by Alan Russell
“I went downstairs in the middle of the night, and I saw that he’d left his psychology textbook open. I sat and started reading about Dr. Harry Harlow and his awful experiments with rhesus monkeys.”
“What kind of experiments?”
“He deprived young monkeys of their mothers and set up all sorts of artificial mother substitutes, but Harlow’s mothers weren’t designed for love. They looked like something created in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. These were mothers who shot jets of compressed air at the baby monkeys that tried desperately to cling to them, air that almost separated their fur from their skin; these were mothers that rocked violently, bucking the babies to the floor; these were mothers designed to reject their babies, pushing them away with mechanical spikes until the little monkeys dropped to the concrete.”
“What was the point of the experiments?”
“I think it was to create monsters, because that’s what it did. The monkeys grew up to be very abnormal. They didn’t know how to be social. They attacked other monkeys for no reason, and they abused themselves. And when they became mothers, usually as a consequence of Harlow’s setting up a controlled rape, the results were tragic. Offspring were abused and killed.”
Anna shook her head. “I’m a nurse. I’ve seen a lot of pain and suffering. But the pictures accompanying the text really got to me. Despite all the rejection, the young monkeys kept trying to go back to their artificial mothers. So great was their need for nurturing, they were willing to endure the source of their pain time and time again. I can still see their desperate faces. All they wanted was a little love.”
“Did you ever talk about this with Caleb?”
“No. It was something else we swept under the rug. That week Caleb stopped going to classes. He said formal education didn’t appeal to him.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No.”
Anna’s expression showed how conflicted she was. She didn’t want to be disloyal.
“But that doesn’t make Cal a liar or anything. I’m certain he had nothing to do with those women’s deaths. I know he’s innocent.”
The rising tone of her voice qualified her statement; a few moments later, so did Anna.
“I just wish he hadn’t closed off so much of himself to me and the kids. I’ve lived with Cal for eleven years, and there have been times I wondered if I ever really knew him. He’s this puzzle with all sorts of missing pieces.”
A puzzle that saw himself as a Harlow experiment, thought Elizabeth. But an experiment at what stage? Had Caleb seen himself as the rejected waif or the grown-up monster? By his own words Caleb had said he was doomed, but he had never specified whether his fate was as victim or victimizer. Maybe at the time he hadn’t known.
Maybe he still didn’t.
17
SLEEP WOULDN’T COME. The more Caleb pursued it, the more it eluded him. The room felt stuffy and cramped, and as time passed the bed and pillows became instruments of torture. Caleb missed Anna and the kids. Their absence made his chest feel empty, as if there were a hole there.
It felt like everything was closing in on him. He tried to control his claustrophobia but couldn’t. The pressure kept increasing. Finally he jumped off the bed, rushed over to the window, and pressed his head up against the screen, gulping in the night air. The thought of prison, of being shut in an even smaller room, made Caleb hyperventilate. He became lightheaded, and had to grab the window sill to avoid falling. But the walls still closed in....
“Cal? Is that your name? I mean your real name?”
The pack tightened their circle and cut off his escape. He looked around, desperate to find an opening. There wasn’t one.
“I haven’t heard an answer, Cal.”
Eddie McGlynn had picked on Caleb from his first day at the high school. McGlynn put his face close to Caleb’s, not more than two inches away, and waited for his answer with pretended interest.
“Cal or Caleb. Either one.”
“Either one,” said McGlynn. “Why, that’s mighty generous of you, Cal.”
He had never officially changed his name, had just dropped his first name of Gray and taken to using his middle name. Caleb had hoped the name change would put some distance between him and his father, that people would forget, but that had proved a false hope. The people of Concho County had long memories. Since his father’s conviction and execution, Caleb had always tried to be invisible, not to stand out, but few classmates allowed him to be anonymous. He was everyone’s favorite target. The boys growing up in Concho County were always beating him up.
