Ravens. Part 25

She thought, there are qualities you can possess that those closest to you can't really see. Even you yourself may be blind to them. It takes someone with a fresh eye to discern them and bring them out and make you s.h.i.+ne. G.o.d, I wish he were here. Where is he, what in the world is he doing?

Romeo bit down on his knuckles as he would an apple; then he rubbed the back of his b.l.o.o.d.y fist against his tears. Then he slammed his foot into the gas pedal. Since the engine was shut off (he was parked on the outskirts of town, near the pulp mill, under a lone streetlight that turned the pavement into snake-skin), nothing happened. He couldn't cry out because he was on the phone with Shaw. Shaw was telling him what he wanted done. Telling him step by step, and after each step waiting for Romeo to say, "OK. I got it." bit down on his knuckles as he would an apple; then he rubbed the back of his b.l.o.o.d.y fist against his tears. Then he slammed his foot into the gas pedal. Since the engine was shut off (he was parked on the outskirts of town, near the pulp mill, under a lone streetlight that turned the pavement into snake-skin), nothing happened. He couldn't cry out because he was on the phone with Shaw. Shaw was telling him what he wanted done. Telling him step by step, and after each step waiting for Romeo to say, "OK. I got it."

Shaw suggested, "You want to write these things down?"

"No. I got it."

"You remember what to say?"

"Yeah. There was a price. The price was posted."

"You have to do it all, Romeo. I can't do any of it."

"OK."

"You have to be merciless. I can't because we need them to love me. They have to love me or all this goes to s.h.i.+t. You understand?"

"Yeah."

"I know you're upset. I know you don't want to do this. But everything depends on you."

"Yeah."

They hung up.

It would have been OK to cry out, Romeo knew, there in that empty lot where no one would have heard. And he did try try to cry out, but no sound emerged. to cry out, but no sound emerged.

Burris made a s.p.a.ce amidst all the c.r.a.p on the kitchen counter. He started writing a letter to make clear his position on things. made a s.p.a.ce amidst all the c.r.a.p on the kitchen counter. He started writing a letter to make clear his position on things.

First he wrote Dear Nell. Dear Nell. Then he canceled that. He started on a fresh page, and wrote Then he canceled that. He started on a fresh page, and wrote Dear Nell Dear Nell again. again.

Then he wrote: You do not want anything to do with me because you think I am an idiot. You are right. But as you probably know I have loved you every minute of every day since our first date which transpired in Archies Restaraunt in Darien which was the most exiting night of my life I think so even when I was married to Barbara. I guess you know and she probably too.By now you may have heard about my meeting with your son Mitchel.

He stopped. Did Mitchel have two t's?

He couldn't look it up in the dictionary because it wasn't a word.

Well, why not just say Mitch then? Just because this is a letter doesn't mean it has to be so d.a.m.n formal.

He stared at the page.

What is is this? this?

This is the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life. What in G.o.d's name is the point of writing this?

Well, to be fair, what was the point of any of the dumb things I've done for that woman?

