“I hate to say this, baby,” Mom said. “But we may need to make her smaller.”
“What are you saying?”
“You know.” She paused, made a sawing motion with her hand. “Make her easier to carry.”
“Are you insane?” I asked.
“We could get something handheld. Something that doesn’t make a lot of noise.”
“Out of the question.”
“Okay,” she said. She bit her thumb and crossed her legs. She wore gym shorts to sleep in, nondescript maroon mesh, exposing her legs. Varicose veins crisscrossed her calves like tubes of blueberry syrup.
“You have a better idea?” she asked.
We ended up stuffing her body into the empty box that had housed our son’s crib. We had to bend her knees and cross her arms for her to fit, duct taping the lid shut as best we could. Her body contorted the box, bulging here and there, the lid distorted and the cardboard bending, but it was the best we could do under the circumstances. Together, we scooted the box onto the dolly I still hadn’t returned to the super.
“This is a bad idea,” Mom said.
To our left was a full-length mirror, and she was right: this was a bad idea—we looked like we were disposing a dead body.
“Do you have any others?”
She blinked at me. She had none.
“Okay,” I said. “On three.”
We walked out of the apartment. The hallway was clear, and so were the stairs. I walked backwards toward the elevator, pulling the dolly while Mom pushed the button for the ground level. The elevator was empty, and through a low-quality speaker, a smooth jazz song played, the horns muffled under static. It reminded me of my father’s CB radio he’d used when storm chasing, garbled voices singing out warnings of approaching storms. My mother tapped her foot along with the beat, her head bobbing like we were about to go out shopping or see a movie instead of dispose of her dead daughter-in-law. This didn’t anger me as I thought it should. Instead, I found her reaction intriguing, her ability to dismiss the gravity of the situation around her, finding small joys in a terrible, generic song. I wondered if this represented her ingrained disposition or if it was rather the result of years of medication to treat her various mental illnesses. Regardless, it made me think of the pills Dr. White had prescribed me, if they would grant me serenity despite even the most tragic of circumstances. The thought, I had to admit, sounded appealing.
The foyer was empty, the front desk abandoned since we’d moved in years before. No one gathered their mail from the in-wall boxes. During the day, kids would sometimes play just outside the door, bouncing those red rubber balls from elementary school gym class, or just sit at the foot of the stairs, have a conversation out of earshot from their eavesdropping parents, but near midnight, the street was fortunately quiet. Every few minutes or so, a car would rumble past, its windows tinted, the passengers shrouded in darkness. But they didn’t even slow down when they passed.
A few blocks away, we tried to dispose of her in a dumpster on the outskirts of the Dot, but she was too heavy. I was on one end and Mom on the other, but we couldn’t lift her past our waists. We stood there arguing about what to do. Mom wanted to just leave her there on the ground, to run away, start some place new, Quebec or Rio, hell, catch a flight to Amsterdam, but I told her we couldn’t. “People would come looking,” I told her. “We’d always be on the run.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
I looked around us. It was dark, and with every second that ticked by, I became more paranoid that we would be caught, but no one stopped us or asked us what we were doing. No one cared. There were no witnesses.
Eventually, I found a discarded wooden crate and some lumber leaning against the side of a building. I selected a 2x4 that seemed sturdy, that hadn’t been warped by the elements or weakened by wood rot. There were bags of trash next to the dumpster, the purveyor of the neighboring noodle shop too lazy or too busy to throw them into the dumpster. I tore them away, looking for something I could use. Mostly, it was just food trash. Uneaten plates of ramen and pad thai, paper plates and napkins, the stench debilitating and overwhelming. I had to fight back dry heaves, and I tried not to breathe altogether. Eventually, I found something I could use: a long extension cord, the prongs broken off.
“A fulcrum and lever,” I said.
“What?”
