by Serra, D. A.
“Just think it over. If she is dangerous, or suicidal, it’s a temporary treatment to save her life.”
“There has got to be a way to prove to her that she is safe now, that it’s time to move on.”
“If she’s having breaks with reality, if she’s seeing things that aren’t there, she requires professional help and medication. There may be some tough choices ahead for you. I just want you to prepare yourself for that.”
Hank sits down in the chair and buries his face in his hands. He sits there immobile for the rest of the hour. He thinks about all of the blameless people in history who in one inconsequential moment made a simple choice: who stepped off the curb one second too soon, who sprinted to catch that doomed train, who took one wrong turn in the wilderness, who ran out for that bottle of milk they needed for the morning they never saw, and a guy who said simply to his son “wanna go fishing for your birthday.”
That night they are both up, Alison at her sentry position staring out of the bedroom window to the street, and Hank watching the clock waiting for morning. As soon as Jimmy gets picked up for school, he tells Alison to get dressed. She knows he is furious and hurt and so she doesn’t ask any questions she simply throws on her jeans and follows him.
Hank drives. Alison is antsy in the passenger seat, shifting her weight around, putting one leg under her and then the other trying to find the right configuration but always looking out and around: looking for him. She realizes after a few turns that Hank is driving her back to the police station. Maybe he’s going to have me arrested she thinks. Would he? Would he do that? That’s crazy. Well, not crazy. I don’t mean that is actually crazy. I just…and her mind shuts off so she can concentrate on the car behind them. The stress between them is like a pinball banging back and forth. She feels it physically and expects to have black and blue marks later. They don’t chance talking to each other. Hank plays his iPod through the car radio and he pretends to listen, he taps his hand to the beat on the steering wheel, but a careful observer would notice he’s just a beat off. Alison stares out the passenger window and scans the cars that pass them studying each driver.
Once they are inside Crane’s office the tension persists and the words unspoken between Hank and Alison form a messy glob of thick air in the room. Crane feels an ache of sympathy for these folks. He has witnessed years of indiscriminate violence perpetrated on good people like these. He has seen their marriages collapse and their lives ruined. He would like that not to be the case with these two, but really, he has little hope of that. Alison Kraft definitely needs help, but she is evidently resistant. Hank seems like a really good guy, devoted and caring. Maybe they’ll make it.
“Whatever we can do to help,” Crane reassures them.
Hank says, “Maybe actually seeing him dead will make the difference for her. Maybe that is what she needs.”
“Yes,” she agrees. This is a good idea and she tries to smile at her husband. That may be exactly what she needs. “I need to see it.”
Officer Thomas enters while she is talking and adds “Gotta admit ain’t nothin’ prettier than a dead Burne boy.” Crane rolls his eyes at the indecorous comment. Thomas couldn’t care less.
He holds a large envelope full of 8 x 10 photographs of the scene.
Crane turns to Alison and speaks gently, “Mrs. Kraft, just a warning: it’s pretty gruesome.”
She looks at him plainly, “I hope so.”
Thomas smiles to himself. He likes her. He can’t help it. There is something so bluntly honest about her. She’s no Pollyanna, like her husband, or political pencil pusher like Crane. She gets it. She’s tough. She’s smart. She just needs to see it. He absolutely understands that. He needed to see it for himself, too. People who have no connection with Ben Burne just can’t appreciate how sticky pure evil is - it’s real hard to get it off of you. Thomas narrates as he flips through the pictures one at a time. “This is a picture of Burne entering the cabin.” Alison lays her eyes on the figure walking up the brick stoop toward the front door of a small log cabin. It is a densely wooded area similar to the fishing camp. Woods will never be pretty to her. She will not be one of the tourists running to watch the colors change in the fall. It crosses her mind just then that perhaps they should move somewhere there are no woods at all. Perhaps a total change of environment is what they need. What about California for the ocean or New Mexico for the desert? Studying the photo, Ben’s body is purposely turned toward the shade. He is conscious of being watched, she can tell that by his body language. She can also see quite clearly that it is Ben. It is definitely him and in Canada. Thomas lays down another photo. “This is the cabin minutes later at the explosion. And here’s one seconds after the explosion.”
