Take Me To Church (A John Lennon Story)

Chapter Twenty-Four: Freddy And Rachel

"Hey, Ariel."

"...hey."

"Do you mind if I walk with you?"

"I'm just going to pick up some groceries.  And Alta gave me a bit of money to get some new vinyl."

"Brilliant!  I'll definitely tag along, if you don't mind."  

When John couldn't be with me, he'd usually ask Paul to walk with me if I was going somewhere.  Partially so I wouldn't be alone, but also so I wouldn't look alone.  When you're alone, you're much more vulnerable.  

I still didn't really enjoy touching people, especially men.  But I had grown fond of Paul.  When we walked by groups of people on the sidewalk, I would sometimes loop my arm around his, holding onto him.  I would only hold on for a short amount of time though.  Paul never asked questions. 

He helped me at the grocer, reaching for things that were up high and occasionally picking up things I dropped.  It was fine until I noticed that nearly everyone in the aisle was staring at me; they must have recognized me from the newspaper story about my father.  They most likely didn't know about what had happened with the teenage boys.  

However, most of the Liverpool teens knew about that.

At the record store, Paul showed me some of his favorites and I in turn presented mine.  

"This one's really good.  Have you heard of Elvis Presley?"

"I like this one."

"How about Elvis Presley?"

I smiled for a moment.  Paul was charming, but he knew when enough was enough.  

We searched for a few more minutes when I heard some familiar laughter.  Charlotte Wiles and her friends walked in and approached us.  "Hi, Ariel," she squeezed my arm like we were good friends.  I immediately stepped back.  She took note of it.  "How's John?"  

"Fine."

"That's wonderful.  You know...I've always been very fond of John.  I just love boys that seem so...bad.  Your boyfriend's an excellent kisser, by the way."

I felt tears prick my eyes.  Paul stepped in.  "Really, Charlotte?  This isn't the time or the place.  In fact, it never is the time or the place."

"Ooh, Paul McCartney, stepping up for the weakling.  You act so tough when I know I've seen your sensitive side.  I used to drive you wild."

Paul snorted.  "I've had better."  

Charlotte was red in the face.  Turning to me, she said, "And you always act so innocent even though your 'acts of indiscretion' are all everyone talks about."  

Almost no sound came out of my mouth when I said, "It was against my will."

"You're a whore-"

"Go screw yourself, Charlotte."  Paul snapped shamelessly, leading me out of the store.  He had his arm wrapped around me, and though I tried to move away, he wouldn't let go.  I began to panic and jerked away from him, bumping into a man who growled something rude before walking away.  A few other people made sideways glances at us.  Paul coaxed me into the quiet entryway of the post office so I could calm myself.  "I'm sorry," he said, "I shouldn't have grabbed you...I didn't mean to frighten you...I just wanted to get you out of there."

"It's fine...I just need to get home."

He walked me there, and I thanked him for defending me at the record store.  But only about an hour after he left, I left too.  I had someone I meant to visit.

I knocked on Freddy's door carefully, and he opened up.  He had a smooth jazz record playing.  I held up the basket I had brought.  "I brought dinner."

"How wonderful.  Thank you."

Over the past week or so, I had gotten to know Freddy.  He was an incredibly nice, witty man; he enjoyed telling stories that made me laugh.  He had traveled all over Europe, and to parts of Africa.  He had a collection of postcards and pictures of his travels on one of the walls of his living room.  One of my favorite pictures was of him and a woman in Paris.  I asked him who the woman was, and he dismissed the question.  But there were other pictures of her around his house too.  I wondered if I would ever find out.

While we ate, I asked him once more.  

"She was my wife.  Her name was Rachel."

"I see."  I wanted to ask what happened to her, but felt it would be rude to.  

"I don't want to discuss what happened to her over dinner.  Nor do I wish to discuss it with you, because you went through a similar experience to what she did."

"...oh.  I'm so sorry-"

"Everyone is."  He looked at the picture of them in Paris.  She clutched onto his arm, smiling.  "I don't know...what I would give to have her back again."  He sat up.  "About ten years ago, she went out with a friend of hers.  It was late, but it was her friend's birthday.  I stayed home.  A group of boys had stalked them all night, and when Rachel was almost home they took a chance."  He squeezed his fork in his hand, his knuckles white.  "They violated and murdered her.  They took her clothes and tied her to a lamp post.  I called it a hate crime; the police said they had no leads and that 'kids would be kids'.  I said that they weren't kids, they were criminals.  It didn't matter to them."

I was stunned.  I wanted to touch his hand, but that would be too much.  

"When I realized what had happened to you I knew I couldn't let the police get away with ignoring the problem, nor could I let you say it was your fault."

He stood up, and began to collect the plates.  "I don't mean to upset you.  I just thought that you may understand."

I did touch his hand then for a brief moment.  

"Thank you for helping me that night."

There was a moment of silence.  "Let's have some of that dessert you brought."

Before I left that night, Freddy stuck something in my hand.  The picture of him and Rachel in Paris, in front of the Eiffel Tower.  

"I couldn't take this-"

"I want you to promise me that you'll go here sometime, with or without that John fellow, and take a picture here.  Then, you send that picture to me.  I'll put it in place of this one."  He smiled, causing the dark skin around his eyes to wrinkle slightly.  I smiled shyly.  "Thank you."

"I'll walk you home.  It's getting late."