The circle of man-boys closed in on Caleb. Most of those who surrounded him were a year or two older than his sixteen years. He looked around for teachers, for help, and saw Mr. Harriman the math teacher observe what was happening, only to close his door and pretend not to notice what was going on.
“If your real name’s Cal or Caleb,” Eddie said, “how’s come I’ve seen a different name on class lists and stuff?”
Caleb shook his head. “Don’t know,” he said.
“Now what’s that name I saw?” Eddie scratched his head, then reached for suspenders that weren’t there. His exaggerated mannerisms had his circle laughing. “Was some kind of color, I think. Pink maybe. Or Puce. Green, that’s what it was. No, it was Gray. That’s it. That’s the name I saw.”
Caleb shrugged his shoulders and tried to get by again, but the pack wouldn’t let him. They knew the fun was just beginning. “I got to get to lunch,” he said.
“What’s you going to eat?” Eddie asked. “Some pussy?”
Everyone in the circle snickered. The faces around Caleb took on a nightmarish quality. He was sport for hard eyes and mocking expressions and cruel mouths. There were pimples on most of the faces, as shiny and angry and eruptive as the boys themselves.
“Heard your daddy was a big one for playing with pussy. I mean he didn’t beat around the bush, did he?”
There were yelps of laughter, poking of elbows into ribs, and slaps on backs.
“Muff diving’s one thing, but your old man, Jeezuss, I heard one time he took a bite out of a beaver. What’d he think, one gash wasn’t enough?”
The crowd was growing. It wasn’t just the pack now. Cal’s classmates were gathering on the outskirts, watching, laughing. There for the spectacle. That made it hurt all the more. Over the years Caleb had worked hard on not showing any pain in public. Every night he did his exercises: Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the most miserable of all? He called himself all manner of names, tried to harden anything that was soft in him and face up to his own self-hate with a stoic face. But this time his conditioning failed. He could feel his throat tightening, could feel the onset of tears.
“Your daddy was one sick puppy, wasn’t he, Cal?”
“I want to get by.”
Eddie pretended he hadn’t heard. “But he was a proud, sick puppy, wasn’t he, Cal? Couldn’t murder all those gals without leaving a signature, could he?”
Caleb feinted a move in one direction and then almost escaped through a space between two of the circle’s sentries, but he was caught and thrown back. Eddie put his face close to Cal’s once again.
“Your real first name’s Gray, isn’t it? Just like your daddy’s real name.”
Cal’s tears started to fall.
“Anybody got a hanky for Cal, here?” Eddie asked. His tone was anything but sympathetic. He was feeding on the other boy’s pain. The audience moved in a little closer.
“Ever see that movie about your old man on TV?” asked Eddie. “Not many people were shedding tears the night he fried. There was partying big time. There was a crowd down at the prison and signs saying, ‘Thank God It’s Fryday.’ And there was one guy walking around handing out recipes for Shame Fried Fritters. Said if you ran a little short of your daddy’s bodily parts, you could always substitute skunk.”
Caleb put all his strength and anger into his right hand and sent it at McGlynn’s face, but the bi
gger boy managed to move back and escape the blow. It was the opportunity McGlynn had been waiting for, and he used it to start pummeling Caleb. He wasn’t alone. He never was. The other boys in the circle closed in and took turns throwing punches. Caleb started gasping, the wind knocked out of him. There was no way out....
Caleb pushed himself away from the window, away from the memory. Being weak embarrassed him. Pressing crowds still took away his breath, and whenever he felt boxed in, he had to stifle the impulse to run. Like now. He decided he needed to eat or drink something, excuse enough to get him out of the room.
The hardwood floors didn’t cooperate with his desire for silence. They announced his passage with creaks and groans. He felt his way forward in the darkness, moving down the hall and past the living room. The kitchen wasn’t as dark as the rest of the house. The sink window was curtained, but the light from the full moon pressed through the colored fabric, painting the kitchen a translucent tawny rose.
