by Bruce Wagner
Kelly went on a How It Can Dance! book tour that she organized herself, from Seattle to San Diego and every place in-between. She arranged for local library readings and hawked it out of vitamin barns, co-ops and daycare centers. Sold it from her car for God’s sake.
We were on a budget, notwithstanding the advance on the memoir and my disability checks. You know how the money thing goes. I admit I was getting a little wiggy. I must have gained, oh, close to 45 pounds. I put in a lot of time on the porch in a rocking chair that rumor had it once belonged to either Neil Young or Pigpen. (Got it at the flea market.) You know, my wife had an interesting relationship to my lawsuit. On the one hand, she said it was bad karma to be sitting on my ass waiting for reparations over something that happened as a result of karma anyway and that the case had turned all us plaintiffs into virtual eunuchs, which was the ultimate triumph of the abusers. Probably had a point. On the other, I knew she wasn’t above dreaming of the Big Win. With enough Merlot, Kelly’s thoughts wandered to India, a mainstay of her recurring encyclical money-pot grand tour. She loved to tease. She said that when my ship came in—always referred to as the Good Ship Lollipop—she expected no less than a first-class expedition. “And if that isn’t convenient for your schedule, Ryder and I will have a perfectly fine time by ourselves.” She always diva’d out when she drank Merlot. But no bullshit, Kelly considered the fact that she’d never traveled there to be a gaping hole in her CV. She desperately wanted to visit the cave where Siddhartha Gautama meditated; she longed to sit under the Buddha tree in Bodh Gaya. She wanted to go to the Deer Park in Sarnath where he gave his teachings, and to Sravasti, where he taught breath awareness meditation . . . and make the pilgrimage to Kushinagar, where the Buddha drew his last breath. Her fantasy itinerary for Ryder was catholic indeed, mixing elephant rides (like his beloved if recently outgrown Mowgli) with a visit to Varanasi to watch bodies burning on a ghat—a ritual for which Ryder, courtesy of Mom’s bedtime stories, had already seemed to have acquired a small but persistent curiosity.
After the third glass of wine she’d crinkle her eyes and stare at the moon, archly whispering, “Or maybe I’ll just bring a . . . ladyfriend.”
She was a hoot.
Oh and look, Bruce, I don’t want to give you the impression I had no life. When Kelly was on the road doing her book or teaching thing, I took breaks from the drudgery of the legal waiting game. I’d arrange for Ryder to have a sleepover at a friend’s then ride into the city to buy crack in the Tenderloin. Find a friendly porn shop with booths in the back for watching movies and get high. Kneel in front of the glory hole and wait for Mr. Right to poke his dick through . . . Suck-A-Mole not Whac-A-Mole, huh. Not exactly a self-esteem builder but you do what you gostta do. I acquired gonorrhea that way once, in the throat. Nice. Another time I got crabs in my eyebrows. You haven’t lived until you’ve almost blinded yourself with A-200 before finding out that Vaseline asphyxiates the little fuckers. Vaseline!
I was in the yard. What was I doing? I have no memory.
I know it was a Saturday, three weekends before the news of the settlement—O happy day!—though of course at the time, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that everything had fallen apart or the case needed to be refiled on a technicality and would take five more years to resolve.
I went back in the house. Why? No memory.
As I passed Kelly’s meditation room, something caught my eye. A chair, overturned on the floor. I went in to right it. Something stank—my foot skidded—it was shit, right next to the chair—on the chair. How did a dog—what dog—
Then I saw him, hanging from a rope.
No clothes . . . he wore no clothes.
—what’s this?
(My heart was racing but my mind was calm, observing.)
Rushed to lift—so heavy.
Dead.
