“What happened the other night? What were you two doing?” I could sense the concern and fear in her voice. I know that she must have wondered from time to time: what the Hell I was doing up here while she was in Boston? I managed through my freshman year at University without cheating on her. That must count for something. Right?
It didn’t mean shit. I know her. To this day I have no doubt that she had been totally faithful to me. Saving herself for me, as it were.
But me? No...
She was only gone for a couple of months and I went out and boffed some nameless, faceless chick. I felt shittier than I’d ever felt. I wanted to change the subject. Maybe I could talk about Jack. Tell her how I found him that morning, let her in on the whole story about the pizza, his attitude when the cops arrived. I could lace it with my misery and the concussion, and she would forget her question. Right?
But the human soul has a strange way of governing itself. Just when you think that you’ve surmounted that last hurdle and absconded with the goods, some deep recess of your being finds a way to rectify an egregious sleight.
Even if it does mean killing a rose.
And so I chose to tell her what really happened that night. It was only a matter of time before it came out in the papers, right? The cop told me that I’d be called to testify. Then it would be public. She was going to find out eventually, right?
I suppose that it was my distorted thought process that changed my life forever that night. A moment of choice.
No, not choice. Need.
I told her. I just blurted out the whole damn night. I told her about Red. How we came to be in the middle of a ‘Jack triangle.’ How we found ourselves alone and drunk after Jack traipsed off for a threesome. How we taxied back to her place. And how I left the next morning.
The silence was deafening. I could imagine her face as I told her the story, and my heart shattered and shattered again while I shattered hers. As I told her this extremely difficult story, I was reminded of the delicate butterfly with whom I’d fallen in love so many years ago. I reminded myself of the horrible things that had been perpetrated on her, thanks to Jack. She deserved better, and strange as it may sound, I gave her better.
I gave her the truth.
When I finished, part of me hoped that she had hung up on me. She had listened to my entire story without saying anything. But I heard sniffles, and I knew that she was crying and trying to hide it from me. Several times, the phone became muffled while she put her hand over the receiver to block out her sobs. Finally, she spoke.
In that instant, I wished, more than anything I‘ve wished for before, that I could go back seventy-two hours and undo everything. I wished that I hadn’t just told her. And I wished that she never spoke the words that struggled weakly yet firmly through stifled tears.
“I’m not surprised. Goodbye, Malcolm.”
Chapter 20
After I was released from the hospital I went into an insane tailspin.
Jack had been arraigned and released on bail until the trial, which was set for April. We didn’t speak. My father had good reason to be concerned that he was a negative influence on me, and he wasn’t about to let that interfere with his perfect life. Or his plans for me.
Christmas approached and I was perpetually miserable. I didn’t attend my classes, avoided social contact in all its forms, and became, for all intents and purposes, a hermit. Father contacted the university and asked for an extended leave of absence, which was subsequently granted.
In hindsight, it was probably a bad idea. If he had forced me to go, if I had my studies to focus on, perhaps that would have grounded me. But I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered. I really had no interest in anything but thoughts of her. So I wallowed in misery during every waking hour. Especially nights, which were long, hideously tortuous, and devoid of peace.
I embarked on a never-ending binge, punctuated by long and painful spells where I couldn’t stand to be with anyone. But like a love vampire, I found evenings in the midst of this spell when I found the energy to wander out and ravage the first woman I could pick up.
I learned much through observing Jack, and while I couldn’t master it like he did, I mustered all the necessary guile and smooth skills. I used every tool in my arsenal to ensure that women would open their legs for me. For the most part, I was successful.
The net result was a trail of lust-stained bodies, floating almost lifelessly in my unsteady wake. I didn’t care. I barely even noticed it. I was on a mission, and it was not to put more notches in my gun belt. Each one of them had her face. I pretended that they were her, and that made the taking much more potent. Sometimes the sex was even enjoyable.
I partook of their bodies like a warrior returning triumphant from the field of battle. My fierce lovemaking had the extended benefit (for them) of my frequent inability to climax. Even when I did, it took forever. They would roll back to their side of the bed, panting and gasping.
‘Oh my God!’ They would stroke my sweaty chest with lusty, satiated fingers. They would kiss my shoulders or my cheek with wet, raspy mouths that still tasted like me. And I’d lie there, barely breathing, staring intently at the ceiling and feeling like my vindication had been re-routed from my heart to my cock.
It wasn’t satisfying, but it was something that I could latch onto.
I’d dump them and move onto the next, and the next. I took pleasure in it. Each time, I imagined that I was dumping Elizabeth, and not the other way around. Some women tend to want what they cannot have, and my indifference left most of them wanting me even more.
There were so many. I can’t remember them. Their faces are a conglomerate blur of hair, eyes, noses and lips. And their names are like words from a foreign language that I forgot due to lack of use. I do have a vague recollection of the circumstances, but even then, it’s a faded shroud of what really happened, because none of it had any meaning to me. Nothing could during that time.
