Gods of Aberdeen

by Micah Nathan

  Charlene Spacks was, by contrast, as insubstantial as the wispy black dress she wore. No matter where she stood in the room, it seemed Beauford’s shadow fell over her. She had a gorgeous mane of auburn hair, and she looked much younger than she was. She stood by Howie and talked with him quietly, while Beauford made his rounds, drinking and telling stories and doling out advice.

  Dr. Cade appeared to be particularly fascinated with Beauford, and the two of them engaged in a lively debate near the dining room table.

  “But surely you can’t be against higher education, Mr. Spacks.” Dr. Cade tipped his head to one side, as he often did when in a serious discussion. “Education can only make one a better person.”

  “Not the way I see it.” Beauford munched on a spinach pastry. “Look here—I’m a perfect example. No college degree, jumped right into the business world. Doing just fine, thank you very much. Why? Experience. Your type confuses education with information. Books give me information but only experience can educate. You think college is the real world?”

  “Well, I suppose that depends upon how one defines ‘real world.’” Dr. Cade sipped from his wine. “In my profession, academia is the real world, as you call it.”

  “True, true.” Beauford emptied his highball again. “But academics make up one, maybe two percent of the workforce. The rest is filled with people like me. Pragmatics. Salt-of-the-earth types. You know why I sent my son to college?” Another pastry disappeared into his mouth. “I want him to get it out of his system before reality comes up and slaps him in the face. And, I’ll admit,” he leaned in closer to Dr. Cade, towering over him like a tree on the verge of crashing down onto a small forest animal, “it is a vicarious thrill. Seeing my boy get the degree I never did.”

  Beauford snapped his fingers at a passing waiter, who promptly took his glass.

  I left my seat and headed for the bathroom. It was located at the end of a short hallway past the kitchen, small, gilded-frame paintings hanging at eye level on the wall. The bathroom door was ajar and when I entered, I was startled to see Art sitting on the edge of the bathtub, with the toilet seat up and something dark and foul swirling in the water.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, backing away, but Art shook his head.

  “Stay,” he muttered. “Close the door.”

  I locked it.

  “You don’t look too good,” I said.

  His face was pale and drenched in sweat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his tie was loosened, his collar was unbuttoned, and his hair fell over his forehead in thick, wet locks.

  “I have to leave right after brunch,” he said. “I rented a car and I’m driving back to school. The police want to interview me again.”

  My stomach roiled. “What for?”

  He shrugged weakly. “More questions. This is my fourth or fifth interview with them. I’ve lost count.”

  I had a premonition of returning to Dr. Cade’s and being greeted by Officers Bellis and Inman. We need you to come down to the station for a couple of hours…

  “Hopefully this is the last one,” Art said. “They’re a lot smarter than I gave them credit for. I think we’d be in trouble if it wasn’t for Mrs. Higgins. Once that kid discovered Dan’s body and the initial report didn’t indicate anything suspicious, Mrs. Higgins wanted the whole thing wrapped up. She’s terrified of the media, and with Dan’s previous suicide attempt…”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Art wiped his forehead with a balled-up napkin. “I met with Teddy Wolford, Mrs. Higgins’s PI. We compared notes.” He sighed. “I don’t think you can appreciate how tough this past week has been.”

  He flushed the toilet and held his head in his hands. “I think this is it, though. I think the cops are ready to throw in the towel. A couple of days ago I told them Dan was gay. They asked if anything was going on between him and Dr. Cade, you know, anything intimate.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “If that gets out don’t you think—”

  “It won’t. Mrs. Higgins caught wind of the rumor and went nuts. Threatened to sue everyone: the school, the local police, campus security. She doesn’t want this hanging around. What’s done is done. He’s dead. It’s over.”

  “It is,” I said. I wasn’t just talking about Dan. The world I’d constructed for myself, that we’d all constructed—delusional or not—was now destroyed.

