She hurried through the exit gate to meet Henry at the streetcar stop. From farther down Western Avenue came a grinding shriek, as the trolley raced toward Riverview. As it slowed in a shower of sparks and the smell of hot metal, a woman outside the Hippodrome began to scream.

Chapter 48

Chapter 48

HE SHUT THE door behind him and leaned against it, waiting until his heart slowed. The little bitch had attacked him. Like a rat springing from its nest, not asleep at all, not silent. He’d had to cover her mouth with both hands, and still she’d fought. Strong as a grown woman, how was that possible?

He licked his lips. His mouth tasted foul: a shiver of nausea passed through him as he remembered the bottle of cordial he’d finished. He dug a hand into his pocket and withdrew the Kewpie doll. The nausea became a spasm. His legs buckled and he knelt, retching.

After a few minutes he got unsteadily to his feet. The room’s stifling late-afternoon air was alive with dust motes. He recalled images from the movie: arms waving like underwater plants, the eyeless faces of the damned. A title card.

Hope not ever to see Heaven. I have come to lead you to the other shore; into eternal darkness, into fire and into ice.

He stared at the red half-moon imprinted on the back of his hand, where she’d drawn blood. He’d misjudged the amount of cordial in the lemon drops. It was the first time one had put up a fight, the first time he’d gazed down into eyes that were not a doll’s, glazed and placid, but those of a terrified child.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The orchestra had been loud enough to drown out any sounds, and that imbecilic usher hadn’t shown his head during the movie. The other couples scattered across the balcony had been engaged in their own skirmishes in their own velvet seats. No one had noticed his own.

But the girl’s struggle had made it impossible for him to maintain either illusion or excitement—all his energy had gone into silencing her. Her dress had been torn in the tussle; he’d taken it anyway, but it was spoiled, everything was spoiled.

He walked to the closet and unlocked it, pulling the torn calico dress from his pocket. It had been threadbare and patched to begin with. Now it was nothing but a rag. He couldn’t clothe her in that, couldn’t take the photographs he’d so meticulously planned in his head. He tossed the dress aside.