Eventually, he started the disc and watched the image of the deck outside Glenn’s studio appear crisp and clear and large as life on his plasma television. People filed in to the apartment appearing and disappearing into the space beyond the glass doors separating them from the outdoor landing. They laughed and poured drinks and talked. The only sound on the video was that of an occasional car passing by out of frame or an airplane overhead.
Paul fast-forwarded through the next hour of video. Eventually, he saw himself appear at the door and he let the film resume normal speed. He watched himself make a drink, talk to Carol and Glenn . . . and then the deck.
All those things he remembered about that night appeared differently on camera than in his recollection. His hand slipping off the handle of the door looked like what it was: a rear elbow strike. His lunge to catch her, a braced forearm shove. And the deliberate shift of hands, from a firm life-saving grip to a tenuous grasp on soft fabric. Most damning, however, was his face as she fell.
All those memories from a different perspective took on new life and his stomach tumbled at the thought of a single moment gone too far. An impulse that he didn’t fight and a choice, once made, irrevocable. Made doubly so by his “tending” to Carol in the hospital.
The video ran on. The sounds of screaming and shouting and a siren growing louder until it filled his apartment, filled his head.
The phone rang again. And then the knock at the door.
He thought of the gym bag with his socks tied up in a shopping bag sitting in the foyer. In his haste to see the video he hadn’t rushed first to the garbage chute at the end of the hall. Instead it sat by the door, harboring whatever he’d put into his wife’s body to keep her from ever telling anyone what was so clear on the video. What anyone with eyes could see. What everyone would see when the evening news ran it alongside video of him being led into a courtroom in handcuffs. When they recounted the details of his trial and sentencing. When some expanded cable crime channel recounted his story as murder porn for shiftless people watching television in the middle of the day.
He walked to the glass door in his condo and slid it silently, easily open. Walking to the low wall at the end of his balcony, he peered at the street twelve floors below and imagined the last moment of quiet, pure panic right before hard ruin. Before he broke his bones on the concrete and city landfill beneath.
Instead, he chose to focus on the good times. At least for eleven floors until there was nothing left of him to remember.
BLOOD OF THE VINE
Becca slumped down in the seat with her feet on the dash, trying not to feel concerned that Ione was dancing and singing along to a song blaring through the stereo while driving her car at breakneck speeds along the winding, rural Pennsylvania highway. She tried to distract herself by checking her e-mail. Although the smart phone screen was hard to see in the daylight, the message from the detective assigned to her case was clear enough: there was insufficient evidence to make an arrest. Chris was free. She recalled what the cop said when Ione had first dragged her into the police station: If you’d come to us that night it’d be different, but without any physical evidence, it’s just your word against his. The detective had looked a little sad and her tears convinced him to “conduct some interviews.” It was the least he could do, he’d said. Apparently, the least also included sending her an e-mail instead of calling when he decided to shit-can her case. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what it had been like to live in the time before her life hit the brakes.
Her shoulder banged painfully against the inside of the passenger door as the car jerked harshly into the left lane. “Sorry!” Ione shouted over the music. She quickly regained control, changed lanes again, and resumed banging the steering wheel to the beat instead of gripping it. You need to get away, darlin’, she’d counseled. Get away from school, stress, and Chris. Get some real food in you—not this processed cafeteria shit, y’know? You need to have, like, a healing experience. Ione had been hounding her to come visit the collective farm or whatever it was that she grew up on. It hadn’t really interested Becca until Professor Hess posted her grade for Information Architecture. Then, running away seemed like a great idea. Just a few days without anyone giving me sad looks or acting like I’m some kind of evil whore. Who knows? It might actually be fun to go make bricks out of cow poop or whatever it is they do on a hippie farm.
“You’re going to love Corinth. Everyone’s so cool and it’ll totally get your mind off of everything. Just remember, people are a little serious about religion where I come from, so don’t be freaked out, okay? They can get intense, but nobody’s going to judge you. It’s just a bunch of stuff about eternal life and the blood of this and that.”
