Gail

By Nick Zules

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456873394

Nick Zules

Nick Zules studied art history and philosophy at Columbia College and has spent his life investigating the relation between the two. Classes at the School of Visual Arts, where he studied oil painting, helped with the pragmatic approach, leading to exhibitions throughout New York, in Taos and Florida. Readings in history, sociology and a careful daily reading of the news helped develop his viewpoint. He’s combined his art efforts with writing and has managed to write over 50 short stories, a novella and is currently working on his second novel at his home on Long Island.

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GAIL

by Nick Zules

Copyright © 2011 by Nick Zules.

ISBN:         Hardcover                                 978-1-4691-3860-2

                   Softcover                                  978-1-4568-7338-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4568-7339-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

Cover artwork by the author.

Photograph of the author by Bill Zules, whose work has appeared in Vanity Fair, Vogue, the New York Times and other publications.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

89375

By the same author:

         SOMETHING of MY OWN

To my children, Tony, Nikki, Bill and his dear wife Daniela, and my grandchildren,

Briana and Mateo. May they live and thrive in a safer and

saner America.

A special thanks to Bill for the great help he gave in preparing the covers and the manuscript.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 1

Inmate lights went out at the turning of a central switch, and the red brick building of the Monaki Gardens Psychiatric Center, known to townspeople who serviced the Center as the looney-bin, faded into the gathering night. It was early October, 1965. Gail Carver, a young woman of twenty-one, alone in her room, by the light of a small flashlight, arranged seventy one-dollar bills in a roll, put a hundred dollar bill over it, and secured the roll with a rubber-band. Several weeks before, she requested Timothy Mangrel, her father’s lawyer, bring the flashlight on one of his weekly visits. She saved the hundred seventy dollars from the small allowance she received over her past two months at Monaki. The doctor handling her case warned the lawyer to seek his permission on anything he might bring her, so when Mangrel questioned Gail why she needed the flashlight, she replied the night before she had missed the toilet bowl in the dark, she’d never sit on the filthy thing, and peed on the floor. He winced, but a small wince; he was used to the peculiar comments and behavior of his client’s daughter, and after all, this was small among the many requests she made when he visited. On the very first, alone in the room with her, she pleaded please get me out of here, there’s nothing wrong with me, my father hates me, the place is driving me crazy! Mangrel smiled inwardly since he already believed, as did her father, businessman William Carver and longtime United States Congressman from New York, she was nutty as a bedbug. But the inner smile betrayed an outward sign, immediately sensed by Gail. The hundred-twenty-five pound young woman angrily seized the surprised, corpulent, six-foot man and swung him like a toy in a small circle, then pushed him with deliberation and a loud bang up against the closet door. The lawyer gazed wide-eyed into Gail’s face, distorted by anger, and muttered explanation—my dear girl, you’re ill, you have to be cured, you’ll be out of here as soon as you’re cured. To which Gail yelled He’ll never let me out! Don’t you see he hates me? Twisting the lapels of Mangrel’s jacket in her clenched fists, her face inches from his, she stared motionless for almost a full minute not into his eyes, but into the grey mustache and short beard around his mouth, as though each bristly hair broadcast its own message on her damnation and ruin. Just as suddenly, in a fit of realization at the futility of her actions, she started, dropped her hands and fell to the floor moaning. The lawyer, annoyed with this addition to his pecuniary task, but ever mindful of the influence her father wielded in the state capitol and Washington, politely excused himself, called for a nurse at the door and left.

The dim light of the flashlight showed her room to be expensively, and for so traditional and old an institution, exceptionally furnished, with every convenience: a twenty-four inch color TV, stereo, an exercise bicycle and set of weights which she used diligently, and along one wall, a modern kitchen for staff to prepare private meals, which raised many an eyebrow when it was installed, since bare and Spartan furnishings were the order of the day for most inmates. But it also gave the impression that whoever was to occupy those quarters was to be there a long, long time.

