A Carnivore's Inquiry

by Sabina Murray

  “I am so sorry, my dear.”

  I too was having a terrible time finding the right key of emotion. “What?”

  “I am sorry about your mother.”

  “How does her illness affect you?”

  “You are upset.”

  “I’ve been upset for years.”

  “Come to New York,” said Boris. “I will take care of you.”

  “I think my being alone is better for both of us right now.”

  “Perhaps. Others might recommend a distraction.”

  I didn’t want to tell Boris that I was distracted, very, with all kinds of wonderful feelings for Arthur, so I half-listened to his odd attempts at nurturing and was probably more agreeable than I would have been otherwise.

  Boris was having a party for The Little Vagrant. This was very premature, since the book wasn’t due out until the following summer, but Boris was of the opinion that every member of the New York literati was aware of the problems Rupert had faced. They thought he was washed up and he would prove—with an all-out, catered, open-bar gala—otherwise. I didn’t understand his reasoning, but the logic was vaguely familiar and I could picture something like that happening in a Russian novel. I could also picture Boris overextending himself and spending every penny he owned convincing an uncaring (and probably innocent) public that he knew no financial struggle. There was something desperate in his voice. I didn’t want to go, but the party wasn’t for another week and Boris was a financial interest of mine, like a stock—I thought—that I should monitor carefully.

  “I will be there. Is that all, Boris?”

  It was not all. Boris was in possession of an envelope of things that my mother wanted to me to have.

  “The lawyer sent them to you?”

  “Yes. This is after all your home.”

  “And you went through them?”

  “Katherine, we have no secrets.”

  I demanded that Boris send the things immediately, FedEx, for morning delivery.

  “Is that necessary?”

  “If you ever want to see me again that envelope better be here by noon.” I set the phone on the receiver.

  Arthur was standing in the doorway buttoning up his shirt. I was surprised to see him standing there. He’d just moved his clothes into the house the day before and I had yet to make the adjustment. “Who were you talking to?” he asked.

  “A friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “Boris.”

  Arthur nodded. I could tell he was disappointed and this made me angry.

  “When are we leaving?” I asked.

  “At eight. It’s just seven-thirty now.”

  I took a quick shower. My mother had bought the ranch in New Mexico with money that she had inherited from Aunt Marion. She was in an advanced stage of her illness at that point, but there was still hope. I think my father had let her out of his sight because my mother seemed too weak to be of much danger to anyone, except maybe herself, and he felt indulgent and possibly guilty. A ranch in New Mexico had to be worth quite a bit of money. There were hundreds of turquoise-wearing, silver-clinking, Indian-loving New Yorkers who no doubt would cash in the time-share in Florida, forfeit the yearly ski trip, for this far more spiritual retreat. I wondered if my mother wanted me to sell it and get some money of my own. That was really all she’d ever wanted for me: autonomy, independence.

  And I would escape Boris. I would, and as I showered and shampooed, I thought that he would be free of me. Boris would go back to Ann. Arthur and I would stay together for some impossible amount of time. After a few hurdles, my life would achieve a stunning, appealing normalcy.

  I drove at eighty-five miles an hour down the highway into Portland. Arthur rested his hand on my knee, which made shifting the gears awkward, but I didn’t mind. He had put an Intravenous cassette on and the music came out in one stream of sound. I couldn’t hear where it went or make out any of the words. Arthur drummed on the dashboard with his forefingers, not particularly inspired, but very competent.

  “I’m going away,” I said. I had just decided.

  “Why?”

  “I have some business I have to settle.”

  “Where?” Arthur had stopped drumming. He was studying the side of my face.

  “New Mexico.”

  “Can I come?”

  I shook my head.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  I hadn’t really figured this out. “My mother’s given me her ranch. I want to sell it.”

  “Maybe you should keep it. We can become farmers.”

  “I think it’s in the desert.”

  “Or miners.” Arthur thought for a minute. “We can become Indians.”

