I had Albert in the car with me. He slept his drug-induced sleep in the backseat. I had his medications in my front pocket and strict instructions from the charge nurse on the administration schedule. “You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen if he missed his pills,” the nurse had said. Indeed not. Whatever happened, it was going to be dramatic, of that much I was certain. Of late, I had found myself setting up experiences and confrontations to wring the dramatic value from them. I had developed an affinity for it. What with the changes in my life—I’m told drama is about change—I had decided to make each scene count. My fights with Rachel—I suppose that I orchestrated some of them to make her reactions even more histrionic than they normally would have been. Where a single word or gesture might end a fight, I would choose the opposite word or gesture to extend it. To extend the drama. I even relished Monty’s concern for my well-being. Where a brief hug or a solemn vow might have put his worries to rest, I chose instead to extend the conflict, heighten the tension.
Rather than walking blindly through my life, I found myself wanting to arrange it in scenes. To make each scene as dramatic as possible. I was becoming a playwright, writing an autobiographical play. And not only was I writing it, I was the star.
With Albert asleep in the backseat, I pull onto our private drive. As I accelerate toward the house, I pass Monty’s car. He does not wave or acknowledge me. His sunglasses catch the late-afternoon sun, reflecting the light back at me so that his eyes look like black holes in reverse—pouring out white light rather than sucking it in.
At home, I find Rachel in the kitchen fixing a drink. I kiss her lightly on the cheek, playing my role as I have written it for myself, and myself alone. I see no need for exposition and cut to the chase.
“I’m going away this weekend. Business.”
She puts down her drink, turns to stare at me. “What?”
“I have to bail out one of our clients.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m afraid I have to. What was Monty doing here?”
“You should know. It was your idea. Here.” She handed me the unsigned custody papers. “He wants you to keep these. He says he won’t sign.”
“Well, we’ll just have to find someone who wants to be Albert’s godfather.”
“No, he loves the idea of being Albert’s godfather; it’s your state of mind he’s worried about.”
“My state of mind?”
“He agrees with me that you’ve been acting strangely.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Yes, well, abnormal is normal for me, not you. Monty thinks you may be having suicidal thoughts. So do I.”
“Only one of us has a history of suicide attempts.”
“Yes, dear, that would be me, and, yes, I have the scars to prove it. However, during some of my more lucid moments, I’ve noticed a change in you.”
It is true, I am changing, of course, but I also find it touching that she has chosen to remain lucid for this amateur intervention to save me. I prefer her drugged, with her demons at bay. Nonetheless, I am moved.
“Monty agrees with me. Agrees with crazy old me. He thinks your all of a sudden wanting him to be Albert’s godfather is a way of tidying things up before . . . Sometimes people considering suicide put all of their affairs in order before they kill themselves. And, speaking as the only one here who has attempted it, I can tell you that I actually spent three hours finishing a school report before I did this,” and she held out her loathsome wrists. “The mind is a funny thing.”
“You know, Rachel, the problem with suicide is that everybody talks about it, but no one actually commits it.”
“All I’m trying to say is that you’re scaring me. You say you have to go away for business, but how do I know that they’re not going to find you dead in some hotel room?”
“Because I’m not suicidal. I swear it. Let’s make each other a promise. If either of us feels suicidal, we’ll tell the other and do it together. No more secrets.”
“That’s not funny,” she says, and the tears begin. She talks through her tears, but I have no trouble understanding her. In fact, it is at times like these that I understand her best. “If you want to fight, great, let’s fight. It’s the only time you show any emotion anymore. Any passion.”
“I don’t want to fight,” I say, and take her into my arms to comfort her, an action that needed no rehearsal, I’ve done it so many times before. “It’s all right. I’m all right and you’re all right. Don’t cry. I brought you something. A surprise. He’s in the car. Wait here.”
