Cast a Pale Shadow

chapter Five





"Hello." It was her mother's telephone voice. It grated Trissa that no matter what screaming strife the ringing telephone interrupted, her mother always managed to compose her voice into melodious warmth before answering. Her tone conveyed nothing. Bob could be bleeding to death at her feet and it would sound the same. Trissa was too uncertain of her own voice to speak.

"Hello?" A slight trickle of irritation seeped into the second greeting. Trissa's finger trembled over the hang-up button. All her courage had drained from her. She had nothing to say to her mother, nothing that would explain or pardon what she had done. Nothing that she would believe. "Trissa, is that you? Don't hang up!"

Don't hang up. Did she mean to enkindle this bright flare of hope in her daughter, hope that she wanted to talk, to listen and understand? With reckless disregard for all the snuffed-out hopes of her past, Trissa sobbed, "Mom, help me. I'm sorry."

"Help you? Help you? Help you?" Each barked question was delivered with rising inflection until the last ended in a scream. "You need help all right. But it's more help than I can give you. Your father will be scarred for life. Who's to help him?"

"I'm sorry. He tried--"

"He told me what happened. I don't need to hear what your twisted mind has made out of it."

Perhaps it was best that way. If you pretended it didn't happen, maybe, in time it will seem as if it hadn't. "How -- how is Daddy?"

"How dare you ask that question? Is that why you called?"

"Yes. I just -- I have to know."

"Funny, you weren't so concerned when you ran out of here. Where did you spend the night? Where are you now?" By now her mother's voice had the cold, metallic ring of brass. All the honeyed, bell tones of her first "hello" were lost in its harshness.

"In the -- at a friend's house." Trissa had to hold her breath to keep another sob from escaping.

"Fine. Then you can just stay there. I'll put your clothes in the alley. You can pick them up there."

Trissa could not stop her startled gasp. "The alley? Please, Mommy, let me come home. Let me explain." She squeezed her eyes shut but that did not impede the stinging tears. The receiver seemed suddenly too heavy to hold up and her arm trembled with the effort. Her head throbbed and spun. She gripped the side rail of the bed tightly with her other hand to keep her balance.

She could no longer decipher her mother's words. They seemed as implacable as the train bearing down on her. The train... The roaring train...The receiver slipped from her grasp, or was it taken from her? And it was not her mother's voice any more but--

"Hello." The man spoke calmly into the receiver, holding it out from his ear so Trissa could still hear her mother's screaming tirade.

"--and if you want them, I suggest you pick them up by noon. You know trash pick up is -- who -- who is this?"

"My name is Nicholas Brewer. I am a friend of Trissa's."

The train and its roar, the mournful wail of its whistle, the relentless rumble of its approach shuddering up through her knees melted from Trissa's memory at the sound of her name from this man. He had said it before, had called to her out of the darkness before. She remembered seeing his face loom over her in the darkness of a dream, his square jaw and kind brown eyes framed with blond waves like a Renaissance angel. He had to be a dream. Yet now here he was smiling at her while he held up one hand to caution her to silence. Who was he?

"What? Who? What have you done with my daughter? I'll have the police--"

"Yes, I am sure the police will be very interested to hear where and how I found Trissa last night."

Trissa gasped and shook her head wildly, the action setting the room into a dizzying whirl, but he put his fingers to his lips and crinkled his brow slightly. Something in his eyes made her know that he was bluffing.



*****



Nicholas moved a few steps toward the foot of the bed where Trissa could be spared the sound of her mother's venom.

"Why you God damned son of a bitch! Are you threatening me? My husband will have your ass in--"

"Surely we can discuss your daughter's welfare without profanity. I know we both have only her best interests at heart. As for your husband, I think it might be wise if you tried not to remind me of his existence right now, or I may imagine all sorts of causes for Trissa's bruises." Nicholas forced his voice to remain steady, investing it with sure, calm power, willing Trissa to surrender her panic to it. She sank back against the pillow and rubbed the tears from her cheeks with the palms of her hands.

"What?" her mother screamed. "What has she told you? She's lying. She--"

"She has no reason to lie to me. On the other hand, I have heard her beg you to let her explain. You refuse to let her. I require no explanations and I ask none."

"Are you trying to tell me how I should handle my daughter?"