“I’ll try not to flip out,” Becca said. “If we make it.”
Ione stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment, somehow able to keep the car on the road navigating by peripheral vision. “Didn’t you get anything out of Professor Tate’s class? We need to embrace the Dionysian aspect of our consciousness, or some shit, you know?”
“I don’t think ‘or some shit’ was part of that.”
Ione held up a hand signaling that conversational subject had played out. She’d made her declaration and now it was time to sing louder and dance harder. “53rd & 3rd! I love this one!” Becca hunkered down a little lower in the seat. The pressure on the back of her neck felt good. She imagined herself submerged in a hot bath and wondered what the Jesus hippies in Corinth, Pennsylvania thought of girls who passed out drunk and lost their virginity to frat boys.
“Nonie!” The shriek awoke Becca and she kicked against the dash for a moment like she was caught in a live trap. Ione hugged the woman leaning into the open driver’s side window. They seemed to melt together, their matching black hair forming one long mane that absorbed the bright light of the day. The odor of patchouli invaded the car. The women parted and Becca noticed how alike they looked. She could be an older sister—or maybe even a twin. Ione never mentioned a sister.
“Mom, this is Becca. The one I told you about.”
Mom!
“I am so pleased to meet you. I’m Chari.” Becca held out her left hand to shake. The woman’s hands were rough and strong but with slender bones and a cool dryness that seemed impossible in the unseasonable heat. “Why don’t you guys park this thing behind the house and come inside for some lunch.”
“Jesus! Your mom looks young,” Becca whispered as they pulled away.
“It’s not Jesus that keeps her looking that way.”
Becca wasn’t sure what to make of Ione’s response. She didn’t want to start the week off by insulting her best friend’s mother. She changed the subject. “I thought you said this was coal country. This place looks like it could be Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Yeah, we’ve done a lot to keep it the way it was before they started tearing everything up for industry and commerce and shit. No McDonald’s or anything. A couple of mining companies have come sniffing around, but we won’t sell. After a while, they stop coming back. We like our village the way it is.” Becca tried to imagine how a town of peace and love fundies could have run off big coal businesses. That’s the power of prayer, I guess.
“It’s beautiful.” Becca tried not to act too smitten but found it hard. Corinth was everything that her own home town wasn’t—green, bucolic, quiet. Even though she wasn’t even out of the car, she felt a sense of belonging creeping its way under her skin.
Ione pulled the ancient Volvo around behind the house and killed the engine. It pinged and popped and knocked as it came to rest. Becca slipped on her shoes and let herself out.
Ione started pointing out nearby buildings. “Over there is the general store, across the street from that is the Beddows’ restaurant—it’s real casual-like—and around the corner we even have a little art gallery that Anna Freeman keeps expanding every year. She’s the only one with paintings in it, but people really like her stuff.”
“What
about that place?” Becca jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at the building looming in the distance behind them.
“Oh, the Barn? That’s kind of like the heart of the whole town. It’s our meeting house and church and town hall all rolled into one.” Although Becca had expected there to be a barn, she wasn’t prepared for its actual appearance or the view surrounding it. “You’ll get to see inside tonight. We’re having a big festival to mark the equinox. It’s one of only two nights a year that day and night are equal. That’s what ‘equinox’ means. It’s Latin for ‘equal night’.” Ione grabbed Becca by the hands and dragged her into the house.
Inside, Chari was setting a table for lunch. “I’ll bet you two are hungry,” she said. “It’s a long drive from Boston; you must have been up before the sun.” She put her hands gently on Becca’s shoulders and guided her into a chair facing a window looking out on the Barn. Becca stared at a mural decorating the side of the building depicting grapes and a spilled wine glass surrounded by a wreath of leafy vine.
“Do you guys grow grapes out here or something?” she asked, greedily shoveling a forkful of seasoned eggs and cheese into her mouth. Chari lightly stroked Becca’s cheek with the back of her cool hand. Becca flinched a little at the oddly familiar caress before relaxing. Although she’d just met Chari, her touch was so affectionate, so tender, that Becca almost closed her eyes and leaned into the woman’s embrace.
