Shackled

by Ray Garton

  Kotter smiled sheepishly and said, with some apology in his voice, "I'm sorry, but ... this stuffs the cheapest, y'know?"

  "Hey," Bent replied with a big smile, "a cola's a cola's a cola, right?"

  Kotter laughed with relief as he handed the can to Bent. "Yeah, I guess so. Well, at least it's cold."

  Bent popped the can open, took a sip, then held it up as if in a toast and said, "Thank you very much."

  Kotter seated himself in a small chair, the old aluminum-framed kind that belonged at a Formica-topped kitchen table.

  "Well," he said quietly, nodding his head. He was silent a moment, nervous, obviously not used to having guests. "I sure do appreciate you comin' out with me like this."

  "No problem at all. It's what I do. In fact, I've had to — "

  Clumping footsteps hurried toward them from the other end of the trailer, and in a moment Nattie Kotter appeared in the living room.

  She was a slight woman, short, even bony. Her short, mussed hair was a mousey light brown and she wore no makeup on her pale, gaunt face. She wore a plain, shapeless avocado-green housedress and tan slipper shoes on her feet.

  She stopped in the middle of the living room, her fingers waggling nervously at her side as she stared at Bent with a rather befuddled expression on her face, her wide brown eyes taking him in as if he were a ghost she'd stumbled across.

  "Mr. Nuh-Noble?" she asked nervously.

  Bent stood, smiled, and held out his hand, palm up, as he said "Mrs. Kotter, it's a pleasure to meet you."

  She moved forward cautiously, as if she were afraid of him, and put her hand in his. He squeezed it gently, still smiling, then let go.

  "Your husband told me all about you this morning, and I've been very anxious to meet you," he said with a nod.

  She said, almost in a whisper, "Well, you have no idea what a ... I mean, I've been reading your work for ... it's just that I think you're the best reporter in ... well, in the whole wide world, I s'pose!" She spread her arms suddenly as she finished, then let them slap at her sides as she grinned. A lower front tooth was missing, leaving a black, rectangular gap, and as she grinned, the cracks in her chapped lips opened to reveal a glistening, pale pink.

  "Well, thank you very much," Bent said, still smiling. "That's high praise indeed. I see you collect the Global Inquisitor."

  Her eyes widened even more, as if she were shocked that he might think otherwise. "I keep every issue."

  "That's very flattering."

  "So ... so, um ...” Her nervous hands joined before her." ... you got my letters?"

  "Yes, I did, Mrs. Kotter, and I'm afraid I owe you an apology. Things have been extra busy at the office and I just haven't had a second to do anything. I hope you understand."

  "Of course, of course, I know you're a busy man."

  "Well, there's little excuse for not responding to your kind letters. But — " He pointed a finger to the ceiling. " — I'm here now, and I've come to hear your story. In fact — " He turned to the sofa and sat down again. " — I've brought a tape recorder to catch every word you have to say to me."

  Her eyes widened even farther and her mouth opened and closed as if she were a fish. For a moment Bent thought she would collapse on the old, worn brown and orange carpet in a heap of thinly disguised bones.

  "You've really come to, um ... you want to hear what I have to say?" she sputtered. "About, um ... Liberace?" She spoke the performer's name the way fanatical Christians speak the name Jesus Christ.

  "Exactly," Bent replied with a nod. "I listened to everything your husband had to say, and I must admit, I was very intrigued by the story. I mean, by the messages he said you were receiving from the late Liberace. I spoke with my editor and he was thrilled. You see, we get countless Elvis stories, but Liberace ... well, I have to say he has been sadly ignored, although his fans are innumerable."

  "His fans are what?" Nattie asked, frowning slightly.

  "Well, I mean, um ... you can't count the number of people who still have a great deal of affection for him and devotion to him even though he's passed on."

  Nattie's face split into a broad grin and her head began to nod frantically. "Yes — yes — yes. You understand! Yes, that's exactly the problem. No one realizes how many of us there are. I mean, how many of Liberace's fans — he calls us his 'dear ones' — there really are. Yes — yes, you really do understand."

  "Well, why don't you come over here, Mrs. Kotter," Bent said, moving his camera and recorder to make space for her on the sofa, "and sit down so you can tell me your story."

  She placed four fingertips over her mouth as her brows rose and said, "Oh ... oh, well ...” She approached the sofa cautiously, seated herself at the opposite end with the fingers still over her mouth, and faced him, looking embarrassed.

  Bent removed the small recorder from its case and turned to Nattie Kotter. "Now, what I would like you to do is tell me everything that's happened — I mean everything regarding the messages you've received from Liberace — in your own words. When you're ready to start, I'll turn on my recorder and get every word on tape. That sound okay to you?"

  She nodded, closed her eyes a moment, then opened them and said quietly, "I'm ready."

  "Okay. Be sure to speak up so we can hear you on the tape."