For example, that night forty years ago, a few months after the breakup, when he'd appeared under Nell's window, sobbing and begging her to give him another chance. She'd been gracious in her refusal - but not too too gracious. It wasn't oh-my-love-come-into-my-arms. It was more like, I'm-flattered-but-get-over-it. Or that day twenty years ago, after her son Mitch had wheedled her into joining the church, and Burris had run into her in the supermarket and she'd told him frankly that Faith Renewal felt more like a seniors' bingo room than a church; whereupon he'd confessed that he attended only because Barbara made him attend - and they'd laughed all the way to the checkout counter, and after that he hadn't slept for a year. That was the year he'd screwed up on the Coastal Area Drug Abuse Task Force with his overeagerness, charging that city commissioner's kid with dealing crack and then being unable to quite prove it, getting demoted. But that was also the year he'd felt most completely alive, because he'd carried inside him that memory of Nell in the supermarket, laughing at his little jokes. But then, at the Jaycees' barbecue, he'd acted maybe a little too affectionate and she'd cut him short. Also there was the day when he had come to talk to her students through the Community Policing program, and afterward she'd told him what a triumph it had been. And over the years there had been several more chance meetings at the Winn-Dixie and the Heart Drive picnic and Trudy's Cafe; plus the occasions (about seven hundred of them) when he'd seen her car go past his stakeouts; and several phone calls when he'd invited her to one event or another (she'd always declined); and three times at the July 4th fireworks on St. Simon's; and Barbara's funeral. And the whole time, throughout the whole forty years, day in and day out and even in his sleep, he'd been nursing this hopelessness in his head. The merciful thing about being an idiot is that you're too dumb to know what an idiot you are. But suppose you get a bit smarter for just a second and the whole picture comes to you, almost like in a vision, like now. A whole lifetime's worth of boneheadedness cras.h.i.+ng down like a shelf full of shoes, all around your head at once: isn't that too humiliating to bear? How could you possibly survive such pain? Also why would you want to? gracious. It wasn't oh-my-love-come-into-my-arms. It was more like, I'm-flattered-but-get-over-it. Or that day twenty years ago, after her son Mitch had wheedled her into joining the church, and Burris had run into her in the supermarket and she'd told him frankly that Faith Renewal felt more like a seniors' bingo room than a church; whereupon he'd confessed that he attended only because Barbara made him attend - and they'd laughed all the way to the checkout counter, and after that he hadn't slept for a year. That was the year he'd screwed up on the Coastal Area Drug Abuse Task Force with his overeagerness, charging that city commissioner's kid with dealing crack and then being unable to quite prove it, getting demoted. But that was also the year he'd felt most completely alive, because he'd carried inside him that memory of Nell in the supermarket, laughing at his little jokes. But then, at the Jaycees' barbecue, he'd acted maybe a little too affectionate and she'd cut him short. Also there was the day when he had come to talk to her students through the Community Policing program, and afterward she'd told him what a triumph it had been. And over the years there had been several more chance meetings at the Winn-Dixie and the Heart Drive picnic and Trudy's Cafe; plus the occasions (about seven hundred of them) when he'd seen her car go past his stakeouts; and several phone calls when he'd invited her to one event or another (she'd always declined); and three times at the July 4th fireworks on St. Simon's; and Barbara's funeral. And the whole time, throughout the whole forty years, day in and day out and even in his sleep, he'd been nursing this hopelessness in his head. The merciful thing about being an idiot is that you're too dumb to know what an idiot you are. But suppose you get a bit smarter for just a second and the whole picture comes to you, almost like in a vision, like now. A whole lifetime's worth of boneheadedness cras.h.i.+ng down like a shelf full of shoes, all around your head at once: isn't that too humiliating to bear? How could you possibly survive such pain? Also why would you want to?

Clio was hanging out in her room, listening to Bat for Lashes and staring at the wall, when she got a call from that bizarre little dude she'd met at the tattoo parlor - that guy Romeo, the manager for Drive Fast & Shut Your Eyes. was hanging out in her room, listening to Bat for Lashes and staring at the wall, when she got a call from that bizarre little dude she'd met at the tattoo parlor - that guy Romeo, the manager for Drive Fast & Shut Your Eyes.

He told her he'd found this guy up in Darien who did body suspensions. "You want to go see how he does it?"

"OK." She tried to sound ambivalent but actually she was happy to get out of the house.

"I already called him," said Romeo. "I'll come get you."

He picked her up and they went north on 17. His music was loud and razory, but she was OK with it. She was happy just to ride. A few miles north of town, they pa.s.sed that old rice plantation. It was so hot today that steam seemed to be rising from the fields. An egret or some such bird was standing there on one leg, not moving, just standing there in the warp of heat.

Then Romeo did lower the volume, and said, "I can't believe they did that. Did your family do that?"

"Do what?"

"Own slaves."

She shrugged. "Oh. I guess. My great-great-grandfather or something. He was like a Confederate major."

Romeo was thoughtful. "But he wasn't a bad guy, right? I mean, I guess his buddies were telling him, like don't worry about it, owning slaves is cool. People believe anything their buddies tell them. That's how you become a soldier. You say, these are my buddies, I love them, I trust them. Then you can kill left and right and turn into a f.u.c.king troll of death if you have to, and do it happily because it's for your buddies. But it's really all about love. Right? Jesus this f.u.c.king planet. How did my soul happen to get a.s.signed to this this planet? I'm sorry. I'm ranting." planet? I'm sorry. I'm ranting."

"No, that's OK."

He was was ranting, but Clio didn't mind that. ranting, but Clio didn't mind that.

She asked him, "The suspension, will it hurt?"

"I guess," he said.

"So why should I do it?"

"Maybe it'll make you feel free."

"You think?"

"Yeah. But vulnerable too. So you gotta be careful."

They drove past the Humane Society and came to the old auto shop where Arroyo lived. Squarish spectacles, soft lumpy shoulders. He led them to his backyard, which was cloistered by an old aluminum fence, and showed off his 'apparatus': just a chain hoist hung from an oak limb, but he was proud of it. He talked about dynamic rigging and ' eight-gauge vs. six-gauge' and 'Suicide vs. Superman' till Clio couldn't take another word. She had an itch she was crazy to scratch but it was beneath her skin - and this jacka.s.s was going on about inside-out eyebolting?

She said, "Hey, could you shut up a minute and hook me up?"

He pushed his gla.s.ses up to the bridge of his sweaty nose.

Happy to oblige.

