The Three Fates of Henrik Nordmark: A Novel

by Christopher Meades

  Henrik thought the idea of sex with a minor was completely repugnant. But he considered this all to be a matter of age and attraction, and wasn’t quite sure what role moral accountability played in all of this. While he found sex with a minor to be an abominable act, he found sex with a senior citizen to be equally as abhorrent. However, if he were to be pressed into a decision — if, for example, some evil supervillain was holding the world hostage and valorous Henrik, as the last remaining member of a dying breed of superheroes, was forced to fornicate in order to save the planet from certain destruction with the one catch being that he had to choose either a minor or a senior to fornicate with, Henrik knew that deep in his heart of hearts, he would never — never — choose the senior. That Henrik could find such monstrosity within himself to be a child molester, albeit only in the due course of courageous service to mankind and only as a very last resort . . . the thought of it sent a flush of endorphins rushing to his brain where the opiate receptors responded in a pang of delight. He — Henrik Nordmark — might actually be depraved! Depravity had to be better than dullness. It just had to be.

  Henrik clapped his hands in victory and suddenly fell sullen again. The clapping sound reminded him of a 1978 episode of Super Friends in which the Wonder Twins’ sidekick Gleek was put in a trance and forced to commit all sorts of outrageous atrocities until he heard Robin the Boy Wonder clapping his hands and came to his senses, establishing that anyone can perform abominable acts under the right circumstances, given duress and good intentions in his heart. Henrik realized he wasn’t super at all. He wasn’t extraordinary. He would never be a superhero, or even a supervillain for that matter. At best he could aspire to the heights of comedic relief sidekick, and not even that — comedic relief monkey sidekick with limited speech capabilities.

  Henrik turned off the television. He left his home and wandered the streets as the hour approached midnight. Two women passed him on their way to a local dance club, one of whom bore a striking resemblance to a young lady Henrik had stood beside in a grocery store lineup last week. Pink sunglasses, flowing blond hair, diamonds beaming from her fingers, neck and navel — that other woman had been holding a basket filled with cosmetic supplies and a four-pack of single-roll toilet paper. Henrik had waddled up next to her carrying a Costco-sized pack of forty-eight industrial-strength double-ply extra-fortified toilet rolls. The pretty young girl in line glanced at Henrik out of the corner of her eye. The glance lasted for the briefest of moments, a miniscule blip on the timeline of human history, but long enough to convey to Henrik the omnipresent, relentless truth — that this woman thought he was a monster who does nothing but sit on a porcelain bowl, magazine in hand, and poop all day and night long.

  This woman and her friend were dressed to the nines with wild hair, sultry makeup and plentiful exposed cleavage. Henrik imagined what it would be like to kiss one or maybe even both of these women — how their wet tongues would taste like cherries and pink marshmallows. He leered brazenly at their breasts and felt himself ridiculous for doing so. Henrik pictured a painful, demoralizing scene in a discotheque in which he would approach these fine young women and ask them to dance . . . only to be ridiculed, or worse — ignored. Yes, Henrik decided, that is exactly what these women would do. They would ignore me. So I will ignore them. Henrik turned his eyes away from their supple bosoms. For a second or two as they passed, Henrik felt morally superior. Their exposed cleavage would not control him. He was no Pavlovian dog.

  In the end, Henrik’s moral outrage was all for naught. The women didn’t even notice him staring the other way. They were too busy texting on their cell phones to even look up.

  He passed an all-night internet café when suddenly inspiration struck. Henrik was only boring to the rest of the world because they could see him. They could sense from his outward physical appearance, from the way he carried himself and from the smell of discount laundry detergent in his clothes that he wasn’t worthy of their interest. But in the virtual world there were no such concerns. Virtual communication was purely intellectual. Perhaps in this abstract realm, Henrik could shine in the way he’d always dreamt of shining. Henrik entered the café, paid for an hour’s worth of internet time and then sat down at the nearest computer. He stared at the open Internet Explorer window in front of him. The default Google page had a text box with a slow, repetitively flashing cursor. At first, Henrik didn’t know what to type. So he entered the words “chat room” and 54,900,000 sites returned. Undaunted, Henrik began scrolling through them. After nearly entering a chat room dedicated to the drastic alterations North Korea had made to Anne Frank’s diary, he stumbled across a room where people met online to discuss the singer and poet Jewel. Henrik had actually heard one of her songs on the radio. It was pretty good. She wasn’t quite the wordsmith Ronnie James Dio had been in his prime — but then again, who was?

  Henrik entered the chat room, signed in with his real name and typed the words “I am obsessed with Jewel.” There were only two other members currently chatting. Neither of them acknowledged Henrik. He tried again.