"No. That would be senseless as you will not have the opportunity to do so again. I understand from your rantings that her things have been placed in the alley. I will see that she gets them. Goodbye." Nicholas dropped the receiver into its cradle and gave it a light slap to celebrate his victory. He smiled into Trissa's wide-eyed wonder. "I'll need the address of that alley if you want me to beat the trash truck to it."

"Ahhh, good, you're back, Mr. Brewer. Tsk, tsk, couldn't you coax your wife into eating a bit more of her breakfast? No wonder she is such a little wisp of a thing." The nurse's aid marched in and bustled about with breezy efficiency, adjusting the shade and pulling the bed curtain out to half surround them. "I'll have to ask you to leave again for now. Bath time."

Nicholas noted Trissa's puzzled shock at the words "your wife" but there was no time to defend himself as the aid shooed him toward the door. He shrugged at Trissa and reluctantly turned to go.

"Umm, wait," called a small, shaky voice from the bed. "3303 Christian Avenue. It's in Baden, near the cemetery."



*****



Nicholas flashed her a quick smile and a thumbs up, "I'll be right back," he promised and departed. Before the aid had a chance to shut the door in his wake, he was back, poking his head through the crack. "You will wait for me, won't you, Trissa?"

"Oh, go on with you," teased the aid, waving him on his way. "She ain't going anywhere withoutcha." She pulled the door closed and chuckled with her hands on her hips. "Men! Always underfoot when you least need them and scarce as Young Abe's whiskers when you don't."

"He...you said he was here all night?" asked Trissa. She had a misty memory of a figure asleep in the chair. She had dreamed it was Lonny, come to take her with him.

"Begged her to stay, so the night nurse says," Moira said. "Now, how about a warm sponge bath? Might be just the thing to brighten your appetite. I want to see more food gone from that tray, or I'll tell the doctor on you." She filled a basin with warm, sudsy water and helped Trissa remove her gown.

Trissa winced as each new muscle she used reminded her of the abuse they had taken. She was beginning to think there might have been less pain if the train had hit her. But Moira was gentle and her touch and the warm water was soothing as she kept up a constant babble of instructions.

"...and from now on, honey, you are just going to have to be more careful. It is pitiful to see a little mite like you so black and blue. There doesn't seem to be an inch of your skin that's its rightful color." Trissa held her hair to the side as Moira rubbed the sponge down her neck and back in long, silky strokes. Despite her determination to decipher the identity of her mystery man, her mind drifted with Moira's tranquilizing ministrations and her amiable scolding. It was almost like having a mother who cared for you.

"And from the looks of him, it must have been quite a tumble the two of you took."

"Him? The two of us?" Trissa's blissful composure shattered and her mind was jumbled again. "He was hurt, too," she said with deliberate slowness, hoping the saying of it would bring to mind how it happened.

"Oh, Lord bless you, love must be blind! I never seen such a shiner as his. I suppose you'll be tellin' me that underneath all that is the handsomest man on earth. Mmm, mmm, mmm, I don't know; it'll take some imagination." Moira teased her as she patted her dry and helped her into a fresh gown. "There, now, you eat that cereal and drink that milk, you hear? And don't you be getting up without calling me. I don't like those rubber legs of yours one bit."

"Yes, ma'am," she promised and Moira left her alone. It was unsettling that she had not really found his bruises and scrapes so remarkable. It was as if, subconsciously knowing how they came to be, she had accepted them as ribbons of valor.

Yes, it was quite a tumble the two of them had taken and she, eyes squeezed shut, praying that God would understand and forgive her, had felt the impact of his body on hers and had thought it was the train. "Not so bad, not so bad after all," she remembered thinking. "Imagine... a train and really no more painful than smacking the water with a belly flop." And for the one brief moment that her eyes were open before the darkness captured her, she had seen his face, unbruised, unmarked, and perfect, like an archangel on a holy card. Yes, Moira, he was the handsomest man on earth. But who on earth was he?



*****



Nicholas took a cab to work to pick up his car and explain to his boss why he wouldn't be in today, then hurried off to his rooms to shave and change. He was halfway down the back steps when he remembered he'd left his keys in the torn jacket he'd discarded. He found them stuffed in the pocket with the crumpled bus route map. He studied the map for a moment and found where Christian Avenue intersected the main route. He had stopped at that intersection on more than one occasion in his ramblings. Trissa had been just a few blocks away then. If he had known... if he had only known. Folding the map carefully, he took it with him.

