“What the hell did you just say?” I ask.
“Do what you want, Toby!” Claire yells. “Every day it’s something. I’ve broken one of the invisible rules in your invisible rule book. You’re swearing in front of the kids on Sunday and driving like a maniac.”
I explode. “‘Money’s tight right now, Marion’? ‘Toby can’t take care of his family, Marion’? ‘We barely make ends meet with his job on the railroad, Marion’? Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at Paul Hudson. But you know why I don’t worry? Because there’s no way Paul Hudson would give up what he’s got for big, ugly thighs like yours.”
Claire starts crying. “I hate you, Toby!” she screams. “I hate you! I want you out. Just get out and leave us alone.”
“It’s none of their damn business whether money’s tight!” I yell. “It’s nobody’s business. You got that? Nobody’s! Off they go in their big Caddy to their big country club. I’ll bet they’re Red too. There’s Commies all over the place, Claire. They’re after regular guys like me. That’s why I ain’t got a good job and never will. Marion Hudson’s laughing at us and you don’t even know it. Don’t you get it? She knows we don’t got extra. That’s why she asked, to hear you say it. That’s how they get their kicks. How can you be so stupid?”
“Mrs. Hudson’s not like that, Daddy,” says Susan from the backseat. “When I stay over with Penny, they always ask about you and Mommy and they’re real nice.”
“I don’t want you kids over there again!” I holler. “Do you hear me? My God, Claire, they even do it to the kids. I can just hear it now: ‘How’s your mother and father, Susan? My, aren’t your shoes old . . . and that dress. What? They haven’t taken you shopping in Manhattan? Such a shame.’ And that Penny Hudson, I don’t want her comin’ over to our place anymore either. New bikes, new dresses. She’s always got something new. She’s a spoiled brat.”
I can’t control myself. Embarrassment, jealousy, and hatred pour out of me as if there’s nothing else inside, as if I am nothing else. I want to give my kids and my wife new things. I want to be respected in the community. I want to live where the Hudsons live and eat where the Hudsons eat. I whip down Greenwood Avenue, barely stopping at the lights.
When we get home, I call Bob to see if he’ll pick me up early—then I go upstairs and start throwing things in my duffel bag for the week: work lights, flares, two pairs of work pants, some T-shirts, and two pairs of work gloves. Claire stays downstairs with the kids, fixing them lunch, trying to keep them quiet. I take off my dress slacks, shirt, and tie and fold them neatly into the bottom of my bag along with a bottle of Aqua Velva. Sheila likes it when I dress up and wear cologne for her. She thinks I’m an important businessman. I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. I can’t wait to see her. She’s the only one who understands me. I zip the bag closed and put my Wolverines on top. Claire calls up from the kitchen.
“Do you want any lunch before you go?” Her voice is cold, emotionless. She’s still upset but prides herself on not showing it in front of the kids. She knows damn well Bob’s on his way over but asks anyway.
“No. Bob and I’ll grab something on the way to Princeton Junction.”
“When will you be back?”
“Not ’til Friday.”
I carry my things down the stairs. “We’re runnin’ empty dump cars up to Scranton and full ones on through Altoona to Pittsburgh.”
Katie toddles into the living room with a coloring book and crayon, her most prized possessions. She’s just eighteen months old. “Daddy, what happened to your right arm?” she asks. “Did you do it because you were mad at your mommy and daddy?”
“Sure, I’ll color with you, sweetie,” I say, feeling miserable for having yelled and gotten everybody so upset. “Climb up here on my lap.”
“Brek, do you hear me?”
“Luas?”
“Ah, there you are,” he says. “Finally got through, good. I thought we lost you again.”
My personality splits in two. Half of me carries on a conversation with Toby Bowles’s daughter, while the other half carries on a conversation with Luas. I exist simultaneously in two worlds and two lives.
“This is a circle, Katie. Can you say ‘circle’?” She looks up at me with wide brown eyes and rosy cheeks, melting my heart.
“Cirsa.”
“Concentrate on your memories,” Luas says, “Bo, Sarah, your job.”
