“I don’t know.” She flipped the sign from “Open” to “Closed,” shooing out the remaining customers, and I followed her out of the shop. “But we have to do something.”
Jack knew a lawyer who specialized in matters of involuntary hospitalization. I suppose this was only natural, after all her years of dealing with psychiatric patients—first her mother, then Marianne Engel.
Clancy McRand was an old man who sat behind a big wooden desk that sported a computer covered with small yellow Post-it notes. He kept pulling down on the lapels of his coat, as if doing so would allow him to close his jacket over a stomach that he refused to admit was as large as it really was. McRand cleared his throat a lot, even though I was doing most of the talking. He jotted down the facts on his big yellow legal pad, and Jack offered a few comments when he asked questions to which I didn’t know the answers. He seemed to know a fair amount about Marianne Engel already, from the thick file he had pulled out of the cabinet when we first arrived. It was clear that Jack had engaged McRand’s services in the past, perhaps in setting up the conservatorship.
When we had told him everything that might be relevant, he said we might have a case but that it wouldn’t be easy. Things never are, I thought, if lawyers can drag it out for a fat payday. However, as he explained the process, I came to understand that it was not his greed that would delay things. It really was the system.
Usually, a relative of the patient filed the petition for emergency commitment. While it was legally possible for anyone to file, McRand explained, the process was slowed if the petitioner was not a close family member. Because Marianne Engel had no family, she would need to be examined by two physicians before the petition could even be filed. If she refused to be examined—as I knew she would—I’d be forced to submit a sworn statement that she was “gravely disabled.” McRand looked at me inquisitively to ensure that I’d be willing to do so and I assured him that I would, but I’m certain he caught the hesitation in my voice as I said it.
“Umm hmm,” McRand harrumphed, before he continued. Once my petition was properly filed, Marianne Engel would be required to appear before an examining physician at a hospital. If she refused—as, again, I knew she would—law officers would compel her to attend. In my imagination, I saw two beefy cops placing her into a straitjacket and dragging her by the elbows into court.
If the examining physician agreed with my assessment that she was gravely disabled, an emergency commitment of seventy-two hours would be imposed. At the end of this time, the hospital director could file another petition for a longer-term commitment. This was essential because—once again, as we were not relatives—neither Jack nor I could do it ourselves. Without the cooperation of the director, we would have no legal right to proceed with the petition.
Assuming that the hospital director did agree, a hearing would come next. Here Marianne Engel would be compelled to testify, as would I, and Jack in her role as conservator. It was possible that others would be called as well, people who had observed Marianne Engel’s recent behavior. Perhaps Gregor Hnatiuk and Sayuri Mizumoto, for example. The mental health commission would preside over the hearing, although Marianne Engel would have the legal right to a jury trial. And, if it came to that, she could hire her own lawyer.
In court, Mr. McRand warned, there was little doubt that my character would be brought up. Given my career in pornography, my admitted drug addictions, and the fact that Marianne Engel was paying all my medical bills, any judge would be reluctant to suspend her legal rights just because I thought it was a good idea. Viewed objectively, she was the upstanding citizen, not I. The court might even find it amusing that I wanted her declared incompetent when she appeared to run her life so much better than I did mine. And—McRand seemed hesitant to bring this up but knew he’d be negligent if he didn’t—Marianne Engel could present an attractive face to a jury. “You, on the other hand…” It was not a sentence that needed finishing.
I pointed out that she had carved her chest with a chisel. What stronger proof could possibly be needed to prove that she was a danger to herself? McRand conceded with a sigh that the incident could possibly be “a good start for a case,” but that there was no evidence she posed a threat to anyone else. “If harming oneself were reason for commitment, psychiatric hospitals would be filled with smokers and fast food customers.”
How could I ask everyone we knew to testify against Marianne Engel in a case that we would almost certainly lose? More to the point, how could I testify against her? Given her conspiracy theories, the last thing she needed to believe was that her closest friends were actually enemy agents trying to prevent her from giving away her hearts.
“So…” Mr. McRand sighed in conclusion, pulling on his lapels one more time before resting his hands on his round stomach.
I thanked him for his time and Jack told him to send the bill to her gallery. As we walked out of the office, Jack reached up to put her arm around my shoulders. She told me that she was sorry, and I believed that she was.
Our sole consolation was that Marianne Engel had only five statues left in her countdown. Though it would be painful to watch her finish them, at least it wouldn’t take long. All I could do was look after her as well as I could. When she completed the final stroke on her final statue, she would discover that the effort hadn’t killed her after all.
Bougatsa’s new diet included a steady intake of raw cow pancreases, which allowed him to digest other food by replacing the pancreatic enzymes that his body lacked. While there are powdered dietary supplements that contain the necessary enzymes, Cheryl and I decided to use actual meat. I became well acquainted with the local butchers, who were puzzled by my order until I explained why I needed them, and then they were all pleased to know they were helping the dog on the end of my leash, because it’s not often that a butcher gets to feel like a doctor. Every day Bougatsa looked a little better and every day Marianne Engel looked a little worse.