“We make wine here, dear. Now eat your lunch. Tonight’s a big night and you’ll need your energy.” As soon as she said it, Becca realized that she would love a nap after her meal. She hadn’t done much but ride in a car down from Boston, yet she felt exhausted. Fatigue had been gnawing at her for weeks, but this felt different—like the pleasant half-drowsiness just before falling into restful sleep at night. She blinked away her drowsiness and tore into the food in front of her. Ione had said that getting away would be good. She felt like a new woman already.
After lunch, Becca felt a surge of energy and suggested a walk through the village instead of a nap. Ione gladly led her around, continuing to point out landmarks as they passed. “There’s Rob Hardy’s shop. He fixes shoes and does leather stuff. And that’s Denny Wheatley’s house. And that’s April Morrison’s place. She’s like our doctor, I guess. Keeps everybody going during cold and flu season.” The whole town seemed to be outside and most people that Ione pointed out paused from hanging grapevine garlands over their doors to wave and smile. The village’s warmth was a welcome departure from the deep black water she felt like she’d barely been treading. Becca wanted to run from door to door, introducing herself. She stuck by her friend instead, managing her excitement. Life hasn’t changed. You haven’t changed.
“Why is everybody decorating? I thought you said the party was in the Barn tonight. ”
“It is. But sometimes things overflow. It can turn into, like . . . a street festival. We have two really big celebrations a year; there’s this one in the spring and then the other one in the fall. Everybody dresses up, comes out, and we tie one on. It’s a way to ‘foster unity’ as my mom likes to say.”
“She’s intense. Is she the mayor or something?”
Ione laughed. “Or something. She leads the town council and keeps everything going when they aren’t meeting. She’s more like a town mom.”
“This place is great.”
“We’re pretty proud of it.” She said. They walked a few feet and Ione continued the tour. “We have a one-room school over on the other side of town. Mrs. Blackmun teaches all the grades except for high school. For that we have to take a bus over to Monroeville. It’s a long ride, but it actually works out okay. The village is so small that practically everyone is related to everyone else in some way. There’s got to be some way to meet new people—bring in new blood, you know.”
As if on cue, Becca’s phone buzzed in her pocket with a text from Chris. Meeting new people wasn’t always as awesome as she expected it to be. Sometimes, it involved going to the pharmacy for an emergency pill—going to the police to file a report. She deleted the message without reading it. However the detective’s interview had gone, she couldn’t imagine that Chris had come out of it feeling good about her. She imagined she’d be receiving lots of messages from him in the future. If she was lucky, he’d be satisfied with gloating and not move on to threatening.
“That’s not why you’re at B.U., is it? For an M.R.S.?” Becca laughed, trying not to let recent history sour the pleasant vibe of her getaway. Ione’s mouth curled up in a sneer.
“No. I’m actually studying for my degree. Mrs. Morrison needs help and a day or two off a week. I’m going to be her apprentice as soon as I finish my studies. Not everybody from the country comes to the big city just to land a man, Bec. It’s the Twenty-First Century. I’m a modern woman.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” Becca grabbed her friend’s hand and held it clutched against her chest. “I’m just jealous of what you have here, I guess. I don’t see why anyone would ever leave this place. I wouldn’t for anything.”
Ione smiled broadly, displaying her large, slightly yellow teeth. The skin around her eyes wrinkled, and for a second she looked much older than twenty-two. She looked a hundred and twenty-two. And then, in a blink, she was young again. “I was hoping you were going to say that. My mom and I both think this place would suit you. And, you know, we need a librarian.”
“Do you even have a library?”
“We do. Mrs. Beckham who ran it died last year after an accident. We need someone to take over for her.”
“Wow. How do I apply for that job? I mean, I’m sorry to hear about Mrs. Beckham.”