As he drove down Grand and turned onto Broadway, his rage mounted until his grip on the wheel was so tight his knuckles ached. Rape, Edmonds had said. Attempted rape. And it was not difficult to deduce from Trissa's mother's tersely worded denials who the attempted rapist was. Of all people, Nicholas would know the devastation of such an attack.

He pulled the map out at the next stoplight, though the route was engraved on his heart. The mechanics of unfolding and refolding lent a structure to his thinking. Six blocks to Christian Avenue. Past the cemetery and under the viaduct. The black iron spikes of Calvary's fence ticked past him on the left. He was driving so he could not read the names on the massive stone crosses of the family plots as he did when he rode past them on the bus. But he knew them all by heart. Cantrell, Donnelly, Temme, Pizarek.... reciting them kept his mind off other things.

He drove slowly down Christian looking for the address. The house was a two story white frame with shades pulled in every window but the one on the top right. He imagined that was Trissa's room. Her mother might have needed the light to gather Trissa's things so she could cast them out. A concrete donkey and cart filled with the crisp brown heads of dead chrysanthemums graced the lawn next to the walk. A peeling white trellis twisted with the remains of last year's climbing roses partially concealed the porch. The name on the mailbox was Kirk.

It was easy to convince himself that no one was home. He did not want to risk a confrontation. The restraints on his fury were still too fragile, too freshly forged. Nicholas eased his car down the block and around the corner to the alley.

Fenced backyards with lawns the faded, nearly colorless, khaki of a colder than usual March just ending, ramshackle garages, and rusting trash bins lined the narrow alley. Trissa's mother was not bluffing. He saw the jumbled pile next to the trash bin behind her house immediately. A sad assortment of tattered shopping bags, a dilapidated black suitcase, and an old, red portable record player were this mother's parting gifts to her daughter.

Nicholas loaded them into the trunk, sorting out one change of clothing for Trissa to wear home from the hospital, and two gowns, and a robe and slippers in case she had to stay for a while. Remembering Judy's sour, accusing questions from last night, he looked for a coat but could find none. And where were her shoes and the blue backpack she always toted on the bus? Before he could let his common sense overtake his anger, he slammed the trunk lid shut and charged up the back walk.

The sound of his own fist racketing against the metal storm door of the back porch jolted his brain to think a moment. What if Trissa's father answered the door? Would he be able to keep himself from throttling the man?

And assuming he succeeded in giving him the beating he deserved, what would it accomplish? He was the trespasser here, and it would not be too difficult to persuade the police that he was also the kidnapper, or worse. He had no witness to say otherwise. Trissa didn't know him. Tom and Judy would be no help, and Dr. Edmonds considered him the perpetrator already. He could buy Trissa a new coat and shoes, and schoolbooks could be replaced. Was it cowardice or discretion that made him back down the steps and turn again toward the alley?

He heard the rattle of the Venetian blinds on the back door as someone pulled it open, and he decided not to run. "Yes? What do you want?" There was no mistaking this was Trissa's mother. He hoped the cool disdain he had maintained for her over the phone would return to his voice for this confrontation. But he had forgotten the sorry condition of his own face. She stepped back into the porch and dropped the chain across the door when she saw him. "Who are you? What do you want?" she inquired through the crack.

He remained in his position on the walk to answer her, wondering if her husband lurked nearby watching him. "We spoke over the phone. I am Nicholas Brewer. As I promised, I've come for your daughter's things."

"The hell you have. I have never seen you before in my life. What business do you have getting Trissa's things?"

"I see," Nicholas said coldly. Her skewed priorities, more concerned that a stranger take her daughter's things than for her daughter, dissolved the last of his doubts about his judgment of her. "You would rather the trash hauler take them. It would ease your conscience to see them dumped as easily as you have dumped your daughter."

"How dare you! Where do you know my daughter from? Where is she?" The woman threw open the door and challenged him with her hands on her hips. She was a bit taller than Trissa with a build that may once have been as petite as her daughter's but had filled out to plumpness, making the extra inches in height almost undetectable. Her hair was a short, curly copper, and in her anger, her face was a nearly identical shade.