  Intravenous’s reunion gig had a good turnout. I was so busy planning my future—our future—that I spent much of the time zoned out in visions of New Mexican prosperity, or in yellow clogs in my mind’s flower garden, kneeling with a trowel, planting bulbs. Intravenous’s music was antimelodic and loud, interrupted by occasional guitar solos. Bob Bob was terrifying on stage. He must have fashioned himself after Iggy Pop, only Bob Bob was much larger and pinker. He looked like a violent, head-banging ham. During the break, the guitarist introduced himself. He was Mark Park.

  “Let me get you a drink,” he said. He had a strange smile on his face, as if he wanted something. “It’s on the house.”

  I looked out at the dance floor, girls swinging arms and hair, and it occurred to me that I might be too old for this, which was a strangely comforting feeling.

  “Do you live with the Munjoy Hill gang?” I asked politely.

  “Lord no. I have a condo on the Western Promenade. It has a lovely view. You should come visit some time.” Mark Park leaned across the bar. “Two Long Island ice teas,” he said. “Katherine, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I know you,” he added.

  I looked closely at his face. There was something familiar there. “Are you sure we’ve met?” I could have known him at any of the three colleges I’d attended. He looked like everyone, down to his Mexican shirt with lengthwise embroidered panels.

  “My father is Lawton Park,” he said.

  I looked into his eyes and nodded to myself. He did know me.

  Lawton Park was a business associate of my father’s, the “Park” in Park, Shea, and Dunn. Since my father had no friends, his business associates gained undue significance in my life. I hadn’t seen Mark since high school, but I remembered parties at the Park residence in Hyannis. Mark was a skinny kid with the latest stereo equipment. He’d used his various Discmans and components in place of foreplay, on his way to tempting you into the closet. I usually got stalled at the graphic equalizer. He had been very optimistic as a boy and I could see the same optimism now at play.

  “Do you want to see my bass?” he said.

  I hadn’t remembered him having a sense of humor. Arthur was nowhere in sight. I wasn’t sure what this meant, or if it meant anything. I saw Eva come stalking out of the downstairs, where the bathrooms were located. She gave Mark a peace sign and he nodded. The room was hot, but she wore her jacket, impervious to temperature along with age. She went up behind Bob Bob and wrapped her arms around his neck. She ignored me in an easy way, which made me regret having come out that night. I felt that I was wearing too much makeup, that my leather pants (a gift from Silvano) were too stylish.

  “Let’s go outside and have a cigar,” Mark suggested.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Outside, the underage crowd guzzled bottles wrapped in brown paper. They groped each other beneath the bright lights of the street lamps where clouds of moths floated, as if they’d vaporized out of the couple’s heads. Mark had a silver cigar case with his initials engraved on it in curling script.

  “Cigar?”

  I shook my head.

  “They’re Cuban.”

  “I prefer Costa Rican,” I said.

  “No wonder you drive your father crazy,” said Mark.
<
br />   I laughed. I didn’t like Mark, I never had, but I was finding the familiar good, despite myself.

  “What are you doing in Portland? There’s absolutely nothing here,” he said.

  One of the teens threw a bottle onto the street. It shattered prompting a chorus of retarded laughter. I really didn’t know what I was doing in Portland. “I’m slumming it,” I said finally. “So are you.”

  Mark regarded me closely. He was bouncing to some tune playing in his mind. He shook his head. “No,” said Mark. “I am slumming it. You are insane.”

  I had trouble sleeping that night. The wind blew, shivering the leaves and somewhere, two branches sawed against each other, creaking and groaning into the night air. There was some nocturnal thing out there, lost and alone, calling from the woods. It sounded like a cat. Arthur was sleeping deeply, snoring into the crook of my neck. He smelled like shampoo and cigarette smoke. Something about Arthur made me feel indescribably sad. I liked him in the pit of my stomach. I knew he was going to go bald young and he already had a bit of a potbelly, but picturing him aged ten years made me laugh. I wanted to be there for it, but felt that this was unlikely. I got out of bed. All this thinking had made me want a cigarette.