I wake Albert. He is sluggish from the medication. I navigate this lumbering giant through the garage and into the kitchen. I hear the bottle of his pills rattling in my pocket. As soon as she sees him, the mad fever leaves Rachel’s eyes. “Albert! Oh, sweetie!”
She stubs out her cigarette and rushes to him. She reaches her arms across his massive shoulders. She looks to me and gives me a grateful smile.
Albert grunts and hugs his mother. He speaks in his flat voice. “Albert did bad wrong.”
Rachel hugs him even tighter. “No you didn’t, sweetie. Mommy loves you. Mommy loves you so much.”
I go upstairs to pack my bags.
EIGHTEEN
The mountains are corrupt with fall colors. The trees bleed with beauty. In their colorful prelude to death, the maples turn a violent red. The youngest ones are only now beginning to change into their scarlet death masks. These trees are spotted and mottled with crimson lesions like illustrations in a medical manual. I have little patience for the dainty pastels of the hickory, birch, sycamore, and white oak. My attention is consumed with the maple’s garish horror movie colors.
The ride up is mostly silent. I am in a foul mood. Violet makes several attempts at generating conversation. Most of these attempts concern television talk shows and situation comedies and begin with the words, “Did you see ...” I simply shake my head and stare at the road. In the foothills, we pass a run-down clapboard church. A road sign in front of the church instructs all who pass by to PREPARE TO MEET GOD.
By the time we get to the cabin, my mood has lifted. It is as I remembered it from childhood when our family vacationed here, an elegant affair nestled high in the mountains overlooking a small lake. Our first order of business is sex. This is appropriate since it was here that my brother first initiated me into the world of women and what they were to be used for. Afterward, I walk out onto the deck that overlooks Lake Armistead. I stand on the deck, naked and bathed in sunlight. It feels good, I think, the light. I feel at home in the light. I shift my body so that my genitals are thrust forward and fully exposed to the sun, relishing the burn there.
Violet’s voice calls to me from inside the cabin. “You’re not done yet, are you?”
I walk back inside and Violet draws the curtains behind me. She flops onto the bed and waits for me. “No,” I say, “in the light.” I jerk the curtains open and sunlight streams over Violet’s naked body. I go to her. We nibble and kiss and bite. She climbs atop me, but I push her rudely off. I flip her over. Grasp her hips and pull them upward. Push her head into the pillow and hold it there. Her cries are muffled, and I cannot tell if they are in protest or delight. Nor do I care. I enter her violently, unnaturally.
We hike a portion of the Appalachian Trail. Violet, sore from our encounter yesterday, has great difficulty navigating some of the rockier terrain. In fact, she was still bleeding from my rambunctiousness only this morning. I take a secret pride in this. Pride in my manhood for injuring her so. I catch her looking at me, and the expression on her face is a mixture of respect and fear. I suspect she wonders who I am. Wonders who is this stranger who brutalized her. I don’t blame her.
We come to a magnificent waterfall and riverbed with large flat rocks scattered invitingly in the stream. We have not passed any other hikers in over an hour, so I begin to shuck off my clothes. I find myself wanting to be naked all of the time. Violet has to be coaxed,
but soon enough she joins me, naked, in the water.
We sun ourselves on a massive flat rock in the middle of the stream. The water rushes coldly by us as we grow dry and warm in the fall sun. I close my eyes and visit my old friend, the dark. Violet rubs her hand lightly over my chest, scratches her nails playfully over my nipples, and asks, “What are you thinking about?” I don’t answer. She trails her hand across my stomach, rakes her nails through my pubic hair, tangling it.
“Adam, tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“About how much I love the sun.”
She grasps my penis, manipulates it, awakens it.
“Do you think about your wife?”
This is a scene that she has assuredly read or seen countless times. Get your lover to discuss his wife while you excite him sexually. I am sure the romance racks at bookstands across the country are filled to overflowing with such scenes. No matter, I will let her play it out, as I play out my own.
She gauges the thickness and rigidity of my erection, the barometer of her powers.
“Do you think about Rachel?”