“A fulcrum and lever. And a pulley. Look.” I placed a small, wooden crate a few feet from the dumpster and the 2x4 on top of it. Together we scooted the box onto the end of the 2x4 nearest the dumpster. I then tied my belt around the box and the extension cord onto my belt.
“When I say, I need you to stand and jump on the other end,” I said, pointing to the empty side of the 2x4. I then climbed into the dumpster, holding the other end of my makeshift rope.
“Now,” I said.
Mom started to jump, and I pulled, but it was still difficult. I could feel the box becoming lighter, it lifting into the air, and I struggled and grunted and pulled.
“Push!” I yelled. “Push the box.”
It got lighter still, my mother on the other side of the dumpster wall pushing the box from below. Eventually, we got it over the lip, and the box came crashing into the dumpster. It landed on my hand, and I felt a pop in my wrist. It hurt, but I couldn’t bring myself to look. I just pulled my hand out from underneath, my extremities throbbing from the pain, and climbed out without looking back.
The next morning, I went to the lab as scheduled. When I walked in, I expected someone to confront me. I expected them to be able to read my crime on my face, by how I said hello or how I sat at the mainframe computer. They’d know something was wrong because they’d still be able to smell the booze even though I’d taken three showers. They’d see I hadn’t slept and just know. Murderer, they would say. How could you do such a thing? How could you murder your beautiful wife who you loved dearly and who loved you and who was carrying your child? Your child, Coulter? Your child. How could you? And I would say I don’t know. I did love her. I do love her still. It was an accident. I swear it was.
But they didn’t, of course. They smiled and gave slight nods of their head. They told me they enjoyed the baby shower, asked if we had gotten home safely, Sara’s and my plans for the weekend. No one noticed anything was wrong. It made me think that life would be much easier if we wore signs around our necks. They would tell our secrets and what we’re unable or too embarrassed or too ashamed to say out loud. Dr. Cardoza’s would say that she was harsh on other people’s work because she hasn’t been able to live up to what she considers her potential. Dr. Brinkman’s would say he feared he had peaked twenty years before or that he regretted never having children. Our neighbor Becky’s could say that she wanted to leave her husband but was too afraid to do so. Maybe people would be more apt to help then. They wouldn’t turn the other cheek when they thought someone was in trouble and chalk up their decision not to help as the right thing, minding their own business. I wanted to tell someone what I had done. I was desperate to tell someone. But I didn’t know how or who I should tell. How could I explain my actions? How could I explain that I’d disposed of the body because I didn’t know what else to do? I should’ve gone to the police right away. But I was scared and drunk and it was easier to be told what to do. It was easier not to make my own decisions. That doesn’t excuse what I did. It wasn’t an excuse. It was just the truth. Simple, unalienable fact.
I made a plan. I would leave here. I would pick up my mother. I would lie to her. I would say we’re going to get something to eat. I would tell her we were going to see a movie or that I wanted to introduce her to someone, Dr. Brinkman maybe. It didn’t matter. She would believe me. She would be gullible and would come when I asked. We would get on a bus, I would take her to the police station, and I would tell the truth.
I sat at the mainframe, hitting enter and watching the numbers cascade down the monitor as different Calabi-Yau manifolds ran through the universal characteri
stic matrices. Enter. Fail. Enter. Fail. It became hypnotizing in a way. The monotony of the enterprise let my mind wander and let me seem inconsequential and unimportant. What I did didn’t matter; therefore, I could stay like this forever, in perpetual motion. Unless something came and stopped me, caused some friction, I would sit here. It could be in an hour or two, if another student had reserved the mainframe. It could be later when the janitor came to clean and mop the floors. It might be hunger or the urge to use the restroom. Eventually, I knew something would deter me. But for now I was content with postponing my confession for as long as I could. I would sit here until I couldn’t any longer. Then I would go to the cops. I would confess and lead them to the body and let the system decide what punishment befitted my crime.
Enter.
Fail.
Enter.
Fail.