Okay, Alison thinks. I see it. Destruction.
Thomas continues, “And inside. This was the living room. And there,” Thomas’ voice has fallen to a quiet tone. He and Alison share these images as though they are alone. They concentrate. Thomas continues, “See, on the floor by the window, that’s him.” Hank leans over, looks, and quickly turns his eyes away from the gooey charred skeleton with the hanging eyeball. Alison reaches for the picture. She holds it in her hands. She brings is close to her face and she studies the details. They all wait for her sigh of relief because that man is dead, dead before her very eyes.
She asks, “Did you match dental records?”
“Aren’t any,” Crane answers.
“How do you know this is him?”
Detective Crane explains patiently, “We had a stake out. We have all these photographs of him entering the cabin. Then the shootout, the explosion and fire directly after.”
She studies the picture again. “But this could be anyone.”
All three men look at her.
“Mrs. Kraft, we are confident, the Canadian police are confident, the FBI, and the ATF are confident that it is Benjamin Burne.”
She looks him straight in the eye. “But there’s no proof.”
Hank starts to boil, “That’s him. Walking in. Right there in the picture. Can’t you see that?”
“Yes. I see a body there but how do we know who that is?” She points to the gelatinous glop of bones and burnt skin and blackened eyeballs.
“Alison, they are telling you they saw him inside!” The stress between them spills out into the room.
She points to the first picture. “But look. Look there, at how he’s walking. He knows they’re watching him.”
“So that doesn’t change this!” Hank points to the dead mess of a man.
She looks at Crane, “How about DNA testing?”
“The lab has a huge backlog and since there is no pressing issue here as we are all confident of the identity, the test has been shelved.”
Alison asks, “Please, do the testing. If it costs money, I’ll pay it. Whatever it takes.”
Crane shuffles his feet a little, “Let me see what I can do.”
“How long does the DNA take to do?” Hank asks.
“Once you start, five to seven days.”
Unconsciously, her foot shimmies back-and-forth vigorously, “That’s too long.”
Hank speaks over her “That would be fine.”
Crane equivocates, “Frankly, resources are tight and I can’t guarantee...”
Thomas blurts, “Hey, I think Mrs. Kraft here did society a pretty big favor and she should be able to jump the line.” She looks at Thomas and almost smiles. He may be the only person who understands her. Thomas trails off annoyed, “I mean seriously here. She wasted three of the four Burne boys.”
“But we have ongoing court cases that require evidence and…” Crane looks at her. He looks at Thomas who throws his palms out in a disbelieving gesture. Crane says, “I’ll see what I can manage.”
Hank and Alison exit the station and walk over to their car. It did not work out the way Hank had planned. He feels like he has only created more doubt for her. Or maybe she is creating her own doubt for some reason. Maybe some part o
f her wants him to be alive because it lessens her responsibility for wiping out an entire family. Or maybe it all just happened so quickly, the trip, the chaos, and the death, that she needs this time to slow it all down so she can get a grip on it. Or maybe she’s not going to get a grip on it. He opens the door for her. He began doing this on their first date and it is a little ritual that they both like, but today it just feels perfunctory. She slides into the passenger seat. He walks around, gets in, slams his door and starts the engine. She felt more at ease inside that police station than anywhere else so far. Maybe she should ask if she could spend the night in jail to get a good sleep, but no, because that would leave Hank and Jimmy at home and at risk. Maybe Hank would agree for all three of them to sleep a night or two in the jail. She could ask him. Jimmy might think it’s cool. Maybe…
Hank blows, “So what is it you want exactly?”
“Excuse me?”
“Finally, the best news, and you can’t even accept it!”
“Not sure I believe it.”
“Because you’re more experienced and smarter than the FBI, ATF, and the police force of two countries?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“You’re putting your feelings ahead of all their skill and knowledge.”
“When he looked at me in the woods and we both knew I’d killed his family and there was my family still okay, this, oh I don’t know, there was this thread, or electrical charge, or something that went between us - like a pact. I know it doesn’t appear to make any sense. And I know I’m hurting people around me but the alternative is worse.”
