Afterlife

by Douglas Clegg

  “No,” she said. Thinking of what she saw in Apartment 66S. The face that was not there. The blur of movement that was the figure of a man. Only not a man. But I am losing it now. I am seeing things that are not there. I won’t mention this to Joe. Not yet. He’ll look at me sweetly and sadly and tell me that it’s normal to see faceless men after a tragic death. “Nothing. I think mom wants me to feel better. She’s got the hots for this psychic.” She brought The Life Beyond out and showed the cover to him, with Michael Diamond on it.

  “Oh, him,” Joe said. “He’s so serious looking, isn’t he? Like the Professor from Gilligan’s Island. I guess I’ve caught his show a couple of times. He’s a complete fake. He has to be. His stuff is too good. When a psychic’s that good, there’s some trick going on. I don’t think psychic stuff is like a McDonald’s or something. I don’t think one psychic can serve a billion customers. I think it’s more personal. You should have a psychic reading sometime. They can be really good. I know this woman who does them. It’s not creepy at all, believe me.”

  8

  After coffee, they walked through the old neighborhood. Joe updated her on each window, who lived there before, who had moved, who was turning into the cat lady, who had become the Neighborhood Watcher, and what had happened to the little old man in the fedora who used to feed pigeons on the rooftop, thus pissing off everyone who lived on the block because of the increased birdshit on the street. They wandered over to a bakery that was renowned for its cupcakes, and split one, and then went over to another bookshop nearby, called Three Lives & Company. It was a small, quaint bookshop packed with books. “Remember this place?”

  She drew a blank. “Sure.”

  He made a face that she could only classify as dimwitted. “Julie. It’s where we met.”

  “Oh,” she said, clapping her hands together. “How could I forget that?”

  “Yeah, some strange chick coming up to me telling me that I shouldn’t read Mary McCarthy because she claimed she was a fascist, when in fact it was Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian I had in my hand.”

  “I don’t know why I was so hard on Mary McCarthy. She wasn’t a fascist at all. I loved The Birds.”

  “And I told you that Ayn Rand wrote books for humorless Sarah Lawrence girls who wanted to get laid but still feel smart afterward,” he said. “And then you said that I was sexist and probably racist and probably homophobic. And I said…”

  “You looked at me as if I had just slapped you hard in the face and said, ‘I can’t be homophobic because I’m a homo,’” she chuckled. “Whatever happened to those two stupid young people?”

  “I don’t know, but I read Atlas Shrugged all the time and it never helped me get laid,” he said.

  Finally, he walked her to where her car was parked, and kissed her on the cheek. “You need anything, I’m here. Rick and I can be out in the ’burbs on a moment’s notice.”

  “I thought you were anti-suburban?”

  “For you,” he said. “I’ll brave the wilds of Jersey. I miss my old buddy. I miss you. I want to see Livy, too. And Matt.”

  “We blocked you out, didn’t we?” she said, sighing.

  “Not really.”

  “No, we did. Hut didn’t like you. I guess I can say that now. I think he thought you were a threat in some way.”

  Joe grinned, big and broad just like he was a wicked kid. “I am the all-powerful Oz.”

  “I can’t throw all the blame on him. I went along with it. I should’ve fought. But I was busy with the kids, and I was busy with the house and my job. And I just let it all go.”

  “Well, none of that matters. We kissed and made up. You’re my old buddy, Julie. And don’t read that Michael Diamond book. Okay? He’s full of it. Go get a John Edward book. Or even Sylvia Browne. She’s good. Diamond has something wrong with him. I’ve seen his show. He just gets pretty nasty. I don’t think he helps people at all. He does more damage than good.”

  Another kiss, and Julie was in the car, and driving out to the Westside Highway, to the Lincoln Tunnel, and then, north up to Rellingford, the city vanishing as she entered the suburban wilderness.

  9

  “What do you know about this?” Julie asked, dropping the keys on the table between them.

  Outside, with Matt, on the picnic table in the backyard.

  “They’re keys.”

  “Keys to an apartment on Rosetta Street. You used to go there with your father.”

