SUMMER of FEAR (24 page)

But then, something began to change.

Slowly, Isabella—always willing to blame herself first, so many of us
are—started getting mad. It started with a near silence that lasted for days.
She eased off the potions, pills, and supplements. She ate something besides
tofu and fake cheese made from soybeans. She stopped watching tapes of doctors
exhorting her to imagine her tumor, change her defective character, take
responsibility for creating her illness. She brooded; she wept; she screamed.

One evening, she said to me, "You know something Russ? It's
arrogance. Pure arrogance."

"What is?"

"The idea I did this to myself. I did not do this to myself. I was
happy. My mother loved me. My father did not abuse me. No one did. I was a
happy kid. I tried to be good. I smoked some cigarettes when I was fourteen,
but that was all. I drank some. I smoked a joint when I was sixteen, but when I
heard a tape of how I played piano stoned, I never tried it again. When I was
twenty-three, I married the man I loved. I got up one morning, had a seizure,
found out there was something growing in my brain. It was cancer. And I'll tell
you something—I hate it. I even hate the word
cancer,
the way it hisses
off our tongues, so eager to be said. I didn't create it, no matter what
these... these... these
bliss ninnies
try to make me believe. They're
selling snake oil in a New Age wrapper, that's all. They're in the cancer
business, the phony-hope trade. I'll take the rap for almost anything—I'm a
Mexican and a Catholic, right? But I refuse to take the blame anymore for this.
I'm going to win
_;
I'm going to beat this thing.
Damn
those
people, those... parasites. Russ, what is it with this country? We think we
control the whole world and everything on it—and beyond that, the moon, all the
way from the heavens down to the metastatic level of the cells in our bodies.
Where did we ever get so arrogant to believe that? Did it do any good? What did
it get us but a place stripped of the people and animals who used to live here,
a sky full of satellites and floating junk, a nation full of people who believe
they can cure cancer by eating right? How can we be so arrogant to believe that
cancer is our own fault? I
want
to live, Russ. I'm going to beat this
thing. But I'm not going to
accept responsibility
for what's happened. I
feel invaded. I feel cheated. I love you and I love life, but I
hate
what's happened to me. I'm going to fight with the tools I've got—love and
hate. That's what I've got for weapons. You know what cancer is? Cancer is
little cells growing where they shouldn't. Nobody knows why they start or how
to stop them, but nobody can cure a cold, either. Cancer is not a symptom.
Cancer is not a metaphor. It is not a theme. Mailer said that cancer is the
growth of madness denied. Mailer is full of shit. The only thing cancer is for
sure is bad luck. It's a vicious little bastard and I want it out of me. This
is not a journey into myself to discover my secret desire to die."

And when Isabella said those words to me, I felt my own burden of blame
begin to lift, because I had started to wonder, If a person can promote cancer in
himself, why not in someone else? Was it
my
fault? I know a man—sixty
years old—who has lost three wives to cancer. He believes himself to be
carcinogenic, and if one does the arithmetic, he is. He stopped dating ten
years ago, convinced that his love leads only to death. He golfs. He drinks. He
lives alone. He has eight dogs.

I heard Izzy's words coming back to me as I watch
Corrine preside with guilty intensity over the stove. I kissed her on the head
and said, "It's plain old bad luck. It happened to her so it didn't have
to happen to Joe, or you, or me."

She looked at me, then nodded slowly. Joe heaved
himself up from the table to answer the phone. I looked out the window again to
the clear, hot morning and wondered how of this would end.

"For you," said Joe, handing me the
cordless. "Erik Wald.”

"Famous enough yet, Erik?"

"Sh-sh-sh-sh. Hello, Russ. I told a white
lie."

I said nothing but walked outside to the porch and
closed the front door behind me. The sunlight stunned me, but not much as the
fact that the Midnight Eye had traced me so easily to the home of Isabella's
parents.

"What do you want?"

"I liked the articles. This Citizens' Task Force
is an absolutely terrifying posse. I'm so afraid I can hardly show my face.
Speaking of faces, that was quite a picture on the front page. I consider it a
little unlucky to have driven by at that moment. I wondered if those neighbors
had captured my image."

Something tried to dawn on me at that moment, but was
in no position to ponder it, trying my best to remember each word, as we
talked. I tried to file it

"Everyone in the county knows who to look
for."

"Sh-sh-sh-sh... I told you I was terrified. Has Wald completed his
profile?"

"No." .

"Because he's so busy becoming legendary."

"It's amazing what you pigs will do for a little
ink," I said.

"Why no mention of our conversation? You didn't say anything about
my racial cleansing. About the racial facial I'm giving our county."

"One thing at a time."

"You're making the mistake of thinking you have all the time in the
world. Maybe I'll make my dramatic statement sooner. Or, there's another
possibility...."

"What."

"I've made it already. Sh-sh-sh-sh."

I checked my watch. It was 9:36
a.m.

"Did Winters install the tracer on your home
phone?"

"We decided against it. We'd rather talk to
you."

"Oh, what a convincing, solid, just...
believable
lie. I admire
you, Russell."

"Believe what you want. The line's clear."

"I know this one is."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want you to tell the county about my racial cleansing, you
turd-sucking faggot. I've already told you that. What are you, even stupider
than I thought? Do you think I call you for my own entertainment? Don't fuck
with me, Monroe!"

"Nobody wants to fuck with you. We want to give you what you
want."

"I c-c-can hear Erik Wald's flimsy academic thought process behind
you. Did Winters order him to coach you? Is it really you and Wald I'm dealing
with?"

"Yes."

