‘Great,’ Finley said. ‘Now. What’s for dessert?’
She was seated on the floor between Abilene and Cora. They both struck out. Cora, quicker, hit her first. The two rough, open-handed shoves rocked her from side to side.
‘Hey hey hey! Easy on the merchandise! I was just kidding, for Godsake!’
Helen sighed. ‘Remember those sundaes they had at the Delight?’
‘Oh, they were great,’ Finley said.
‘Maxwell and I used to go there all the time. You could build your own at the sundae bar, load them up with hot fudge and marshmallow toppings — butterscotch — and a big pile of whipped cream on top — maraschino cherries and nuts.’
‘You shouldn’t even think about that kind of thing,’ Cora told her.
‘My weight never bothered Maxwell.’
‘That’s where you two went the night Wildman got you,’ Abilene said.
‘Yeah, that’s right. We went there after the movies.’
‘Wildman,’ Finley said.
‘What a crud,’ said Vivian.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They kidnapped Andy ‘Wildman’ Wilde during their sophomore year.
They were living in an apartment half a mile from campus. A few times, on the rare occasions when they were all together with free time on their hands, Cora or Finley had suggested adventures: a weekend excursion to the ocean fifty miles west, hitchhiking (though they had cars), and sleeping on the beach; a clandestine overnight stay inside the Belmore Galleria shopping mall.
Abilene, remembering her vow to avoid further adventures, had insisted that hitchhiking to the beach was foolhardy and dangerous. Vivian and Helen had agreed. No one except Finley had been in favor of breaking into the shopping mall.
So they’d agreed, at least for the time being, to forget about spicing up their lives with another adventure.
That was a few weeks before Andy Wilde made the mistake of messing with Helen and her boyfriend, Maxwell Charron.
Maxwell, a poet, was a tall, soft-spoken young man who struck most people as being effeminate. He was generally referred to as Sharon.
Helen, who saw him frequently around campus, figured him for a pansy.
Then, on a beautiful day in early spring, Helen caught him
staring at her while she was eating her lunch in the shade of an oak tree. He sat cross-legged on the grass, a notebook on one knee. He gazed at her, looked down, scribbled with his pen, gazed at her some more.
For a while, he didn’t realize he was being observed. Then his mouth fell open. He closed his notebook, got to his feet and started to hurry away.
Helen rushed after him. ‘Hey!’
He halted. He faced her, grimacing and blushing.
‘What were you doing back there?’
‘Me? Nothing.’
‘Were you sketching me?’
‘No. Honest.’
‘I mean, it’s all right if you were.’
‘I wasn’t. No.’
‘Could I see?’
‘No, really. I was only…’
‘Please?’
With a long sigh, he opened his notebook and handed it to her.
She sits lonely, so alone,
Like me Outcast
Solemn in her solitude
Lovelv
Solitary tulip
In rank weeds
Unloved
Unpicked
Kissed only
By the shy breeze
Caressed only
By my eyes
‘You wrote this just now?’ Helen asked.
He shrugged and nodded.
‘It’s about me?’
‘Well… Kind of. I guess you might say you were the inspiration. You looked sort of lonely sitting there.’
‘I think it’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Could I make a copy of it?’
‘Well, I’ll copy it for you.’
‘Would you like to go over to the student union with me? We could have coffee, or something.’
That was how it began. She told Abilene and the others about it, late that night. She showed the poem. She told about their conversation in the student union, and how they’d both cut theii afternoon classes and spent hours wandering together, eaten supper at a downtown diner, gone to a movie theater and watched The Hungry Dead, then roamed through the parks.
‘He’s just so fabulously wonderful,’ she said. ‘He even likes horror movies. Can you believe it? I think he really likes me.’ After that, she saw him every day. She was often out late at night. Abilene had never seen her so happy.
Until the night she came home bloody and crying.
She and Maxwell, returning on foot after enjoying their sundaes at the Delight ice cream parlor, had been halfway across a street when a Porsche failed to stop for the red light and stunned them with a quick right turn. As it shot by, barely missing them, Maxwell kicked its side and shouted, ‘Asshole!’
Brakes screeched.
‘Uh-oh,’ Maxwell said.
‘Let’s get out of here!’ Pulling his hand, Helen raced for the corner.
She didn’t dare look back. But she heard a second squeal of brakes. Heard a door slam. Heard a shout. ‘You’re gonna die!’ Then quick smacking footfalls on the sidewalk behind her.
The street was empty and quiet. The shops on both sides were closed for the night.
‘This way,’ Maxwell gasped. He dashed into the street, Helen at his side. They ran up the center line. It seemed like a good idea. Better to be out in the open, under the bright glow of lights, than off to the side where their pursuer might overtake them in the shadows and work his violence in the privacy of an alley or store entryway. And a car was sure to come along, sooner or later. Someone would stop and help.
But the road ahead remained empty. As if everyone in town except Helen and Maxwell and the man giving chase were asleep or dead.
He was gaining on them.
Helen realized that Maxwell was holding back. Staying with her, even though he was capable of running much faster.
‘Go!’ she gasped. ‘It’s you he’s after.’
‘True.’
With that, he halted and turned around.
‘Max!’
‘Run!’ he yelled over his shoulder.
He was still looking over his shoulder at Helen and before she could call out a warning, the man from the Porsche shouldered into his belly. Lifted him off his feet. Drove him backward, rump first. Slammed him down on the pavement.
Maxwell cried out as he skidded.
The assailant, straddling him, punched Maxwell’s face. Right fist, left fist, right, left.
It was then that Helen recognized him.
Andy ‘Wildman’ Wilde.
A senior. A star of the wrestling team.
A skinny, short little guy. But quick and strong.
Quick enough to grab Helen’s foot when she tried to kick him in the face. Strong enough to throw it high with just one hand, hurling Helen onto her back.
‘Stay out of it, lard-ass!’ he warned as she got to her feet.
‘Leave him alone!’
‘Beat it.’ He resumed punching Maxwell.
Helen dived onto him, hugging his head, throwing him sideways to the pavement. So fast that she didn’t know what was happening, he slipped out of her hold, rolled her and came down on top of her. He pinned her arms beneath her back. He began to strike her face.
Open handed. Slapping, not punching. Apparently in deference to her sex.
‘A fuckin’ gentleman,’ Cora said as she listened to Helen’s story.
‘Well then I called him a dickless pip-squeak.’
‘Smart move,’ Finley said.
‘So after that he really slugged me.’
‘Nobody came along?’ Abilene asked.
Helen shook her head.
‘Anyway, he finally just quit and went back to his car.’
‘How’s Maxwell?’ Vivian asked.
‘Oh, he was…’ Her chin shook. She began weeping again. ‘His face was awful. All bloody, and… He was so much worse than me, but when he crawled over and looked down… He started to cry. It was like he didn’t even care about himself. He cried and touched my face and kept saying, “Oh, Tulip. Oh, Tulip.” Helen shuddered with a sob.