Gail removed the floor-length, gray nightgown worn by all female inmates. No bra covered her small breasts, and below she wore only a thong, over which she hastily drew a pair of jeans, then slipped a T-shirt and light jacket over her lean torso, though she knew outside an October chill had set in, went into the small bathroom and took a comb and toothbrush from the medicine cabinet, but after a moment’s reflection, threw them into a waste-basket. She turned off the flashlight, lay flat on her stomach, opened the door and held her breath so as not to breathe the fumes of the chlorinated disinfectant used to clean the tiled floors. She crawled slowly, ever so slowly, toward a counter where a nurse sat dozing under a dim light, crawled around it to an even darker corridor where she sprang up and walked with rapid strides toward the dim exit light at the end of the hall. A hospital orderly in a white lab coat stood from his chair when he saw her and put a finger to his lips. He held out his hand and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

She whispered Here, and handed him the roll of bills.

Quiet, dear, he said gently, not another word. He gestured nervously for her to follow and opened a heavy, metal door. They noiselessly descended two flights to the sanitarium’s side-street entrance. The bald, middle-aged orderly, considerably shorter than the five-ten Gail, put the roll in his breast pocket. Gail’s good looks impressed the mild man when she first arrived, and he, noting her behavior less erratic than most inmates, tried often to engage her in conversation and did small favors—brought her mail, warm soup or coffee between meals, things usually taken care of by Nurse or other members of the staff. She responded with a cool stare. But a week before her planned escape, she acknowledged his attentions with a smile. Encouraged, he brought magazines purchased in town, hung pictures of garden scenes around her room, smiled often and tried to engage the girl in pleasant conversation, all with an eye to the possibility one sleepy afternoon this despondent but beautiful young woman would allow him to enjoy her favors. He was eager to comply when during the week she asked to use the phone on Nurse’s desk, forbidden to inmates, when she was off duty. After the call, she offered him the bribe. Though it made plain to the orderly the cause for her changed attitude, the lure of her beauty and the amount she offered, a thousand dollars, no small potatoes to him, made him rush to accept. Monaki had a great number of patients, and other inmates had escaped with no bad blame thrown on an orderly, since the confused escapees usually returned on their own or were found wandering dazed in the surrounding wood.

The money’s all there, right? he said as he went to the night alarm and turned it off. He told her to be off the grounds in five minutes; he would then sound the alarm and say to hospital officials she got past his station while he checked the floor below.

Yes. A thousand, she lied.

Okay. On your way. Five minutes and I’ll give the alarm. Remember, if they ketch you, don’t say anything about me. And when you come back remember how good I been to you. He felt for the bills. Wait. He removed the rubber band, flicked the bills and saw the ruse. Why there’s hardly more than two hundred dollars here. Hey, I can’t take such a chance for two hundred dollars. You’ll have to go back to your room. His mind in disarray, he left the key on a ring with other keys on the alarm.

Gail slapped wildly at the roll of bills in his hand. They scattered about the landing and down the flight of stairs that led to the cellar. She ran out the door into the night, aware he wouldn’t follow if he left those bills there to give him away.

She ran in long strides like a trained athlete into the cool air, an insubstantial sliver of moon in the sky, over the spacious but sparse lawn that surrounded the hospital, through a copse of Mulberry trees, past a statue of the hospital’s founder, Dr. Hiram Monaki, with its right hand broken off, his left holding a prescription pad he would never fill, around a small pond and then into a dense wood. Dry, fallen leaves crackled under her feet, and she cursed as she repeatedly banged her head and legs on low-hanging branches. After a quarter-mile mostly downhill run, she came to the roadway that bisected the wood. Nearby at a small electric power station, a pre-arranged spot, a Camaro with its lights off waited with motor running.

Strapped on a rack atop the car, two surfboards were outlined by the faint light of the stars. At the sound of her footsteps a young man of Gail’s age ran out of the dark to meet her.

Gail? Is it really you?

She rushed into his arms, sobbing, repeating his name, Wayne, Wayne.

Easy, he said, and moved her away from him, warding off the warmth of her embrace with deliberate coolness. It’s been almost a year. You left without a word, in the middle of the term, like I meant nothing to you. I couldn’t believe it when you called.

