FIVE
Rachel and I married two years later. Was I attracted to her mental aberrations? Does darkness call to darkness?
The product of our marriage was spoiled. Our son, Albert, was born mentally retarded, and as he entered adolescence and physical adulthood, he became prone to unpredictable outbursts of violence. Secretly, I blamed Rachel for our damaged offspring, and she, in turn, secretly blamed me.
We did not know at first that Albert was incomplete. His arrival from the hospital was ripe with hopes and dreams of a secure future. As I suppose happens all too often, we invested the arrival of our son with magical, healing qualities for all aspects of our lives. My job, I believed, would take on new meaning; life would not seem pointless. And Rachel, I’m sure, bargained on reawakened passion from her indifferent husband and a wider focus to dilute the glare of her maniacal love, saving both husband and son from wilting in the intense rays of her emotion.
And, indeed, these prophecies seemed to be realized. I really did find an unremembered vigor in life and a renewed closeness to Rachel. I felt that our lives were on the right path, the correct course. And if Albert was a little late in reaching some of his developmental milestones, surely it was nothing to worry about. Surely he would soon begin to make up for lost time and amaze us all with his innate intelligence. But inevitably, relatives and friends began to voice aloud the questions that we had not yet dared voice ourselves.
“Shouldn’t he be talking by now?”
“He never makes a sound.”
“Are all babies this quiet?”
“His eyes. Don’t they look strange?”
We took him to many doctors, specialists, organizations, each with a differing opinion. It was hard to say for sure, they told us. Difficult to pin down an exact cause. But, in the end, a diagnosis was agreed upon. No one’s fault, they said. Fragile X. A soft X chromosome. Unavoidable. No way of foretelling. These things happen.
We resolved, as I imagine all parents in such situations do, to love Albert. We would raise him, love him as though he were normal. Rachel carried the brunt of the responsibility. She devoted her life to ensuring the quality of his. She took him to special classes, hospitals, learning centers. And through her sheer will, her withering love, she taught him basic life skills. He learned to perform tasks that the doctors told us he would never accomplish. Dressing himself, feeding himself, bathing, grooming, continence. And when he reached age fourteen, we had the perfect five-year-old. A five-year-old teenager who thought it natural to strike out at those who slighted him in any perceived way. A five-year-old adolescent who put his mother in the hospital for one rigid week after smashing in her skull with a crystal ashtray when she scolded him for a toileting accident.
SIX
I have never cared for my work. It is too clichéd to contemplate, but I took a job with my father-in-law’s company, Lawson Systems Financial Risk Management. I arrived every day at eight and spent nine hours behind my desk in my small office. I brought my lunch and ate it at the desk. I signed papers and drew graphs. There was certainly nothing dramatic in my responsibilities. My work was competent, drawing neither praise nor condemnation.
As I say, I have never cared for my work. But during our son’s upbringing, I applied myself to the job as never before. And an amazing thing happened. I was successful. Raises followed promotions, and respect followed these. I excelled at the not always legal task of peering into the financial lives of others. At times, my duties were more akin to a hacker than a pencil pusher.
A certain tension remained between me and Rachel, but she enjoyed my success. Rode my coattails. I became, in years, a top executive. Rival companies vied to steal me away. But I remained loyal to my own. I reached a plateau where I could rise no higher. Just as Rachel had reached her own plateau with our son. He was too violent, too unpredictable for her to safely manage. After her injury and hospitalization, a change seemed mandated.
It was at this time that we finally decided to institutionalize Albert.
SEVEN
At first, we visited Albert every week. The halls of the institution were brightly lit and carried sound alarmingly well. It was impossible to discern if the scream you heard was right behind you or yards ahead into the brightness. The smell of industrial disinfectant (a smell I associated with Band-Aids from my boyhood), though it permeated the atmosphere, could not quite mask the odor of human life exerting itself at its most biological level. Rachel’s newly permed hair glowed like a curly halo in the bright fluorescent light as we made our way down the corridor. Later, that night, as we performed our dutiful sex act, I would smell vestiges of the disinfectant in the curls.
