How could she have let it happen to her? How could she have let herself fall in love with Dean? She hadn't meant to . . . in fact, she had done everything in her power to work against the fatal attraction that lay between her and Dean, but in the end her hatred of who Dick was becoming, who her parents were, and that she kept sacrificing her happiness for other people, stripped down her defenses.
But over the last two days she had tiredly and obssessively been replaying what she said at the hotel to Dean, and she couldn't help arriving to the same conclusion with despair: she scared Dean off. The mere thought sent a shiver of fear through her, and she twisted her hands together in her lap anxiously. Just when she had found someone whom she felt a spark of passion towards- when she had found someone that made her more nervous and more wanted than anyone she had ever met, she had to go and muck it all up.
Finally she could not stand the uncertainty of it all that seemed to deafen her even in the eery silence of the empty house, and she picked up the phone beside her with caught breath. "Hello, operator? Can you connect me with a Dean Russo, please?"
Mary waited with an involuntarily hot sweat coming to her palms, and her heart skipped a beat when she heard the husky voice, "Hello, Dean Russo speaking." For a moment Mary feared that she would not able to speak, but finally managed shyly, "Dean?"
"Mary? What are you calling me for? What if Dick-" Mary shook her head at Dean's alarm, forgetting that he couldn't see her, and hurriedly said, "He's not home right now, he's out for the next several hours . . . oh, Dean, I simply must see you." She hated how desperate she sounded, but hoped that maybe her feminine sensitivity would work in her favor.
"Aw, Mary, I dunno . . ." Dread settled in the pit of her stomach as she realized her greatest fear was being proved correct, and interrupted Dean bitterly, "Why, did I scare you off? Because of what I said about Dick? I thought as much would happen."
"No, no, that's not it," She could sense the frustration in Dean's voice as he corrected himself, "I just don't know if continuing things right now is a good idea." Mary straightened in her seat, allowing herself a sliver of hope, "Please, Dean, let's talk a little more about this. But not over the telephone. Meet with me at that nice little café on 54th Street and Broadway in a half hour. Please . . . Just talk to me this one time and then if you decide you don't to see me anymore . . . well, I won't try to talk to you again." A familiar stinging rose to her eyes as emotion threatened to conquer her, but she bit her lip against it.
"Alright," He conceded softly, "I'll see you in thirty minutes."
###
If we had met each other under pleasanter circumstances, perhaps this would have worked.
Alright, then . . . I guess this is goodbye for now.
A great feeling of sickness . . . of shame . . . and of self-loathing froze Mary in her bed, curled beneath the sheets as one trying to hide from the cold of winter, and she wished dully that she could just become physically sick, and then she would know how to make everything go away. Then everything would be so much easier.
She wished suddenly violently that she could scream the sadness out of her body; the despair that settled upon her, pressing down on every inch of her with the weight of a full grown man so that she could not move if she wanted to.
Her eyes flicked dully up to the phone on the nightstand beside her when it began to ring, penetrating the silence. She didn't want to answer it; it was the last thing in the whole entire world that she wanted to do in that very moment. But the thought that it could be Dean changing his mind roused the strength within her to grab the phone and bring it to her ear.
"Mary?" Disappointment surged through her at the sound of Dick's voice, and the only thing that kept her from putting the phone back on its base was the way he said her name. Like he had been crying.
"What's wrong, Dick?"
"Uh . . . I'm at the hospital right now, Mary."
"What?!" Mary sat up abruptly, a dozen possible scenarios running through her mind at feverish speed. "I'm okay, honey . . . I'm- I'm getting treatment for my . . . condition."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes." Mary said hollowly, and set down the phone with a distant look in her eyes. He had betrayed her. He had made her life miserable, and now . . . now he needed her help. He was trying to change. But Dean . . . Dean had made his choice, and now Mary had to make hers.
Later That Night
Mary rubbed at her eyes tiredly, face contorting as she made out Dick's form in the hospital bed through the moon-tinted darkness of the room. Her gaze traced the tubes and equipment hooked up to his body, and how sallow and drawn his face looked. He was so . . . sickly. Guilty frustration bubbled up within her as she knew that she had to stay with him and be the support that he was for her when they first met.
She didn't want to, though . . . she wanted to run off with Dean and live a happily ever after with him. She wanted to leave all of this mess far, far behind. Heaving a deep sigh, Mary looked away from Dick and leaned back in the armchair beside his bed wearily. Her eyes roamed the room absentmindedly one more time before slipping into a fitful sleep, but they paused in their sweep at the door- more specifically, at the books sitting at the foot of the door. Those books hadn't been there before, had they?
With renewed energy that only curiosity could bring, Mary got up from the chair and moved silently across the room to the door. Looking out of the square of glass in the door into the hallway, she found no one there who could have dropped them off. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Mary sank down so that she was kneeling on the floor, and picked up two thick, leatherbound books: Atlas Shrugged and The Holy Bible. A frown crossed her face as she searched for any hint as to who had given them to Dick. A slip of paper fluttered to the ground from between some of the pages as she flipped through the books.
Picking it up, she squinted to read the typewritten words on the paper:
Mrs. Petula,
You'll find what you're looking for in these. Read them if you want to live. Read them if you want to know why to live.
-Your friend,
Alexander Soter
YOU ARE READING
Alexander's Gift
Historical FictionFive people in 1955, seemingly with no connection to each other, find themselves at a mysterious mansion for a secret rendezvous that they have all been invited to. Who are they? What links their lives? And who invited them? A playboy, an actress...