We classify crimes according to their impact. Precisely who, or what, was lost in the assault? Those capable of deliberately hurting another are considered the lowest of the life forms among us, those to whom claiming an innocent life matters not. Amorality is a crime to some. Bathsheba was accused of an ungodly crime, of consorting with the devil, selling her soul for eternal youth and beauty, a sacrifice of an innocent child as the toll taken in payment. Neither officially exonerated nor vindicated, she was simply let off the hook: Insufficient Evidence. She never lived it down. The label stuck for life and afterlife, ’til death did she part, and beyond.
What happens if a crime is committed and there is no evidence, no way to establish the identity of the criminal? How to determine exact culpability? We tend to throw our hands up in the air, to disavow our role and say it is in God’s hands. Wasn’t it there all along? As if a supernatural onslaught was an inadequate punishment for the family residing in hell on Earth, there came a natural disaster to their door, perpetrated upon them by a ruthless mortal soul with a dark heart who’d surreptitiously entered their midst. A manmade disaster devised for his nefarious purposes, a plan conjured up to permanently expel a family from their farmhouse. With forethought and malice, this vile act was intentional, a flagrant display committed by one of the devil’s foot soldiers; an unspeakable act of brutality, mind-bending cruelty inflicted upon two innocent, defenseless, unsuspecting victims. The collateral damage: ramifications of this event were widespread, peripherally injuring seven mortal souls who did not know who to blame… but they knew who not to blame. It broke their collective heart. They couldn’t comprehend how this could happen or why. Boo! Who would do such a thing? Only one thing was certain; this was not of supernatural origin. The spirits were not the irresponsible party.
The morning air was fresh and pure, a chilly spring day, unusually so for the first week of June. Christine was up, in the kitchen early, chatting with her mother. There was only one chore on her mind, the same chore she gladly did as part of her morning routine. First, feed the bunnies. Trumpet and Flute were fat and happy, beautiful rabbits, both. They were kept close by, in a large cage and enclosure right behind the house, a step outside the kitchen door, beneath the pantry window. Roger spent an entire weekend of his life building that elaborate structure, a testament to his caring for the child whose pets they’d become. Christine adored them, caring for the duo daily. The enclosure was safe, built up off the ground so nothing wild could ever get to them, save one sick and twisted human being. As soon as Christine stepped out the kitchen door and off the porch landing, the screaming began. It was a blood bath. They had been massacred, split open from throat to groin. Both had been disemboweled, locked inside the cage, left alone in the dark of night to bleed to death.
Everyone came running at once. Closest to the scene of the crime, Carolyn arrived first, bolting through the kitchen door. She found Chris frozen stiff, staring at a scene no child should ever have to witness, offensive to the eye of any beholder. Grabbing her daughter, spinning her around in her arms, she tucked a baby face close to heart, instantly pulling her away from the grotesque sight. As distraught as her daughter, a mother escorted her dear child into the front yard. Roger could hear the hysterical sobbing all the way from the barn, running as fast as his legs would allow. He arrived at the far side of the house in an instant as the other girls came running to the rescue, of what, they did not know. He could see the desperation in Carolyn’s eyes. Motioning for him to go around to the back of the house, she ran interference, stopping the others dead in their tracks.
“Jesus Christ! God damn it!” Roger’s voice echoed throughout the expansive valley, carried on the weeping wind. Everyone was crying, even daddy, his emphatic prayer breaking with the sudden rise in his voluminous voice. Keeping the children at a safe distance, they all comforted Christine as Carolyn went to her husband. It was a vile, horrific, bloody mess. Unimaginable, and yet, there it was, sprawled out before their disbelieving eyes. Roger went into his comfort zone, exchanging anger for pain he could not abide. He began cursing profusely, unleashing a tirade of vulgarities until Carolyn persuaded him to stop, lest he upset their children even more. There was no doubt about it. Someone wicked had been on their property, committing an evil deed which could never be undone. Roger could be heard in heaven as he ordered the culprit to hell.