I think of Sarah and her crayons. She’s not much younger than Katie. I think of Bo, who has never yelled at me the way Toby did at Claire, and I think of my mom and dad. The distance between selves grows until two distinct lives emerge: mine, which has depth, substance, and nuance, and Toby Bowles’s life, which I know well but only episodically. I feel his emotions and see through his eyes, but I finally understand now that he is not me even though he’s someone I have experienced more intimately and completely than I’ve ever experienced another person before.
“So,” Luas says, “what do you think of our Mr. Bowles?”
I can hear Luas but not see him. I see only the Bowleses’ living room. It’s as if Luas and I are commenting on a televised sporting event from the press box, but the field completely surrounds us like a gigantic IMAX screen. We are in the center of the action but apart from it, yet able to know one of the player’s thoughts.
“I don’t much care for—” I catch myself. “I thought we weren’t allowed to make judgments about other souls.”
“Well done,” Luas says. “But a little too far. We’re forbidden from making judgments, if you will, not observations. A lawyer may disapprove of the actions of his client but nonetheless remain an advocate for his client’s rights. Wasn’t that so with your client Alan Fleming? You disapproved of him failing to repay the bank loan but nevertheless you defended him.”
I’m able now to watch the presentation of Toby Bowles’s soul without confusing his life with mine. Although I am no longer inside his body, I somehow know all of his thoughts and feel all of his emotions, as though I am God looking into his mind.
Toby’s friend Bob pulls up in front of the house and honks his horn. Toby wraps Katie in his arms and gives her a kiss. He hates saying good-bye, and it’s worse now because of the awful way he’s behaved. Claire, Susan, and Todd approach timidly. Toby wishes he could take it all back, but an apology would be empty and they wouldn’t understand. He kisses Claire tenderly, and she responds with a lingering hug, at once absolving him of his crime and, at the same time, wounding him with the generosity of her forgiveness.
“I’ll bring you all back something nice,” he whispers remorsefully, still convinced material possessions are what they want from him. Todd and Susan give him hugs, but Tad stays in the kitchen playing walk-the-dog with his yo-yo, unwilling to forgive his father and muttering good-bye only after his mother orders him to say something. Toby doesn’t know how to handle Tad anymore. “I’ll bring him something special too,” he mumbles to himself, “maybe the cap gun and holster set he’s been wanting.” Toby knows he’s been hard on Tad, but it’s been for his own good. Toby’s father was the same way before he abandoned the family when Toby was eleven. At least Toby hasn’t done that. The horn honks again. Bob’s waiting. Toby waves, picks up his things, and walks out the door.
“Haissem is re-creating this?” I ask.
“Yes,” Luas replies. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
—
SEVEN YEARS LATER. Toby Bowles is now staggering under the weight of middle age. The regrets of lost youth, the deterioration of his body, the fear of approaching death, the vain search for meaning and reaffirmation—all these things sour his life, making him restless and depressed. His hair has thinned and his worry lines have deepened.
He walks up to a small garden apartment in Morrisville, New Jersey, letting himself in with the key Bonnie Campbell leaves for him under a loose brick. The apartment is dark. He turns to lock the door as he’s always careful to do, but Bonnie has been waiting and
goes quickly for his ears, sending gusts of hot breath into the sensual pockets of his mind. His hand drops from the knob and they move quickly into her darkened bedroom before his eyes can adjust from the glare of the mid-afternoon sun.
Bonnie’s robe falls to the shabby gold carpet, revealing a middle-aged body of creases and folds desirable to Toby only because the candlelight is forgiving—and because Bonnie’s attraction to him refutes what he sees of himself in the mirror. The sheets are thrown back and their bodies embrace, fingers and lips uniting all that is opposite, other, forbidden. The delights are exquisite, suspending time. But bliss is fleeting, shattered suddenly by the distinct metal-on-metal click of the front doorknob cylinder. Toby bolts upright out of the bed, and Bonnie rolls beneath the covers, popping her head out the other side like a groundhog peering from its hole. A dark silhouette fills the doorway to the bedroom.
