Chapter Four:
It was Gina Wilson at the door. She knows, I thought, she knows Donna is dead. But how? How could she know? It couldn’t have been in the morning paper. Donna was found dead too late for that. Maybe Gina had watched the early morning news on tv. The death certainly must have been mentioned. When I opened the door and let her in, I wondered if she was going to tell Alex and I the source of her knowledge or if she would guard it and keep it to herself.
Gina was wearing the same parka she had on the day before. The hood was up, hiding her face and whatever else she was trying to hide. I offered her coffee. She declined. She dropped down onto the chair without bothering to take her coat off. For a time, it seemed as if she was just going to sit there for the rest of the day saying nothing to no one.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. The suffocating silence went beyond even the most durable forms of toleration. I left the room first. Twenty minutes later, Alex did the same. When Gina finally did say something forty plus minutes later, it was a single barely heard sentence.
“I have things for you to look at in the car.”
The sentence brought Alex and I back into the living room in a rush of creaking floorboards. We asked Gina to repeat her sentence with a little more volume just to be sure what we‘d heard was correct.
“Do you want to go,” Alex said to me, “or do you want me to go?”
“I‘ll go.”
I was glad for the chance to get out of the house, even it was only for a few minutes. Death had gotten into the house and had completely taken over. Death was always doing this to me. Crashing in and out of nowhere, a dominating unwanted house guest. Unwanted and uninvited.
Death didn’t care about manners or invitations. Death could do whatever she damn well pleased. So she did. Here she was again, in my house and following me around like an obsessed lover who refuses to give you a minute’s peace. Death, among other things, had ruined my ability to have pets. And if I could forgive her for everything else, I could never forgive her for that.
As much as I would’ve liked to avoid death for the rest of the day, I couldn’t stay outside forever. So, after fifteen minutes of slow and no movement, I returned to the house with two boxes in tow. These boxes, damn them, were hard to carry. They were too wide cornered to be carried one under each arm. This forced me to put my hands underneath the boxes and carry them in one on top of the other.
When I groaned my way back inside, I looked over at Gina and dropped both boxes right on my feet. She was standing up now and facing me. The parka was off and her face, figure, and hair were out in the open light to see clearly for the first time. Her skin was taupe beige. Her hair, of course, wasn’t red. No one’s hair is actually red. Just as white people aren’t actually white. No, Gina’s hair was auburn. Was this it’s natural color? Who knows?
Now that I got a true, full look at her, I could see she was more than just big. She was well-muscled too. The kind of well-muscled you see in those strongest women competitions. However inappropriate sexual feelings were at this particular place and time, I can’t say. I will say, though, something more than my resolve stiffened while I stood there watching her.
“I should’ve brought them in myself,” she said as a matter of fact “But I’m not thinking too clearly today because------ because------- Donna is dead.”
“Yes, we know,” Alex replied as she stepped in from the kitchen with another cup of coffee.
“How could you know? Did you see the early morning news?”
“No, we heard it from a couple of pointy headed house guests.”
Gina didn’t have a clue who in the seven hills Alex was talking about. So, I performed an easy to understand translation.
“There were two city cops here. Detectives. They’re the ones who told us.”
“Detectives? Why were they here? Do they think Donna was murdered?”
Her tone, to me, carried just a pinch too much of the unbelievable.
“They don’t think it was a homicide.”
“Then why were they here?”
“Neal has a past with----. We have a past with her. We also have a past with the two cops.”
“What does that have to do with now?”
“Nothing really. One of the cops is a real hard case. He carries grudges like a mangy dog carries fleas. And he has a grudge against-----.”
“Anyone with a triple digit I.Q. and two cents worth of human decency,” I said.
“I think I’ll have that coffee now, “ Gina said.
Alex made it plain that I was the one who play the servant.
“Neal, be a good boy and get the coffee, will you? It is your house, after all.”