Gail interrupted, her voice choked, I’ve been awful, I know. I’ll explain everything. She looked back over her shoulder. We must leave immediately, please. She pulled him by the arm toward the car. They’ll be after me, she said.

Who’ll be after you?

She didn’t answer. They got in the car and drove. She directed him to the parkway. The light of the dashboard showed she had lost weight since he last saw her a year ago, her face drawn, her cheekbones protruding. She spoke in a frenetic manner and gazed back over her shoulder continually. Believe me, Wayne, I love you as much as ever, I swear it, Wayne. In a changed voice, defensive and simpering, she said, You remember how much I loved you. You remember, don’t you? Before he could answer, she sat upright so abruptly she gave him a start. She shook her head as though to clear it, looked through the rear window and said suddenly annoyed, I didn’t want you to bring both boards. I told you only mine. Why did you bring yours?

I couldn’t imagine—

She became reflective again. You’ve been on my mind night and day. Can’t you tell where I’ve been?

No, where?

On the other side of the wood. At Monaki.

Monaki? Oh Gail. In the past he made allowance for her moods and periods of silence, her strange, self-deprecating remarks, confident she loved him. Present behavior and the shock on hearing she was confined made him recognize those quirks as signs. He said little as he drove. They reached the parkway and she directed him east to the tip of Long Island.

East?

To Montauk.

Why out there?

Please, I—

Are you sure we should be doing this? Maybe you need—

Wayne! I’m not crazy! I don’t belong there! She leaned her head to the side away from him, her body shaking with sobs. You’ve got to help me.

He drove onto Northern State Parkway and headed east, unsure if he was doing the right thing, only sure for the time being he had to do what she ordered to quell her panic.

At least tell me what’s out at Montauk.

A motel. I’ll explain everything when we get there.

A motel?

One of the people at Monaki told me about it.

An inmate?

Yes. A surfer, then trance-like, he was young. He had grey hair. She became lost in thought, groaned and repeatedly said, I’ll explain, I have to explain, once we get out there.

Why would you want your board? This isn’t going to be a fun trip. She didn’t answer.

He drove ahead on the straight, two-lane road, lit only by his headlights. The trees, maples, oaks, and further out on the island tall pines, hovered over the sides of the road like dark figures peering into the car.

I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t study, said Wayne, and now the tears were in his voice. I waited night and day for your call. Why didn’t you call?

It was forbidden.

Forbidden. By who?

By me.

I don’t understand. If you loved me why didn’t you call?

Believe me, you mean more to me than anything else in life… she said, and repeated sadly,  . . . in life.

Convinced she still loved him, aware she desperately needed his help, he said, We’ll get through this together, whatever it is.

They drove for hours and reached the tip of the Island, where they parked before a small motel facing the ocean, its shingles curled by sea and sun. On the roof a neon sign, slightly askew, read Duberman’s Rest. Several of the letters buzzed and flicked on and off. Down an incline was the beach, behind it the immense, dark waters of the Atlantic. As they watched, dark clouds billowed and erased the stars.

They stepped out of the car into strong gusts of an offshore wind. Fallen leaves skittered over the gravel in the driveway; large drops of rain fell with a spat and pinned the leaves to the ground. It quieted momentarily, and the surroundings came alive with the smell of the sea and sea-life. They ran through the rain to the small office.

Chapter 2

The previous fall Gail had enrolled at Brentwood College in New Jersey, a small college of 750 students. She preferred one even smaller but found none near the sea. The buildings of Brentwood stood on a hillside that sloped for a quarter of a mile to a promontory and beach that faced the winds of the Atlantic. She drove her compact Mercedes down each day to check out the waves. With surf up, she’d cut class, drive back to her off-campus condo, pick up her surfboard from storage and soon was out at sea. Adverse experience had clouded her mind, but every cell in her body was brought to life by surfing and strenuous exercise—thin wrists, slender but muscled torso, arms and legs.

On a day of heavy surf she saw a group of surfers fifty yards down the beach. One showed outstanding form as he rode in. Gail, in a single piece, blue bathing suit, paddled out and rode in several times, each time in the barrel of a big wave. The last trip, the surfer she admired waited on the coarse brown sand close to where she came in, his board under his arm. The water-droplets on her body glistened in the sun, her chest heaved as she caught her breath and prepared to go out again. He neared her, his long, dark hair in curly ringlets over his brow, partially obscuring his frank, brown eyes, a smile of approval on his face.

