Naturally, that night I experienced a cornucopia of bizarre visual images, so lifelike they terrified me. The one that was most vivid when I awoke at seven in the morning was of a huge animal, nondescript, might have been a grizzly bear or some ancient mammoth, but with open mouth and sabrelike teeth, bearing down on me in a green forest which, it seemed, should have been tranquil and pleasant. In the end I scrambled about desperately, until I found a hollow log and crawled inside for safety.
The first thought I had when I sat up in bed was: a childhood is supposed to be tranquil and pleasant.
A week hobbled by, at least for me it hobbled since I was still agitated over my own personal mysteries, and then, surprising myself, I came up with an insight.
“Dr. Sophie,” I said––using her first name helped me to feel connected with her–– “I may have figured out what buried pain I tucked away in my early childhood.”
“Tell me,” she said, leaning forward and looking me sharply in the eye.
I grinned and spit out: “Circumcision!”
She tried to hide a startled look, but I could tell I had blindsided her. She cocked her head (yes, again I was aware of how pretty that head) and smiled slowly, enigmatically, before saying back, “Circumcision.”
“Yes. I may be suffering from the shock of having my penis invaded when I was an infant. I’ve read about the lasting effects on boys.”
“Mm,” she said, and paused before adding, “that would be a difficult source to confirm. I mean, especially since you were probably two weeks old when it took place.”
“One doctor said it is a sadistic practice.”
“Yes, I know the arguments. Yet, whole cultures, Jews for example, insist upon it, and their men are not scarred emotionally for life.”
Her dubious reception began to shake my resolve. “Well, I just thought, since I can’t think of anything else that was traumatic, that might have been it, the latent source of all my terrible dreams.”
“I can see how your dreams would be contaminated if you tell yourself, in your waking hours, that you were assaulted as an infant.”
“I don’t remember ever telling myself that.”
“But now you are?”
“It was just put out as a possibility.” My enthusiasm for the idea was ebbing away.
“Then don’t abandon it. Your unconscious is working overtime, and if you came up with that thought, there may also be others.”
Not what I wanted to hear. How blissful it would feel to know I had uncovered the core of my malaise, how liberating for anyone to know the name of his or her ailment! I looked at Dr. Agutter with what surely must have been a hangdog expression, which prompted her to comment: “You have a wounded look. I’m sorry.”
“It means I have a lot more work to do. I hoped the circumcision insight would bring me peace, but now I still feel stuck in my historical angst.”
She smiled, a sweet, compelling smile, and with care said, “As you scrabble about searching to explain your unplumbed grief, think of it as unplumbed treasure. How rich you will be when it is opened up to the light.”
“Yes,” I said, not fully convinced.
EIGHTEEN
The older stepsister, Stevie, was sometimes like a fly on the wall, at hand when least expected, showing up at places I had not announced. No doubt about it she had a lovely look about her, could attract men of all ages and appearances, and often would be seen in the company of three or four at a time. Alas, she seemed to tolerate them, but would kiss them off in favor of an hour in my company. I didn’t dislike her. I had to admit I was drawn toward her rather exotic beauty—those diaphanous eyes, enormous in their lucidity, her figure now full and sensual—and who could resent being adored? In an eerie way, her pursuit of me—her adoration—brought up thoughts of my mother.
Her sister, Jeri, became a semiregular at the Writers’ Guild lectures, and Abby and she got along famously. Jeri was equally attractive, same azure eyes and a less obsessed look; that is, she seemed more satisfied with herself and her situation than did Stevie. I appreciated her positive attitude, and was taken in by her massive curiosity. When she latched onto some new concept she would tear into it, take it apart the way one might a broken clock, run it over her tongue like an enologist when wine-tasting, finger it the way a blind person would, probe its insides like an exploring surgeon. No question, it was stimulating to be around her. I often wondered how sisters, brought up in the same home, with the same parents, could develop such ambient styles, such contrasting personalities.
Ken showed up at the next lecture, and at breaktime sidled up to Jeri and introduced himself. Abby and I were getting some punch, but seeing him across the room, my protective sirens went off. Last thing we needed was for that sicko to seduce, either intellectually or physically, my young stepsister.
Before I could intercede—Abby had not yet seen Ken at Jeri’s side, would not, in any case, have gone near him—I caught a whimsical look on Jeri’s face, then a deep nod of her head, a serious change in her demeanor, a turn, and steady strides heading in our direction.
“The man with the strange tic,” she said as she reached us, “tried to come on to me. Said he was your old friend. Said you wouldn’t mind if he took me for a drink somewhere.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” I said.
“I told him ‘Thanks but no thanks.’ I may not be fully grown up, but I’ve been hit on enough times to know when I’m being conned.”
“Good for you,” Abby said. “He’s a troubled guy. Better to steer clear of him.”
“Yeah, but that kind of invitation worries me,” I put in. “What in hell is his motive? Think he might be trying to get at you, Abby, by sullying Jeri?”
“Hard to read a sociopath,” she answered.