  Art looked up at me, dark eyes bleary and sick. “Dr. Cade’s been leaning on me pretty hard. Did you complete the Charlemagne section?” I didn’t respond and he continued. “I had to sit in that goddamn Bentley and listen to Dan’s cousin Alicia drone on and on about whatever…She’s graduating this year and wants to go to Cornell. She wants to hike through Europe this summer. She’s afraid a long-distance relationship with her boyfriend won’t work. Blah blah blah.”

  “Art, listen,” I said. This was as good a time as any. All pretenses were gone, dissolved like ice crystals under warm water. “About Ellen…”

  He looked puzzled. “You’re still worrying about that? It’s ancient history. We’re through. Let Howie have her.” He clutched his stomach and winced. “She thinks I killed Dan.”

  “So do I,” I said.

  We stared at each other.

  “Eric, you’re being—”

  “What about Dan’s letter?” I said.

  Art sighed in frustration. “What about it?”

  “He told me he was quitting,” I said, and I struggled to hold back the unexpected rage I felt creeping into my voice. “He told me it was getting too dangerous. Why would he change his mind?”

  “Because of the Malezel book,” Art said. “All the work I’d done over break…We were closer than we’d ever been. And then…”

  Art paused, and anger swept over his face, twisting it into a knot.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he said. “How many times do we have to go over this?”

  “Dan didn’t believe in it anymore,” I said. “You did.”

  Someone knocked on the door. Art looked down and shook his head. There was another knock and a small child’s voice, pleading for entry.

  “Go away,” mumbled Art—to me or the child, I didn’t know—and he stood unsteadily and lurched to the sink.

  “The aconite is making me sick,” he said. His voice was ragged. The anger was drained from his face.

  Funny thing was, I didn’t even care about the truth anymore. None of it would have made a difference, anyway. Whether Art killed Dan or whether it was an accident, or whether Nicole killed Dan or a black man killed Dan or anchorwoman Cynthia Andrews killed Dan with a pitchfork and tossed his body in the Quinnipiac before continuing on a multistate murder spree. Where was the power in truth, I despaired. Truth’s not a companion to reality. It’s a slave.

  “You might know aconite by its more common name, monkshood,” Art continued, and he splashed water on his face. “Aconitine and aconine are causing the nausea and the sweating, along with my blurred vision. I miscalculated the amount, last time. Not enough monkshood, too much tansy.”

  I took a step toward him. I was suddenly furious, the futility and the sorrow and the guilt concentrating itself into a red geyser that I thought would burst through my chest.

  Art looked at me and smiled weakly. “You look like you could kill me,” he said.

  I shoved him, as hard as I could. Art tripped over the bathtub and fell into it, cracking his head against the blue tiled wall.

  Another knock, this one louder than the others. Art stared at me, dazed. He brought his hand to his head, rubbed his scalp, and a thin trickle of blood ran down over his temple.

  “My God,” he said, gazing at his bloodied hand. “Look what you’ve done.”

  “Is everything okay in there?”

  I froze. Art’s eyes widened and he stood up, slowly, grabbing the shower curtain for support. The curtain hooks popped off ting ting ting and Art caught himself before falling back into the tub. Someone pounded on the door.

  �
��What’s going on in there? Is everything all right?”

  Art looked at me. I unlocked the door and opened it just as Art pressed a hand towel to his head.

  One of Mrs. Higgins’s sisters was standing there, holding her small black purse in both hands. She surveyed the scene—shower curtain on the floor, blood trickling down Art’s forehead. I was breathing hard, like I’d just run up a flight of stairs.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her tone indicating she wasn’t. “I thought something may have been the matter.”

  “We’re okay,” I said.

  Art sat down on the edge of the bathtub. “Yeah,” he said. “Everything’s peachy.”

  “I just wanted to tell you your father arrived,” she said to Art, and she frowned at me, and walked away.