Gina stood up and moved to the couch. Alex was on the couch too, but left a little middle ground between them. Me, I went for the coffee, of course. While pouring two cups in the kitchen, I pursued a couple of mild pieces of curiosity concerning Gina.
“You have a car today?”
“What?”
“The car in the driveway. Is it a rental?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have it yesterday?”
“No.”
“You took a cab to our meeting.”
“Yes.”
“Did you come right from the airport to our meeting?”
The coffee pot sat on the counter a half a foot from the doorway. I could see Alex staring at me with those small impassive eyes of hers. She didn’t what I was doing and wanted me to cease and desist with my off-handed interrogation. I shrugged my shoulders, stuck out my tongue at Alex, and changed the subject.
“What are in the boxes?” I asked.
“What?”
Was she hard of hearing, or did I always start out mumbling? Or was it both? I repeated the question, this time with a notable increase in volume.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said. “Everything in the boxes belonged to Donna. I haven’t had time to go through them and see what’s exactly in there.”
I brought Gina her coffee, then went to the boxes and stood over them. My back was facing both Alex and Gina. I bent down, gave the boxes a superficial pass then cut them with a sharp kitchen knife. Behind me, Alex and Gina began conversing.
“I should’ve done more for her,” Gina said. “She was my sister. But we never got along, not as small children, not as adults.”
“I had no brothers or sisters,” Alex replied. “At least, none that I knew of. Didn’t have parents either. I was abandoned and left in an orphanage.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? You had nothing to do with it. You weren’t my mother.”
“I just meant it’s an awful thing to happen to anyone.”
“Forget it, I knew what you meant. But the worst things in life are beyond words. And the best thing to say, in these situations, is to say nothing at all.”
I’d just finished cracking open the boxes for a look inside. The contents were a strange mix bag. I wondered to myself if these contents were a puzzle of some kind. There were tattered pictures, a few badly cut newspaper clippings , a crow’s feather, personal diaries, comb, a locket, a video disc, and a ribbed and tied locket of hair. Of all of the things contained in those boxes, two of them received first priority. The diaries and the video disc.
I needed to examine them privately on my own and without any interruption. So, I went upstairs and left Alex and Gina talking on the couch. There were four diaries in all. The first pair were from Donna’s youth.(Primarily her early teenage years). The second pair were from her years as an adult. (There was no primary period of focus here).
With a well-worn comforter around my shoulders for warmth, I sat on the bed and read from those diaries. These diaries were Donna’s world.. And once I found myself totally inside this world, I had a lot of trouble finding my way back out again.
There were no doors or windows in this world. There were no locks and keys. The air was thin, musty, stagnant. No amount of clothes could’ve prevented the chill I felt as I read those diaries. The chill was internal and couldn’t be easily explained. Despite repeated efforts, it just couldn’t be explained away. I’m going to show you some of what was written in those diaries.
There will be seven passages in all: Three from her youth diaries and four from her adult diaries.
Youth Diaries Passage #1: Father has taken another bitch to his bed. I hate him. I wish he would either go away or die. I hate mother too. Father treats her cruelly, yet she just stands there and takes it. He abuses her mentally and emotionally. He takes everything and gives nothing. He wears two faces, one in public, one in private. The public face is kind, generous, and compassionate. It is also as phony a smiling politician. He has everyone fooled. They think he is a great man. If only they could see him as we, his loved ones, see him. If only they could play peeping tom for a day or two and look through the stained windows of our loveless home. Then they could see him as he really is and not what he pretends to me. Why is mother martyring for him? Why? Does she expect a reward or medal for staying married? I don’t know why, but I am convinced that I am already doomed. It is just a feeling I have.
Youth Diaries Passage #2: They took mother away today. Father tells everyone who will listen that she is just going away for a rest. Among other things, he is a very convincing liar. Everyone outside believes him; everyone inside knows where mother is really going. A mental hospital. She is gone from this house of seven hells and she is not coming back.
