Dante's Wood

by Lynne Raimondo

  It certainly impressed Tanya. “Wow. Is this a new look?”

  “Only my hairdresser knows for sure. You look pretty swell yourself this evening.”

  “Oh, but you can’t . . .”

  On impulse I decided to test something.

  “How do you know?” I asked. “How do you know I can’t see you?”

  “Well, you’ve got that cane, for one thing.”

  “But if I didn’t, what would you think then?”

  “I don’t know. Your eyes do seem a little unfocused sometimes, but when you’re looking straight at me like now . . .” She cut off abruptly. “This is awkward.”

  I apologized and told her to forget it.

  “No, no. I can understand why you’d want to know. I guess I’d have to say I couldn’t be sure one way or the other.”

  “So I might fool you if I were only pretending to be blind.”

  “I think so. But why would you do that? Why would anyone?”

  Why indeed, I thought.

  Alice had arrived at the restaurant before I did and was already seated when I came up to the table I’d reserved near the window. It was one of those chic establishments where the food makes up for cramped seating and self-conscious minimalism. The chilly décor didn’t bother us. Our table was covered in a cloth so stiffly starched it could have done extra duty as sheet metal, but there was a hyacinth in a vase between us, sending off shivers of musk. I’ve always loved the smell of hyacinths, and I said so.

  “Me too,” Alice said. “Do you think it’s blue?”

  I fingered its waxy petals. “Like your eyes?” I said.

  “I was wondering when you would to get around to asking that. No, they’re an undistinguished brown. Mud brown, my mother used to say.”

  “And your hair?”

  “Brown too, I’m afraid.”

  I noted she hadn’t exhibited the same curiosity towards me. She waited until we had ordered and the waiter had brought our aperitifs to bring up Nate’s arrest again.

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I don’t know there’s anything you should thank me for. Do you think the outcome will make much of a difference to the center’s survival?”

  “Maybe not. I still have the fact that I didn’t supervise Shannon adequately to deal with. But at least Charlie’s been cleared. You did a wonderful thing for that boy.”

  I shrugged.

  “Will you be able to see him?”

  “If Judith had her way, I wouldn’t still be in the same galaxy.”

  “What about the case against you? Will the charges be dropped?”

  I said, “Let’s not talk about that. I don’t want to think about anything else except being with you tonight.”

  We spent the rest of dinner immersed in more pleasant topics. Our likes and dislikes in literature, places we’d traveled to, her upbringing and mine. I amused her to no end with tales of my vainglorious deeds as a teenager and the lengths my father had to go to keep me out of reform school. Toward the end, she asked me what his name was.

  “Same as mine. Dante.”

  “Really? So that’s what the initial D on your card stands for. How beautiful! Why don’t you use it?”

  “Be serious.”

  “Were you and your father named after the famous one?”

  “Family lore has it that we’re distantly related. My father was extremely proud of the connection, and like many Italians his age, could recite large portions of the Commedia by heart. He wanted the same for me. Every day after school I had to get through at least one canto in Italian before I could escape outside to play. You can see how it shaped my personality—all that emphasis on sin and punishment.”

  “But isn’t it also about salvation, too?”

  “Yes, but I always sided with the sinners, the less repentant the better. It’s funny, but I’ve been thinking a lot about that work lately. That Dante wrote it while he was living in exile, at a time when his life couldn’t have seemed bleaker.”

  “What was the name of the woman he loved?”

  “Beatrice.”

  “Were they ever together?”

  “No. She married someone else. After Dante was driven from Florence he died alone in Ravenna. I visited his tomb once. It’s a surprisingly simple monument for someone the Italians revere as their greatest poet.”

  The waiter interrupted us then, bringing dessert.

  When we were finished with our meal, I asked Alice if she’d like to walk home with me. “It’s a quarter after eight,” I said. “If we walk quickly, we’ll get back in time to listen to the Water Arc.”

  The Water Arc is a Chicago novelty. In the warmer months it goes off hourly, thrusting a majestic geyser hundreds of feet in the air over the Chicago River. When I was sighted I used to enjoy the spectacle from my terrace, pausing from whatever I was reading to watch the water take off like a silver jet in flight. After I became blind I tended to observe the Arc closer by, either near its source in Centennial Fountain or, when I wanted a real treat, crossing over to the river’s south bank where I could listen to the cascade raining down on the pavement like a liquid “Ode to Joy.” Though intended primarily as a visible monument, I liked to think the Arc was also designed with someone like me in mind: a spectacle every bit as thrilling to the ears as fireworks are to the eyes.

  Alice evidently shared my fondness for it. “That would be delightful,” she said.

  We took our time strolling back, crossing over the Adams Street Bridge and following the river past its T-shaped fork and over to its mouth at the lakefront. It was one of those spring evenings when the lingering daylight and the languid air come together in a state of atmospheric perfection. I couldn’t actually see the sunset, but I could sense its splendor, the ribbons of vermillion and gold to our backs casting long forward shadows in our path. It seemed a shame to spoil it, but during dinner I had made up my mind.

