by E. Z. Rinsky
The bottom of the staircase leads into a half-opaque living room. The floor is covered in a real bearskin, which elicits a flinch from Courtney. A fireplace as big as a bathtub, red metal bookcase packed with all white-covered books, a long white leather couch. There is no clutter, I note. The few objects are either out of sight, or arranged on shelves in what looks like the place they’ve been since the dawn of time. But at least on the first floor there are places to sit.
“The four branches of the house represent the four limbs of the body,” he continues. “And the pipes our veins and arteries. By shaping it like an inert man, the home draws in the holy breath of life. The layout creates a sacred space.”
I raise an eyebrow at Courtney like thanks for ending my Eurotrip for this.
“How do you know that’s what Oliver Vicks intended?” asks Courtney, failing to sound innocuous. Sampson doesn’t respond. Leads us through another mostly bare sitting room, and finally through a heavy oak door.
If the four wings of the house are limbs, then this must be either the brain or the spine. The center of the X is a kind of core, insulated from the insanity of the wings by the same orange stone some of the external walls are made of. If there were a war, you’d hang out in the Spine. The lack of glass walls initially sets you at ease, until you realize that there aren’t even windows in here, only chandeliers emitting soft orange light.
“I value privacy in my office,” says Sampson, outside a second smaller door that presumably opens to his office. “There are no windows, so God can’t see what I’m doing.”
Reflexively, I force a chuckle at this bizarre comment. But when I do, Sampson gives me a curious look.
Wait—was that not a joke . . . ?
Courtney and I enter the office first. It’s dark and smells like potpourri and cigar smoke. Sampson enters behind us, letting the door slam shut. As soon as we’re sealed off from the rest of the house, the Senator collapses on a brown leather couch and breaks into sobs.
Traditional paintings of boats and men with swords drape the wood walls. A stuffed and mounted twelve point buck hangs over a fireplace. Phenomenally stocked liquor cabinet in one corner. A huge desk with several phones and a big laptop. Stacks of loose files as tall as me form a minimetropolis of paper in one corner of the room. A few dampened bulbs in the chandelier struggle to reach the dark corners.
Courtney and I sit down on the couch across from Sampson. Between us is a frosted glass table atop a dark Persian rug. For perhaps three long minutes, Sampson just cries into his palms. Chokes on his own phlegm. It’s to the Senator’s credit, I suppose, that he doesn’t try to hide his tears from us. The display of raw agony certainly makes me uncomfortable, while Courtney seems more empathetic—just watches Sampson with wide sad eyes, chewing on his fingernails, like he’s upset that this kind of unhappiness exists in the world.
When Sampson finally runs out of steam and looks up at us, he’s a different person. There’s little trace of the gregarious politician remaining. His blue eyes are wide and desperate. His thinning grey hair no longer appears regal, rather, malnourished and prematurely dead. He’s a frightened little boy, quaking with post-sob hiccups.
“I need help,” he says. “I need help so badly. Please.”
I clear my throat.
“Of course,” I say gently. “That’s why we’re here.”
He nods.
“Help yourselves to a drink,” he says, and gestures to the liquor cabinet. I shove off immediately from the couch, eager to ease the tension.
“What do you want, Senator?” I ask, pouring myself five fingers of the most expensive looking bottle of rum I can find.
“Grab me a soda from the minifridge, thanks,” he says.
“I’ll take a soda too, Frank,” says Courtney.
The minifridge is stuffed exclusively with cans of Diet Pepsi. Probably 150 cans.
Guy knows what he likes.
I grab two of them and return to my seat. Place the cans and my lowball on the tabletop. Sampson snatches one of the Diet Pepsis, cracks it open, and takes a long desperate tug, like it’s the elixir of life. When he places it back down on the glass tabletop he seems instantly refreshed—he should do commercials for this stuff.
Courtney already has his notepad and pen out, perched forward eagerly like a little kid watching the classroom clock.
“So Senator. You want us to get some books back for you?”