  Art doubled over suddenly. He stumbled to the floor and vomited into the toilet. I stayed a moment longer, and then left him, slamming the door shut.

  Art’s father was tall and slender, very quiet-spoken, with sandy blond hair, like his son. He wore small, black-rimmed glasses and everything about him seemed pinched: his nose, his mouth, his eyes, even the way he stood, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders drawn in, like he was trying to hold himself.

  His name was Elias, a direct descendant, from what I heard, of the original Mayflower pilgrims. When Art came into the living room, he greeted him with a handshake and a nod, and concern registered briefly across Elias’s face—Art was pale and there was a smeared bloodstain on his collar—but no one said anything. I thought that if Art collapsed in the middle of the living room the brunch would continue as planned, guests merely stepping over Art’s fallen body like he was a fold in one of the Oriental carpets.

  “—and finishing some work for the State Department,” I heard Elias say to one of the triplet aunts. “I took a leave from Princeton for the year until this contract is up, and then Diana and I are hoping to travel to Sicily…”

  I looked for Dr. Cade and found him, in the corner, talking with another of the triplets. She had her hand on his arm and was smiling; as always he was as enigmatic as a Zen garden. Serene in the most asymmetrical way. The longer I stared the less I knew.

  I turned away and wandered into the crowd. I wasn’t hungry and the thought of alcohol made me sick, and so I sipped a cranberry juice and club soda and talked with one of Dan’s cousins, a guy named Emerson who was a senior at Dartmouth, majoring in business and on his way to London for an internship. We talked for about ten minutes until the conversation ran dry, and then we just sort of wandered away from each other.

  Beauford had cornered Howie and was lecturing him on money management. In what was to be my only helpful act of the day, I walked over to them and asked Howie if he wanted me to get him anything to drink. I planned to get Howie alone and tell him about Art, about our fight in the bathroom and what he’d said about Ellen, and about my decision to move out of the house.

  “No, goddamnit,” Beauford said sharply, piercing me with his stare. “Who taught you service protocol? If I wanted a drink I’d—”

  “Pops.” Howie shot me an apologetic glance. “This is Eric. Eric, my housemate. Remember?”

  “Oh.” Beauford smiled, a canyon stretching across his perspiration-beaded face. “Pardon me. Judging by your suit I thought you were the help. My back is acting up and I get a bit hot-headed, that’s all.” He wrapped a massive arm around my shoulders. “You’re the little genius, I hear.”

  “I’m afraid rumors of my abilities are greatly exaggerated,” I said.

  “Is that so?” He laughed, his body quaking with the effort. “A humble teenager, how rare a sight. Howie tells me you’re from the Midwest.”

  “West Falls, Minnesota,” I said. I wanted to get Howie alone but I couldn’t see how.

  “West Falls, eh?” Beauford narrowed his eyes in thought. “Never heard of it. I used to own some property in St. Paul. That was years ago, though, before Howie got himself off into the big bad world. Before he knew every thing, isn’t that right, Howie?”

  Beauford smiled and pulled me in. “You seem like a good kid. Hope some of your humility rubs off on my boy here.”

  I realized how drunk they both were; surrounded by a miasma of reeking liquor that I’d always associated with Howie, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until Beauford swayed and nearly pulled me off-balance, and I noticed that Howie was leaning against the wall for support.

  “If anyone could use a lesson in humility it’s you,” Howie said, staring at his father.

  Beauford released me and started arguing with Howie. I left them and walked toward the front door. I was overcome by a feeling of deep dread, claustrophobia making the walls swell. I rushed out, fumbling for a few panicky seconds at the front door when I thought I was locked in, until I realized I was pushing instead of pulling, and I finally escaped and ran out onto the sidewalk. Across the street, in the mall, two dogs greeted one another, tails held high, sniffing, jumping. A squirrel chittered and dashed up a tree, pausing on the trunk and staring out as if remembering something it had forgotten. Sweat ran down my sides. I could feel my heart pounding inside my head.

