We So Seldom Look on Love (20 page)

“Come on. This is stupid. Get down.” I went up to him and punched his leg.

“All you have to do,” he said, “is pull away the ladder.”

His eyes were even darker and more expressive than usual.
His cheekbones appeared to be highlighted. (I discovered minutes later he had make-up on.) I glanced around the room for a chair or a table that I could bring over and stand on. I was going to take the noose off him myself.

“If you leave,” he said, “if you take a step back, if you do anything other than pull away the ladder, I’ll kick it away.”

“I love you,” I said. “Okay?”

“No, you don’t,” he said.

“I do!” To sound like I meant it I stared at his legs and imagined them lifeless. “I do!”

“No, you don’t,” he said softly. “But,” he said, “you will.”

I was gripping the ladder. I remember thinking that if I held tight to the ladder, he wouldn’t be able to kick it away. I was gripping the ladder, and then it was by the wall, tipped over. I have no memory of transition between these two events. There was a loud crack, and gushing water. Matt dropped gracefully, like a girl fainting. Water poured on him from the broken pipe. There was a smell of excrement. I dragged him by the noose.

In the living room I pulled him onto the green shag carpet. I took my clothes off. I knelt over him. I kissed the blood at the corner of his mouth.

True obsession depends on the object’s absolute unresponsiveness. When I used to fall for a particular cadaver, I would feel as if I were a hollow instrument, a bell or a flute. I’d empty out.
I
would clear out (it was involuntary) until I was an instrument for the cadaver to swell into and be amplified. As the object of Matt’s obsession how could I be, other than impassive, while he was alive?

He was playing with fire, playing with me. Not just because I couldn’t love him, but because I was irradiated. The whole time that I was involved with Matt, I was making love to corpses, absorbing their energy, blazing it back out. Since that
energy came from the act of life alchemizing into death, there’s a possibility that it was alchemical itself. Even if it wasn’t, I’m sure it gave Matt the impression that I had the power to change him in some huge and dangerous way.

I now believe that his addiction to my energy was really a craving for such a transformation. In fact, I think that all desire is desire for transformation, and that all transformation—all movement, all process—happens because life turns into death.

I am still a necrophile, occasionally and recklessly. I have found no replacement for the torrid serenity of a cadaver.

T
he bed that Marion is lying on has a huge red Leatherette headboard in the shape of a heart. Marion remembers the headboard from when she and John Bucci came here. She remembers that the wallpaper—in this room, anyway, in the honeymoon suite—was turtle-doves. It’s Eiffel Towers now, supposedly to go along with the new name, Bit O’ Paris, except nobody calls it that. Everybody still says the Meadowview Motel, and when Marion went to the bathroom she saw they still had the old towels with the entwined M’s on them.

There’s cable
tv
, though—that’s new. And this red duvet looks right out of the package. Marion has wrapped herself in the duvet because she suspects she’s in shock. From owning a pet store she knows that if an animal goes into shock, the first thing you do is cover it with a blanket or your coat. Then you raise its hindquarters to counteract internal bleeding.

“Not that I’m in danger of internal bleeding,” Marion thinks. “Lord knows.”

She lets out a short, incredulous laugh. The kitten on her stomach rides the movement. It is completely black, black lips, pads, black inside its ears. Every three hours Marion feeds it formula with an eye dropper, then she puts it in the bathtub and tries to make it pee. Sam was the one who said they should bring it along. “You can’t expect anyone else to get up twice in the night,” he said, and she thought, What a wonderful man. Now she thinks that this was just him leaping at the prospect of diversion.

Where is he? He’s been gone almost two hours, but she
didn’t hear the car starting up. She imagines him standing on the wooden footbridge where they stood after supper and waved at their fluttering shadows way down on the river. She asks the kitten, “Do you think he’s okay?” and runs a finger down its spine. It frantically licks where she touched. Even its tongue has black on it—two black spots and a black tip.

“In the movie of my life,” she tells it, “you can cross my path.”

Marion had just turned nineteen when her mother was murdered. About a week after the funeral a white-haired secretary bearing two rabbit pies showed up from the school where Marion’s mother had taught grade three. “Nothing this terrible will happen to you again,” the woman said with such conviction that Marion snapped out of her hysterics, and from then on, whenever she found herself presented with some death-defying risk, she was inclined to take it.

