and went back to his room, his mind churning. He knew that he could not do any good now, no one could. She was five and a half months pregnant. He had warned her time and time again, but she had refused to listen. Well, it was her responsibility. He wanted to have no part of it.
He began to dress as fast as he could, his bowels cold with fear.
When Israel Katz walked into her apartment, Noelle was lying on the floor in a pool of blood, hemorrhaging. Her face was dead white, but it showed no sign of the agony that must have been racking her body. She was wearing what appeared to be a wedding dress. Israel knelt at her side. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘How did –?’ He stopped, as his eyes fell on a bloody, twisted wire coat hanger near her feet.
‘Jesus Christ!’ He was filled with a rage and at the same time a terrible frustrating feeling of helplessness. The blood was pouring out faster now, there was not a moment to lose.
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ and he started to rise.
Noelle reached up and grabbed his arm with surprising strength, and pulled him back down to her.
‘Larry’s baby is dead,’ she said, and her face was lit with a beautiful smile.
A team of six doctors worked for five hours trying to save Noelle’s life. The diagnosis was septic poisoning, perforated womb, blood poisoning and shock. All the doctors agreed that there was little chance that she could live. By six o’clock that night Noelle was out of danger and two days later, she was sitting up in bed able to talk. Israel came to see her.
‘All the doctors say that it is a miracle you’re alive, Noelle.’
She shook her head. It was simply not her time to die. She had taken her first vengeance on Larry, but it was only the beginning. There was more to come. Much more. But first she had to find him. It would take time. But she would do it.
Catherine
Chicago: 1939–1940
The growing winds of war that were blowing across Europe were reduced to no more than gentle, warning zephyrs when they reached the shores of the United States.
On the Northwestern campus, a few more boys joined the ROTC, there were student rallies urging President Roosevelt to declare war on Germany and a few seniors enlisted in the Armed Forces. In general, however, the sea of complacency remained the same, and the underground swell that was soon to sweep over the country was barely perceptible.
As she walked to her cashier’s job at the Roost that October afternoon, Catherine Alexander wondered whether the war would change her life, if it came. She knew one change that she had to make, and she was determined to do it as soon as possible. She desperately wanted to know what it was like to have a man hold her in his arms and make love to her, and she knew that she wanted it partly because of her physical needs, but also because she felt she was missing out on an important and wonderful experience. My God, what if she got run over by a car and they did a post mortem on her and discovered she was a virgin! No, she had to do something about it. Now.
Catherine glanced around the Roost carefully, but she did not see the face she was looking for. When Ron Peterson came in an hour later with Jean-Anne, Catherine felt her body tingle and her heart begin to pound. She turned away as they walked past her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the two make their way to Ron’s booth and sit down. Large banners were strung around the room, ‘TRY OUR DOUBLE HAMBURGER SPECIAL’ … ‘TRY OUR LOVER’S DELIGHT’ … ‘TRY OUR TRIPLE MALT.’
Catherine took a deep breath and walked over to the booth. Ron Peterson was studying the menu, trying to make up his mind. ‘I don’t know what I want,’ he was saying.
‘How hungry are you?’ Jean-Anne asked.
‘I’m starved.’
‘Then try this.’ They both looked up in surprise. It was Catherine standing over the booth. She handed Ron Peterson a folded note, turned around and walked back to the cash register.
Ron opened the note, looked at it and burst into laughter. Jean-Anne watched him coolly.
‘Is it a private joke or can anyone get in on it?’
‘Private,’ Ron grinned. He slipped the note into his pocket.
Ron and Jean-Anne left shortly afterwards. Ron didn’t say anything as he paid his cheque, but he gave Catherine a long, speculative look, smiled and walked out with Jean-Anne on his arm. Catherine looked after them, feeling like an idiot. She didn’t even know how to make a successful pass at a boy.
When her shift was up, Catherine got into her coat, said good night to the girl coming in to relieve her and went outside. It was a warm autumn evening with a cooling breeze skipping in off the lake. The sky looked like purple velvet with soft, far-flung stars just out of reach. It was a perfect evening to – what? Catherine made a list in her mind.
I can go home and wash my hair.
I can go to the library and study for the Latin exam tomorrow.
I can go to a movie.
I can hide in the bushes and rape the first sailor who comes along.
I can go get myself committed.
Committed, she decided.
As she started to move along the campus towards the library, a figure stepped out from behind a lamp post.
‘Hi, Cathy. Where you headed?’
It was Ron Peterson, smiling down at her, and Catherine’s heart started to pound until it began to burst out of her chest. She watched as it took off on its own, beating its way through the air. She became aware that Ron was staring at her. No wonder. How many girls did he know who could do that heart trick? She desperately wanted to comb her hair and fix her makeup and check the seams of her stockings, but she tried to let none of her nervousness show. Rule one: Keep calm.
‘Blug,’ she mumbled.
‘Where are you headed?’
Should she give him her list? God, no! He’d think she was insane. This was her big chance and she must not do a single thing to destroy it. She looked up at him, her eyes as warm and inviting as Carole Lombard’s in Nothing Sacred.
‘I didn’t have any special plans,’ she said invitingly.
Ron was studying her, still not sure of her, some primeval instinct making him cautious. ‘Would you like to do something special?’ he asked.
This was it. The Proposition. The point of no return. ‘Name it,’ she said, ‘and I’m yours.’ And cringed inwardly. It sounded so corny. No one said, ‘Name it and I’m yours’ except in bad Fannie Hurst novels. He was going to turn on his heel and walk away in disgust.
But he didn’t. Incredibly, he smiled, took her arm and said, ‘Let’s go.’
Catherine walked along with him, stunned. It had been as simple as that. She was on her way to getting laid. She began to tremble inside. If he found out she was a virgin, she would be finished. And what was she going to talk about when she was in bed with him? Did people talk when they were actually doing it, or did they wait until it was over? She didn’t want to be rude, but she had no idea what the rules were.
‘Have you had dinner?’ Ron was asking.
‘Dinner?’ She stared up at him, trying to think. Should she have had dinner? If she said yes, then he could take her right to bed and she could get it over with. ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I haven’t.’ Now why did I say that? I’ve ruined everything. But Ron did not seem upset.