The Mentor

by Sebastian Stuart

  She has her clothes on. She hates to sleep in her clothes; you feel so weird when you wake up, like you did something wrong, like you were a crazy person sleeping on a park bench. She looks around for Charles, but he isn’t there. He’s gone. What if he never comes back? Did he call earlier? From a pay phone? How long was she asleep? Out the window it looks like late afternoon. Has she slept the whole day away? She shouldn’t have taken another pill-they make her head so thick-but she likes the way they numb her, make things that frighten her fall away. Like flesh falling off a bone.

  She pushes off the bed and unsteadily makes her way over to the kitchen. There’s some stale coffee sitting in a saucepan and she turns on the heat. She holds her hands up to the stove and warms them. The heat feels so good. She wonders what it would be like to live in the tropics, to always be warm, to lie in the sun and not think and be warm. She holds her wrist to the flame and a beautiful blister appears.

  When she hears his key in the lock, she turns off the gas, licks her wrist, runs her hands through her hair. He can’t know she slept like that, lazy girl, sleeping all day, stupid lazy girl, her hair a mess, her clothes rumpled.

  He has on a dark suit and he’s carrying a white shopping bag. She wonders what’s in the shopping bag, but is afraid to ask. His hair is slicked back and he smells of fresh air. He stares at her for a minute and then takes off his coat. “You look terrible,” he says.

  Yes, she does look terrible. She knows it, but what can she do about it? Her face, her sharp, pointy face. You could cut cheese with that razor face, dirty monkey girl, face just like your ugly father. She turns her back to Charles and lets her hair fall in front of her eyes.

  “I’m getting some coffee,” she says.

  “I suppose you’ve been asleep all afternoon?”

  It’s that tone of voice again. She hates it, has always hated it. Maybe she should just kill him.

  “I took a nap, a few minutes…”

  “Go sit down. I’ll bring you the coffee.”

  Her desk has been cleaned off. There’s nothing there but a stack of clean paper. No notes, no scraps. No book. Her book. None of the pages she’s been working on. She has been working on them, hasn’t she? Why can’t she clear her head?

  “The pages,” she says. “From yesterday. Where are they, Charles?”

  He hands her a mug of steaming coffee. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “They were here when I went to sleep. Now they’re gone.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so much, Emma. Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “I want to see them, read them over.”

  “The pages are in a safe place.”

  The pages are in a safe place. But not here. This isn’t a safe place. What place is safe? What place is ever safe? “Where are they?” she asks.

  Charles grips her shoulders. His hands are strong; she’d forgotten how strong they are. He isn’t going to hit her, is he? No, he’s just calming her, calming her down. He’s being gentle. He cradles her face in his hands. Then he kisses her forehead. “Don’t you trust me, little girl?”

  Why did he have to ask her that question? His eyes look so caring and she remembers all the wonderful things he’s done for her and how his kisses feel and how much she loves him, she loves him so much. She leans her head on his chest and he encircles her with his arms and she feels protected, she wishes they would never move, would just stay this way forever and ever. He strokes her hair over and over again.

  He has dinner in the shopping bag. That’s all, just dinner. He’s humming as he cooks. There’s music on, a piano concerto, and the table looks so pretty with candles and napkins. It looks like a home. Zack’s mother never set the table. From her desk, Emma can smell garlic and bread, the clean, yeasty smell of fresh bread. It all looks and smells so warm, so safe. The pages are in a safe place. But she’s at the end of the book now, and it isn’t safe there, there in that art classroom in the late afternoon light, Zack and his mother, hateful, horrible mother, hateful horrible dirty mother. But he’s going to kill her. He doesn’t want to, but he has to, he has no choice, she’ll kill him if he doesn’t do it first. Any reader will be able to see that. Justifiable homicide. Just kill her, stop her, shut her up, that constant screeching screeching voice. You funny monkey, worthless piece-of-shit monkey.

  “Soup’s on.”

