The Man in My Basement

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The Man in My Basement Page 14

by Walter Mosley


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  The Man in My Basement

  It was a show of respect, but not to me. I was Charles, son 1

  of Mr. Blakey.

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  “Not angry,” I said. “It’s just . . . just this whole thing is 3

  weird.”

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  “What?” Anniston Bennet asked, sitting back in his 5

  chair behind metal bars as if he were in his den in Green-6

  wich.

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  “You,” I said, “in this cell under lock and key, with me 8

  like some kinda warden and butler all rolled up into one.”

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  Bennet smiled.

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  “Have you ever read the Story of Civilization? ” he asked.

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  “A long time ago,” I lied. “I’m not so good on a lotta 12

  details though.”

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  “All throughout history there have been men who have 14

  isolated themselves from the world,” he said. “They go to 15

  mountaintops or sit in meditation for months at a time.

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  They flagellate themselves and refrain from having sex or 17

  masturbation. That’s mostly what I’m doing here.”

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  “But you said that you’re a criminal paying for his 19

  crimes,” I pointed out.

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  Anniston Bennet smiled and hunched his shoulders as 21

  if to say, You got me there.

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  “Many ancient belief systems are based on the concept 23

  of sin, my friend,” he said. “The Hindus accept as truth 24

  that they are answering for crimes committed in previous 25

  lives. The Hebrews and Christians are answering for the 26

  sins of their long-ago ancestors.”

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  “But that’s not you, is it?”

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  “No. I don’t have the luxury of a god. But what I do 2

  have is not contagious.”

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  “Come again?”

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  “In the eyes of the world, Mr. Dodd-Blakey, I am an 5

  upright and innocent man. My time here with you would 6

  be seen merely as an eccentricity. You can collect my 7

  money and serve me dry sandwiches and Kool-Aid. No 8

  one will blame you or indict you for the crimes that I rec-9

  ognize as my own.”

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  “That’s just a lot of talk, Mr. Bennet. I think that it’s 11

  crazy what you’re doing, but I took your money, so I’ll 12

  hold up my side of the bargain. But don’t you think that 13

  I’m gonna be a part of all this crazy talk. I’ll bring you 14

  your meals and whatever else I have to do. But I don’t like 15

  it and I’ll put you out of here in a minute if anything gets 16

  to be too much for me.”

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  I don’t know how he felt about that because I left before 18

  he could engage me anymore. Outside the cellar I began 19

  to sweat. My heart was pounding and my ears rang. In-20

  side my chest there was laughter, but the mirth could not 21

  make its way to my lips. It came as a throbbing rumble 22

  that might have been pleasant if it had an outlet.

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  I stumbled to the house, up to my room. There I sat on 24

  the old maple bed, thinking about Brent and all the mean 25

  things he had said to me. I imagined him walking down 26

  the halls in his slow shuffling pace. I thought about him 27 S

  cursing the summer for its heat and the winter for cold. I 28 R

  hated his smell and scratchy voice.

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  I could almost hear him, his wheezing through those 1

  last dying days.

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  Ears ringing, heart pumping, chest throbbing, and 3

  sweat dripping, I tried to rise above my body, hoped for 4

  my spirit to transcend grief.

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  It was grief I felt. Deep sadness that no mother or god 6

  could calm. I hated Anniston Bennet, hated him. I blamed 7

  him for everything that was wrong with me. His damned 8

  money and smirks.

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  I was wondering how long a boiled egg and cornflakes 12

  could keep someone alive. Everything was orange colored 13

  through closed lids, and my skin was dry and cool.

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  I opened my eyes. The air and the light in the room told 15

  me that it was afternoon. I had been dreaming of the pris-16

  oner’s luncheon. His life was like an invisible pulsing bea-17

  con, a second heart, a child who needed attention. He was 18

  living in my dreams as well as my cellar. I despised him 19

  already and he hadn’t even been there a whole day.

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  I prepared baked beans from the can, boiled potatoes, 21

  and cranberry juice for his late lunch. He was already 22

  halfway through the thousand-page volume of history, 23

  wearing red-rimmed glasses and sitting in the red plastic 24

  chair. The breakfast tray was already pushed out. I shoved 25

  the lunch tray into his cell.

