Chapter 11
MELODY WALKED up and down in her room most of the afternoon. Her mind was swirling with tattered thought. The harder she tried to still the voice of conscience, the more insistent it became.
She paced without pause, her hands clenched tight and her body taut. "How can I want him?" she whimpered. "How can I? I hate him, I hate what he did to me... " She fell silent. Was that the truth? Oh, it was easy enough to hate her unknown assailant. He had been cruel. He had hurt her. But did she really hate what he had done to her? No... It would be a lie to say so. Her body begged and ached for a repetition of his degrading treatment of her-miserable and horrid slut that she was.
Melody was still pacing when her mother walked in and eyed her stupidly. "You ate no dinner," she said nonsensically.
"I didn't want any dinner."
"I phoned Barry, dear. He said he was coming over. I'm surprised that he isn't here yet."
"Even if he were, I wouldn't see him. Can't you get that through your thick head?"
"Don't talk like that to me. I'm your mother. Anyhow, you know that you and Barry are promised-" Melody stopped pacing at last. She clenched her jaws to keep from screaming. "Didn't what I told you make any impression on you at all?"
Joyce made a shallow gesture with one hand, almost spilling the drink she held in the other. "You tell me lots of things, my dear. Specifically what are you referring to?"
Controlling herself with a titanic effort, Melody said as calmly as she could, "I told you I wouldn't marry him. Didn't you understand me? Then I'll repeat it. I will not marry Barry Norton, promised or not-and not you or anyone else can make me do it."
Joyce took a sip from her glass. "But Melody, dear, you are promised. And I'm sure you will marry him."
Melody stared at her dizzily. How, she asked herself despairingly, do you talk to a woman like that? "Mother, get out of my room."
"Why, dear?"
"Because you're a fool. Apparently you are simply too stupid to understand anything I say."
"Be careful," Joyce said ominously. "I'm still your mother."
"I can hardly believe that."
Joyce swallowed jerkily. "What do you mean?" she blazed.
Melody was taken aback. Her mother was positively infuriated! "I just made a remark. All I meant was that you don't care a fig about what I think, what my wishes are. You persist in sticking to that archaic business of being promised. I dare say Dad and Mr. Norton made that promise as a big joke when they were drunk together-" Joyce was not listening. "Don't ever make remarks again about me not being your mother," she said harshly.
The girl looked at her stonily. "Why are you so upset? Maybe I should investigate. Maybe you really aren't my mother."
The woman went pale. "How would you like to be locked in your room?"
"I'd climb out of the window."
"I'd lock the window."
"What would keep me from unlocking it? I think you're out of your mind, if you want an opinion."
Joyce went purple with fury. Turning, she slammed out of the room.
The girl ran to the bed and fell face downward on the snowy counterpane, her shoulders jerking with sobs. After a time the sobbing ceased. A tremendous shudder tore through her.
She shoved her face into the pillow and beat her head with her fists. Then, moaning, she jumped up and went into her adjoining bathroom. There she slammed the door and locked it. Furiously she stripped off her pajamas and stared at herself in the full-length mirror.
"I don't look like a street-walker," she cried, "but I'm rotten, rotten, and I can't help it... I'm rotten inside and out and someone has been inside me and I want him again... Oh, God!" She sank to her knees, head falling forward, soft hair cascading across her face.
She remained in that position for some time, wild thoughts scattering through her mind like confetti blown from an airpipe. She got up slowly, arms pressed to her head as though to ward off some danger, and walked slowly out into her room. She stood nude in the middle of the floor for a while, not pacing, suddenly not even thinking.
Then something within her seemed to crack. She screamed and ran madly toward the big picture window near her bed. She burst through the glass with a tremendous crash and fell three feet to the ground.
Rod skidded the Packard to a halt. He jumped out of the car, Nola and Lora right behind him. As the three ran up the steps to the veranda, Rod snapped at Lora, "Call Missy Blumendahl's. Dr. Fontenot and Dr. Hackthorne are there."
"Can't," she panted as they hurried into the house. "Sumpn's wrong with the phone. I tried. I brung her back to her room. She's on the bed."
Joyce was in the bedroom running her fingers through her fallen hair and screaming like someone demented. "Shut her up," rasped Rod. He bent over the bleeding girl.
Lora slapped Joyce with such lustiness that the woman tumbled to the rug. But the screaming ceased. "Get towels," Rod snapped at Nola. There were innumerable small, superficial lacerations all over Melody's body. While all were bleeding freely, only one seemed serious-a long, deep gash below the neck. A couple of inches higher and it might have reached the carotid artery.
"Now, I'm going to pull this rip together," Rod told Nola after he swabbed away the blood and made a swift examination. "Get me a sewing needle and any kind of strong thread. Don't waste time trying to sterilize it. She's losing blood fast-" Nola raced off with Lora to find the wanted articles. When they returned, Rod was staring down at Melody. He had realized how beautiful she was. What had driven her to mangle herself? Most women of beauty were careful at all costs not to risk marring it.