  Henrik Nordmark — I am obsessed with Jewel

  Sassycat8 — Did you see her on David Letterman last week?

  Atc_Xtreme — yes, I did. She looked beautiful, snaggle tooth and all

  Sassycat8 — have you ever seen her live in concert?

  Henrik Nordmark — I saw Black Sabbath play a concert in 1981

  Atc_Xtreme — really? Ozzy Osbourne rocks !!!!!

  Henrik Nordmark — who’s Ozzy Osbourne?

  Atc_Xtreme — he’s the singer for Black Sabbath

  Henrik Nordmark — No, Ronnie James Dio is the singer for Black Sabbath

  Atc_Xtreme — no, he’s not

  Henrik Nordmark — yes, he is

  Sassycat8 — doesn’t anyone want to talk about Jewel?

  [Saintdameon has entered the room]

  Saintdameon — my balls really itch when I fuck fat chicks

  Atc_Xtreme — that’s just gross

  [Atc_Xtreme has left the room]

  Sassycat8 — I’m leaving. This chat room sucks . . .

  [Sassycat8 has left the room]

  Henrik Nordmark —

  Henrik Nordmark —

  Saintdameon — so Henrik, what do you have to say for yourself?

  Henrik Nordmark —

  Henrik Nordmark —

  Henrik Nordmark —

  Saintdameon — nothing?

  Henrik Nordmark — I am obsessed with Jewel

  [Saintdameon has left the room]

  Henrik departed the internet café even more upset than when he entered. His boring conversation had made people flee his presence. Were there any depths lower than the one to which he’d just sunk? Henrik headed straight home and turned on the television again. He watched a cooking show with Rachael Ray, considered masturbating to her segment about making goulash, then heard her thick New York accent and suddenly fell limp. He changed the channel to Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade. Henrik watched this show with eager fascination. One after another guests came on to explain what an incredible impact Jesus had made in their lives. The outdated hairstyles and grainy film quality made Henrik suspect he was watching a rerun. But there was a 1-800 number at the bottom of the screen. Henrik was willing to try anything — even giving up his life of brazen heresy. He’d never considered becoming a religious zealot before. It did seem to have its advantages. The sense of righteous indignation and the promise of an eternal life were both alluring. Henrik couldn’t really think of a third reason, but he repeated the first two in his head and decided they more than justified his looking into this.

  He picked up the phone and called the number.

  A woman with a southern accent answered.

  “Hello, this is Mary Jo. Would you like to donate to Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade?”

  “Actually,” Henrik said, “I’d just like to learn more about your religion.”

  “Would you like to subscribe to the J
acksonville’s Religious Crusade newsletter?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Unprompted, Henrik gave the woman all his personal details — address, birthdate, social insurance number, bank account number and his PIN numbers.

  “Sir, I don’t think we need all of that information.”

  “Is there someone I can talk to about Jesus now?” Henrik said.

  “You would have to call a different number for that,” the woman said. “I work primarily in the donations department.”

  There was something funny about this woman. Her accent was inconsistent. It wavered from Deep Southern, to Southern Baptist, to something altogether foreign. Norwegian, maybe?

  “So there’s no one there that I can talk to about religion?” Henrik said.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. You would have to call a different number.”

  “Do you have that number?” he said.

  “No, I don’t. Not in front of me.”

  “Oh.”

  There was dead silence on the line. Finally, the woman spoke. Her southern accent suddenly disappeared and was replaced by another accent altogether.

  “Listen, sir, I have to level with you,” she said. “My name isn’t Mary Jo. It’s Parminder. The Jacksonville Religious Crusade outsourced their financial calls to India three weeks ago. People were getting really angry when they heard my Indian accent, so I started faking an American accent. I’m sorry to have misled you.”

  “Outsourced?” Henrik said.

  “Yes, you know how things are with the global economy and whatnot.”

  “And you answer all of Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade’s calls?”

  “I sometimes also pick up calls for the Ab Lounger Deluxe.”

  “Does that machine really work?” Henrik said.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t think it does.”

  “How much do they pay you?”

  “One hundred and forty-five rupees an hour.”

  “How much is that?” he said.

  “I believe it’s about three dollars and fifty cents.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” she said.

  “And you can’t teach me about Jesus?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not Christian. I’m Sikh. I follow the teachings of Nanak.”

  “I want to learn about religion so that I can be different,” Henrik said. “I want to be unique.”

  “Well, religion alone won’t make you unique.” Parminder suddenly turned somewhat philosophical. “That’s something you need to find within yourself.”

  “What if it’s not there?” Henrik said. “What if there isn’t anything within me to make me unique?”