“Well, we all need to be on our guard.”
Jeri looked troubled, that sweet countenance dark with confusion. “Did someone do a bad thing to him? I mean, like insult him or something?”
“It’s complicated, sweetie,” Abby said. “He and I had a little verbal battle a few weeks ago. He got really nasty, and Clare and I have been expecting some kind of payback.”
“Can’t it be talked out? Most disagreements can be talked out.”
“Where did you learn that?” I asked.
“My mom used to say it to me and my sister.”
“How about your stepdad, my father, did he say it too?”
“Not in so many words, but I think he agreed with it.”
I smiled at Abby; my father and mother represented the least likely pair of people ever to want to settle things with dialogue. Each had completely written the other off. I was, however, truly impressed with Jeri’s mature view of conflict.
Blinking lights, crowd oozing toward the assembly room, voices lowering, the second half of the lecture about to get underway. I scanned about for Kentucky Prism, and could find him nowhere. What an odd—and oddly intimidating—duck!
Two days later, Abby called me in the afternoon, an edge to her voice.
“Weird!”
“What’s weird?”
“I just got off the phone with my mother. She told me she and my father are leaving for a two-week vacation in Europe day after tomorrow.”
“That’s weird?”
“First of all, they have no money to tour Europe for two weeks, and second, they never have liked traveling together. They fight every ten minutes.”
“So, how did this phenomenon come about?”
“They got a call from a man who said that my father won some kind of lottery, all expenses paid for this trip—worth between ten and fifteen thousand dollars. Next day, an itinerary arrived, starting them with plane tickets to London, over to Paris and around France, through Switzerland, and onto the final leg for five days in Spain. All reservations confirmed, train travel between countries paid for and set, and a bank money order for two thousand dollars for ‘routine expenses.’ She said they couldn’t very well turn it down, since one of the conditi
ons was that the ‘benefactor’ for those drawings was trying to promote marital harmony, and they had to go together.”
“Didn’t say who the benefactor was?”
“That’s what’s crazy. Usually when someone wins something, it’s either a come-on scheme where you never get the payoff, or they want to confirm some kind of ticket you purchased to verify the legitimacy. None of that occurred here, and no name was given, but the money and all receipts were sent, and my mother checked with the airlines, British Airways, and it’s all confirmed.”
“Why in hell would anyone want to give all that to your parents?”
“All I can think of is to get them out of town, away from here, but I have no idea who, or why.”
“Or to buy them off for some future demand.”
“There is nothing either of them can do for anybody with power. They are very simple people, not really very pleasant to be around, and certainly not in a position to help someone with any favors.”
“Sure is weird all right.” I stopped, then the thought came, “It’s a big investment by a mysterious person for some, well … depraved purpose. Can’t be just generosity by a philanthropist.”
“That’s my concern. The second shoe. What will it be and when will it drop? And most of all, does it have to do with me? It smells rotten.”
I caught the scent of her allusion. “Someone might do something bizarre with your parents to get at you?”
“Only one person I know who could be plotting such an unlikely kind of twisted revenge.”
Simultaneously, so that we didn’t even hear each other, we both said, “Kentucky Prism.”
She said before I could, “I didn’t know he had any money.”
NINETEEN
Two days after Abby’s parents left for Europe, their house burned to the ground.
A neighbor called Abby and she got there in time to see the massive vortex of flame draw in the final wall, the way a black hole might suck in its satellites.
The fire company reported to Abby that it was likely a case of arson, though they could not imagine why, since it was such a modest house. Their investigation uncovered remnants of gasoline-soaked rags on three sides of the building.
Everything within was lost.
All Abby could say to me was, “The asshole got his revenge. Didn’t have to kill anyone. With the house empty, it was a sure thing the fire would be fully engaged before anyone could report it.”
“Is there anything we can tell the police?”
“You mean that someone had an argument with me?”
“Well, that someone sent your mom and dad on a trip two days before.”
“Knowing the police when I was growing up, they’d be amazed at the coincidence. That would be it.”
“There has to be something we can do, you and me. We can figure out a way to trap the sick dude.”
She began to cry—one of the few times I ever saw her do so—and whispered in such a pathetic voice it nearly tore my heart in half, “Oh, Clare, all my youthful memories, good and bad, were in that house.”
“And any remnants of things you might have cared about.”
“I don’t even know if my parents have insurance.”
“Maybe we can get it into the news, and there can be a fund set up. I’ve seen that on TV, and it could raise a lot of money.”
She was silent for a time then produced a raggedy, singed and soaked, yellow fur replica of Big Bird from Sesame Street. “I found this in the rubble. It seemed to have been kicked under some bricks from the old fireplace, and didn’t get scorched. I was never without it when I was three and four.”
“Irony. The only thing left from a stormy childhood: a bright yellow cartoon-character bird, seared and water-logged.”
Her face took on a doleful look and she said, “At least I have my own place with a few comforts. My parents, troubled as they are, have to start over.” She hesitated. “I’m not sure I want to try to reach them. It would just ruin the trip of a lifetime.”