He tied off three of the worst bleeders, then brought the edges of the jagged wound together with four mattress sutures that might have been deemed insufficient but were enough to serve his purpose. "All right, now. Dress her in clean pajamas."
"But she'll bleed all over them," bleated Joyce, who had regained her feet.
He looked at her, choking with annoyance. "Too damn bad!" He turned to Nola and Lora. "Clean pajamas, and if you can find a terrycloth robe or some such thing, wrap her in that. Otherwise use an armload of towels. Move!"
Two hours later, they were sitting in Dr. Fontenot's office at the clinic and drinking strong coffee. Present were Dr. Fontenot, Dr. Hackthorne-complaining bitterly that being an invalid he should not have been dragged out-Dr. Barrett and Missy Blumendahl.
"So go ahead," said Missy, as she sugared her coffee. "Tell it."
"She ran through the window, apparently," said Rod. "Lora stopped us on the road. I guess she was looking for anyone to stop. Their telephone isn't working. Dr. Fontenot, what was her blood pressure?"
"One hundred over sixty-five. I've started five percent glucose. I don't think she'll need a transfusion." He looked at Rod a little apologetically. "I removed your bleeder sutures. I doubted that they were sterile."
Rod chuckled. "Nothing was sterile. Right then I wasn't sure how much blood she had lost, and she looked about ready to go bad on me. I was in a hurry, I'll tell you."
"Where's Joyce?" queried Missy, poking her lips into a pout.
"Oh, her... " Rod hesitated.
"Hah, of course. Too drunk to make it here."
"Well, she did seem a little unsteady. Frankly she was one hell of a nuisance. She had a really colorful fit of hysterics and Lora slapped her hard enough to knock her down."
Missy brayed with laughter. "I guess Lora has been wantin' to do that for a long time. And where, may I ask, is Nola? I entrusted you to her care, Rod, remember?"
Dr. Fontenot said, "She's with the patient, of course. She'll remain the rest of the night."
Dr. Hackthorne fidgeted, searching for a comfortable position. "I never saw two gals better off in the looks department. Any luck with Nola?"
"Yes, sir," replied Rod. "She's agreed to be my office nurse. But I'm not sure it's a good idea."
"Why isn't it?" Missy fiercely blasted.
Rod shrugged. "You know why. I'm gun shy. Think what working with her day in and day out will mean." He did not mention that the incident in the drive-in had given him much food for thought.
Missy snorted. "I've got another thought for you. Suppose you didn't have her there day in and day out. How long do you think a filly with a shape like hers will go unroped? Unless you get your lasso around her, you'll lose the finest piece of woman-flesh you ever saw in your life."
He flushed. "What makes you think she would welcome the rope? I see no evidence that she finds me especially attractive." He was thinking again of that strange occurrence in the drive-in-the man there, and Nola's blurted confession that she had encouraged him. Who the hell was that man, anyway?
"Listen," persisted Missy, "I was watching when she first glanced at you, Rod. I'm telling you, she went in right up to the hairline."
Dr. Fontenot gave a dry giggle, but obviously he felt it was time to change the subject. "Rod," he said, "I've been doing what I can to help Melody Flemming. Now it's time a psychiatrist stuck his oar in, don't you think? I mean, when a young girl gashes herself by jumping through a window... "
A short discussion followed about what might have caused Melody to take the plunge. Then everyone eyed Rod expectantly.
"Dr. Hackthorne," asked Rod, "why don't you look in on her?"
"I'm an ill man," snapped Hackthorne bad-temperedly. "Besides, this is your bailiwick. I've wet-nursed you for the last time. The way to swim is to jump into the water."
Rod wiped wet palms on his pants. He asked nervously, "Has she regained consciousness, Dr. Fontenot?"
"She came out of the anesthetic about twenty minutes ago."
"She's been started on antibiotics?"
"I've given her trisulfapyrimidine, along with tetracycline."
"And her respiration-?"
"Oh, get to your patient," Hackthorne interrupted sourly. "As for me, I know I'LL never make it but I'd like to try and get back to my bed. What do you say, Missy?"
"Let's go," she said, rising. "By the way, I had my pick-up brought here. When you're finished, Rod, you can drive home in it."
Rod nodded. "You're wonderfully thoughtful, Missy."
"Lay off the conversation, will you?" pleaded Hackthorne. "I'm suffering. I'm twice as sick as that girl in there."
"Oh, quit complaining," scolded Dr. Fontenot. "I'll give you the results of your dry readings tomorrow, but I can assure you that nothing is wrong. You're just neurotic."
Helped by Missy, the aching psychiatrist succeeded in getting to his feet. "Good night then, you shriveled little Gallic worm."
"Good night you head-shrinking hypochondriac," retorted Fontenot cheerfully.