When we returned from our excursion, John, who had been talkative and cheerful the whole time, suddenly lapsed into cold, unexplained silence. He retreated into another room without so much as a, "Had a good time." I looked to Fred for an explanation.
Fred gave me a sad look. "He’s like this, Alida. He gets very moody and reclusive. Right now he’s most likely in the White Room, or his bedroom, watching TV."
I was still confused. What was so beckoning about the television? Going into brain drain mode was not my idea of entertainment. Why wasn’t he creating, if not for the world then for himself? I think I’d feel sterile if I stopped writing altogether. Then I recalled John’s words; he had a block against it. In other words, he wasn’t so much sterile as creatively impotent. And back in the wonderful world of 1979, there was no cure for impotency, creative or otherwise.
At that moment I resolved to find a cure for that problem. Perhaps with the help of another writer, another creative brain hooked to his, he could weave that magic once again. All his rudeness aside (I could excuse it because I was often very inconsiderate of others myself), I would not give up on him. I don’t know why I felt this strong determination to help him. He was a man I hardly knew. Yet at the same time I did know him. We had a strong connection, and on some level, we’d known each other for years.
"Well, then, I’ll go join him," I said, heading for the White Room or the bedroom, ignorant of the fact that I had not a clue where either was.
Fred caught my arm. "Not a good idea. When he’s in this mood, he’ll likely bite your head off if you bother him."
"I can stand to lose some body parts," I said stubbornly.
He looked perplexed, as if he were trying to solve a mystery. Obviously he wasn’t so strong willed or brave when it came to John. "Well, all right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you."
As I headed off from the kitchen to the White Room, Fred called, "White Room’s down the hall and to your left!" Smart-ass, I thought with disgust. I can find it on my own. And I did. (It was on the right, not the left. He should’ve learned the apartment better.) Sure enough, John was sitting on an extravagant plush sofa, watching a 25” television set. (You may laugh, but in the 70s that was an impressive size...)
When I began exploring the room, I found that it was lavish. Beautiful, elegant furniture filled it. Placed on antique oak tabletops were pieces of Egyptian art. In one corner sat a white grand piano, which blended with the white plush carpet and white paint on the wall, but still stood out due to its size. Finger paintings and framed pictures were hung on the walls. Later, when I found out the actual dimensions of the room, I was amazed at how small it was compared to how enormous it looked. White has an expanding effect on rooms.
"Well? What are you doing in here, then?" In my reverie I had forgotten all about the thin figure sitting on the sofa. I stepped in further and looked to see John with his arms folded, giving me an impatient look.
"Looking for you," I replied. "Wanted to say that I’m leaving soon and --"
"And you had to scourge the flat to tell me?" he said sarcastically. I was not one bit put out by his sarcasm. I was quite used to people putting me down and patronizing me.
"Yeah, I had to. You’ve been so kind," I said. Now I was the one patronizing. But in a way, it was true. He had let me into his home and taken me out with him over New York City. At that moment, I was only saying it to push his buttons. I figured he hated glossing over of things as much as I did, so I decided to try my hand at it.
It did confuse him. He looked downright shocked. "Was I?"
"Oh, yes. You took me in, gave me tea, took me out. I can’t thank you enough for that on my first day in Manhattan." Whaddya think of that, Mr. Lennon? Hmmm?
Confusion still plagued John. "Well, I--uh--thanks. I mean, you’re welcome."
I nodded. "Right, then. Thanks for a lovely day. Now I’ve got to go see if the apartment’s settled enough for me to go there. Again, thank you." Now I was kissing ass more and more, making it seem as if he were a saint and had every right to blow me off and then be sarcastic to me. He was the All Powerful Beatle and I was a lowly fan.
"Wait!" he nearly shouted as I turned to leave. "You, uh...why did you want to find me?"
"Oh, to thank you, naturally," I said airily. "No one’s ever done that for me before." Now John was getting suspicious, studying me carefully. I had to deliver the sledgehammer before he got wise to me. "Also," I rushed on, "thanks for a lovely blow off and charming sarcasm. Not every day I get the `piss off’ sign from someone I did nothing to." My voice changed to cynical at those last words.
For a moment I thought John was going to explode in rage. His face turned bright red and he looked like a volcano waiting to erupt. At last, he burst into surprised laughter. "You--I--you little punk kid!" he exclaimed. "What...why..."