  Parminder didn’t seem to know what to say so she began explaining Nanak and the writings of the Janamsakhis. Apparently Nanak believed in helping the elderly and the poor. This was all very well and good, Henrik thought, as it is probably the wisest way to attract virtuous people to one’s religion. Henrik leaned back in his chair and listened intently for almost three full minutes before feeling abnormally tired. Parminder’s real accent was quite thick and difficult to understand. Moreover, this Nanak seemed to speak in a lot of generalities. Henrik wondered if Jesus spoke in so many generalities. His eyelids were getting heavy. A wave of drowsiness washed over him.

  Henrik was just about to fall asleep when he heard a second voice on the line. A man with an even thicker Indian accent was speaking to Parminder in a language Henrik didn’t recognize. Parminder replied in the same language. They carried on for about fifteen seconds before the man’s voice trailed off into the distance.

  “I’m sorry,” Parminder said. “My supervisor walked by and asked me what I was talking about.”

  “Did I get you in trouble?” Henrik said.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Parminder said. “I do have to go though. Donations to the Crusade are down eight percent this quarter and I have an hourly rate to maintain. But I wish you the best, Henrik. Be strong my friend. And have faith that you will find what you’re looking for.”

  She hung up.

  Henrik turned off the television and placed his phone on the receiver. He waddled on groggy feet into the bedroom and climbed under the covers. Henrik put his head on the pillow, completely unaware that at that very moment on the other side of town, three elderly assassins were planning his demise.

  six

  9:37 a.m. Alfred’s 1984 Chrysler LeBaron thundered along the road with pockets of rust on the hood and billows of black smoke churning out the back. Like an out-of-control shopping cart, it warbled down a hill, veered between lanes and narrowly missed a stop sign as Alfred’s shaky hands steered the vehicle off the highway and into the suburbs. Beside Alfred, dressed in black from head to toe, Conrad barked out sightless directions to his mute associate and held on for dear life.

  Billy Bones sat in the back seat, a smile spread across his frumpy face.

  The previous evening in the dead of night, Alfred and Billy Bones sneaked out of their rooms and met Conrad in a darkened corner of the retirement home. There amongst the shadows, Conrad laid out plans for their mission. Billy Bones, fearing it might be his last, insisted he be allowed to say goodbye to his one true love. Conrad and Alfred naturally assumed he meant his wife of fifty-three years, a woman named Beatrice who lived in a nursing home across town. When they mentioned her name, Billy Bones went red with anger.

  “Beatrice tried to kill me with a meat cleaver back in 1976. Why would I want to see her?”

  “Really, old chap?” Conrad said. “You’ve never told me this before.”

  “I came home from the track smelling like perfume, and Beatrice, who was an old biddy years before she was old enough to be an old biddy, she grabbed a meat cleaver and swung it at my head. I ducked out of the way and she hit our cat Mittens.”

  “Dear God.”

  “Split the cat right in two, she did. It made a hell of a sound.”

  “What happened after she killed the cat?”

  “That’s where the story gets ugly. Beatrice didn’t quite manage to kill the cat. Mittens proved resilient. Cats with orange hair have always got a lot of fight in them. She rushed Mittens to the vet and he sewed him up pretty good. Somehow Mittens managed to hang on for the better part of six months. He would hobble around the house howling in pain. Beatrice always blamed me. She told me the cat developed low self-esteem since it wasn’t able to catch mice anymore. But I told her — you swung the meat cleaver!”

  “And now you’re estranged?” Conrad said.

  “We are.”

  “Then who is this true love of yours?”

  Billy Bones motioned for Conrad to come closer. Of course, the room was dark and Conrad was blind so he couldn’t see. He stood still, waiting expectantly. Billy Bones leaned into Conrad’s ear and screamed, “A prostitute I visited during the war! Rosalina Estranova!”

  Conrad recoiled from Billy’s bellowing voice. His hands formed a pyramid under his chin and his expression turned serious. “I will find this Rosalina Estranova for you, old friend. You will say your goodbyes and then we’ll settle the business at hand.”

  The next day Conrad made a few calls and it turned out there was a woman named Rosalina Estranova living about twenty minutes from the old folks’ home. They climbed into Alfred’s car and despite not having had a valid driver’s license for the past fifteen years and the fact his insurance had long since expired, Alfred fired up the old LeBaron and roared off. Soon enough they rounded the last corner before the Estranova household.

  Conrad stepped out of the car and into the backdrop of a green suburban landscape, his crimson-laced cape fluttering in the breeze. On the road, children were playing street hockey. Alfred had narrowly missed running into a goaltender and a defenseman as he parked the car. He peered his long pointed nose through the open window and climbed out on thin legs to stand beside Conrad. Billy Bones waited behind as the two old assassins approached the house. The front door was painted Amsterdam
red.