If I do not shed any tears for her, who will? But can I? Can I? I honestly do not know. If there was any hope of turning fate over on it’s head, it is over now. Father says locking mother up had to be done. He says there was no one to care for mother and she was not capable of taking care of herself anymore, poor woman.
“What about you?,” I ask him. “Why can’t you take care of her? She is your wife. Don‘t you care at all about her, about what happens to her? Did you ever care? You say it‘s for her own good, but like so many other scheming hypocrites, all you ever really thinking about is what benefits you.“
Then he hits me and knocks me to the floor. He hits me because he knows I’m right and he knows no other way to defend himself. I am then dragged to my room by the hair and locked in for the rest of the day. The lock means nothing. I wouldn’t have come out anyway.
Youth Diaries Passage #3: I’m pregnant and I’m going to be married in a couple of months.(To William “Sonny” Winters) He is not a decent man. I’m sure this man will treat me badly, just as my father treated my mother badly. It’s in his eyes to do so. He’ll mask it, of course, playing that upper class social game to perfection.
You know the game I mean, don’t you? Playing the role of a caring father and loving husband for all of the others of his ilk to see. Once home, the true man removes the mask of pretense, no longer needing it to suit his aims. Despite this, I am willing to marry him.
I have to get out of this house or I’ll kill father. I know I’m capable of it. I’ve fantasized about it many times. He is a cruel, abusive, bastard of a man. To be rid of him is one of the two reasons for my marrying William. The other reason is as old as humanity itself. He is a rich man. A very rich man. Our house will be big and full of servants.
I know this is a sinful way to live, but I have known no other way. I have been spoiled for the meaningless fineries that a wealth lifestyle can bring. I am not a person of strong character. I am weak, too easily swayed by so many low baser instincts. I cannot get love, so I demean myself with repetitive abuses of sexual trysts. None are with William. He is too busy making money, loving himself, and fucking other women to notice or to care.
I will have everything people in this country want, everything they dream about, everything they lust after, everything they spend their lives trying to possess like greedy, selfish children. Big, expensive houses, fancy, expensive cars, the finest, most expensive jewelry, art, furniture, champagne, caviar, and lobster fresh off of the boat. Servants to feed me and bathe me. And yes, even wipe my plump upturned ass if I ask them to. I will have it all. Soon, I will utter the infamous vow, “I do” I will have everything then and I will have nothing at all.
That takes care of the passages from her youth diaries. Now, for the passages from her adult diaries. The first one is from early in her marriage, somewhere between the first and second year.
Adult Diaries Passage #1: It did not take long for things to go bad. He(Sonny) is always gone. I curse him when he is away. Then again, I curse him when he is here too. He is a whore. Sex, money, power, prestige, he whores for every one of them. Here in these veiled walls of Usher, secrets lie everywhere. Some are well hidden, known only to the participants of the crime. Some are not so well hidden and known to everyone who has the ill-fortune of living here. Like everyone else here, I will wear the mask of illusion and deceit. I can carry it off, easily and without restraint. I am, if nothing else, a superior actress of life.
Adult Diaries Passage #2: (Nearly Three Years Later) I am pregnant again. He (Sonny) is no comfort to me during these times. In truth, his behavior worsens. There are many forms of human cruelty and he is a master craftsman at all of their more subtle, more easily disguised forms. In public, he can do no wrong. In private, there is no wrong he would not do.
Suicide has entered my head as a possible alternative. I have contemplated its many different forms. I have studied their degrees of violence. I have studied the ones which are the quickest and least painful. I have also contemplated the ones which could most easily be propped up to look like homicide. In the end, I always stop short of taking that last step into the abyss and I surrender myself into holding onto life. Is this a good or bad thing? I do not know. But either way, I lose.
The third and four passages jump a considerable amount of time into the future. Eleven and a half years to be exact.
Adult Diaries Passage #3: If I thought having children would help to lighten the darkness that encrypts me, I was wrong. They have only ended up making my life more filled with hopelessness and despair than ever before. There is nothing that can save me now. I am not sure if I even love them anymore. I do not know if I am capable of love anymore. Did I ever love them?