Dead—
But what is dead? And what does dead mean—
I could smell him, and all manner of stinky things—that thing Ram said—actually the awesome poet Ravidas said it, or wrote it, anyway—about everything being stinky—emanating from the untouchable touchable body of my son—poo smells, horsey, germy, sandalwoody smells—a complete, fetid jumble. The sky is falling—the phrase came into my head and kept repeating—the sky is falling—so this is what they mean by that—he was a bag, heavy boxer’s punching bag, and I, me, a freak stuck in timespace, slow-dancing with that cold nude weight—How It Can Dance!—and if you’ve ever confronted this sort of thing (there are more out there than you think, I went to a support group for folks who discovered loved ones hanging), there’s an odd moment when you’re lifting—later you wonder why you didn’t just cut them down—as if that might have saved him—you’re supposed to cut them down, but at the moment—dread moment of moments—it seems counterintuitive so you find yourself holding and lifting instead, lifting up—in that odd moment—very odd—you’re just stuck, your instincts say raise him up, take pressure off his neck (the damage already done, windpipes ruined forever), there you are left holding the bag, no way to cut the rope even if you wanted, there’s no knife and you can’t let go, and besides, the angle’s all wrong and your hands are full, so you’re stuck holding the torso of him who was—is—always was your love and your light—like one of those exhausted marathon dance couples from that wonderful movie They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? If you can’t cut it then you need to undo the knot but it’s too high, you’ll need to stand on a chair—conveniently provided!—so you can lift him with one arm and loosen the noose with the other . . . you’ll need to bend down to right the chair (now inconveniently laying on its side) but it’s been kicked a few feet away so you need to do more than bend, need to literally let go of him to get to it—the very first of a letting go that will stretch into Infinity—which you do, you have no choice but to let him dangle—have to—and it’s against the will of every cell of your body—body of father holding his son, every cell shrieking no no no he’ll choke . . . again!—and you cannot, will not bring yourself to be party to a further hanging—oh Bruce! It’s just a horrible, terrible bind—I found myself in—a wretched, killing, scum of the earth moment, alone with myself in the deadly present—and you feel . . . you’re just completely useless, you’re beyond, like some demon who never should have existed, why were you born? He wouldn’t have been in this ludicrous predicament if you never had been, you’ve murdered him by definition. Your busy, useless arms won’t let you dial for help—where are your clothes, son?—but eventually you do just that, blacking out all thoughts so as not to be party to an unspeakable second hanging—you let go of him as you shuffle over to right that dastardly chair. The seat is broken but you see a short wood plank (what’s that doing there? Well, never mind for now), you lay the plank across the broken drum of the seat so you can stand upon it, a good, pro-active move that suddenly vanquishes or at least diminishes other awful thoughts, our brains are so primitive, they enjoy ordering us to take action-steps, now suddenly face-to-face with Ryder’s dead head, staring at the twisted hard candy features. And again the mind begins its metal machine Muzak:
Ryder?—
—son?—
SON!
You brush his penis with your arm, it’s larger than you thought—
The mind metal-machines: Hmmm, when was the last time I saw it?
My son’s penis—
—probably a few months ago when he was sick.
. . . right? Holding his head with a cold rag. He puked into the trash.
But he was a shy kid. Always modest about his body, at least more than his parents.
Ry? Why aren’t you wearing clothes?
Ryder?
What is it you’ve done?
What’s happened here—
In the unfathomable midst of it all, your monkey mind noshes on its usual bullshit buffet. But whose thoughts and emotions are these? They don’t feel like yo
urs . . . you’re a thousand miles away, in the middle of a dream.
A daydream.
You even feel—I felt—silly.
. . . tongue herniating from mouth—impossible to untie Kelly’s blocks, he used the rope from Kelly’s yoga blocks—why did I think that would be an easy thing? To noodle a finger between rope and skin, like a steel wire under the jaw . . .
So I had to let him hang again—third hanging!—and run to the kitchen for a knife. Easier to let go the second time. Serial killers say that with each victim, the killing gets easier—
I cut him down.
Carried the birthday suit bag to a phone (no phone in Kelly’s meditation room)—carried! As if to break the vigil of human contact would endanger him—endanger me—and dialed 911. I told them what happened and they said, you know, they were sending someone out, and to stay on the line. Please stay on the line, sir. I’ve heard enough 911 calls on the news to know that’s what they do, that’s protocol, they ask you to stay on the line and be calm. I dropped the receiver on the carpet and just held him, pretending he was asleep. It half-looked like that . . .
