by Rick Boling
Twisted bodies bounced from the hood and fenders as the car rose into the air, where it appeared to hang suspended for a moment. Then it tilted slightly to one side, slammed into the driveway, and skidded toward Doris and Ellie. After that everything seemed to happen in slow motion: cops running, people screaming, the sickening sound of metal scraping asphalt. The last thing I remember seeing—the image that would haunt me for the rest of my days—was Doris’s face, eyes wide with fright, as she looked over at me an instant before the car pinned her against the stadium wall in a bloody mass of torn flesh and mangled body parts.
Suicide Is Painless
I replayed the scene in my mind for the thousandth time as we watched Doris’s coffin disappear into the ground. Ellie had to lean on me for support because she’d insisted on leaving her crutches in the car. Fortunately, her injuries had been repairable: a broken fibula, some cuts and bruises, and three cracked ribs. The fibula required a bulky cast, but in a few weeks she’d be good as new—physically. Emotionally, it was hard to tell. So far she appeared to be doing a lot better than me in that department. Then again, now that Chapman was out of the picture, she had much more to occupy her mind than I did, with the tour and the foundation and her work with Aurie and Heyoka. And without Doris’s help her workload would be even heavier.
Later that evening, as we sat at the dining-room table staring over the remnants of casseroles and desserts, we both seemed too exhausted to speak. The initial shock and trauma had been dulled by the confusion of coordinating Doris’s funeral arrangements, while at the same time fielding hundreds of sympathetic phone calls and dealing with a whirlwind of press inquiries. Now it felt as if we’d been left drenched in the wake of a passing storm. Though in some ways the silence was a relief, it also created a void, into which the tidal wave of our dammed-up grief threatened to explode. I was trying to think of some way to avoid a shared emotional breakdown, when Ellie beat me to it.
“We need to talk,” she said, straightening up in her chair and squaring her shoulders. “And not about Mom or the past.” Her transformation was uncannily swift: the sadness melted from her face and within seconds her expression hardened into one of stubborn determination. “There’s too much important stuff going on to waste time feeling sorry for ourselves.”
“Okay,” I said, thinking how much she sounded like Doris. “So what do you—”
“To begin with,” she interrupted, “you need to catch up with what’s been happening. You’ve been so busy trying to stop Chapman, we haven’t wanted to bother you with a bunch of progress reports, but a lot has happened over the past year.”
“No shit,” I said. “Not the least of which is that I fucked up royally.”
“Stop it, goddammit!” The anger in her voice startled me. “No one could have anticipated what happened, and you know it. If Mom were here she’d probably slap you silly for thinking any of this was your fault. So get over it, Dad. We don’t have time for that crap. Now shut up and listen!”
Ellie was right; a lot had happened since I’d last heard from anyone about the foundation’s activities. Whenever she or Aurie had spent time with me, the discussion always centered on the tour and Chapman, with an occasional allusion to my getting back into writing and performing. That was a subject I had continued to sidestep, citing my need to concentrate on the security situation. Now, however, I no longer had that excuse.
“First,” she said, “you should know that the foundation’s focus has changed. Combining some of my research with the computing capabilities Heyoka’s developed, we’ve been able to extrapolate the efficacy of several models, each based on the influences of numerous variables.”
“English, please,” I said.
“Listen, Aurie is going to be here later to fill you in on some of the details. And she’s a lot better at breaking things down into understandable language. So if you want simple explanations, ask her. Bottom line is that we’ve run numerous models, and the data tell us that the major problem—the reason things are falling apart in their dimension—is not due exclusively to the misuse of technological advances, as we first thought. In fact, the primary influences are sociopolitical, ingrained cultural and religious belief systems and corporate gluttony that inevitably lead to chaos and anarchy, no matter how scientifically advanced the society becomes. What we run into at every turn is, for lack of a better term, human nature—the incredible stupidity, stubbornness, and greed of the human animal.”
“Duh. Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Don’t worry, there’ll be a lot of that when Aurie gets here. What I’m trying to do is give you an overview of what we’re up against. All this time we’ve been worrying about the impact of technology, when it wasn’t the scientific advances that were the root of the problem. It was how they were used by radical fringe groups, governments—including our own—and multinational corporations. And the only way to affect long-term, positive change in those areas is by altering the basic attitude of society toward things like the concentration of power in the corporate sector, weakening of governmental regulation over the business community, ecological indifference, and the rise of militant religious fundamentalism.”
“Tall order,” I said. “Sounds like a return to the hippie philosophy. Unfortunately, that movement didn’t have the earthshaking effect we all thought it would. At least not in the world I came from. The old Gandhi bit about being the change you want to see in the world didn’t seem to work out very well once it was drowned out by Reagan’s philosophy of materialism, and Gordon Gekko’s ‘Greed is Good’ became the motto of the late 20th century.”
“Gordon Gekko?” she said.
“Character in a movie. Sorry, I guess that one won’t hit the theaters for a while. My point is that the movement to alter the so-called sociopolitical landscape has already failed, despite a valiant effort by millions of dedicated activists. Or, maybe I should say it will ultimately fail. You’ve seen what’s happening in Heyoka and Aurie’s world. And if, as you say, technology isn’t the problem, then it probably can’t bail us out either. So what do you scientific wizards plan to do about it?”
