He hoped too that no one in this lively company would toss out a barbed query asking how he, a man of presumed integrity, could make his living defending a billion-dollar drug manufacturer against charges brought it by unhappy men and women—for he had no ready answer.
Then Marvin Bruns was speaking, raising his voice to be heard over the rest. There was a seriousness in his tone that Michael could not recall having ever heard before. “An obsessive-compulsive is a desperately unhappy person,” he said. “I speak from personal experience, since my father was one. No, I won’t go into details, it’s still too painful, and embarrassing, and, in the end, it killed him. The French have an excellent term for it—la main étrangère. It refers to my father’s particular sort of behavior problem, in which a person repeatedly does things without ‘knowing’ that he is doing them, while at the same time ‘knowing’ very well that he is. A kleptomaniac is in the grip of la main étrangère, for instance, but that wasn’t my father’s problem—his was worse! And if there had been medication to help him, he would have taken it, gladly—as I would, in his place, knowing what I do.” Bruns glanced down the table in Michael’s direction, as if, so unexpectedly, aligning himself with him. “Pearce, Inc., is doing a great job, that’s what I think. Sure, things go wrong occasionally, there is always a chance of side-effects with any medicine or medical treatment, but you can’t have progress otherwise.”
Michael O’Meara took a great gulp of his wine, in confusion. With a pang of guilt he wondered if, these many months, he had misjudged Marvin Bruns?
And Gina: had he been misreading her too?
On the way home from the party she rested her head against his shoulder, as she had not done for years, chattering happily of the evening, how wonderful their Mount Orion friends were, how fortunate they were to have such friends; how handsome Michael had looked in his new spring suit, with the Pierre Cardin necktie she’d bought him—“And how brilliantly you talked: I was fascinated.”
And, as they were undressing for bed, Gina surprised him yet more by rubbing Noxema into his reddened forehead, cheeks, nose, as tenderly as she’d ever done; on her tiptoes she stood to kiss his mouth, and to gaze languidly into his eyes, her own dilated by wine, both sleepy and erotically inviting. “My God, Gina!” Michael said. Greatly excited, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to their bed.
Where, after making love, Gina cradled herself against him and murmured drowsily in his ear, “Darling, promise me just one thing?” and Michael prepared himself for a belated reference to Lee Roy Sears, but, no, yet another time Gina surprised him, her head gently nudging his, “You will call in a professional to clear the pond, and not try to do it yourself?”
III
1
It was the first morning of his new life.
Don’t forget medication on this special day!—no he sure wouldn’t.
He was a man with a mission burning inside him fierce as a laser beam, you would not want to impede, frustrate, deny, or challenge him.
Yes but he smiled. Sweetly.
Ducked his head, shifted his skinny shoulders inside his new cheap white Dacron shirt. Black garbardine trousers too, but no belt. He’d buy a belt tomorrow. A mud-green necktie the chaplain had given him. And his own brown shoes with the cracks and water stains from maybe fifteen years ago.
You know what you look like, Lee Roy, ha ha!—one of them whatdayacallit Moron guys goin door to door sellin fuckin Bibles haha!
Yes but you would not want to stand in his way.
Yes he did, and yes he will. Two tablets daily, at meals: big white chunky tablet of Chlonopramane. A crap-floury coating and inside a bitter taste, it burns going down. A danger in gagging.
He has the papers, to prove it. Release papers, I.D. papers, letters from the probation office, from Mr. Sigman (in Putnam, New Jersey), from Mr. Somerset (of the Dumont Center for the Arts and Community Services, Mount Orion, New Jersey), from Mr. O’Meara (of 17 Glenway Circle, Mount Orion, New Jersey).
Nobody asks. People don’t ask. Inside the smile the tongue pokes pink and moist, snaky-quick. And the eyes.
Lee Roy Sears made the men laugh, his quiet-quivering voice—I stand outside the Caucasian race.
Don’t you laugh at me you fuckers I’ll tear out your throats with my teeth. But no he did not utter a word, this was Lee Roy Sears’s principle of behavior.
He was a man with a mission. The parole board took heed.
