The Uninnocent (15 page)

Yes (to be sure), there were signs of impending breakdown the week before Tuesday dawned and the man (who currently paced back and forth in his living room with a Browning BDA-380 clenched in both hands, listening to the dismal moans of his girlfriend, whom he had handcuffed to a radiator) mislaid his mind. On the Friday prior, for instance, he had arrived home from work and drawn a hot bath, then climbed into the water without having removed his clothes (his watch and loafers were ruined), an act that probably had something (everything) to do with the disagreement (brawl) he'd had with his girlfriend the night before. Rather than making love as they did every Thursday evening (a routine they had followed for nine years), the girlfriend announced (cheeks flushed, hazel eyes averted, one slim hand fidgeting with her wavy hennaed hair) that they
needed to talk
. This was, in the opinion of the man, not a promising prelude to the dark pleasure (their weekly two hours, during which time she supposedly attended a Bible studies group, ladies only) that stretched before them. Indeed, the last time his girlfriend intoned this
need to talk
was a year before when she presented him with an assortment of foil packets containing various condoms (lambskin, French ticklers, ribbed ultrathins), then told him that from now on their intercourse would have to be protected. He knew at once why his girlfriend wanted him to strap on these (goddamn) rubbers. Just as it had nothing to do with some fear of sexually transmitted diseases (both the man and his girlfriend were good about being tested during annual checkups with their mutual doctor), it had everything to do with her unwillingness to bear the man any more children and raise them under her husband's roof. Lovemaking with one of these (ridiculous) rubbers (the man told her that night the year before) was like trying to do brain surgery while wearing a thick pair of gardener's gloves (or some such metaphor that got him nowhere). The girlfriend reminded him that not only was sex not brain surgery but (more to the point) that she had for all these years (at the man's insistence) required her husband to wear a condom whenever they copulated (a rare enough event in the wallpapered bedroom of the married couple, and thus such a rarer miracle yet the advent of three offspring whom the husband wrongly attributed to serendipitous leakage and fertile sperm), so if this was what she wanted it was only fair of him to comply. The man argued to no avail, as his girlfriend had excellent and ready responses to his every point. Yes, she agreed, he had always been good about giving her a (secret) monthly allowance to help with child support (which she used instead, for the most part, to build for herself a personal nest egg against the so-called rainy day, unbeknownst to either boyfriend or husband). And yes, he had been understanding and supportive of her desire to remain married to her husband (they had been sweethearts since grade school, and as devout Catholics didn't believe in divorce), and it was true he had not (very often, at least) expressed jealousy toward her husband or resentment about the children's ignorance of their true paternity or (even any real marked) rancor with regard to their (singular) circumstances. But at the end of the day none of this mattered because (at the end of the day), she said, she wanted
no more kids
. He acquiesced (having no viable option) and their Thursday evening rendezvouses continued through winter and spring much as they always had, the man not wanting to upset what seemed to him (sanely or not) a basically good situation and his girlfriend thinking (more or less) along similar lines. Given all this, then, why did she suddenly
need to talk
last Thursday?

