by Fault lines
Almost 10 percent of male therapists get sexually involved with clients. It isn't like it is even that uncommon. But not Marv. If Marv had made a mistake anywhere near that serious, I was going to set records for astonishment.
But if it wasn't that, then what? Why didn't Marv want me over to his house? The world was making less and less sense every goddamn day.
16
As long as I was at Psychiatry I might as well tie up some loose ends. I called Toby and caught him between power lunches. His secretary put me through right away. Amazing how accessible he was when you were doing him a favor. "Toby," I said. "This is Michael. I can't tell you any of the details because I don't have permission, but things worked out pretty well in that case you referred me. You might want to give Lucy a call."
"I'm very glad to hear that," he said, and his voice sounded genuinely relieved. "I'm very appreciative of your help."
"Happy to," I said, and I meant it. Toby was rarely on the side of the angels, but when he was, I didn't mind hanging out with him.
And I wasn't sorry to have Toby owing me. In the world of faculty politics, people pay their debts. In fact, Toby did almost nothing but. He generally paid more attention to whom he owed and who owed him than whatever issue was under consideration.
No doubt I'd be in trouble again, and no doubt there would be a time I needed support from Toby, and almost always when that happened, I was on the low end of the power continuum and not somebody Toby would get a lot of points out of supporting. I didn't mind at all having a chit from Toby in my pocket.
I stayed and worked for a while, and it was dusk when I finally strapped on my fanny pack and walked out to the car. My head was full of lying fraternity rapists and eavesdropping sadistic ministers, and most of all my head was full of worry about Marv and Camille.
What was it Stevens wrote, "We must endure our thoughts all night until the bright obvious . . ." Stevens, master of the midway zap. In the beginning, he was talking about a snowstorm, and by the end you realized the snowstorm was inside his head and not outside. Maybe someday all of this was going to turn into the "bright obvious," but right now a snowstorm was an understatement. It was more like swimming in mud.
Dusk settled in all around me as I drove home. I hate dusk— for the same reason I hate snowstorms — inside or out. I can't see. I can see more at night once my eyes acclimate than I can when everything is betwixt and between.
There is, I admit, the occasional splashy sunset at dusk. But it is only occasionally that dusk has a little glory to it. Nine-tenths of the time it is just a messy transition. Now, if day just went whap, like a light shutting off, and there you were, in the sparkling night sky, that would be a transition. But every single goddamn day, you have to put up with this lingering, slow, death-of-the-light business. Thank goodness, by the time I got home the day had finished falling apart and night was blooming.
I walked out onto the deck with my solace glass of ice tea just as the full moon slipped from behind some clouds. Looking up I remembered being five years old and riding home in a car with the moon following us all the way. I remember how amazed I was: Everywhere we went, there it was —no matter how fast we went the moon always seemed to keep up.
I used to talk to the moon, sitting at the window of my bedroom. I didn't understand that the half moon and the full moon were the same thing, and I waited and waited until the full moon came back.
When it did, I wouldn't throw my usual fit about going to bed: I couldn't wait till Mama closed the door and I could drag a chair over to the window. I talked, and the moon listened. Mama wasn't exactly the listening type, and if she did listen, she was likely to say something warm like, "Don't talk foolishness, girl," or she would just snort. Mama had a snort that said "bullshit" better than "bullshit" said it. The moon never said anything like that.
I remembered sneaking out and swimming under that moon when I was older. I always have liked being outside at night —most of all when the moon was shining like it was tonight. I looked at the stream below the deck: In the moonlight it had a vibrancy that hurt your eyes it was so intense, nothing like the ordinary stream it became during the day.
But then the moon gives everything a kind of grace. What doesn't look good under a full moon? Old cars look good. Junkyards look good. Shopping malls look good.
I had the feeling, suddenly, of being watched, and at first I thought it was the moon. I shook my head and smiled, thinking how easy it was to slip back into that five-year-old person—but I stopped my head in mid shake.
The feeling of being watched wasn't benign. It wasn't a feeling of being looked after or watched over: It was something different. I looked up at the moon one last time, and then I looked at the trees across the stream.
I'd chalk it up to paranoia if, oddly enough, I hadn't seen the research. The research said people could tell when somebody was staring at them although nobody knew how. Besides, if it was paranoia, I reasoned, it wouldn't have happened in the middle of my basking in the full moon, which was one time I hadn't been worrying about Willy at all. Likely, the opposite was true. If I was being watched, it probably had taken a while for it to get through my moon-soaked brain.
I sipped my ice tea and thought about it. I didn't have my fanny pack on the deck, and it was probably not a very good idea to be out here like some kind of sitting duck. What was going on? Was this the night Willy was making his move, or was he here just to scout the terrain?
Thinking about it, I felt the bitter taste of fear in my mouth, and then I got mad. Seriously mad. I just couldn't live my life sitting around waiting for someone to torture and murder me. Willy hadn't laid a finger on me, and already he had stolen just about everything I cared about. I couldn't even sit on my goddamn deck in the moonlight without worrying about him.