  She looks up. Charles is sitting at the table, pouring wine. Smiling. He’s smiling. She’s in a safe place. It’s Mozart, that concerto. The most perfect music ever written, wasn’t that what he told her?

  “I don’t think I should stop,” she says. “I’m so close to the end.”

  “You need food.” He pours wine into the glasses, red, rich. “You have to keep your strength up.”

  She stands up. Her body still feels heavy, heavy and thick, but her head feels light-it’s as if she is living in two different worlds at once. There’s a vase of flowers on the table. Lilacs, feathery violet lilacs, billowing out of her blue thrift-shop vase. Lilacs in late November. One day, maybe, she’ll buy lilacs in late November and raspberries in January… And the seasons they go ’round and ’round — that song she used to play, used to sing.

  She sits and looks at the plate of pasta. It smells like garlic and some herb-what is its name? Charles raises his glass. “To the end,” he toasts.

  She looks at him sadly. “The end?”

  “Your book, you nut. Just kill her off and you’re finished, done, free. Chop, chop, a few stabs with the scissors, a little blood, a scream or two and you’re free. Nothing some soap and water won’t erase. Then you can go home.”

  “Home?”

  “Just make sure little Zack doesn’t get too much blood on his face. I’ve been meaning to tell you that. Readers don’t want to see the kid with Mommy’s blood all over him.”

  He sips his wine, looking at her over the rim of the glass with a little smirk on his face. This is his idea of a joke. The mother fucker. There’s so much blood, so much blood everywhere, and it isn’t chop-chop, she keeps hitting keeps hitting keeps hitting. And then stuff comes out, comes out of her mother’s head. Emma feels her stomach spasm.

  “Mom’s blood dripping off the hero’s face,” Charles says. “Nasty scene.”

  But it did drip off her face, not only blood but the other stuff too, the other stuff, all over her. Emma knocks the chair back and runs for the bathroom but she doesn’t make it. She throws up on the floor beside her dresser. Dirty girl, dirty little monkey, dirty little puke-face monkey. Why does he have to see her like this? He’ll never love her now. She begins to mop up the vomit with the hem of her shirt. She hears him push back his chair and cross the floor and she mops faster. If she can only get the mess up off the floor, maybe he won’t notice. Maybe he didn’t see. Nothing a little soap and water won’t erase.

  He puts his hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Emma. You go in the bathroom and clean up. I’ll take care of this. This always happens at the end.”

  Later she’s lying in bed, facing the wall. She wrote for a little while and then he told her to get into bed. He insisted, for her sake, like someone who loved her, was taking care of her. He took the work she did and sat at the kitchen table with it, scribbling all over her pages. Now he’s come over to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress sags under his weight. Maybe she should get a bigger bed. But for what? He puts his hand on her shoulder and she shudders. Then he lies down beside her and nestles his body against hers, his mouth at her ear.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he says softly, running his hand down her arm. “I mean this for your sake, for you, my little girl.”

  She doesn’t like his soft syrupy tone. For her sake? He means it for her sake? The motherfucker. She should kill him. He deserves it.

  “Everyone gets crazy at the end, Emma. I do; I always have. Those last pages have to be bled out of you.” He’s stroking her hair. “But you’re not in good shape, little girl. You need a res
t. I’ll take care of you as much as I can, but you need more.” His breath is warm against her ear. It’s as if he is speaking from inside her head. “You need your family. As soon as you finish, I think you should go and stay for a while with your mother.”

  Her body goes cold. Your mother. As if he knows. As if he knows everything. Her jaw clenches and she starts to grind her teeth. If she had a knife in her hand right now she’d whirl around and stick it in his neck. Nothing some soap and water won’t erase. She’d stick it in his neck and then she’d laugh and take her book and she’d show him. She’d go to a safe place, a safe place, and she’d show him. And the dirty monkey goes ’round and ’round.

  “Emma?”

  She opens her eyes.

  “Did you fall asleep?”

  “No.”

  “I was saying I thought you should-”

  “I heard you.”

  “Well?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here. I’m not going anywhere when I finish the book. I’m staying here and I’m starting a new book. Right away.”

