Primal

by Serra, D. A.

  “I’m not saying he’s a good guy, I’m saying he’s a guy with a chance to do something good.”

  Warden Tummelson turns his attention to the reserved, small-boned, Doctor Kim who waits quietly in his finely tailored suit. His refinement is an incongruity here. Tummelson is certain he would not last eight minutes on the inside. This is a man, Tummelson thinks, who probably did choose his life and he has a flash of envy.

  “Why, doctor? Why can’t you do it here?”

  Doctor Kim raises his eyebrows, “In a prison infirmary? Impossible. Even if you could construct an appropriately outfitted operating room, I could never achieve any level of sterility in this environment. The danger of infection would be too high, and so it would not be a feasible alternative.”

  Not clean. Yes, that is surely true. No one knows that better than Tummelson. He swings around and paces back and forth while fighting a nearly panicked compulsion to wash his hands. The room feels hot and a drip of sweat crawls down his back underneath his shirt. Tummelson crosses back to the tiny window and pushes it open. Crisp heavy air wafts in. He breathes. It helps. “Doctor, I understand you’re a normal person, and so, you can’t really conceive of what kind of men live here.”

  Doctor Kim responds with calm authority, “Look, I don’t care if he found God, lost God, or ate God. There’s a young woman who’s going to die if she doesn’t get that kidney. If your prisoner is willing to donate it’s unconscionable not to find a way.”

  “If I agree to this I want armed men inside the operating room.”

  “Again, infection. He’ll be unconscious, Warden, under a general anesthetic.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “The guards could be allowed directly outside the operating theater looking in. There’s a window. What if I arranged for that?”

  “Jesus.” Warden Tummelson is torn. He paces with a furious energy. He does not trust. How can this be done without risk? He didn’t mind playing god with these degenerates, but he’s furious and frustrated to be in this position with someone else’s life, someone good and deserving.

  “Look.” Doctor Kim plays his trump card. Warden Tummelson looks over. He is holding a 5 x 7 of the pretty, smiling young woman.

  “Aw, shit, that’s unfair.”

  “No. That’s reality, Warden. You’re going to kill this man in a month and this woman is going to die without his help. This is a no-brainer to me.”

  “You don’t live in my world, doctor.” Warden Tummelson rubs his temples; they’re just bursting. He can feel the blood pulsing through the veins. His blood pressure is probably soaring again. He pulls the Excedrin bottle out of his pocket and downs two pills without water. Then, he turns to Wilkins, “Okay, bring him in. Let’s see what he has to say.” Wilkins walks over to the office door, opens it and steps out of the room. Tummelson pulls open his top desk drawer, squirts Purell into his palm and rubs vigorously. He offers it to Doctor Kim who declines.

  “You ever been to a penitentiary, doctor?”

  “No, Warden, I have not.”

  “Not much in the way of curb appeal.”

  “No.”

  “You and I are alike in some ways, you know. We’re both God.”

  “How is that?’

  “You intervene to prolong life. I intervene to end it.”

  “I suppose. Although, Warden, I am not a fan of capital punishment.”

  Tummelson smiles and nods, “Yes, well, folks who spend their lives in friendly company, and who debate the death penalty during nicely turned out dinner parties rarely are.”

  “I am sure your perspective is different for very good reason. And while I agree there are those who do not deserve to live, humans are fallible, the legal system is fallible, and so we cannot implement permanent solutions with fallible hands.”

  Tummelson lays his eyes on Doctor Kim. Here is a face from the outside, from the other world. He knows Doctor Kim can see the damage in him. He just cannot care about that anymore.

  Tummelson speaks in a whisper, as if he is imparting something terribly important, “Doctor, we tell our children, before they go to sleep at night, there are no monsters.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “The monsters are us.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “No. They’re always us. Just not all of us - but us.”

  Wilkins returns leading Ben Burne into the warden’s office. Ben’s wrists and his ankles are secured in heavy chains and he shuffles in with his eyes lowered. Ben seems literally smaller and certainly less powerful than he did in the chapel. The palm of his left hand is completely wrapped with white gauze and tape but still a little red seeps through.