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  “What time is it?” he asked.

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  “Four,” I said, turning to leave.

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  “It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked.

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  I turned back and said with false bravado, “Not bad for 3

  me at all. I’m not the one locked up in a cold basement on 4

  a summer day. I’m not the one kept away from my family 5

  and friends.”

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  “That’s true,” he said. “But you know there’s a belief 7

  that any society that is forced to punish its citizens is, to 8

  one degree or another, an unhealthy state.”

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  “That’s crazy,” I said. “What country do you know of 10

  doesn’t have laws?”

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  “It’s a question of degree, Mr. Dodd-Blakey,” Bennet 12

  replied, “not one of law. A man who recognizes his crime 13

  and accepts his punishment is a member of good standing 14

  in his country. But the criminal who runs and hides, who 15

  is unrepentant even though he knows what he’s done, is a 16

  symptom of a much greater disease.”

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  “None of that has anything to do with you being here,”

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  I said. “You’re renting a room and locking the door —

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  that’s all.”

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  “No,” the enigmatic white man said to a space some-21

  where over my head. “I am here answering for crimes 22

  against humanity. I am doing so because I am guilty, not 23

  because I was caught. And in doing so I am making the 24

  world a better place. I’m setting an example down here.”

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  “How can you be doing that when no one even knows 26

  where you are?”

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  “There’s more to the world than one plus one, Mr.

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  Dodd-Blakey.”

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  I barely heard him over the pounding of my heart. I 1

  worried that maybe he wasn’t crazy, that he wasn’t even a 2

  common crook. Even though I didn’t understand what he 3

  was saying, I feared that maybe he was right, that he was 4

  living out some moral dilemma and that I was caught up 5

  in the center of it all without knowing it.

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  Once outside I was sweating again. I didn’t want to go in my 9

  house, so I got in the car and drove into town. I went to 10

  Harbor Savings with the money Narciss had sent. The teller 11

  went over the check for a full minute before cashing it.

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  Everyone in the Harbor must have known about my thefts.

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  From the bank I went to Nelson’s Hardware, where I 14

  bought three combination padlocks and heavy hinges to 15

  hold them. Ricky was sitting on a public bench on Main 16

  Street, drinking orange juice from a carton. I pretended 17

  not to notice him from across the street.

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  “Hey, Charles,” he called.

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  I looked up, feigning surprise, and then crossed over to 20

  him.

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  “Hey, Cat,” I said. “I thought you were working for 22

  Wilson Ryder?”

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  “Took the day off,” he said. “Clarance said he saw you 24

  at the train station in the middle of the night.”

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  “Yeah. I met some girl and she said she wanted to come 26

  back out to see me, said she’d be on that train but damned S 27

  if she was.” I lied smoothly and without a skip.

  R 28

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  “Who is she?”

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  “Abby Peters,” I said, pulling the name out of thin air.

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  “White girl?”

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  I said nothing then. If he wanted to wonder about 5

  something, I thought it would be best to have him think-6

  ing about a girl who didn’t exist.

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  “Clarance said that you looked upset,” Ricky said.

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  “Upset?”

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  “Well actually he said crazy. He said that you had a 10

  crazy look in your eye.” Ricky cocked his head to the side 11

  in order to see up into my eyes. He was searching for in-12

  sanity.

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  “How are you, Cat?”

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  He made a painful face. “Bethany dropped me.”

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  “When?”

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  “Almost two months but I still miss her.” The honest 17

  hurt in his voice and eyes told me that he had no suspi-18

  cions about who Bethany was with now. “It hurts way 19

  down. You know, that girl could get somethin’ cookin’ in 20

  me. I was thinkin’ about startin’ some kinda serious busi-21

  ness, about makin’ a life for myself, for us. You know?”

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  “You always got life, Cat. Or else you don’t have it.

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  There is nothing else.” It sounded right when I said it.

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  Now it’s just a meaningless line of words.

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  “Are you crazy, Charles?”

