Primal

by Serra, D. A.

  “You almost shot me!”

  “No I didn’t. I saw you.”

  “You haven’t seen anything properly since we got back.”

  “I see things in greater detail than I ever have.”

  “I don’t want a gun in the house.”

  “You don’t want an alarm. You don’t want a gun. Would you just like us to roll over?”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” It takes enormous effort not to start yelling. The vein in his neck throbs and he holds his temper. “I’m going to check on Jimmy; then we’ll talk.”

  Hank sees it all descending into madness. He doesn’t know if he really can continue to negotiate the craziness. Upstairs he knocks on Jimmy’s door, opens it slowly, and walks in. He closes it behind him. Jimmy is kicking a stuffed giraffe around the room.

  “I’m not going to school anymore. She took my hand - my hand!”

  “Jimmy, your mom does not mean to embarrass you.”

  “All the kids are laughing at me. I went from cool to fool in days.”

  “I’m so sorry, kiddo.” Hank can’t stand seeing the humiliation on his son’s face.

  “Why can’t you pick me up or Polly?”

  “Okay. I understand. Let me see what I can do.”

  The explanation of the alarm system during dinner went badly. Neither Hank nor Jimmy was in favor of the system, and the skin of patience they’ve had has been rubbed raw. After an hour of fury-tinged debate, Alison agreed to leave it off for a few days so they could get used to the idea.

  The tension has not lessened as Hank and Alison get into their pajamas. The bedroom feels unusually hot and a poison mood hangs in the air between them. Hank pulls off his T-shirt.

  “You have to stop embarrassing Jimmy in front of his friends.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “It’s not fair to him and it has to stop. Things need to go back to normal for him.”

  “Normal has changed.”

  “Normal hasn’t changed - you’ve changed.”

  “And you’re not changed? Get serious, Hank.” The sarcastic tone is new for her.

  “Serious? Okay, I’ll get serious. You are scared to death one hundred percent of the time. You are exhausting yourself and hurting everyone around you.”

  “I’m not scared. I’m ready.”

  “For what? Ready for what? We’re home. It’s been three weeks. We need to get our lives back.”

  “We will. When it’s time.”

  “Jimmy’s nightmares are less frequent. The therapist says he’s doing really well but he needs normalcy. You are making things worse for him, harder for him, harder for all of us.”

  “Keeping him safe comes first.”

  “Open your eyes! We’re home.”

  “It’s not over”

  He erupts with aggravation, “Alison!”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  Hank runs his hands through his hair. It is all he can do to keep from screaming at her.

  “And I’m calling Polly to pick up Jimmy at school. You can’t do it anymore.”

  “No way!”

  “I swear to god, Alison, this is going to stop.”

  “Polly doesn’t know what to look out for.”

  “I will pick up Jimmy for the rest of the week then we’ll see.”

  “Hank, he’s coming back.”

  “No.” He bores his eyes into her. “He’s not.” Hank marches into the bathroom and slams the door. But Alison is sure; she is so very sure she is right. Surely, she is right. She walks over to take her spot at the bedroom window. What if? What if I’m not right? For one slippery second she remembers life before, and then her reflection clarifies in the glass of the window. She does look different. She asks herself the question: is something wrong with me? Am I going mad? Hank gets into bed without saying good night, without a good night kiss. He turns away from her and faces the wall.

  When Hank opens his eyes in the morning, his body aches. He feels chewed up into chunks. Never had a man longed more for normal than Hank. He was thirsty for an ordinary day. Several nights ago, their neighbor, Jessie, had called and invited him out to a movie, which they used to enjoy together. They’d steer clear of the chick flicks and find a great action feature. It sounded like such a nice little piece of normal Hank accepted. Ten minutes into the film the gunfire started. Eleven minutes into the film, Hank was gone. How does he explain to Jessie that this cannot be entertainment for him ever again? He has lost the ability to disassociate. For everyone else this kind of violence is imaginary; not for him. He thinks they will probably be spending a lot of time in Disney movies.

  He reaches for the ringing phone, “Hello?”

  “Hey, ah…Mr. Kraft? It’s Officer Bill Thomas.”

  “Hey, how are you?”

