“Stop it!” Bill shouted, seizing her by the arms and pulling her roughly to her feet.
“Daddydaddy daddydaddy daddydaddydaddy.…” the high-pitched clutter of words spilled out through the open door beside them.
“S-she’s looking for her … daddy!” Janice sobbed with rising hysteria.
“Janice!” Bill shouted again, louder, and shook her hard. “Stop it, Janice!”
The sharpness of his voice was therapeutic. The sobs suddenly abated, became dry heaves in a face that was pale and filled with terror and confusion.
“Call Dr. Kaplan! I’ll take care of Ivy! Go now, hurry!”
Janice faltered, glanced about like a person caught in the middle of her own nightmare. She started to move, then stopped as the squealing, beseeching “Daddydaddy daddydaddydaddy …” grew stronger and more demanding, the sound of furniture toppling and things spilling—books, dolls, games, balls—grew more pronounced.
“Go, Janice!” Bill commanded.
Janice looked at Bill with eyes that fought for composure; then, pulling herself together with obvious effort, she began to edge furtively away toward their bedroom, glancing rapidly back toward Ivy’s room, as if fearing the sudden emergence of something monstrous.
Bill waited till Janice had entered their bedroom before turning to the lilting voice and the desperate sounds of his daughter’s room.
“Daddydaddy daddydaddydaddy.…” The piercing staccato became more frenetic as the slight body jumped upon the bed and started kicking at the bedsheets which impeded forward momentum, finally forcing her to fling herself, headfirst, onto the floor to escape their tangling grip. Bill shuddered at the sound her forehead made as it connected solidly with the corner leg of the pink and white dresser. He charged forward to grasp her, to help her, to comfort her, but she deftly eluded his arms and, oblivious of injury or pain, continued her madcap roundelay uninterrupted. Her hair, newly washed and dried, was frizzed up in a bouffant halo around her face, making it seem smaller than normal and lending a note of insanity to the dainty, flushed features and bright saucer eyes roving constantly in search of “Daddydaddy daddydaddydaddy.…” Bill could see a red welt begin to appear on her forehead directly above her left eye. She had hurt herself terribly. A sudden rush of fear swept through Bill. He had to do something to stop her from disfiguring herself.
“Ivy!” he shouted, taking a step toward the child, now climbing over a chair that had toppled over. “Ivy! It’s Daddy! I’m here, Ivy!” Consciously or unconsciously, his voice had taken on the same tone and timbre as Hoover’s voice. “Ivy! I’m here, Ivy! Here, darling!”
Ivy seemed neither to see him nor to hear him, as she clambered to her feet and tripped across the room to the window and started to make grasping gestures at the glass, drawing quickly back from the cold pane whenever her flexing fingers got too close, her fierce and frightened voice reverting to its former plea of “Daddydaddydaddy mommy-mommymommy hothothothot daddydaddydaddy.…”
Bill took several steps closer to her and sank to his knees. “Over here, Ivy! It’s Daddy! This way, darling!”
Suddenly, as if his words had got through to her, she spun about and stared at him with large, questioning eyes.
“Daddydaddy, daddy, daddy.…” The panic in her voice lessened; the pitch descended; the big eyes sought, searched, probed through some invisible density for a glimmer of light.
Bill was encouraged. He was making contact. She had calmed down noticeably. She seemed to be hearing, listening. He raise two arms to her and stretched out beckoning fingers and in a strong, hopeful voice offered her the sanctuary she seemed to be seeking.
“This way, Ivy! Come! It’s Daddy! Come!”
Even as he spoke, the waxen pallor of her feverish checks increased until she looked like a corpse with living eyes.
“Ivy! THIS WAY, IVY! COME! IT’S DADDY!” His voice rose with fierce excitement. His fingers clutched at her nightgown.
At his touch, she drew back sharply as if struck and spun about toward the window, seeking escape, her voice rising in pitch and hysteria, “Daddydaddy daddydaddy daddydaddy …, ” her two hands slamming against the frosted glass in desperation and panic, then pulling away with a terrible scream of pain, “Hothothothot hothothothot HOTHOTHOTHOTHOT” over and over, holding up her hands before her tearful, anguished eyes, studying the burned and blistering flesh.
Seeing the awful redness of his child’s hands deepen and a blister begin to form on the middle finger of her left hand, Bill feared he would collapse and faint. This wasn’t possible, wasn’t reasonable. The glass was cold, frosted over.… Somehow he managed to raise himself to his feet and stood like an automaton, hovering helplessly above the weeping form of his darling child, who was rocking back and forth on her knees, softly crooning, “Daddy, daddy, daddy, hothothothot …, ” licking the scorched fingers of her hands, the high, melodious whimpers and sobs commingling with the sharp hiss of the radiator directly behind her.
The radiator!
Bill’s eyes widened with suppressed excitement as the simple, factual, logical culprit stood before him, beneath the window, its scalding cast-iron panels releasing jets of steam through a nozzle designed to relieve the awful pressure of its boiling interior.
“Oh, God—her hands!” Janice’s stark voice came from the doorway, causing Bill to jump and spin about. She stood in the doorway, backlit by the hall light, staring down at Ivy, rocking pitifully back and forth in a paroxysm of sobs and lamentations, “Daddydaddydaddy hothothothot …, ” licking and sucking her burned fingers.
“What happened?” Janice gasped, taking a step into the room.
“The radiator—she fell against it and burned her fingers.”
Janice began to sway unsteadily. Bill reached out and held her. “Have we got something in the house?”
“There’s … there’s some ointment in the kitchen cabinet.”
“Stay with her. I’ll get it.” Bill gently forced Janice to sit on the edge of the bed and started to leave. At the door he turned.
“What about Kaplan?”
“He’s coming.…” The voice was dull, lackluster.
Bill left the room, closing the door.
Expressionless, Janice could only sit and watch the moaning, weeping, rocking bundle of misery across the room, the pink tongue licking furiously at the welting fingers, the squealing voice intoning, “Daddydaddy daddydaddy.…”
Ivy! Dear God! It was Ivy! Her Ivy! Her baby! Alone, abandoned, hurting! Needing! Locked in the steel vault of her nightmare. Unable to get out. Struggling to survive—to stay alive till help came. Help? What help? What combination was there to open the door—to release her from her terrible bondage? For Ivy, there was none. No combination. None. For Ivy, none. But!
“Audrey! Audrey Rose! Come!”
The voice was soft, barely a whisper. Gentle. Humble. Begging.
“… daddydaddy daddydaddy daddyhothothothot.…”
“Audrey Rose! I’m here, Audrey!”
Inviting. Entreating. Insisting.
“… hothothothot daddydaddy daddydaddy.…”
“AUDREY ROSE! COME!”