  Warden Tummelson asks, “So, Burne, you want to donate your kidney?”

  “After next month I really won’t be needing ‘em, Warden. You can take ‘em both if you like.”

  Tummelson studies Ben: his posture, his expression, his demeanor - all submissive.

  “You think giving away your organs is going to relieve your conscience?”

  “Nothing can do that. Living with myself is much harder than dying will be.”

  Tummelson leans in and Ben can feel the warden’s breath on his face. “You don’t fool me, Burne. There isn’t a civilized cell in your entire pathetic body.”

  “I saw the girl on the TV. Said she needed a kidney. Just thought she could have mine is all. Simple as that.”

  “You deserve to suffer.”

  Ben raises his repentant eyes to Tummelson and a tear forms, “I’m going to hell for eternity.”

  The warden exchanges a look with Wilkins who shrugs. “Hell will be a picnic compared to what will happen to you, if I agree to this, and you try something.”

  “There are no picnics in my future, Warden.”

  Tummelson’s temples throb. He notices that his mouth is dry. Stress. He is pissed beyond rationality to be responsible for this decision. He glances over at Doctor Kim who takes that moment to hold up the picture of the girl.

  “Maybe since you’re feeling so holy and contrite,” Tummelson asks, “you’d like to tell me where we can find your brothers.”

  “If I knew I’d tell you. I live every day in fear that they will hurt someone else. If I could stop it, I would. But they, too, will answer to God in the end.”

  “Right. Get him out of here. I need to think.”

  Wilkins takes Ben by the arm and they leave the office.

  Doctor Kim, “Warden, I do not see your conflict here.”

  “Doctor, no offense, but you have no idea what you’re asking.”

  Doctor Kim walks over to Tummelson’s desk and tosses the picture on it. The young woman’s face smiles up at him.

  “This is Jennifer Booker. She has three children under seven. Look at this while you’re thinking it over.” Then, he leaves too.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  “Yeah, well you’re so ugly when you walk past ‘em, flowers die,” Jimmy teases his best friend.

  Alan counters, “Yeah, well you’re so ugly you make my cat throw up.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re so ugly your mom has to tie a pork chop around your neck so the dog will play with you.”

  The two-story Kraft home pulses with relatives celebrating Jimmy’s birthday. Nine-year-old Jimmy is stringy: his legs are spurting out of his body with so much speed his weight cannot keep up. He looks like an egret, all limbs and long neck. At the rate he is growing, his own arm length is constantly changing, and so, he knocks over nearly everything he reaches for; one day last week, a frustrated mother volunteer, at school, called him clumsy and Alison got mad. She explained to Jimmy (within the woman’s hearing) that if her arms were longer every single week she’d misjudge things, too. “Jimmy, your dad is six-foot three-inches tall, so you are definitely on your way up, kiddo.”

  Classic rock pours out of speakers all through the home. Every room is wired for sound; it
was the only thing that was important to Hank. The two-story bungalow is brightly lit and the rooms are alive with arguments, tall tales, and laughter. Uncles tell the stories they have told for decades, and laugh in all the same places; some teens pay attention to the stories for the first time, and without meaning to, become tomorrow’s carriers of the family’s oral tradition. The littler cousins, in a never-ending loop of catch-me-if-you-can, and looking like chipmunks, dart from the warmly upholstered family room of rich gold and red hues into the petite dining room, barely clearing the legs of Alison’s antique French reproduction table. And while Aunt Ruth constantly yells at them to slow down, sit down, calm down, Alison never does. She notices this evening that they look exactly like the DVD she played for her class today of the lion cubs socializing in the Maasai Mara. This is the Kraft pride - the tribe she married into and it has been tricky. She can decide the course of her own friendships, she can even turn away from her own family, if she chooses - but her in-laws have a permanence in her life that she cannot influence or control; the spouse decides. Alison is an only child, so it is easy for Hank. He did not need to integrate with her brothers or sisters. He was not subjected to the treacherous dynamics of an unfamiliar family with its long-held grudges, inside jokes, and uneven affections. He did not need to understand why different allowances were made for different family members, why for instance, Cousin Keith was forgiven everything while Cousin Carl was forgiven nothing. For Alison, none of it was easy. She married into a sizeable and voluble tribe. She has found that with Hank’s extended family there is a lot to adjust for, to compromise with, and to forgive. The forgiveness requires the most plasticity. Alison learned that it is compulsory to forgive in-laws for flaws and situations that would not generally merit forgiveness in any other association. Alison finds ways to balance herself around the harried, sometimes jagged edges of Hank’s family, with its outbursts and its treaties, while always feeling a little unnerved by the pitch in the room.