I got up abruptly and walked back into the house and picked up my fanny pack where I had dropped it. Goddamn it. This was totally and completely ridiculous. Who knew these woods better than me? Willy? I don't think so. Who was used to being in the woods at night? Willy or me? Ten to one Willy wasn't sneaking out of the house at fifteen to swim under the full moon, although, come to think of it, he probably was sneaking out of the house to play Peeping Tom at that age.
What the hell. You place your bets. If Willy and I were going to duke it out, I probably had more advantage in my own woods at night than I'd get anywhere else.
I ran up to the loft and stared at my clothes hanging in my closet. I didn't exactly have a lot. A limit of 250 things in my life total somewhat limited my wardrobe. Surprise, surprise, I didn't have an official night-creeping outfit. Everything had to be black —I knew that from all the rapists I had interviewed — so what could I put together?
I didn't have any black sweatpants. My two pairs of blue jeans were blue. But I did have one pair of black dress pants. I grabbed them, pulled off my clothes, and put them on. I looked for shoes. I could wear the one pair of flat black pumps I used for work, but they would be awful in the woods. I sighed as I saw my black, high-top basketball shoes. I'd never worn them off the court before, but I guessed I could make an exception. At least, I wouldn't be on concrete.
I found a black turtleneck in the drawer and pulled it on and then a black sweater over it. I rummaged around until I found a navy blue knit cap. It wasn't black, but it was close. I strapped on my fanny pack. I looked pretty funny with my basketball shoes and my dress pants. As if I cared. This goddamn thing was going to be over tonight one way or the other.
I strapped the fanny pack on my hip and ran down the stairs from the loft and headed for the back door. Just before I reached it, I screeched to a halt. Nobody who had ever seen Silence of the Lambs could even think about a perp at night without wondering if he had night goggles.
What if he did? Did he know what I was thinking when I looked up at the woods, got up abruptly, and went back inside? Which door was he watching, the deck door or the back door? Even without night goggles, he could see me come out of the doo
r in the moonlight if he was watching it. How smart was Willy? Smart. But he couldn't watch both at once, so which door would he watch?
I paced around the room thinking and saw I hadn't locked the deck door in my haste. Absentmindedly, I locked it. I was going to have to place my bets. Which door would he be watching? There just wasn't any way to know, and I could be in big trouble if Willy saw me coming out of the house and ambushed me.
I turned from the deck door—goddamn it, I didn't want to make a random choice, but I wasn't staying inside —and my eyes fell on the wood box. The wood box. I had one of those wood boxes that's cut right through the wall of the house. To load it with firewood, you had to go outside, remove a two-foot insulated plug from the side of the house, and load the wood. It was set up so you never had to drag wood inside the house.
I threw the top of the wood box open and started pulling firewood out, throwing it in all directions on my precious hardwood floor. The plug was only two feet or so wide. Good thing I was skinny. I could fit through two feet, at least on the diagonal. I got the last of the wood out and stood up. I looked around. What had I forgotten? The lights. I walked over and turned off the living room lights. I should have done it before, but the wood box was off to the side, hidden by a sofa from the huge A-frame window that fronted the deck. Nobody could have seen me unload the wood box, but now I was about to open it. I didn't want the light to shine through the open wood box door and give me away.
The wood box wasn't big enough for me to get in completely, so I leaned in as far as I could and brushed off the wood dust from the plug. This was the tricky part. The plug couldn't be pulled inside; it would only go out. The only way to get it out was to push it out on the ground, and I didn't want to make a lot of noise. If I didn't alert Willy by making noise, he really couldn't see me slipping out of the side of the house no matter which door he was watching.
I pushed on the plug gently, and nothing happened. I pushed again and got nowhere. Finally, I started hitting it with my fist with short jabs until it started moving outward. The plug was insulated, and my fist didn't make any real noise on the insulation.
I got lucky. One side of the plug opened up first, and I was able to reach my hand around it and grab the edge before the whole thing fell. I eased the plug out the rest of the way and at least broke its fall to the ground.
I stuck my head out and just waited. It would take two or three minutes for my eyes to acclimate, and there was no point in going anywhere until they did. Soon the darkness in front of me turned into trees and a woodpile, and I put my arms over my head and started to wiggle out. I wiggled out as quickly as I could and quietly replaced the plug. It wouldn't be good if Willy found it and went in while I was out.
I crouched down for a moment to get oriented. The opening was near the woodpile, and the woodpile was high enough to provide cover, so I was okay where I was for a few minutes. I was beginning to regret the full moon. The night was too bright. Anybody could see anybody in this light, and I had several feet of clear moonlit ground to cross before I could get to the shadow of the trees.
I could hear my heart beating while I waited, but it wasn't exactly fear, it was more like exhilaration. I have always felt invisible in the woods at night, although God knows that is a myth. Every woods animal within forty miles knew there was a human about, but people didn't expect anybody to be in the woods at night, certainly not without a flashlight. If you wanted to hide, the woods at night were the place.