  He laughs. The mattress shakes beneath them. He puts his arm around her and pulls her body tight against his. She can feel him hard against her ass. “That’s the spirit. Ambitious little bitch.” He bites her earlobe. “My ambitious little bitch, my little girl.”

  He grinds against her, his hand sliding her T-shirt up over her ribs. His hand squeezes her ass, biting into her flesh. He’s mumbling in her ear- bitch, dirty little bitch. He slides his pants down with one hand and then spits into his hand. The spit crackles as he rubs it on himself- hot little dirty bitch. He’s pressing against her back there, sliding up and down, trying to push in. She doesn’t care anymore. She pushes back against him. She wants it. He starts to enter her and a sharp pain cuts through her whole body. Pain. Thank-fucking-God.

  She bites his hand and rocks her hips, feeling something slippery back there, as if she’s bleeding. Tears are running down her face, but the pain feels so good, so sharp, so hard, pushing everything else out of her mind, she can’t stop, she can’t stop. There’s nothing else now, just this just this. It’s like dying, she thinks.

  The mother is dead. Zack’s mother. Dead and bleeding on the floor of the art room, with the bright-colored paintings on the wall. Gone. That part, the murder, came easily. Charles left the apartment and she sat down at the desk and wrote sentence after sentence with calm precision. She saw the scissors, felt them puncturing flesh again and again and again and again. She won’t let Charles change a single word this time.

  The sun has moved past the front windows now and Charles still isn’t back. She only has a few pages left. It won’t take long. The book will end as Zack is entering the cold, echoing halls of the hospital. Emma lays her head down on the wood of the desk and closes her eyes. She’ll write the ending in a minute.

  Then she feels his hand, shaking her shoulder, shaking her awake. She can smell wet paper under her face-she drooled on her pages.

  “Emma,” he’s saying. “Emma.”

  Emma, Emma, Emma.

  Where is she? How long has she been asleep?

  He’s saying something to her, but she can’t put the words together. “How long have you been asleep?”

  How long, how long?

  He bends down and brushes her hair off her face. That’s when she smells it, smells something, something pretty. She knows that smell. My pretty powder, not for dirty girls, put it here, dirty girl, between Mommy’s pretty legs, nice and soft, doesn’t it smell pretty?

  She stands up and pushes back the chair and it topples to the floor. She shoves him away from her. She has enough strength for that. She has enough strength to protect herself.

  “Emma!”

  She has to get out, out of that filthy apartment above the hardware store, out, away, get to someplace safe. Some safe place. She runs to the door and pulls it open, but he grabs her and drags her back in.

  “What are you doing?”

  He shakes her, his fingers squeezing her arms, his face on top of hers. She can smell his breath, the hot whiskey smell of his breath, and the powder, the pretty powder. This is expensive shit, you stupid little freak. She isn’t safe here, she’s never been safe here. What is he doing to her?

  “Emma! Emma, please. Tell me, tell me… ”

  She hadn’t told him, she hadn’t told him-had she? The lamp, the snow, the men who broke down the door, the blood soaking through the little braided rug at the foot of her bed. The powder, the pretty powder. Violet-scented powder, fifteen bucks a fucking tin. She hadn’t told him about that. How does he know? How does he know about the powder?

  “Where did you get it? Where did you get it!”

  He slaps her face hard. “Emma. Look at me! Look at me!”

  His voice is high and frightened. She has him scared now. Good. Why should she be afraid? Why should she? She’s defended herself before.

  He slaps her again, and blood rushes to her face and her mind slows down. Slow down, slow down.

  “What are you talking about, Emma? What are you saying?”

  It’s Charles, Charles, why should she be afraid of Charles?

  “Look at me, Emma!”

  Sometimes the mind plays tricks on us. Which doctor told her that? Tricky minds. She has a tricky mind. Mommy coming down the hall of the hospital all pretty and bloody, just before dawn. She never could trust her mind. What if she’s losing it? Right now, right here, losing her mind. Is there a place where you can find all the lost minds?