And afterward he wept. On his knees Oh Jesus the man wept like he was five years old again and his foster father name now forgotten ceased walloping him with that chunk of firewood crumbling in his hands and asked, Was he sorry? was he sorry? was he sorry he’d been born?
No. Because he was a man with a mission bringing light where no light shone.
He was not ashamed of his strength, it was weakness of which he was ashamed. But tears are strength, sometimes.
Eight A.M. Monday. In the jolting prison van marked CONN. CORRECTIONAL FACILITIES. Ninety dollars in his wallet. Carrying his old suitcase, a duffel bag one of the guys had given him, a cardboard box tied together with twine. They’d drop him off at the bus station, that was their policy.
In the cardboard box: carefully rolled-up canvases and posters (acrylics), carefully wrapped-in-newspaper clay sculptures, bundles of sketches of works of art yet to be executed.
The sky was very big—he hadn’t remembered it, so big.
He wasn’t going to look.
You could get lost in that bigness. Out-of-doors. Your head drops back and mouth drops open—Oh Jesus! So big!
Except: two tablets daily Chlonopramane and he had ’script for three refills. Remember, Lee Roy, to take the tablets only at meals for otherwise they will dissolve in the stomach’s acids and pass through the stomach’s lining too quickly, will you remember?—yes he will.
The V.A. pays. At least, the fuckers pay.
His bad knee they won’t pay for claiming it was not a legitimate war wound.
They eyed him coming in. A swarm of eyes like killer bees.
Oh Jesus lookit that one: ex-con written all over him, haha!
Crouching sort of walk and hair shaved up the back and sides of the head and skin rough and pale as puke, and those clothes, haha!—and his eyes snatching around like a dog’s like a dog waiting to be kicked, you can always tell them.
The woman at the ticket counter was nice, though. She was very nice.
A ticket for Hartford, and in Hartford he’d buy a ticket for New York City that would take him to the Port Authority and there he would buy a ticket for Putnam, New Jersey. He fumbled with the bills and the change, but the woman was patient. She knew.
A dog that’s waiting to be kicked, it’s waiting to be kicked so it can bite. That’s what teeth are for.
He was not nervous, the Chlonopramane coursed peacefully through his veins. Still, he shut his eyes against the big white sky.
He shut his eyes leaning his head, his greasy hair, Indian-black greasy hair against the bus window. Sitting alone. At the rear. Where none of them could get behind him.
Yes but he smiled so sweetly. The young woman wearing glasses, from the probation office, stared at him liking him. And the young woman who was Mr. Somerset’s assistant though you could see she was scared, never been in a prison before, there in the visiting room just staring and swallowing and Lee Roy Sears was a gentleman intent upon reassuring her.
Once, how many years ago, before the U.S. Army, in that clinic in Springfield, Mass., he’d broken into the doctor’s office looked swiftly through the files saw SEARS, LEE ROY and pulled out the folder to read paranoid-schizoid dysfunctional/requires medication/responds well to therapy.
Through Ashford, Conn., through Manchester, through Hartford (where he changed buses cringing and near to puking, so many people), through Waterbury, through Bridgeport, along I-95 into Manhattan into the Port Authority (where he did puke, on his own shoes—people staring/smiling/laughing/holding their noses), chang
ing buses and a grizzled-gray young-old man bumped into him and his suitcase was knocked to the filthy pavement and the young-old man bared his teeth in a grin and said, Ooops!—’scusa me!—and as Lee Roy Sears stared the young-old man walked off with his suitcase walking fast like a man in a movie and Lee Roy Sears was rooted to the spot unable even to call out for help!
The Port Authority cops eyed him with derisive grins. You can always tell them, lookit the poor fucker’s clothes. His dropped-open mouth.
He isn’t a Caucasian, lookit his hair lookit his beak-nose lookit his eyes.
Stinking of puke, wiping it off with wet paper towels won’t help much. There’s a stink of death row that never goes away.
From Manhattan to Putnam, New Jersey. Lookit his hands shaking!
It’s a black man selling tickets here, and he isn’t friendly.
Tear out your throat with my teeth. Fangs.
Safe on the bus, at the very back, Lee Roy Sears unbuttoned his shirt cuff, pushed up his sleeve—yes, Snake Eyes was sleeping.