I was ruthless. I was intent. I was unrelenting. And I was filled with utter disregard for any human being who was unfortunate enough to have two legs, two tits and the poor judgment to fall into my quicksand of crapulence.
When I wasn’t whoring and pillaging, I spent my nights alone and drank so much that I could barely – and rarely did – make it to bed. I normally lounged on the couch and listened to the saddest, most hateful music. And, more nights than I care to admit, I sat and stared longingly at the phone and prayed that it would ring.
There was no way I was about to call her. Whenever I feared that I was weakening with thoughts of picking up the phone, I scrambled to find something sharp so I could jab myself with it. Once I stuck a letter-opener into my thigh. The bleeding was so bad that I thought of going to the ER. But I applied pressure to the gash and the bleeding eventually subsided.
I laughed as I watched the gaping wound. It was a most appropriate metaphor for my bitter relationship with Elizabeth. It bled profusely, and although the blackened gash was still open, the bleeding had stopped. Eventually, it would heal and close over, leaving only a scar. A scar that would be with me forever. But the pain would be a memory. And the memory would be painful. A most appropriate irony.
Music blared in my brain, and the thoughts and pain, indecision and fear, soft words and the indescribable hurt swirled around inside my head like a sad tornado. I managed to stumble up to my bed that night. I slept fitfully and dreamed the most disturbing dreams. And when I awoke, the demons waited for me, the same way they did every morning. Salivating and snarling, prepared to haunt me in the waking world, the same way they waited for me at night.
***
The blowback from Jack’s pending trial provided a much-needed diversion.
It was a circus. The newspapers and TV stations got hold of the story. It was one of the top news items for several weeks. Jack’s family was akin to Detroit Royalty and this story was just too good to quash. So the media jumped on it like a ravenous lion attacking a helpless gazelle.
And as if that wasn’t enough, then they brought in lawyers, ex-cops and forensic experts. They debated the validity of forensic evidence, whether an unbiased jury could be found, and ‘just what was going on inside his head?’
Reporters who flocked around the courthouse spoke of blunt instruments and ‘insider reports,’ which indicated that he had beaten them either with his bare fists or a piece of lead pipe. Initially, I watched this spectacle with disgust, but eventually I stopped watching TV altogether.
As the trial date neared, I was a basket case. Racked with the most horrendous guilt and pain over Elizabeth, and confused and scared about what was going to happen to Jack, I retreated further into my shell. I had moved home in November, so there were no fellow dorm-mates to deal with. Father was never around but news directors constantly tried to befriend me, and there was a twenty-four hour vigil outside our house. The circus was replete with news vans and reporters, so I stayed put. Walled up in the house like a frightened rat.
One day in the midst of all this, she called me. It was a curse and a blessing in the same moment. I couldn’t believe that she called after everything that happened, but I picked the up phone wishing that it had been a few months ago, when her call would have had a totally different meaning.
“Hello?” I tried to be cool, but I already knew it was her, and she knew it too.
“Hey.” Under normal circumstances, I would have smiled.
“Uhm, hi.” I didn’t know what to say. After what I’d done, I didn’t even think that I had the right to talk to her. I couldn’t believe that I was talking to her.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Her words were sullen and protected, and I closed my eyes and lamented. The merest implication that she cared brought a well of painful dreams and muted screams that stormed my heart like a ravenous mob. For a brief moment, I thought about trying to talk about what happened to us, but I knew her. It would be a mistake to bring it up.
“I’m okay.”
“Good.” Simple, finite, not much room for expansion, right? So why did I want to talk to her, to tell her, to apologize, to explain? Why was I afraid to?
“Elizabeth, look…” My weak-ass resolve caved in under the slightest pressure. It was quick and without preparation, but I suddenly felt like I had to cross that heavily-fortified border.
It was like pulling a plug.
“Stop. Just stop right there. I don’t want to hear it.”
“But I just wanted to tell you…” A huge mistake.
“I shouldn’t have called. Goodbye. - click -”
Numb and dumbfounded, I hung my head and thought about hanging myself with the phone cord before I put the phone back in its cradle.
Why did she call? It was probably the last time I’d hear her voice. No flowers, no fanfare, no eulogy except for angry words and a muted click. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I got pounded and sobbed well into the night before I passed out.
It was a day or two before I was able to stand up. And even though I had other things to occupy my thoughts, they were useless in their efforts to assuage the tone of her voice.
Jack’s trial approached and Father’s attorneys coached me on what I could and couldn’t say. I just nodded while they spoke at me. It went in one ear and out the other. I didn’t care, for I’d lost all interest in everything except Elizabeth.
My anger and resentment grew like a perfect storm that brewed over the ocean, in preparation for an onslaught on land of epic proportions. I began to blame her for my infidelity. I did it because she was so far away. This was her fault. She wanted to go to Boston. If she had been in Detroit, I never would have been unfaithful to her! What the Hell did she expect?