Nicholas chose to answer her second question. "I know Trissa from the railroad tracks, Mrs. Kirk, where, you may be interested to know, she tried to kill herself last night."

The high color drained from her face and she let the door slam behind her. "What?"

Nicholas pressed his advantage and stepped up two steps so they were eye to eye. "And however you have chosen to explain away your husband's role in driving her to that desperate act, I trust you will see the advantage in keeping them apart."

She said nothing but stepped up and away from him, her hand gripping the rail to steady herself.

"Now, Trissa needs her coat, shoes, and school books. If you will supply those items, I will be on my way." The calm forcefulness of his voice belied his quaking knees and when she turned and fled into the house, it was he who had to steady himself by leaning against the railing. She could, at this very moment, be calling the police, or fetching her husband with a shotgun.

The long minutes ticked away as his courage wavered. By the time he heard the door open again, he had convinced himself it would be Mr. Kirk and the gun. He pulled himself straight to face his fate like a man.

But it was Mrs. Kirk, her arms filled with coats, a bundle of shoes, and Trissa's book bag, her cheeks streaked with tears. "I -- I don't know if I've found everything. If there's anything else she -- what am I to do, Mr. Brewer? I don't know what to do. He is my husband."

Nicholas took on her burden and answered quietly, "She is your daughter, Mrs. Kirk." He could see nothing but confusion in her eyes. If there had been one spark of conscience, one flicker of self-recrimination that she was making the wrong choice, he might have had a word of comfort for her. But there was only confusion, and Trissa deserved better than that. He was halfway down the walk when she spoke again.

"Where -- where is she?"

He didn't look back when he answered her, "Where she is safe."

Of course, it was wrong to think that he loved her already. She would never accept it. Too soon. Too reckless. He was a stranger whose motives -- What were his motives? And if this was not love, what was it? Pity? Compassion? The affinity that one heart in need has for another?

It was love to him, whatever others chose to call it. She was no stranger to him. He had loved her from very nearly the first moment he had seen her. He had loved her before he knew her name and for two weeks since then. And before that, he had loved the pieces of her in Cynthia and Janey and even Beth.

It was best when love came quickly, however shallow that might seem to others. Others had the luxury of time that he did not. Time could not be wasted when he knew it could be snatched away from him at any moment.

Yet, he refused to be rushed by its relentlessness. Nicholas saw the future as treacherously pockmarked as the past, a rugged terrain with gaping holes for which he could give no account. Living for him was like traversing a minefield, one misstep and life and memory were blown away. It was a process in which only the present could be counted on, each foot planted firmly, awaiting the patient and careful consideration of the next step, and just as satisfied if it never came. If he could hold that step at the peak of its arc, he would be content.

Driving back to the hospital, he felt that peak, the heady rush of success that made failure seem impossible. In the parking lot, he carefully arranged the articles of clothing he had sorted out for Trissa in the shabby, little black suitcase along with the comb, brush and toiletries which her mother had not thought to provide but which he had stopped and purchased at Walgreens. He ducked into the hospital gift shop for a bunch of pink rosebuds and baby's breath. With that in one hand and her suitcase and coat in the other, he approached her room feeling as romantically high-strung as an eloping bridegroom.

He had not prepared himself to find her bed empty, to see it made up starched and white and taut as if it had never known the warmth of a human body. The plummet was dizzying and at the bottom, he had only the energy to drag himself to her bed and sit there, his back to the door, staring out the window at the blue nothing of the sky, clutching the flowers, her coat and suitcase like the last remnants of her existence.

One by one, the roses fell from his grasp to his lap. His mind snatched at possibilities and doggedly gripped the worst of them so that as the minutes wore on, he began to lose a sense of them. This was the way it started sometimes, the next inevitable step in the minefield, the lifting of the foot from the triggering device.

"Ummm -- mister -- uh -- hello."

Her hesitant, almost-whisper reached into the void and pulled him back. He jumped up, scattering the rosebuds from his lap to the floor, and turned to see her, fragile and pale and black and blue, and as welcome and wonderful a sight as he ever hoped to see.

"Hello," he answered. A silly word and all he could manage at the moment, but in that one word he wanted her to hear I love you. I'll take care of you. And please, never think that this world could go on without you again. He poured all of that into the awkward silence that followed his one silly word.



