The Darker Side sb-3

by Cody McFadyen

  We wait a few moments, still mystified.

  "Now?" she asks.

  "Your guess is as good as mine."

  She digs into the butter with the spoon and drops it onto the pan. We watch as it bubbles and turns liquid.

  "I don't know," Bonnie says. "Doesn't seem like much butter to me."

  "You think we should add more?"

  She frowns. "Well . . . it's just butter. It's probably safe."

  "Do another tablespoon."

  She does so and we watch it melt and become one with its brother.

  "Now what?" she asks.

  "It says we're supposed to stir in the shallots . . . oh crap." I look up at her. "I don't remember anything about shallots."

  "What's a shallot?"

  "Exactly."

  We stare down at the pan of now bubbling butter. Look back at each other.

  "What do we do?" I ask.

  "I don't know," Bonnie replies. "Maybe the extra butter will make up for it?"

  "Works for me," I say. I giggle.

  Bonnie points the spatula at me. "Get it under control, Smoky,"

  she says in a stern voice. Then giggles herself. Which of course gets me giggling again and now this train is really in danger of leaving its rails.

  "Oh Lord," I manage to sputter, "we'd better finish this up or the butter is going to burn."

  Bonnie giggles again. "Because butter burns."

  "So I hear." I consult the cookbook. "Back to high heat."

  She turns the knob.

  "Now we stir in one cup Madeira wine and one-third cup balsamic vinegar."

  We pour the cups in and are rewarded with an acrid, stinking cloud of vinegar fumes.

  "Wow!" Bonnie sputters. "That smells terrible! Are you sure that's what the book says?"

  I blink my eyes to clear them and consult our current bible. "Yep."

  "How long do we cook it?"

  "Stir it until . . . let me see . . . till it's reduced by half."

  Three minutes later, to our amazement, the mix has done exactly what the cookbook predicted.

  "Now we're supposed to whisk in three teaspoons of Dijon mustard," I say. We plop the mustard into what is beginning to look somewhat swillish. Bonnie whisks away. The odor is not as strong as it was before, but it doesn't smell great.

  "Are you sure this isn't some kind of a practical-joke cookbook or something?" she asks.

  "Oh, hey," I say. "Turns out we're supposed to use three tablespoons of butter after all. The two we already did, and add another one now, just until it melts."

  The butter does not make our witch's brew look any more appetizing. A few moments pass. Bonnie frowns at me.

  "Think it's done?"

  I peer at the concoction. It's a yellowish gray color. It smells of butter, mustard, and vinegar. "Too late for prayer."

  We take the skillet off the stove and spread the sauce over each steak as the cookbook directs. Bonnie takes our plates to the table as I pour us each a glass of water.

  We're poised over our steaks now, forks and knives in hand.

  "Ready?" she asks me.

  "Yep."

  We each cut off a piece and pop them into our mouths. There is silence and chewing.

  "Wow," Bonnie says, amazed, "that's actually . . ."

  "--really good," I finish for her.

  "No, like really good."

  "As in delicious."

  She grins at me, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

  "Shallots?" she says. "We don't need no stinking shallots."

  I'd taken a drink of water and I choke on it as I laugh.

  "I THINK NEXT TIME WE might even try adding a side of vegetables,"

  I say.

  We'd had just the steak and some dinner rolls.

  "Maybe some shallots," Bonnie jokes.

  I smile. We're sitting on the couch, barely watching some reality talent show. Dinner had been great, and the evening has been wonderful. Normal. I crave normal a lot, but get it rarely.

  "So, I want to talk about school," Bonnie says.

  So much for normal.

  I chastise myself for this. What could be more normal than a kid wanting to go to a school with other kids? I can see from the anxiety in her face that she's so worried about how what she wants will make me feel.

  Oh hell.

  I focus on her, give her all of my attention.

  "Yes. I'm listening, babe. Tell me."

  She shifts her legs up under her, and pushes a lock of hair back behind her ear while she searches for the right words. This gesture gives me a strong feeling of deja vu; the ghost of her mother. Genetic possession.

