Lost Memory of Skin

by Russell Banks

  What equation?

  Either the Professor’s story, X, is true, or it isn’t, Y.

  The fuck you talking about?

  They can’t both be true, right? X and Y? So one of them has to be false.

  Yeah. I guess so.

  So that means either X or Y is the case for P.

  What the fuck’s P?

  The Professor.

  Right. The Professor is P.

  Okay. Your problem, if you rely on logic, is that you can’t assert the proposition such that X is the case for P, and you can’t assert the proposition such that Y is the case for P. All you can assert is that either X or Y is the case for P.

  Dude, that’s where we started. That’s the fucking problem.

  It’s only a problem if you rely on logic. That’s my point. What you’ve got to do, Kid, is forget logic, admit its limitations, suspend your disbelief, and believe! It’s the only way you’ll be free to act. Otherwise you’re stuck, frozen in disbelief. As good as dead.

  For a long while the Kid remains silent. He tries to replay in his mind what the Writer has just told him but he can’t untangle enough of the sentences to remember and understand what the man said—except for the last part, that he’s frozen in disbelief and is as good as dead. He thinks it’s true. It is the case that he is as good as dead.

  He listens to the waves lap against the sides of the houseboats. He looks up and notices a few raggedy clouds, their edges soldered silver with moonlight, sliding in from the west. The breeze off the water has kept the mosquitoes back in the swamp all evening which he’s glad of. He forms a sentence and says it aloud: It’s actually pretty nice here. He reaches down and scratches Annie’s forehead.

  Finally he asks the Writer if he’ll be driving back to Calusa in the morning.

  Yeah. I’m about done. I thought I might stick around the city a few days. Type up my notes. Knock out a draft of my article. Get to know Gloria a little better.

  Gloria?

  The Wife. Yeah, we kind of hit it off back there. She and I. While you were waiting in the car we talked about a lot of things. Gloria’s pretty special.

  Right. The Wife. So maybe you wouldn’t mind giving me and my stuff a lift?

  Where to?

  The Causeway.

  Why the hell would you want to go back there?

  It’s where I live.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE KID RISES EARLY TO FEED HIS ANIMAL friends before he feeds himself and walks Annie along the grassy bank of the Appalachee so she can do her business. While Annie squats and pees he glances back at the pier: no sign of the Writer stirring in the boat next door. He returns to his own boat where he builds himself a quick double-decker peanut butter sandwich for breakfast, packs his belongings, and makes the cabin shipshape.

  Before Cat and Dolores arrive at the store the Kid walks the length of the pier to the end. It’s a bright cloudless morning and off to his left metallic plates of sunlight glitter on the Bay. He sits down on the concrete pier beside a rough plywood belt-high table used mainly for cutting bait and cleaning fish. Folding his right leg under him he extends the other, exposing the electronic monitor clamped to his ankle. In the Bay a short ways off the pier a pair of dour pelicans perched atop two channel-marking pylons watches him carefully as if puzzled by the way he’s seated himself on the pier. Usually people stand behind the table and gut and chop the bodies of fish and toss the gooey insides and bits of flesh into the water for the pelicans and gulls to fight over. It’s not clear what this one is up to.

  He unravels a stringy black charger cable and jacks one end into a socket on the anklet and plugs the other into an electrical outlet bolted to the table’s two-by-four wood frame. The metal shackle presses against the bare skin of his leg, and the Kid feels the juice flow not from the battery into his body but from his body out to the battery as if instead of being filled with electrical power he were being drained of it. It happens every time he gets the battery charged: he imagines his way from his body out to what he rationally knows is the source of the current but visualizes it instead as the ultimate receptacle for the current—as if he and millions like him were spinning the turbines at the farthest end of the line and not vice versa. He sits on the pier and stares at the dime-size battery linking his skin to the charger cord.

