The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “There’s a big difference between the two.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Let’s not make a big deal about it, okay?”

  “Basil,” my voice was blunt, “I would rather talk with you when your head is clear.”

  “Ha!” he blurted. “I’m afraid this is as clear as I get. Now then, I’ve set us up outside for some chow. You still in? Even though I’m happier in spirit than you?”

  I frowned.

  “Come on. There are heaters out there, and we’ll be alone.”

  Julia approached the table, “Basil? Is that table on the dock set up for you two?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

  She handed me a menu, “Enjoy your lunch.”

  “Thank you, Julia,” I said.

  “Not a problem.” She leaned down and whispered some words into Basil’s ear.

  Basil grinned and chuckled. “I know,” he said. “I don’t work until five. I’ll be fine by then.”

  She rose with a humored look, pinched his arm and glided away.

  “Paranoia is a condition of drug abuse.”

  “Do I look paranoid to you?” Both Basil and his T-shirt stared back at me. The White Album quartet seemed to ask the same question. “Come on, man,” he said. “Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream.”

  The noon air held a sharp chill, but the overhead heaters allowed guests to sit comfortably. Basil seated us at the last table, furthest from the restaurant out on the tip of the dock. We were surrounded by the cold Pend Oreille waters. This was the last place I wanted to be. I held my feet firmly against the wood planks and held on to the edge of the table.

  I didn’t know Basil well enough to care about his drug use, but his nonchalance bothered me. And when he fixed me with those glazed eyes I felt a sudden urge to flee.

  Basil shook his head. “Whoa, Loche, lighten up will you?” He lifted his coffee mug to his lips. “Oh, coffee. God bless coffee.” Setting it down he leaned into the table. His voice softened, “Okay, so here goes. My name is Basil Fenn. I’m an orphan. I was raised by Elizabeth and Howard Fenn. Elizabeth passed away three years ago, and Howard still lives here in Sandpoint.

  “Now, what I’m about to say is fuckin’ out there—you can choose to believe me or not, but here goes. I had a series of dreams, alright? Dreams. And you were in those dreams. Right? They were so vivid and memorable that it was hard to know what was real and what wasn’t—if you follow me.”

  I nodded. My diagnostic mind began its process.

  “These dreams were real enough to put me on a beach in front of your cabin. I dreamt of that exact location—I must have walked every inch of the Priest Lake beachfront until I finally found the exact spot—the spot from my dream. And there you were. The dreams gave me your name, your vocation, that you had a family, and—” He stopped. He must have discerned my disbelief.

  “Look, I know it sounds fucking mad, but I’m telling you the truth—but the weirdness doesn’t end there, Loche. Not by a long fucking shot.” He paused again and squinted as if looking for a different way to start. “I’m an artist. I’m thirty-four-yearsold, and I live in a studio off of Pine Street. I paint there. Only one person has ever seen my artwork—by accident—my adopted father, Howard. Not a good thing, but I’ll get to that. My real parents died when I was a baby. We were in a car accident, and I survived. I have no memory of them, so when I refer to my mother and father, I mean Elizabeth and Howard.

  “I started painting at seven, and haven’t stopped since. I’ve done over four-thousand paintings, ranging from monumental to postcard size. Each of them are beyond comprehension. What do I mean by that? Well, just that. My paintings are, well, different, and they’re my life, and my life is my work, if you follow me. The paintings, the paintings must be kept secret. They’re not for any living person’s eyes, save mine. This is the most important thing. Now then—”

  He talked fast and my mind filled with questions.

  “Hold it a second,” I said.

  Basil stopped and waited patiently.

  “Why must they be kept secret?” I asked.

  He stared at me. “Loche, before we get to that question, I need to tell you more, okay?”

  “Very well.”

  “I told you that I felt I was being watched. Well, I was serious about that. On two separate occasions I’ve seen two different men casing my studio.”

  “Casing?”