  “That’s crazy,” he said, looking up at her.

  “Matt, I know this might not be easy for you. I know we’ve had our ups and downs. But I want you to tell me about this. It’s important.”

  “Important to who?”

  “To me.”

  He didn’t look her in the eye. “You’re nosy.”

  She glared at him. “Just tell me.”

  “I feel sorry for you, Julie. I really do. Sometimes I hate you. But I feel bad for you because you’re too much like my mother. You stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  It stung when he said it. He’d never said anything like that to her before. He’s been through Hell. Cut him some slack.

  “All right. Well, you can hate me. It’s okay by me. That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t remember,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means: I don’t remember. Maybe Dad took me there. I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “You mean you don’t want to tell me,” she said, trying to remain calm.

  “God, you are such a fucking bitch,” he spat, his face suddenly going red. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten this over-the-top angry. She’d understood—from Eleanor and from Hut—that Matt had something wired in his brain that just didn’t stop him from taking things too far. Knowing that helped her deal with it. “Why don’t you ask my mother about those keys? Why don’t you fucking ask her? She knows everything. She’s the one who knows it all. Quit fucking bothering me.”

  Julie leaned forward, touching the edge of his hand. “Oh, honey. You know I love you. You know I’m not trying to upset you.”

  “You know I love you,” he mimicked. “Love love love. Fuck this. Just ask her.”

  Julie sat there, stunned. She knew from her sessions with Eleanor that Matt needed to feel safe. That he needed to act out. That he needed to say things that might be hurtful sometimes. It’s part of what he’s dealing with. He’s working out past abuse from his time with his mother.

  “Ask her. Ask her whatever you want. Just leave me the hell alone, bitch.” He swiveled around on the bench and got up, one last look of contempt shot her way, and then stomped off into the house.

  Then, she heard him go on a rampage—something that Hut had only referred to from the past—one of Matt’s fits of rage.

  First, the sound of breaking glass.

  And then, shrieking as if he were hurt.

  10

  In therapy:

  “I can’t convince you not to pursue this?” Eleanor asked.

  Julie shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “What do you think you will accomplish?” “Closure?”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “I’m not. Matt won’t talk to me. Not right now. He’ll yell at me, but not talk. I haven’t heard him swear in a long time. I’m not a prude about language. But it shocked me. It was so…sudden.”

  “Violent?”

  Julie frowned, slightly, nodding. “I didn’t feel threatened. He broke a couple of plates. He tried to slam his fist into the wall. No real damage. He was fine ten minutes later, but he didn’t want to have anything to do with me. Just turned sullen and quiet and I figured I needed to leave him alone for a while. It just seemed… out of the blue.”

  “Anger is normal. You’re being very confrontational, Julie. You must acknowledge that. You know that Matt has limited resources within himself. Whatever happened when he was young can’t just go away. A lot is going on inside him, and his
father’s death probably left him afraid that you’d abandon him, too.”

  Julie raised her eyebrows slightly.

  “I’m not here just to tell you what you want to hear. Look, give him a break. He’s had too much loss in his life. He’s probably afraid that you’ll give him up. You’re not his natural mother. With his father gone, it’s normal for him to have that kind of fear. Plus, you’re digging, and he doesn’t like it.”

  “I feel it’s important.”

  “To whom?”

  “To me.”

  “Why are you asking my permission for this trip?” “You’re my therapist.”

  “I’m not your mother.”

  “She wouldn’t sign my permission slip.”

  “This woman has attempted suicide three times in her life. She has a history of violent behavior. God knows what she did to her son in that short period of time when she raised him, but I doubt she was a fit mother for a child. I just think you’re playing with fire here.”

  11

  Julie called the psychiatric center that afternoon and set up an appointment to see Hut’s first wife.

  Chapter Twelve

  1

  The psych rehab center was just outside Philadelphia in a lovely suburban world (called Greenwood) that had a fringe of country to it. The area was surrounded by woodlands, and she barely saw it off the highway in time to make the turnoff onto Beacon Drive, and from there, to the gates. It looked like an old mansion that had been grafted onto a nursing home, and its bright neo-classic exterior with pergolas and balconies and colonnades belied the monastic sparseness of the interior of the building.

