The End of Alice

by A M Homes

  What time is it? I wonder, but there’s no one to ask— Frazier doesn’t wear a watch.

  Clayton is in the doorway. “Edge of Night,” he says. “Edge of Night, can I?” I nod. He turns on the television and fits himself onto the cot next to me. The episode is well under way. I want to fall into someone, collapse upon her/him and have the walls of my skin, the container of my vessel, dissolve so that their embrace becomes me, envelops and swallows me. She is strong enough to take it. I can tell. She has the stamina, the muscle of youth. I look at Clayton, the beautiful boy, and wonder what he sees in me—father figure, I fear—what our relationship really is. That someone should climb in and voluntarily curl so close fills me with a sense of success and disbelief, repulsion and love. And with Clayton, that I have done nothing to deserve this fortune, that I have made no seduction, no grand overture, is my gift and my punishment.

  I run out of the room, even though running indoors is prohibited. Up and down the hall, always stopping halfway, stopping before the end. I cannot come up against the metal wall, the immobile door. To touch, to even accidentally brush against it will compel me to hurl myself, forcibly butt my head against it again and again until my skull cracks, until it bleeds, until I am senseless and no longer know where I am, until I cannot see, stand, or speak, until I no longer know where the wall is, until I am truly powerless, until my heart actually stops.

  I think of you, your picket fences, flower beds, holly bushes, your life measured by the alarm clock’s tick, the car-pool rotation. You claim to be a prisoner, but until you suffer the anxiety raised by the uselessness of decision, of desire, you are free. As I mentioned before, there is little need to control oneself here, except that it is degrading not to; if you don’t do it yourself, they will do it for you, that much is proven, and it will not be pleasant, that too is promised, guaranteed. You long to break out but comfort yourself with the structure you rebel against. You encircle the goods you are hoarding, all that you own, those damned privet-hedge definitions of what is yours and what is mine; your houses, cars, wives, children. That is why you are there and I am here. They say I have trouble with boundaries. How close can I get? How far can I go? I have a populist’s streak that says all for one and one for all. I am not a stingy man, but then, the sum total of my possessions would fit neatly into two cardboard boxes. Who has more? Argument could be made, could be won, saying that by having nothing, no actual object, I have everything. I am neither defined nor bounded by what I own. Truth be told, I am jealous of you, hungry to touch, to feel, to hold each item in your drawers: steak knives and potato peelers, twenty-five pairs of socks nestled nicely against your wife’s brassieres. Your gold cuff links and her good jewelry buried under your boxer shorts, the family jewels.

  Am I being too presumptuous, claiming to know who you are, when just as easily you could be someone else, a bum, or someone surprisingly like me?

  Clayton bunches up my pillow and fits it under his head. As the World Turns is spinning as Evan finds out that James never had a vasectomy, which means that Edwina has been lying. Shocking! I forbid myself to gaze at this radiant tube during daylight hours—it is the cheapest drug, the lazy man’s way out. And when I do watch, I have rules for my viewing: a firm avoidance of the networks, and never, ever, do I turn to the local channels during the news hour. Nothing is more tortuous than the stilted elocutions of a half-brained, half-baked, ugly Rather be Brokaw attempting to bring me the goings-on beyond these—be they ever so—humble gates.

  Unforgivable.

  I can’t allow myself to think that daylilies are blooming not a quarter mile from my cage. People at this very moment or the next are deciding what to have for dinner, whether or not to mix a second drink, open another can of smoked almonds; perhaps they’re deciding to skip the meal altogether and take the wife upstairs, fuck her until she’s blue, humping to the slap, slapping sound of Johnny in the driveway bouncing his ball, grinding to the dry hum of Sally downstairs playing with her toy vacuum cleaner.

  I don’t want Wendel the Weatherman to tell me what time the sun will rise and set on these near hills because, here, on this side of the wall, the weather is different, it’s a whole other front, time passes on its own schedule. The clock is broken, has only one hand, and an hour can be a year, a minute, or a month, and the little square of daylight that drifts across the yard, over the floor, can come and go in a second.

  It’s not the world I live in, it’s not mine.