  “Yes. One comes at night and another takes his place in the morning. They’ve been watching my place for the last few days and follow me wherever I go. In fact, I’m certain they’re watching me right now.”

  “Basil,” came my calm reply, though, under the table I could feel my hand begin to tremble, “We should save this conversation for my office. It sounds to me like there’s much to discuss. There’s much more going on here than a chat over lunch can solve.”

  He shook his head. “What’s the difference? Here or your office?”

  “Well, for one,” I said impatiently, “we are in the middle of the lake, having lunch in a public place. This is not the right environment for—” Basil began to chuckle. I grew a bit angry, “What’s the laugh for?”

  “You’d rather me come to an environment that you are comfortable in?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if I were uncomfortable there?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Ah,” he said as he lifted his water glass, “what is the point?”

  “Basil,” I said calmly, “this is not the way I work. Matters that require my professional opinion take place—”

  “In your office?”

  “Yes. In my office. If you’d like you can make an—”

  “Doctor,” he said with a grave look, “matters that require your professional opinion happen everywhere, not just your office. Fuck your office. Right now, this moment, this place, is where you should begin to think differently. If you’ll just let me explain what I’ve been experiencing right now I’ll—”

  “It will have to wait. You told me that you had some questions about psychotherapy and that you’ve been troubled. Right now you are stoned, and this isn’t the time to—”

  He held out a hand to stop me and said, “Dr. Newirth, they are watching you, too.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed. When I opened them Basil’s color had changed. He believed what he was saying. “They are watching you, too,” he repeated.

  “And I suppose that was in your dream, as well?”

  “You think I’m crazy, right?” Basil said. I gave no response. “Well, if I were in your shoes, sure, I’d be ready for the check and I’d be out the door. But listen, Loche, I’m not out to lunch. Wait, yes I am,” he said with a chuckle, “But I’m very serious about what I’m telling you.”

  “And so am I, Basil. We need to spend some time talking.”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea why this is happening.”

  “And I have my own suspicions.”

  “You do?” he asked enthusiastically. “Do tell.”

  “Basil does any of this have to do with my wife, Helen? The two of you have a past. Is there something I should know?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “God no. No, no, no. My seeking you out has nothing to do with her. Although, I must say it’s blowing my mind that she’s your wife. I dreamt you had a wife, but for it to be Helen is, well, fucking insane. Loche, all of this has to do with my art, my paintings,” he said throwing his napkin on his plate, “not some unrequited romance. My paintings, man.”

  “The paintings that no one has ever seen.”

  “Yes.”

  I stood up. “Call and make an appointment to see me in my office. Sober, mind you. We’ll talk then.”

  He looked up at me, surprised, “Loche—I’ve insulted you. I’m sorry, man. Please don’t think I disrespect you.” He stood up, “I am what I am, Loche. I know this is real. I’m not after your wife. I’m telling you the truth—at least, as far as I understand what the
truth is. But I’ll come in to see you if you’ll feel more comfortable.”

  “Fine. Next week.”

  He gave a sort of nod, “Actually, I made an appointment for later today, this afternoon. I wanted to make sure I’d see you. There’s more to tell you Loche—so much more.”

  As I turned and began to walk away, I caught a glimpse of Julia through the windows, setting a table. She smiled. “Keep your eyes open, Doc,” said Basil from behind, “if you see anyone paying close attention to you, think about what I’ve said. See you in a couple of hours.”

  Julia does not notice that Marcus has stopped reading. The drone of the wheels on the ice rises and brings her back.

  “The day we met. . .” she says quietly. “I won’t ever forget it.”

  “You love him,” Rearden says.

  “Yes.”

  Rearden wrings his hands.

  Julia notices. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “I’ve long missed that feeling.”

  Julia glances at the old man. “What do you mean? You must love your wife.”