  It takes half an hour to fully charge his monitor battery and during that half hour the Kid feels intimately connected to the millions of other convicted sex offenders young and old and in-between, rapists and child abusers and men who exposed their genitals on a bus, public masturbators, voyeurs and escalator gropers, compulsive seducers of teenage boys, coaches who couldn’t keep their hands off their athletes, men who talked dirty in Internet chat rooms to people they thought were teenage girls and then arranged to meet them for sex, fathers and uncles who drunkenly reached out for their teenage daughters as they passed by the sofa, porn addicts and fantasists lost in the misty zone between reality and imagery, no longer able to tell the difference—all of whom at this moment have plugged their electronic shackles into outlets and are sitting in the bedrooms, living rooms, and basements of houses and apartments and mobile homes, in garages, homeless shelters, public parks, in airports and train stations, in waiting rooms, offices, and the back rooms of fast-food restaurants and under causeways and overpasses—as if they were all trembling leaves on the branches large and small of a vast electrical tree that casts its shadow across the entire country.

  AN HOUR LATER THE KID DROPS HIS DUFFEL and backpack beside the Writer’s Town Car. Leading Annie on her rope leash, lugging Einstein in his cage, he steps inside the store. Dolores is sweeping the floor behind the deli counter and Cat is in the back room breaking down cardboard boxes. Smiling warmly at the sight of him Dolores puts aside her broom and comes around to the front of the counter and asks what’s he got planned for today, another voyage into the heart of darkness?

  She’s never read the book but has caught onto the phrase and knows it’s supposed to refer to the African jungle and be scary. She thinks the Panzacola must resemble Africa and is dangerous in spite of being so close to civilization, which is one of the things that attracted her to Appalachee when she first arrived from upstate New York—that and Cat Turnbull who resembled an old-time expat running a store at the mouth of the river for the natives who come in and trade their crafts and pelts for goods manufactured in Europe and the cities of America. Except that the natives are mostly tourists and fishermen. But she lived all her life in the mountains of the North far inland and has romanticized the South and the sea and the slow-moving meandering dark rivers that empty into it and the people who live there and even the people who visit there.

  The Kid says, Actually, I gotta move on.

  Listen, it’s okay by us if you keep the houseboat a while. We won’t get much call for houseboat rentals for another month anyhow. Cat’ll want you to pay for it, of course. But he’ll give you a discount.

  Naw. I got to get back to where I belong.

  Where’s that?

  It’s where they put all us convicted sex offenders. Out here I’m the only one. And it’s kind of uncomfortable.

  I don’t understand.

  That’s okay. You don’t have to.

  You don’t look very happy about it. But I guess you know what’s best for you.

  Listen, can I ask a favor of you? You and Cat?

  Certainly.

  It’s about Annie and Einstein, he explains. He tells Dolores that where he’s going will be rough on them. There’s grass here for Annie to walk on and fresh air and normal people coming and going and lots of interesting birds including other parrots for Einstein to relate to. Maybe she and Cat could use a watchdog with a good bark even though she’s old and a little decrepit and a friendly tame talking parrot to amuse the tourists even though he’s kind of eccentric. He’ll leave enough money to pay for their food for a month and if it works out, once a month he’ll send whatever it costs for their upkeep.

&
nbsp; I don’t know. They seem awfully attached to you. Why would you give them up?

  I can’t provide them with the kind of home they deserve.

  Look at you, hon, she says and pats his hand. You’re tearing up. Someone should give you the kind of home you deserve.

  They have, he says. He retrieves his hand and turns away from her. He stares manfully out the window and sees the Writer strolling down the pier toward the store. I gotta go now, he says. Here comes my ride.

  Dolores nods and reaches out and takes Annie’s leash from his hand and lifts Einstein’s cage and places it on the counter. The Kid digs into his pocket and pulls out a single hundred-dollar bill and passes it to her. Then he turns and quickly walks away.

  THE WRITER’S TOWN CAR APPROACHES THE Causeway from Calusa heading toward the Barrier Isles. It crosses over the concrete arch to the far side where the Writer pulls the wide vehicle onto the gravel shoulder and parks it next to the guardrail. Cars and trucks and motorcycles roar past in both directions. He cranes his neck and peers down the steep slope into the shadows beneath the six-lane bridge. He can’t see much down there—flotsam and jetsam, a jumbled mix of building materials, trash, cardboard boxes, torn sheets of polyethylene. A tidal dump.

