A Fugitive Truth (30 page)

“So?” Although I was still feigning indifference and had no idea where he was going with all this, I sensed it was terribly important that I listen to him. Nonsense and all.

“So. After many long years of studying the mystic arts, all histories, philosophies, and religions, living and dead, and by the way, drinking way too much strong coffee in illlit places with women in secondhand camouflage fatigues and berets, I finally came to a conclusion. And that was the
same
as what I’d learned from my comic books.”

“Okay. I’ll bite.” I shrugged. “What was it?”

Michael took a deep breath. “With great power,” he said, “comes great responsibility.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but that surely was not it. “Jesus. I was an idiot to listen to you for this long,” I said angrily. “Don’t let the door hit you on the ass as you leave.”

“Wait, wait!” he said. “You haven’t heard my secret yet!”

“I don’t care what your secret is! I’ve got better things to do with my life—”

“No, no you don’t,” he retorted. “You can’t even decide whether your own life was worth saving.”

His words were like a slap in the face. He was right, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Well, that was impolite.”

Michael didn’t know from impolite, apparently. “Pshaw, and similarly, horseshit.”

Here it comes, I thought. A long pause settled on the room like a lead apron from the dentist office, an intensely physical presence that suddenly suggested danger. I slowly took a sip of the bourbon. “You’re talking about cartoons, Michael—”

He looked pained. “Comic books, please. Graphic novels, in some instances.”

“I—” I screwed up all my courage to say it out loud, reluctance overcome by a desire to preserve my protective self-pity. “I
killed
someone.”

“And you really shouldn’t do it again, unless you can’t think of some other way that you won’t die yourself. See,” Michael wandered to the other side of the room, lecturing to himself. “See, I thought that you, having a nodding acquaintance with Darwin, you would have gone that route. Bump off a fellow species-member, successfully reproduce your own genetic material, and, eventually, die happy having fulfilled your biological imperative. Seems terribly simple to me, but then of course I haven’t considered the high price of daycare—” He started to chew his lip. “That’s something maybe I’d better start thinking about.”

I couldn’t believe him. “Jesus, Michael, are you listening to me?
I
killed Harry. I, me,
killed
—”

Michael batted his hand at me, all impatience. “I couldn’t
not
hear you, you repeat yourself enough. Yes, yes, you killed Harry, you believe you’re responsible. I’ve been thinking about that, and it sure sounds like agency, direct or indirect, to me. Even if you get around to believing you were the hand of God or something, you’re still what did the deed. Of course, the cops, not being troubled with coming to some irrefutable philosophical conclusion, have called his death a suicide. That’s not your problem, though—”

“It
is
my goddamn problem,” I said furiously, but Michael began to laugh. I looked at him, disconcerted.

He sat down on my chair and pushed off, rolling across the floor, shaking his head. “Oh shit, Emma. You really do think you are the center of the universe, don’t you? First it’s ‘I can’t leave, I’m involved in this,’ all very martyr-ly and fatalistic. Now you’re blaming yourself for the way everything turned out. A little internal consistency, puh-leeze!” Michael wiped his eyes, hauled himself out of the chair, and began to pace. “Sure, I could argue you’re the center of the universe, plenty of evidence for it. But you gotta go one way or the other. If you are, then you don’t have to worry about your actions—you are, after all, the prime mover. If you aren’t, then it doesn’t matter in the first place. You’re just an insignificant bundle of water and nutrients on a wet little rock that’s quickly getting overheated by a cold and dying star.”

I felt a flash of adolescent impatience: He was totally missing the point. “Can’t you see? I’m just like Harry. I am no better than he is…was.” I walked over and looked out the window. Down below, Brian was inspecting the early daffodils critically. I rested my head against the glass and watched as he scraped cautiously at the dirt to see if the tips of green showing were really going to be tulips. I sighed. “When he burnt my…that letter, I
knew
what he was feeling—I nearly drove us both off the road to get at that letter.” And, I thought, what about the rage I felt at the dean, that night he called up to prod me about my tenure review? It scared me to think how tightly I’d wound that phone cord around my hand, almost wishing it was his throat. I was capable of the same feelings as Harry. The same kind of passion. The same violence. And that scared me to death.

“Okay, that’s where you’re getting hung up.” He gestured emphatically with both hands, framing the issue, rendering it moot. “Empathy is not the same thing as sympathy. When you did finally drive off the road, was it to save yourself or to punish Harry?”

I didn’t really want to go back there, but I also wanted to be convinced, so I told him. “I was just trying to get out of there alive—”

Michael threw his hands up, Q.E.D. “There you go. There’s nothing wrong there. So, in simple terms, you’re fretting about being angry that a bad person hurt you and might have done worse—to you and who knows what other innocent bystanders, if there are actually such things—and not thought twice about it. And you’re upset that you were the force that stopped him from doing those things?”

I didn’t answer.

He wasn’t discouraged yet, and settled comfortably into searching out a rationalization that would work for me; rationalization on short order was a specialty of his. “Hmmm. Look, there are a thousand versions of the truth, I must have one that fits. Okay, how about this? What about vengeance? Jack and Faith, flawed as they were, didn’t deserve to die. You made Harry belly up to the cosmic bar and pay his karmic tab, would you buy that?”

