"

"Well, it's a long story."

Paul's eyes drifted down to my waist, covered by a flowing blouse. My thinness only served to accentuate the midriff bulge. "I guess it must be."

He stood and took
the steps down the porch, two at a time, trying to get away from me as soon as possible.

"Paul!  Paul, it's not what you think
. Come back and listen to me!" He was already out the gate. I ran after him, down the steps, over the stone path and out the front gate, only to watch him get into his Jeep with a face of stone.

"Paul! Paul
." I called. As he drove away, I slowly became aware of the fact that I was standing in the middle of the road.

I
turned to see Mark standing behind me, alerted by my cries on the porch.

"Everything all right out here?"

"No--no everything is not all right." I answered. I stared down the road from which Paul's car had vanished. "I'm going inside now."

That night,
I went to my room early, feigning tiredness. From my window seat I could see an old oak tree. Through the darkness, I watched the wind blow the tree's branches from side to side. Maybe Paul would return some day. He had acted like a child, rather than like a young man. Even if he had known the truth, perhaps it would have been too much for him to take on at such a young age. Still, my heart ached for him, and I longed to feel his comforting touch.

I
had to think of something constructive to do rather than simply waiting for Frank's next act of madness. I looked down at my noticeable bulge. I'm going to be a mother; I can't afford to hide away from everything. I have to act like an adult--at least try to act like an adult. I walked over to my nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out her mother's rosary. I brought it back to the window seat, where I sat and looked at it in my hands as if it were a talisman or an oracle that would tell me what I should do. Mom had always seemed to know the right course of action or the correct words that needed to be said. What would my mother do, if she were in my place, I wondered.

I
closed my eyes as I sat holding the rosary and tried to remember the way Mom had conducted herself. Various scenarios and images played through my mind, as memories resurfaced. In spite of poverty and misfortune, and even though her own health was failing, Mom had always made time for others. She kept track of who, among her neighbors and the church members, was ill or suffering from a hardship or a loss, and she prayed for them. Her daily prayer list was long, written out in pen on sheets of notebook paper. She telephoned the people on her prayer list. She baked bread and made casseroles, and gathered boxes of food for shut-ins in need. In fact, she had seemed so strong and resourceful that it had taken everyone, even me, years to realize that she was ill herself. She thought of others, no matter what.

That is what I have to do, what she would want me to do
, I thought. I need to turn my thoughts outward, away from my own problems. Only in this way can I mend my broken heart and find the strength to go on and build a life for me and my child.

I
went to sleep feeling a peace I had not felt for some time.

Over the next several days, I telephoned my home church. Then I made a personal visit to Father Moore, who was overjoyed to see me. We talked for a while, and then he suggested that I volunteer at the food bank run by the nearby Catholic Church. Their food collection and distribution efforts were made in concert with the city's major food bank. I was to begin by helping with the sorting and cataloguing of the food the day prior to giving out food baskets. Mark drove me there and waited in his car across the street. For the time being, I could not to go anywhere alone.

On the morning I
volunteered, it seemed right and good to be getting up and out of the house to do something useful. Bright sunlight beamed into the car, and I rolled down the window and drank in the early morning air. Upon arrival, I found the one-story building next to the church bustling with volunteer workers, mostly other women. I found the volunteer coordinator for the project, Mrs. DeWitt.

"Oh, it's so nice to see you
. Thanks for coming. First thing, I want to show you around the place. How does that sound?" Mrs. DeWitt asked.

"That sounds fine
."

S
he showed me the warehouse-like room to which almost all the food was delivered.

"As you can see, we give out a lot of canned and packaged food."

"Where does it come from?"

"Well
--that's a good question. Nowadays, with the recession going on, donations have dropped considerably. So, most of our food is expired food from restaurants and grocery stores."

"Expired?
Is it safe to eat?"

"Oh, yes
. Canned food keeps for years after the expiration date."

As
I looked around, my eyes rested on huge cans of an item labeled sausage gravy. Out of curiosity, I picked up the can and began reading the list of ingredients on the label. It included many strange-sounding chemicals and hydrogenated oils. I thought of Mom's delicious chicken broth gravy. This was not the same at all. Gorge rose up in my throat. I swallowed hard and quickly replaced the can on the shelf. I was taken to look at the items in the freezer. A cursory glance at a package of beef showed it was past its expiration date. Next, I picked up and examined a tempting package of salmon steaks and saw that it had freezer burn.

For a couple of hours, I
worked on the task of going through the items, counting them, checking them off on a sheet, and shelving. All the while, I dreamed of food banks giving out plenty of fresh items.

###

That night, I patiently waited through the dinner conversation until the time came when John would ask me about my day. He and Matt discussed the movie. They were finished with filming and tying up loose ends. They always kept their dinner conversation light and about things they thought would interest me, and I responded by asking questions and commenting whenever appropriate.

As usual, the table was beautifully set
. The dinnerware was rimmed with gold and had a white, lacey design on the borders. Sterling silver utensils were always used for the evening meal. These items were set off by an off-white linen tablecloth, with a flower arrangement in the center of the table. The dinner consisted of fresh salad, beef tenderloin, and a dessert of fruit and cheese.

Amidst all this opulence,
I found that I could hardly swallow the meat when it was served. I thought of the people, including families with children, coming into the food bank the next day to receive freezer-burned meat and cans of gray gravy.

"What's wrong,
Vicky?  Would you have preferred something else?  We don't have to have beef for dinner." John, as always, was concerned about my weight. Matt looked stricken at the thought that the beef dishes might disappear but said nothing.

"No, this is delicious
. I'm just savoring it." I tried to pick up the tempo of my intake since I was 'eating for two,' as everyone constantly reminded me.

Eventually,
John turned to me with interest. "So, how was your day?" Here was my opening.

"
Oh, you know, I kept busy for once. I volunteered at a food bank this morning."

"Did
Mark drive you there and back?"

"Yes, Paper Bear
." I smiled.

"Well
--I guess I'm being a little too bossy. But, it's only your safety that I have in mind, you know. Do you think you'll go back again?  They didn't have you lifting anything heavy, did they?"

"Yes and no.
" I chuckled. "'Yes,' I'll go back, and 'no' they didn't have me lifting anything heavy. I've been thinking that this might be a great opportunity for you and the studio."

"Oh?
" John laid his fork on his plate and looked at me with real interest.

"Well, you're filming the movie here in Portland, right?"

"Yes--oh, I see where you're going with this. You want me to do something for the food bank."

"I thought it would be good publicity, and a tax deduction
. Besides, you should have seen the food they're giving out. It's not even--."

John held both hands up in the air
in a gesture of surrender. "--you don't have to convince me. I'm sold. In these times, giving to a food bank is an excellent idea. What do they need?"

I
was surprised at how easily he was convinced. I had thought it might take weeks. "They need high-quality canned and packaged food, and they need fresh meat, fish, cheese, and produce."

"Okay.
" I had his full attention now. "What else?"

"Well, I was thinking that it would be nice if they had a more welcoming waiting area, wi
th comfortable chairs, drinks, and books and toys for the children."

"All right
. Now, are we talking about just the food bank you went to today, or all the food banks in Portland?"

Not to be outdone,
I shot back, "Well, how much money do you have?"

John
laughed. When he had stopped, he said, "Honey, I can get you millions. I can contribute, and I know a lot of other people who can. Let me make some phone calls over the next two weeks and see what I can come up with. I'll start with the stars of my movie, its producer and the studio. I can play up the publicity angle. Then, I'll tap some of my old friends and the business connections I have."

In this
small way, I began what was to be my lifelong mission.