Burning Down the House

by Lev Raphael

  “Byron, I’m no biblical prophet.”

  “Ah, but prophets are never recognized in their own

  land,” he intoned with satisfaction, as if checkmating me.

  I didn’t bother arguing with his misquotation, just smiled, and he headed off to his supply-closet office, having delivered his verdict. My student went on with her questions as if Typhoon Byron had never ravaged our little isle, and I welcomed her tact. As the song almost goes, How do you handle a problem like Summerscale? Perhaps silence was the best solution.

  I was equal parts exhausted and exhilarated when my

  three office hours were done, as if I’d drunk far more coffee than I really had, and it was starting to make me flicker on and off. Perhaps the true cause was all the misplaced admiration from my students. It was one thing to be thought well of for my teaching, for my assistance in helping them find their voices and craft their thoughts, but being admired for my ersatz celebrity seemed disturbing and very personal proof of how our culture was becoming ever more shallow and media-centered. Some students had even suggested I run for state office, under the misapprehension that I was some kind of Rudy Giuliani-type crime buster!

  I was packing up to go home as the phone rang. When

  Juno said hello, I felt vaguely guilty for not having thought about her during the previous few hours, but then realized it was healthy to have been focused on anything but her

  troubles, and mine.

  “Nick, I’m feeling marginally better.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Could you come by?”

  I was tired, but since her home was only five or so

  minutes away, I didn’t see any point in saying no. Still, I did wonder if this demand for attention was going to become oppressive. Then I felt ashamed of my own reaction. Juno had been crashed into by some stalker, and I was being parsimonious with my time? What the hell was wrong with me? Was I nervous about being around her so much, or was I wishing she had been more concerned with my having been beaten up? Here I’d been slamming Summerscale for his egotism, but wasn’t I just as guilty?

  I thought of a line from one of Linda Pastan’s poems

  about being tired of my own insistent griping, like a mouse running up and down a keyboard.

  “Nick! Are you still there?”

  “Sorry, I’ve been seeing students for hours, but sure, I can come over. And you said you were feeling a little better?”

  “Somewhat. I’m angry, and I’m disgusted—and sore as

  hell—but I’m better.”

  Well, that was certainly an invitation, now, wasn’t it?

  As I left Parker, I imagined what it would be like to walk out of there and not be returning, carrying, say, a last pathetic box of books and Sharon’s wildly colorful silk flowers.

  Would I cry? Dance? Throw my hat in the air like Mary Tyler Moore? I’d have to get a hat, first, and that might take forever, since there wasn’t a hat in existence that didn’t make me look depraved.

  Driving to Juno’s in the traffic that was already heavy for Michiganapolis because of all the Christmas-season shoppers, I thought about how much time I was spending with Juno, how our lives had become entangled. Would it continue, and would Stefan begin to be jealous, even though nothing had happened outside my dreams?

  Then I recalled Edith Wharton being overwhelmed by the illnesses of two of her most intimate friends, Henry James and Walter Berry. My parents were in good health, and I hadn’t lost anyone really close to AIDS, so being any kind of caregiver was still new to me, and maybe that accounted for my twinge of reluctance when Juno had called. Still, her condition was minor compared to Sharon’s and sure to

  improve more quickly, and it was premature to be worrying about having her on my hands, so to speak.

  Juno met me at her door dressed in the kind of hostess gown I had never seen anywhere except on reruns of 1950s TV shows. It was black and lacy, with a very pointed

  leopard-print collar. As I stepped in and she closed the door, she did a slightly shaky Loretta Young twirl, and I applauded her style and her nerve.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s so outré it’s postmodern. I found it in San Diego at a thrift shop and couldn’t resist. I put it on—”

  “—instead of whistling a happy tune?”

  “Yes. Besides, I wouldn’t waste my lips on whistling.

  They do other things much better.”

  I didn’t ask what those were, and Juno led me to the

  kitchen, where Turandot was sound asleep in a small wicker dog basket, though one of her ears twitched at my approach.