I shook my head, watching Brian pick up the rake and walk back toward the house.

Michael seemed to take all this as a challenge, trying to come up with every angle ever thought of. “Well…What if, by stopping Harry, giving him that one moment of realization of what he’d done, you’ve redeemed him?”

I turned and looked at him askance. “You don’t believe in redemption.”

He waggled his hand back and forth, mezzo-mezzo. “Jury’s still out, as far as I’m concerned, but the real question is, did Harry?” Michael wagged a finger, sure he’d hit the answer, and began to pursue his point. “And, more important, do you? Every one of us has the capacity for evil or good. You had the power, you made the choice. All you have to do is make the decisions for the right reasons. And wasting your time worrying about why you’re still alive is silly.”

I walked over to the little glass-topped case and carefully reorganized the lithic and ceramic pieces that Michael had mixed up, moved out of order. I didn’t feel a weight tumble off me, or anything dramatic like that. But I did feel as though a heavy, barred door had opened a crack, and that was enough.

I wondered about my attitude toward work too. Was I too dedicated? Was there such a thing, short of Harry’s compulsion? Was it worth it? I’d tackled everything else in my life so ambitiously, what would it look like, what would happen, if I made the same time for myself? For me and Brian? The little puritan inside of me shuddered to think of the work ethic channeled for fun. For living. Something like anticipation kindled at the thought, and I carefully set it aside to consider later. I had a lot of thinking to do, but now, not all of it was grim.

“Are we done talking about you, now?” Michael sounded like a six-year-old pushed beyond all bounds of patience. “It’s my turn, I want to tell you my secret.”

I could manage almost half a grin. I shut the glass case and turned to him. “Okay, what’s your secret?” I said like an indulgent parent.

But Michael wasn’t smiling. Michael had suddenly turned serious. “Emma, I can’t help myself,” he said, wringing his hands. “I’m so in love.”

My heart seized up in mid-thump and sat there immobile in my chest. “Ah, uh, that’s, I—”

“I know it’s sudden, but some good must come out of all this, don’t you think?” He was begging me to agree with him.

I could barely think. My hands went cold as my face went hot, remembering his talk of brainy women who were well endowed; Bucky was always telling me that I took her share, in that department. “Sudden—ah, well, yes, as you say—”

“I think we should get married right away, and Sasha thinks so too.”

“Sasha?
Sasha
?” I sounded like a confused parrot. “What can Sasha—?” Then light dawned and, with a big, nearly audible
glug
, my heart started beating again. It felt like it does when you swallow too much all at once. I could tell by the warmth of my face that I hadn’t finished blushing, though.

“Yes, what can Sasha be thinking, so soon after it turns out her boyfriend is—
was
—an evil, psycho madman who’s just croaked himself?” Michael mused dramatically. “Even if poor Harry was a misguided fellow with an overweening sense of duty to the past,
I’m
thinking that Sasha’s
vulnerable
now, and that gives me months, even
years
, before she learns to loathe me and becomes ex-wife Number Five.”

I laughed out loud. “What were you just telling me about power and responsibility?”

“This is different,” he shook his head and waved both hands, conveniently dismissing everything he just told me. “What do you say?”

“Well, maybe it
is
different,” I mused. “Sasha won’t be working in the same institution as you. And she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Maybe she—”

“Hopping Hades, Emma, I’m not asking for your
blessing
, I’m asking you if you’ll come to the wedding, if and when it happens!
Jesu Christo mio
, someone I know really
does
think she’s the center of the universe,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Is dinner soon? I’m starving. And where’s the can? I’ve got a bourbon rental I’ve got to return.”

Having directed Dr. Glasscock toward the bathroom, I went downstairs. I looked around, realizing the amount of work we’d put into the house, and it was so much better now that there was no comparison. I could ease up on myself, if I wanted to, give things a rest, to really enjoy what Brian and I had already. Bucky was right, and Margaret Chandler was right: fact and truth are different. The fact was that I’d felt overwhelmed, but in truth I could say I liked my life as it was now, and if I backed off on things that weren’t so important, like the repairs, and the things that were soon to be out of my control, like my tenure review, I might have the chance to enjoy it all. Like I’d told Harry, I really did have the right to decide for myself. And I had a right to enjoy it, too.

In the kitchen, Brian looked up from his dinner preparations, expectantly, a question in his eyes.

I walked over to the sink, rinsed out my glass, then set it on the dish rack to dry before I nudged myself gently under Brian’s free arm.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said. “Want some help with those carrots?”

But he didn’t even get a chance to answer me: the phone rang. Michael, of course, coming down the stairs, took it upon himself to answer it.

“No, it’s not Brian, it’s Michael, who’s this? Kam? What? Someone named Marty is having a baby? Isn’t that a guy’s name? Okay, keep your shirt on, buddy, I’ll make sure I tell them.” He hung up and turned to me. “Hey Emma—?”

But I was reaching for my bag, tossing the car keys to Brian, who was already turning off the stove.

“Sorry, Michael, but you’re on your own for dinner, I’m afraid. Sophia Asefi-Shah is on her way into the world, and there’s no way I’m going to miss that.”