  I stood out on the back deck. The tide was in and the bay a gorgeous glossy black. The moon was almost full and shone a full path straight into the open sea, or maybe all the way to Spain, then that thing called again, a lonely scream, and before I really understood what I was doing, I found myself walking in my bare feet out toward the woods.

  The grass was freezing the soles of my feet and making my toes ache. I paused at the edge of the greenery and took a last drag off my cigarette before throwing the butt onto the damp grass. The scream sounded again and then was silent. I began to get scared. There was something unnatural about that scream. I wondered if that’s what banshees sounded like, if otherworldly creatures lured people out with similar pathetic, helpless cries. I stood still listening to my own breathing, feeling my pulse in my finger tips. Something made me look quickly over my shoulder, but there was nothing there. I turned back to the woods and saw it—a light—moving deep in the trees. The light disappeared and I was just about to convince myself that there had been nothing, when the round, hovering glow swung sharply to the left and became a beam. There was someone lurking in the woods. Someone with a flashlight. I turned and ran back to the house.

  I was completely out of breath when I reached the deck. I’d left the sliding glass doors wide open. I put the planks in place to lock the sliders shut, then crossed the living room to bolt the front door.

  “Katherine?”

  I spun around. “Jesus Christ.”

  Arthur was standing there with his hands in his armpits. “Did I scare you?”

  “You almost killed me. What are you doing up?”

  “I had to go to the bathroom. What are you doing up?”

  “I’m always up,” I said. “Go to bed. I’ll be right in.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t tell him about the light.

  Maybe because I thought it was Bad Billy, safe in the woods. And I wanted to keep him out there, loose in the woods, a part of Maine’s untamed beauty. Maybe Bad Billy was necessary for culling the herds of people, something natural, as wolves were necessary to keep the deer population in check. I tried to argue that he wasn’t doing any harm, there were lots of people after all. But murdering helpless individuals pretty much defined “harm.” But what about helpless? What made these people helpless? Why didn’t they defend themselves, and if they did, why were they so ineffective?

  I found it hard to sympathize with people like that.

  When I could hear Arthur’s snoring again, I packed a trash bag with a blanket, a candle, matches, two cans of beans, three apples, half a loaf of sliced bread, a can opener, and, in a generous moment, a canister of Planter’s cheese twists. I brought these out to the edge of trees, whistled (because that’s how you call wild things) and then left running back to the house. I locked the door with my heart pounding in my chest. I settled onto the couch with Frankenstein, which my mother had read to me when I was a child but couldn’t remember well, knowing that the next morning my monster Bad Billy—who I was sure was hiding in the woods—would have taken the bag, taken the beans, and returned to his lair. I would take care of my monster and he would keep me free.

  10

  The next morning, I was awakened by a banging on the door. I had no idea who it was. My guilt (or whatever corresponding mechanism I had) suggested Boris. Arthur was sound asleep. I got up and tiptoed along the hallway. There was more banging. I went into to the bathroom, which gave a good view of the driveway. To my delight, there was a FedEx truck parked up against Arthur’s van. I ran to the front door. The man was walking away.

  “Hello,” I called. “Sorry I took so long. I was asleep.”

  “That’s okay,” the man said. He took a pen from behind his ear and handed it to me. “Just this envelope, but I need a signature.”

  The envelope was light. I shook it. Something rattled inside. I signed my name in the correct box. “Thanks,” I said.

  I made a pot of coffee before opening the envelope. I sat sipping the coffee, looking at the envelope, which I had leaned up against the carton of half-and-half. I don’t know how long I was sitting there, but it was long enough for Arthur to get up and take a quick shower. He came into the kitchen wrapped in his towel and took the chair across from me.