Hank confronts her derisively, “So let’s review: you know it doesn’t make any sense, you think you have some kind of deadly pact with a dead mass murderer, and you are aware you’re hurting us all.”
“I think I would feel it if he were dead.”
His words drip with sarcasm, “You’d feel it, so to the above list add you’re also psychic now? So what you need his blood on your hands to be sure?”
“What I need is to be sure.”
“The police say it’s him!”
“I just don’t see how they can be sure.”
“Why won’t you let us get back to our lives?”
“I want to.”
“I wonder.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You weren’t the only one on that island, Alison. Your son was there. Remember him? He saw Hobbs and Mike and Bruce shot dead. They had a loaded gun to Jimmy’s head! But he’s getting better. Working through it, reaching for it. I was there, too. I was there terrified and useless. Do you know what useless feels like?”
“Yes, I know.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper.
“No, you don’t. You’re the hero in this.”
“Is that what you think?”
“You killed the bad guys.”
“So this is about your ego.”
“No!” He slams his fists on the steering wheel. “It’s not. It’s not that.”
And it really isn’t that. Hank looks out the driver’s window. They are both in so much pain. When he speaks again his voice is breathy and lost.
He says, barely audibly, “It should have been me. I just wish it had been me.”
Choking back tears, “So do I.”
His expression is twisted with hurt when he turns his whole body toward her in the front seat of their car. The plea comes from the deepest part of his heart and she can feel it all the way through to her bones. “Alison, you have to let it go. He’s dead. We have our lives, our little family. We value them more than we ever could have now. Please, pull yourself back from the edge before we’re destroyed. Please.” He has reached her because beyond all of the paranoia she loves him, still loves him, wishes she could feel that love again, but she has been unable to feel anything. She gets outside of it all and considers what he is saying. He is right. Even if she doesn’t think he is right, maybe he is, and maybe she needs to try harder and it will all become all right if she pretends, maybe that is her way home.
“I love you, Hank.”
He takes her hands in his, reaches with all of his strength into her soul and pleads, “Come back to us, Alison.”
“I will.” And she did not know if she could.
They were dainty with each other for the remainder of the day: she turned on his music when they got home and he noticed. He checked the locks on the windows and on the basement door and she noticed. An air of practiced civility smoothed out their conversation at dinner and Jimmy thought they were acting weird. It felt a bit like their first married fight long ago, after which they stepped politely around each other for a solid day exchanging an excessive number of “please’s” and “thank you’s.” That first fight is disturbing because it shatters the new love spell and requires newlyweds to look plainly at one another, realize that bliss is work, and that love is not what they deserve but what they achieve. Hank learned then that love required constant maintenance and sometimes that comes in the regularity of cozy gestures. As the evening ends, Alison wrestles with her anxiety, and standing in front of the vanity in her bathroom she gulps down two sleeping pills while she thinks, really, if I let this destroy my marriage what am I saving? I’m over the edge. It would be dishonest to pretend I didn’t know that. She walks out of the bathroom and over to Hank who is hanging up his pants in the closet.
She says, “I know that my daydreams are vivid in a strange way.” He can see she has a mind full of things to say and he waits. She continues, “It’s like when I was a little girl and I had night terrors. It was right after mom died and went on for a year and I acted on them. I was reacting to things only real inside my mind. I would get out of bed while living inside the nightmare. One time I even left the house. My dad heard the front door open in the middle of the night and he ran after me. I was asleep and crying and walking around in the front yard barefoot. Maybe this is like that - the daytime equivalent of that - day-mares. Maybe I’m having day-terrors. Maybe that explains why it seems so real to me. He… (she finds she cannot say his name) he wasn’t in the school stairwell.”
“No.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Impossible.”
“He is dead in Canada.”
“Yes. He is dead in Canada.”
“Right.” She leans in and kisses him. “I’m going to sleep now.”
“That would be good.”
She spins around and walks with determination to the feather arms of her bed. She slips in under the sheets. She sinks into the mattress, which feels spongy and cool and glorious, and as the clenched fist that is every muscle in her entire body releases, she makes a tiny sound: half-sigh, half-cry, barely audible, and the most satisfying sound Hank has ever heard.