For some reason, this comment causes Sampson to break out into a booming, anguished laugh that’s like Santa at a funeral.
“Yessirree,” he says. “Get some books back for me. Sounds so simple doesn’t it?” He gestures to Courtney’s notepad. “No writing. It’s in the contract.”
Courtney frowns.
“I know, but . . . it’s how I think best. You can keep the notes after I’m done.”
Sampson shakes his head.
“No. I’m sorry. Writing things down, it makes them realer.”
Frowning, probably as confounded by this comment as me, Courtney reluctantly slides his notepad back into the pocket of his jeans.
Sampson takes another long sip of soda, and stares at the nearly empty can, as if he’s having second thoughts about this whole thing. I notice how small the soda can is in his hands—they’re enormous but still dexterous. Farmer’s hands. I’m already making excellent progress on the dark-sans-stormy.
“I’m in a bad way, fellas. A very bad way. And I need those books back from the bastard that stole them from me.”
I nod, attempting to demonstrate sympathy.
“Tell us about the books,” Courtney says a little too quickly. “What are they?”
Sampson looks momentarily taken aback. He blinks.
“Kinda figured we’d keep that on a need-to-know basis, if you gents don’t mind.”
Courtney and I exchange a quick, knowing look. I put my hand on my partner’s knee to stop him from blurting out what we’re both thinking and to let me put it a little more politically.
“With all due respect, James”—decide to use his first name as a little power play—“you asked us to work for you. We’ll decide what we need to know and what we don’t. Any information you withhold could put us in danger, or reduce our chances of successfully executing the deal.”
Sampson doesn’t look up from his drink, but nods slowly.
“I get it. I do.” He sets down his can, sits back in his chair and crosses one long leg over the other. “I apologize fellas. You just have to understand that this situation . . .” He gestures vaguely. “I’ve been guarding this information very closely for some time. It can’t get out.”
I feel for my beard, wanting to stroke it thoughtfully, and am disappointed to embrace only my clean cheek.
“You have to remember the bottom line here,” I say. “We both want the same result. So help us help you.”
Sampson chuckles mirthlessly.
“Don’t try to out-politician me, Frank.” Then he sighs, takes off his circular glasses and wipes them clean with a little cloth. “Well. The reason I hired you two is that if I don’t get this situation taken care of I’ll soon have nothing left to lose anyways. So here we go. All chips on the table. I’m counting on you boys.”
He takes a deep breath.
“Where to begin. Eleven years ago? With a dream. I had a very vivid dream, and then it repeated itself. Again, and again. I was having it every night, but I couldn’t figure it out. I spoke to few friends about it, an acquaintance who’s a therapist but—”
“What was the dream?” Courtney asks.
Sampson’s poreless cheeks flush.
“The dream was this: I was swimming in the open sea. I felt strong and confident. And then something grabbed my heel and prevented me from swimming forward. It wasn’t scary, just frustrating. And when I glanced over my shoulder to see what it was on my heel, that was always just when I woke up. So, it wasn’t too difficult to think maybe it was about something figuratively holding me back in lif
e, in my career, etcetera, but in my heart I knew there was more to this dream that I wasn’t understanding.
“I’d been having this dream for a month or so already when I happened to have an appointment at Saddleback Correctional Facility. It’s one of the largest prisons in the state.”
“Why were you visiting?” I ask.
“I don’t remember exactly . . . I think it was to speak to the directors about budgets or something. Anyways, as I was being given a tour, we walked past one of the prison yards. One of the inmates approached me and handed me a note through the fence. On a whim I accepted it and put it in my pocket. Nobody else saw, I don’t think. When I was alone in the restroom I read the note. It said simply:
“I can help you understand your dream. The one grasping your ankle is not who you think.”
“And then it gave his inmate number, and name, so I could find him.
“Well, perhaps you’ll think it was foolish of me, but I was so baffled about how some inmate knew about my dream, and of course, I was so desperately curious what he had to tell me . . . I had my secretary arrange some excuse to return to the prison the following week. And when I did, I mentioned that there was also a particular inmate I’d like to speak to.”
