She continued to stare at him. “Are you Harriet’s helper?” she asked.
“Yes,” Ben said quickly. “That’s it. I’m her new helper.”
“Harriet told me to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid.” The pained look crept back into her eyes. “Daddy might come for a visit.”
Ben sat down on the love seat next to the sofa. He gestured for her to sit on the sofa, but she hung back in the hallway, clutching her bathrobe.
He knew he needed to gain her confidence or he would get nowhere. “Do you like poems, Catherine?”
She nodded slightly.
“I do,” he continued. “Do you know this one? ‘To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee/One clover, and a bee/And reverie.’ ”
“ ‘The reverie alone will do,’ ” Catherine said slowly, “ ‘if bees are few.’ ”
I was right, Ben thought. “Catherine, I know Harriet was very busy tonight—maybe she didn’t get to do everything you wanted her to do. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Can I have a bath?” she asked quietly, without looking at him. Although Ben sat only a few feet from her, her eyes couldn’t seem to focus on him. “Harriet left, but I didn’t get a bath.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “She almost never lets me anymore.”
“Of course you can have a bath. I’ll run the water.” Ben stood and walked toward Catherine and the hallway. She did not move away from him. Her expression was of almost palpable sadness. Sadness and exhaustion.
He took a wisp of her straggly black hair in his hand and brushed it away from her face. Then he walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and started running the water. After a few moments, Catherine timidly followed him into the bathroom.
“How hot do you like it?” he asked. She looked at him as if he were speaking gibberish. He adjusted the knobs for a medium-warm temperature.
“That’s enough,” she said. She reached past him and turned off the faucets. The tub held perhaps three inches of water. “I’ll need a towel.”
“Are you sure that’s enough?” Ben asked. Catherine did not answer. She began to remove her bathrobe. “I’ll go out and … find you a towel,” Ben said, embarrassed. He stepped out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Ben found the linen closet and removed a white towel. He stepped into the bedroom and checked the dresser drawers. No panties or bras—no undergarments at all. No ornaments or photos or any other indication that a person actually lived there. On the nightstand next to the bed, Ben found a small book of poems by Emily Dickinson and four large bottles of pills, two of them about half empty. He read the labels, but it was all pharmaceutical Greek to him. Sleeping pills, he guessed, or maybe tranquilizers. Four different kinds.
He carried the towel back to the bathroom door. On the floor, outside the door, he saw Catherine’s bathrobe tossed in a heap, next to a brown towel. He bent down to pick them up, then stopped. The towel stank abominably, like the worst smell from the worst sewer from Ben’s worst nightmare. The towel was knotted on both ends, like a diaper.
“Don’t you have any”—he paused, searching for the right word—“undergarments?”
“No,” Catherine said from inside the bathroom. She was still whispering. “Harriet couldn’t buy any. It would attract attention. Daddy’s spies are everywhere. Making sure I’m good.”
Ben glanced through the crack in the door and saw Catherine’s reflection in the mirror. She was standing naked in the tub. The water barely covered her ankle.
“Is the water too hot?” he asked through the door.
“It’s fine, thank you.”
“But … why are you standing? Why don’t you sit down?”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. I could fall asleep and drown and die. It happens every day. Daddy says.”
Ben looked away from the bathroom. “My God,” he murmured under his breath. “What have they done to you?”
“I’m ready to get out now.” Ben heard the sound of water splashing as she stepped out of the tub. He handed the clean towel through the door and, a moment later, handed through her bathrobe.
She stepped outside. The smudges on her face were still there, perhaps smeared, perhaps a bit faded. Her eyes were red and bloodshot and tired. Ben held her by her upper arms and, to his surprise, she did not shrink away.
“Look, Catherine,” he said, “I’m going to take you out of here.”
“No!” she cried, horror-struck.
“For God’s sake, why not?”
“He’ll find out! He’ll find out!” She was breathing heavily again, punctuating her words with desperate gasping noises. “He’ll kill her! I have to stay here and be good. I have to prove it’s safe for him to bring her back.” Her hands pushed against Ben’s chest.
“Who is he, Catherine. Who is he?”
“If I’m good, he’ll reward me, he’ll bring her back. If I’m bad again, it’ll be worse than before.”
Ben held her tightly. “Bring who back, Catherine? Your baby?”
“My baby!” She was screaming, protracting each syllable. “My baby! God, please don’t take her away! Please! I’ll do anything. I can’t live without my baby!” She tried to say more, but there was no more left in her. Her chin dropped.
Ben took a red handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “Here. Wipe your eyes.”
She stared at it. “I can’t use that. It’s too pretty.”
“No, really. Take it. It’s for you.”
“For me?” She seemed amazed. She held the handkerchief against her face, then placed it in her bathrobe pocket.
Ben held her firmly in his hands. She pulled herself against him, and they hugged one another tightly. Her tears washed against Ben’s face.
“Will you help me?” she pleaded.
“I’ll do anything you want,” he said. Gently, he moved her to the bedroom and lowered her onto her bed.
“Stay with me,” she said. She touched him lightly on the arm.
He pulled the covers over her. “I really can’t. It wouldn’t be—” He stopped. Her eyes were beginning to well up again.
“Perhaps for just a little while,” he said. He lowered himself to the bed and cuddled next to her. He knew that he shouldn’t be doing this, but at the same time, knew that he should. She had asked him to help her and he would, damn it, he would do anything she wanted. It was time for him to do something right, and he would. He would.
37
BEN EASED OFF OF the bed, careful to create as little disturbance as possible. Without turning on the light, he found his shoes. As he stepped toward the door, his foot fell on something sharp. He started to cry out but caught himself. He reached down and plucked the object from his foot. It was a syringe. He wasn’t surprised.
He crept into the hallway, pulled on his shoes, tiptoed out of the apartment, and locked the door behind him.
The sun was just beginning to rise; the first orange rays were seeping over the horizon and surrounding the broad outlines of the Williams and Bank of Oklahoma Towers. The fresh morning air felt invigorating, cleansing.
Ben walked briskly, then began to jog, down the street to his Honda. He drove back to his apartment, thinking he would shower and change his clothes before calling Mike.
He rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor, reached for the doorknob to his apartment, then froze. His mood took a sudden, crashing, downhill turn.
The door was not shut.
Ben stared at the door, listening intently. He always shut and locked his door before he left. Always. And it was way too early for another visit from Julia.