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  I laughed and said, “Just tired, Ricky. Tired of every 27 S

  day.”

  28 R

  “What you mean?”

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  “I want something else, I guess. Something different.”

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  “Like what? A vacation?”

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  “Maybe a journey,” I said. The words were coming 3

  from my lips, but I wasn’t thinking about them.

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  “What’s the difference?” Ricky asked.

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  “A vacation’s over after two weeks. You go out on a 6

  journey and you might not ever come back.”

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  That evening I took three suits from the hall closet. I 15

  hadn’t worn a suit since I worked for the bank. There was 16

  a brown one, a deep green, and a blue so dark that I 17

  bought it thinking it was black. They were all cleaned and 18

  pressed. Before he got sick my father had repaneled all the 19

  closets with cedar, so no moths had gotten to them. I 20

  rummaged around for some dress shirts and ties. They 21

  were my father’s, but we were the same size. His suits fit 22

  me too. They seemed to have more character than my 23

  straight-cuffed wear. His pants were roomier in the thighs.

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  His socks were argyle. He had bigger shoulders than me, 25

  so the jackets were loose but stylish. There were a dozen 26

  of his suits in my mother’s closet. And they covered the 27 S

  rainbow.

  28 R

  I’d always wondered why he had so many suits. He was 138

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  a butcher in Southampton his whole life until he died. I 1

  guess he just liked them.

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  I brought Bennet a Big Mac and fries at about 9:00. He 5

  wanted to talk to me, but I didn’t bite. I just shoved his 6

  food in and carried the dirty dishes back to the house.

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  The next day, after feeding the prisoner, I put on a white 10

  gabardine that my father wore and a dark-blue dress shirt 11

  and cream-colored tie. Tennis shoes were all I had to go 12

  with the ensemble, but they looked good in the full-13

  length mirror. I noticed something different about me, 14

  but I wasn’t sure what it was. It might have been the hip-15

  ster clothes, but maybe it was something else.

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  Giving up that mystery, I drove off to see Narciss Gully.

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&nbs
p; She wasn’t expecting me. The door to her shop was 18

  locked. But after a long while, she came from somewhere 19

  and peered through the linen curtains.

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  Seeing me, she was startled. I don’t know if it was the 21

  suit or the surprise appearance, but she opened the door 22

  and said, “Mr. Blakey? What are you doing here?”

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  “Thought I’d check up on my business.” The words 24

  didn’t sound like me and the voice was queer. I didn’t 25

  know why I had come out to Bridgehampton, to the little 26

  converted cottage that Narciss used as her shop and home.

  S 27

  You had to step down to enter the house. The front room R 28

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  was large and there were quilts everywhere — hanging from 2

  the walls, spread out on chairs, folded in stacks in the cor-3

  ner. The designs were rude on the whole and the cloth was 4

  old, stained, and often yellowing. The dominant color was 5

  white, and that made the room nearly glisten. Narciss wore 6

  a black skirt that came down to midcalf. It clung to her slen-7

  der figure and stood out against the whiteness of the room.

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  Her skin, with its subtle variations, seemed like a black-and-9

  brown flame that had been stylized in a painting.

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  “I was working out back,” she said as an excuse or 11

  maybe as a reason to be left alone.

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  “I thought this shop was your work?”

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  “It is — in a way. I’m writing a book too, about the Ne-14

  gro quilts of the northeastern states. I hope that it will be 15

  a historical document as well as a craft and collecting re-16

  source. Harvard University Press wants to publish it.” She 17

  rubbed her long fingers against the side of her face and 18

  looked down at the floor.

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  “That sounds nice,” I said. “How long you been work-20

  ing on it?”

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  “Years,” she said, smiling an apology.

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  “Good work needs time,” my mother said often and I 23

  repeated then.

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  She smiled again and I blessed my mom.

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  “How’s it going with my stuff ?” I asked.

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  “Great. I’ve sent out all of my inquiries and people are 27 S

  starting to respond. A few serious collectors of African 28 R

  American art were interested in the masks, but I told them that they were in your permanent collection.” She 140

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