Why she had become hysterical was that as she was putting the pies down, she saw a piece of skin stuck to the side of the refrigerator. She knew immediately what it was, although up until that moment her imagination had steered clear of the smithereens her mother was blown into. She’d been away when it happened, visiting her grandparents in Ayleford, and then, by the time she got home, the police and detectives had come and gone, and the kitchen had been scrubbed down by Mrs. McGraw, who had heard the shots across three fields and claimed she knew from the sound it was no regular shotgun.

The murderer was a man named Bert Kella. He was the janitor at Marion’s mother’s school. At about eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, when Marion’s father was in Garvey pricing wheelbarrows, Bert Kella drove to the house in his nephew’s ‘67 Mustang, kicked in the door, shot Marion’s mother twice from behind as she stood peeling potatoes at the sink, then
shot out a living-room window and drove back to the school to drink a bottle of whiskey and have a nap. When he woke up he stole a tape recorder from the office and drove to the Catholic cemetery on Highway
IO
. He pulled over and started confessing. Marion never heard the tape, but her father did and there were excerpts in the papers. It was mostly a deranged ramble about all the stuck-up, cold-hearted “bitches” Bert Kella had ever met. It seems that he wrote Marion’s mother a love letter, which she never mentioned to anybody and which, on the morning of the murder, Bert Kella discovered ripped to shreds in one of the school’s garbage pails.

“That did it,” he said on the tape. “It was like a concussion really. I am a bit scared now.” Then there was the explosion of him shooting himself in the mouth.

The week before, Marion had signed her name to a Southwestern University application that her mother had filled out and more or less written the essay for. Her father had said he’d sever a couple of acres to pay the tuition. Her brother, Peter, who had graduated from the same university two years earlier and was now a vet in Morton, had phoned to say he’d show her around the campus.

That was the plan, but after the shooting nobody ever mentioned it again. Marion didn’t even get an acknowledgement from the university, and none of her teachers tried to talk her into returning to high school and finishing her final year. In other words, and for reasons that weren’t clear to her, she was off the hook, although she had trouble admitting this to herself until she was packing up her mother’s suits and blouses for the Salvation Army. “They wouldn’t have fit me anyway,” she wept as if, otherwise, she’d have reapplied to Southwestern. As if the only thing standing between her and a professional calling was the plain fact that all these career-woman outfits were two sizes too small.

Not going to school meant she didn’t have to get up at
six-fifteen to catch the bus into town. Now she slept until a quarter to seven, when she heard her father in the bathroom coughing up phlegm. She went downstairs and let out the dogs. After breakfast she did the dishes, made two sandwiches for her father’s lunch, then had her shower. By eight-fifteen she was out the door. At four-thirty she came home and cleaned up the house a bit. Sometimes she saddled her mother’s horse, Daphne, and rode her down to the highway and back. At five-thirty she started supper. On Tuesday nights her father went to the Legion Hall, so at some point on Tuesday she ironed a good shirt for him. After supper, on the other weeknights, she sat in her mother’s La-Z-Boy chair and she and her father watched
TV.
When there was a commercial her father stood up because sitting was bad for his back. “Your mother was born with a hole in her back,” he came out with one night. “Size of a penny.”

“I didn’t know that,” Marion said.

“Above her hip.” He indicated the place on his own back. “Right where the second bullet went in, as it happens.”

A few minutes later, after he had sat down, he said, “That was just a fluke.”

He was a big, sleepy-looking man, smart with machines and animals and not much of a talker. (Of course, Marion’s mother had never let him speak. She’d say, “You tell it, Bill,” and then carry on telling the story herself.) Because of a mild palsy, his head shook, normally only a little, but at the funeral it shook so emphatically that the minister stopped the eulogy and said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Bill.”

