Chapter 13
Della flagged down Gianni and paid for the cocktails, unnecessarily mentioning that her companion was feeling ill and unfortunately they would be leaving. As she counted out a tip that exceeded the bill, she also suggested that the booth divider be examined, because something must be loose and her hair had been caught. Gianni nodded, replied "You betcha, Miss," and in the blink of an eye disappeared completely into the crowd of diners and waiters thronging the dimly lit restaurant.
Rodger emerged from the restroom to discover her standing alongside the booth, running her hand over the top of the booth divider, a small frown wrinkling her brow. She turned as he touched her lightly on the arm. "Was there someone sitting in this booth?"
Rodger shrugged and glanced at the uncleared table where a half-full glass of wine and a long basket containing Luigi's delectable loaf of garlic bread sat abandoned. "A woman by herself. I didn't pay much attention to her. Why don't we take her bread with us?"
Della hoped his suggestion was facetious and ignored it. "Something grabbed my hair. I thought it had gotten caught between the upholstered cushion and the booth back, but nothing is loose."
Rodger shrugged again, longingly eying the loaf of garlic bread from which only one slice had been cut. He was famished. A piece of bread would save him from certain starvation. However, he didn't see the serrated stainless bread knife customarily provided to cut the bread anywhere on the table. With a resigned sigh he took hold of Della's arm and tugged. "C'mon. If we're going to leave, let's leave. I don't know if I can keep my humiliation under cover much longer."
They escaped the restaurant without encountering Luigi, and once outside Rodger easily hailed a taxicab. His behavior on the drive to Della's apartment was very different than on the ride to Luigi's. He batted away her every attempt to touch him and sat forward on the edge of the seat. Trying to engage him in conversation was no more successful as he replied in monosyllables or not at all. She finally sighed dramatically and slid away to sit back in the corner of the seat against the door and regard his profile with narrowed eyes. He continued to sit stiffly upright, staring straight ahead, hands folded in his lap, and didn't react to anything, not even her directions to the driver to stop at the Chinese restaurant two blocks from her apartment. She climbed out of the taxi without a word to him and returned several minutes later with two take-out oyster pail containers and a pasteboard cup of fragrant soup, which she placed on the seat between them. She sat stiffly upright on the edge of the seat, aping his posture. He gave no indication that he noticed her.
The cab pulled to a stop in front of her building and Della once again let herself out of the cab without assistance. Carrying the containers of food in both hands, she walked slowly up the heavily landscaped walkway toward the front entrance of her building. She stopped two steps shy of the door next to an overgrown bush and turned to make sure Rodger had actually exited the cab and was paying the driver. Seeing him jump to the curb and return his wallet to his pocket made her smile and she moved her foot to pivot back toward the entrance when a hand emerged from behind the bush and grabbed a fistful of her hair, stopping her in her tracks. She immediately dropped the food containers onto the pavement, causing the soup container to burst and piping hot liquid to splatter over her feet and lower legs. She slipped on the mess of Chinese food but managed to remain upright by grabbing at the spindly arms that held her hair. She felt the tugging ease, then a sawing type of pressure, and her head snapped forward. Too stunned to utter a sound, her hand flew to the back of her head as she twisted her upper body toward a rustling noise in the landscaping.
"I warned you," a disembodied voice from the bushes said calmly. "You didn't listen when I said you didn't know who you were dealing with."
Rodger turned away from the taxicab just in time to see Della nearly slip on the Chinese food spilling from open containers on the pavement. For a fleeting moment he saw the pinched and pale face of the woman who had been seated in the booth behind Della at Luigi's, the glint of a long knife as it was moved across her hair, and Della's hands clasp the back of her head. The woman threw the knife to the ground and vanished behind the cover of the overgrown landscaping, into the encroaching darkness of the evening.
In a few swift strides Rodger covered the expanse of pavement between himself and Della. He engulfed her in his arms, holding her against his chest as she began to shake uncontrollably. "My God, Della, are you all right? Are you hurt? What did she do to you?"
Della still clutched at the back of her head, a few dissected curls caught between trembling fingers. "Sh-sh-she cut my hair! She used that knife to cut my hair! Don't pick it up!" She nearly screamed at Rodger as he released her and bent to pick up the metallic object the woman had left behind. He recoiled sharply at her tone.
He pulled her to him once more, patting her shoulder. "Babe, it's okay. I'll leave it for the police to deal with." He moved them forward a few steps and began banging on the locked glass door until the building's secruity guard appeared. Recognizing Della, he opened the door.
"Miss Street! What happened?"