  I collect the headlines, keep them in my various files. What one might find in this tiny town, this near city, frightens me. The untamed environs, the suburban subdivisions, the hazards of the garbage disposal, trash compactor, and radar range are much more violent, more dangerous, than what you imagine happens in these hallowed halls. Your capitol dome and bureaucratic bulges, gubernatorial pitches for reform, coupled with the grisly grit of who was killed, who was maimed, and what twelve-year-old child was mowed down on his way home from school, stun and stone me. I am here. The criminal element is contained—held under lock and key—and still it happens. How could it go on without me (us)—is that too narcissistic a mind? What I’m getting at is that, with so many of us locked up, you’d think it would stop. That it continues means that it is you and not me. Tell me about your day, your routine, and what you did at the drugstore when the dumb little girl charged you five cents instead of five dollars. Did you speak up? Are you all so lily-white? The harder it gets to be safe and secure, to trust, to find love and understanding—the more you feel entitled, allowed, even encouraged, to cheat, to lie, to steal, and then later, even to kill. That you are just beginning to feel it now only means you have been lucky for too long.

  And while you might think I’d find it heartening that such accidents do happen to others, that in all this random senselessness we are all of us caught in a kind of forced criminality—you are in error. You are breaking your promise, the very terms of our agreement—the one that puts me in here and lets you stay out there—if I commit the crimes for you, you must be good for me. You and I, we’re in this together, best not to forget.

  Clayton is on the bed, he has kicked off his shoes. The perfume of his nether digits, his toe jam, permeates the room. I breathe deeply, the damn sock and sweaty sneaker have the hint, the vague reminiscence, of popcorn, buttered. As the World Turns has turned into The Guiding Light; Bridget gives birth to a boy. David, who assisted, agrees to keep quiet about the whole thing. Clayton could lie here all day. I hate him for his ability to do nothing, to be unoccupied. I turn off the tube and plant myself in front of him, wiggling my hips in his face, slipping my fingers through my belt loops, hiking my pants higher, highlighting the bulge.

  I could stand to have my cock sucked, but Clayton does not think it is his job; as far as he’s concerned, it is a favor, a rare treat reserved for birthdays and similarly special occasions. He ignores my crotch and looks beyond me out the window. “Sun’s out,” he says. I nod.

  Out of my room we go, descending the narrow back staircase, the dark pit that leads to the tunnel, past the laundry, the boiler room and morgue, and into the chute. There are only certain paths available. In steel cages mounted in the ceiling there are cameras (circa 1978) with bulletproof lens caps. They are watching, recording every move. Were we to do something strange, something unexpected, they would be upon us, would appear from out of nowhere and remind us that we are not alone.

  “Chartres. I’m thinking of Chartres,” Clayton says. “I’ve been pretending I’m there.” He pauses. There is always the problem of having an Ivy League boyfriend—in truth no one else wants him, no one knows what the hell he’s talking about, they think he’s crazy. “The Virgin Mary’s robe is buried beneath the apse.”

  I say nothing.

  I wonder if Clayton should be taking antidepressants, an official prescription instead of smoking and sniffing Henry’s concoctions. He is ahead of me, opening the door to the yard. The opening, the letting in of light, the letting out of oneself
, is a great release.

  Out. The screen door slams. Flowers, red, orange, purple, circle the house. “Boy,” my grandmother calls. “Boy.” I run into the light. I hide behind the sheets hanging off the clothesline. “Boy,” she calls again. A bee, a butterfly, a bird in the distance. The air is warm and thick. I sit on the grass, splitting blades of greenery. Brighter than bright. Blue sky, cloudless. I lie back and fall asleep with the laundry—sheets, shirts, and my grandmother’s housedresses and underpants—billowing above me.

  “Fool,” my grandmother says when she finds me, bee-bitten, sunburned, smiling. “You and your mama. One and the same.”

  I miss Mama and am glad to hear her name. “When’s Mama coming home?”

  “I told you before, she got to collect her marbles before she can come back.”

  “Good,” I say, thinking that can’t take long.

  I’m going back,” Clayton says. “I’m going to Chartres and hang myself from the high North Spire.”

  Again I don’t speak. There is nothing to say.