“You’re doing just fine, Herb,” her father told him in a calm voice, and he’d been talking calmly ever since. As devoted as Marion was to making sure he didn’t break down in grief, she expected him to at any moment. She saw him standing in the middle of the yard one morning, his head bowed, his hands up at his face, and she thought, “This is it.” Then he dropped his left hand and she saw the cigarette he’d been lighting against
the wind, and she released her breath and returned to making his sandwiches, which is what her mother would have been doing right about then. Mrs. McGraw had told her that the police drew chalk outlines of her mother’s remains on the kitchen floor, and every once in a while Marion was struck by the strangely comforting sensation that those outlines were fitted along her own skin.

During the hours that her mother would have been at school, she killed time by driving her mother’s red Toyota on the concession roads, up one road, down the next, pretending that it was a job, a dire responsibility. Day after day she did this. Sometimes she drove at five miles an hour. Sometimes (remembering what the white-haired secretary who brought the rabbit pies said) she hit ninety.

Twice a week she visited Cory Bates, who had also dropped out of school and who lived with her parents in Garvey, in an apartment above a pet store. After saying, “I don’t get what Bert Kella saw in your mother,” Cory never again made any direct reference to the murder, and the last thing she did was treat Marion as if she were an object of pity. The opposite was true. “At least you’ve got a car,” she said enviously. She said, “At least your parents aren’t at each other’s throats all night.”

All day, Cory’s parents slept. Occasionally one of them got up and used the toilet or ate something standing in front of the refrigerator. Their light red hair and Mrs. Bates’s tallness and shifty green eyes seemed to discredit Cory’s claim that she was adopted, but as Cory pointed out, paediatric nurses have an edge when it comes to finding a good match. A couple of years ago Mrs. Bates had switched to looking after old people, and now she worked two nights a week in a retirement home. Mr. Bates was on disability. When Marion was there he never said a word, but Mrs. Bates was a complainer.

“The dishes aren’t done,” she said.

“I’m going to do them later!” Cory yelled in her amazingly
thunderous and infuriated voice. Marion admired Cory for not sleeping all day herself, since she was always saying how tired she was.

“I’m an insomniac,” Cory said. “It started when I was pregnant.”

Her baby, a boy, was born a year ago and given to a couple who, by sheer coincidence, was also called Bates. When he grew up Cory said she was going to visit him and tell him what an asshole his father was. Although she didn’t know where he lived she wanted to send him the German shepherd puppy from the pet store downstairs.

“A boy needs a dog,” she said.

The puppy was the runt of the litter, the only one left. At night, when Cory’s father and mother were fighting, it barked and cried.

“Its cage is right below where my bed is,” Cory said. “And I swear to God,” she said, “the minute it starts whimpering, my breast milk starts dripping.”

Before going out, they usually stopped in to see the puppy. “Don’t you want to just eat it?” Cory said. Marion poked two fingers into the cage and scratched its head. “Don’t you want to just squeeze it to death?” Cory said, getting her entire slim hand through the mesh and wiggling the puppy’s hindquarters.

They drove to the new Garvey Mall. Twenty-five stores sandwiched between a Woolworth’s and a supermarket. At the Snack Track they ordered Coke sodas and fries and carried them to the mall’s eating area. Most of the tables were occupied by retired farmers who smoked cigarettes and nursed a single cup of coffee all afternoon. Some of the farmers Marion knew, and normally they’d have asked her how she was bearing up, but one look at Cory and they left it at a nod. Cory was theatrically tall and thin, and she wore thigh-high black leather boots and jeans so tight she had to unzip the fly to sit down. When there weren’t any empty tables she said “Fuck” loud enough to
turn heads. Marion imagined Mr. Grit, who borrowed her father’s Rototiller every spring, going home and saying to Mrs. Grit, “Bill Judd’s girl is headed for trouble.”

Marion didn’t care. If anything, it touched her to imagine these decent men quietly grieving for her future. It comforted her. It was one of the mall’s homely comforts, along with the slow, murmuring parade of shoppers and the light-hearted music and the intermittent rumble of the men’s voices. Usually this atmosphere sent her into the same sweet trance that having her hair cut did, and so the fact is she hardly registered Cory’s savage commentary on most of the women who walked by. The only time she really paid attention was when Cory used her as her point of reference—”Oh, my God, I can’t believe it … that girl’s wearing the same ugly sweater you have”—and even then (because a raving beauty to anyone else was an eyesore to Cory), she was never aroused or offended enough to make anything of it.