Ione laughed. “You can apply tonight. But if you’re going to do that, we need to get you something suitable to wear for an interview.” She pulled Becca forward along the lane and around a corner. “Up here,” she crowed. “Mrs. Davies will have what we need.” They ran up to the front steps of an unassuming little house. Before Ione could knock, the door swung wide revealing a woman who appeared much too young to go by “Mrs.” anything.
“Hello, girls.” She gasped and held out her hands, palms up. Ione took them in hers and kissed the woman on both cheeks. “Ione, is this the one you’ve been telling us all about? Is this Becca?”
“It is. Bec, this is Mrs. Davies.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Becca stuck out her hand to shake and was pulled in for a light kiss and tight hug. She felt her breath slip away. Mrs. Davies relaxed her hold and Becca resurfaced, taking a deep breath. The aromas of clean laundry and fresh bread drifted out from inside the house.
“Come in. Let’s get you outfitted.”
“How did you know I needed something to wear?” Mrs. Davies took a step back, looking the girl up and down. She grinned and shook her head slightly. It didn’t feel like judgment or criticism. If anyone else had done it—if one of those bitches from the sorority had done it—she’d have felt embarrassed and defensive.
“It’s your first time; you’ll need a fresh peplos.”
“A pep-what?”
Ione nodded into the house. “You’ll see.” Mrs. Davies ushered the young women in and closed the door behind them. The smell of bread closed in around Becca like a warm blanket. I think I could just lie down right here on the carpet like a cat and fall asleep.
“Would you like a glass of wine while I fetch your dress?” Mrs. Davies grabbed a decanter off a table beside the door and began pouring the deep purple liquid into bright clear glasses that looked as fragile as eggshell.
Ione jumped at the offer. “Please!”
“Thank you, but I don’t really—”
“It’s okay, Bec. It’s just a glass of wine.” Ione laughed. “And another. And another!”
Mrs. Davies said, “If you take wine away, love will die, and every other source of human joy will follow.”
Becca laughed at the somehow familiar line—was it Shakespeare?—and nodded her head. “Okay. I’ll have some, please.” Mrs. Da
vies served the girls their drinks and retrieved her own glass from the mantle.
“Stin ygeia mas,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“To our good health,” Ione answered.
“Oh. Definitely. To our good health!” Becca sipped at her glass. The wine was rich and velvety on her tongue. It tasted like sour cherries, sweet vanilla, and earth. “It’s delicious,” she said. She smiled and took a healthy gulp. Ione laughed again and clapped her on the shoulder. “That’s the way. Opa!”
Mrs. Davies slipped away without Becca seeing where she went. She took another swallow and wondered if she drank too fast whether she’d be allowed to have another glass. She didn’t want to be rude by appearing greedy. As if reading her mind, Ione emptied her own glass and fetched the carafe from the table. “More?” Before Becca could politely pretend to refuse, her glass was full again. She drank without complaint.
Mrs. Davies reappeared with a wooden cutting block covered in cheeses, a full olive dish, and small slices of toasted bread in one hand and a long white drape of cloth with purple edging hanging over her other arm. She set the block on the table next to the decanter and touched Becca’s shoulders, lightly moving her away from the door and fully into the house.
“Well, I just can’t get over what a picture of loveliness you are,” she said.
It sounded so strange to Becca to hear someone not much older than she was talk like a friendly old grandmother. But the wine was normalizing the oddness of the encounter somewhat. She took another drink and a feeling of warmth spread from her belly up into her chest like a familiar seducing caress. She felt herself blush as she attempted a modest—if slightly ironic—curtsy. “Thank you.”
“Now, let’s get you out of those clothes and see how this looks.” Mrs. Davies held up the “dress.” It was a rectangular bolt of cloth with knotted buttons at each end of the top seam. The muscles in Becca’s shoulders tightened up and she clenched her empty fist. She forced herself to relax. Ione was there guiding more wine to her lips as Mrs. Davies began working the buttons on Becca’s blouse.
13 Views of the Suicide Woods Page 19