  Alison was raised by her father. It was just the two of them in a hushed world. She was eight years old when they buried her mother on a dazzling sunny day. Allie believed people should only be buried on rainy days and she never quite forgave the sun for its disrespectful behavior that morning. Losing her mother so young, and then learning she could not trust the sun, made her a cautious little girl most at ease inside her own home. And since little Allie had anticipated rain on that terrible morning, she had dressed wrongly. She had worn her heavy black wrap skirt and teal wool sweater, and even though she was not dressed for the weather, that was not the origin of her physical discomfort. She had woken up the day before with a rash covering both of her legs. Doctor Hartman called it idiopathic - but she told her dad (privately) that Doctor Hartman was the idiot because it was obvious she was allergic to burying her mother. Allie stood graveside, as still as stone, even though her need to scratch her legs was more pressing than her need to breathe. She stood still in her wool outfit, and did not scratch, because she was holding her dad’s hand, and she would rather have endured the awful itch than let go. She bore the itch, along with the choking sensation in her throat, and an unreal floating feeling in her head.

  Afterward, Allie and her dad clung to each other with ferocity. They were indoorsy people he used to say, fond of Scrabble, books, and an elaborate electric train set they’d worked on together all the time she was growing up. That train set with its little stations, plastic trees, and wooden fences now circles Jimmy’s bedroom upstairs. On Saturday mornings, when the other kids were out playing, Allie would make scrambled eggs while her dad read aloud the local newspaper. Then, they’d set up the Scrabble board. For months after her mom died, neighborhood women would show up like the gustatory Red Cross primed to assist. They gave advice on how to raise Allie and they left hot casseroles. He ignored their advice, but always accepted the casseroles. They devoured them while rolling their eyes and feeling secretly naughty. The doorbell would ring. Her dad would race to answer and whisper “Allie, look hungry.” Little Allie would put on her most pathetic expression and they would accept the offering, close the door, and giggle all the way to the kitchen where they’d enjoy the lasagna from Mrs. Betty or the baked shepherd’s pie from Mrs. Eckhart. Having lost his wife, having lost her mother, they were so grateful to have each other. Their bond grew strong and it was fulfilling. Her dad lived healthfully until the end, and when the day came last year for Alison to say good-bye to him, she did so with a grateful heart, and with the hope she could be a quarter of the parent he had been. Alison carries a singular irreplaceable affection for her gentle father, and every time that train whistles upstairs in her son’s room, she feels it all the way through to her bones. It makes her sad and it makes her smile - it is a paradox she can live with.

  After ten years, Alison navigates with deft skill around Hank’s extended animated family. What is interesting to her is the emotional continuity; grudges and arguments resurface year after year, are pulled out, addressed all over again, and in the end, everyone hugs and kisses and goes home until the next time. Alison is intimidated by conflict, but she likes watching them all - it’s like her own personal reality show. Tonight Hank’s entire tribe is in her home: laughing, arguing, eating, joking, complaining.

  In her cozy yellow and white flowered kitchen, there is a butcher’s block with a cabinet and drawers for a center island. Over the sink, four little ceramic spice pots line up along the windowsill, which looks out on the backyard. Rosemary and basil scent the air. Along the far wall, past the wooden country kitchen table, is the door that leads down to the basement. She read once in a women’s magazine that a kitchen tells the tale of the woman who likes it; Alison’s kitchen is understated, elegant, and meticulously clean.