“No, she’s in the dark.”
She works me with her hands. I see now that this is her power, her way of controlling me just as Rachel controls me. I allow her the control. I think about my brother and the girl I loved a thousand summers ago. And the circle closes.
Her hands move with a speed and grace that seem incompatible. “What else?” she asks me. “What else about Rachel?” She coaxes me just as she coaxes my erect penis to give up its gift.
I blurt out the words just before the semen splashes across my stomach in a stream of white light.
“I think she’d be better off dead.”
That night, our last, I rage against Violet. My contempt for her knows no bounds. On the pretext of sexual exploration, she agrees to allow me to live out my fantasies. I tie her wrists and ankles to the four posts of the bed. I use her body for my own selfish ends. My every animal desire is given over to hate and lust. I commit unspeakable acts. I degrade her. In every way the imagination allows, I degrade her.
Afterward, I untie her. Her feet and hands are blue and icy from lack of circulation. She crawls to a cold dirty corner and weeps quietly.
We leave the mountain as we came, in silence. My thoughts are private and not to be shared with the likes of her. There is no longer any need to formally end the relationship. It is over. In her simple mind, I know she wonders. Questions if she is somehow at fault, at fault for my unspeakable behavior. I know that she wonders if this is not what she deserves. On some collective level, she feels that she somehow deserves such treatment. I know these things, because my brother taught me well. I can already feel Violet pulling away; my actions overrode even the hardiest of abuse syndromes. I know she will never contact me again. I made sure of that last night.
A billboard looms ahead. SEE LINVILLE CAVERNS. It calls to me, a cheap roadside attraction, but I know I must see it. Its dark recesses will present me with an opportunity to test my newfound self.
We pull into the dusty lot. Violet refuses to get out of the car, but I insist; I will continue to have this power over her until I allow her to let herself be free of me. I must go in, but I can’t go in alone. My transformation is not yet complete enough for that. I still need a comforting hand in the dark places. And once I no longer need even that, I will need nothing. More important, I will need nobody. A tacit agreement passes between us. She will go in, but this is the last experience we will ever share together.
I spot a line of tourists waiting outside the massive oak doors that have been built into the side of Linville Mountain. We get in line behind a gray-haired couple wearing matching red satin jackets emblazoned with the head of a toothy bulldog. The man, his hair clipped in a military-fashion flattop, puffs on a briarwood pipe. The pungently sweet tobacco smoke wafts from his mouth and wisps about on the breeze. The woman, gray with a face of folksy friendliness, turns to us, smiles, and turns back around. She turns again and gives Violet an appraising look.
“Honey, didn’t you bring a sweater or such? It’s dark and damp in there. They say it stays fifty-two degrees in there year round.”
Violet shakes her head. “No, I didn’t know. I didn’t bring anything.”
The woman turns to her husband. “Herbert, give her your jacket. She looks cold.” Herbert shrugs off his jacket, the red satin iridescent in the autumn sun.
Violet shakes her head. “No, really, please, I ...”
I think I know what Violet is feeling. Dirty and ashamed. She does not want to sully this man’s jacket with her shame-ridden body.
“Yes, you can, and you certainly will,” Mrs. Herbert insists.
Herbert himself jumps in with, “I’d rather a beautiful young woman such as yourself wore it than an old man like me. Besides, I’m hot-blooded, right, honey?” He pats his wife’s behind, and Mrs. Herbert rolls her eyes comically.
Violet cringes away from the proffered jacket. I take it from Herbert’s hand and drape it across Violet’s shoulders, knowing that the weight of the garment of this good man sickens her. Smiling at Herbert, I offer my left hand for him to shake. It is an old trick my likewise left-handed brother taught me. A left-handed person must make certain concessions to the right-handed world, but when instigating a handshake, if you offer the other party your left hand, it confuses them and gives you a subtle psychological edge. Herbert does not disappoint me. He stares nonplussed at my hand, feeling, as I know, foolish and awkward. Finally, he grasps my hand in both of his. I have, through the ritual of the male handshake, reduced his role to that of an old blind woman.