I can say with near certainty that I will not reach my forty fifth birthday. Exactly how and when the end will come, I cannot say. I do know an act of violence will be the game’s final card. By someone’s intentional hand, the killing blow will be delivered and I will into the eternal abyss.
There is no changing the nature of this outcome. Whose hand will be responsible for the deed, I do not know. William, certainly, is an obvious possibility. His father, that breeder of brain infected hybrids, is another. The children, who knows?
There is one person, though, I fear more than all others. A person who is easily the most capable and the most likely to pull off this killing. A person with deep, long standing psychological problems. A person living in this very house. Me.
The seventh and final passage that I’ve chosen to put down to paper are the last words Donna ever wrote in her diary. This passage was written just one day before her death.
I am sitting here on a hotel bed waiting for the end to come. Death is close at hand. No longer lurking in the shadows at the peripheral edges of my sight, she has stepped out into full plain view. I am cold, tired, and alone. There is no one here to comfort me, no one. I have to go now, someone is knocking at my door. It must be room service, but did I call them? Did I?
I am not sure. It is these damn pills I took. They have my head a little scrambled. I really do not feel good at all. As soon as room service leaves, I am going to lie down for a little while. Or maybe I will just…..
The second I finished reading my first pass through the diaries, I knew I’d have to do it again. And then, maybe, just maybe, a third and final time. This case, I noted, had heightened my masochistic tendencies for self-punishment. Repeatedly reading Donna’s diaries definitely fit into that category.
If that hadn’t been enough of a self-inflicted wound, I decided to watch Donna’s homemade video. That was a dumb thing to do, a really dumb thing. When I made an intuitive guess on the content of the video, I knew it wouldn’t be easy to watch. A note attached to the front of the disc was short and pointed, the hand belonged to Donna.
Since the beginning of human time, civilizations have created myths of many different stripes. Myths which contain devils, demons, and gods as sources of the worst sort of deeds known to mankind. Why was all of this creative effort necessary? To account for all of this unflattering darkness of life, we need to look no further than ourselves.
Watching that video, once again, took me to the darkest depths of my being. It’s not a pleasant place to be. Shame wrapped around me like an ancient Egyptian king wrapped for burial. I’m not going to get into the explicit details of what was on the video. Let’s just say it’s pornographic and a little bit more than that. Donna had without my knowledge, recorded us having sex. One angle dominated the recording. A direct close up of Donna’s face.
All the while I grabbed, pulled, penetrated, slapped, and used her, I saw her face. Nothing except her face. And on it always there for the eye to see was a mask of numb, embittered death. A death I, in my own way, helped to bring about. Or so I convinced myself. There were others to blame too, but I didn‘t have to live with them. I did, though, have to live with myself.
After turning off the tv and the dvd player, I just sat still and stared at the floor for a long, long time. I don’t know how long exactly, but when Alex stepped into the room and broke the spell, the hour was early evening.
“Gina fell asleep,” Alex said. “She ate a little, but not much. Where exactly does this put us?”
“We’re going ahead.”
“With what? You heard Larsen. They‘re calling it a suicide.”
“Forget Larsen Even if it is a suicide, we still have another angle to pursue.”
“His criminal activities?“
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Neal. I think we should just walk away. No, actually I think we should run away. As far and as fast as we can.”
Alex was one hell of woman. The money to be made from this case was more than we’d ever seen before. Despite this, she was thinking more about me. The irreparable damage this case could do was not to taken.
“Did you get anything useful out of Gina?” I asked
“Talking to her was like walking through a minefield with snowshoes on. She doesn‘t want to go back to the hotel. She doesn’t want to be alone.”
“Don’t tell me she wants to stay here?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“There’s more.”
“Well?”
“So do I.”