  So when we were halfway back, I told Alice about Jack.

  She was unusually quiet when I finished. By that time we had stopped near where the Arc would soon strike up its symphony of sound. We rested against the railing beside the swirling currents of the river, as dark and tangled as my history. The breeze had picked up and a lock of Alice’s hair brushed my cheek. Across the water I could just make out my apartment building silhouetted against the sky like a specter in the dusk. I wondered whether it would ever feel like a home to me and whether, like my namesake, I would reach the end of my life still in exile, still alone. It didn’t make what I had to do next any easier.

  “I’m not sure what reaction you were expecting from me,” Alice said after what seemed like an eternity. I tried to read her voice for a signal, but none came to me.

  “I was hoping only for an honest one.”

  “You blame yourself for your son’s death.”

  I nodded.

  Alice sighed. “You shouldn’t punish yourself so much. He might have died anyway, even if you had been there. But I suppose that’s the worst part—not knowing one way or the other.”

  “That and knowing I didn’t love him enough.”

  “Someone, I think it was Maimonides, said that every man is half guilty and half innocent. Each of us is capable, through even the smallest of acts, of tipping the scales of the universe toward righteousness. You did that by helping Charlie.”

  “It doesn’t make up for what I did to my son.”

  “I think you’re wrong. You risked your career to save that boy. That has to count for something.”

  “So you think there’s some sort of cosmic ledger out there, where credits for good deeds offset the bad?”

  “I’m not that simplistic, but surely a lifetime of good works can make up for one moment of weakness.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “I want you to know it doesn’t alter my opinion of you. You inflicted a terrible wrong on your wife and child, but you paid a price no one should ever have to pay.”

  And would continue paying for the rest of my life
.

  “I’m sorry then,” I said, throwing her hand off. “I was hoping you would see it differently. I thought it might make it easier.”

  “Easier?”

  “Saying good-bye.”

  “Good-bye? Why? Are you going away?”

  “Now that you bring it up, I’ve been thinking I should.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you? But before I go, there’s something I want you to have.”

  “This conversation isn’t making any sense,” Alice said. But doubt had overtaken her voice. Doubt and the onset of fear.

  “Here,” I said, taking the slender box from my jacket. I held it out to her. “I looked up the arrangements online. They’ll let you have one item of jewelry besides a watch.”

  Alice just stood there.

  “Take it,” I said angrily, pushing it forward.

  She did as I asked. I could feel her hand shaking. “It’s a box of some sort. Held together by a ribbon. Satin, I think, and very soft.” Alice lifted the cover from the box and removed the velvet case inside. I heard the lid snap open.

  “A necklace. It’s beautiful. But it looks just like . . .” She caught herself and said, “I meant that figuratively, of course.”

  “You needn’t pretend any longer,” I said, more bitterly than I intended to.

  I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out my cell phone.

  “I’m going to call Detective O’Leary now. We can listen to the Arc until he gets here. Or rather, I’ll be the one just listening. You can watch and tell me whether there are any rainbows.”

  “Wait, Mark. Don’t make any calls yet. Let me explain . . .”

  “What is there to explain?”

  “I wasn’t trying to trick you.”

  “Oh really? I’m sure it was a piece of cake. All you had to do was mimic me. Now we’re tapping with our canes, now we’re feeling for our chairs, now we’re fucking with the lights turned off. Did it make you feel superior knowing you could stop anytime you wanted to? Or did you just enjoy the fact I couldn’t see the look of amusement on your face?”

  “Don’t. For God’s sake don’t. It was never like that. I wasn’t lying when I told you about my accident. I know how it feels to be in your shoes. I remember. The awkward silence when I entered a room, the way everyone treated me like a piece of glass. I was still the same person, but everyone acted as though I were a walking tragedy. It’s one of the reasons I was so devoted to the center.”

  “Devoted enough to kill to keep it going.”

  “When I couldn’t see any other way out, yes. Charlie, the others . . . I was trying to make a difference in their lives.”

  I remembered then what she had said about the center’s clients being like her children and some of my anger toward her lessened.

  Still, I couldn’t keep myself from asking, “And the sex, was that an act too?”

  “Never. You have no idea how attractive you are.”

  She didn’t need to add the caveat.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Alice said, “but you’re wrong.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Alice said, “Will you let me show you before you make your phone call?”

  Before I could consider my answer, Alice reached up and cupped my face in her hands. Then she touched her lips gently to mine, letting them linger there.

  It was only as she began to disengage that I felt the pressure below my ears and realized what she was doing.

  I don’t know how long I was unconscious, only that when I came to again I was stretched out on the pavement with a cloth stuffed in my mouth. I couldn’t see a thing. My wrists were lashed tightly above my head, held fast to something cold and wet. The ground under my back was damp too, as though it had taken a recent soaking. Several feet below me I made out what sounded like waves lapping against a wall and, from a greater distance, the sound of cars passing on a roadway overhead. Other than that the night was completely still, wrapped around me like a thick comforter.