“Claire, honey?” Toby says in a voice trembling with remorse, shaken by the overwhelming surge of guilt that has been consuming him during his six-month affair with Bonnie Campbell. Yet he’s almost relieved now that it will all finally be over and he’ll be able to confess his crime and beg her forgiveness. The candles on the dresser flicker low in an unseen draft, then brighter in its wake, illuminating tears streaming down the intruder’s face.
“That’s not Claire!” Bonnie screams, pulling the covers up to her chin. “It’s Tad!”
Bonnie Campbell had known Tad since he was a little boy. In fact, she had been close friends with Toby’s wife, Tad’s mother—Claire—making the humiliation of the encounter for Toby even more complete than if it were Claire herself. Bonnie owned the only pet shop in the small town, and as Tad grew older he purchased at least one of every creature she sold, climbing the evolutionary chain in step with his ability to care for the animals: an ant farm at first, then a fish, a lizard, some gerbils and hamsters, a rabbit, a cat, and, finally, a dog, a German shepherd. He even worked in her store after school. Tad knew her son, Josh, who was much younger. He knew her ex-husband, Joe. He had eaten many meals at their home.
Bonnie switches on the nightstand light, indignant and remorseless, full of pride for what she has accomplished, daring Tad to speak. But Tad does not see her. He sees only his father: naked, panting, stunned. Tears flood down Tad’s face, but he says nothing. He turns and leaves the apartment without saying a word.
Toby’s guilt and remorse vanish as quickly as they arose, replaced by rage and a sense of betrayal. He feels ashamed now, not for his own conduct but for his son’s. He could understand why Claire would track him down, but Tad? His eighteen-year-old son? And to stand there crying the way Claire would have done? This embarrassment crowns all the other embarrassments and disappointments Tad has caused Toby over the years: his lack of interest in sports, his lack of friends, his weakness and inability to stand up for himself, his defense of his mother against Toby’s abuse. Tad had judged Toby and turned on him at every opportunity, but now he had crossed the line.
Toby turns out the light and slides back into bed. He takes Bonnie now with a passion he has never before expressed, but not because he wants her. In fact, he finds her suddenly ugly and repulsive. Instead, he takes her to reestablish who is the father and who is the son, to reclaim his biological position as accuser and Tad’s as accused, to reassert his authority to judge what is right and what is wrong, and who is right and who is wrong. And Toby vows to himself to have Bonnie Campbell more often now, and to boast proudly of it and rub Tad’s nose in it—for Toby believes no conduct can be sinful if it is done in the open and to teach a lesson. He will dare Tad to say otherwise, dare him to tell his mother and risk destroying her life. And if that moment comes, Toby resolves not to deny it, because, in the end, it is Claire’s fault that he has turned to another woman, not a weakness of his own.
—
SUDDENLY THE COURTROOM emerges into the foreground, displacing Bonnie Campbell’s seedy apartment. The presentation is over and the lights come up. Haissem bows solemnly before the monolith, then walks over to join Luas and me.
“The trial is over,” he says. “A verdict has been reached.”
11
After the trial of Toby Bowles, I knew I no longer existed in the living world to which I had once belonged—your world, there on earth. Something momentous had happened to me, something so altering and absolute that reality itself was replaced by a new archetype of existence that could no longer be postponed or denied. It wasn’t a matter of voluntarily accepting the fact of my death, any more than one voluntarily accepts the fact of one’s life. It was more basic than that: a simple acknowledgment that this is what is now, and the other is no more.
Oddly enough, accepting my death wasn’t terrifying. It was, in a way, liberating. I no longer had to rationalize the bizarre things happening around me and to me. I no longer had to search for a cure to an illness or an injury that did not exist. And, most important, I realized I no longer had to carry the many burdens of life. I no longer had to shower, brush my teeth, eat, sleep, exercise, work, or take care of my husband and daughter. In a very real sense, death is the ultimate vacation away from everything.
But death did nothing to ease the pain of losing Bo and Sarah. I missed her desperately. I longed and ached for her to my very core, and the pain of being separated from her was excruciating. Yet I didn’t experience the agonized, gut-wrenching grief of a mother who has just lost her child. This is because even though I knew that I was dead, the fact that she wasn’t with me in Shemaya meant that Sarah was still alive.