Hurriedly rushing all of the girls into the farmhouse, Carolyn kept them there while Roger remained outside, staring at the remains of the night; two treasured family pets. As distasteful as it was, his chore was also obvious; what a father does for a wounded daughter. He buried the bunnies then cleansed their home, a disgusting, disheartening task if ever there was one. There it would sit, empty, for months, a constant reminder of the vacancy deliberately created, a mortal wound inflicted by a contemptuous soul. They dared not try to ease the pain by replacing these precious pets… there was no replacing them. They were special. They were Chrissy’s little angels, sweet and gentle creatures of God, neither of which had ever known anything of human contact except the kind and tender touch of a child until the bitter end. Until this savage act. Though the other girls had been spared the sight of it due to the rapid response of their mother, Christine wept for days, unable to shake the shocking vision. She cried to the point of exhaustion. Though her sisters commiserated with her, they could only imagine an image she’d seen with her own eyes. Carolyn mourned the loss as well but her primary concern was the impact it had on her children, especially Chris. She was as furious as her husband, with good reason. Both of them knew this malfeasance had been perpetrated by the living, breathing embodiment of evil incarnate, wandering the Earth at will, no matter the original source of the sickness. There were bloody fingerprints left on the latch. No spirit, no matter how clever, could manage such an illusion. Both recalled hearing what sounded like knocking on the woodshed door that fateful night, in the hour just before dawn. It had briefly stirred the couple but silence resumed and these things had happened before. No harm done, or so they thought. Dismissing it as wind in the rafters, they each went back to sleep, thinking nothing more of it at the time. Roger felt remorse for failing to rise up from his bed to investigate and vanquish an intruder he might have actually been able to see in the waning dark converging with morning light… had he only known what was lurking beyond the clapboard walls.
Closure was not yet a word in common usage regarding the aftermath of loss, yet Carolyn realized it was what they all required to move on in life with the shadow and specter of death lingering quite literally at their doorstep. One sunny afternoon not long after this incident Carolyn gathered her girls and they went to the river. There they chose a perfect flat rock from the shallows, destined to become a shared gravestone to honor the dead. Together they painted the names and dates on it. Christine well-remembered the day Flute and Trumpet were born and the night they so tragically perished from this Earth. Roger had buried the bunnies out beyond the barn, near the old apple tree, so blossoms would mark the spot each spring. He had a heart and it was broken, too. Their burial site was lovely, so serene, compared with their frantic end. The poor dears must have been so scared, terrified in their final moments of life as one watched the other die before him. There the family stood in a circle as Carolyn recited the Twenty-third Psalm. Heads bowed in reverence as she spoke: “The Lord is my shepherd…” Message received. The moving prayer, the ritual of a proper funeral brought some measure of comfort to otherwise inconsolable children dealing each in her way with overwhelming grief. Make no mistake… each one of them wished the murderer as dead as their bunnies. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. They could only hope so. It appeared to be their only option for resolution… retribution.
One day later that summer Roger removed the cage he’d worked so hard to build, giving it away to a friend. Its presence and the conspicuous absence therein had kept the tragedy fresh, preserving it in too many minds as thoughts about who was missing from the farm. It was his a
ttempt to abolish the imagery from the mind’s eyes of those who had witnessed the carnage, including his own, to no avail. The sad truth is, there was no possibility of erasing a vision impaled through the eyes, into the memory of a child, for life. There would be no escaping it. Memory is both a blessing and a curse and this one qualifies as childhood trauma. Christine cannot discuss this incident with anyone, not even her own family, not without shedding more tears; as if it had happened mere moments ago, as if she’d just made the grisly discovery all over again. The subject doesn’t come up, with purpose and reason… to spare the little girl still inside of her a macabre memory. Forty years later, the raw emotion surrounding it is equally palpable as it was on an otherwise perfect spring morning. Counting the losses, regrets all around.
For more than thirty years, the identity of the culprit remained a mystery and then, quite inexplicably, out of the blue, the ultimate cold case was suddenly solved, or so it seemed. The message was well-received and there was nothing cryptic about it. A name was divulged, though it will not be revealed within these pages. As it turned out, the cold, dark-hearted bastard who committed such a despicable act in his youth had apparently confessed to the crime against humanity. They say confession is good for the soul and he’d been out seeking redemption, so she was told. Andrea was living in Providence when the news found her, though it hadn’t come straight from the source. Still, it had to be true. It made perfect sense. Perhaps he sought absolution so he supposedly went to the woman who knew what had happened at the farm to admit he had been the one. If he did indeed apologize, his regret was misplaced, his remorse meaningless. Mrs. Warren was not the victim. He would rightfully need to seek out those who were hurt most deeply, those personally and profoundly affected: the parents forced to watch their children suffer a tremendous loss and the girls whose innocence was sacrificed along with their pets.