  “Coffee? Tea?” Juno was doing her best to act normal

  (for her, that is), but I could sense the desperation and fatigue behind her Potemkin Village sociability.

  “I’m floating in caffeine as it is. You sit down, and I’ll just get myself some water.”

  “Fine.” She settled wincingly into a chair, arranging the cantankerous folds of her outfit with slight annoyance. She was probably wishing she’d opted for a simple robe at that point. “Tell me about your day.” Juno had only missed one day of classes, but she sounded starved for reports from the teaching front. I dutifully gave her a picture of my office hours, complete with menu, music, and interruption by Summerscale, though eruption was closer to the truth.

  “No offense to dogs, but the man’s barking mad. Unless it’s all an act and he’s really the evil genius behind Glinka and all the other stinkers on campus.”

  “Glinka and the Stinkas. It has possibilities.”

  “Could he be very canny and putting it on?”

  “Sure, why not? Anything is possible. But my guess is that he’s as loony and self-obsessed and bursting with grievances as he seems.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that. You obviously won’t be

  supporting him for chair.” Juno raised her eyebrows, but the gesture seemed to almost pain her. She checked her watch.

  “Not time yet,” she muttered. For the next painkiller, I assumed.

  “Of course I wouldn’t support him for chair, or anything else.”

  “Despite his offer of a position in his—what did he call it?—his administration? Is he planning to issue postage stamps and currency with his portrait? Will there be an anthem?” She grimaced, and in the growing silence between us there loomed the question of Juno vs. Serena and which of them I would choose after the brief campaign that would run during break. I wondered if Juno, having tried to bully me, would try to sway me by milking her accident, but before either of us could say a word, Turandot burst into a wild crescendo of barking and rocketed to the front door. I followed quickly and looked through the peephole, but I couldn’t see anyone. Yet Turandot had gone berserk, whining, spinning, clawing at the door as if ready to tear it apart, scoring it with her nails.

  Juno hobbled up, trying to silence or at least comfort her dog, but Turandot’s frenzy of barking didn’t stop.

  “Should I open the door and see—”

  Juno nodded, and asked me to hand Turandot to her. It wasn’t easy. The puppy wriggled and squirmed and tried rolling over to slide out of my arms, but I held on and Juno took her. In Juno’s arms, she calmed down a fraction but now started snarling at the door as if it were a beast.

  I don’t know who or what I expected, but I gingerly

  turned the handle and pulled the door open just a crack. A suffocating stench hit me like a small sonic boom. On Juno’s doorstep lay the car-squashed brown-and-red remains of a raccoon, flattened but still juicy and reeking as heavily as if all the filth from a Dumpster that had been left unemptied for weeks were concentrated in its ruined little body.

  I slammed the door as if the corpse might spring up at me and jerked my hand from the doorknob. I was afraid to breathe.

  Warily, stepping back with the struggling dog in her

  arms, Juno asked, “What was that horrible, horrible smell?”

  “Roadkill. At the door.”

 
; “Oh, God!” Clasping her hands to her face, she dropped Turandot, who yelped and cringed at the unexpected fall. Juno painfully got to her knees to comfort the poor dog, but it ran off to the bedroom.

  “Roadkill?”

  I nodded. “A raccoon.” I felt as grossed out as if I had run over the thing myself.

  “Horrible,” Juno repeated, and that word made me think of Hamlet’s response to the ghost of his father relating how he’d been killed. “Did you see anyone? Or a car?”

  “No.” Did I look? I was too stunned. “Do we clean it up now—or wait?”

  “Wait for what—till the snow starts to fall and it

  freezes?”

  Juno shook herself as if she’d been splashed by

  something filthy. We did not let our eyes meet. This was as obvious a message as anyone could ask for. Juno hadn’t been flattened by the black SUV, but she could have been. She could still be. There was time. There was lots of time.

  “I meant, it’s evidence, so maybe we shouldn’t—” I was going to say “shouldn’t touch it,” but couldn’t get the words out because the image was so revolting.