. . . from a certain angle.
Angle of repose.
What exactly is an angle of repose?
The sky is falling.
I really do have blocks against certain phrases. Words too—like “abide.” “The Dude abides.” I can never remember what it means. And right after I find out, I forget. It’s a biblical word but people use it in songs all the time . . .
Later I learned that the firemen broke down the door. I didn’t hear them till they wrenched Ryder from my arms. One of them asked, Did you take off his clothes? Uh, no, he was like that when I found him. Metal machine mind said, That probably sounds strange to them. Hell, it sounded strange to me. I knew the police would want to explore further. Protocol. Cop work 101. In death of spouse, rule out spouse. In death of child, rule out parent. In hanging death of naked child, rule out creepy gay dad.
My head told me it was going to be a bit of a hassle but would ultimately resolve. I just hoped it didn’t turn lurid, that the truth would out itself—quickly.
But should I use my church-suit lawyers to defend? (Said monkey mind.)
I rode in the ambulance. They made me sit in front while they worked on him in back. No real memory of it. They tried to start an IV at the house but I don’t think that works when someone’s dead. The veins collapse, no blood’s flowing. Far as I know. But everyone played their part, they were all great. No professional likes to give up on a kid. I think they probably ham it up with kids, it’s instinct, you know, you’re trying to resuscitate a person who hasn’t had a chance to fuck it up, someone who hasn’t had the chance to break any hearts (until now). So they put in that extra effort, apart from the fact that a lot of ’em have kids themselves. If you work on a child who dies, grief counselors and an extended leave with full pay is a slam-dunk. Earth to monkey mind! Now I remember, the chief paramedic, head honcho, was an old pro. Very seasoned. Some of those guys are even D.O.s. You know, osteopaths. There was a woman trainee too, doing her best to not be distraught. Her very first call as an EMT, someone told me later. That had to be rough.
I kept redialing Kelly’s cell, secretly grateful each time she didn’t answer. I finally left a message. Something’s happened to Ryder, call back right away. From the front seat, senses acute, I smelled the pet shop we’d visited the week before, bad, sawdusty, wire terrier puppy smells wafting up—why? His shit was on my pants.
They “pronounced” him at the ER. I now pronounce you boy and Death. Death and wife . . . They let me in the room, the room with the clickety drapes and someone always moaning on the other side, they let me in to see him, a cop was there, he looked me up and down then hardly looked away, stayed there the whole time, probably protocol again, because of the weirdness of Ryder’s initially undressed body, now covered by two flimsy hospital gowns. God knows what ghoulish things they thought the suspect might have done and was still capable of . . . They never took the tubes out, not even the one down his throat. Machine mind wondered why. It would have been so easy. Maybe it was someone else’s first shift too, a new hire, an LVN who was supposed to do it but fucked up out of nerves. Everybody too distraught———
Or maybe just a bad RN.
I always obey my nurse.
[the next day] Thanks for your patience—that was very, very tough. I know it took me a while, I’m sorry. I’ve probably taken too much of your time. I think just sort of plunging in wouldn’t have—I don’t know, all the stuff leading up to it was the only way it would have worked. I’m pretty sure I’ll never talk about any of this again. I mean, in such detail. There’s still a bit more—can you listen? Have I made you late for any appointments? I know you wanted to leave today . . .
I was thinking some more about all this before I went to sleep, and this morning too, when I sat with the monks for prayers. For some reason there doesn’t seem to be a charge to the next few “items.” I think I can recount them in an almost clinical way. Maybe that’s just a defense mechanism. Probably I numbed myself up by going through it, you know, telling you about it, I haven’t really thought about any of that for years. In passing, yes, of course, images come to me every day, but not with that kind of . . . narrative detail. Not even close. I hope the anesthetic doesn’t wear off in the middle of this next little procedure!