That was a bomb. You took it beautifully.

Her eyes flickered away from his. A bomb?

Oh, sorry, you look like California. That’s their lingo for a great wave. He laughed.

Oh. She didn’t know what he was talking about.

He extended his hand. He was tanned from head to toe, wore black trunks and his wet, purple short-sleeve shirt clung to his body; the surfing clearly defined the muscles in his arms and legs. My name’s Wayne.

She hesitated; her long fingers touched his and pulled away. I’m Gail.

I gotta straighten out the guys back at Brent who haven’t seen you ride.

I beg your pardon? She wrinkled her eyes, thrown again by his confusing talk.

You go to Brentwood, right? Surfing dudes saw the board on your car. Called you Gidget.

She lost eye contact with him. Called… me? But my name’s… my name’s Gail.

He laughed. Guess you don’t go to the movies. Never saw Gidget? She was a surfer—the worst.

Called me Gidget? They shouldn’t. How do they know?

Right. Don’t worry, I’ll set ’em straight.

He was the first person at Brentwood to approach her casually since she arrived at start of semester a month before. Other students were attracted by her good looks, but after a few words her cold stare turned them off. Her straight blond hair pulled back to a knot, the plain blue cotton dress, (no jeans yet for her) added to the austere look. When spoken to, she answered in a hesitant, evasive manner, and examined every statement or question cautiously before answering, like it might contain a trap.

He put down his board and motioned they sit. The surf boomed and slid over the sand toward them, pulled back and furled over the incoming wave.

"You’re… a student? she asked.

Yep. Soph. History major. How ’bout you?

She had to think. "Just started. September. Just… liberal arts.

Here for the waves, huh? he said, and laughed.

Gail remained unsmiling and wondered how he knew that was the reason she came to Brentwood. She gazed at the churning surf, and almost immediately became involved in the scene as though alone. Her dark eyes widened or narrowed as she measured the incoming wave and read its retreat.

He examined her fine profile and graceful neck. She caught him staring. Her full lips opened and closed as she struggled to speak; he understood she was under some self-imposed strain and waited.

Been… been… surfing long? she asked.

So simple a question, and so much effort behind it, he thought. Oh yeah, great surf in the Bronx."

The Bronx?

No, just kidding. I live in the Bronx with my folks. I came to Brent a year ago. Been surfing ever since. Hit the waves? He rose and looked back at his friends and said softly, Whoa, as one of them disappeared in the waves, his board flying high in the air in a wipeout. He signaled those on the beach to leave without him as he and Gail waded out. They kneeled on their boards, paddled-out through the incoming waves for a hundred yards, turned, gave a great push toward shore, mounted the board and rode the large wave in, crouched in the barrel, moved faster and faster, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five miles an hour, almost hidden as they thrilled to the great wave curled over them, knees bent, arms extended till they neared shore and… hopped off… and the wave died.

Wayne looked at Gail with admiration. They carried their boards in and sat on the sand. In the later afternoon the wind calmed and the sea flattened, blown out, Wayne called it. They prepared to leave. He brushed the sand off his shirt and pulled it over his head as Gail watched, seemingly indifferent, actually all attention. They left the beach for the parking lot. She put her board on the racks atop her car.

Could I join you? he asked.

Where?

At the governor’s ball, he said with a laugh. I mean here, Gail, he pointed at her board. Can I strap in with you? The dude that drove me out left an hour ago. Save me a hike back to the dorm. I’ve walked it plenty of times, of course, but—would you mind?

Oh, n-no, of course not. You walk all this way with the board?

If I can’t get a ride. Only half-a-mile. Wind spins me like a top sometimes. A gust hit them. He spun and said Whee, and laughed as he turned.

She helped him with his pristine, well-waxed board, smooth as glass, covered with hand-painted, green and red flowers arranged in a geometric pattern.

Pretty, she said. She pulled the belt