  She doesn’t know, yet. Of course, how could she? No one knows that Elanor is gone. It’s best that she doesn’t know, for now. It was that painting Loche left with me—the painting in the trunk—it would be too much for her to understand right now. Marcus shakes the voice out of his head. “I do—yes, I do love my wife, but we’ve been married for over forty years, you know. Believe me when I tell you, that spark of passion can, and does disappear.

  “I would do anything for Elanor, anything to keep her safe —safe and happy. Yet, some beautiful things have faded away from us—passion, desire—once they’re gone, believe me, you miss them. You never stop wanting those things, you know, you just get good at pretending you don’t need them, and it is maddening when you can’t seem to rekindle them. It makes you do crazy things.”

  These feelings were not completely alien to Marcus, but he had never given them this much credence. His entire life had been built around easing morbid thoughts and negative thinking, and with that came perspective—rational awareness—stalwart organization. With the terrors he had explored in the minds of killers, protecting what he had was paramount. At least, what he had left. And he was a psychologist after all, he could not allow himself to feel too much. For the duration of his long career he had kept his passions, his real wants, even his real needs, at arms length, knowing that if he gave in, he just might somehow become like those he was treating, weak, disturbed, unhinged, mad. But lately, his arms do not seem to have the length they once did. Much had happened over the last year—and he notes a manic behavior in himself. He has done things he never thought he would do. And now, his wife has passed away—it is only natural to feel depressed. It amazes him, however, how well he can mask those feelings, in the same ways that many of his dangerous clients did. But as he lifts Loche’s book up to his eyes and begins to read, he shivers at the coming paragraphs. He knows what is to come and understands Beth Winship’s disorders. Perhaps too well.

  To his left Priest Lake is a blurred slate beyond the passing ash-green pines. The frozen beach claws out from the shore— jagged panels of ice reaching to smother the sky’s reflection. Northern winters are unforgiving, and when the cold comes, it will do everything in its power to cover up and put to sleep the delicate things that commune with the sun. If the winter could kill the sun itself, it would.

  As the glass doors of The Floating Hope closed behind me, a mirror appeared before me. The one way mirror in my office.

  Few get the opportunity to observe a person from the other side of a mirror. I’ve stood face to face with several unknowing clients, with a sheet of glass in between us. I’ve studied them as they studied themselves—as they witnessed their vanity, as they wondered at their reflection, at how their eyes had deepened and dimmed with all they had seen. I have often felt shameful, almost guilty when using the mirror to study behaviors, for its power has a godlike quality. But who am I? A god? Just as the supposed divinities might look in upon our lives and make their judgments, I can do the same. The mirror is looked upon as an invaluable tool. A way in which a psychologist may gain a clearer insight into the client’s natural method of solitude. What they do, how they move, what they say, and how they spend time when no one is around, is our concern. And again, that strange twinge of guilt visits the pit of my stomach as I enter the “Spy Room,” as Carol calls it.

  I now watched Beth Winship. Through the mirror I could see her anxious and shaky manner. Her left foot jittered with agitation as a news channel bounded through their daily human suffering broadcast. I watched the muscles of her face twist out dreadful expressions. She raised her hand to her cheek and began to cry. Each second that passed brought stronger waves of anguish until she finally stood and began to search frantically for the remote control. She moved to the television and searched for the power button. Finding it, she stopped the pain.

  Beth then began to pace slowly, wiping tears from her face and struggling to gain control of her emotions. When she looked into the mirror and attempted to repair the damage that the outburst had left upon her face, her eyes looked directly into mine.

  I shrunk back, but I held her gaze. She stared not into my eyes, but into her own, sky blue eyes clouded by a raging tempest. Her cheeks streaked with mascara like distant blurring rain storms touching down on a bleak horizon. Then her fingers angrily flew up to erase the downpour with quick self-conscious strokes. She grinned at herself. An artificial grin. A mask. The smile seemed to say, “Nothing wrong here. I’m just fine. See? I’m smiling.” I couldn’t bring myself to smile back.