Sampson again takes off his round glasses and wipes them with the edge of his sweater.
“That was my first meeting with the man who was known around the prison as Sophnot, the man who wrote the books which were stolen from me—”
“But his real name?” Courtney asks, though if I’ve already intuited the answer I’m sure he has as well.
Sampson seems to have a hard time forcing his mouth to reply. In fact, he makes a little sound, a fraction of a syllable, and can’t continue. Instead he gestures to Courtney to hand him the pen and pad.
“The architect that you mentioned earlier. I’m not really comfortable . . .” he mutters to himself as he writes two words down on the pad, and then shows them to us.
Oliver Vicks
Sampson clears his throat, he looks ashamed—precisely why is not quite clear.
“And somehow . . .” I ask. “Somehow he knew what you’d been dreaming?”
Sampson clears his throat. “Yes. Including details that I myself hadn’t remembered.”
I narrow my eyes. Courtney asks, “How?”
“I believe God told him.”
Sampson’s cell phone rings. He answers quickly, maybe relieved by the interruption. Courtney and I exchange a look while he’s preoccupied.
This doesn’t smell good, I tell Courtney with a furrowed brow.
How was I supposed to know!? he responds with bewildered wide eyes.
“Hi Mindy,” Sampson says into the phone. “Yes. Yes. I’m speaking with them now. Perfect.”
He hangs up and gives us the tight-lipped apology face.
“Sorry for that. Mindy took off for a few hours. She’ll be back around late tonight or tomorrow morning to answer any questions that I’m not able to.”
“Does she live in the guesthouse?” asks Courtney. Sampson looks confused by this question. I quickly change the subject.
“So the dream?” I say. “What did Oliver say about the dream?”
“Oh.” Sampson seems to wince slightly when I say’s Oliver’s Christian name.
“Well, Sophnot, unlike everyone else I spoke to about the dream, explained exactly what it was that was holding me back, and what it was holding me back from.”
Courtney and I lean in expectantly.
“And?” I say.
Sampson mutters something to himself, maybe a silent prayer? Or no, it’s as if he’s having a quick argument with himself about something.
Is he nuts? Has he gone completely bonkers and is just a master at hiding it?
Finally Sampson says: “I’d just run for a Senate seat and lost. Badly. It was humiliating. There was a scandal which I’m sure you two are aware of. It wasn’t hard to deduce the goal I was seeking for myself. But the hand on my heel—I remember within three minutes of sitting down across from him, through that bulletproof Plexiglas—Sophnot calmly explained there were several factors holding me back from my professional ambitions. Many were counterintuitive. That to rid myself of them would not be easy, and would take time, but with his help, I would reach a level of career success and personal gratification that I never imagined possible.”
Courtney is chewing on his pinky. I attempt to appear unfazed.
So your life coach is a convict in a maximum security prison. What could go wrong?
Sampson rises and grabs another Diet Pepsi from the minifridge. The terrified little boy that overcame him the second he entered this office still hasn’t left. He brings Courtney a new can as well, plus the bottle of the rum I’d been drinking.
“But this man was a convict,” I say slowly, as Sampson sits back down. “He murdered three people. And you–”
“I didn’t bring you here to question my life decisions,” he says as he returns to his seat. Not angry, just matter-of-fact. “I understand why you’d be skeptical of my decision to listen to him at all. To not just stand up and leave immediately. But what can I say? Despite his crimes . . . something about him just drew me in. And as I came to learn, my initial instincts were correct. He is . . . brilliant. He understands things about the world, about God, that I’m not sure anyone else does. He truly, seriously helped me, fellas.”
It takes a lot of willpower to suppress an eye roll.
“So you returned to visit him after that first time?” Courtney asks.
“Many times.”
“How many times?” Courtney asks.
Sampson scratches his neck.
