Thirteen Crucifixions, 53

                                                               1984

            It had all gone well.  Now Carol could look forward to sleeping in her own bed.  Extraordinarily kind people were Dwight and Margery.  She sat on the edge of her bed with a cup of tea in her hand.  The white cherry blossoms outside her window shone in the gentle spring light, and rainbows from her pendant crystal ran across Gandhi’s wizened brown face.  She liked where she lived.  It worked.  They had gone out for breakfast—brunch actually, and Carol gorged on pancakes.  She was glad she had her appetite, though she didn’t want to gain weight.  Doris, to whom she’d just spoken on the phone, had given her the week off from the Peace Coalition.  She could go to the Island to visit her parents.  She didn't know what to tell her father about Richard.  He had judged their relationship as immoral, and Richard as the devil’s instrument to further lead his daughter down the road to hell.  Perhaps she’d leave off seeing them just yet.  So then, what should she do with her time off?  She could see people, read, go for walks, clean and reorganize her place.  Carol didn’t know what to do.  She was not used to not working, to being inactive.  Doris had forbidden her to work this week.  She would need time to recover.  The phone rang.

            “Carol, it’s Glen.”

            “Oh, hi.  How are you?”

            “I’ve had better days, but I actually feel I should warn you about something.”

            “What?”

            “Last night when we were in the lounge.  And you were becoming upset?  Well, it turned out that journalist, Derek Merkeley was there, watching you the whole time.  You might want to get hold of his editor before they publish anything libelous.”

            “Oh my God!  Yes, I certainly will call them.  Thank you.  By the way, Glen, what did you get up to last night?”

            “Can I tell you later?”

            “Somewhere around eleven you were strongly on my mind, and for the next hour or so.  I only got concerned when this morning Dwight and Margery said the same thing.”

            “It’s a bit of a long story, but I saw Bryan get beaten unconscious.  He’s in hospital now.”

            “How is he?”

            “He’s in a coma.  They’ve just upgraded his condition from critical to serious, but they still don’t know that he’s going to pull through.  If he does it’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t turn into a vegetable.”

            “Is he a good friend of yours?”

            “We’ve known each other for five or six years.”

            “How are you doing?”

            “A bit shaken up.  Pretty tired from everything.”

            “Hey, why don’t you swing by for dinner.”

            “I can’t.  I have to be at the Pitstop at five.  My sister wants to train me as a waiter.”

            “Well, good luck then.  How about midweek?”

            “Wednesday’s good, depending on my schedule.  I’ll let you know Tuesday.”

            “Ta-ta, and good luck.”

            “Thanks, Carol.  ‘Bye.”

            She knew exactly where she’d left Derek’s card.  She rang his number.

            “Hello?”

            “Hello, Derek?”  It’s Carol Hartley-Atkinson calling.”

            “Oh, hello, Carol.”  If he was a cat, he'd be purring.

            “Look, I just heard that you were spying on me last night at the Miramar lounge.  Derek, please, when is this going to stop?  Do you realize how close I am to pressing libel and harassment charges?”

            “My dear Carol, you should know by now that I write only what I see, and even my editors agree that I have given you only the fairest and most objective treatment.”

            “So then you’re going to run an article about last night?”

            “Our readers do like to stay informed.”

            “Derek, please don’t run that article.”

            “Carol, you publicly humiliated me yesterday.”

            “You asked for it!  Don’t print that article.”

            “Oh, but Carol, YOU asked for it.”

            “Derek, please.  Don’t.  I’ll do anything.”

            “And how much of anything are you inclined to do?”

            “Derek, please, don’t put me in another awkward position.”

            “You’ve already done that for yourself.  But listen, I think I have a way out for you.  But you’re going to have to be very cooperative.  What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

            “Derek, I do not want to do dinner, nor anything else with you, not tonight, not ever.”     

            “It’s on me.  Simply name the place.”

            “The Pitstop.”

            “Oh, Carol, any place but there.”

            “I mean it, Derek.”

            “Okay.  What time?”

            “Five.”

            “That’s in two and a half hours?”

            “I’ll be there with bells on.”

            She hung up the phone. “Fuck!  When does it ever end!  Does it ever end?”  She sat again on her bed.  She was shaking.  Violently.  She began to hyperventilate.  Reaching for the phone, she dialed Doris’ number. There was no answer.  Just as her answering machine kicked in Carol hung up the phone.  She forced her breathing to slow.  Deep, steady, slow.  Deep, steady, slow, deep, steady, slow, deep, steady, slow.  Gradually the trembling subsided.  She was still weeping.  She knew exactly what was happening.  Her body cried, screamed for Derek.  Otherwise, he was a repulsive, venal reptile not worth an offering of her own precious saliva.  She hungered for him.  She wanted his body, and surely she would have him.  She slipped into a brief, restful unconsciousness.  When she woke up she reached for her phone and dialed Glen’s number.  He answered on the second ring.