“You too? Is there a neon sign outside flashing the word ‘Vacancies’, ‘Vacancies’, ‘Vacancies.‘ This is a small house. Small for even one person, let on three. This house is a damn shoebox with windows. Beds. I don’t have enough beds.”
“You and I could, uh----.”
“Share a bed?”
“Yeah.”
I closed my eyes and just sat there for a short time while I contemplated all of the bonuses and repercussions of accepting Alexandria’s offer. The temptation to say yes was strong. But then, so was the temptation to say no. Such is life.
“No,” I finally said to her.
Alexandria’s lips were quivering with hurt. Then came a trembling rage filled fear. She took off the tee shirt and shorts and stood there right in front of me like an Amsterdam prostitute displaying her wares in a street side window.
“Do you think I make such offers all the time,” she asked. “Huh? Is that what you think? Or is it that body has no appeal for you.”
“You know that’s not true. Why are you----”
“Why am I what? I’m cold, lonely, and confused.. And I want to fuck. Not emotionless, pretend fucking like I did with Carl. I want something real, warm, and---
Something to shake me out of this walking coma I’m in.”
“Alex, I----”
“It’s all right,” she said suddenly drained and highly embarrassed by her unfettered display of emotionalism. It wasn’t like her at all. It was too much----- ---too much like me.
“Do me a favor,” I replied. “Keep the offer open. My no is just for today. Maybe later, in a day or so, maybe then we----.”
“Sure.”
The past twenty four hour had rubbed my nerves raw. Having Donna Winters involved in my life again. A case with her as a client. Then less than a day later she’s dead. But a case still remains. And even in death, Donna will remain too. Then there’s Alex and her drinking. Her passing out on patio. Her wanting to have sex with me.
I could’ve stormed out of the house, but it’s my house, and I had nowhere in mind to storm to. I might’ve scattered my brains to the paint peeled walls, but I didn’t have access to a gun. Alexandria didn’t have hers with her and I didn’t know where it was at.
So, with no other options popping into my fat Slavic skull, I went to bed and tried to sleep. The attempt was not only successful, but easy as well. Then, as so often happens with me, my sleep was invaded by a dream.
I was standing by the front window in the living room. It was raining, a cold hard pneumonic rain. A quarter of an hour later, though, the rain begins a fast, eye blurring process of shape shifting into snow. Once the transformation was complete, the flakes fell fast, heavy, and thick. In less time than it was naturally possible, the once darkened groung had been completely laid white.
Then, somewhere out of the clouded night sky, came a crow. A single, purposely isolated crow. It was a rare of thing to see. Crows were sociable, group oriented creatures They lived in well developed societies that emphasized family, friendship, and commitment. They weren’t loners, either by nature or by inclination. Crows did everything, everything as a group. So, what I was seeing would seem to be a nearly impossible thing. A lone crow, with no others in sight. Yet, there it was landing on one of the two square plots that made up my front yard.
For a minute, the crow seemed content to just wander around blindly on the snow covered ground. I’d always liked crows and I’d always liked to watch them. They’d been badly mislabeled by humans, I believed. And this dark, undeserved reputation is probably what first drew me to them.
This particular crow had my full attention. I stared with an interested intensity that held no logical explanation. As I watched, the bird stopped its mad wandering and flew up and landed on the gutter just my front dormer window. The crow then, just didn’t look at me with an anonymously distant sort of curiosity. No, this crow looked at me as if it knew me and was trying to communicate with me.
The crow, as I studied it, looked frail and sickly. Its feathers had lost its natural black sheen. Its beak had been chipped off at the end. Its wings, while still workable, were tattered and aged beyond their years. That crow, that lone weakened crow, sat on the narrow sill and held me in its gaze. The creature was definitely trying to tell me something. But what? Then, after protracted series of attempts, resigned itself to failure and flew away into black, snow filled sky. There the dream ended. And so did my sleep. Shaken by the dream, I sat up in bed, pictured the crow once more, and wondered just where I’d seen those eyes before.