Because she was pregnant. Three months along, according to the doctor who (himself an old-school Catholic) embraced the pope's call (this would be Pius II) for Catholics to conceive, thus to propagate large families so that the universal flock would be increased according to the (ironic, if not plausibly hypocritical) wishes of the Virgin Mary. Being an accountant (a good one, it should be acknowledged), the man (whose chalky face blanched as his mouth went dry) made some quick calculations and comprehended immediately the deeper meaning of his girlfriend's unexpected revelation. This was not
his
child, he breathed (lower lip quivering in a way she had never seen before, as if he'd been touched by an invisible taser mildly electrocuting him there) and waited for her to respond, suspecting she was going to tell him (as in fact she did) that she wasn't sure. He (however) was. As the man marched from the kitchen to the bedroom to the living room and back into the kitchen (where she sat, trying her best to
remain calm
), he recounted (at the top of his lungs and with awful precision) both his own itineraries, locations, and agendas for the month of June, and then hers. She had missed (as she did by joint agreement and without fuss each year) being available to him the first three Thursdays of that month (because her family made their annual trip to the Adirondacks to visit her parents), and in a (rare) disruption to their arrangement he himself managed to miss the last Thursday that June because one of his interleague softball games ran into extra innings (they lost). The woman sat listening to this (quite accurate) appraisal of things, feigning a certain interest in the logic of the man's assessment, nodding her head sometimes and other times shaking it (all the while warily observing that grotesque shuddering of his lower lip), knowing he wasn't wrong in concluding that (for once) the baby was not his. It was when the man fell silent, strode smoothly over to the kitchen table and quite unexpectedly slapped her (not hard, but it came as a shock), she told him (through a veil of warm tears) that he was right about everything. She'd felt sorry for her needy husband one night at her parents' (couldn't he understand such a simple thing) and, having left the condoms at home, figured nothing would come of it (rather). Granted, they'd only (discreetly and perfectly silent in the guest bedroom of her mother and father's old shake-shingled house) done it once but, as the adage goes, In for a penny, in for a pound (she didn't say as much that evening, though it occurred to her as she walked back home under a pretty waxing moon, wondering what she was going to do about this total mess she found herself in, drying her eyes on her jacket sleeve while elegant bats dropped in and out of the street-lamp light). They had agreed before she left (embracing tentatively after exchanging a few choice words about the unacceptable slap) to take a week to cool off and meet Thursday next to pursue a reconciliation.

Over the course of that protracted and galling weekend, the man found himself thinking (if thinking it was, given he was by then well into the process of mislaying his mind) at cross-purposes. Now he was calm (it doesn't matter), now hurt (how could she), now enraged (the time had come inevitably that everyone had to be taken off the ledger, zero-summed). He wished she would telephone him and (on a whim, for instance) propose that (perhaps, barring any plans he might have) he drop over for dinner with her husband and kids (vegetable lasagna night), so that he could accept her invitation or else slam down the phone in disgust (she didn't call). But no, he was banished now and there was no making up with her next Thursday (she should have at least called to see how he was faring, given he had done
nothing
wrong and she had done
everything
wrong), and this was why he filled his (father's old Waterman) fountain pen with black ink and took a sheet of paper and began to draw up his
list of demands
, not having (initially) a definite concept (clue) what his demands should be, but writing in the confident knowledge that (because of her mindless betrayal) what had been private would soon become (very) public (indeed). She'd get hers (he thought). That Monday, at work, he found himself studying the (seven) faces (three female, four male) of his (soon to be former) colleagues, wondering whether they fathomed the darkness that haunted their coworker's heart. They didn't (it seemed to the man), and this only angered him all the more, even though he had spent years (and a great deal of effort) keeping secret from them the source (his girlfriend and three bastard children) of what now infuriated him. He tidied his (already meticulous) desk the next day, knowing it would be his last, then walked straight home, pausing (briefly) to throw a rock (small but with cruelly perfect aim) at a mockingbird perched in an elm tree.

When the telephone rang (fast-forward to late Sunday night on day three of the
hostage crisis
), the man (startled from his quiet reverie about how his life was falling to pieces faster than autumn leaves) inadvertently squeezed the trigger of his Browning BDA-380, causing his (hitherto inert) girlfriend to scream, however muffled she was by the duct tape (which she'd managed to chew through in order to breathe better), while also causing the sharpshooters and other peace officers outside the house (illuminated by klieg lights) to move into
high alert
. The man himself screamed before picking up the phone (after a good dozen rings) and asked, What do you goddamn want? as the acrid bouquet of discharged smoke settled in the living room and the fresh (impressively large) hole in his hardwood floor gaped at his feet. He recognized (to his dismay) the voice as that of his girlfriend's husband. What I want is to know what you want, answered the husband (reasonably enough), containing his fury with great effort. Brief silence, then more from the husband. What (he said) I don't want to do is cause trouble here (words scripted by the negotiator), I just want to know if my wife is all right. A (lengthy and sinister) silence ensued before the man assured his neighbor, this
totally retarded
former friend, client, and husband of his gagged and handcuffed, pregnant (by now very ex-) girlfriend, that she was doing really great. What was that gunfire all about? pressed the husband (again reading the scribbled prompt written in the negotiator's notepad). As if snapping out of a daydream, the man told the husband to pass the (goddamn) phone to somebody who had some (goddamn) authority here. What was being done (for instance) about his
list of demands?
The cuckold (just before the negotiator snatched the phone out of his hand and two troopers gently if firmly escorted him away from the
staging area
) told the man (dramatically, very audibly) that he didn't give
a rat's ass
whether he killed his
fucking wife
or not, and that he hoped (sincerely) that he put a bullet through his own
fucking brain
(if he had one) while he was at it. Screw you, thought the man, who now was confronted with a very different voice (the negotiator said hello to him, winningly), making the man think (wisely) that here (most definitely) was someone (he asked for authority and got it) more frightening (or else appalling) than even the (goddamn) husband, because he was cool and deliberate and sober (unafraid of the dark, anybody's dark), all of which suddenly shocked (as the expression goes) the man back to (as it were, fleeting) reality.