Albert’s suite (Mrs. Jones, the matronly administrator, used this word—suite—six times when originally describing to us the accommodations) was nicely, if practically, furnished. No glass, no hard angles, lightbulbs secured behind metal cages, all furniture securely bolted to the floor. On one visit, before entering Albert’s room, we stood in the doorway and watched as our son interacted with Jack, his suitemate (another selection from Mrs. Jones’s argot).
“Albert, Albert, did you hear what I said to you? I said, good day, sunshine.”
Albert, sitting on his bed, uncrossed and then recrossed his legs. He rocked back and forth.
“Albert,” Jack said, “did you hear what I said? I called you sunshine!”
Albert continued to rock back and forth, but Jack was insistent. “I called you sunshine! Albert! Albert!”
Albert rocked even faster yet; he grunted and smoothed his hands over his hair. Classic signs of Albert’s growing agitation. He yelled at Jack. “Leave Albert alone! Jack, leave Albert alone!”
Jack apparently recognized the danger in Albert’s voice. He skulked past me and Rachel, muttering to anyone who might care, “Jeez, all I did was call you sunshine.”
Albert saw his parents watching him. He jumped from the bed and ran to us. “Mommy, Daddy! Albert did bad wrong. Albert did bad wrong.” Bad wrong was Albert’s newest catch-phrase. He used it whenever he saw us. Apparently, Albert had decided that his sentence at the institution was the result of his wrongdoing. And he was right.
Our visits grew less frequent. Albert aged physically. He grew into something of a hulk. A mostly silent giant who looked like neither me nor Rachel. At one point, there was talk of a group home for Albert. As Mrs. Jones described it, a group home is a noninstitutional setting for those with developmental disabilities similar to Albert’s. A group home is staffed with workers called houseparents. Living in a group home was apparently a great advantage. The list of applicants was long, but Albert was considered a prime candidate. The group home would offer something that Albert would find at no institution no matter how advanced its therapies. It would offer him normalization. Mrs. Jones used this word—normalization—in our meetings. Over and over, she repeated the word as though it obtained some magical quality when spoken aloud. Normalization. Normalization. Normalization. Your son is now normal.
Or perhaps the magic the word wove was on Rachel and me. With a wave of the bureaucratic wand, your son no longer lives in a barren institution. You are now free from guilt. Please return to your former lives. Your son now lives in a normal home, just like you. You can visit him there, just as you would visit a son who was normal. You can return to your normal lives. Everything is normal now.
A month before he was to move to the group home, Albert killed his suitemate, Jack, in a dispute over a pair of socks. We never heard the word normalization again. Albert did move, however. He was transferred to a larger facility called the Hendrix Institute, where he is given daily doses of Mellaril, Haldol, and Ativan. The few times we have visited him there, he has been only semiconscious. His clothes were soiled with fecal matter, drool slicked his unshaved chin, and scratches covered his face—self-inflicted from his ragged, broken fingernails. Neither Rachel nor I have ever spoken of objecting to this heavy regimen of antipsychotics and sedatives. Why would we?
EIGHT
After sex, Rachel sleeps. Content. My semen her trophy. Stolen from me and locked secretly away inside. She has me. She will never let me go.
I learned long ago that to deny Rachel her trophy is to risk anything, everything. She will grow suspicious. Become moody. She will smoke incessant cigarettes. Her sleep, if it comes at all, will be broken and restless. I must consent to her rape or suffer the consequences. She will pick fights. Demean my manhood. She will cry, say that I do not love her, never have. Her fingers will seek out her hair, coiling clumps of it. Twirl. Twirl. Twirl. Strands will loosen. Twirl. Bald spots appear. Twirl. Scabs grow. Twirl. I give in. She has won.