One eye open, maybe. That gold-glaring eye.
Snake Eyes twitching in his sleep. Itchy sensation on Lee Roy Sears’s forearm.
He was innocent, riding eyes shut to Putnam, New Jersey. To his new life.
They tried to deny his identity saying he was not of Seneca Indian blood, no family on the reservation would acknowledge him trying to stamp him out scrape him against the pavement like a cockroach.
It wasn’t a tattoo. Well it was, but it was more than a tattoo.
Not just the big sky and not just the people watching him like the bus driver like the guy in the opposite corner of the back seat not just the jolting bus smelling of exhaust not just the unexpected noises and smells different from the ones to which he’d become accustomed for thirteen years but—he was free.
He was free and that scared him ’cause, shit, you hear of guys, they go off their heads go to Florida, go to Alaska instead of reporting to their parole officer, right away they’re picked up and taken back to prison. Some guys, they do worse.
He was free and the fuckers better know it, he had some scores to settle, Snake Eyes had some scores to settle, but maybe not, Oh Jesus no, Lee Roy Sears was a man with a mission he was.
He was an artist, the flame burned within.
He still had his duffel bag and he had his box of artworks as they were called. His reputation was based upon these artworks. Already men and women spoke of them in words of awe.
He was free but He was smart and He had plans and He would make no mistakes this time and Best not to stand in his way but There was no danger with medication twice daily and No danger long as Snake Eyes slept.
The bus was stopped on the side of the road, Route One. A cop was going along the aisle checking guys, another cop at the front and they singled out only certain persons, you could see prejudice operating clearly, of the many passengers on the bus only five or six were singled out, all of them men in their thirties or forties traveling alone, the cop stared at Lee Roy Sears sniffing like he smelled something bad. Okay, buddy, let’s see your I.D.
Yes officer.
He’s shaky-handed and scared but smiling. That practiced smile where you stretch your lips over your teeth so as not to expose the greeny-straggly teeth to smirking eyes.
His long-sleeved shirt is buttoned to the cuffs.
A white shirt, and black trousers newly laundered, and the mud-green necktie around his neck. A necktie never fails to make a positive impression in America.
Proud to show the fucker: he is Lee Roy Sears who has a place to go to where they are expecting him and where he will be gainfully employed. And where they will respect him as a human being. As an artist.
These documents: release papers from Hunsford, I.D. (including U.S. Army discharge, Veterans Administration card), letters from Mr. Harold Sigman parole officer in Putnam, New Jersey, and Mr. Clyde Somerset of the Dumont Center for the Arts and Community Services, Mount Orion, New Jersey, and Lee Roy Sears’s friend Michael O’Meara of 17 Glenway Circle, Mount Orion, New Jersey.
Frowning, the cop examined Lee Roy Sears’s documents. Paused over the release from Hunsford State Prison. Looked at Lee Roy Sears like Lee Roy Sears was shit. Said, Hey Lee Roy, this is your first day out?
Lee Roy Sears was sitting quietly in his seat his bony-knuckled hands clasped on his knees, his eyes a little hooded, watchful, his lips smiling thin over his chunky teeth.
His voice was higher-pitched than he’d meant, like a girl’s, or a scared kid’s. He said, Yes officer. It sure is.
2
Michael O’Meara advanced upon Lee Roy Sears with a smile, hand extended for a brisk friendly handshake. “Hello! How are you! Good to meet you, Lee Roy, at last!” Descending the steps into the basement of the Dumont Center, preparing to meet Sears, Michael had shifted to his gregarious social manner, sunny smile, shining eyes, warm voice, long since cultivated at Pearce, Inc., to put junior associates at their ease and to mask Michael’s own nervousness. Poor Lee Roy Sears, more diminutive than Michael recalled, blinked at him as if a dazzling light were shining into his face, and, awkwardly, for he was holding what appeared to be a mound of clay (it was clay, he’d been modeling a small humanoid figure), managed to extend a shy, tentative hand to Michael. His fingers were dry from the clay but noticeably cold, and seemingly without strength. Like a fearful child the parolee mumbled, “H-H’lo, Mr. O’Meara.” He smiled with thin-stretched lips and the glisten of his very dark, hooded eyes had something feral about it.