  “Emma, listen to me, something’s happening to you. Can you hear me?”

  What does he think? He’s shouting in her face. Does he think she’s deaf and crazy?

  “I can hear you,” she says, just like a normal person, not shouting, not shouting like him, maybe he’s the crazy one. “I can hear you perfectly.”

  He’s sweating. She can see it beading up on his forehead. He reaches up and wipes it off. “You had me scared for a moment.”

  “I did?”

  This is easy. You open your mouth and words come out. Easy as taking a step.

  “I thought I was losing you for a minute there,” he says.

  That’s funny, she thought she was losing her, too. “I’m fine,” she says. “I just need to lie down.”

  She can talk, she can walk. She walks right past him. Walks right past him and heads toward the bed. One foot in front of the other, easy as can be. Just like that.

  And then she collapses.

  45

  Charles lifts Emma into the armchair. Her skin is the color and texture of chalk and her eyes are red-rimmed, their lids heavy. Her breathing is shallow, a plaintive little sigh accompanies each exhalation. He has to get her to the hospital. Quickly. He wraps his jacket around her and lifts her in his arms. As he carries her down the stairs, he realizes how much weight she’s lost; she’s nothing but skin and bones.

  Outside, he hails a cab and gently helps her into it.

  “Park Square Hospital,” he tells the driver.

  It’s one of the best psychiatric hospitals in the city. And certainly the most discreet. Tucked away on a side street in the East Fifties, the six-story limestone building looks more like an expensive apartment house than a hospital. Several of Charles’s friends have used it as a place to dry out or cool down, and Dan Leber, considered one of the most progressive psychiatrists in the country, is second-in-command. Charles wants Emma to have the best care.

  He helps her out of the cab and into the building. The lobby is quiet and clean, and there’s a carpeted lounge with a fireplace. Charles leads Emma into the lounge and sits her down in a deep wing chair. He walks over to the admitting desk and speaks to the calm, concerned nurse. She picks up the phone and speaks quietly.

  Moments after she hangs up, Dan Leber appears in the lobby, looking grave and professional. He greets Charles and then leads him to a quiet alcove.

  “She’s comple
tely delusional. I’m very worried about her,” Charles says.

  “Understandably.”

  “I should have brought her in last week.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. These things are entirely unpredictable. We’ll admit her immediately, and I’ll get her started on some stabilizing medication.”

  Charles sighs heavily. “Christ.”

  “Charles, I’m sure your concern means a great deal to her. But the fact is, she’s not your responsibility. I’ll check into state hospitals near her family.”

  Emma doesn’t know where she is. The chair and the carpet are soft and cozy. And the music is soothing. Is it the Beatles? Her father loved the Beatles. “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Is she in a safe place? The room has a fireplace with a real fake fire. The colors are pretty. She’s so tired. She lays her head against the back of the chair and pulls Charles’s jacket around her. It’s so soft. What’s in the pocket? Something heavy is weighing it down. Is it a gun? She hopes it’s a gun. She feels it. No, it’s only his keys. Too bad. But won’t he need them? Where is he, anyway? He was just here, with her. He can’t go home; he won’t be able to get in. She has to find him, give him his keys. She lifts them out of the pocket. There’s something else. Some money. And a matchbook. It has writing on it: “Hearty Home Cooking, Terrace Diner, Munsonville, PA.”

  That’s funny. She’s from Munsonville and so are the matches. What a small world. She’s even been to the Terrace Diner. Running away, she’d been running away. But she’d had no money and they found her hiding in the bathroom and they called her mother and she got the living shit kicked out of her. She doesn’t like that diner. She doesn’t want these matches. She’ll give them back to him, back to Charles. Running away, I’m running away. But how did he get them? Why are they in his jacket? “Do you think Zack had fish?” The matches, from Munsonville, in his jacket. Pretty powder, pretty powder. The apartment, that apartment that smells like grease and damp and hate. That apartment where her mother lived, her sick sad mother. Running away, I’m running away.