  “Okay. Detective Crane wanted you and Mrs. Kraft to come down to the station this morning. I think we have some news you’re gonna like a lot.”

  Hank sits up in bed, “Really? What?”

  “Crane wants to tell you.”

  “We’re on our way.” He hangs up. “Alison!”

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Waiting at the front door for Alison, Hank watches the last few leaves stuck to the oak tree in his front yard fall. They float to their deaths gracefully. It’s so out of character for him to make a morbid association like this. Alison looks like a wary rabbit as she skittishly exits the house and darts to the car. Hank has to run to hold the car door for her. He always holds her car door. He brings her coffee in bed on the weekends, and he sends her flowers unexpectedly. They cherish these little romantic gestures. When they’re out with other couples for dinner, and Alison rises to leave the table, Hank always rises as well, and rises again to pull out her chair when she returns. It is a chivalrous throwback that makes them feel special to each other. Other couples smile - a few women kick their own husbands under the table.

  The drive to police headquarters requires scanning and concentration. There’s a lot for Alison to monitor. She peers out of the passenger car window and is thwarted by the heavy winter coats and hats that make identification tricky. Hank and Alison exchange a few forced sentences about the weather and then have little to say to each other. They sit in prickly silence. Hank turns on the radio and sings along without his usual enthusiasm.

  They park and walk into the police station. Once in the lobby, Alison places each individual in a grid in her mind. The security screener uses the wand on them both and then waves them through. As they walk down the hall, all of the officers notice her. They exchange looks with each other after she passes. Hank finds this covert attention irritating and when he catches them, he punishes them with a look that would freeze blood, but there is no hiding; she is a known face in law enforcement circles. Somehow, this little woman killed three of the Burne brothers. After the newspapers and talk shows abandoned their attempts to interview her, she remained a topic of discussion among the police, the ATF, and the FBI. After all, it was the Burne brothers. It was an irreconcilable event, a stunningly unlikely result.

  A uniformed officer escorts them to Detective Crane’s office. Alison sees every person along the way with intensified clarity: the woman with the big knuckles filling a cup at the coffee dispenser, the Latino officer with the overly stocky frame and flashy teeth, the two uniformed cops holding a folder and pretending not to notice her.

  Once inside Crane’s office, she takes the seat opposite his desk. Her muscles let go and she relaxes. She feels safe here. As they wait, Hank paces. She is at rest. There is comfort in the deliberate order in this room. Crane is a right angle kind of guy: every sheet of paper on his desk is perfectly stacked, on the corner is a jar with eight sharpened pencils, the top of the file cabinet is a printer and a calendar with pictures of his family. Everything appears brand new. Even the items pinned to the bulletin board are in level lines. Alison breathes and feels calm.

  Hank says, “This is a little creepy. L
ike it’s a prototype of an office.”

  “I like it.”

  And even these few inconsequential words hurt him, make him feel discounted and minimized. The walls are painted a doughy color that resembles a jar of chicken gravy. The floor moldings only go half way around the room. Alison wonders if they ran out of money or interest. She sees little nail holes in different spots on the walls testifying to the parade of detectives who have occupied this room. Witness to the coming and going of people who cared enough to put up pictures of their spouses, their children, their dogs - people who nail their heart to the wall of their office. She prizes the pictures she has of her family and decides to rearrange her photo albums as a project.

  Detective Crane is relatively new to the crumby hallway that leads to his office. He was proud to make detective a few months ago. His wife and kids made him a special pork roast family dinner with a congratulations sign and a balloon. He had wanted to be a detective since he’d been a little boy sitting in front of the TV watching show after show where the good guys were funny and clever and always got their man. Reality has made a series of adjustments to that picture, but he is still proud, and he still loves his job. He may be a touch too refined for the grit of this work, but he was first in his class at the academy so he makes up for that with insight. He nods at Officer Simmons as they pass in the hall.

  “Hey, Crane,” Officer Simmons says, “AK Allie is in your office. Just give a shout if you need backup.”

  Crane smiles. “Right, thanks.” Inside, though, he doesn’t particularly like this kind of jocularity at a victim’s expense. As he reaches his office door, Officer Thomas joins him. They enter together.

