Winnie told her then that Tom's wife was having another baby. And they both laughed wondering how long it would take for Bill's wife to start another baby too. The two men were like clones of each other.
After they left the restaurant, they hailed a taxi and Grace dropped Winnie off and went home herself, thinking how much she liked her job now.
Charles went to California again in June, but he didn't take her this time. He only stayed for a day, and he said it wasn't worth it. And the weekend he came back, she worked with him on Saturday in the office. They worked till six o'clock, and he apologized for not taking her to dinner afterwards. He had a date, but he felt terrible working her all day and then not doing anything to reward her.
“Next week you should take a friend to ‘21’ and charge it to me,” he suggested, looking pleased at the idea, “or tonight, if you like.” Grace knew immediately that she'd take Winnie, and the older woman would be ecstatic about it.
“You don't have to do that for me,” Grace said shyly.
“I want to. You have to get something out of this, you know. There are supposed to be perks for working for the boss. I'm not sure what they're supposed to be, but dinner at ‘21’ should definitely be one of them, so make yourself a reservation.” He never tried to take her out and she loved that about him. She was completely relaxed with him now. And she thanked him again before they both left. She thought he had a date with someone new, and she somehow had the impression that she was a lawyer in a rival law firm. There had been a lot of messages lately from Spielberg and Stein.
She stayed home and watched television that night, but she called Winnie and told her about their dinner at ‘21,’ and Winnie was so excited, she said she wouldn't sleep in the meantime.
And the next day, Grace went down to St. Andrew's as usual. The weather was still warm, and there were lots of people in the streets now, which, in some ways, made it safer for her.
She had a long, hard day, working with the new intakes. The warm weather was bringing them in in droves. Somehow, there always seemed to be new excuses for their beatings.
She had dinner in the kitchen with Sister Eugene and Father Tim and she was telling them about the movie stars she'd seen in the lobby of the hotel when she went to California.
“All was well?” he asked. They hadn't had time to talk about it in the month since she'd been there and back, but he assumed so, or she would have told him.
“It was great.” She beamed.
It was eleven o'clock when she left, which was later than she usually left on a Sunday. She thought about taking a cab, but the weather was so warm, she decided to take the subway after all. She hadn't even gotten a block away when someone grabbed her arm and yanked her hard into a doorway. She saw instantly that he was a tall, thin black man, and she suspected that he was a drug addict or just a petty thief. Something in her gut went tight, and she watched him as he shook her hard and then slammed her against the door where they were standing.
“You think you're a smart bitch, don't you? You think you know it all …” He put his hands around her throat, and her eyes never left his. He didn't seem to want her money. All he wanted was to abuse her.
“I don't know anything,” she said calmly, not wanting to frighten him, as he almost strangled her in a fury. “Let go, man … you don't want to do this.”
“Oh yes, I do,” and then, in a single gesture, he flicked out a long, thin knife and pressed it to her throat with a single practiced gesture. Without moving an inch, she was instantly reminded of her time in prison. But there was no one to save her now … no Luana … no Sally …
“Don't do it … just take my bag. There's fifty dollars in it, it's all I've got … and my watch.” She held her arm out. It was the farewell gift Cheryl had given her in Chicago, A small price to pay for her life now.
“I don't want your fucking watch, bitch … I want Isella.”
“Isella?” She had no idea what he was talking about. He reeked of cheap Scotch and sweat as he held her against his chest with his switchblade at her throat.
“My wife … you took my wife … and now she won't come back … she says she's goin’ back to Cleveland …”
It was about St. Andrew's, then, and one of the women she'd helped there.
“I didn't take her … I didn't do anything … maybe you should talk to her … maybe if you get help, she'll come back …”
“You took my kids …” He was crying then, and his whole body seemed to be twitching, as she frantically searched her memory for a woman named Isella, but she couldn't remember her. She saw so many women there. She wondered if she'd ever seen this one. Usually, she remembered who they were. But not Isella.
“No one can take your kids away from you … or your wife … you have to talk to them … you need help … what's your name?” Maybe if she called him by name he wouldn't kill her.
“Sam … why do you care?”
“I care.” And then she thought of what might have been her only salvation. “I'm a nun … I gave my life to God for people like you, Sam … I've been in prisons … I've been in a lot of places … it's not going to do anyone any good if you hurt me.”
“You a nun?” he practically shrieked at her. “Shit … nobody told me that … shit …” He kicked the door behind her hard, but no one came. No one saw. No one cared on Delancey. “Why you messin’ with my bizness? Why you tell her to go home?”
“So you can't hurt her anymore. You don't want to hurt her, Sam … you don't want to hurt anyone …”
“Shit.” He started to cry in earnest. “Fucking nun,” he spat at her, “think you can do anything you want, for God. Fuck God … and fuck you … fuck all of you, bitch …” He grabbed her by the throat then, and banged her head hard into the door, it felt like it was full of sand and everything went gray and blurry for an instant, and then as she started to fall, she felt him kick her hard in the stomach, and then again, and someone was pounding on her face and she couldn't stop him. She couldn't call out to him. She couldn't say his name. It was a hailstorm of fists pounding on her face, her head, her stomach, her back, and then it stopped. She heard him run, she heard him shouting at her again, and then he was gone, and she lay tasting her own blood in the doorway.
The police found her that night, on their late night rounds, slumped over in the doorway. They poked her with their nightsticks, like they did the drunks, and then one of them saw her blood on it, shining in the streetlights.
“Shit,” he said, and called out to his partner, “get an ambulance, quick!” The officer knelt down next to Grace and felt for a pulse. It was barely there, but she still had one. And as he turned her over slowly on her back, he could see how badly she'd been beaten. Her face was covered with blood, and her hair was matted to her head. He wasn't sure if there were any broken bones or internal injuries, but she was gasping for air even in her unconscious state, and his partner came up to him a minute later.
“Whatcha got?”
“A bad one … she's not dressed for this neighborhood. God only knows where she came from.” He opened her handbag and looked in her wallet as they waited for the ambulance to come from Bellevue. “She lives on Eighty-fourth, she's a long way from home. She should know better than to walk around down here.”
“There's a crisis center down the street,” the policeman who had called the ambulance said as the other one checked her pulse again and put her handbag under her head as they laid her gently on the street. “She might work there. I'll check it out after you hop the ambulance, if you want.” One of them had to ride with her to make the report, if she lived that long. She wasn't looking good to either of them, her pulse was getting weaker, and so was her breathing.
The ambulance came less than five minutes later, with shrieking sirens, and the paramedics were quick to put her on a backboard and give her oxygen as they slid the board into the ambulance.