  “She lives in West,” the clerk at the front desk said. “I need you to hand over that bag,” she pointed to the handbag. “Any keys, pens, anything sharp, too.”

  Julie passed her handbag over. “My appointment was at three.”

  “It’s all right. We know traffic can be bad. She probably just had a nap at this point. Go down through the double doors, elevator on right—the red elevator, not green—and take it to the third floor. Make your first left, two doors down is the social worker’s office. That’s Gigi Kaufmann. Gigi. She’ll take you to see her.”

  2

  The social worker was in her mid-fifties, wore thick glasses, and her hair, nearly white, was wrapped around her squarish face like cotton candy. She spoke in a loud whisper, reminding Julie of being a kid in a library. “She was doing great, up until the news in April. I’m afraid it caused her some agitation. But she’s better now, I think.”

  “Is there anything I should know? A way I should talk?” Julie found herself whispering as she spoke.

  The social worker strode down the hall as if she were in a hurry to get this over with. The halls were painted a muted pastel yellow, and they passed other patients’ rooms, which seemed uniformly dreary and white. A woman in bed, her hair a bird’s nest tangle of white, sat up and stared at Julie as if she’d brought bad news. Two men, orderlies, stood at the end of the hallway by the barred window, one sipping coffee, the other gesturing as if toward a third person who was not there.

  “She’s not dangerous to anyone, if that’s what you mean,” the social worker said. “She’s really a model patient. The medication helps, of course. It grounds her in reality a bit. You’ll find her quite chatty.”

  “Is there anything I shouldn’t mention? Any subject matter to avoid?”

  The social worker grinned. There was something uncomfortable in the over-familiarity of the smile, like she was sharing a joke. “Well, all I can say is, don’t talk about sex. She has some hang-ups, as they say.”

  Before Julie could figure out what that comment meant, they were at the doorway marked Amanda Hutchinson. The social worker stopped, checked the clipboard that hung next to the door, and scribbled something across it in pencil. Stuck her head through the open door and announced too loudly, “Hello, Mandy. We’ve got a visitor.”

  3

  “Come over here, sweet pea,” Amanda Hutchinson said, motioning with her hand. Her voice betrayed her southern accent, something that Julie was surprised hadn’t faded away over the years. Amanda had been born in Georgia, had moved with her family to New York when young, and somewhere in there had moved South again before moving back to Manhattan when she and Hut had been together as a couple. She sat in a cushioned chair, near the window. There were ornate scroll-like iron bars across the window, as if the institution wanted to disguise the fact that this was to keep patients from jumping, and instead, made it look like decorative art.

  Julie noticed that mental illness had been kind to Amanda. She didn’t have the look of the others on the hall. She had retained her beauty—at forty—and her mane of jet black hair was shiny and neatly arranged around her shoulders. She wore a minimum of make-up, and her face was a pure white. She had the formal air of a deposed princess that Julie had remembered from a previous visit, before Livy was born. Although, back then, Amanda had been more heavily sedated, and the right meds had not quite been found for her, so she had looked haggard. Now, she positively glowed.

  Julie stepped into the room. It smelled clean and fresh, with a faint pine scent lingering.

  Amanda held her hand up. “Come on, I won’t bite, even though they say I do.”

  Julie grinned, and went to her. Took her hand. “Hello, Amanda.”

  Amanda squeezed her hand a little too tightly, and Julie felt intense heat in the palm of her hand. “Aren’t you just the picture of delicious? You got balls coming here, Mrs. Hutchinson Number Two. Big hairy balls.” She said it in a southern sing-song voice, like she was the mistress of some great plantation.

  “Call me Julie. Please.”

  “I like calling you Number Two Wife. I’m Wife Number One. Mother to the heir apparent. You’re just second in the harem.” She let go of Julie’s hand, finally. Julie noticed that there were faint scars on Amanda’s hands, as if a cat had scratched her up.