Lola’s refrigerator contained mostly juices and greens. In the back was a carton of nonfat milk. Caleb didn’t examine the featured missing child on the carton, afraid, he hated to admit, of finding himself. He opened a few old cabinets, tried unsuccessfully to keep the ancient hinges from squeaking, and at last found a glass. He’d leave Lola some money, he decided. The last thing he wanted was to feel beholden to his hostess.
Caleb was in no rush to get back to the confines of his room. There was a cat clock in the kitchen that kept him company while he sipped the milk. The cat’s large eyes moved in time with its pendulum tail. He tried to hypnotize himself by watching the moving clock. No matter how many times he told himself that he was getting sleepy, the clock just kept telling him it was getting later. He kept thinking about Anna and the kids and the havoc his secret life was undoubtedly creating. Anna had always told everyone what a good father he was, but Caleb knew that good fathers didn’t run out on their children. Maybe he wasn’t much different from his own father. He shivered. Being like his father had always been his greatest fear.
The tightness in Caleb’s chest returned. Changing rooms hadn’t helped. The memories knew where to follow. Glass in hand, he started to retrace his steps back to his room. A voice emerged from the darkness of the living room. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Caleb held on to the glass, but only barely. Lola was seated in the corner, her figure scarcely visible in the shadows. She leaned forward in the easy chair, half of her materializing. She was wearing a sheer nightgown with a low, clinging décolletage that showed off her curves. His curves, Caleb remembered. He wished Lola had just remained a voice; her revealed flesh bothered him.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “I assumed you heard me come out of my room.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Caleb said. “I couldn’t sleep, and I thought some milk might help. But I intend to pay you for it.”
“You didn’t wake me, and you’re not going to pay me for the milk. My refrigerator, such as it is, is yours.”
Caleb hesitated at the entrance of the living room, not sure whether he should continue down the hall or take a seat.
“Would you like some light?”
“No,” he said, “that’s not necessary,” then found himself sitting down on the sofa, albeit as far away from Lola as the room allowed.
“I’ve been meaning to go shopping. I doubt whether you found much of interest in the fridge.”
She kept her voice low, little more than a whisper. It made the room feel smaller, more intimate. Her Southern accent was soft and beguiling, gentle and unaffected, and very feminine.
“I wasn’t really hungry anyway,” Caleb said. “I just thought I should put something in my stomach.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Before this all began.”
“Milk’s a good start, then. And I suppose it’s been a while since you slept?”
He shrugged, not sure if she could see the motion but not willing to comment further.
“The secret is not putting pressure on yourself to sleep,” Lola said. “If you find yourself getting tired, just tell yourself that you’re going to take a little nap. That way you don’t feel as if you have to perform to some standard, and it lessens the stress.”
“Do you suffer from insomnia?”
“Suffer’s not the right word. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, but that’s all right. My mind’s just telling me it wants to do some thinking. Outlook is everything. It’s a way of turning trials and tribulations into blessings.”
Caleb wasn’t in the mood for Norman Vincent Peale, and Lola read his skepticism in the silence.
“You’ve never been in therapy, have you?” she asked.
“No.”
His eyes had gradually adjusted to the dark room. He could make out her figure but not her face and assumed he was similarly cloaked from her. The darkness comforted Caleb, offering anonymity.
“Did your sleeplessness bring you any answers?” Lola asked.
“No. Just questions.”
“Such as?”
“Who’s doing this to me, and why.”
“Any theories?”
“No. If I believed in the supernatural, I’d say my father’s come back to ruin my life again.”
“That almost sounds like wishful thinking.”
“I can assure you, it’s not.”
“I’ve known people who would be lost without their villains. Their villains are their reason to exist.”
“That’s not my case,” Caleb said emphatically.
“Was your father abusive?”
Caleb didn’t want to talk about him but forced himself to. “He never hit me, if that’s what you mean. But he wasn’t around very much while I was growing up.”