  "I've been thinking a lot, lately." She glances at me, smiles a shy smile. "I guess I think a lot all the time."

  "It's one of your better qualities, bunny. Not enough thinking in this world. What's been on your mind?"

  "What I want to do when I grow up. Well . . . when I'm an adult, I mean."

  Interesting distinction.

  "And?"

  "I want to do what you do."

  I stare, at a loss for words. Of all the things she could have said, of all the professions she could have chosen, this I like the least.

  "Why?" I manage. "What about painting?"

  She gives me a smile that says I am deluded but nonetheless charming.

  "I'm not that good, Momma-Smoky. Painting is something I'll always enjoy. It brings me peace. But it's not what I'm meant to do."

  "Baby, you're twelve. How can you be meant to do anything?"

  Her eyes snap to mine and fill with a coolness that shuts me up fast. Right now, she looks anything but twelve.

  "Do you know the first thing I see, every time I close my eyes?" Her voice is calm, soothing, almost singsong. "I see my mother's dead face. Just like I saw it for those three days when I was tied to her." She stares off at nothing and everything, remembering. "She was stuck in a scream. I cried on her a lot the first day. I remember feeling bad about that, because some of my tears went into her eyes and I thought that that just wasn't right, she couldn't brush them away or anything. Then I stopped crying and I started trying to sleep. I pretended like she wasn't dead, and she was just holding me. It even worked, for a little while. Until she started to smell. After that, it was all grays and blues and blacks. I paint those colors sometimes and think about that last day, because that last day wasn't real, but it was the most real day of all. When I dream about that last day, all I dream about is screaming and rain."

  These words transfix me. When I can speak again, my voice is rough with grief. "I'm sorry, Bonnie. So so so so sorry."

  She comes back to the present. Her eyes lose that faraway coolness, that deadness, and fill with concern for me, instead. "Hey, hey, Momma-Smoky, it's okay. Well, I mean, no, it's not okay, but I'm okay. I could have been really messed up forever, you know? I wasn't sure I was going to be able to talk again or stop having nightmares. I even thought about killing myself. But now, I like my life. I love Elaina, and Alan, and most of all, I really love you." She grins. "Like tonight. We made steaks."

  "Yes," I manage. "Good steaks."

  "Yeah, and that's small, but it's also everything, you know?"

  "I do, babe."

  "But the thing with my mom happened, Smoky. It happened, and it's always there and in a way it always will be. I know you know what I mean, because stuff happened to you too. And you know what?

  I don't want to forget. I think the day I can't remember how my mom looked in that room is the day I'll really be in trouble."

  The simple mature wisdom of what she's saying takes the keen edge off the saw blade that had been attacking my heart. She's right. I used to think that if I stopped mourning Matt and Alexa, I was killing them all over again. I came to realize that suffering was not a requirement, not even guilt; remembering was enough. But--and here is the ocean-sized caveat--remembering is required.

  "I understand," I tell her.

  She smiles at me. "I know you do. So you shoul
d understand why I want to do what you do."

  "Because of what happened to your mom."

  Those cool, oh-too-speculative eyes are back. The twelve-year-old is gone again.

  "Not just my mom. Because of what happened to me. Because of what happened to you. Because of what happened to Sarah."

  Sarah was the living victim of a case I'd been involved in a few years back. Even though she is six years older than Bonnie, they have found kinship in tragedy and remain close friends.

  "Everyone I love most knows that the monsters are real, MommaSmoky. When you know they're real, you can't pretend anymore, and you have to do something about it."

  I stare at her. I don't want to hear these words coming from that mouth.

  God, I hate this conversation. And you know what? I'm going to lose this argument. Because these wheels were put in motion the moment Bonnie was tied to her gutted mom and left there to change into what she is now.

  It makes me sad. I've been living in a fantasy world, hoping that Bonnie would grow into a normal life, a normal job, get the white picket fence and the dog. Who had I been kidding?