  Clayton walks adjusting and readjusting his crotch. I think of the popcorn scent of his feet and imagine the heady, perfumy, pissy flavor at the front of his underwear. I think of him in his Jockeys and am reminded of the thick cotton of kiddie panties, the ultra-absorbent weave that holds the scents, the drippings, that slowly steams the full flavors until they reach a nearly toxic, almost lethal fruition.

  The prison yard is a square, fenced kennel, human doggie run, a playpen for criminals bounded by stone walls and reams of razor wire. Around the inside perimeter, there is a well-worn footpath, a kind of ring around the collar for men who go round and round as though eventually at some surprising moment the circle itself will split open, unfold into a long flat line, an open road, and they’ll just walk straight on out of here.

  There are days when one should avoid going out, when it does no good, when it only makes matters worse. On such occasions, one should feel free—perhaps a poor word choice—to hide in or under the bed until the feeling passes, until things have the potential to seem good again, until something can be gotten from lying on the ground, staring up at the sky, knowing that at least the clouds are unfettered, free, and you can be in them if you choose.

  There’s an odd charge in the air, I felt it right away, but at first thought it was just me. Or us, Clayton and I. Clayton finally responding to my request, my interest in having my cock sucked, me responding to the subsequent image of her sucking my cock with Clayton looking on, her watching Clayton fucking me. No, I don’t want her to see that, don’t want anyone to see Clayton fucking me. Too embarrassing. I fear they would think less of me if they knew what I let Clayton do. I’ve gone too far, trespassed. I backtrack.

  In the yard everyone moves with an urgency typically absent. The men on the path are walking as if racing, pumping their arms back and forth through the air, faster, faster. Smokers are smoking, puffing and pulling, blowing billowing clouds of nicotine into the air. Faster. Faster. Time is spinning out of order, calling attention to itself. A guard comes out onto the catwalk, the terrace that surrounds his turret, raises his binoculars to his turd face, and scans the yard. Not yet.

  I’m the first to notice. Jerusalem at the wall.

  He touches it, puts his hands up against the stones as if he can read them with his fingers, with his eyes closed, in braille. The story of a man. One foot inches up and catches on a stone in the wall, his weight shifts and the second foot leaves the ground. His fingers clutch the edges of the stones, digging into the mortar. He is five feet into the air. In the turd tower a guard pulls the cord and the farting foghorn of a siren begins to bleat. A warning. The walkers, the men on the path, freeze and then begin to dart back and forth, unable to make their rounds, to cross beneath the climbing Jerusalem. Instead—and as though this were the predetermined emergency plan—they go back and forth, up and down, pacing the length of the yard. Jerusalem is shirtless, Wonder-bread white. The flesh on his belly and back wriggles. He struggles to find his footing, get his grip. Twenty feet into the air. Rifle in hand, a guard comes out of the tower and stands on the catwalk, whispering into a walkie-talkie.

  Clayton turns to me and says, “Wedding day,” in my ear.

  “What?”

  “Daughter Debbie’s wedding day. Doesn’t want to be late for church.”

  I remember Jerusalem showing me the invitation: The honor of your presence. Deborah, Darling Daughter of Emma and Jerusalem, to Keith Quick. Eighteenth day of June. Christ Church, Poughkeepsie. Reception to follow.

  And now Jerusalem is on the wall. The turret terraces are full of guards with their guns drawn. Shoot to kill. They have the authority. The farting horn bleats every thirty seconds. Excruciating. They hold their fire, allowing us the illusion that someone can get up and over. They humiliate us and Jerusalem by letting him play out the fantasy. Their refusal to shoot represents their unwillingness to participate, to even dignify our desire. The pressure is too much, we are being simultaneously scrutinized and ignored. We begin to slowly crack. The men, responding to the intensity of the focus, the sudden flood of chemicals through their delicate systems, develop involuntary spasms, twitches—Jerusalem’s climbing disease. He is on the wall, working his arms and legs like an insect, desperate, trapped. There is a roar, a growing growl, as the energy, the impulse, overwhelms, as the inmates come undone. They howl and bay at the guards, they claw and tear at themselves and each other.