  The Writer says to the Kid, You’re not going down there, are you?

  Without answering, the Kid steps from the car and retrieves his backpack and duffel from the backseat. He walks up to the passenger’s side window and the Writer lowers it. The Kid leans in and says, Thanks for the ride, man. For all the rides, I mean. Thanks for everything.

  Not a problem, Kid. But I’m a little worried about you going down there. You know, to live. It looks . . . dangerous.

  It’s not. Not for me anyhow. Listen, the Kid says, I gotta ask you not to write about this. About any of it. You know what I’m saying? Like for a magazine or something. Or for the Internet. Definitely not for the Internet. Blogs and shit. Or on Facebook.

  Why not?

  I dunno. It’s just sort of private. My life, I mean. And the Professor’s and even the fucking Shyster’s. In spite of the fact that we’re on the Internet and anybody who wants to can look us up and think they know all about us, it’s still our life. It’s all we got. Know what I mean?

  Don’t worry, Kid, it’s not my kind of material. Besides, as long as you and I and Gloria know what really happened out there at the canal, it doesn’t matter if no one else knows.

  Yeah, but we don’t. We don’t know what really happened out there.

  We know what we believe, Kid. That’s all anyone gets in this life.

  Yeah. Sure. The Kid gives the Writer a small wave and hefts his backpack onto his shoulders. He lifts his duffel off the ground and steps with care over the guardrail as if about to trespass. Slowly he makes his way down the steep slope and disappears from the Writer’s sight into the heavy wet shadows beneath the Causeway.

  For a few moments the Writer sits in the car trying to imagine the life the Kid will lead down there. Then he gives up trying—not his kind of material—puts the Town Car in gear, makes a quick U-turn and enters the flow of traffic heading toward Calusa and drives away.

  FROM THE HEAPS OF TRASH PILED BY THE water’s edge the Kid like a shipwrecked sailor scavenges a batch of two-by-fours and a sopped sheet of paint-stained polyethylene. In bright sunlight a dozen or so feet above the high-tide line he props the two-by-fours into an upside-down conical frame, ties the poles together at the top with a piece of found wire, and covers the frame with the plastic sheeting. Two hours later he’s built himself an eight-foot-tall rainproof teepee with a wide view of the Bay and the skyscrapers of downtown Calusa. Sweet.

  He stashes his belongings inside his teepee, then stands outside it for a moment in the late-afternoon breeze and admires his work. Things could be worse than they are, he notes. A ragged ridge of pink-edged clouds has moved in from the east. The sunset should be awesome. He scans the concrete islet to see if there’s anything else worth salvaging—a plastic cooler or some cooking utensils, maybe a bucket to use for a toilet. Finding nothing useful he glances into the darker recesses of the Causeway for the first time and realizes that he’s being watched. Probably has been watched from the beginning. He’s not as alone on his island as he thought.

  It’s Paco. Senor On-Your-Own. Still the bodybuilder, still wearing his muscle shirt and nylon gym shorts, his Harley on its kickstand parked off to one side, his old weight bench on the other, some kind of junk wood and wallboard shanty behind him. Wherever Paco fled when the hurricane hit it must have been deemed illegal once the storm passed out to sea. The dude had nowhere else to go.

  By way of greeting him Paco slowly lifts and folds his ham-size arms across his chest and nods his heavy head twice. The Kid nods back. Having adjusted his sight to the darkness back there he can make out now a few more shadowy figures lurking amid what appears to be the beginnings of a resettlement, one that’s modeled on the old settlement but a lesser more dilapidated version—a collection of hovels that he initially thought was just trash and tide- and storm-tossed wreckage heaped up against the inner supports of the Causeway. It’s the squalid remnants of the old colony. And the remnants of the colonists.