  Amanda rubbed one hand over the other, unselfconsciously. She seemed to enjoy the attention. “Tell me, sweet thing, you have any contraband?” She said “contraband” like it had seven syllables, the honeyed southern thing growing a bit old for Julie. It felt like an act.

  Julie tried to keep the slight smile plastered on her face, but it was getting difficult.

  “I just mean cigarettes, dear gaw-ad,” Amanda said, “you look like you thought I was asking for cocaine or something.”

  “Want me to go get you some?”

  Amanda’s eyes twinkled. “He must’ve loved hearing you ask ‘How high?’ whenever he asked you to jump.” She motioned toward a wooden chair in a corner. “Pull that thing over. Just throw all the magazines off.”

  After Julie scooted the chair closer to Amanda’s, she sat down and hesitated before saying, “I’m really glad you agreed to see me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I have nothing to fear now. I’m dispatched like a Queen to the tow-uh. Look at all this,” she laughed, pointing to the TV set on the wall, and narrow bed. “I suppose I’ll be here until the day I die. I’ll be moved downstairs where the little old ladies push their walkers around and talk about how life turned out awful for them. But it’s better than being out there, out where the wild things roam.”

  “You’re not in here against your will,” Julie said.

  Amanda Hutchinson smiled, broadly. She looked down to Julie’s feet, then up her legs, her hips, her waist, her breasts, settling on her face. Julie remembered something that Hut had told her, about Amanda’s ambiguity. She had always thought he’d meant something to do with her indecisiveness, but now wondered if he hadn’t meant that she was bisexual. She certainly seemed to be checking her out the way crude men sometimes had in the past.

  “I completely volunteered for this, believe me.” Amanda turned, and looked out the window: through the bars, the beautiful lawn and the neat rows of boxwoods around a central stone fountain. A bitterness entered her voice. “I have been diagnosed, my dear. It’s a diagnosis that keeps me
safe in the Tower, away from the dreaded Executioner. I wonder if Anne Boleyn longed for the sword to the neck by the time she’d lived in the Tower long enough? I don’t. I don’t want my head to roll. I keep that one awful thing alive. That one terrible thing. Hope. Hope that maybe I’m insane and all these meds will help me. That these Tower walls will keep me safe.”

  Then, she shot a sharp glance back at Julie. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Wife Number Two?”

  “I thought maybe there’d be pieces of Hut’s life that you…well, that we could discuss.”

  “How’s my son?”

  “He’s doing good.”

  Amanda gave her that cat-like look, as if she were playing with her. “I’m surprised.”

  “He’s a…a wonderful boy.”

  “That’s more of a surprise. I haven’t seen him since he was six. He was a pretty little boy. But he’s dead to me, isn’t he? Does he ask about me?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Amanda laughed, full-throated, with something malevolent in the sound. It made Julie nervous. “I bet it’s not good when he does. I bet he gets violent. I bet he curses my name. As well he should. I’m a monstrous mother.” She said this last part as if it was of no consequence. “He’s a little brain-damaged boy.” She watched Julie for a reaction. “I dropped him on his head when he was a baby. I suppose that’s what Hut told you. I beat him until he just got to be damaged goods.”

  Julie was ready. She reined in her reaction. Don’t give her ammo. Julie fingered the edge of her chair. She looked at her own hands. At the ring on her left hand. Do not react to her poison. That’s what Hut had called it. Her poison.

  “You knew Hut when he was young,” Julie said, slowly.

  “We were kids. It was the last good time of my life. Under the age of twenty. After twenty, it was all downhill for me. Nervous breakdown city. Hallucinations. Seeing…ghosts.” Amanda grinned wickedly. “But I don’t want to bother your pretty little face with any of that. So, now that he’s dead, you want to know about him? Why’s that, Wife Numbah Two? Because when he was alive, maybe you never knew him at all? That doesn’t surprise me, either. Nothing surprises me. You think he didn’t pick you out of a line-up of possibles. He did. I know him. I’ve known him since he was younger than Matt. You know, he’s still with us. He may be in the back seat of your car right now, for all I know. Just waiting to surprise you.”