  Not her, that's for sure.

  I sigh. "I understand, babe."

  I may not like it, but I do.

  "Going to a regular school is a part of that. I can't understand the monsters, not really, if I don't understand normal people, you know?"

  And you're not one of the normal people, babe?

  I think it, but do not ask it. I don't want to hear her answer.

  "I thought maybe it was so you could make some friends your own age."

  "But I'm not my own age, Momma-Smoky."

  It finally happens, against my will. That little tidbit is enough to bring a tear. Just one. It rolls down my cheek in a straight line. Bonnie's face scrunches up in concern and she reaches her hand out to wipe it away.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you sad."

  I clear my throat. "I don't ever want you to tell me anything less than the truth. However it makes me feel."

  "But you shouldn't feel bad. I could be dead. I could be in a mental institution. I could still be screaming in the middle of the night--

  remember that?"

  "Yes."

  We both used to do it, sometimes in stereo. Nightmares would walk us into memory and we'd wake up screaming ourselves hoarse.

  "So things are better, see? I don't want you to think I'm not happy."

  She manages to drill down with that, to put words to the greatest, most basic mother-fear.

  "Are you, babe? Happy?"

  I'm a little shocked at the miserable, desperately hopeful sound of my own voice.

  She gives me a new smile now, one that's unfettered, unadulterated, no fog, no screams or rain or cold, cold eyes. Just twelve-year-old cloudless blue-sky sunshine, the most beautiful sun there is.

  "Eight days out of ten, Momma-Smoky."

  I remember what Alan said earlier, and know that he was right. Count your blessings is a cliche, but only because it's so damn true. Bonnie is here, Bonnie is beautiful, intelligent, talented, she talks, she doesn't fear life or wake up screaming in the night. Yes, she's been changed by what happened to her, but she hasn't been broken, and in the end, that's the biggest blessing of all. Almost a miracle, really. I grab her and hug her to me.

  "Okay, okay. But can you wait till next fall? Finish out this year with Elaina?"

  "Yes, yes, yes, thank you, thank you!"

  I know the decision is the right one, because those squeals of delight are pure twelve-year-old again. We spend the rest of the night wrapped in normalcy, doing nothing much, just enjoying each other's company. For a little while, I don't worry if someone's dying.

  Somehow, the world turns on without me.

  I WAKE UP TO THE insistent buzz of my cell phone. I check the caller ID with bleary eyes. Alan.

  "It's five A.M.," I answer. "Can't be good."

  "It's not," he says. "The shit's about to hit the fan."

  P A R T TWO

  THE STORM

  21

  "I GOT A CALL FROM ATKINS. HE SURFS A LOT OF THOSE VIRAL video sites--"

  "Come again?" I ask.

  "Websites that allow users to post video clips," James explains.

  "They can be self-made, or they can be thirty-second to three-minute clips people encoded from the news or a DVD or whatever."

  I frown. "What's the point of that?"

  "Entertainment," Callie says. "Voyeurism. Socializing. You have everything from skateboards crashing into the sidewalk and breaking wrists to cute just-legal somethings talking about world events while sitting around in their bikinis."

  I sigh. "Bonnie probably knows all about this stuff."

  Callie pats my head. "Everyone does except you, honey-love."

  Alan opens up a browser and types in a url: user-tube.com. A moment later, the screen fills with a series of neatly arranged thumbnail photos. Each thumbnail has text aligned beneath it.

  "Wipeout," I read below one.

  The photo shows someone flying off a motorbike as it crashes into the ground.

  Alan clicks it and a new page loads. The video clip begins to play. Sure enough, we see a motorbike hit a ramp, fly into the air, and miss its mark. The rider does a real-life Superman as the bike crunches into the ground. He lands, bounces a few times, and ends up in a tangled heap.

  "Ouch," I say, wincing.

  "There's more," Alan observes.

  Whoever made the clip did us and all other viewers the service of rewinding to the moment before the crash and replaying it all in glorious slow motion. We get to hear the crunches and crashes in that long, drawn-out ohhhhhhhhhh-nooooooo druggy reverb, get to watch the hapless rider arrow through the air and bounce like a human basketball.