“There isn’t much we can do by ourselves,” she said. “That’s not to say the kind of scientific advancements they’ve come up with can’t play a role. They can if they are properly introduced and utilized. But it’s going to take a serious alteration of public sentiment to redirect the course of history. And that’s where you come in.”
“Me? What the hell do I have to do with any of this?”
“Not a lot,” she said. “Not yet, anyway. And I don’t mean only you. I mean anyone who’s in a position to sway the emotions and political beliefs of large portions of the populace.”
“You sure you’re talking to me?” I said, turning to look over my shoulder. I got up and peered into the empty kitchen. “Nope. Nobody in there.”
“Very funny,” she said. “Come back in here and sit down.”
“Getting pretty bossy in your old age,” I said, flipping my chair around and straddling it backwards. I rested my chin on the top rung and grinned at her.
“What I’m getting at,” she said, “is that it all comes down to effective communication, making the kind of emotional connection that goes deeper than mere words or fiery rhetoric and connects with the public in ways so subtle they don’t even realize what’s happening.”
“Ah, you’re talking about subliminal advertising. Kind of unethical, don’t you think?”
“Actually, I am talking about something subliminal, but not in the way you’re thinking. And, no, I don’t think it’s unethical. There’s nothing hidden or clandestine about it. It’s simply a way of openly expressing ideas and concepts to a broad spectrum of the public, a method of communication that transcends ethnic barriers and geographical borders, that communicates on a level so fundamental it can speak directly to the collective psyche.”
“I assume this something new you guys have developed?”
�
��Boy, Dad, how dense can you be? Okay, before we start playing Twenty Questions, let me give you another hint. Think Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
My density was, of course, an act. I had a pretty good idea of where all this was leading, but I really was hoping they’d come up with some super new communication device. At the risk of pissing her off, I decided to carry the act one step further. “Oh, I get it,” I said, “you’ve made contact with aliens and they’ve agreed to help us mass-hypnotize the entire population of the planet.”
“I’m going to ignore that,” she said. “You know what I’m talking about. Look, you say the movements of the ‘60s and ‘70s were failures, but that’s only partially true. The so-called hippies and their philosophy of peace and love eventually put an end to the Vietnam War, not to mention the influence they had on the civil rights movement, ecological preservation, and nuclear disarmament. And in all those endeavors it was music that led the way. Starting with Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul & Mary, Joni Mitchell, and others from the folk era, then moving into mainstream pop and rock with Denver, Lennon, Jackson, and Springsteen, among many others, it was music that kept the message alive. Problem was, too many of the hippies grew up and joined the so-called “real world,” changing their priorities from promoting peace and equality and ecological balance to accumulating money and becoming part of the traditional political establishment.”
“Maybe so, but that’s only stating the obvious,” I said. “It’s a little too late to do anything about it now.”
“Not so,” she said. “You’re forgetting where we are in that progression. In our world there’s still time. And if anyone has the talent to do what’s necessary, it’s you. I’m not saying music is the only answer, but it can be an integral part—a significant part—of the solution. And with the foundation’s money and support, we have a good chance of stemming the tide.”
“You know,” I said, “I’ve put up with this poorly-disguised conspiracy you guys have been trying to shove down my throat, but laying some sort of savior guilt trip on me is stooping pretty low.” I slammed my fist down on the table, rattling the dishes. “Doesn’t anybody give a shit about what I want? I’m not a goddamned politician, for Christ’s sake. Nor do I want to be. Basically, I just want to be left alone.”
“To do what?” she shouted, “crawl in a hole and lick your wounds while the rest of the world goes down the tubes?” Seeing my shock at her harsh tone, she hesitated for a moment, then lowered her voice. “Nobody’s trying to put a guilt trip on you, Dad. We’re all just trying to survive. And I don’t care what you think, we need your help. Besides, you need something to drag you out of this downward spiral you’re in before you lose it and slit your wrists or something.”
Without thinking, I glanced down at my arm. I quickly looked away, but by then she was limping around the table.
“I read about that in Mom’s journals,” she whispered, leaning awkwardly to touch the smooth skin. “We talked about it, and although I’m sure she never mentioned it to you, she always worried that one day depression might get the better of you again. It’s one of the reasons she finally decided to talk you into liquidating the business.”
In this life there were no visible scars, no fading ribbons of white; only the flickering memory of that night when I’d sat on the seawall and tried to carve death from my veins with a chisel. I wondered if Ellie’s fears were justified; the guilt and pain were obviously enough to bring the possibility to mind. And now she was adding another layer of stress by suggesting I could play a role in changing the course of history. It was silly, of course; I knew that intellectually. But emotionally, it only exacerbated my growing depression. With Doris gone and Aurélie’s world on the brink of annihilation, I didn’t have much to live for anyway. Ellie would be fine, I knew. She was far beyond needing my help or even my guidance, which meant my parental obligations had essentially been fulfilled …
“Dad?” she said.