  Alison kicks open the back kitchen door, which leads in from the barbeque, and steps inside the room. She is wearing a two-piece sage green linen pants outfit, which highlights her green eyes. She looks radiant, relaxed, and in her element. She carries a platter of perfectly grilled chicken. Stepping inside, she bumps the back door closed with her hip and hurries over to the center island where she places the heavy platter on top of the butcher’s block top. She rinses and wipes off the long sharp two-pronged BBQ fork and replaces it in the drawer under the butcher’s block. As she passes the microwave, she hits one button without even looking and the timer automatically sets to fifteen seconds. It counts down as she grabs the tomato and oregano salad out of the refrigerator. She looks at the salad disapprovingly. It’s not tomato season and so she wouldn’t normally make this dish. Tomatoes have no taste unless purchased from local growers in season; however, it is Jimmy’s favorite so she made it even though she knows it will be disappointing. When the microwave has counted down fifteen seconds, it beeps loudly and she removes the cup of tea she was warming. She stops for a moment and takes a sip as a loud burst of family laughter from the other room makes her smile. She looks around at her home, her family, and decides that no matter how unpleasant the coming few days might be, she will be positive. Really, she asks herself, how bad could it be? A few days in the woods, big deal.

  Using her butt to swing open the door into the dining room, Alison carries the platter to the table, which has been set up as a buffet. The relatives have congregated around the table and are grabbing plates and napkins. The oval dining room table has a white eyelet lace tablecloth that sets a bright backdrop to the blue and yellow Italian ceramic platters and bowls Alison has carefully set around for the buffet. The room smells like warm cheddar biscuits and freshly cut oranges. Alison savors the scents and she does wish that Aunt Beth would not smoke inside the house, but she is too gracious to say so. Jimmy and Alan dip their fingers in the potatoes au gratin.

  “Boys,” Alison stops them, “fingers out of the food. Jimmy, please run into the kitchen and bring in the lemonade.”

  “Aw, Mom, I want soda.”

  “Soda?”

  “It’s my birthday!”

  “So you think you can just
have anything you want?”

  “No, just soda.”

  “You think because it’s your birthday you can just gulp down a big ole glass of soda?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re right. Go.”

  Jimmy flies merrily into the kitchen. Alan follows.

  “Not you, Alan.” Alan freezes at the sound of his mother’s voice. Jill looks at Alison, “We don’t ever approve of soda.”

  Alison smiles, letting the derision in Jill’s tone slide off her, “Your prerogative as Alan’s mother.”

  “We don’t even have soda in the house,” she adds with just a hint of judgment in her tone.

  “I’m glad that works for you.” Alison turns away but Jill continues.

  “Well, you know, Jimmy is my nephew and I surely wish he didn’t drink soda either.”

  Alison drops her head forward just a bit to give herself a brief second to get the ire out of her eyes. She finds her sister-in-law trivial, and self-righteous, and Alison does believe that Jill goes out of her way to bait her. Aunt Lydie looks over with her eyebrows raised hoping for a messy takedown.

  Alison responds, “And I suppose that is my prerogative as Jimmy’s mother.”

  “I suppose. I just don’t understand why you’d continue to buy that poison when you know how bad it is.”

  “Well, Jill, I’m an enigma.”

  Jill hates it when Alison uses uncommon words. She knows she does that to test her. And truthfully, Jill doesn’t have an exact fix on what enigma means and so rather than make an error she shrugs and walks away.

  “Suit yourself,” Jill says.

  Alison makes eye contact with Aunt Lydie who grins exposing some missing teeth.

  Uncle Wes, who is a pudgy red-faced man nearing retirement age, passes a plate to his twenty-year-old niece Eleanor. Aunt Beth reaches across the table for her spoon as she attempts to stir up conflict.

  “Fry-‘em,” Aunt Beth says, “the death penalty is the only answer.”