“I’m sure there are police records that you can check, or adoption records.”
“No, that’s the thing: my aunt never legally adopted me. I was sent to her after what happened with my parents. I only found out on her deathbed that she was my actual aunt. Before that, I thought she was my adopted mother. I found out that I didn’t even have a birth certificate: my aunt had paid someone to create fake records for me—someone she knew in the Department of Records. As far as I know, there are no records of me being born anywhere. It’s as if all my life, they were trying to keep me hidden. I guess with the murder and rape (if that’s all true) they felt ashamed. …As for my parents, if my mother really did kill my father, no body was ever found; as he was a drifter, nobody would have been looking for him. My mother was never charged with anything.”
“Then how do you know your mother killed your father?”
“Exactly. I only have my aunt’s word to go on. …All I have is a story about a rape and a murder.”
“So, you’re saying your mother got rid of his body after she killed him?”
“Yes, that’s what my aunt said. Anyway, she got pregnant with me after all that, and I guess it drove her over the edge. My aunt said my mother wasn’t right for a while—in the head, I mean. She told me about these times when they found her out naked in the middle of nowhere—wandering around dazed, talking to herself…. After I was born, my family shipped me away, figuring it would help her.”
“How’d she die?”
“She killed herself.”
“My God!” Vera whispered.
“Anyway,” Stacy said with a sigh, “what’s done is done.” And then, changing the subject abruptly, she went on: “What about your parents? Are they alive?”
“Sure—they live in Florida.”
“Retired, I guess?”
“Yeah.”
Stacy smiled. “You’re so ‘white bread,’ Vera—so clichély American. You probably had the typical upper-middle-class upbringing in the suburbs.”
Vera seemed stung: “…We can’t help where we grew up…who our parents were.”
“Are you close to your parents?”
“Sure. Why?”
“People who grow up in cozy environments usually resent their parents.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“It’s human nature, Vera. When parents provide their kids with everything, the kids always resent them deep down. No matter how much the kids manage to achieve in their own lives, they know that it wasn’t their doing: it was their parents, and their cozy, sheltered, upbringing. Intimacy and struggle go hand-in-hand. Where there’s no struggle, the affection is weak—transitory.”
“That’s another of your famous theories, I guess?” Vera said testily.
Stacy smiled. “You can consider its merits later, at your leisure. We’re here.” Just then, the cab pulled over to the front of the club/apartment building. Seeing where they were, and knowing what was supposed to happen in the next few minutes, Vera felt numb and excited at the same time.
“Pay the cab,” Stacy said, opening the door.
Vera reached into her purse and paid the cabbie. She gave him a hundred dollar bill, but was too dazed to realize it. Soon, she and Stacy were carrying the boyfriend up the stairs. Stacy held him under the arms, and Vera held his legs. She felt disembodied; her mind was so preoccupied that the boyfriend felt like a feather in her arms. Once again, Vera heard the strange screaming voice in her head, drowning out everything. In the apartment, they plopped the boyfriend on the sofa. Stacy took off the boyfriend’s shirt, and the impromptu bandage underneath. When that was complete, and he was sitting there bare-chested, she looked at her watch:
“Two minutes to spare.”
Vera’s mouth was dry. Her legs were trembling. She barely managed to make it to the loveseat before they gave out. She felt sick; Stacy looked at her and smiled, still seeming unfazed.
Please God! Vera found herself thinking. Please let him come back to life! Please let this all be forgotten, like some kind of waking dream, so that she could go back to being Dr. Vera.
One minute.
Stacy went to the open window and stood by it for a moment, as if admiring the view. Vera wanted to scream at her—somehow her calmness was unnerving. By now, Vera was rocking herself, like a scared child. She was soaked with nervous sweat. She told herself that after the boyfriend came back life, she would take a long, hot shower. She would lie back in the tub and allow her mind to drift off, and all this would be forgotten. …Please God…!
Stacy walked back over to the boyfriend’s corpse. She stood above him; Vera frowned at the strange smile on Stacy’s face. And then, about two seconds later, the boyfriend’s body convulsed, and he took a long rasping breath. Vera did the same—she had not realized it, but she had been holding her breath. The boyfriend opened his eyes. Stacy was the first thing he saw. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. And then she straddled him and caressed his face. Before he could open his mouth to ask her what had happened, she began to tell him about the last few days. It was a story devoid of death and trauma. It was a story in which he was loved and in which he gave love. It was a story of a full, content life. It took about ten minutes. Vera was amazed by the thoroughness of Stacy’s instructions: what he was to remember and what he was to forget. The boyfriend stared up at Stacy, rapt. He had not even looked over at Vera once—as if Stacy were the center of the universe. Vera stared at Stacy the same way.
When the reality-shaping story was complete, Stacy told the boyfriend to go and sleep for a few hours; and that afterwards, they would go and visit his mother. He shuffled off, his face blank. Vera was still sitting on the loveseat. Stacy looked over at her and smiled. “See,” she started, “I told you everything would work out.”
Vera took a deep breath, then smiled with relief and gratitude. “Yeah, you did.”