  "Oh, yeah, sure." She closed her eyes again for a brief moment, hands folded in her lap, then opened them and smiled and said in a clear voice, "Okay, I'm ready."

  Bent hit the record button and held the recorder in his lap, then said, "Go ahead."

  Nattie's eyes turned toward the ceiling, she opened her mouth wide and took in a deep breath, then began: "He's been talkin' to me for a little over eight months, or so. Pretty much since we moved here in this trailer. Liberace, I mean. He's the one's been talkin' to me."

  Bent asked, "When Liberace speaks to you, what does he say?"

  "What does he say? Um, well ... lots of things, but the one thing he keeps telling me, over and over and over again, is that I should tell you — nobody but you — what I've been seeing through my telescope."

  "Your ... telescope?"

  "Yeah. My telescope."

  "Do you mean things like ... well, um, UFOs?"

  "Oh, no — no — no! None of that crazy stuff. See, I won my telescope in a drawing! In the back of your paper! Only thing I ever won in my life. It's somethin' to pass the time. I can look up at the stars ... or into the desert. That's what I usually do. Look in the desert. That's how I see the things I see."

  Kotter suddenly leaned forward in his chair and said — rather loudly so that he would be picked up by the recorder — "She goes out almost every night, 'cause she don't sleep very well. Nattie spends a lotta time lookin' through that thing."

  She nodded and said, "Yeah, that's right. I do spend a lot of time lookin' through it."

  "And what did you see that Liberace thought you should tell me about?"

  "The Satanists."

  There was a long silence; she said nothing more, as if waiting for Bent to respond.

  "You saw Satanists?"

  "I saw 'em. Yes. I saw 'em sacrificing children."

  "Children?"

  "Sometimes even babies. Out in the desert."

  "How, um ... how did you know they were Satanists?"

  "They were wearing black robes with hoods. And they had a fire. With an altar."

  Bent's eyebrows went up as the corners of his mouth went down, and he thought, Yeah, sounds like Satanists to me, I guess.

  "They're evil, Mr. Noble," Nattie Kotter said. "That's why Liberace keeps tellin' me to tell you about them. Because they're evil. What they're doin' is wrong. Little children, and sometimes even babies. You have to report it. And stop it!"

  With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, Bent rubbed his eyes. He'd come to hear about a woman who was refusing her husband oral sex because Liberace had told her to, but now he was getting some story about Satanists sacrificing babies and children in the desert. He pulled his h
and away and asked, "What, um ... what about the things Liberace told you about you and your husband? I mean, about the kind of things you do together ... in bed?"

  Her back stiffened and her head shot back. "That is not what's important, Mr. Noble!" she said sharply. "I told you about that in my first letters because I wanted you to know Liberace was communicating with me, talking to me. What's important is what's been goin' on out in that desert. He's very upset about it, and so am I. And he says you're the only person who can help."

  "I'm sorry," Bent said. "I'm very sorry. Please understand that I came here not knowing what story I was going to be hearing. So I'm just sort of ... well, I'm groping, know what I mean?"

  Nattie Kotter took a deep breath as she closed her eyes for a moment, then she smiled at Bent and said, "Yes, yes, I understand. Really. I do. The story Liberace wants you to write is the one I just told you — about the Satanists. What David and I do — " She glanced at him. " — well, that's private."

  Kotter diverted his gaze, embarrassed.

  Trying not to sound reluctant, Bent said, "Okay. I won't write about that." He closed his eyes a moment and bowed his head, thinking about the laborious drive to the trailer, thinking about the reason he'd come out here — that juicy anti-blow-job advice from Liberace — and became very depressed. Then he lifted his head and opened his eyes, smiling, and continued the interview. "So, exactly how does Liberace speak to you?"

  She frowned. "How do you mean?"

  "I mean, does he show you things? Does he appear to you? Do you just ... hear his voice!"

  "Well, I don't exactly hear his voice. It's more like I, um, I feel it. In my head. It's almost like a thought, but not my own thought. It's like a thought somebody else has put there."

  "And you think it's Liberace? How can you be sure?"

  "Because it's his voice in my head. He has a very distinctive voice, y'know. Surely you'd know Liberace's voice if you heard it, wouldn't you, Mr. Noble?"

  Bent's eyebrows rose again and he pressed a knuckle to his closed lips, thinking, How do you know it wasn 't Rich Little? Then he felt bad for thinking such a thing. Nattie Kotter looked so sincere, so sad, and ... well, so undeniably crazy that he felt guilty for such a smart-ass thought and felt bad for her at the same time. Of course, a subject's craziness had never stopped the Inquisitor from getting a story before ... and that made him feel a little worse, as it always, always did.

  But it's better than blood, he thought as he said, "Yes, I think I would. Okay, Mrs. Kotter, why don't you tell me about the things you've seen through your telescope."

