A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (popular books to read TXT) 📗

then he shuffled me around some more and on the other side of the kitchen was a large living room minimally furnished with a few chairs, a couch, a dining-room table, and two wheelchairs lined up against the wall.

There was also a fireplace and a wide staircase to a second floor, with a sophisticated chairlift, and I had a feeling Monica was up there. I was tempted to call out, but now was not the time; Ben and I were getting along; this had to be to my advantage. But I did say, “Is that where you’re keeping Monica?” and with my arms locked in the straitjacket, I indicated, with a nod of my head, the upstairs.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s got a nice room. Nice view.”

“Is she okay?” I asked, my voice unintentionally quavering.

“She’s doing good. She’s a good girl. But let’s not talk about it.”

“Are you treating her all right?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, showing some annoyance, and it was involuntary, but I fought back tears at that moment. Monica was just up those stairs, beyond my reach. She had to be terrified. How could I have done this to her? Then I thought: I’ve got to stay focused; don’t give over to despair; take everything in; there’s got to be something I can use…

And as we crossed the living room, I got a good look out the big picture window directly in front of me: there was an expanse of lawn and a long, rectangular pool, and on the other side of the pool was the back of another Spanish-style house, even bigger, which must have been their living quarters, and so this must be the guest house. A very large guest house.

I could also see more of the driveway than I was able to from my room—it ran between the two houses, with flagstones along its edge, and on the driveway, near this house, was the Land Rover. Seeing it sparked a meager bit of hope: I just had to get out of this straitjacket, take care of Ben, free Monica, get the keys to that car, and…

He shuffled me back to the room, gagged me, and strapped me to the bed.

Then he got the bedpan between my legs and threw the thin blanket over me. “Try to rest,” he said, tucking the blanket under my chin. “You’ve been through a lot.”

4.

He left me alone in the room, and I lay there, staring at the ceiling, and I figured there were two ways to go: the slow game or try something now.

It was Monday morning and Madvig said the surgery would be Wednesday morning. That gave me roughly forty-eight hours if I were to play the slow game, which was to work on Ben and wait for an opening that may or may not come.

The one time his good mood seemed to crack was when I brought up Monica and so maybe that was his weak spot—he felt guilty about her, pitied her.

So how should I play him? Keep humanizing her, talking about her, until I could persuade him to let her go?

And if I saw him every meal before the surgery, which seemed to be the most likely schedule, that gave me five more times with him over the next two days.

Or maybe less, because they would probably have me start fasting at some point before the surgery. Which meant I might only see him four more times.

And he was a talker, which was to my advantage, but was I even capable of manipulating him?

He was clearly loyal to Madvig, and to free Monica or free both of us was to cut his own neck. He wasn’t that simple and I wasn’t that skilled at manipulation, which meant, I decided, I had to try something now. Which was for the best: locked down on that bed I didn’t have the patience—or the sanity—to wait.

And it was too risky to wait.

I only had forty-eight hours, maybe less, and once they cut my kidney out, I’d be too weak to do anything and at some point they’d start cutting into Monica.

So now was the time, and for the rest of the morning, I kept thinking about how Ben had unfurled the straitjacket before bathing me. He had started with my right side and my right hand, my stronger hand. Maybe that was my opening. And I started visualizing how it could happen.

Next time he bathed me, he’d probably follow the same order—unfurl the right side of the jacket and take hold of my right wrist. My head would be secured to the bed, and I would have almost no leverage, but as he grabbed my wrist, I’d break free of his grip and grab his wrist. This would surprise him: he’d be caught off guard, and I’d yank him down to my chest with everything I had. The strength of my whole life.

Then I’d get my arm around his neck and choke him out. He was strong, but so was I. And I was desperate. I had thrown Madvig’s son off a balcony. There were resources in me that were untapped, and once he was unconscious, I’d be able to free myself with my right hand from the straitjacket and undo the straps that secured me to the bed.

All this required him to bathe me again, and to that end, I was able to squirm just enough to get the bedpan off to the side a little. Then I did feel my stomach activating after he’d given me that breakfast, and I tried to force a bowel movement and I wasn’t successful at first, but then one happened. It felt like a lot of it got on the bed and between my legs, and it was disgusting lying there, but it was the least of my problems.

At least three hours passed as I lay there in my filth, but I practiced in my mind over and over again what I would do. What I had to