“Thanks to our psychopathic buddy. Talk about an irony!”
We were in a small strip-park on the edge of Beverly Hills, the day cool and pleasant with a slanted afternoon sun shimmering on the greenest of grass. Contrasts flooded me: how peaceful this scene, how idyllic and unspoiled; how cruel, how pitiful the human motives that disrupt the planet’s harmony.
Finally Abby said, “I know I can get pretty worked up. I’m aware of my capricious nature, how I can become instantly venomous. Right now I’m thinking I want to get even with that son-of-a-bitch. I just have to think up as clever a scenario as he did, camouflaged the way his was, and catch him on the run, when he least expects it.”
Her tone, earlier so filled with misery, now was strident; more than strident, so acerbic that it scared me. This was a part of Abby I knew about but hadn’t seen pitched to its extreme. This was her wounded persona calculating a way to do mischief.
All I could say, given the poison in her voice, was, “I’ll lay odds that our troubled, rotten Kentucky buddy won’t feel like he’s running in the Derby.”
When I left her, I decided to go to the burned-out house in the evening and, with a flashlight, see if anything, a dropped pen, a piece of jewelry, anything metal, would catch the light and give us evidence. For twenty minutes I probed the ashes and all I found was what appeared to be a woman’s silver loop-earring, which I bagged, inclined to check with Abby about its ownership.
Timing is everything.
During this disruptive time, wouldn’t you know it that my agent, Granger Lowe, called to say that the publishing house, Meteor Press, run by Vincent Dimaggio, was about to release my novel. They wanted me to do book signings, but made it clear that they had no money to send me all over the country. My signing gigs would be local, though publicity for the book would be worldwide.
Within a couple of days, I received word that three author signings had been arranged: one was at Dutton’s, a venerable old bookstore in Brentwood that made a habit of celebrating new authors and their latest publications; a second was to be at my own university, where they could promote the fact that the novel was written by a local student; and the third was at an Inland Empire bookstore owned by a woman named Angie Hazenpflug, in the city of San Bernardino, about an hour and a half drive away.
I would love to say that the signings were remarkable and a predictor of things to come, but alas, that was not the case. At Dutton’s, their regular trade were notified of the event, and perhaps fifty showed up. Fifty books had been ordered from Meteor Press, but on consignment, so that whatever was not sold could be returned. I ended up signing seventeen books—and have no idea if Dutton kept any more for the future or sent the rest back.
My university bought thirty books outright—which meant I would get my author’s cut on all of them—they presuming that a local writer would likely sell over time. Of the thirty, I only signed eleven.
Ms. Hazenpflug, in San Bernardino, had set up a pastry table with coffee and tea, and had hung banners across the front of her shop. Baseball was a popular attraction in that area, so she expected to draw well. What she (and I) may not have understood was that ball fans are not necessarily readers. My novel would have a limited audience. Many folks wandered through during the hour-and-a-half I sat in my “author’s chair,” but only nine bought the book. I have to mention that I thoroughly enjoyed the pastries.
Jumping ahead, over the next year my novel sold four thousand copies nationwide, which reimbursed the publisher for his advance but provided no more royalties for me, since the advance was deducted from the author’s cut until paid up.
Quite an education, quite a disappointment, but a satisfaction as well. There is nothing to match going into a bookstore and seeing your own creation on the shelf. Delicious!
TWENTY
Here is how Abby passed on what happened: she met her parents at the airport and broke the news. At the time they were not speaking to each other, some incident in Barcelona generati
ng their usual animosity. But when their daughter relayed her tale in detail––but without the Ken variable—their initial disbelief turned to outrage. Inexplicably, her mother put her head on her father’s shoulder, and they cried together.
Abby had arranged for them to stay temporarily with her father’s brother, who lived a few blocks from their destroyed home. In answer to her direct question, she got two opposite answers: “Did you have homeowners’ insurance?” “No,” her father said. “Who could afford it?” “Yes,” her mother replied, “I bought it five years ago.” She looked at her husband and added, “Never told you. It would have caused a fight.”
I was intrigued by Abby’s descriptions and, as it turned out, the Justicia family, after a lengthy investigation to ensure no deliberate arson from them, received a payment of seventy thousand dollars. In today’s value, some seven or eight years later, it was probably the equivalent of a hundred grand: enough, if they desired, to build a modest home on the same site.
But what to do about Ken Prism? The intrigue that began to possess Abby, to obsess her day and night, drove a terrible wedge between her and me. It wasn’t that I was against retribution—justice, actually, for the Justicia family—but the form it took was relentless and clearly malevolent. I saw in Abby something I did not have in myself: a vicious bent, a get-even mentality.
In the context of our night visitations, I could only imagine that the most recent affronts would have added new, eerie, perhaps intolerable dimensions. Her nightmares had been bad since the childhood rape, and now this latest event: increments, extras, embellishments, complexities. She was, as I saw it, suffering from a terrible emotional overload.
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