The thought that Sarah would lead a full and happy life helped ease the pain of facing my own death. On the day she was born, I knew, as every mother knows, that I would willingly sacrifice my life for hers. Realizing that I would not be part of Sarah’s life stung me deeply. I wouldn’t be there to celebrate her birthdays, watch her open Christmas and Hanukkah presents, do school projects with her, help her get ready for her first date, set up her dorm room, dance at her wedding, or be with her for the births of my grandchildren. But at least she would experience these things, the joys of life. And just as I had been reunited with my dead great-grandmother, one day Sarah and I would also be reunited. And also Bo, over whom I mourned like the loss of my own body, for we were joined as one.
So I veered between despair and hope over being separated from Sarah and Bo. But I also found myself experiencing unexpected, darker feelings of deep shame. I could not avoid the conclusion that I had failed my husband, my daughter, and myself. Death is, in the end, the ultimate failure in life, the condition we fear, fight, and avoid at all cost, that our every biological instinct and emotion abhors and resists. Even the words used to describe it are pejorative: you’ve either “lost” your life, as if you’ve somehow been careless and misplaced it, or your life has been “taken,” “stolen,” “forfeited,” or “given up.”
Yes, I was one of the losers now. The fact that all the people in history who had come before me were losers too—and that all the people who would come after me were losers in waiting—didn’t make my death any less humiliating. I had abandoned my husband and child. Even worse, I had abandoned myself—Brek Cuttler: human being, mother, wife, daughter, granddaughter, friend, lawyer, neighbor, all no more. And I couldn’t even remember how I died! Did I commit suicide? Nothing could be more shameful than that. Is that why I couldn’t remember, or wouldn’t?
The more these thoughts haunted me and the more I began to think about everything I had lost, the more enraged I became. The injustice of dying after only thirty years of life galled me like nothing I had ever experienced before. It was a hot anger that burned hotter because I had no way to express the enormity of my loss. Nana listened patiently, but she could not, I thought, understand my condition, because, unlike me, she had died after having lived a full, complete life, raising her children to adulthood and seeing her grandchildren and even her great-grandchildren.
I also discovered that the afterlife, like life, is governed by a law of spec
ial relativity. My death felt not like the death of myself—in some sense I was still thinking, still experiencing something—but rather like the death of the billions of others on earth who remained alive but could no longer be seen. It was as if I was the lone survivor of a nuclear Armageddon. From my perspective in Shemaya, I had not been taken away from my family; my family had been taken away from me. I lost my entire world—the earth that had sheltered me, the waters that had nourished me, the sky that had inspired me, all vanished into a lyrical, haunted oblivion.
What finally broke me, though—the thing that drove me into the prolonged silence of grieving that replaces and becomes anger’s surrogate—was not the gnawing despair of having lost everything, but the sarcastic resemblance of the afterlife to life itself. There was no release in my heaven, no salvation, no comfort, no “better place” to which I had gone after my death. There was, instead, only a perverse continuation of the discordant strands of my old life, freed of physical laws and boundaries, as if life and death were merely potential states of the same cynical mind. Where was the reward? Where was the eternal repose promised by the prophets? I had come full circle: the burdens of life had been replaced by the burdens of death. Paradise was, for me, being trained for a job at yet another law firm: Luas & Associates, Attorneys-at-Divine-Law.
The chilling trial of Toby Bowles had the incongruous effect of both deepening and lessening my own misery by showing me that things could actually be worse. Standing in the corridor outside the Courtroom after the trial, Haissem reported that only a fraction of Mr. Bowles’s life had been presented and that a misleading portrait of his soul had been created. I was stunned, yet Haissem seemed perfectly content, and Luas was altogether indifferent. They seemed almost amused by my concern. I asked Haissem what evidence he would have offered in Mr. Bowles’s defense if the trial had continued.
“Oh, many things,” he said. “Toby Bowles actually lived a noble life.”
The Trial of Fallen Angels Page 9
