groping for the strength to handle this new problem.
“Is she hurt, Alex?”
“I don’t think so. She came running down the road, and then she tried to run away again. She put up quite a battle when I tried to stop her.”
As if to demonstrate her prowess as a battler, she freed her hands and beat at his chest. There was blood on her hands. It left red dabs on his shirt-front.
“Let me go,” she pleaded. “I want to die. I deserve to.”
“She’s bleeding, Alex.”
He shook his head. “It’s somebody else’s blood. A friend of hers was killed.”
“And it’s all my fault,” she said in a flat voice.
He caught her wrists and held her. I could see manhood biting into his face. “Be quiet, Dolly. You’re talking nonsense.”
“Am I? She’s lying in her blood, and I’m the one who put her there.”
“Who is she talking about?” I said to Alex.
“Somebody called Helen. I’ve never heard of her.”
I had.
The girl began to talk in her wispy monotone, so rapidly and imprecisely that I could hardly follow. She was a devil and so was her father before her and so was Helen’s father and they had the bond of murder between them which made themblood sisters and she had betrayed her blood sister and done her in.
“What did you do to Helen?”
“I should have kept away from her. They die when I go near them.”
“That’s crazy talk,” Alex said softly. “You never hurt anybody.”
“What do you know about me?”
“All I need to. I’m in love with you.”
“Don’t say that. It only makes me want to kill myself.” Sitting upright in the circle of his arms, she looked at her bloody hands and cried some more of her terrible dry tears. “I’m a criminal.”
Alex looked up at me, his eyes blue-black. “Can you make any sense of it?”
“Not much.”
“You can’t really think she killed this Helen person?” We were talking past Dolly as if she was deaf or out of her head, and she accepted this status.
“We don’t even know that anybody’s been killed,” I said. “Your wife is loaded with some kind of guilt, but it may belong to somebody else. I found out a little tonight about her background, or I think I did.” I sat on the shabby brown studio bed beside them and said to Dolly: “What’s your father’s name?”
She didn’t seem to hear me.
“Thomas McGee?”
She nodded abruptly, as if she’d been struck from behind. “He’s a lying monster. He made me into a monster.”
“How did he do that?”
The question triggered another nonstop sentence. “He shot her,” she said with her chin on her shoulder, “and left her lying in her blood but I told Aunt Alice and the policemen and the court took care of him but now he’s done it again.”
“To Helen?”
“Yes, and I’m responsible. I caused it to happen.”
She seemed to take a weird pleasure in acknowledging her guilt. Her gray and jaded looks, her tearless raying, her breathless run-on talking and her silences, were signs of an explosive emotional crisis. Under the raw melodrama of her self-accusations, I had the sense of something valuable and fragile in danger of being permanently broken.
“We’d better not try to question her any more,” I said. “I doubt right now she can tell the difference between true and false.”
“Can’t I?” she said malignly. “Everything I remember is true and I can remember everything from year one, the quarrels and the beatings, and then he finally shot her in her blood—”
I cut in: “Shut up, Dolly, or change the record. You need a doctor. Do you have one in town here?”
“No. I don’t need a doctor. Call the police. I want to make a confession.”
She was playing a game with us and her own mind, I thought, performing dangerous stunts on the cliff edge of reality, daring the long cloudy fall.
“You want to confess that you’re a monster,” I said.
It didn’t work. She answered matter-of-factly: “I am a monster.”
The worst of it was, it was
“Is she hurt, Alex?”
“I don’t think so. She came running down the road, and then she tried to run away again. She put up quite a battle when I tried to stop her.”
As if to demonstrate her prowess as a battler, she freed her hands and beat at his chest. There was blood on her hands. It left red dabs on his shirt-front.
“Let me go,” she pleaded. “I want to die. I deserve to.”
“She’s bleeding, Alex.”
He shook his head. “It’s somebody else’s blood. A friend of hers was killed.”
“And it’s all my fault,” she said in a flat voice.
He caught her wrists and held her. I could see manhood biting into his face. “Be quiet, Dolly. You’re talking nonsense.”
“Am I? She’s lying in her blood, and I’m the one who put her there.”
“Who is she talking about?” I said to Alex.
“Somebody called Helen. I’ve never heard of her.”
I had.
The girl began to talk in her wispy monotone, so rapidly and imprecisely that I could hardly follow. She was a devil and so was her father before her and so was Helen’s father and they had the bond of murder between them which made themblood sisters and she had betrayed her blood sister and done her in.
“What did you do to Helen?”
“I should have kept away from her. They die when I go near them.”
“That’s crazy talk,” Alex said softly. “You never hurt anybody.”
“What do you know about me?”
“All I need to. I’m in love with you.”
“Don’t say that. It only makes me want to kill myself.” Sitting upright in the circle of his arms, she looked at her bloody hands and cried some more of her terrible dry tears. “I’m a criminal.”
Alex looked up at me, his eyes blue-black. “Can you make any sense of it?”
“Not much.”
“You can’t really think she killed this Helen person?” We were talking past Dolly as if she was deaf or out of her head, and she accepted this status.
“We don’t even know that anybody’s been killed,” I said. “Your wife is loaded with some kind of guilt, but it may belong to somebody else. I found out a little tonight about her background, or I think I did.” I sat on the shabby brown studio bed beside them and said to Dolly: “What’s your father’s name?”
She didn’t seem to hear me.
“Thomas McGee?”
She nodded abruptly, as if she’d been struck from behind. “He’s a lying monster. He made me into a monster.”
“How did he do that?”
The question triggered another nonstop sentence. “He shot her,” she said with her chin on her shoulder, “and left her lying in her blood but I told Aunt Alice and the policemen and the court took care of him but now he’s done it again.”
“To Helen?”
“Yes, and I’m responsible. I caused it to happen.”
She seemed to take a weird pleasure in acknowledging her guilt. Her gray and jaded looks, her tearless raying, her breathless run-on talking and her silences, were signs of an explosive emotional crisis. Under the raw melodrama of her self-accusations, I had the sense of something valuable and fragile in danger of being permanently broken.
“We’d better not try to question her any more,” I said. “I doubt right now she can tell the difference between true and false.”
“Can’t I?” she said malignly. “Everything I remember is true and I can remember everything from year one, the quarrels and the beatings, and then he finally shot her in her blood—”
I cut in: “Shut up, Dolly, or change the record. You need a doctor. Do you have one in town here?”
“No. I don’t need a doctor. Call the police. I want to make a confession.”
She was playing a game with us and her own mind, I thought, performing dangerous stunts on the cliff edge of reality, daring the long cloudy fall.
“You want to confess that you’re a monster,” I said.
It didn’t work. She answered matter-of-factly: “I am a monster.”
The worst of it was, it was
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