  "Gross," I observe.

  "Modern day Roman arena," Callie says.

  "What's all that posted below the clip?" I ask.

  "User comments," Alan says. "You create an account. That lets you upload your own clips and allows you to comment on stuff other people have posted."

  He scrolls down a little so I can read some of the witticisms. Motherfucking WIIIIIIPEOUT!

  Who says a man can't fly?

  Holy shit, did you see him bounce? Holy shit!

  We all saw the same thing you did, you dumb fag . . .

  "Highbrow," I remark.

  "It's not all mayhem," Alan says, navigating back to the home page. "They have categories, see?"

  I read. Family Fun. Animals. Romance. I start to understand the attraction.

  "So anyone can come on here, upload a video clip, and have others talk about it?"

  "Yep. You get a lot of crap, but you also get some pretty creative stuff. Short movies, comedians and musicians trying to get heard, all kinds of things."

  "And sex, I'd imagine?"

  "Actually, they police that pretty hard. No nudity allowed."

  "No problem with gore, though," James observes.

  "Nope."

  I glance at Alan. "And you frequent this site?"

  He shrugs. "What can I say? It's addictive. Each clip is a snack, not a meal."

  "You can't eat just one," Callie chirps.

  "Okay," I say. "I understand the structure. Now show me what it has to do with us."

  Alan points to the listing of categories.

  "There's a religious category. Generally, it has a few different uses. Preachers or would-be preachers giving three-minute sermons, a farrighter talking about the sins of abortion, a far-lefter talking about the sins of organized religion in general."

  He clicks on the category and a new row of thumbnail images fills the screen.

  "The top ten are the ones you need to see."

  He clicks on a thumbnail. There is a black screen. White, block letters appear: The Beginning of the Opus--A Study of Truth and the Soul. The letters fade into another few seconds of blackness and then open to the mid-body shot of a man. He is seated at a simple brown wooden table. He is only
visible from the shoulders down to the tabletop. The wall behind him is blank gray concrete. The light source comes from above, just enough to illuminate him and some of his surrounds. The word austere comes to mind. Snow on a treeless field. His hands are clasped in front of him, resting on the table. They are draped with a rosary. He wears a black shirt and a black jacket.

  "The study of the nature of truth," he begins, "is the study of the nature of God." The voice is low, but not bass, more alto. It's a pleasant voice. Calm, measured, relaxed.

  "Why is this? Because the basic truth of all things is that they exist as God created them. To view the truth of something is to view it exactly as it is, unlayered by your own views, your own preconceptions, your own additions to its composition. To view the truth of something is to see it not as you want it to be, but as it is. In other words, to see it exactly as God created it to be, at the moment of its creation. Thus, when you see the truth of something, you are, in fact, allowing yourself to see a piece of the face of God."

  "Interesting. Cogent," James murmurs.

  "What, then, prevents us from perceiving this truth? We were all born with eyes to see, with ears to hear. We all have a brain to process the input of our senses. Why, then, do two men witness an automobile accident and have entirely different versions of the truth? Why, further, does a video camera recording of the same accident demonstrate both men's observations to be incorrect?

  "The answer is obvious: only the video camera records without alteration. What, then, is the difference between the man and the camera?" He pauses for a moment. "The difference is that the video camera has no filter of 'self.' It has no soul, no mind. One can then extrapolate that where errors in judgment occur, the soul and the mind are the sources of the flaw.

  "But if God created all things, and He did, then we must acknowledge that He created the soul and the mind as well. God does not make mistakes. Therefore, the soul and the mind, at birth, are perfection, capable of perceiving exact and basic truth. One could argue that, at birth, no filter exists at all between the truth of the world and the self. What, then, is this 'filter'? This thing that changes man over time, that makes his recollection less reliable than a video camera?"

  Fade to black again, followed by those same white block letters proclaiming, End Part One.