Around five days after the event, a short article appeared in the paper. Not on the front page, somewhere toward the back. See, I’d had a few nagging concerns that Ryder would be taken up as the poster child for tween suicides, some sort of talking point for the usual bogus discussions on radio or television. I didn’t want our son to become, you know, the lead-in for a 60 Minutes segment either. I definitely stayed away from the Internet, which I considered—still do—to be nothing more than a Dantesque filing system for one’s worst fears. But nothing happened. Now I see those small worries for what they were, a distraction from the cruel reality of his absence.
I won’t bother to describe the details of my wife’s collapse when she learned what happened. Nothing I could possibly tell you could come close to delineating her sorrow. I wouldn’t even try, wouldn’t want to, some things aren’t ours to convey. A mother’s sorrows . . . that anguish is forever hers and hers alone. Do you know the Fourth Book of Esdras? There I go, the pedant again, with his GED in pedagogy. (One of the youngsters I met in my travels had one and called it the “Good Enough Diploma.”) In the Fourth Book of Esdras, it is written, “And it happened that my son went to his room, fell down, and died: and my neighbors came”—no, hold it—hold on—I think it’s “and my neighbors came and rose up to comfort me. Then took I my rest. It was the second night and all the neighbors rested so they could wake up and comfort me some more, and I rose up by night and fled and am come to this field—hither to this field—as you see—and will not go back, but will remain here . . . and neither eat nor drink, but rather to continually mourn and fast till I die.” Not bad for an old guy, huh? My memory’s always been good in terms of recitation. I’m just rusty. But I still get the Mensa gold star for today. I assume you carry them in your trunk.
Kelly was admitted to a psych ward for a week. A full week of heavy meds. They wouldn’t let me visit for the first few days and when I did, she was barely responsive. By the time she came home, the detectives had finished their grim interrogatories and I’d been cleared. They’d gone around asking the neighbors what my relationship with my son was like, you know, if they’d ever seen me smack him around or jerk him off, that kind of thing, but after a while their hearts weren’t in it. I think it became kind of apparent that it was an anomaly. His being nude. My wife alibi’d out, as they say on TV. She was 60 miles away at the time of the event, teaching. On television, you either alibi out or lawyer up.
She slept on a futon in the room where he died. The meditation room that used to be her room, her
sacred yogini space. The irony being that now it was incomprehensibly sacred. Though maybe there’s no irony after all . . . She ignored the altar—she’d fussed for weeks over its installation—with its incense and brassy representations of Amitabha and Sanghamitta, color photos of her teacher, and black-and-white ones of sundry cantankerous diapered siddhas from the last century. You know, the usual suspects. She didn’t talk much and hardly ate the food prepared by a never-ending stream of friends and neighbors—yes, as in Esdras, they rested, so they would have the strength to come back and comfort her, though no comfort was possible. It seemed like the whole world was shaken by that boy’s death. Folks circled the wagons around us. They were protective and I appreciated that.
I understood why Kelly never left that room. In her emptied-out postlapsarian state, bitten by all manner of plumed serpents, her febrile obsession became to return to the Garden at all cost. She wanted to breathe the same air our son had. And who was to say his effluence wasn’t present, that some of his microbes weren’t still in the room? He’d napped on that futon and she wanted to nest in a bed of his skin flakes, her body caressed by the ethereal snowfall of subatomic particles and microscopic motes, she longed to breathe Ryder-rich oxygen saturated by sloughed-off cells and bacteria exhaled from his lungs and sinus. She would absorb through mucous membranes anything left of him. He had come from her and so he would return, in soluble, invisible, ingestible form. Pitiably, she prayed for something of him to imprint itself on her very eyes—what a blessing it would be to know for sure!—it would sustain her if she could look at the world through a cold case filter of his DNA. She’d close her eyes and never open them again if that’s what it took not to lose him, go blind if it meant being subsumed. She’d settle for anything, as long as it wasn’t his extinction.