After sex I lie awake in the darkness. A victim. I think of Albert. Would things be different if he were here for Rachel to love? As it is, all of Rachel’s energies are focused on me. I am Rachel’s world. Her work in progress. I wonder if Albert knows the dark. Where is his basement? Where is his dark place? But then I see that he was born to the darkness. He has never lived with the others in the top of the house. The basement, the dark, is all that he knows. He is satisfied, I think.
NINE
In a moment of sudden clarity, I call Monty from my office. When I tell him my plan and what I need from him, he denies me.
“That’s fine,” I say, not willing to give up this last bit of fortitude I’ve found. “I’ll just hire someone else.”
Monty sighs over the phone. “First of all, I’m a criminal defense lawyer. I don’t do divorces. Secondly, all I’m saying is give it time. I don’t think you’re thinking clearly.”
Oh, but I am, I am. “You don’t understand. She’s . . . She . . . When we have sex, it’s as if she . . . If she doesn’t get it, she gets suspicious.”
“Lots of women get a little crazy when they don’t get sex.”
“No, that’s not what—”
“I know, I know. Listen, all I want to know is, is she forty million crazy? That’s what her old man’s worth. I checked. Are you willing to give up that kind of money? Seriously.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
“You don’t? Not the money, not the house, not the car, not the job? Oh, you thought, after you label his daughter as psychotic in divorce court, her father would say, ‘No, Adam, your job is safe; as a matter of fact, we’re promoting you. Keep the car, too. In fact, keep the house; we’ll put the crazy bitch in a loony bin. I’ll adopt you. You’ll be my heir.’”
But I didn’t care, not then, I really didn’t. “Are you going to file the divorce papers for me, or do I go to someone else?”
In my mind’s eye, I could picture Monty on the other end of the line, grinning one of his famous smiles, all teeth and blindingly white. “Okay, okay. Do this. Wait three months. Three months. Can you do that? If you still feel the same way, I know a guy in family law. One of the best.”
I acquiesced, certain that I would feel even more strongly about it in a few months.
But I didn’t. The months came and went, and I didn’t feel the same sense of urgency. My moment of clarity had passed.
TEN
One night, I work late. I am tracking down the lost funds of James Tritt, an important client. I explore curvy electronic paths in my search for Mr. Tritt’s lost money. This is my forte. No human contact is involved, just a faintly glowing computer terminal to light my solitary investigations. I have called Rachel to tell her that I miss her, that I hope to be home soon, but the truth is that I prefer the company of this quietly humming machine to that of my wife. My machine responds to me in ways that I can foresee and easily understand.
My secretary, Grace, has diligently stayed late with me. I imagine, foolishly, that she merely wants to appear ambitious. She drops a stack of folders on my desk.
“How’s it coming?”
I blink at her, having momentarily forgotten how to communicate on a purely human level.
“Well, believe it or not, I think I’m finally on to something.”
Grace moves around the desk. She stands too close to me, leans over my shoulder to see the computer screen.
“What is it?”
“Well, it seems that Mr. James Tritt isn’t always James Tritt.”
“I don’t get it.”
I don’t really want to let her into my electronic world, but at the same time I welcome the opportunity to show off my skills. I press a few keys, and confidential bank documents appear on the screen.
“Sometimes he’s Jimmy. Tritt named his son after himself, and I think that James Junior has been using his father’s identity.”
“How can you know that?”
“If I have James Junior’s social security number, this program lets me look into his personal accounts at any institution. The deposits and investments correspond to the amounts missing from the father’s accounts.”
Grace squeezes my shoulder. The gesture is just that—a gesture, a simple nonverbal communication. You did it. Congratulations. All the same, I feel awkward. Grace has been my secretary for only a year, and this is the first time that I can recall physical contact between us. The squeeze lingers a moment longer than it should. Then her other hand joins the first. She begins to lightly massage my shoulders. I try to act as though I am grateful, as if I am at ease with this casual contact, while in fact I am not comfortable with it at all. I put my hand over hers. Pat it lightly and pull away.
“Listen, Grace, I’m almost finished here. You should go home.”
“You sure? I can stay.”
“No, really, you should go.”