  “Whoever’s doing this to me is sick,” Juno said, head high, back straight, looking suddenly strong and dangerous despite her outrageous dress. “And I know the cure. A couple of lead aspirin.”

  I didn’t tell her she was overreacting. I nodded.

  “Doing this to us, I should say.” Juno found a seat on the couch and wearily leaned back into the soft cushions as if settling into a bubble bath. “I’ve been so furious I’ve forgotten to ask how you are. Your bruise doesn’t look so bad.”

  I sat opposite her and thanked her warily. I remembered a scene years ago on Bosom Buddies where a very unflappable woman in a surprising emotional exchange said something like, “I’ve heard about these moments. How long do they last?” But I needn’t have been cynical, because Juno’s attention didn’t drift off; she was waiting for me to answer the question.

  “Well, physically, I’m okay. Some twinges.” I shrugged.

  “Are you embarrassed to talk about it? Gay man getting beaten up? Has it happened to you before—back in school?”

  It was a very perceptive question, but not quite on target.

  “Not to me, no. In junior high, there was a guy named George that everyone called ‘fagfoe’—don’t ask me why—and they used to shove him around in the halls, put squashed Ring Dings in his bookbag—nothing like what happens now with hazing and shoot-outs, but it was pretty bad for back then. He got roughed up in the locker room after gym class once. I was paralyzed. I just stared at it, as if it were happening a million miles away. I could have done something—they would have listened to me because I was the class comedian. But I didn’t. I was too ashamed for him—he was such a wuss.

  Skinny, runty, toothpick arms and legs. I don’t even think he was gay, they just picked on him because he was so weak.”

  “I hate bullies,” Juno said. “Maybe that’s why I’m so loud—it’s to sound the alarm.”

  Juno had spoken intimately about herself before, yet this seemed more personal than anything she’d revealed so far.

  “But nobody else seems to care around here. There’s a culture of cowardice.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. Cover up, avoid conflict, protect your turf, take no risks. You could describe SUM in Shakespearean terms as “ruthless, dreadful, deaf and dull.”

  “We have to call the police,” I repeated.

  “Again? ”

  “Of course. It’s got to be reported. There has to be a record.” I didn’t add, “In case it gets worse.” I rose. “The Michiganapolis police and campus police. You can handle that, can’t you?”

  She agreed. “Going home?”

  “No, I’m going back to the gun shop to talk to Mrs.

  Fennebresque. Maybe I was wrong to think about getting a .22. I may want something bigger. It’s time.”

  “Don’t get mad, don’t get even—get a gun, eh?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You won’t mind if I stay seated, will you? I need the rest.”

  “No problem.” But as I reached the front door, I

  hesitated, picturing the disgusting mess outside.

  “Just breathe through your mouth,” Juno called, “and

  keep clear.” Good advice, but as I awkwardly stepped around the roadkill, trying both to avoid looking at it lest I throw up and needing to at least keep it in my peripheral vision, I wondered if I should have taken another route out of the house, to avoid any chance of tampering with the “evidence.”

  As I started my car, still shuddering, I looked up and down the street to make sure there were no obvious threats.

  Then I pictured the raccoon being dusted for fingerprints by Detective Valley, and I started to laugh. I hoped Juno wasn’t studying me from a window, because I must have seemed totally unhinged.

  But laughter wasn’t enough, and I decided to drop by the gym for a quick workout, since it probably wouldn’t be too crowded. In fact, the parking lot was more than half empty, with far less than its usual amount of SUVs, though the dozen or so black ones seemed more visible to me. I briefly considered inspecting all of them for damage, but it would have been too obvious with people leaving and entering The Club. Someone might mistake me for a car thief or another kind of miscreant.

  I grabbed my gym bag and hurried inside. The echoing

  hallways and locker room were almost empty right now, and even though it was nice to have the place virtually to myself, it was all slightly creepy despite the neon lighting, or maybe because of it. The semicircle of blue-gray armchairs facing a widescreen TV tuned to CNN was unoccupied by the usual retirees, and there was no one behind the counter where the towels were stacked. Good place for a murder, I thought, glancing around the locker room, which was also free of the clang of doors closing and men kibbitzing about their workouts or local real estate deals.