The lab was busy as usual. Finals were approaching, and students busied themselves with projects, experiments, and papers that needed wrapping up. They corroborated over calculations estimating the distance to a perceived black hole. They hunched over microscopes and argued over equations scribbled onto a chalkboard, and I couldn’t help but think of ways to kill myself. I wouldn’t want to make it a public spectacle, so I couldn’t do it there in the lab. I could walk out to the Charles and wade into the deep part of the river. But it was so cold. It would be difficult to make it a few steps without confronting the overwhelming desire to turn around and warm up. There were proton lasers here in the lab. I could borrow one. No one would really say anything. I could take it down into my office, turn it on, and stick my face in front of it. I wondered if it would hurt or if the wound would be cauterized and if the nerve endings would be burnt away so that I wouldn’t feel a thing.
Enter.
Fail.
Enter.
Fail.
But that wouldn’t be fair. Not to Sara. Not to Isaac. Not to my mother and father and Sara’s parents. They deserved the truth. They deserved to know what happened and what I had done. They deserved to see justice, or some semblance of it anyway, tight handcuffs clasped to my wrists as I am led away to prison. At least there will be closure. At least they could collect her remains and take them home and have some place to visit when they get lonely and sad. At first they would go all the time. They would go twice a week. Thursdays at lunch because it had been too long. Sundays after church because they would drive right by her grave anyway. Then it would fall to once a week. Then bi-weekly. They would stop going to church. They would withdraw and silently blame each other. They should’ve known I was no good for their little girl. And the other one should’ve done something about it.
Enter.
Fail.
Enter.
Fail.
Soon they’d start to resent each other. They’d secretly hate each other. Both would be too afraid to say anything aloud, though, or take any action. Gary, Sara’s father, would bury himself in his hobbies. He would restore old WWII coding machines, T-89s and the Enigma, if he could find one. He’d collect classic car carburetors, and they would ionize and collect dust in his garage. He’d write un-publishable editorials to the Oklahoman supporting unheard of and minor legislation. Marissa, Sara’s mom, would drink. She’d drink Bud Light and get into arguments with bartenders over what constituted a domestic beer during happy hours. She would try to tell them that Anheuser-Busch was bought by Belgians and that Miller and Coors were bought by South Africans and try to get a discount on Sam Adams because, “When the hell did Massachusetts secede from the Union?” She’d never win, though.
Enter.
Fail.
Enter.
Fail.
They’d separate eventually and file for divorce. They might end up alone or they might meet someone new. A divorcee like themselves. Or maybe a widower. Someone else who was alone and grieving and willing to say okay to someone new because it was better than being alone.
Dad would be destroyed. He’d probably blame himself and his relationship with my mother as the cause of this tragedy. For years he would analyze his own failed marriage and produce countless scenarios, wondering if he would have done something just a little bit differently, made one single different decision, would things have turned out better? The way they should’ve been. If he had gotten Mom help sooner, went to couples therapy weekly, twice a week, every single day, hadn’t had that fling with that grad student, she wouldn’t have been depressed and she wouldn’t have tried to kill herself and he wouldn’t have asked her to leave. They would’ve been happy and I would’ve been happy and there would be no way that I would’ve killed my wife. There’d be no way I could be capable of something so terrible.
Enter.
Fail.
Enter.
Fail.
Mom would disappear again, if she hadn’t already. She’d move someplace new this time, Salt Lake City or maybe even out of the country. Vancouver. Chile. Someplace safe and conservative and where she could get a job at a pet store taking care of fish and puppies. She might even fall in love with one of them, a little min-pin that hobbles around on three legs even though the fourth is just fine. She’ll call him Albatross for no particular reason at all and one night, when she has been promoted to night manager and is closing the store, she’ll take little Albatross home and feed him little chopped up pieces of hot dog. She’ll potty train him and take him on walks and cuddle with him on the couch when they watch reality TV and The Weather Channel. She’ll buy him little sweaters because they’re just too darn cute and because she can’t say no. It’ll feel good to be responsible for something again. The pills will help her forget about me and my father and what could’ve been and she’ll be happy with a little dog.