When Hank wakes, he is lying on his side and she is cuddled into the curve of his body fast asleep, skin to skin, a rush of joy and relief literally shakes him. He lies there feeling her hair soft under his chin and the subtle rise and fall of her breathing against his chest. He waits until the very last possible second before rolling over and switching off the alarm. He sneaks out of bed without disturbing her.
After he made breakfast for Jimmy, they grabbed their coats just as she came down the stairs in her bathrobe and fluffy slippers. She slept so hard that when she wakes the entire side of her face is imprinted with lines from the sheets. It was hard to get out of bed. The sleeping pills made her feel groggy.
“Hey!” She stopped them at the front door. “How are my men?”
Her smile is radiant. Hank walks over and kisses her on the mouth.
“Okay that’s gross,” Jimmy said, “really, I just ate.”
She smiles with light sarcasm, “Really, darling, he just ate.”
Hank takes her chin in his hand, her hair is clumpy and her eyes are raccoon-like with her smudged mascara, but she has never looked more beautiful to him. It all feels good. She will manhandle her thoughts. She will take back control. She will cut off all malevol
ent meandering, dig out a specific trail for her imagination and she will not deviate.
“Remember,” Hank tells her lovingly, “today is only about relaxing: take a bath, read a book, nap. All good stuff, yeah?”
“Definitely my plan.”
“Tomorrow back to work.”
“Deal.”
“See you later,”
“Bye Mom.”
She kisses Jimmy on the head. As they close the front door, she feels blissfully normal. Part of it she can attribute to a full night’s sleep and honestly she could go right back to bed and probably sleep for a month but, she is hungry, actually really hungry. She spins around light in her fluffy slippers and goes to the kitchen. I can do this. I can let go and do this.
Alison opens the refrigerator to get the milk for her coffee and sees two leftover casseroles. It gives her a pang the way casseroles always do. Enough, she tells herself, no more of these. She removes them from the refrigerator and puts them in the sink. She opens the cabinet and takes out her favorite cereal bowl. Isn’t it funny, she thinks, that people have favorite bowls and cups. Her dad had a cup she had made for him at a ceramic workshop. She went there for a birthday party when she was eight years old and made this ridiculous coffee cup. He used it every morning, insisted on it. I know I saved that cup, she thinks.… Why is the basement door unlocked? She stops and stares. I saw Hank lock it last night. He never goes into the basement, neither does Jimmy. No. Stop. Do not go there. Think about dinner! She will cook dinner tonight. Yes. She will make Jimmy’s favorite meal of spaghetti with butter and — a noise from the basement — with spaghetti with butter and cheese and a noise from the basement...la la la la la la…cooking really is the perfect synergy of creativity and utilitarianism. I have always liked to… another noise…always cooking liked…footsteps coming up. Damn it! She is not imagining it. Her expression darkens. Her heart pounds. The air in the room turns sour. He is in her house. She slides open the drawer in the butcher’s block and removes the carving knife. She darts to the side of the basement door. He’s so much bigger than I am. She breathes in rapid short gulps. Oh, god, oh, god; can I do this? The basement door opens slowly. This is it. End it. End it now. Her hand closes tightly around the knife in her fist. She raises the thick meat cleaver above her head. Don’t hold back - every ounce. The door gently pushes open. She leaps out! Now! Polly screams in terror! She throws the laundry basket she is holding at Alison. Polly runs out of the room. Disoriented, Alison freezes. She lowers the cleaver. Wait. What? Polly. It was Polly. Alison hears the front door slam as Polly runs for her life. Alison shuffles over to the kitchen chair and sits confused. She reworks what just happened in her mind. “Oh, shit.” But wait. I’m not imagining things. Someone really was down there. What I heard was real. “It was real…it was…Polly, but real.” Alison runs her left hand through her hair. I’m not hearing and seeing things. It is real. It is all real! I knew it was real and it is. She rubs her eyes and rests her elbows on her knees. Laundered underpants and socks are spewed all over the kitchen floor. Her eyes drop to the carving knife in her right hand. She considers it. She picks it up and turns it around in her hand. “But this is bullshit. This won’t do.” She tosses the knife on the tabletop, proceeds out of the kitchen and up the stairs to get dressed.