  I wished then that I had Stefan’s creative talent. I loved mysteries, had read them for years, and now had been

  studying them intensely, but knew that despite the ideas that came to me intermittently, I didn’t have the vision to write a book. Could we write one together? We edited each other’s work, but editing wasn’t very creative, was it? I could imagine Stefan’s jibe, “Sure, what kind of sleuth would we have? An alcoholic divorced ex-cop wisecracking

  bibliographer?” I would counter that we should bring Sharon into the mix and do a sort of high-fashion Charlie’s Angels thriller. They both would laugh.

  I started to change quickly but slowed down from habit when I saw a redheaded young man walk from the showers to one of the mirrors nearby, pick up the clunky black blowdryer, and start working on his hair. But he was posing for himself as much as anything else—shifting his position, putting weight first on one leg, then the other. Oblivious to anything more than his reflection, he was certainly worth looking at: totally hairless (with shaved pubes), his flawless skin creamy, his body not ripped but taut, with the rounded muscles of a gymnast who’s had some time off, and large surprisingly dark nipples.

  As he finished drying his short curly hair, he padded off, looking just like the Who album: meaty, beaty, big, and bouncy. I shook my head to clear the vision of his macho stride and then smiled, thinking of the fun I’d have describing him to Sharon, who still liked hearing about cute men at the gym. If that was so, I didn’t mind, and feeling invigorated by imagining my next chat with Sharon, I headed upstairs to one of the cardio rooms jammed with rowing machines, stair climbers and the like, which was empty. I ran on a treadmill for fifteen minutes and worked up a good sweat, my mind filled equally with visions of the redheaded guy and Juno. I wondered what she would look like nude, blowdrying her Tina Turner hair. Would she need one in each hand; would she do it upside down wearing grav boots? Now that was kinky.

  I moved downstairs to one of the smaller mirrored

  weight rooms to do chest work and shoulder work, which I knew
would leave me well pumped. Swimming would have

  done the same thing, but I needed to feel the resistance of something heavy, something holding me back that I could conquer. Swimming was too contemplative for my mood that afternoon, though the pool would have been more pleasant; the weight room I picked seemed a bit ghostly with its idle weight machines and ranks of dumbbells. But I started putting together a quick workout anyway. I sat on the pec deck and pyramided up a plate with each set, enjoying the sight in the mirror opposite of my insertions as I did each rep slowly.

  I had moved on to some seated shoulder presses with

  forty-pound dumbbells when I heard a voice so close to me I almost dropped one of the weights.

  “You think it’ll make a difference?” Rusty Dominguez-St.

  John loomed up behind my bench, wearing black shorts and a tank top that made his tan seem even deeper. Without street clothes, he had a runner’s body, but he was as hairy as an Airedale and smelled a little rank.

  I’d been squinting because I was concentrating so hard on my form and hadn’t noticed anyone come in. Now I set the weights down carefully and met his eyes in the mirror.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Working out, trying to get tough. You think it’ll change anything?”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “You can work out forever, lift all you want, but you still won’t be a real man.”

  “And you are? You’re a real man? What the hell are you doing sneaking up on me anyway? Have you been following me?”

  “In your dreams, bud.” He leaned forward, sneering. “I bet that’s how you like it, isn’t it—someone up behind you?

  Grabbing you—doing it rough?”

  I should have had a snappy comeback, but I was too

  astonished by his erotic malevolence. What had I ever done to bother him? And why hadn’t I gone into red alert as soon as I’d seen him and diverted all power to my shields?

  Rusty strode around the bench, reached down, and

  snagged my set of forties even though there was another set on the rack. He stood close to the mirror, locked his shoulders, bent his knees a little, stuck his butt out in the perfect athletic posture Stefan had showed me, and started to do by-the-book curls. The veins popped on his long thick biceps.