“Killing is a horrible act,” Stacy philosophized, “but the new life that comes afterwards is always greater than the death that came before. A lion kills and eats an antelope in order to stay alive. That’s the way of nature; and when you see life and death that way, you see that death is life. In our case, death is even more wondrous, because when we kill, we give them new life. That’s a revolution in the nature of life and death, Vera.”
Vera nodded enthusiastically.
“So,” Stacy joked, “do you have faith now?”
Vera smiled. “I don’t need faith—I have seen with my own eyes.”
“But people have a habit of forgetting what they see—that’s why they need faith.”
Vera thought about it for a while, before shrugging her shoulders. She laughed for no reason in particular, feeling good about things. She took another deep breath. Stacy was looking at her closely:
“You look like you can use some sleep, too.”
“Maybe later,” Vera replied. “I don’t think I’ve been this hungry in my entire life.”
“You want to go out to get something to eat?”
“Aren’t you worried about your boyfriend? What if he sneaks off again?”
“Nah, he’ll be fine.”
“Still, let’s stay here. Let’s order in or something. We’ve been running about like maniacs since last night. Let’s take a breather.”
“Okay, what do you want? Pizza? Chinese?”
“Anything, as long as it’s in vast quantities.”
They both laughed.
They decided to order Chinese food. Stacy called a local restaurant while Vera named several dishes she wished to devour. Just the act of ordering made her hungry. Stacy jokingly told the person on the phone to hurry up when she was finished ordering, as if she feared that Vera might turn on her for nourishment.
Vera looked over at her playfully: “Do you think you could ever be a cannibal? If it came down to that, would you be able to eat another human being?”
“Sure.”
Vera laughed. “It’s that simple to you? You don’t have
to think about it first?”
“What is there to think about? We’re predators—lions. We eat to survive.”
“Yeah, but lions don’t eat other lions. Nature has that moral clause built into most animals.”
“Nature does not have morality, Vera. Morality is a fantasy created by human beings.”
Vera laughed. Stacy went on:
“Morality is unnatural. It’s fake and arbitrary. …In nature, everything is based on necessity. Lions don’t eat other lions because it’s unnecessary. Creatures want to preserve their own kind—their own genes—that’s why they avoid killing their own kind for food.”
“Yeah, but lions kill lions,” Vera pointed out. “Human beings kill other human beings.”
“When a lion kills another lion, it’s not for food. Murderers tend not to eat their victims. When animals kill their own kind, they kill out of rage or jealousy, or some other dark emotion. They are provoked into killing their own. Some impulse takes over them, and they do something that they probably would not have done otherwise. On the other hand, killing for food is like breathing: it requires no rage or outside impulse. It comes naturally: you do it because if you don’t, you’ll die. The farmer does not hate his cattle; the lion does not hate the antelope. …But here’s the difference with cannibalism: When killing your own for food is ‘natural’—is necessary for life—you’re seeing a place where nature is broken. Cannibalism is reserved for the end of the world—for the time when all other creatures are dead, and the only way to survive is to kill and eat your own kind.”
“The end of the world,” Vera said uneasily, staring down at the ground. The clarity of Stacy’s statement disturbed her, so that an uneasy spasm passed through her body. It was as if Stacy had been sitting around for years, thinking about the implications of cannibalism. Vera shuddered again; and then, changing the subject, she blurted out: “—I need a shower. You have any other clothes I can wear?”
“Sure—let’s see what there is in my closet.” They started down the hall, to Stacy’s bedroom. When Vera recalled that the boyfriend was sleeping in there, she felt wary.
“Let’s not disturb your boyfriend,” she said.
“We won’t disturb him,” Stacy said simply. “A hurricane could come and he’d sleep through it.”
They walked on in silence. At last, when they were in the doorway of the bedroom, about to step in, Vera began:
“Stacy, before your boyfriend, did you ever hurt anyone?”
Stacy stopped and looked back at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vera told herself not to back down. “It’s a simple question.”
“You’re back to thinking I’m a homicidal maniac, is that it?”
“I’m just asking,” she said weakly.
Stacy stared at her, but said nothing. Eventually, she turned back into the room and continued on to the closet. “Let’s find you something to wear,” she said without turning around.
The boyfriend was sprawled face down on the bed. Vera glanced at him uneasily, then she walked up to Stacy’s side as the woman searched her cluttered closet.
“I’m sorry, Stacy,” Vera said, resting her hand on Stacy’s arm. Stacy stopped her search and looked over at her.
“Why would you ask me something like that?” she said, seeming hurt.
“I’m sorry,” Vera said again. “It’s just that…well, the things you say, Stacy. The things you say…” But she did not finish the statement.
Stacy was still staring at her. “…All the things I’ve said,” she began, “were they honest? Deep down, was there truth there, regardless of how disturbing you found those truths?”
“Yeah, sure—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Vera felt cornered. She knew that she did not have a definite grievance against Stacy, but she knew, also, that in general there was something about Stacy that was not right. It was something that always seemed on the verge of coming to the surface—something that could either come within the next few seconds, years or decades, but which was destined to come, and which was destined to bring unspeakable calamities when it did.