Rodger answered for Della. "Call the police. Miss Street has been attacked."
Della refused to positively name the woman who had cut her hair, although she was fairly certain who it had been, and despite the fact the police were highly frustrated with her. She sensed it in their posture, in the shortness of their questions. She didn't want to go to headquarters, insisting that her statement at the scene would be sufficient to file a report. Rodger supplied as much of a description as possible of the woman who had been seated behind Della at Luigi's, because as it turned out, the knife used to cut Della's hair was the same type of serrated stainless bread knife Luigi served with his garlic bread. After forty-five minutes of pictures and questions and statements, the two uniformed officers and the building security guard left Della and Rodger alone in her apartment.
Rodger closed and locked the door behind the retreating officers and rejoined Della on the couch. He had poured her a stiff scotch on the rocks earlier, daring the officers to protest his prescription of alcohol during their questioning. They kept quiet as Della gratefully sipped the drink, the visible trembling of her hands lessening, her voice growing stronger with each sip. She was still holding the drink in her hand, her head tilted against the back of the couch, eyes closed. She hadn't cried, hadn't become hysterical, hadn't made accusations or offered any explanation why someone would jump out at her and take a slice of her hair. She looked a fright, pale and drawn, her soft curls hopelessly disheveled from the officer's inspection, her expression a shocked blank.
He touched her hand gently. "Are you positive you aren't hurt? I can call Dr. Rutherford and have him come over."
She opened one eye and then closed it again with a sigh. "I'm fine. The only thing cut was my hair."
"How about your feet? Did the soup burn you?" One hand traveled up her forearm in a massaging motion while the other settled on her waist.
She opened both eyes this time and lifted her legs to inspect the damage to her shoes and stockings. "No burns. But my shoes are ruined."
"Shoes can be replaced. And your hair will grow back."
She swung tired eyes to his. "Yes, hair does grow back. I'll have to go to the beauty parlor tomorrow first thing and have Evelyn fix it."
Rodger smiled wanly. "Tell her not to cut off too much more. I like long hair." The hand at her waist moved upward to lightly brush against her breast.
"She'll cut off as much as necessary to make me look decent." She toyed with a single three-inch ringlet the police had left behind after bagging most of her severed locks for evidence. "it could have been much worse. I think slipping on the spilled food may have saved most of my hair."
"How fast does your hair grow? Promise me you'll tell Evelyn not to cut off too much. I can't imagine you with short hair." He leaned in to nuzzle her neck, rubbing his face against the silken curls at the side of her head.
She pushed him away and stood up abruptly to begin pacing the room, agitation apparent in her gait and tone. "I don't know how fast my hair grows. I get it trimmed every six weeks or so. It's been shoulder length almost my entire life. Any longer and I can't control it."
Rodger watched her pace. "You sure look funny with your hair all fluffed out like that," he said at last. It was an attempt to get a reaction out of her. He liked it when he could breach her good natured calmness and unleash her temper. It made their bedroom activities so lively.
"I'm quite sure I do," she replied matter-of-factly. She had calmed down considerably since the incident. She wondered what the proper reaction was to having someone jump out from behind a bush in front of your apartment building and slice off your hair. Should she laugh it off, or cry, or cuss? Mr. Mason had taught her a couple new words recently in a violent reaction to an unexpected counter suit, and she'd been dying to try them out. Rodger was obviously attempting to make her laugh or cuss, but for some reason his efforts only made her cross.
"You know what I think?" Rodger was becoming concerned about her relative lack of response to what had happened to her as she continued to pace around the living room, occasionally reaching up and touching the ragged remains of the hair at the back of her head.
"I already know what you think. You think I look funny."
"You do. Go look at yourself in a mirror. But I also think you should take a shower and then let me have my way with you."
She ceased pacing and stared at him. "I hardly think that is a good idea, Rodger. Have you forgotten you proposed tonight and I turned you down? Combined with the fact that I've just been relieved of about three inches of hair and spent the better part of an hour giving a statement to the police, I'm not exactly in a mood to fool around. And let's not even revisit Miss Cavanaugh opening the door on my head or making me late for our date or how I twisted my ankle. This hasn't been a good week for me. I'd like a hug, just a hug, nothing more."
"Forgive me for wanting to give you a little affection," he replied with just a hint of sarcasm.
"What you're suggesting is a whole lot of affection, Rodger, and I'm not sure I'm up to it."