“Twice a week, whenever I wasn’t in Washington. For seven years. In secret, of course. The official story was that I was volunteering there in their civics education program. The warden was happy to go along with that story: It was easy enough letting me meet with a prisoner, and he probably figured I’d protect his state funding.”
I see Courtney’s eyebrows raise in my peripheral vision.
The Senator hastily adds: “I never promised him anything explicitly of course.”
This guy just can’t stay out of trouble.
“So—you took Sophnot’s advice?” I ask.
“Not right away, but eventually, slowly, I started trying out some of his suggestions.”
“What were his suggestions?” Courtney asks. “Is that what the books are? Suggestions?”
Sampson shakes his head slowly.
“I simply can’t tell you those things. And besides, they have no relevance to your task. They’re in the past. Done. What’s done is done is done, right?” He tries to smile like this is a joke, but none of us are fooled.
“Well, he instructed you to move into this house which he designed,” says Courtney slowly. “I assume that was one of them.”
Sampson is silent. Courtney either isn’t aware he’s treading on sensitive ground, or doesn’t care.
“And your divorce, I’m supposing that was also a result—though perhaps indirect—of Oliver’s advice—”
“Don’t try.” Sampson shakes his head. “Please, Courtney . . . don’t make me . . .”
“I’m simply trying to elucidate—”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you two with the information, it’s that you won’t understand.”
“My partner and I are simply—we’re just kinda sticklers about getting all the details is all,” I say. “Been burned before, you know. I urge you not to hold anything back. We need to know everything that Rico does.”
Silent, Sampson gazes long and hard at us.
“You’re correct,” he says quietly. “About the house . . .”
“And the divorce.”
Sampson’s eyes are wet again. He blinks back tears.
“I had a problem with women,” he says. “It was uncontrollable. Sophnot helped me . . .”
He trails off, shaking his head slowly.
“So?” Courtney tries to pr
od gently.
Sampson’s face is like a stone. He clears his throat and lifts his chin in the air.
“The biblical prohibition is against coveting your neighbor’s wife. That you shouldn’t even desire her. In order for me to fully repent for my sins, I had to embrace this stricture to the fullest.”
Wordlessly, Sampson stands up and unbuckles his belt.
My heart does a somersault. Courtney’s whole body flinches as the Senator lowers first his khakis to his ankles, and then his flannel boxers.
Bile rises in my throat, brain screams.
There’s nothing there but a mutilated nub. The room spins a bit. To avoid losing my airplane breakfast, I have to look away.
Sampson pulls his pants back and buckles the belt. Sits back down.
Courtney looks close to actual shell-shock. Hands shaking furiously on his lap. I’m gnashing my teeth together.
Oh my god. Oh. My. God.
“I’m cured,” says Sampson softly. “Sophnot, in his infinite wisdom, gave me the cure. I no longer desire the flesh of any woman, nor am I capable of causing her to sin. Perhaps you think me a naive fool. Worse, perhaps. But I swear: I would not be where I am today without him. My desire for sin was grasping my heel, holding me back.”
I think I’d rather just cut off my heel . . .
“Does Rico,” I ask weakly, “the guy who stole the books, know about this?”
Sampson nods slowly.
“And that’s why you can’t go to the cops? Worried this would get out?”
“It’s one reason,” Sampson says, composing himself. “But by no means the only one. Let me explain about the books.”
“Wonderful,” I gasp. Courtney is breathing fast. I myself am a little light-headed. I find the lack of windows more troubling after finding out that the guy sitting across from us is a self-made eunuch. Sampson, however, is acting like everything is more or less business as usual.
“Sophnot’s life’s work is a collection of twenty-four books. He showed me one after we’d been learning together for a year. He translated parts for me—” Sampson takes a deep breath. “It was exhilarating. It was like the rush on election day, as you’re watching yourself win, hearing your name on every channel . . . No, even that undersells it. Imagine that you’re the size of an ant, and your whole life you’ve been running around on this rug here.” Sampson gestures to the colorful tapestry underfoot.