  “Hello, Mr. Kraft, Mrs. Kraft.” Crane shakes their hands and Thomas does the same. Alison doesn’t move from her chair. She narrows her eyes and studies them. One of the most alarming realizations about this ordeal for her has been how perfectly average the Burne boys looked. She thinks if there is a god, and he was intent on creating monsters, the least he could do was make monsters look like monsters.

  Thomas says, “You’re a legend around here, Mrs. Kraft.”

  “I’d like my fifteen minutes to be over.”

  “Understandable.” Crane smiles.

  Hank walks behind Alison’s chair and puts both his hands on her shoulders protectively. He levels his eyes at these men with a communication that says, “take care.” Crane gets it. Thomas is not that sensitive. He’s a guy who needs to be told things - sometimes more than once if he thinks you’re full of shit or dead ass wrong.

  Thomas adds, “We got cops here, me included, who made a career trying to nail any one of the Burne boys and you dusted three in twelve hours.”

  “You know how good we women are at dusting.”

  Thomas laughs aloud and then seeing the look on Crane’s face, shuts up.

  Crane takes the lead, “Mrs. Kraft, may we get you some coffee or tea?”

  “No.”

  Crane speaks gently, “I’m very glad to give you some really wonderful news.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ma’am, Ben Burne was positively identified in Port Arthur, Ontario. He has family there, an Uncle Rafael. The Canadians moved in to arrest him yesterday morning at his uncle’s cabin.”

  “They have him?” Her heart leaps!

  Thomas jumps in excitedly, “Burne put up a fight. The gunfire set off some explosives and the whole place went up. He was trapped inside like the rat he was.”

  Reflexively, Hank gasps happily. “Thank god. Oh, good, great.” Alison does not react. He reaches for his wife. He shakes her, “Alison! It’s over.”

  Crane smiles, he understands, “Now, I know some folks prefer a long trial and an opportunity to face him.”

  Thomas breaks in, “I prefer him charbroiled and six fuckin’ feet under. Oh…ah…excuse me.” Crane rolls his eyes. Thomas adds, “And also, personally, I wish I could’ve been the one to light that torch.”

  “Thank you, Officer Thomas.” Crane silences him.

  Alison has been sitting and waiting for the rush of relief. Nothing. No rush. No relief.

  Hank says, “Thank you. This really helps us a lot. Doesn’t it, Alison?”

  They all look at Alison for her reaction.

  She is staring at her feet. Raising her eyes to Crane, “It doesn’t feel right.”

  Crane speaks with kindness. He directs his words to Alison but he is clearly sending a message to Hank as well.

  “Mrs. Kraft, I have trained officers who’ve been through less violent experiences who take leave to mend and recover.”

  “I still feel him. He’s still around or I wouldn’t feel him.”

  “It’s the trauma that’s still around - that is what you’re feeling. It’s like your body is caught in it. I’ve seen this so many times. Exercise can help. Relaxation techniques. Perhaps you should consider a vacation?”

  “I’m not over my last vacation.”

  Thomas laughs spontaneously. Alison can’t help but smile at Thomas. She likes that he is such an open book.

  “Sorry.” Thomas shrugs.

  Crane continues. “Right. What we would recommend is for you to go home. Raise your great son. Get back to your life as soon as possible. Routine is the best medicine.”

  “Yes.” Hank is euphoric. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Now, they will mend; their lives will come back into harmony as they recover the melody line lost in the madness. He will have his wife back. He will revel in an ordinary day: a good bye honey—have a good day at work—what’s for dinner—how was school—love you—good night kind of day. He will never underestimate the solace of normal again.