Enter.
Fail.
Enter.
Fail.
Dr. Brinkman will question why he hadn’t seen what I was capable of before. During the interview process prior to accepting me into the program. During all our research together as he enlightened me about the origins of the universe, his quiet belief that big bangs are a common phenomenon, that we are but one of many of these bubble universes in a quilted and layered multiverse, and that one day ours would simply run out of energy and soon pop, destroying everything. Or when he explained that because the multiverse is infinite everything is doomed to repeat itself, but we’ll also have a second opportunity to make a different decision, even if it takes a billion millennia. We’d have the opportunity to right our mistakes. He’ll wonder if he had maybe played a small part in the tragedy. He’ll second-guess his decision to steer me in a new direction in my dissertation, warning that if I continued on with my current research that I might not be recommended for a doctorate. He will regret putting so much pressure on me. Later, when it comes to other students, he’ll become more lenient. The students will become less stellar. They will achieve less, and the institution will become second-tier, taking a backseat to Stanford and CalTech. Dr. Brinkman will be pushed out with Dr. Cardoza taking over. Brinkman won’t mind this so much. He’ll retire and spend more time with his wife and they will travel overseas, in the Mediterranean and through Switzerland all the while thinking how nice it would’ve been to have children of their own.
Enter.
Fail.
Enter.
Success.
I will go to jail. I will go to the police station and be arrested and arraigned and appointed a public defender. She’ll be right out of law school and living in a studio apartment above a consignment shop. It might even be close to my place. She will not have any sympathy for me. She will not offer any forgiveness because I will take responsibility for my actions. In fact, she will hate me. She will loathe me and secretly hope that I go to prison for the rest of my life and she will hate the fact that she has to defend me. She will question why she hadn’t listened to her mother and joined the Peace Corps like she’d wanted or gone to Juilliard to pursue her music or become a cobbler like her father, whatever the case may be. But she will be pro
fessional, and she will give me sound advice. I’ll reject most of it because I couldn’t fathom not being punished as much as I should be punished. I’ll start to think of myself as a martyr and be ashamed that I think this. I won’t tell anyone that, of course.
Because I plead guilty, the judge will move sentencing in a month’s time to expedite the process and save taxpayers some money. I’ll stay in county during the interim. I’ll eat Go-gurt and instant mashed potatoes and reflect on what I had done and what could’ve been. There won’t be much else to think about. I’ll make an attempt to become adjusted to my new life. I’ll tell myself there is some value in its predictability and its structure. Awake by 7:00 a.m. and breakfast by 7:15 after head count. After that, I’ll be taken to work. I’ll make license plates and road signs. Armed guards will take me to clean up trash by the highway. After work I’ll be given an hour free time before dinner. Being county and not a prison, there won’t be as many amenities. There won’t be a basketball court or workout equipment. There won’t be cable television and a library to check out books. I’ll write letters to family members and legislators and my lawyer. Most will go without a response. Lights out by 7:15.
My sentencing will be agreed upon by both the state and by the judge. I’ll be convicted of second-degree murder, the desecration of human remains, tampering with evidence, and the illegal disposal of a body. All felonies. I’ll be sentenced to fifty years with the possibility for parole in twenty-seven. At some point in time, I’ll be released, and I’ll have the possibility for another life. I’ll move somewhere in the Midwest. Kansas or Nebraska or maybe Iowa. I’ll get a job as a janitor or barista or stocking shelves at a municipal library. I might even make some friends. I might have a chance to find joy again.
Enter.
Success.
Enter.
Success.
I will grow old and work until I die. A few friends will show up to my funeral, and they will say nice things about me because they wouldn’t know any better. Soon, they will die, and memories of me along with them.
An Elegant Theory Page 17