She stripped to panties and bra, and lay down on her belly, and he started throwing fishhooks into her flesh. Matching pairs: scapulars, triceps, wrists, thighs, hips, and calves - till there were twelve hooks in all. The pain was smas.h.i.+ng. For a while she tried to fool it by singing to it. "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out; they crawl all over your face and snout." But singing didn't help.

Arroyo turned the winch, and she was lifted into the air and the pain was magnified tenfold. The pain had its own lighting system. Powerful searchlights that came from inside her and beamed jaggedly out to the world, to her miserable life - bad grades, the scorn of her parents, bad boyfriends, Tara's betrayal, Tara's cruelty, Tara's this and Tara's that: her unsupportable, unquenchable love for Tara. She was hanging face-down and horizontal, the hooks stretching out her limbs till she was a superheroine flying through pain. Or a cross between a super-heroine and a bag of hospital waste. She tried to say something exultant, but no sound came out, only a thread of s...o...b..r. Arroyo was trying to encourage her. "Just get in the flow," he said. Then she vomited. Something was wrong here. She knew that bursting into a shower of sparks was wrong, and distantly she heard Romeo bellowing: "GET HER DOWN DOWN!" - then more sparks; then finally Romeo had her in his arms and he was saying, "It's all right, Clio. It'll be all right. Oh girl, it's gonna be fine. It's all right right. It's all right right."

The hooks coming out, one by one.

Then Romeo holding her and talking to her while Arroyo ma.s.saged the air out of her skin.

She heard herself screaming, "I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY!" "I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY!"

Romeo held her and said, "I know."

He went out to the car to get her some Percodan. While he was gone, Arroyo asked if she'd mind if he bound her and gave her a forced o.r.g.a.s.m. She said not tonight, OK? Arroyo said of course not tonight; he wasn't thinking about tonight, but some other time. He said, what would be a good time? Next Thursday?

She threw up again.

Then she was in her own car, in the pa.s.senger seat, and Romeo was driving. The sun was setting on the old rice plantation.

"Are you awake?" said Romeo.

"Uh-huh."

"How do you feel?"

"I'm aright."

Next, she was in a sleazy motel room, on her stomach, and Romeo was rubbing unguent into her wounds.

Next, she was above the toilet and Romeo was holding on to her as she retched tiny drops of green bile. She was surprised that he could hold her so firmly; he must be stronger than she had thought. He carried her back to the bed and set her down carefully. He wiped her face with a cloth.

She said, "You know what, Romeo? I could fall for you. I think I could frikkin falling falling fall for you." fall for you."

At some point she woke up and Romeo was on the phone with somebody, and he was arguing and crying, and then there was a long silence. A light flared in her eyes, and Romeo got her to sit up. He made her drink. Then he placed her laptop before her. She didn't understand what he wanted.

He said, "You have to write something."

"What?"

"You have to write about your pain. Before you forget."

The computer was at her Mys.p.a.ce page.

"Log in," he prompted. "And then go to your diary."

"No, I'm too sleepy."

"You have to."

He woke her again. He spoke more insistently: "Log in, Clio. We have to hurry. It's almost time."

She logged in. Her diary page appeared.

He said, "OK, write something."

"I can't."

"Then I'll write it. Just tell me. How did it feel up there?"

"It felt like I was floating above the Wick."

He typed that. He asked, "Did it hurt?"

"Yeah."

"How bad."

"The worst," she said.

He wrote that. "How does it feel now?"

She wanted to say, "Now it's better." But she fell asleep before she could speak.

When she awoke, he was still writing in her diary.

He said, "I'm writing about the pain."

He seemed to be on the verge of tears. He was the strangest man she had ever met. Also the kindest. Kind and wise and an old soul.

Then she was asleep again, and he was shaking her. "Clio. Wake up. You've got to stay awake."

"Why?"

He said, "It's worse than you thought."

"It can't be," she said. "It can't be worse than I thought."

He said, "Everyone needs for you to die."

She knew this was sad news, but she didn't understand why. She was kind of foggy.

He said, "Tara particularly needs you to die. She needs needs it. I'm sorry. We have to do this." it. I'm sorry. We have to do this."

She stared at him, not comprehending.

"And Shaw?" he said. His voice gluey with tears. "Your lover? He also needs you to die. Oh, G.o.d, Clio. He needs you to show them there's a price for what they've done. And you're it. You're the price. It's not your fault, but that's what you are. Come on; let's just do it; let's just make it as quick as we can, OK?"

MONDAY.

Tara woke with Shaw standing over her. Still dark out. He told her to get ready; they were going on a 'family expedition'. That's all he said. He didn't say where they were going. woke with Shaw standing over her. Still dark out. He told her to get ready; they were going on a 'family expedition'. That's all he said. He didn't say where they were going.