“Let’s be honest with one another, Vera,” Stacy began now. “We need one another, but we’ll only be useful to one another if we can accept things as they are—if we can see truths for what they are, and aren’t afraid of them. Don’t be afraid of the truth, Vera.”
Vera thought about it for a few seconds; she nodded her head.
“Good,” Stacy said, returning to the closet, as if everything had been decided. Vera looked at her as she fingered her clothes; several times, Stacy pulled out a dress or blouse to see its proportions. Of course, all Stacy’s clothes were at least five sizes too small for Vera. Vera was just about to point that out when the doorbell rang.
“That must be the food,” Stacy said without thought. “Why don’t you get the door?”
Vera grunted with mock thoughtfulness. “I notice that I always have to get it when it’s time to pay the bill.”
Stacy smiled and continued looking through her closet.
Vera left the bedroom and walked quickly down the hallway, to the door. She opened the door, about to tell the deliveryman to hold on, so she could get her bag, when she saw who it was—
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, holding her hands to her head. “I totally forgot!”
The police detective was waiting there with a smile on his face and some wrapped carnations in hand. He explained: “The people in the club downstairs let me in.”
“How’d you know I was here?” she said after the shock had passed.
“I’m a detective, remember?” he said, smiling. He explained: “I went to your place, and your concierge said she hadn’t seen you.”
“What concierge?”
“The old lady in the lobby.”
Vera laughed out. “She’s not the concierge. She’s just an old busybody. By tomorrow everyone in the building will believe you came to arrest me. Did you show her your badge?”
“Yeah.”
Vera nodded uneasily, knowing that no good was going to come of that.
“Anyway,” the detective went on, “I figured that if you weren’t there, you were probably still here, doing whatever you’re doing here.”
She smiled. “Brilliant deduction, Holmes, but what do you mean by ‘Whatever you’re doing here’? You still think a crime is afoot?” she said, mockingly.
He chortled, shaking his head. “To begin with, get your Sherlock Holmes clichés straight. That should be, ‘The game’s afoot.’”
“Yeah, whatever.” After they both laughed, she looked at him askance. “I’m impressed that you’d bother to come all the way here to find me. Most men would have said to hell with it if they showed up for a date and nobody was there.”
“I’m not ‘most men’—and you’re the famous Dr. Vera.”
“Ah, I see how it is now,” she said playfully. “You want a romp with a noted sex therapist.”
“I figured I could get some free advice.”
“You mean, give you some pointers to pick up chicks?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but nothing’s free, Holmes.”
“That’s right—I forgot that with you everything costs an arm and a leg.”
She giggled, remembering their last conversation. “…Are those flowers for me?”
“Nah,” he said sarcastically, “I thought maybe you could help me pick up a cheap date along the way.”
She snatched the flowers and smelled them.
“Fresh from my garden,” he announced.
“Really?” she said, impressed.
He laughed. “If by ‘garden’ you mean the corner grocer, then yeah.”
She smiled. She remembered the shower she was to take, and the fact that Stacy was futilely looking for some clothes for her. The detective was in a fancy suit—she doubted that anything in Stacy’s closet would be dressy enough for a forma
l dinner. “My dress clothes are at home,” she said, worried.
“I can drive you back over there if you wish.”
She laughed at him. “Damn, Holmes, you go all out to get some free advice!” But then, after a final chuckle, “Just let me tell Stacy I’m leaving. I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute.”
Incredibly, when Vera reentered the bedroom, Stacy was still looking through the closet. A pair of gnarled sweatpants had been laid out on the bed for Vera, but Stacy was seeing what else was there. Vera could not help laughing. At the sound, Stacy looked back at her.
“Is the food okay?”
“That wasn’t the deliveryman. My date’s here.”
“Your date? What date?”
“The police detective. Remember from last night at the hospital?”
“Oh, yeah. You’re really going out with that guy?”
“He’s nice.”
“But he doesn’t believe.”
“What?” Vera said, lost.
“He doesn’t believe,” Stacy said again.
“Believe in what?”
“The things we’ve seen. He obviously suspects us of something—that’s his only interest in you.”
“Is it so hard to believe that a man might be interested in me?”
“Don’t start that ego nonsense, Vera. If you can’t see that he’s using you, then okay.” She turned back to the closet and resumed her search through it, even though there was of course no reason to do so.
Vera stared at her. “…Well, he’s waiting downstairs for me.”—Stacy did not turn around—“I’ll talk to you later, Stacy,” Vera said, retreating from the room.
“Vera,” Stacy called to her. Vera turned around. Stacy was staring at her helplessly. “Will you come back over tonight?”
“I don’t know, Stacy. I don’t know what will happen.”
Stacy nodded. “I left the apartment keys for you. I left them on the kitchen table. You can come anytime you want.” The same helpless expression was on her face. Vera found it unnerving—like the expressions of those kids in those Christian aide commercials, where you could send an African child to school and change her life for the price of a cup of coffee.
How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps) Page 15