She was pale from lack of sunlight, although she would occasionally wander up from the basement to grab more cigarettes or another jar of instant coffee. She was becoming a framework of bones etched permanently in dust, her flesh falling away under the force of her physical exertion. She was disappearing, ounce by ounce, like the rock chips that she chiseled off her grotesques. She finished statue 5 before the middle of April and immediately began preparing for 4.
The anniversary of my accident—my second Good Friday “birthday”—passed without her noticing. I visited the accident site alone, climbing down the embankment to find that the greenness of the grass had now completely overtaken the blackness of the burns. The candlestick from my previous birthday was still standing where we’d left it, grimy from a year’s weather, a testament that the site had remained unvisited since then.
I put down a second candlestick, another of Francesco’s alleged creations, and slipped a candle into its expectant iron mouth. I said a few words after lighting it—not a prayer, because I only pray when in Hell—as a remembrance of things past. If nothing else, living with Marianne Engel had instilled in me a certain fondness for ritual.
She kept working through the remainder of the month, but her pace was slowing considerably. This was inevitable. When she finished 4, she had to take two days off before starting 3. The revolt of her body could not be ignored. Even though she took extra time to prepare, statue 3 still took almost five full days to finish.
Statue 2 took her until the end of the month, and it was only a formidable display of willpower that kept her moving at all. After finishing, she crawled into the bathtub for a proper cleansing before (finally) climbing into bed to sleep for two straight days.
When she woke up, only the final statue would remain. I wasn’t sure whether I should fear this or be overjoyed; then again, Marianne Engel often made me feel that way.
She emerged from her bed on the first day of May and I was greatly relieved to see how much better she looked. I became doubly pleased when, rather than head directl
y into the basement to commence her final statue, she joined me for a meal. When we spoke, all her words were in the correct order and afterwards we went on a walk with Bougatsa, who was giddy with the long-anticipated return of her attention. We took turns throwing a tennis ball for him to chase down and return in a mouthful of slobber.
It was Marianne Engel who first broached the subject. “I have only one statue left.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know which one it is?”
“Another grotesque, I suppose.”
“No,” she said. “It’s you.”
During the previous months my statue had stood, covered in a white sheet like the caricature of a ghost, in the corner of her workshop. At first I had been disappointed that she’d lost interest in it, but as she grew thinner I was thankful that I didn’t have to sit for her while she wasted away.
I only had to think for a moment before I volunteered to sit for her again. While I wished that she would give up this idea of a final statue altogether, at least I could keep an eye on her while she worked. There was also the advantage that, if my earlier sittings were any indication, she would proceed with my statue at a much more relaxed pace. I was not a frantic beast screaming to be pulled out from under an avalanche of time and stone; I would allow her all the time at my disposal, never rushing.
Curiosity compelled me to ask Marianne Engel whether, when we’d started the statue so many months previous, she’d already known that it would be her final work. Yes, she answered, she had known. So I asked further, why did she bother starting it at all, knowing that she would need to put it aside?
“It was part of your preparation,” she answered. “If it was already under way, I thought there would be less chance you’d refuse now. It looks like I was right.”
We started that very day. Being naked in front of her always made me feel awkward, but I felt less self-conscious now that she, too, was physically imperfect. While her unhealthy thinness was not yet a match for my injuries, it did at least bring us somewhat closer in misshapenness.
Work on my statue continued for about ten days, with about half of that time spent on the fine details. Often Marianne Engel would come to my chair to run her fingers over my body, as if trying to memorize my burnt topography so she could map it on the stone as accurately as possible. Her attention to every nuance was so intense that I had to comment on it; she replied that it was vitally important that the finished statue be found perfect, with nothing lacking.
Things went more or less as I hoped that they would. She never approached the intensity of her other carving sessions, usually working for less than an hour at a time despite the fact that I could sit as long as was necessary now that my pressure suit was gone. She seemed to be savoring this, her final work. She smoked less, and the lids on the jars of coffee crystals remained shut. She leaned close while working the stone, whispering into it with a voice too low for me to hear. I leaned forward, trying to catch what she was saying but I never quite could; it didn’t help that my hearing had been so damaged in the accident. I tried to draw out the truth with a casual comment. “I thought the rock talked to you, not the other way around.”
Marianne Engel looked up at me. “You’re funny.”
And so it went, until she stepped back after the inevitable last stroke of her chisel. For what seemed an eternity, she inspected my stony doppelgänger before deciding that there was no longer any difference between him and me. Satisfied, she said, “I want to add the inscription in private.”
She worked until late in the night and, although my curiosity was almost overwhelming, I respected her request for privacy. When the final word was engraved, Marianne Engel came upstairs. Naturally, I asked if I could read what she’d carved.
“There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” she answered. “Right now, we’re going to go to the beach to celebrate.”
I liked the idea. The oceanside always relaxed her and it would be a good way to mark the occasion. So she packed me into the car and we soon found ourselves among the driftwood.
The waves beat rhythmically against the shore and her body was pressed wonderfully up against mine. Bougatsa bounded around happily, kicking up sand everywhere. Down the way, teenage boys drank their beers and tried to impress girls by acting like jerks.