*****



God, this man frightened her. This man she did not know, yet who knew her soul better than anyone else ever had. This man had risked his life to save one she was not sure was worth saving. This man looked at her now, and Trissa felt herself melting under the unbearable warmth of his gaze. She suddenly wished she had not insisted on walking alone the few feet from the nurse's station. She wished she had let Moira wheel her all the way from x-ray as she had cautioned her would be best. She wished the room wasn't spinning and her legs weren't disintegrating and....

"Up, up, up, Little One, I've gotcha! Oops, we've gotcha!" Trissa felt Moira's sturdy presence from behind, but it was her stranger-savior who scooped her up and carried her to the bed. Moira pulled the covers aside, but he tucked her in. It was Moira who adjusted the shade to block the sun from her pillow, but it was the glare of his unwavering eyes that blinded her, making her shelter her own eyes with the palm of her hand.

Really, he frightened her more than the approaching train had. Its promise was certain, final. His was so unknown.

"I'll leave you two alone now," she heard Moira say.

"Wait!" she heard next and was not certain whether it came from his lips or her own. They moved away from her in hushed conversation to the hall, and Trissa buried her head in the pillow, better to hide the tears from him when he returned, tears he would not understand and she could not explain. She heard his quiet footsteps as he circled the bed, picked up the fallen roses, and set the bedraggled bouquet on the windowsill. And then he waited, his arms folded, leaning against the radiator.

"Thank you," she said finally, pulling herself up but not trusting herself to look directly at him. "I mean, for the flowers."

"I'm sorry they're a little crushed."

"And--" she added with a quick, sharp sigh, "and for me."

"A little crushed as well, I'm sad to say."

"I don't know how you could -- or why -- or why you'd want to -- I -- I'm sorry. You could have been killed." Her whole body shuddered with the sobs that broke over her, but without a word he stepped toward her and enfolded her in his arms and rocked her while she cried. "It would have been better if you hadn't. It would have been over by now. It would have been over."

"But the world needs you, Trissa. It couldn't let you go. I couldn't let you go."

In confusion, she looked up at him through the blinding blur of her tears. What impossible faith did he demand of her? Her leaving would be of such small import to the world, the hushing of one heartbeat among so many billions. What could it matter when no one cared? God, how her head ached, how her heart thumped with such deafening regularity in her brain! How she wished it would stop and leave her in peace.

She buried her head against his arm, soaking his sleeve with her relentless tears. Her fists clenched at the soft wool of his jacket as he rocked her patiently, cradled her so gently, mindful of her bruises. And since it hurt so much to think, she surrendered to his lulling comfort. Maybe it was not him she had feared but the life he had restored to her. But she would not think of that now either. Thought seemed to be drowning in this battered brain of hers, sinking in the pain and the constant roar of the train.



*****



Her crying slowed and stopped and her ragged breathing gentled a bit. Limp with exhaustion, she slipped into fretful sleep, but when he made moves to settle her back against the pillow, she clutched at him. "Please, don't let me go. You said you wouldn't let me go."

"I won't," he whispered.

With her eyes still closed, she spoke to him, in a dreamy haze of a voice. "Who are you, Nicholas Brewer? Who are you?"

"Someone to take care of you."

"Forever and always?" she asked with the questing faith of a child.

"And ever after that." She slept then. The nurse's aide said that she would. The painkiller would make her drowsy all day. Beyond that, she would tell him nothing. There were x-rays taken. Her continued dizzy spells were a concern, but the doctor would have to talk to him about that.

"Don't worry, Mr. Brewer, we are doing all that we can for her." It was a sentence that sent an immediate chill through him. All that we can implied that there was something they could not do, didn't it? The thought made his precarious optimism seem as bent and mangled as his poor bouquet.

It made jagged sense to him that he would find her just to lose her. It was the wretched pattern of his life -- found and lost and found and lost again. But what twisted God would seek to illustrate his point with such cruelty? That was an insanity more difficult to accept than his own.

When he felt, at last, that she slept soundly enough, he nestled her back on the crisp, white sheets, drew his chair up to the bedside and sat watching her. Remembering his promise, he kept one hand lightly on her forearm, not letting go.