It was 5:20 P.M. of Wednesday, April 17. No one could have guessed, from Michael O’Meara’s genial manner, how excited, how anxious, how intensely hopeful he was, meeting Lee Roy Sears in his studio at the Dumont Center.
By this time, Lee Roy had been free only two and a half days. He’d checked in at the halfway house in Putnam in which he was obliged to live for six months, and he’d had his first meeting with his parole officer, and he’d begun work (the night shift: 11 P.M. to 5 A.M.) at the Putnam Municipal Parking Garage; he’d checked in at the Dumont Center, where he was to be “artist-in-residence” and “adjunct instructor” under the joint auspices of the Dumont Foundation, the New Jersey Council of the Arts, and the Veterans Administration. And now Michael O’Meara, his friend and benefactor, had come to take him home with him, to meet his family and to have dinner.
The men stared at each other, and Michael O’Meara continued to smile, his cheek dimpling with the effort. He said, gently, “Please call me ‘Michael,’ Lee Roy, will you?”
In a hoarse murmur Lee Roy Sears said, “—‘Michael.’” The word sounded unconvincing.
Clyde Somerset’s assistant, Jody, who had escorted Michael partway down the stairs, now said goodbye and started briskly back up, and Michael found himself alone with Lee Roy Sears and tried to think what to say. He’d dreamt of the man the night before, he was sure—very likely, he’d dreamt of him a good deal—and Sears had been much on his mind since the news of his parole—but, so very oddly, Sears, in person, seemed not quite the man Michael had expected.
To cover his confusion, Michael continued as before, warm, welcoming, genial, his voice just a little loud, “And how are you, Lee Roy?—you’re looking fine.”
Lee Roy Sears crumbled bits of clay off his fingers and stared at Michael O’Meara as if the question were preposterous. In Hunsford State Prison, did guards inquire of inmates how they were?—did inmates so inquire of one another?
Sears mumbled, in the same low, hoarse, hurried voice, “I’m—real well, Mr. O’Meara.” He paused. A tic began in his left eyelid. He gave off a dank commingled odor of hair lotion, clay, turpentine. He smiled again fleetingly. Added, “—I’m great.” Paused. With a sudden high-pitched giggle added, “—‘Michael.’”
Again there was silence. Elsewhere in the Center people were talking, a telephone rang. There was traffic outside, at a short distance. (The Dumont Center, one of Mount Orion’s newer, eye catching buildings, had been co
nstructed just north of the two-acre village green.) The thought came to Michael, not that he’d made a mistake helping Lee Roy Sears get paroled, but that he’d made a mistake in insisting to Gina that he bring the man home for dinner.
Michael had cautioned Clyde Somerset, and others at the Center, that they should keep in mind that Lee Roy Sears had been incarcerated for thirteen years, five of them on death row. His transition to the outside world could not be easy. They should keep in mind—and Michael would have to remind himself, too, frequently—that Sears was hardly a typical staff member at the Center, nor even a typical patron.
The Dumont Center had been designed by a well-known Japanese-American architect. Its style was postmodernist, with amber-tinted glass, sweeping planes of concrete and aluminum, and warm pink granite; from a short distance, it looked like a three-tiered wedding cake. The rooms of its upper floors were high-ceilinged and flooded with light, and, until now, Michael O’Meara had never been in the basement, where the space was very different—functional, unglamorous, with humming fluorescent light and an odd smell of earthen damp and disinfectant. Yet, Lee Roy Sears was delighted with his studio, which he showed to Michael with childlike pride and enthusiasm. At Hunsford, he’d had only rudimentary art supplies; here, he already had a small treasure of sketching pads, charcoal and pastel crayons, acrylic paints, a half-dozen brushes, sculpting clay, unframed canvases, an easel, a workbench—“It’s, like, I’m dreaming this, I’m in the jungle burning up with fever dreaming this!”
There was a simplicity and directness in Sears that touched Michael’s heart. Indeed, he reminded Michael of his sons, chattering excitedly of their birthday presents the other day, showing them to Daddy.
Snake Eyes Page 8