  Clayton looks at the guards in the towers, the guns, opens his arms, and holds them above his head. “Ready,” he screams. I step away. “I’m ready now,” he yells. He spins, showing himself to them. “Now would be nice.” He takes off his shirt and bangs against his chest, his heart. “Here. Here would be good.” They ignore him. “Do it,” he screams. “Do it already.” And still there is nothing. “Please,” he begs. “Please, I can’t anymore.” And when the guards continue to ignore the men below, Clayton hurls himself through the air, throwing his body like a punch, landing in the mud puddle from yesterday’s thunderstorm. He hits the muck with a slapping sound. I am embarrassed by his display. I move farther away, toward the door leading back inside. Men cower there. The door is locked. They are keeping us in the yard, in this antique stadium. Jerusalem is ten feet from the top; his breath, the gallop of his heart, plays off the stones, echoing over the yard. He moves carefully. His hand is on top, over the edge. He starts to pull himself up. His legs are pedaling the wall, finding their footing. He leans forward without thinking. I see him do it. I know as he does it, there will be trouble. His shoulder snags on the wire; he turns, twists, and pulls his legs up. His shoulder is in the wire, it digs into him, pulling at his flesh as he moves. He dips down, as if by going lower he will release himself. His face is down. The more he fights, the more tangled he becomes. Wrapped, trapped, buried. He moves as if he’s swimming in place. The guards lower their guns. We are fifty feet down, looking up. Five minutes, ten minutes pass, and the assembly of guards seems to be dissipating as each goes on about his business irrespective of the fact that a man hangs like a piece of laundry.

  “Pyramid.” Word sweeps through the yard. “Seven, then six, five, four, three, and two.”

  Clayton pulls himself out of the puddle and positions himself on the bottom. The men stack themselves on each other’s shoulders, six men high. The guards return, cocking their rifles. They step into position. Reinforcements magically appear, administration men in dark suits draw their .38s and aim them at the dull spots between our eyes. The two inmates on top wrap wads of shirting around their hands and arms and reach into the wire. They separate Jerusalem from the steel, plucking him out, leaving pieces like samples, small strips of skin set out to cure. His limbs stay bent as they bring him down. They carry him across the yard—his back is the only part uncut. Blood drips from him onto their heads and into their eyes, trickles down to their chins and splashes the ground. They lay him down; Frazier goes first, kicking him hard in the ribs. “Useless,�
�� he screams. “What were you thinking?” Then Wilson hauls off and gets him in the gut. “Idiot.” Embarrassed, humiliated by Jerusalem’s display, Kleinman swings his leg, tapping Jerry under the chin. And Frazier goes again, this time for the groin. “McNuggets.” Clayton kicks him solidly in the back. I am horrified. Jerusalem curls protectively and someone else kicks, and then Frazier is taking another turn and it’s going around again. The guards stand watching, and soon we’re spent, bored. Jerusalem is still. Seeing that we’re done, the guards open the door. Clayton and I are the last ones in the yard; we peel Jerusalem up and drag him to his cell.

  Henry comes and pokes the man, checking for broken bones. “Superficial,” Henry says, pressing his ear to the chest, listening for cracks, pops, wheezes. He gives him a shot, a “low dose of my new analgesic,” and leaves.

  I lean forward, dipping my tongue into the blood on Jerusalem’s chest. Clayton looks at me. “There’s red on your nose,” he says. “A hint of pink on your cheek.” He smiles, laughs, and licks the blood off my face.

  “The flavor of life,” I say.

  We lean forward and lick Jerusalem’s wounds, teasing the scraps of flesh with our teeth and our tongues. And as we lick Jerusalem, cleaning and drinking him like crazy cats, he begins to moan. He weeps at the sting of our saliva, the flick of our tongues.

  “Jerusalem,” we say.

  “It’s a mistake,” he says. “Just call me Jerry.”

  Finally the siren stops. The bells ring. Dinner. A second set of bells. Lockdown. Room service. We bid Jerusalem good-night and go back to our cells. We don’t eat. We have already feasted and for now are sated.

  EIGHT

  Do they let you have silverware in there or do you just eat with a spoon?

  Beloved, by now I would have thought you’d know the etymology of the expression finger-licking good .