Yes, I thought, like what you did to Denise that summer; that was a big help. What you did to that girl. What you did, you did for me. Helped me to become the man I am today.
“I always will.”
“I know,” I said, but it was all a lie. I pushed the papers across to him. “Here, take these. At least think it over some more. I’ll talk to Rachel. We’ll get it all settled. For Albert’s sake.”
Many unpleasant things can happen in our childhood, and mine and Monty’s was no exception. I do not blame him for the tragedies of my life, and he has in fact saved me from many of these tragedies. I hold no ill will toward my brother. I could never hurt Monty. I love my brother.
SEVENTEEN
That Friday, I make a trip to the institution, but not to see Violet. I go to retrieve Albert.
I had spoken with the doctor at the Hendrix Institute. Laid the groundwork. Albert’s behaviors were under control through medication. Thus he was presumably no longer a danger to himself or to anyone else. I plead my case, spoke of the void in my family, Rachel’s deteriorating psychiatric condition that now precluded her leaving the house, our need for this. I ended by saying a home visit could afford Albert some sense of connection. I said it could give him a degree of normalization and the doctor’s eyes brightened. He consented.
I had Albert in the car with me. He slept his drug-induced sleep in the backseat. I had his medications in my front pocket and strict instructions from the charge nurse on the administration schedule. “You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen if he missed his pills,” the nurse had said. Indeed not. Whatever happened, it was going to be dramatic, of that much I was certain. Of late, I had found myself setting up experiences and confrontations to wring the dramatic value from them. I had developed an affinity for it. What with the changes in my life-I’m told drama is about change-I had decided to make each scene count. My fights with Rachel-I suppose that I orchestrated some of them to make her reactions even more histrionic than they normally would have been. Where a single word or gesture might end a fight, I would choose the opposite word or gesture to extend it. To extend the drama. I even relished Monty’s concern for my well-being. Where a brief hug or a solemn vow might have put his worries to rest, I chose instead to extend the conflict, heighten the tension.
Rather than walking blindly through my life, I found myself wanting to arrange it in scenes. To make each scene as dramatic as possible. I was becoming a playwright, writing an autobiographical play. And not only was I writing it, I was the star.
With Albert asleep in the backseat, I pull onto our private drive. As I accelerate toward the house, I pass Monty’s car. He does not wave or acknowledge me. His sunglasses catch the late-afternoon sun, reflecting the light back at me so that his eyes look like black holes in reverse-pouring out white light rather than sucking it in.
At home, I find Rachel in the kitchen fixing a drink. I kiss her lightly on the cheek, playing my role as I have written it for myself, and myself alone. I see no need for exposition and cut to the chase.
“I’m going away this weekend. Business.”
She puts down her drink, turns to stare at me. “What?”
“I have to bail out one of our clients.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m afraid I have to. What was Monty doing here?”
“You should know. It was your idea. Here.” She handed me the unsigned custody papers. “He wants you to keep these. He says he won’t sign.”
“Well, we’ll just have to find someone who wants to be Albert’s godfather.”
“No, he loves the idea of being Albert’s godfather; it’s your state of mind he’s worried about.”
“My state of mind?”
“He agrees with me that you’ve been acting strangely.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Yes, well, abnormal is normal for me, not you. Monty thinks you may be having suicidal thoughts. So do I.”
“Only one of us has a history of suicide attempts.”
“Yes, dear, that would be me, and, yes, I have the scars to prove it. However, during some of my more lucid moments, I’ve noticed a change in you.”
It is true, I am changing, of course, but I also find it touching that she has chosen to remain lucid for this amateur intervention to save me. I prefer her drugged, with her demons at bay. Nonetheless, I am moved.
“Monty agrees with me. Agrees with crazy old me. He thinks your all of a sudden wanting him to be Albert’s godfather is a way of tidying things up before… Sometimes people considering suicide put all of their affairs in order before they kill themselves. And, speaking as the only one here who has attempted it, I can tell you that I actually spent three hours finishing a school report before I did this,” and she held out her loathsome wrists. “The mind is a funny thing.”
“You know, Rachel, the problem with suicide is that everybody talks about it, but no one actually commits it.”
“All I’m trying to say is that you’re scaring me. You say you have to go away for business, but how do I know that they’re not going to find you dead in some hotel room?”
“Because I’m not suicidal. I swear it. Let’s make each other a promise. If either of us feels suicidal, we’ll tell the other and do it together. No more secrets.”
“That’s not funny,” she says, and the tears begin. She talks through her tears, but I have no trouble understanding her. In fact, it is at times like these that I understand her best. “If you want to fight, great, let’s fight. It’s the only time you show any emotion anymore. Any passion.”
“I don’t want to fight,” I say, and take her into my arms to comfort her, an action that needed no rehearsal, I’ve done it so many times before. “It’s all right. I’m all right and you’re all right. Don’t cry. I brought you something. A surprise. He’s in the car. Wait here.”
I wake Albert. He is sluggish from the medication. I navigate this lumbering giant through the garage and into the kitchen. I hear the bottle of his pills rattling in my pocket. As soon as she sees him, the mad fever leaves Rachel’s eyes. “Albert! Oh, sweetie!”
She stubs out her cigarette and rushes to him. She reaches her arms across his massive shoulders. She looks to me and gives me a grateful smile.
Albert grunts and hugs his mother. He speaks in his flat voice. “Albert did bad wrong.”
Rachel hugs him even tighter. “No you didn’t, sweetie. Mommy loves you. Mommy loves you so much.”
I go upstairs to pack my bags.
EIGHTEEN
The mountains are corrupt with fall colors. The trees bleed with beauty. In their colorful prelude to death, the maples turn a violent red. The youngest ones are only now beginning to change into their scarlet death masks. These trees are spotted and mottled with crimson lesions like illustrations in a medical manual. I have little patience for the dainty pastels of the hickory, birch, sycamore, and white oak. My attention is consumed with the maple’s garish horror movie colors.
The ride up is mostly silent. I am in a foul mood. Violet makes several attempts at generating conversation. Most of these attempts concern television talk shows and situation comedies and begin with the words, “Did you see…” I simply shake my head and stare at the road. In the foothills, we pass a run-down clapboard church. A road sign in front of the
church instructs all who pass by to PREPARE TO MEET GOD.
By the time we get to the cabin, my mood has lifted. It is as I remembered it from childhood when our family vacationed here, an elegant affair nestled high in the mountains overlooking a small lake. Our first order of business is sex. This is appropriate since it was here that my brother first initiated me into the world of women and what they were to be used for. Afterward, I walk out onto the deck that overlooks Lake Armistead. I stand on the deck, naked and bathed in sunlight. It feels good, I think, the light. I feel at home in the light. I shift my body so that my genitals are thrust forward and fully exposed to the sun, relishing the burn there.