“There,” she bent down and looked at his hand closely, “I don’t think there’s any glass left.” She spread antibiotic cream over the cuts and put a gauze pad over the area.
“Here,” she took his other hand, “hold this in place while I cut some tape.” She looked at him and smiled. “I like your taste in wine, I drink the same kind.” He didn’t reply. He couldn’t reply.
When she finished she lead him back to the sofa in the atrium. “Please sit, it’s all right.”
Teresa went back to the kitchen, got a cloth and some paper towel. She cleaned up the glass and blood on the floor where he’d broken the glass.
“You mustn’t let blood stay on a beautiful floor like this. Blood is a terrible stainer.”
She shouldn’t be doing that. He was helpless before her certainty. A hundred shouting madmen couldn’t have caused more chaos. His own world was so tightly held in place it took very little to break the pattern. He’d been on the loosing edge of entropy too long. Chaos, even madness was just around the corner.
Teresa went back to the sofa and sat several feet from Vincent.
“Mr. Vankelis, I know this is upsetting. I didn’t handle it very well, but I must have an answer to my question.”
Vincent stiffened, his hands balled into fists. He could not look at her.
“Believe me nothing you say will go beyond this room. I don’t want to upset you.” She paused to think. “I can’t just forget it, but I don’t want to report something I don’t understand. If I arrest someone for B&E, you know, breaking and entering, I know what law to apply. If I get a drug dealer, I know why. I know where things fit in the law. I have evidence that you are a peeping tom, but no peeper I ever heard of avoids things sexual, and says good night with such affection.”
“Stop!” Vincent shouted. “Leave my family out of it!” He slammed his balled fists onto the top of the glass table. The glass, an inch thick, shattered and fell to the floor.
Vincent stood and looked around the room wildly. No way out!
“Please, go away. I hurt no one!” Every word squeezed out with the greatest effort. “I don’t, I touch no one’s life. They, do not touch me...that’s the way it has to be! I promised.”
His voice faded into a whisper, his pain, a palpable force in the room. He sat on the couch heavily, head bowed to his knees.
Teresa could not look at him any more. I shouldn’t have come. This hurts too much. It’s breaking my heart. What a silly phrase. God, it hurts.
Vincent looked up at her with stunned curiosity. Unable to stop himself he reached out and touched her face. His hand was large and square. She could see every individual hair on his knuckles.
She didn’t realize tears were streaming down her face. He looked at the moisture on his finger tip.
“Why do you do this? I don’t want to hurt you. I promised I would never, never make anyone cry.” His hands lay open, forgotten on his knees. “Families may make each other cry.”
Teresa looked at him and hurt. Always the accent on the family. He wasn’t talking to her any more.
“I am not allowed. I promised, I am not allowed.” Each word desperate, filled with shame, blame and regret. He turned to her again, held out his hands.
“Am I to be punished...forever?”
The tears ran down her face faster. Without knowing how or why he’d broken all her police officer’s barriers, the ones that surrounded all the tragic and terrible things seen on the job day after day.
She got up stiffly. “Please...” Her voice unnatural, “Is there a bathroom?”
He pointed to a hall. She went there hurriedly. Inside she sat on the edge of a tub and wept, hard. She couldn’t stop. A hundred moments of tears withheld waiting to be wept.
Vincent followed her. He stood outside the door, helpless.
It finally eased. She got up and washed her face. She looked at the stranger in the mirror.
“What are you doing? What in God’s name are you doing!”
When she came out he stood near the door. She looked at his hand. It still bled and there was a large, red blot on the bandage.
She took a deep shaky breath and gave a small smile. “C’mon, you ruined all my good work.”
He followed her back to the kitchen. She rewrapped the bandage. “Please, don’t hit anything again.”
Vincent didn’t answer. Teresa looked at him, waiting for an answer. He nodded an acknowledgment.
“Good. Vincent,” she unknowingly used his first name, “I’m sorry I cried. I haven’t done that in a long time. Your hurt made me hurt, it was all there, waiting. Being a police officer isn’t easy. I see terrible things, almost every day and I have to shut them out, do my job.”
She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles like a little girl.
“I work with men; those bastards are born knowing how to hide it.”
Vincent listened to her with complete attention.
“It wasn’t you, really. Punish yourself if you must, but not on my account. I’m tired, I feel better, but I’m worn out.”
Vincent spoke hesitantly. “Mrs. Peerson always feels better after she cries.”
“Mr. Vankelis, I came here certain about everything, sure about what I should do, now I’m not. I’m tired and I’m hungry, and I’m not sure at all. I’m going home, make some spaghetti and go to bed.”
She got up and walked to the door. She turned to Vincent. “Vincent, no more Peersons, please. You can’t do that any more.”
She walked to her car. Vincent followed hesitantly, trying to say something. As she got in her car and drove away, he whispered.
“I’m a good cook, Officer Keely.”
Chapter 10
Vincent sat on the sofa. He stared at the pile of broken glass that used to be the coffee table. His thoughts were miles and years in the past.
In a very real waking dream, he was being pulled through space like a chip of wood in a torrent.
The Orphanage. His feet barely touched the polished hardwood floor. Father Eustace towered over the five year old boy, his long, fish belly-white fingers clutched Vincent’s arm painfully.
Horse-faced with large stained teeth, Father Eustace hissed a litany of instructions in Vincent’s face.
On this day orphans were shown to prospective parents. Most of the boys didn’t care or think about having parents. Never having known real affection, they couldn’t conceive of a mother’s care, or the safety of a father, someone who would stand between them and the hurts of life.
What they understood was freedom, escape. To the last boy they would have done anything to get away from the rigid cruelty of the orphanage.
Father Eustace’s fingers would leave dark bruises on Vincent’s arm. The orders never let up down the length of the hall.
“Don’t spit. Don’t scratch. Don’t pick your nose. Smile. If you aren’t selected, you’ll be sorry. It costs a lot of money to look after the bastard sons of lust. Tell them you’re well cared for.”
It didn’t matter that Vincent didn’t answer.
On the sofa in the atrium, Vincent rocked and swayed, jerked and twisted as a fighter avoiding a hail of blows, but the pictures came too fast. Memories too powerful to suppress were