“So,” I said. “What now?”
“The last part of our story. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, begins with you being burned by the condotta.”
XXXI.
Out. In. I concentrated on my breathing. Steady. Be simple. Aim. Be calm. I called my target. “Heart.”
I don’t know what I expected the arrow to look like as it flew away from me. I was surprised to find that my eye actually focused on the target at the end of the line, rather than on the arrow itself.
Despite the storm, my arrow flew as if guided by wire, never wavering. Everyone knows the story of the master archer who could split an arrow already lodged in the bull’s-eye. That was how my arrow entered your chest, in the same spot where you’d previously been pierced. The first time you’d been shot, the volume of Dante slowed the arrow enough to save your life and you were brought to me. This second arrow met no opposition, and you were taken from me.
Your head kicked back with the impact and your mouth popped open to push out a surprised final breath. Your chin bounced twice off your chest, before your head came to rest on your deflated body. You drooped from your pinned hands, and the wall of Brother Heinrich’s house continued to burn all around you. My arrow had spared you any further pain and, for this, through my tears, I thanked the Lord.
The mercenaries roared in confusion, and Kuonrat demanded to know who had been careless enough, or stupid enough, to fire a lethal shot against his strict orders. He was livid that one of his soldiers might have shown mercy.
I should have spent less time thanking God and more time escaping. An inspection of my arrow quickly revealed that it did not come from any of the soldiers’ bows, and the angle of the shaft showed that it had come from the top of the ridge. An arm went up, and the soldiers immediately began to advance in my direction. They couldn’t see me yet, but they knew where I was.
I dropped the crossbow, as I knew I’d never fire another shot. My horse was close, the ridge was slick, and the branches were thick enough to slow a man. As the soldiers slipped their way up the slope, I was able to unhook my horse and take off just ahead of their outstretched hands. I didn’t have much of a head start, but it would take them a few minutes to scramble back down the slope and mount their own horses. I had another advantage, as well. I knew the area from my youth, and the mercenaries did not. With the snowstorm raging, I thought I might even have a chance.
I should have known better. The horsemanship of every soldier was superior to my own, and their animals were better rested and better fed. I hadn’t been on the trail for more than a few minutes before they were hard upon me. I knew that if I stayed my course, they would catch me in moments. The path was coming to a fork, with one side leading to a safe trail and the other side to a sharp precipice overlooking the River Pegnitz. As a child I’d occasionally walked its edge, but only when I was feeling particularly reckless or wanted to test the idea that the Lord did have a purpose for me.
Desperate times call for desperate measures so, although I knew that it was too narrow for my horse by half, I chose the dangerous trail. The animal sensed the peril and I had to drive my heels into his flanks to coerce every step, chanting the same prayers that I’d always said as a girl. When the horse began to rear, I switched back to my harshest words to try to get a few more steps out of him. It wasn’t long before his hoof hit an icy root and we lurched awkwardly to the side.
As we skidded down the cliff, the horse tried to right himself on scrambling hooves, but could find no purchase. He tipped to his side, confused and frightened, throwing me off. As I surrendered to the inevitability of the fall, there was a brief moment in which I felt almost weightless. It was surreal, as thoug
h I were floating in perfect balance between the snow and heaven, and I found myself looking directly into the face of my horse. A horse’s eyes are usually so dark and calm—when I was growing up the nuns joked that a horse could see all of God’s secrets, even if the prioress could not—but his eyes were peeled wide with terror. The moment was over as quickly as it started, and was replaced with the spin of brush and snow as we continued to plunge downwards.
When we finally rolled to a stop, it took a moment before my head cleared enough to assess the path we’d just gouged in the snow and I began to panic at the thought of what the tumble might have done to our child. When the baby kicked at me almost immediately, perhaps angry at all the activity, I took it as a sign of health and had never been happier for the discomfort.
The soldiers had not followed me out onto the precipice, wisely choosing to remain back where the trail was still safe. At least one of them had his bow out, before deciding that the distance and the storm made any shot impossible. He obviously lacked the same faith that I had in God.
The mercenaries would find another way to the bottom, but I knew it would take them at least fifteen minutes. Perhaps, I thought, my tumble might actually be the stroke of luck that would make my escape possible. My momentary excitement disappeared when I tried to right the horse and discovered that one of his legs was twisted at an impossible angle. It was obvious that he would be going no farther with me. I didn’t even have the option of putting him out of his misery, as I no longer had the crossbow. But I wouldn’t have been able to do it anyway. One killing that day was already one too many.
What good was it to be fifteen minutes ahead of the soldiers, when they had horses and I did not? To one side of me was the cliff I’d just come down, and to the other side was the Pegnitz. It usually didn’t freeze over completely, but even when it did it was not safe for a person’s weight. Making it across was out of the question, and there was no advantage to climbing back up the cliff. All I could do was choose one direction along the riverside to run and hope for the best. But this was ridiculous, too, because the only possible outcome was that the mercenaries would chase me down from behind. My capture was only a matter of time.
The Gargoyle Page 43