Awash with emotion, a newsflash stirred a surreal memory, vivid images of that morning so long ago, when she’d held her little sister while she wept. A sudden, welcome rage welled within her. All the anger and fear, frustration and sorrow surged to the surface, propelling itself with one seismic jolt. An explosion straight from the bowels of the Earth, from the depths of hell where it dwelled lifelong, having been harbored there, buried for decades… given up for dead. Eureka! What a release. The controversy brought back to life, resurrected at long last. Mystery solved! In that moment, Andrea discovered something about herself. She was a fraud and a hypocrite. Self-confession is just as good for any mortal soul. Eventually, gradually, she would evolve because of it. This was only the beginning of an entirely new odyssey, a journey she never expected to travel, especially alone as a sojourn. She was frail and flawed, supremely human; perhaps not so enlightened, after all. Where was all that forgiveness in her heart, the attribute she’d practiced, nurturing for many years, the quality she considered to be one of her finest? Allowing her psyche to revel in the relief, to finally know who to hate, who to find, confront and punish, who to hang on the wrack and ruin, it was oddly satisfying. It did her heart good. She could almost taste sweet vengeance on her lips, like sipping nectar of the gods. As self-righteous as she’d ever felt in her life, the woman was exhilarated, preparing for battle, ready to set forth on a crusade; a one woman holy war. Joan would be jealous!
Then Andrea told her family and the real eruption occurred. They all felt an identical disdain, repulsed by a ruthless revelation, the exposure of a devilish figure. According to her severely disturbed father, his crime was punishable by death… justifiable homicide… probably not the wisest person to bring along for their inevitable confrontation. It took awhile to track him down but when she did, the altercation occurred as she promised and predicted: a self-fulfilling prophesy. Andrea had longed for the gratification of seeing him sweat. Instead, the man cried, filling the air between them with heartfelt sentiments, condolences for their loss. He was mortified. Repeated denials poured from his soul. Swearing to God it wasn’t him, that he was incapable of harming an innocent animal, it took equally long for Andrea to believe him. What a dirty, rotten joke… what conspiratorial malfeasance exists in the Universe? What is it capable of conjuring? Why are the lessons so hard to learn? Was this the Cosmic Comedy Hour… a tragedy disguised as a comedy of errors and false accusations? Not funny! How could something resolved once again be called into question? She had no choice but to question her own motivations. It was time to reassess. There was no one left to suspect, no one to target, aim and fire at. Her arsenal was wasted, her energy depleted, sucked dry by the pervasive negativity around the matter rekindled… fire in the hole. The woman found herself armed with some dangerous misinformation, not knowing where to stash the cache… what corner of her mind to tuck it into next. Once again relegating it to the depths of despair, she gave up. Threw her hands in the air… let go and let God. In the end, she chose the path of least resistance, ultimately the road less traveled by humanity as a whole. It takes too long to reach the desired destination.
The same cannot be said for the rest of her family. According to all of them, whoever did this is a coward, a murderer, a thief. His actions claimed more than the lives of two rabbits. It was like he’d killed an entire village of shell-shocked souls. As for the demon incarnate, the one capable of such an evil deed, he need not approach any other member of the Perron family. There won’t be any absolution granted or forthcoming regarding what they perceive to be an unforgivable sin… not ever. May he burn in hell; may there be a God to send him there. May a father’s soulful prayer be answered as an order followed. That’s how they feel about it and always will. No forgiveness. Seeking absolution after all these years? Seek it from a higher power. Go into the astral plane and then go straight to hell you sick, twisted son of a bitch. God! Damn him! That’s an order!