“Thank you, Herbert, Mrs. Herbert,” I say.
Mrs. Herbert beams at me. “You two make such a nice couple. Are you married?”
I now hate her as much as I hate him. Her smile is crooked and her teeth stained. They are everything I will never be. They are everything that was stolen from me. They are commonplace and ordinary. They are normalcy. Already nervous about entering the cave, I find that I want to hurt this old woman. I want to make her feel bad.
“My wife recently passed away,” I say, reveling in it. “Violet’s been a good friend to me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. She was a real bitch.”
Mrs. Herbert’s face immediately loses its former openness. The folksy friendliness is gone. The Herberts turn away from us and no longer acknowledge our presence. They will not have the nerve to ask for the jacket back after the tour.
In the cavern, it is indeed dark and damp. Our group files in under scattered strings of electric lights that struggle vainly to push back the darkness. We make our way down into the cavern, and, indeed, it is very cold. Water trickles down the limestone walls. It drips from the strung-out lightbulbs. Multicolored stalactites and stalagmites hang and grow everywhere. Impressive rock shelves fan out in intricately curved shapes. And everywhere, lurking in every corner, is the darkness. We pass through magnificent archways of colorful, wet stone. Our tour guide, a pale teenage girl given to snapping her gum, leads us deeper and deeper into the cavern. She is informative if not somewhat bored by nature.
“The caverns were first discovered in 1822 and were later used by deserters of both the Union and Confederate armies. On the rock shelf to your left, you can see the remains of a campfire the deserters built to ward off the constant cold and dark.”
We all turn to look. The combined breath of our group hovers above us in a ghostly condensation.
“If you’ll walk over here, you can see our underground stream. The trout that swim in this water are unlike any other freshwater fish on earth.”
She shines her flashlight into the stream.
“They’re blind. Thousands of generations of living without light has caused them to no longer rely on eyesight to hunt.”
I peer over into the stream. A fine sweat, despite the cold, has formed on my forehead and under my arms. The fish I see are cumbers
ome and preternaturally pale. Bulbous, opaque tumors grow in the place of eyes.
“Right now we are standing under a mile of solid rock. This cavern exists in total darkness—a darkness so pure, they say a human being would go blind if subjected to it for any length of time.”
I look uncertainly at the surrounding rock walls. They seem to be crouching imperceptibly inward, wanting to consume me with their dark secrets. The tour guide reaches out and places her hand on a toggle switch bolted into the rock. Heavy-gauge electrical wiring runs to the switch. Inwardly, I flinch.
“Okay, this is the part of the tour where we turn off the lights. If anybody has any small children who are afraid of the dark, or for whatever reason, we can skip this part. Anybody?”
Her words chill me. They echo my wedding ceremony to Rachel. Should anyone here have cause why this man and woman should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace. But no one spoke up. I was given to the dark. Oh, please, please let some small child cry out in fear. Don’t let them plunge me into the darkness. I’ve only just escaped the dark. Don’t let it take me again. I may not come back.
“Okay. Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to experience something few humans ever experience in their lifetimes.”
Sweat trickles from my armpits and slides icily down my sides. I reach out for Violet’s hand, but she pulls away from me. I am alone.
“You are going to experience absolute darkness. The total absence of light.”
The tour guide throws the light switch, plunges the cavern into blackness. And I am transported. I am the boy once again. The boy stumbling in the dark who grew into the man stumbling in the dark. The lost boy who grew into the lost man. And I wait and I pray. I pray, yes, but for whom? Who else? Who have I always prayed for? Prayed to? I pray to Monty. I pray for Monty to save me yet again. To set me free of the dark. But I am free. I set myself free. Yes, I set myself free. I know this. I cannot be here again. I cannot. I will not. I will not. I am free.
A Very Simple Crime Page 4