“You know, I really don’t mind staying.”
“No.”
Later, I call Rachel again. She answers on the seventh ring. Immediately I recognize the alcohol in her voice. I hear the television in the background. She tries to disguise her drunkenness but overcompensates, pronouncing each word with excruciating accuracy. She sounds like a drunk trying not to sound drunk. I know that soon she will dip into her pharmaceutical supply and augment her drunkenness with a carefully chosen pill. Depending on the pill chosen, I know that when I arrive home later I will be greeted by either a catatonic stupor or the ravings of a maniac whose lunacy is directed toward me.
“I’m just wrapping up. Thirty minutes. No more.”
I try to sound casual, pretend that I don’t know she is drunk. I say a silent prayer for catatonia.
“I love you, too,” I say. It is my catechism to ward off evil. The office door opens. Grace stands in the doorway holding a carton of take-out food. I hang up the phone.
“I thought you were going home.”
“I figured you hadn’t eaten all day. I got Chinese.”
After we’ve eaten, I walk Grace to her car in the underground parking lot. This late at night, the lot is mostly empty. Our footsteps sound lonely. Grace hooks her arm through mine.
“I really appreciate your walking me.”
“I really appreciate the dinner.”
She tightens her grasp on my arm. “You should come over to my place. Have a drink. Unwind a little.”
I don’t respond. I try to imagine what it would be like to enjoy the company of a sane woman. I wonder how my life might be different had I chosen another wife. Did I really ever have a choice? Does Grace carry some silent badge of incipient insanity, some telltale sign that she is unstable? Is that why I find myself attracted to her? Or is she what she appears to be—an intelligent, attractive woman? Is this my opportunity for a second chance? I imagine myself making love to this woman, not submitting to her, but enjoying her body as she enjoys mine. I imagine myself gaining strength and insight from her. I imagine this small infidelity changing me in some intrinsic way. I imagine myself leaving Rachel.
“Oh, come on! It would be fun. Live a little.”
I feel the change welling up inside me. I feel mischievous, giddy, and alive. “Well, maybe just for—”
A horrible moan oozes from Grace’s slack mouth. Her grasp on my arm tightens painfully. Her car is in front of u
s. The windshield is smashed. The glass is cracked and opaque like a cataract.
“Oh, my God! My car! Jesus Christ. Who ...”
All four of the tires have been mercilessly slashed. Chunks and ribbons of black rubber litter the area. A kitchen knife protrudes from one of the tires. I extricate myself from Grace’s grip. I have to squat down and leverage myself against the wheel to pull the knife out. I put it in my coat pocket.
“I can’t fucking believe this! I can’t even fucking imagi—”
I back away from the car. Away from Grace.
“What are you doing?”
I back away. I look at the ground, because I can’t look at her. My feet carry me away from her. “I’m sorry. I have to.”
“Have to? Have to what? Where the fuck are you going? You can’t leave me here!”
“I’m sorry,” I say. There is nothing else for me to say.
“You can’t leave me here!”
But I can, and I do.
When I get home, all the lights are off. I walk through the dark house and into the kitchen. I take the knife from my pocket and return it to the vacant spot in the cutlery block.
In the bedroom, I submit to Rachel. The sex act is animalistic. She is vicious. She scratches me until I bleed. Scratches herself. She cries out in her climax. Sweaty and blood-smeared, she dismounts me.
Later, we lie facing away from each other. Her breathing is deep and regular. I close my eyes.
“You know that if you ever cheated on me, I’d kill the slut. You know that, don’t you? Then I’d kill you.”
I know. I know. I know. I know.
“I know.”
ELEVEN
After reaching my apogee as a professional, after sentencing my son to the subcellar of psychotropic medications, after surrendering myself to the prison of marriage, I seek out the services of a psychiatrist. I do this by looking in the Yellow Pages of our local telephone directory. This strikes me as pedestrian, but I know of no other way to go about it. I, of course, do not tell Rachel.
A Very Simple Crime Page 2