  Beneath the painfully applied make-up remained traces of natural beauty. A faint glimmer of youth. At our first meeting, Beth had brought with her a photograph of her at age thirty-nine with the summer lake stretching out behind her. Her radiant smile was genuine, her lovely frame was fit and strong; she told me that when the photograph was taken, she was a volunteer lifeguard at the city beach. But now, after six years of working together, her snow-white pallor, the wrinkles that lay heaped around her eyes like black sticks on a frozen lake, beneath the ice, I could see her drowning.

  She sat on the couch twisting a tissue in her fingers.

  “Beth, I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well,” I said sitting down across from her.

  “I’m so sorry to have come in without an appointment, but Carol said it was-”

  “It’s fine, Beth,” I said. “That’s what I’m here for. I’m just glad that I could accommodate you.”

  Beth didn’t reply. Her eyes were clamped shut and she heaved silent, mournful sobs. I watched her with great difficulty. When she finally spoke I noticed that my gaze had dropped to the floor.

  “I fucking hate this. . .” Her eyes were still tightly closed when I brought myself to look at her again. “HATE!” she cried.

  “I know, Beth. I know.”

  “How can you know what this is like?” She asked with a sudden sharp glance. “You don’t know! You don’t know!” She began to cry again.

  I sighed heavily, “You’re right. I don’t. Perhaps we should talk awhile Beth. Perhaps we can—”

  “It never goes away, Doctor,” she cried, “talking doesn’t help!”

  “Beth,” I said patiently, “I know it’s not been easy, but we’re making progress. There is still more that we must break through in order to get at the center. We’ve a lot of digging yet to do. Talking will help, Beth.”

  Beth knuckled her swollen eyes and then quickly folded her arms over her chest. Her anger modulated into fear again.

  “I miss my husband,” she said wearily, “and my children.”

  I raised my brows. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “What do you mean you miss them? You make it sound as if they’ve gone away.”

  “They may as well be gone. So should I, for that matter.” Beth wiped her nose and said, “I miss the way they used to treat me
. I sometimes don’t recognize them. They aren’t the family I’ve lived with all these years. I hate the way they look at me.”

  “How do they look at you?”

  “Like I’m sick. Like I’m stupid. As if I’m some stranger, but their mother just the same. They don’t respect me. My eighteen-year-old, Sheryl, never comes around the house anymore. My son, Nate, has no patience for me, always telling me to cheer up. Telling me to, just think positive. I overheard him telling his wife two days ago that he thinks I’ve changed. He’s uncomfortable around me! Oh God!” Beth began to sob again, “My boy is uncomfortable around his own mother!”

  “How is your husband?” Beth didn’t answer. Instead, she cast a dark expression toward the lines in the ceiling. “Beth? Have things gotten any better?”

  “I think he’s seeing someone.” Tears froze beneath her eyes. “I think—” her voice trailed into a distant whimper, “I think—”

  “Why do you think that?” Beth was silent. Her tears now began to trickle down her cheeks. “Beth?”

  “Maybe because I’ve been seeing someone.”

  I willed myself to hold back the expression of surprise. Let her talk it out, I thought.

  “I’ve been unfaithful, too,” she sobbed.

  “Is this the person that has been making you feel needed? Wanted?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But it is over now, or it will be today.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I can’t go on like this. He’s an important man and we can’t be together—he’s married, too.”

  “How long have you been having this affair?” I asked gently.

  “Five years,” she said looking down at her hands. “It began with romance and excitement—but as time has gone by, he’s become controlling.” She snapped her gaze up to me, “And frightening. It’s like he wants to keep me depressed—sick— dependent upon him—even though he tells me that he loves me —tells me things that sound good and true, but somehow—” her voice trailed off and she looked away into nothing. “I can’t explain how he does it, but he keeps me coming back. He seems to know how I think, what my fears are, how to keep me sick. I wish I could tell you more.”