  I wanted to go home.

  At the hotel I fell asleep, still dressed in my suit. The next morning I rode home with Howie. Art had left the day before and our trip was without incident—Howie just stared ahead and drove like an automaton, suffering nobly through the effects of a wicked hangover.

  One of Dr. Magavaro’s nurses was taking Nilus for a walk when we reached Dr. Cade’s house. Nilus dashed across the snow-covered front lawn and leapt up on me. A trio of crows sailed silently overhead, three black arrows against the clear sky.

  Howie slept in his room while I packed my bags and made some chicken for myself. After lunch I called for a taxi and took it to campus. My room would be musty and cold but I didn’t care. I didn’t feel like staying at Professor Cade’s anymore.

  Chapter 10

  I went to a party that night at the Cellar. It was organized by Nicole, as “a celebration of Dan’s life, and a reminder that each day must be lived to the fullest,” which translated into consuming as much liquor and drugs as one could stomach. I’d never been to the Cellar before, and found it true to its name. Low ceilings, dirty wooden plank floor, cramped bathroom with a single glaring lightbulb on which someone had drawn an anarchy sign in black marker. I danced among the drunken hordes of fellow students who treated me as the cause célèbre, the noble sufferer who needed solace and understanding. I danced and drank until numb, and then I left quietly, slipping out the back door.

  I returned to my room and lay on my bed for how long I don’t know—three, maybe four hours—before the phone rang.

  “Dr. Cade wanted me to call you,” Art said. “He needs your completed section by tomorrow morning.”

  “I can’t come back to the house,” I said. “I’ll drop it off at his office.”

  “We’re having a big dinner tonight,” Art said. “And after, we’re going for a hike. All of us. Howie and Ellen and maybe I can even convince Dr. Cade. We’re going to Butternut Falls. We haven’t taken you there, yet. You’ll love it—there’s a waterfall, and a little pool that you can ice-skate on, and huge, smooth boulders…”

  “I can’t,” I said.

  Art was quiet for what seemed like a long time.

  “I can’t stop, you know,” he said. He sounded very tired.

  I knew what he was talking about. “Yes, you can,” I said. “Just walk away.”

  “Then Dan’s death meant nothing,” Art said.

  “Death doesn’t have any meaning,” I said. “That’s why we look for it.”

  I dropped the handset and pulled my pillow over my head.

  A knock on my door before dawn. Another knock and then a familiar voice, drifting to me like a ghostly wail across a graveyard.

  Eric.

  I stumbled out of bed, and opened the door and there she was in a whir of perfume and shimmering skin.

  Ellen floate
d past me. I felt as if I hadn’t seen her in years. She wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt and sneakers. I looked around. My room was a mess. Sheets crumpled on the floor, papers scattered over my desk. The window was closed and the radiators were at full blast, rattling and hissing

  I retreated back to bed.

  “How are you,” she asked, sadly.

  “Tired,” I said.

  Ellen sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral. I wasn’t invited alone, only as Art’s date. And you know what happened, I assume.”

  “I don’t care,” I said. “Really. I don’t care at all.” How impossible would it be, I imagined, to take her into my arms and kiss her, the two of us melting into bed, undressing languorously, making love in the light of dawn, silky blue covering our bodies in a delicate film.

  “Eric, I’m worried about Art.”

  “Come here,” I said. I felt deliciously giddy. I touched her hand.

  “You’re drunk,” she said.

  Perhaps I am, I thought. How, though…it had been hours since I’d gotten home. Or had it?

  “Listen to me,” Ellen said, grabbing my hand with surprising strength. “Art’s still trying to make that elixir or whatever the hell it is. We need”—she slapped my hand, rousing me—“we need to talk to him. And there’s something else.”

  I stared at her.

  “Tell me what happened to Dan,” she said.

  This is it, I thought. She moved closer to me. Her lips parted. All you have to do is say a few words.