This negotiator (knowing what was of primary interest to his perp) asked first how the man was doing, did he have enough to eat, did the woman (never
hostage
) have enough to eat, or have other (uh) needs (prescription medicines). The woman, the man said (curiously sheepish given the imbalance of power at play here, the world being in
his
hands), was
doing better than ever
(disdain intended), though he realized for the first time since he took his girlfriend hostage that neither he nor she had slept or eaten (much, old tofu salvaged from the fridge before the electricity was cut off, washed down with tap rather than customary bottled water, which he'd shared with his captive, duct tape temporarily removed, who accepted his largesse with reluctance) and (thus) his (already mislaid) mind was not as (razor) sharp as it (undoubtedly) ought to be under the (developing) circumstances.

That
(doing better than ever
) sounded (not so) encouraging to the negotiator who (in his most concerned voice) wanted to address the man's demands. There seemed to be five of them, all of which would be taken with (utmost) seriousness (to be sure). It was just that the message (you see) that he had left earlier on the phone machine at the accountants' office was a little garbled (utterly unintelligible) and so in order to accommodate his needs (in the most immediate and efficient manner), it would be useful for the man to (now) repeat these ultimatums. The man cleared his throat and (wanting to cooperate fully, given things were going his way, it decidedly seemed) articulated his
list of demands
.

First off was a private jet (fully fueled) with an experienced (unarmed) pilot prepared to fly the man and his girlfriend to the destination of his choice (the man made this first demand despite the fact that he had never been on a plane in his life, was in fact terrified of flying, and had concocted the idea from having seen numerous action films that featured
hostage situations
). Further, he demanded that the sum of one million dollars (unmarked bills, twenties and fifties, once more inspired by those selfsame movies) be delivered to him (leather attaché) in exchange for his (written) guarantee to release the girlfriend once his destination (Cuba, he was thinking, certain—not quite—he wouldn't be extradited if, as he'd additionally mused, he donated most of the ransom money to Cuban baseball for the purchase of new gloves, uniforms, et cetera) had been reached. And furthermore, he demanded (lest he not summon the courage to board the jet and fly to Cuba) that he be granted legal immunity for his (unsavory to some, but surely not felonious to him) actions, since (logically) none of this was
his goddamn fault
but rather the fault of his (treacherous goddamn) girlfriend, not to mention her (goddamn all-of-a-sudden lover boy) husband (plus also that he had, solely
because of them
, mislaid his mind). And moreover, what he demanded was an apology (in front of television cameras, preferably in prime time) from all his fellow employees at the accounting firm, for each and every thing they ever did to make him unhappy (not fathoming, for instance,
the darkness that haunted their coworker's heart
on Tuesday last, damn them all to hell). Finally, the man demanded (noticing as he spoke that the negotiator had been very quiet, which he mistakenly attributed to attentiveness and even conscientiousness, perhaps to the fact that the negotiator must surely be taking notes, if not scrambling his qualified staff of sergeants and lieutenants, or whomever, even as they lived and breathed, to make arrangements for the flight and ransom money) that his children be made aware of the fact that their father was not their father, but that their
real father
(and here, more instantaneous than the crack of a bat against a ball, or a slap in the face, the bullet from the husband's handgun broke the living-room window glass, tore neatly through the drawn curtains, and entered the man's cranium, dropping him in an abrupt heap on the hardwood floor, killing him immediately and without recourse)—