“So you felt abandoned?”
“I’m not keen on psychobabble. His going to jail wasn’t what made my life a hell. It was how people responded to his crimes. In his absence, I became their target.”
“Did your father love you?”
“That’s a silly question.”
“Why is it?”
“Psychopaths can’t love. They can only mimic love.”
“How do you know your daddy was a psychopath?”
“He murdered seventeen innocent women.”
“That still doesn’t rule out his loving you.”
Caleb didn’t try to hide his anger. “You make a mockery of the word,” he said. “How could someone like him possibly love?”
“I know he was sick,” Lola said, “but that doesn’t mean all of him was rotten. I suppose it’s easier, though, to picture him as a totally bad human being. If he did love you, that would only make everything hurt all the more, wouldn’t it?”
He didn’t answer.
“How old were you when he died?”
“Fourteen.”
“I lost my father when I wasn’t much older than that. But he didn’t die like yours did. He just kicked me out of our house and told me never to come back again. He meant what he said.”
“Are we supposed to be sitting here comparing sob stories?” Caleb asked.
“No. I guess I’m just saying in a roundabout way that you don’t have a monopoly on pain. Lots of people can’t walk out the door without being suspects for one reason or another: their skin color, their looks, their disability, their sexual orientation. Those people can’t do anything about their situation. You can.”
Rather than make a case for his own misery, Caleb returned to her biography. It was easier that way. “Where was your mother while your father was kicking you out?”
“Right behind him, subtly encouraging him to do it. Nothing too overt, you know. That wouldn’t have been ladylike. But she was always ashamed of me. I was much darker than my mother. As an adult, I hear myself described as exotic. As a child, everyone just called me ugly. And when it was clear I was different, my father began to blame my mother for how I turned out. One of his favorite laments was that he never should have married a
‘half-breed.’ My mother never argued with him. She had fancied herself a very refined woman, and to her mind I was proof she had something to be ashamed of. And that was even before my femininity shamed her.
“Shame: that word was such a part of my early life. I think that’s why your father’s use of it had such a terrible appeal to me, and others as well. He made us confront our own shame.”
“Serial murder therapy.”
“That wasn’t my inference.”
“I know. I was trying to be clever. But I’m not good at being clever.”
“I don’t agree. Maybe you’re too good at it, and that’s what scares you. I think your whole life you’ve been thinking things but not saying them. You didn’t want people to know there was a growl in you, because you figured they might start looking for teeth. Maybe the murderer was counting on that. Maybe you’ve already surprised him.”
“How?”
“By not rolling over and playing dead. By not immediately becoming that perfect patsy.”
“He’s spun me like a top,” Caleb said.
“But you’re still spinning. You’re not down.”
“He watched me,” Caleb said, unsuccessfully fighting the tremor in his voice. “He knows about me.”
She heard his sense of violation and anger. And something else. There was bedrock way down there.
“What are you going to do?” Lola asked.
“I’m going to become acquainted with my father,” he said.
18
THE SHERIFF’S PRESS conference was held in the Ridgehaven sheriff’s main conference room. The only thing missing from the opening announcement was a lit fuse. Even from the press, with whom showing surprise is considered bad taste, his revelation was met with gasps. Around the room one word was repeated: “Shame.”
Everyone found their voices at the same time and began shouting, “Shame’s son, Sheriff? Shame’s biological son?”
And all the while one word continued to come out of disbelieving lips: “Shame, Shame, Shame, Shame...”
An awakened hive, all abuzz. It reminded Elizabeth of the time she had visited an ashram and heard a room of penitents chanting, “Om.” The power of their chorus had been astounding, with the sounds detonating around her, human voices raising thunder. She had been incredulous that such power could come from the repetition of a single word. Now another word was being invoked, if not as loudly or by as organized a chorus. But still, it was producing a similar electricity.
