13
Calm. She had to stay calm. There must be something she could do, some
way she could get herself loose. She forced herself to think. She needed
something sharp, something that would cut the ropes on her wrists. A knife.
She went into the kitchen. There was a rack of cutting knives onthe
wall, but it was too high up; even by turning her back to it, she could not get
her bound hands high enough to reach it. Finally she managed to take one of the
knives in her teeth. She dropped it on the floor and bent down, twisting, to
pick it up. But when she had the knife in her hand she found, as she had feared,
that she was unable to position it properly to press the blade with any pressure
against the ropes. She persisted desperately in the effort, but only managed to
drop the knife several times, and at last she gave up. She knelt there on the
floor, small whimpering noises coming from her mouth.
She had to think. If only there was something she could saw the ropes
against, something stationary, a piece of furniture, anything with an edge that
was sharp or jagged or...
But there was nothing.
Think, Susan. Think!
She had to get help. It was the only way. There was no other choice;
either she stayed as she was until Tom came home--which was unthinkable--or she
had to get someone to release her.
But who?
She thought of Dr. Alberts. He was the only one in the world beside
herself and Jerry--and now Jerry's friends--who knew what she was, knew the
compulsions that had put her in this position. But that was no good. He couldn't
leave his office, all the way uptown, in the middle of seeing patients, to come
to her aid. There had to be someone else.
Maybe Mrs. Wallensky...She was a nice widow lady who lived in the
building, two floors up, who she had gotten friendly with. Mrs. Wallensky was a
kind woman. Maybe she would understand. And Tom didn't know her.
Could she risk it? She had to.
Luckily, she had written Mrs. Wallensky's number on the list of phone
numbers they kept on the telephone table. Susan rose to her feet and went back
to the living room. Turning her back to the phone, she lifted the receiver from
the hook and put it down on the table. Then, by twisting her head so she could
look at the phone as her fingers found the right buttons, she managed with some
awkwardness to punch in the number she wanted. She knelt down with her ear to
the receiver and waited.
The phone rang and rang. There was no answer.
Oh, god.
Finally she stood and put the receiver back on the hook. She felt tears
come to her eyes.
No. She couldn't give in. She had to think. There must be someone else.
A friend, someone...
But her friends were all Tom's friends, too. And Tom mustn't know.
Maybe...Maybe...Mrs. Bartelli. The building superintendent's wife. Mrs.
Bartelli was a nice woman when she was sober, but she was a wino and was
notorious for trying to borrow money from the building's tenants for drink,
because her husband kept her on a short ration. She could be bribed, Susan
thought. I could give her money not to tell. Besides, Tom wasn't on good terms
with the Bartellis. Tom tended to be snobbish about people like that. And...and
if she ever did say anything, Susan could laugh it off, say she was drunk... He
head whirled. It was a desperate idea, but she was terrified now and didn't know
what else she could do. It had to work. It had to!
Blinking her tears away so she could see the numbers on the phone
buttons, she turned again so that her fettered hands could punch in the
superintendent's number.
She knelt to the receiver on the table. Please, god, let her answer.
Please...
"Hello?"
It was Mr. Bartelli.
Susan gulped. She put her face close to the mouthpiece, and tried
desperately to make her voice sound normal. "H-hello...Mr. Bartelli? This is
Mrs. Garson. Is--is your wife there, please?"
"My wife?" Bartelli's rough voice repeated. "No. She went shoppin'.
Why?"
Oh, no. "Will--will she be back soon, do you think?" Her voice was
trembling.
"I don't think so, she just left a few minutes ago. Anything I can do,
Mrs. Garson?"
"No!" she said, too strongly, too quickly. "I mean--no, I--I just wanted
to talk to her."
"You sound funny, Mrs. Garson. You got some kind of problem up there?"
"No. No." She knew it sounded unconvincing. "Everything's fine."
'Yeah?" He sounded suspicious. "Maybe I ought to come up and check it
out, huh?"
"No!" she gasped. "No...really...I..."
"No trouble, Mrs. Garson. Be right up." And he hung up.
Oh, Jesus. He was coming up. Would he help her? But no, she couldn't...
She wouldn't let him in. But he had a master key. Besides, the door was still
unlocked. And the lock, she knew, was placed to high for her to reach with her
hands tied as they were. She stood in the middle of the room, frantically trying
to think, to decide...
And there was a knock on the door.
"Mrs. Garson?" It was him. "Mrs. Garson, you okay?"
She swallowed hard, took a breath. "Yes...yes, I--I'm--" It was no good.
The words choked in her throat, and then she started to cry as Bartelli opened
the door.