"I've had a rough night myself you know. My proposal shot down, witnessing that woman attcking you, no dinner. A roll in the hay might just be just what the doctor ordered, and if I'm good enough, you might rethink my proposal." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"Rodger, sex isn't going to change my mind about marrying you. I told you I'm not ready to get married. Furthermore, I don't know if I'll ever be ready to get married. I need you to be sympathetic right now, not lecherous. Could you just sit on the couch and hold me?"
Rodger ducked his head contritely. "I can do that. If that's all you really want."
That's all she really wanted. But that wasn't all she got.
Della pushed Rodger off the couch and onto the floor sometime between one and two so that he could go home and get a few hours sleep before having to pick up his sons at eight. She rarely let him stay the entire night, preferring to sleep alone and wanting him to get a bit of sleep himself before having to deal with three boys under the age of ten. He covered her with the robe she'd donned after showering, playfully slapped her behind, and then let himself out of the apartment. Della pulled the robe around her shoulders, snuggling deeper into the cushions, too tired even to crawl to the bedroom. She dozed fitfully for several hours, awakening just after seven. Sitting up groggily, she ran her hands through hair still slightly damp from her shower, appalled at the tangled mess of curls. A thorough inspection last night before stepping into the shower had revealed the loss of approximately three inches of hair at the nape of her neck. Not a tragic amount of length gone, but the knife had cut raggedly and a haircut was definitely needed to repair the damage.
She fixed herself an egg over easy on toast, sat down at the little bistro table by the window in the kitchen and ate while watching two orange striped cats forage for food in the alley, pondering whether she should give in to tears about every little thing that had befallen her in the past couple of days or simply "buck up" as Aunt Mae would tell her.
It was nearly eight forty-five when Della finally hoisted herself from the little bistro chair and wandered into the living room to call her hairdresser at home. After arranging an emergency appointment for ten o'clock, she called her friend Janet, who was more than happy to drive her to the appointment. Della was standing on the curb at nine thirty, a brightly colored scarf wrapped around her head, waiting and smoking a cigarette when Janet pulled up in a dull green Fleetline. Della tugged on the door and hopped into the spacious front seat.
"Lord Della! Is it so bad that you have to wrap your head up like a mummy?"
Della laughed, glad to see Janet, glad that she had agreed to take her to her appointment with Evelyn, glad that she had someone to talk to about the events of the past few days other than Rodger. "It's not as bad as it could have been. The scarf is mostly because I went to bed with wet hair and it's sticking up in all directions. I'm just glad Rodger left in the dark. He thought I looked funny last night right after it happened. He'd be downright hysterical if he saw me when I woke up." She frowned slightly. "He kept begging me to ask Evelyn to cut off as little as possible. I didn't realize he was so obsessed with the length of my hair."
"Rodger is obsessed with your looks, period," Janet commented. "He's shallow, Del. He's impressed with how your dark hair and eyes complement his light hair and eyes; how men envy him, how women envy you when you're together. If you weren't bsolutely gorgeous, he wouldn't give you the time of day."
"That's rather harsh, Janet. Rodger is intelligent, well-spoken, and funny. We get along quite well." She wouldn't admit it to Janet, but she had long suspected that while Rodger certainly appreciated her for her personality, it was her physical attributes that drove his desire, what he appreciated most. Several derogatory things he had said about his wife's physical change over twelve years of marriage bothered her, but she had convinced herself his comments were merely a reaction to Susan's affair and subsequent divorce action.
"He's a pill," Janet remarked.
Della started. Paul Drake had used that term to describe Laura Cavanaugh, and Della's recent experiences had supported it. Knowing that Janet found Rodger to be as unsavory as Mr. Drake found Miss Cavanaugh was disconcerting. "What would you say if I told you Rodger proposed to me last night?"
Janet took her eyes off the road to look incredulously at Della. "You didn't actually accept, did you?"
"You sound like Mr. Mason, answering a question with a question. Answer my question first, then I'll answer yours."
"What would I say? I'd say run away, girl! Please tell me you didn't accept."
Della sighed. "Don't worry, I didn't accept. You know how I feel about marriage."
"I do. Although I think the right man will change your mind some day."
"Not a chance," Della denied vehemently.
Janet executed a perfect parallel parking manuever in a conveniently empty space in front of the shop just as Evelyn was unlocking the door. Once inside, Della removed the scarf and allowed her two friends to tsk-tsk over the damage for a few moments before brusquely moving toward Janet's assigned salon chair and seating herself.
"Let's get this over with," she said told Evelyn.
The hair dresser placed a protective cape around Della's shoulders and stood back, eyeing the raggedly shorn section of hair critically. "What should we do," she mused.
"Cut it," Della directed decisively. "Cut it short."