  With some difficulty I made out that I was tied to the railing where Alice and I had been standing when she knocked me out.

  I tested my bindings by flexing them. My wrists felt like they were being held in place by a large rubber band. It bit into my skin when I moved them, hastening the numbness that was beginning to creep up into my fingers. A stick of some sort was wedged between my upended elbows and my chin, preventing me from turning my head to either side. My legs and torso were free, but I was trussed so tightly I could only angle my body a foot in either direction. Whenever I did it set off a sharp protest in my still-mending ribs. My lips were dry and my mouth raw from the cloth, which was lodged dangerously close to my windpipe.

  While my head continued to clear, I ran through my options. Shouting for help seemed unwise. It might make the cloth slip farther, cutting off my air supply. My cell phone was in my jacket pocket, but too far from my hands to get at. I could kick at the ground, but the noise was unlikely to attract attention. On the south side of the river at this hour there would be little traffic. Only a fool would risk its shadowy footpaths after nightfall. The far bank was usually better lit, but it was at least thirty yards off. At that distance I doubted I would be noticed by a stroller, and even then I would probably be mistaken for a vagrant sleeping it off. I’d be lucky to be freed any time before morning.

  I wondered what Alice had used to tie me down. When I caught on, I very nearly laughed.

  Folding canes are sold in many different configurations and lengths, but have one thing in common: a strong elastic cord that runs from the top of the cane through its hollow sections to the tip. The cord is taut enough to hold the sections in place when the cane is distended, but also flexible enough to permit it to be folded up accordion style when it’s not in use. A plastic cap in the handle opens to allow the cord to be tightened when it becomes loose by tying off a simple knot. I surmised that Alice had opened up the cane she was carrying and removed several of its sections, leaving one in place in the middle. This would have given her several feet of cord to work with, and further explained the “stick” wedged beneath my chin. The cloth in my mouth was no doubt the ribbon from the box I had given her.

  I had to admire her ingenuity. Even at this time of night, planes left O’Hare every fifteen minutes. In a rental car Alice could be over the Canadian border before the police even knew to look for her. In the meantime I wasn’t in any particular danger. Though the pressure on my wrists was painful, the circulation to my hands wasn’t completely cut off. If I lay there quietly I could make it to dawn unharmed, with no more serious injury than my tattered pride.

  Though I felt every bit the fool I began to relax some.

  Until a gurgling noise from across the river told me what I was really up against.

  I barely had time to prepare before the Arc went off. It lifted high into the sky and hissed there a moment or two before gathering speed. The first drops caught me on the forehead. I heard them hit the pavement with a popping sound. I gulped a lungful of air and clamped my jaw shut.

  When the first wave hit, it was like being struck by a torpedo. In a split second the area around me imploded. The roar in my ears was deafening. Instinctively, I arched my hips and tried to turn away, but it was no good. With my shoulders locked firmly in place, all I could do was thrash uselessly from side to side. I squeezed my eyes shut against the spray coming at me from all angles. It felt like a hail of darts. At two thousand gallons a minute, there was never any letup. The water quickly soaked my clothing, turning my skin to ice. If I didn’t drown first, I’d probably die of hypothermia.

  My doctor’s training was no help. I knew the Arc went on for roughly ten minutes, too long for me to survive without fresh oxygen. And that was the least of my problems. Somehow I had managed to keep my mouth shut during the first impact, but the Arc was lashing my exposed face like a monsoon. It was only a matter of time before the water filled my open nostrils, then my sinuses. With the rib
bon stuffed down my throat my gag reflex would fail and I wouldn’t be able to cough up enough liquid to keep it from leaking farther down. It would pool in my trachea, then my lungs . . .

  The Arc continued its pounding assault.

  I’ve since heard it said that drowning is the worst kind of death. That those who manage to survive it are left with scars more emotional than physical. That the last seconds before the airways collapse produce a terror like no other. Maybe. Being burned at the stake sounds worse. But all the same, I wanted to weep. I remembered the other times in my life when I’d been this afraid: when I was rushing Jack to the hospital, when the blood tests came back, when the second spot made its inevitable debut. Stumbling helplessly around my apartment not long after its arrival, paralyzed with dread and wondering whether I really was paying for my sins, I returned to the theory I’d seized upon when Turner was delivering his prognosis. It wasn’t risk-free. A crazy shrink posed as many problems as a blind one. But if I could just keep my colleagues from finding out, hold onto my wits until the crisis passed, my vision would eventually return. Or so the textbooks said.

  It may be pushing several metaphors at once to say that I had to drown before the scales were lifted from my eyes, though at the time I did happen to be flopping on the ground like a hooked fish. And as epiphanies go, it was almost an anticlimax. I was too good a psychiatrist not to have noticed that as the months went by, my sight wasn’t improving. That even in moments of forgetfulness, when I was absorbed by problems other than my own, the blockage stubbornly refused to clear. It was easier to put off the day of reckoning than to face up to the truth. In reality, the lie I had fashioned as a lifeline was steadily pulling me under, as surely as if I were being sucked under the tsunami of my own towering deceit.