  Coming forward from the gloom is P.C. wearing a crooked smile of recognition although he’s not exactly welcoming the Kid with open arms and beyond P.C. stands the Greek holding a large adjustable wrench in his hand and behind him are a half-dozen other impassive men—among them red-haired Ginger, the goofball Froot Loop and finally in his navy blue lawyer’s suit and stained white shirt and loosened tie there stands the Shyster. They all regard the Kid with an expression mingling welcome with suspicion that to the Kid signifies a reluctant acceptance of his presence among them. It’s as if thanks to the chaos of the hurricane the men living under the Causeway pulled off a mass jailbreak, but then one by one each man was hunted down in most cases probably by no one other than himself, captured by himself and returned by himself to his cell. They gaze almost mournfully out of the shadows at him, as if his return is the final proof of their collective defeat. As if their last hope after the storm was that he alone of the original settlers, the last of the lost colonists and the first, the youngest and the scrappiest, had somehow permanently escaped. And now by coming back to the Causeway he’s let them down. Of all the settlers the Kid was the one thought most likely to survive above the Causeway among normal people. And if the Kid is back it’s certain that those who haven’t yet returned will soon be caught and brought back too—by the police or their parole officers or caseworkers. Or if not caught and returned by the authorities, they like the Kid will catch and bring themselves back here on their own. There’s no escape from under the Causeway.

  No one steps forward to greet him; no one says anything.

  Wussup, Paco, the Kid finally says.

  You pitch your tent too far out in the light, man. They can see you from the highway.

  P.C. says, New rules, Kid. We can’t stay here unless no one can see us. So you better take down your tent and move it and your shit all the way inside like the rest of us.

  The Kid squints and looks past the group into the jumbled damp darkness that surrounds them. No way, man. You guys’re like fucking bats scared of the light living inside a wall. I ain’t moving in there.

  The Shyster says, We don’t have much of a choice, Kid. And they don’t either.

  “They”? Who’re “they”?

  The police. The authorities. The upholders of the law. And those who make the law, the frightened citizens of Calusa.

  Yeah, well, fuck them. And besides, scumbag, I don’t want you living next to me. I don’t even want you talking to me, man. Suddenly the Kid’s heart is pounding and he’s breathing rapidly and hard. He spits on the ground to calm himself, looks straight at the Shyster, focuses his mind and in a voice barely above a whisper he says, Big Daddy.

  The Shyster raises his eyebrows as if surprised by hurt feelings. Or in mockery of surprise. Or both. You’re
judging me? Really, Kid? You think you’re better than I am? Sorry to break it to you, but no matter what we’re guilty of, we’re all down here for the same reason. That includes you.

  The Kid turns away and starts back to his teepee. At the entrance flap he stops, spins on his heels and calls back to the Shyster, I seen your e-mails, man! I know what you did! You and Doctor Hoo!

  Ah! So you have my briefcase. I wondered where it ended up. Better you, I suppose, than the police.

  You want it back? You can have it. The e-mails make me want to puke, man. They’re so dirty they make everything they touch dirty. I thought I’d seen dirt before but nothing comes close to the e-mails between you and Doctor Hoo. Nothing. Too bad you didn’t fucking drown yourself like he did.

  Drown? Again the Shyster raises his eyebrows as if in mock surprise. It’s his default facial expression. Poor old Doctor Hoo is certainly dead, which turned out to be a problem for me. But he didn’t drown.

  Yeah? How’d the fucker die, then?

  Oh, he shot himself in the head. Right after I was arrested, unfortunately. Nearly two years ago. Before my trial. You might as well burn those papers, Kid. I don’t know why I kept them. They’re of no use to anyone now, not even to me. They were part of my defense, which obviously didn’t work, and ended up in the trial transcript. I would like the briefcase back, however. And my Bible.

  What’re you telling me? The Kid has made his way back to the Shyster and stands close enough to him now to see the man’s nearly black pupils—they’re opaque. Nothing visible on the other side. Like the eyes of a snake. What d’you mean, they were part of your defense?

  The jury didn’t buy my claim that by posing online as Big Daddy I was merely trying to entrap a child molester who happened to be a well-respected Calusa pediatrician known in certain Internet circles as Doctor Hoo. It’s the old legal strategy of trying to confuse the jury or at least one member of the jury by providing too much information. One holdout and you’ve got a hung jury. Surprised me that the judge admitted the e-mails as evidence, since by then the good doctor was dead and no longer available to testify on his own behalf. Or on mine, as it were. Wasted effort.