I smiled knowingly. "Look, Lennon, I don’t gloss things over. If something irks me, I’m going to tell you. I thought I’d see how sharp that brain of yours is before I let you know, is all. Anyway, really, thanks for the day. I had a good time." With that, I turned and left the room, went down the hall and into the kitchen, bid Fred a farewell, and went to find my apartment.
When I arrived, both my parents were standing in the living room. Together. Oh, no. I knew whatever was coming couldn’t be anything pleasant. "Hi," I said, trying to be nonchalant. I tried to breeze past them and the as yet unpacked boxes, but my father caught my arm with an extremely overpowering grip. I let out a tiny yelp.
"Just where have you been all day?" he growled, and I could smell the Jack Daniel’s on his breath. It was a toxic smell to me, because I associated it with pain and suffering. His breath nearly went into my lungs, he was so close to my face.
Trying not to let my fear show, I replied flippantly, "Not here."
My father’s grip grew even tighter. The tighter he clutched me, the more my pain and fear rose inside of me. "Don’t be a smart-ass with me," he said with a snarl. "I want to know why you weren’t here all day long helping."
"Doesn’t look like you’ve done anything," I said, nodding to the boxes in the corner of the room.
"We’ve been waiting for you to get your ass home, you little bitch!" he said, his voice an out-and-out roar now. As he kept tightening his grip, I could swear I heard my bones cracking from the pressure of it. Pain was shooting up my arm, and fear was surging through me.
"I was at a bookstore," I said, not entirely lying. If I’d told him where I’d really been he’d never believe me.
"Don’t you lie to me," he raged at me. "You tell me right now or I’ll put you through such hell you’ll wish to God you’d never been born!"
"Fuck you!" I finally erupted, wrenching free of him and in the process violently turning my arm. But I was too angry and fearful to care much.
"Why the hell should you care where I go? You never have before! You’re just fucking power hungry! You won’t do fuck all to me!"
I knew I’d made a horrible mistake the moment the words had escaped my lips. My mother’s face, usually cold and indifferent, looked pale with fear. She even stepped forward and said, "Henry, don’t do anything --" but he struck her across the face so hard she stumbled backwards into the wall. Then he smacked me across my face, sending me literally flying across the room and crashing into a stack of boxes.
"That’ll teach you to defy me, you fucking good for nothing whore!" Henry screamed. Then he stalked out of the apartment and slammed the door. It made the entire apartment vibrate, not that it needed it; it was already vibrating from his rage.
Sallie ran into the room, saw the two of us, and immediately ran to me and helped me stand up. "Oh, Miss Alida, what `appened? I `eard `enry yelling at you, but why? Where you been?"
I was in shock. My shock was so profound that I didn’t notice my throbbing arm, Sallie, or anything around me. On one level I was hearing her, but her words seemed to come together in one big blur. I put my hand to my face and absently studied the blood on my hand when I took it away. And then I fainted.
***
When I woke up, I was in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar bed, staring at an equally unfamiliar ceiling. My eyes adjusted, and Sallie came into my line of vision. She had a cool wet washcloth, and she was mopping my forehead with it. Ellen, too, was attending to me, wrapping my arm in an Ace bandage. "`Ere now, Alida," Sallie was whispering to me soothingly.
"You’ll be all right."
"How -- how long have I..." I could not finish my sentence. I felt drained of all my strength.
"For about an hour now. Your mother’s in her room, still out," Ellen spoke up, speaking gently to me. She looked worriedly at Sallie. "Do you think we should take her to the hospital?"
Sallie inspected me critically. "Poor girl’s taken quite a beating." Her expression was a tortured one. I could understand her feelings; take me to the hospital, risk my father’s wrath. Even if he did get arrested, he could always go free and track her down. "Well, yes, let’s get them to `ospital. They need it more than I need my job," she said decisively.
We got to the hospital, where both my mother and I were treated for minor injuries. When the doctor asked how this came about, Sallie hesitated, then told him, "`ad a fight and fell down the stairs."
Although she looked suspicious, the doctor nodded. "All right," she said, accepting it, and scribbled something on a chart.
By nightfall we were back at the apartment. Henry was not. Sallie rolled
her eyes and said briskly, "Right, Miss Alida, and Missus, you rest. We’ll
all see to the unpacking." With determination, she and Ellen set about
organizing the apartment. I closed my eyes and drifted off into a sleep
where I dreamt of nothing but a man in an all white room beating me to
death.
C.J. © 2001