To Die in Spring. Sylvia Maultash Warsh
jumped as the glass shattered. The pane in the front door. He was no longer pretending. He had no more reason for lies. He was inside.
“Help!” she cried, terror building in her chest. “Help me, someone!”
It was no use. Who would hear her? Mrs. Shane from upstairs was still in Florida. Bathurst Street outside was too noisy with cars.
“Help!” she shrieked. “Help!” Adrenaline pushed the sound from her throat despite logic.
The phone, she thought. Get to the phone. She jumped across the living-room toward the hall. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? She felt him behind her, a large breathing presence, as she reached the kitchen. She dared not turn but grabbed for the phone on the wall. The bear of a man lunged at her, knocking the phone from her hand. A growl of anger came from his chest as he pulled the phone cord out of the wall.
Regaining her balance, she fled back toward the front door, screaming. Someone would hear; someone would help. She just had to get outside. She was not even close when he grabbed her arm and swung her into the living-room like a rag doll.
“Help!” she yelled into the spring night. You cannot kill me while the blossoms are swelling on apple trees, she wanted to shout. But the sound that passed her lips became one long howl devoid of words.
Enraged, he stalked toward her, cap pulled down over his hair, eyes in shadow. Hiding his unfamiliar familiar face. His hands gestured wildly in the air, trying to quiet her down, his own voice raised. But she couldn’t hear him; she was making too much noise.
Panic numbed her brain but instinctively she turned toward the living-room window. If she could break the glass, if only she could get someone’s attention. She just had to reach the window. It was a mistake to turn her back on him. She realized this in a second but it was too late. She gasped as her head snapped back, forced by the cord around her neck. He was so strong he was lifting her off the ground by her neck. She scraped at the cord with her fingers, she tore at it, scratching her own skin as the breath escaped from her body. She flailed at the air with her arms, her feet, she could no longer make a sound, her mouth open to no avail as the room fogged up, began to disappear as if she and it were going in different directions. He was so strong, he was squeezing the breath from her into the fog of the living-room, her body a vessel spilling air, convulsing, leaking air like a dying balloon, until she was empty and the living-room was full.
chapter seven
Wednesday, April 4, 1979
Rebecca bent over a stack of patient files on her desk. This was the part of medical practice she could have lived without. Paperwork. She could spend hours filling out forms — insurance forms, Workman’s Compensation forms, disability claim forms. Referrals had to be written for patients she was sending to cardiologists, internists, allergists; charts to be updated with the morning’s lab test results.
She was expecting Iris to interrupt her upon the arrival of her first patient of the afternoon. But it was 1:15 p.m. before Rebecca surfaced from her papers and realized Iris was overdue.
She stepped out of her office and glanced at the empty waiting room. “Did Mrs. Kochinsky cancel her one o’clock appointment?”
Iris looked up from her papers, her spectacles part way down her nose. “I haven’t heard from her.”
Rebecca’s eyes were drawn to the violent energy in the Van Gogh on the wall. “She usually calls if she can’t make it.”
“I’ll give her a ring,” Iris said, opening Mrs. Kochinsky’s file. She dialed the number.
Rebecca watched her face go blank listening to the futile rings. Maybe the American cousin had arrived for his visit, Rebecca thought. Maybe she’d lost track of time.
Since she always saw Mrs. Kochinsky for an hour, no patients were scheduled before two. But her two o’clock patient arrived at one-thirty and it was fivethirty before the procession of patients let up. She had been distracted all afternoon, but it wasn’t until a perceptive patient asked her how she was feeling that she realized something was bothering her. Now, with a moment to herself, she thought of Mrs. Kochinsky flying into the office yesterday, breathless and erratic. It was only the second time she had seen the poor woman since resuming her practice. Had Mrs. Kochinsky’s mental health degenerated over the winter? There was no immediate family to call. Her sister had been taken to the nursing home.
She approached Iris’ desk and handed her the last patient’s file. The waiting-room was empty. The Van Gogh roiled above the upholstered mauve chairs.
“Am I finished?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No word from Mrs. Kochinsky?”
Iris shook her head.
The phone rang. “Dr. Temple’s office,” said Iris.
After a moment of listening, she turned to Rebecca. “It’s Mrs. Morgan. She wants to renew her prescription for cardizem on the phone.” One winged eyebrow climbed in disapproval.
Rebecca took the receiver. “Mrs. Morgan? Was that Dr. Romanov’s prescription? Is your angina acting up, then? You’re on 60 mg. No. You’ll have to come in so I can check you over. Well, I understand, Mrs. Morgan, but I can’t prescribe the drug without examining you. I’ll give you to Iris and you can make an appointment.”
Rebecca fell into the other chair behind the partition and peered over the test results of Mr. Batner’s blood sugar, Miss Chow’s urine.
“You look bushed,” said Iris after hanging up.
“Better skip the jogging today.”
“I just walk around the block.”
“Better watch yourself. You don’t want to get any of those knee injuries.”
“I’m not jogging. I’m not even running.”
“Keep it that way,” she said. “I need this job.”
Rebecca gave her a crooked smile. But she was tired. Automatically she took out some charts and began to update them with the latest test results.
Iris went back to filling in the day’s health insurance chits. She had taken off her tailored grey suit jacket and sat demurely in a white silk blouse. Rebecca was grateful Iris was still interested in working for her — she didn’t need the money judging by her wardrobe and regular visits to an expensive hairdresser.
After twenty minutes, Iris looked up over her glasses. “I know what’ll put some colour back into those cheeks. What do you say we go for some Chinese.”
Rebecca grabbed her gabardine jacket and locked up. They made their way down the stairs.
“Parents coming home soon?” Iris asked, her patent leather heels clunking down the steps behind Rebecca.
“They’ll be back next week for Passover.”
She pushed open the back door of the converted house. What little yard had existed was paved over with asphalt. Iris’ Buick and Rebecca’s Jaguar coupe stood in the waning sun. Behind the buildings opposite, a common laneway of cracked cement ran between rows of garages; their wood, grey with age, leaned in various stages of decay. Rebecca’s heart dipped at the sight of the backsides of these houses, always shabbier than the fronts, always the last resting place of things that had outlived their usefulness. The houses, made up like dowagers on the street-side, with lace trim and correct sashes in place, sagged in the rear, so to speak. Rusting tools lay where they had fallen, wood buckled from the sun. Last year’s chrysanthemums, desiccated, pathetic, crumbled sideways in overturned pots.
“Do you ever watch The Fonz?” Iris said as they stepped onto the sidewalk of D’ Arcy Street.
“The what?”
“You must’ve heard of ‘Happy Days.’ It’s on Tuesday nights.