Something was bothering me, nagging at me, but I was getting a taste of the exhilaration I had on the cross-country course, and I ignored it. I'd think about it later. First, I had to get to the cover of the trees. I crouched and duck-walked along the edge of the house, looking for the place where the distance to the trees was the shortest. I found the closest place and got ready. I knew I'd be faster standing up but a lot more visible, so I took a deep breath and wiggled across the moonlit ground on my belly.
I made it to the edge of the trees, then stood up and ran some distance through the trees before I crouched down and listened. Nobody shot me; nobody even shot at me. In fact, I didn't hear anything unnatural. Nothing big and awkward was moving in the woods. The crickets were still holding forth. I was surprised they hadn't piped down. I could hear an owl in the distance screeching—nature was having its nightly orgy of death and destruction.
A whole lot of me didn't want to go looking for Willy, gun or not. A whole lot of me just wanted to melt into the shadows and feel that nobody and nothing could find me. I was tired of being alert, of waiting for trouble, of having the rhythm of my life dictated by a goddamn predator. I did not like feeling like a goldfish in a fishbowl with a cat's face pressed up against the side. I could climb a tree right now, right up to the top like I did when I was fifteen, and the moon would blaze down on me like grace. Nobody would find me there.
But if I did, Willy would still be there when I got down —if not tonight, then tomorrow night or the next or the next. I started to move through the trees. I just couldn't live like that. I'd parallel the road and go down far enough that when I turned back, I'd come up behind him, no matter where he was watching the house from. There was a small hill across the stream from the house. Willy would be somewhere on that hill, looking down, if he hadn't left by now.
Then I stopped. I knew what was bothering me. Funny thing to think about at this late stage, but exactly what was I going to do when I got there? Was I actually planning on shooting him? In cold blood? In the back? Or was I planning on letting him shoot at me first? In which case what I would do might be a moot point.
But what if he didn't have a gun or didn't pull one? Was I going to march him down to my house and call the police? The very thought of Willy inside my house made me completely crazy. Also, what would they have him on? Trespassing. Big deal. He'd be out in two days and more clever the next time.
I started moving again and thought of all the things Willy had done to children and would do to children in the future, and the thought of him dead had a lot of appeal. I didn't mind him dead. I didn't have a problem with his being dead. But the truth was I didn't even like to shoot silhouettes of people. So I was not going to be happy shooting at a real person. Much less if he didn't try to shoot at me.
There was also the small matter that I would go to jail for it. The law does frown on shooting people who are not armed. But that wasn't the main thing. The main thing was that I couldn't even imagine shooting anybody in cold blood, not even Willy.
This was the problem with me and Willy since he got out. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with me —whatever it was, and I truly didn't want to find out—but I didn't have a clue what to do with him.
But something had to happen tonight because I could not and would not keep living like this. I was going onto that hill with Willy, and I'd figure out what to do then.
I went straight out from the side of the house until I was far enough away that I knew I had to be behind Willy. At least he couldn't see the house if he was this far out, so unless he was leaving, I was going to come up behind him. It was also a good place to cross the stream. There were enough rocks that I didn't have to get wet and a lot of overhanging trees providing shade.
I crossed the stream on the rocks, feeling a little exposed. Shadow or not, I was still more visible crossing the stream than I was in the forest. But again nobody shot me and nobody grabbed me on the other side, and that was now my definition of success.
But once I got over, the questions came back: How smart was Willy? Smart. How smart? Smart enough to lure me into the woods? Smart enough to know I'd come after him if he stood there night after night staring at me until I figured it out? What would he have done if I hadn't? Lit a cigarette to get my attention? Turned on a flashlight?
The thought of Camille came back, blind with tape wrapped all around her head, while some aberrant asshole did God knows what to the rest of her. I shuddered, and my stomach started to turn. Was I really sneaking up on Willy? O
r was he sneaking up on me? I looked down. Any step could be onto a trap.
I took a deep breath and tried to push the fear out of my mind. I wasn't sure anymore I should be out here, but I was still committed. I couldn't go back and huddle in the house waiting for him. I went forward more slowly than before, looking carefully at every step.
Thank God for New England forests. They are sparse enough that you can walk off the path and not have to bushwhack, at least at this time of year. The buds were just starting, and mostly the forest was filled with bare bushes. They were widely enough spaced that the lack of a trail wasn't a big problem. Things fill out some in the summer, and I would have made a whole lot more noise than I did now. Thank God it wasn't a Southern forest. I'd have sounded like a bear crashing through the woods if I ventured off a trail.
I took a deep breath. The whole thing of Willy having the nerve to hang around my woods just seemed so incredible. The forest had been my haven, and I was incensed that it was being used by a predator. But tell that to a mouse or a rabbit or just about any other creature in the forest. Life is a lottery in the forest. The damn screech owl in the distance had a taste for brains. You'd find rabbits in the forest where he had chewed off the heads so he could take the brains back and enjoy them at his leisure.
Oh, I knew what the politically correct thing was. The owl was killing to live and Willy was killing for the fun of it, and that was supposed to be some huge difference, but I don't really know how much difference it made to the rabbit. This moonlight-soaked haven of mine was more violent than any inner city.