I tried to call her several times, and I emailed her and wrote letters. Not surprisingly, I didn’t receive a response. More time passed, and I became angrier and more grief-stricken. Wholly irrational thoughts and feelings swirled through me, writhing phantoms that whispered in my ear and told me to do things that one ought never consider alone.
It was only when I was disturbingly close to snapping that Jack called. I started screening my calls when news directors and reporters began to call, and when his number came up I briefly thought about not answering it. But I had to. Something told me I had to take that call.
“Hello.”
“Dude. How’s it hanging?” Light-hearted and cheery, and I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was, a little. For all the time that I’d known him, I still didn’t know this guy. And I supposed that I never would.
I was wrong.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” I spoke slowly and cautiously. He simply chuckled and it infuriated me.
“I’m fine. Never better, actually. I’m just glad that this bullshit is almost over.” I nearly dropped the receiver. Bullshit? That’s what he thinks of this? That bullshit had wrecked my life, and he was facing serious jail time! This asshole thought that it was bullshit?
“Bullshit? You gotta be kidding me!” The resentment I held for him surfaced suddenly and without warning. “You beat two women to within an inch of their lives, you fuck! And you took me along for the ride. Bullshit? I’m already fucked. You should be worrying about what’s going to happen to you...” I halted my own tirade as the words seeped into my understandably slow brain.
“Waitasec. What do you mean it’s almost over?”
“It’s all been taken care of.” God. Even though I knew what was coming next, I was about to disbelieve my ears.
“What? What’s been taken care of?”
“There won’t be any trial.”
Without stopping to ask what that meant, I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. I won’t have to testify. My mood instantly shrunk from irritated and incensed, to relieved and calmed. The claws stopped digging into my skull. I felt like I could think, for the first time in weeks.
But just as suddenly as it came, my relief was devastated by another realization. No testimony, no disclosure in the papers. I didn’t have to tell Elizabeth the truth. But it was too late. My heart sunk to pathetic new lows while I considered this. While I lamented, I regained my composure.
Why wasn’t there going to be a trial?
“Why not? Did your lawyers make a deal?”
“Nope. But they did get the charges thrown out on a technicality.”
“Technicality? What technicality?”
“Fourth Amendment. The Search Warrant wasn’t properly executed. It was for the dorm room, not my locker. Illegal search and seizure. They can’t use the bloody clothes as evidence.”
I shuddered. The mere mention of the bloody clothes brought back chilling memories of the day I found him. Catatonic and covered in dried blood. What he told me seemed reasonable enough. Still, something didn’t feel right about this. Jack wasn’t telling me everything.
“So are they going to try to charge you again? Is there other evidence? What about the witnesses?” Jack laughed like a man who had just found a winning lottery ticket.
“Well, that’s the other technicality. It seems the witnesses developed memory problems. ‘Ooohhh…I’m not sure who it was who assaulted us after Jack left.’” He chuckled.
“I told them they should have locked the door after me! Heh heh.”
I couldn’t believe it. I knew what he was implying, but I didn’t want to know. His family paid them off? Or had something on the girls? Was it bribery or extortion?
It’s some kind of Dissociative Disorder. Complicated by a form of Psychopathy.
My God. My head was spinning.
“Stop right there. I don’t want to know any more than you’ve already told me.”
“Okay.” I imagined him shrugging.
“By
the way, Elizabeth told me that you guys split up.” I froze.
She told him? What the Hell was she thinking?
“She told you about us?”
“Nah. I knew all the time. Don’t worry about it. I’m over her. It’s been awhile and I wanted to see how she was doing. She didn’t really want to talk to me, but I warmed her up. She told me about you guys, but I already knew. Kinda funny, huh? That’s good. Friends should share.” He chuckled.
“She’s pretty tasty, huh? Glad I could loosen her up for you.” Bile welled up in my throat and I nearly dropped the phone.
“Too bad that she got fat, though.”
FUCKING PRICK! I imagined smashing him in the mouth with my closed fist, and watching with pleasure as several teeth flew.
“Wanna get together later?”
I placed my thumb and forefinger on either side of the bridge of my nose and rubbed between my eyes. Without even stopping to wonder how he knew that she had gotten fat, I pondered everything I knew about him. In so many ways, there were things about him I just couldn’t stand. He had screwed me and screwed people close to me, more times than I care to admit. He had viciously beaten two innocent women to within inches of their lives. He was dangerous. He was the purest evil.
He’s not well.
I’d always have to watch my back with him. I hated him for being so nonchalant about my breakup with Elizabeth. It was something which killed me a second at a time. A real friend would have recognized my pain, and been supportive and understanding. I thought about my father’s words when I was in the hospital. He didn’t want me to hang with Jack.
Call it teenage defiance, call it utter weakness.
Call it Jack.
I caved. Screw it. Father was in Madrid. I sighed and hated myself.
“Sure. What do you want to do?”
The House that Jack Built Page 13