Who would do such a thing? Why? Was it some deranged maniac? Conflicting reports from the front lines resulted in confusion and some serious soul-searching. A presumed gift given was just as abruptly taken away, replaced with another to fill a void created; a vacancy of spirit. More than one revelation occurred. If everything happens with purpose and reason then why such cruel and unusual punishment? Was the joke on her? Could it be that the victims would get it in the end? In time, Andrea came to her conclusion. She did get it… and had to let it go. It had haunted her too long. It had been too heavy a burden to bear. For one member of a family, it had reached the end of a journey taken through darkness. She craved only light. Have Faith. Believe. All will be made right in the end. The Lord works in mysterious ways, his wonders to behold. Forgiveness is mine, sayeth the eldest daughter. Throwing her hands in the air, hallelujah! She was free at last.
There are some sins which remain unforgivable. This crime felt like one of them for a very long time. Unwilling to carry the burden of it any farther on her journey through this life, it was time to set the baggage down, to lighten the load. A change in perspective came as God’s grace. It could not be reconciled any other way.
As for whomever it was who actually did this, he has had to live inside his own skin and look into his own eyes every single day since. Isn’t that punishment enough? Roger wishes him dead. Andrea’s curse upon him: “May you live forever.” In lieu of sending him to hell as his final destination, perhaps he already dwells there during his miserable life. Epiphany! She has forgiven but will never forget. Time to move on as time is of the essence. So there it was: closure.
Therein lies the lesson… the toughest test to pass. Class dismissed.
“From beasts we scorn as soulless,
In forest, field and den,
The cry goes up to witness
The soullessness of men.”
M. Frida Hartley
continuum
“Only love can be divided endlessly and still not diminish.”
Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Without realizing what they had become engaged in, the Perron family embarked on an intrepid journey of time travel and deep space explor
ation. “May you live forever” is an ancient Chinese curse issued with a purpose. To be immortal could be a fate worse than death, certainly not the blessing we all hope it to be. For those who remained trapped, suspended in the ether, it is quite contrary to the end we envision, standing before the pearly gates of the home we call Heaven. Who was there to greet these spirits, left wandering this world, and who was the beneficent one who decided to turn them away?
***
Oh joy! Oh rapture! She’s back! Cathi pulled into the yard driving a silver space-aged, square box-looking contraption she had affectionately dubbed “The Aluminum Womb.” It was a cradle and crib; a home on the road. Her little dog Cinnamon soared through the hatch, followed by the Mother Earthling, glowing as if she had been recently irradiated with a massive dose of joy. The sojourn was too brief and then she was on her way… along the continuum between New England and Nova Scotia. A wild woman living free as a bird traversing the open sky had decided to light, to perch with the Perrons for a welcome respite.
While she was there Carolyn filled her in on a few sordid details then abandoned the effort, preferring to share their time together in other, more fruitful ways. Though no one knew it at the time, this was destined to be their final visit before selling the farm; one last chance for Cathi to sip the nectar. While she was present much mischief was made, as usual; it’s what they all looked most forward to and she did not disappoint. Even the critters acted up for the amusement of others, as if her jovial mood was a transmissible attribute. No one will ever forget the first morning she was there after a late night of frantic, fantastic rollicking. Everyone was tired but happy, congregating in the kitchen for coffee. Carolyn brewed a fresh pot and Roger was helping himself as Cathi peered out the pantry window. Fawn had escaped from the barn; a six-month old calf with personality plus. She would never consider running away from the farm. Instead, she broke out to come find her playmates… the girls… yes, the cow was another pet. Suddenly Cathi burst into uproarious laughter as she glanced past Roger. Fawn was eating his silk shirt off the clothesline. One sleeve was half way down her throat and she began chewing it like a wad of cud. As Roger began screaming at the poor dear creature, demanding that she release his precious clothing, he became the main attraction of a sideshow occurring on the side of the house. He flipped out on the cow, grabbing the shirt and pulling with all his might as he cussed her repeatedly for ingesting his personal property. It was hysterical. He was hysterical! The man ran like a banshee through the yard, chasing a calf he could not seem to catch. The kitchen windows were lined with onlookers. Carolyn caught her breath and went outside, interceding on his behalf. The calf came to her immediately and she gently withdrew the sleeve from her throat, patted her on the head. She then instructed one of the girls to put her back in her stall. She tried but Carolyn was unable to remove the stain; counting the shirt among the losses, what they had gained was a memory which still makes them laugh, especially the greatest spirit named Cathi!
House of Darkness House of Light Page 40