"Good. I assumed as much. The idea is to give me enough rope to
hang myself. I'll bet that exact cliche was used by the nigger Winters. Now
listen, Russell, I expect the following quote to be in your next piece.
R-r-ready? 'The goal of the Midnight Eye is to inform all racial minorities
that they are no longer welcome in the county.' Shall I repeat that?"

"I've just written it down."

"Read it back."

I did.

"Sh-sh-sh-sh. I feel better. Relieved. Overall, I'm in go spirits
today. In fact, I gave some thought to your question about the death of the
model—Amber Mae? It's obvious that someone inside the department made a
sophomoric attempt to blame that murder on me. Correct?"

"I believe so."

"Do you know who?"

"No," I lied. The idea of using the Eye to help me escape the
clutches of Martin Parish seemed ludicrous, but then again, I didn't have many
allies. Could the Eye realize something I had not?

"Have you defined the people who knew about my first two
statements—the greaser and nigger couples?"

"I think so."

"Well, Russell... enumerate."

"Winters,
Parish, Singer, Yee, Karen Schultz. Parish's that’s three or four people. Maybe
the forensic crew put them together—that's half a dozen more. Wald suspected
early, but was out of the official loop—I talked to him about it."
"Um-hm."

I listened for background noise but heard none. I turn and looked
through the front window to where Joe and Corrine both stared back at me, their
faces mute and curious.

"And you, Russell? In or out of the loop?"

"Out."

"They were awfully slow to admit what was going on, weren't
they?"

"Yes."

"That's one of the reasons I chose to talk to you, you know. Cops
are so... bureaucratic, so... sluggish. Tell me, do any of the people you
mentioned have a history with this Amber?"

"Parish and Wald."

"And, of course, you."

"Yes."

"Explain to me any monetary considerations. Her estate, to be
specific."

I told the Eye of the basic dispensations of Amber Mae's fortunes,
should an untimely death befall her. He listened without interrupting.

"Forget Winters, Singer, and Schultz for obvious reasons," he
said finally. "Dismiss Wald, too. He's an academic, a dilettante, a
coward. The Captain of Detectives, Martin Parish, would be a very interesting
possibility. Sh-sh-sh-sh. It's so much
fun
to be a cop!"

"Maybe you should join the Task Force."

"Get a little cap and shirt! What self-aggrandizing silliness for
Winters. Exactly what I'd expect from a nigger—always style over
substance."

I said nothing.

"Tell me, Russell, are there maybe, just maybe... intimations from
some quarters that you are a suspect?"

"Yes."

"Promoted by, let me guess, Martin Parish?"

"Yes."

"Oh, this
is
getting rich. You might have a hard time of it,
because Parish could write, direct, and produce a convincing case against you—practically
out of thin air."

The Eye's words eerily recalled those of Parish,
spoken not twelve hours previously, as he orchestrated the grim funeral of
Alice Fultz.

"I've considered that."

"How's Isabella?"

"That's not your business."

"She is of... Mexican blood, isn't she?"

"If you touch her, I'll kill you. That is a
promise."

"Testy, testy. Sh-sh-sh-sh. Look, Russell, get that statement into
the paper tomorrow or I'll make your life so miserable you won't be able to
stand it. Quote me,
word for word.
Run my picture again if you think it
will do any good. Winters will get a call today at noon. That's two hours from
now. You might want to be there for it."

The Eye hung up. I listened to the clean disconnection, the ensuing
loaded silence.

I felt invaded here,
in what I had assumed was the safe of Joe and Corrine's home. The Eye had
tracked me there surely as if he'd been watching me from above. Was it luck,
did he have a surer way to following my movements? A hot wash of sweat broke
over me. I stepped back inside to the cool of the house.

I helped
Isabella into her wheelchair.

"Y-y-you're quiet," she
said.

"Thinking."

"That's a t-t-terrible
voice."

"What voice, Izzy?"

"On the
t-t-tape that fell your pocket out." I cursed myself for my carelessness.
The last thing I wanted to add to the miseries in Isabella's mind were the
words of the Midnight Eye.

"I'm so sorry, Izzy. I didn't want you to—"

"I think h-h-he's been to Laguna C-c-canyon. He's s-s- seen Our
L-l-Iady of the Canyon."

I settled her into the chair.

"What?"

"He's seen her, Russ."

"How can you tell that? What do you think he
said?"

She grinned at me a little slyly now. "M-m-maybe I'll make you wait
t-t-till after dinner."

My head had begun to feel light and my heart was speeding up. "No,
girl. Please... I need to know how you know that."

"Kay-o! He says right there on the t-t-tape that he's s-s- seen the
bright cunt woman."

I remembered the nonsense phrase:
"C-c-cun seed brat cun
wormin..."

"Can see the bright cunt woman?"

"R-r-russell. It's obvious. It takes someone s-s-screwed up as me
to underplay someone as screwed up as h-h-him.
Understand
him."

"He's been in the canyon," I said.

"You heard it first h-h-here. It's the Eye,
isn't it?"

My mind was still reeling from Isabella's easy understanding of the
Eye's speech.

"Yes, love. It's the Eye. And he's seen our
Lady."

"You should put me in the c-c-case."

"You're hired, Lieutenant."

"Chief."

"Okay, Chief."

I had breakfast with my wife and in-laws. I don't think I'd ever been so
thankful just to have them around. My hands were shaking.

"Are y-y-you coming back tonight?"

"Of course, love."

"G-g-good. I have a farmhouse to ask you."

Our gently blank looks all closed in on Isabella. She glanced at each of
us in turn, then down at her plate. A tear rolled off her cheek and her
shoulders shook.