As the room slowly rematerialized around me, I managed a smile. “Don’t worry about that, honey,” I said. “I’ll be fine. I just need some time to get my head together.” I stood and lifted her to her feet. “Now we’d better clean up this mess before it turns into a roach banquet.” I could see the skepticism in her eyes, so I held her gently by the shoulders and nodded toward the table. “Come on, kiddo. Give me a hand here.”
After we’d stored the leftovers in Tupperware and loaded the dishwasher, Ellie went upstairs to change and wake Jackson, who’d flown in from a gig in Montreal for the funeral and hadn’t gotten much sleep in the past thirty-six hours. The two of them were scheduled to fly to Quebec City later that night for another of his tour stops, and I began to dread the idea of being left alone. Solitude, I knew, would inevitably lead to retrospect, and in my fragile state of mind I didn’t think I could handle a lot of forced hindsight.
Later, as I watched them drive off, my grip on reality seemed to weaken with the dwindling glow of their tail lights. I stood for a long time in the middle of the road, while the world around me wavered and melted like a Dali painting.
I must have lost a significant chunk of time because the next thing I knew my surroundings were abruptly resolved into clarity by the ring of a cash register.
“You know, my friend,” Jerry said as he laid some bills and coins on the counter, “you could save a lot of money at Ace Liquors down the street. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Here, let me see if I can find you something to carry those in.”
I waited while he rummaged around under the bar and came up with a wrinkled, brown grocery bag, into which he put the two quarts of Jack Daniel’s I had apparently bought. “You okay, buddy?” he asked when I picked up the bag and stood without moving. Still confused, I nodded and turned toward the door, nearly colliding with Helen on her way back to the bar with a tray of empty glasses.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, shifting the bag to secure it under one arm.
“No problem, honey,” she said. She set the tray on the counter and picked up my change. “Hey, don’t you want this?”
Shouldering the door open, I waved my free hand to indicate that I didn’t care about the money.
A chill December breeze swept across the parking lot as I leaned against the car and rifled through my pockets in search of the keys. Coming up empty, I peered through the window and saw them hanging from the ignition. Fortunately the door was unlocked, but once behind the wheel, I realized the really fortunate thing was that the car was still there at all. Not only had I left the keys in the ignition, I’d forgotten to lock the door, oversights that were just plain stupid in this neighborhood.
The drive home was shrouded in a misty montage of memories: disconnected flashes from both my lives, strung together like random movie clips with no discernable association.
Another time lapse found me sitting on the patio with a glass of whiskey in my hand, squinting at a blurry apparition of Aurélie. A shimmering glow from the underwater pool light had drawn insects that attracted our resident bats, and it was only when one of the flying rodents startled her by dive-bombing toward the water that I realized she wasn’t an alcoholic hallucination. Twilight had faded into a moonless night, but there was still enough light from the pool to illuminate her face.
“Bats,” I said. “They’re drawn by the bugs. You look … younger.”
“You look drunk.”
“Why do you look younger?”
“Why are you drinking?”
“I was thirsty. Why do you look younger?” Our silly banter joined with the early winter chill to sharpen my senses, and I was determined to wait for an answer.
Finally, she sighed. “It’s experimental—genetics stuff. Heyoka mentioned it to you before. Now what’s up with the booze?”
“The booze?” I said, raising my glass in a mock salute. “The booze is keeping me warm. As for what’s up, I guess you could say my patience is up.” My tongue felt like a swollen hockey puck, and a quick glance at the half-empty bottle on t
he table told me why. When I looked back at Aurie, she was rubbing her forehead.
“I … I can understand that, Rix” she said. “So is mine. So is Heyoka’s. But at least we’re not throwing in the towel.”
“Who says I’m—”
“Don’t try to bullshit me! I know you too well. Look, we have a lot to talk about, and I need for you to be fully cognizant, not half in the bag.”
When I didn’t respond, she stared up at the trees. After a few seconds she looked back down, and the dim light reflected from her eyes in tiny sparkles. She blinked, and two of the sparkles fell, leaving glistening streaks as they slid down her cheeks. It was unusual for her to openly display emotion, and the sight was both heart-wrenching and somehow perversely reassuring.
“You know,” she said, flipping the tears away with a finger, “I do love you. I’m sorry I don’t say it very often, but it’s true. And I hate that I can’t touch you, or wake up in the morning in your bed. Or—right now—beat you over the head until you come to your goddamned senses.” The words came out in breathy spurts, and when she finished her eyes were red and swollen.
Over time I had learned to quell my instinctive desire to reach for her, but I knew I had to do something. So I set my glass down and, holding onto the table for support, rose unsteadily to my feet. “Give me a minute,” I said. I shuffled to the edge of the pool, took a deep breath, and dove in. The icy water provided a jolt of adrenalin that instantly counteracted the alcohol high, replacing it with the shock of sudden circulatory distress. I emerged on the other side, gasping for air and shivering, but nearly sober. I slogged back around the pool in my sodden shoes and stood in front of her, dripping like a wet sponge. “Okay,” I said, “let me find a towel. Then I’ll listen.”