  “Is that the envelope from your mother?” he asked.

  “From my father. My mother’s stuff from my father.”

  We sat still. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  I nodded. I took the envelope and tore the strip at the top. Inside was a photograph taken on the front steps of our house. My mother looked particularly glamorous in the picture, fierce round bob, Lilly Pulitzer dress, long legs, kooky sunglasses. I held her hand absentmindedly, staring with ill humor at the camera. My father smiled out with perfect teeth. I handed the picture to Arthur.

  “Where’s this taken?” he asked.

  “Hingham,” I said.

  “Is this your house?”

  I nodded.

  “Wow. It looks like a bank.”

  “The pillars are gone now,” I said. “My mother always hated them. Made her feel like she was living in a mortuary.” The next thing I pulled out of the envelope was a safe-deposit key. A paper tag hung from it, yellowed, and on this was a long number in fading, feathery ink written in my mother’s hand—exotic-looking “I”s and the French sevens, cut off at the waist. “Safe-deposit box,” I said to Arthur. “This must be the jewelry.”

  There was a wadded-up linen handkerchief in the envelope, which was clean and empty. I knew my mother kept her less expensive jewelry folded up in handkerchiefs, so I checked the corners of the envelope. As expected, I found a pair of earrings. They were simple dogwood earrings with twisting clasps, not for pierced ears. The gold was of high quality and the workmanship on the enamel exquisite, but to the untrained eye they looked gaudy, cheap, almost drugstore. I had loved these earrings as a child. I looked at them in my hand, remembered how they’d looked on my mother.

  “Try them on,” said Arthur.

  “I’ll never wear these,” I said. “They’re not for wearing.” I wadded them back up in the linen handkerchief and pulled an old envelope out of the FedEx packet. The envelope was a return billing envelope with a yellowed cellophane window. Inside were curling locks of black hair. I set this down. Arthur was quiet for some time.

  “Is that your mother’s hair?”

  I shook my head. “It’s mine. She must have kept it with her.” I inhaled deeply. “My father had to have thought it was her hair too.” I pushed the envelope across the table. The hair, my hair, made me inexplicably sad. I felt so stalled by it that I thought I might fall asleep sitting at the table.

  “Are you okay?” said Arthur.

  I thought for a moment, then nodded. “Look here,” I said. I
held up a piece of computer-generated paper. “This must be the deed to the ranch.”

  Arthur was silent for a moment, but I could tell something was bothering him.

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing,” he said politely.

  “Just say it, Arthur. It won’t bother me.”

  “All right.” He cocked his head to one side. “You should go see her.”

  “Now?”

  “Why do you think she’s sending you all this stuff? She misses you. Even if she is all fucked up on drugs, she’s thinking of you.”

  “What do you know about any of this?”

  “I know how it is to wish you’d done something differently. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t see her.” Arthur lowered his head and looked at me with such honesty that I felt my heart quiver. “Is she dying? Because it sounds like she is. You never talk about her leaving the hospital . . .”

  “I never talk about her!”

  “But you think about her every day. I can see when you’re thinking about her. You look so sad.”

  The last thing in the envelope was a picture postcard, The Raft of the Medusa. I picked it up and looked closely at it.

  “What’s that?” asked Arthur.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “I think she is trying to tell me something.”

  11

  I think my mother loved the paintings of Géricault because the possibility of death seemed remote, despite the fact that it was always suggested in his work. True mortality is morbid and abstract, the opposite of artificial and concrete, and therefore difficult to represent. Similarly, my mother filled her days with artifice, laughter, and plans for the future, because impending mortality was abstract and didn’t pass the time.

  As a child, I knew death was present in our house, the bogeyman beneath my bed not threatening me, but menacing my mother with his long, bony fingers. I was aware of death; she was not. I wouldn’t go so far as to say there was hope in her life, or that she had a cheery attitude; rather she had a certain gay abandon that one might have after losing everything in a hand at poker.