  Hank grabs her hand as they walk out of the police station. He squeezes it three times, which meant I love you when they were dating. She looks up at him as the squeeze goes directly to the memories her heart holds dear. They remind her of a time before all of this, when she was young and in love, and the book of their lives was blank. They share a soft smile as he holds open her car door. Now, it will all stop. Her thin body falls heavily into the passenger seat. Now, the terrorizing visions of disembodied eyes, the unendurable dark and sleepless nights, the muscle tremors, the dirty muddy feeling of her skin, the constant flood of primitive hormones, all gone. She sinks into the leather upholstery and lapses into sleep in the time it takes Hank to walk around the car and get in. He turns on the motor. He looks over at her and sees she’s asleep and his relief is palpable. He slips off his suede jacket and lays it across her, leaving his hand lightly on her chest for just a moment; he feels her breathing in and out and it is nourishing. A gush of relief, like a cleansing, washes over him and his emotions are so raw his whole body feels swollen and pulpy. He is obscured sitting in the front seat behind the windshield of the car and so he allows himself the luxury of resting his forehead on the steering wheel, closing his eyes, and letting go for a bit, a little deserved relief - a shudder and a few tears of gratitude.

  Walking toward his police car Officer Thomas glances over. He sees Alison Kraft crashed-out, head back, mouth slightly open and he thinks she looks child-like. Hank, too, seems to be asleep hunched over the steering wheel. Thomas doesn’t like things to get too complicated. Help the good guys. Kill the bad guys. Follow the law. Simple logic and a definitive direction works for him. He likes the lines that society draws clearly. It is when the victims enter his world that his hands feel too big and his mind clumsy. He feels all stuffy and dense, like his brain is soaked and packed with insulation. Victims make it all so messy. You cannot afford to feel for them because that will cloud your judgment. He is thankful that it worked out for these two. He never can figure out what makes one couple survive and go on to live their lives and another wind up chopped into pieces and scattered around in trash bins. There is no way to guess in advance which of the ones in that little fishing group on the island were going to leave, and which of them would end there. Years of police work has taught him there is no rationale for what happens
, no predictive tool. He has found it is just as well not to wonder about the why of it all because it is no different from wondering about God, or about what makes a joke funny. Hank looks up suddenly sensing someone watching him. He sees Thomas a few feet away through the windshield. Their eyes meet. Thomas nods. Hank nods. It is the period at the end of their sentence. Thomas moves on. Hank starts the car.

  Jimmy and Hank tiptoe around Alison for the next few days as she sleeps nearly continuously. Deep in a flooded slumber, she dreams she is on a down-filled raft in a blue swimming pool of warm water, gently floating with the hot fingers of the sun kneading the tight muscles on her back, and the backs of her legs, and with a gentle cool breeze skimming her face. She is unaware that several times her little boy has sneaked in, his bare feet padding silently on the gold carpet, and he has knelt by the side of her bed when no one was watching and just stared at her face, the face of his mom that finally looks normal again. The two sharp strain lines between her eyebrows have softened and the tightness around her mouth has let go.

  Jimmy Kraft knows things about life that no nine year old should know: evil is alive. He knows this because it physically grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him outside the lodge. Evil is a corporal presence with actual blood and bones and muscles to pull you, cut you, tear off your skin. It is not an imaginary spirit or fallen angel or apparition. It is not an ideology like they teach him in social studies class. It is not an empire, or a religion. It is human. It lives. It breathes. It spoke to him. And while that is terrifying to know, it also makes him feel like he can get it, reach it, hurt it, maybe kill it, and this is where the core of his healing comes from. Evil isn’t invincible if it has a shape, a head and a spine. He likes knowing that, likes thinking if he’s strong enough, and smart enough, he can defeat it, likes thinking that he can get his hands around the neck of evil and suffocate the life out of it when he grows up. When the police arrived on the island, Jimmy took some good hard looks at the dead Burne brothers. Others tried to shield him from the view, but they didn’t understand how badly he needed to see Kent with a hole in his chest the size of a basketball, Theo with his skull in two neat pieces, and Gravel stabbed, shot, completely pale and drained of blood. Jimmy has sublimated the visceral horror of that night and he has done a good job fitting himself back into the before time. A few of the games they play on the schoolyard seem dumb to him now, and all the injuries, the simple bumps and bruises that bring tears to the eyes of his schoolmates seem silly. Doctor Cartwell has warned Hank that there may be residual evidence of trauma as Jimmy grows. It could come in a lot of different forms. They would need to be alert and ready to help. Nevertheless, the doctor felt the prognosis was very good based on Jimmy’s ability to do his schoolwork and interact with his friends. They would need to wait to see what comes up.