  "Well, they've sacrificed children, like I said. Babies, too. With knives. Big knives. Then they put 'em on a big fire and burn 'em up while they do some ... well, it's like a worshiping ... bowing sorta thing ... walkin' around in a circle and holdin' hands."

  "Would you mind showing me your telescope?"

  "Oh, sure, sure." She stood from the sofa immediately and beckoned him to follow her.

  Bent took his recorder with him as he stood, and Kotter followed him out of the trailer.

  They went behind the trailer, where a telescope stood on a three-foot-tall tripod in front of a worn old lawn chair. It was aimed into the vast desert that stretched out behind the trailer like a dirty worn-out old blanket.

  "This is it," Nattie Kotter said, gesturing toward the telescope. "This is how I saw 'em."

  "Through this telescope?" Bent asked, his recorder in hand, still catching every word.

  "Yep. Right through here."

  "May I?" Bent asked, leaning toward the telescope.

  "Go right ahead."

  Through the telescope, Bent could see for what appeared to be miles. The distant desert rushed toward him, became close, as if he were standing very, very far from the trailer and right in the middle of the barren, dry, and lonely nowhere that, an instant before, had surrounded them at a distance. But the rocks, bushes, and squat trees were distorted by the heat vapors rising from the desert floor, seeming to quiver this way and that, as if he were looking at them after having a bit too much to drink.

  "And it was through this telescope, in this position, that you saw the Satanists?" he asked, moving away from the scope.

  "Yes. Oh, yes, yes, that's exactly how I saw them. I don't, uh ... well, I gotta admit, I don't know it was that exact position, but ... it was out there somewhere."

  He waited a moment, then hit the stop button on the recorder. He turned to Nattie Kotter with a smile and said, "I think that's all I need."

  "That's all?" she asked in a whimper, clearly disappointed. "I mean, don'tcha wanna take some pictures're somethin'? That's all? You just record a few things an' leave?"

  Bent clenched his teeth a moment, thinking hard and fast. "Well, you see, the Inquisitor is interested in pictures of the actual focus of the story ... which would be, of course, either the Satanists or ... or Liberace himself. But the Satanists aren't there at the moment and ... well, you said Liberace doesn't appear to you, so ...” He shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

  "Then you should see my Liberace room."

  "Your Liberace room?"

  "Yes, my Liberace room! It's inside."

  "Well, you didn't say anything about a Lib — "

  She grabbed his hand and began pulling him back around the trailer, saying excitedly, "C'mon! And get your camera ready!"

  They went back inside, and on their way through the living room, he grabbed his camera, keeping his recorder slung over his shoulder.

  Down the narrow hall and to their left, he glanced into a room that was obviously their bedroom. It was a mess and emitted a stuffy smell, like old laundry.

  Nattie Kotter pulled him to the right into what had apparently been intended as a second bedroom, but which had been converted into a dim, claustrophobic shrine. The walls were covered with pictures, posters and clippings the way walls are usually covered with wallpaper.

  There were countless signed photographs of Liberace, the kind of publicity photos that celebrities send out with form letters in response to letters from their fans. There were also enormous posters of movies in which Liberace had either appeared or starred: Footlight Varieties, The Loved One, Sincerely Yours, South Sea Sinner, and When the Boys Meet the Girls. (That last one made Bent smirk.) And, tacked on the walls sloppily on every side, there were dozens and dozens of snapshots of Nattie and David in Las Vegas at Liberace's museum standing beside his pianos and cars and rows and rows of fur coats hanging on racks.

  Then, arranged haphazardly around the room on tables and shelves, there were pieces of Liberace memorabilia. Liberace plates, Liberace figurines — some depicting him standing, others taking a bow, and still others seated at the piano, all with his trademark rings depicted in painstaking detail — Liberace ashtrays, coffee mugs and drinking glasses, Liberace pillows, and many, many more. There was even a darkened, unplugged Liberace lava lamp with the pianist himself emblazoned on the side, grinning from his trademark grand piano.

  In one comer of the room, decorated with nothing, was a simple old wooden rocking chair, nicked and scratched on the arms and legs.

  "This is where it happens," Nattie Kotter said.

  "Where ... what happens?" Bent asked.

  "Where he speaks to me. I come in here sometimes, just to sit and read, y'know. Sometimes I come in here to read your stuff! This is where I read the Inquisitor! And sometimes ... sometimes I come in here just to look at him."

  "And this room is the only place where Liberace speaks to you, um ... inside your head?"

  She rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah, I know it sounds crazy. But if it was crazy, would you be here right now? Asking me these questions?"

  Bent shook his head slowly. "No, I suppose not. And this is where he told you to contact me about the Satanists?"

  "Yes. Well ... his mother sorta pushed him to do it. She didn't like what was going on."

  "I understand his mother was a good woman."

  Her face became indign
ant. "She was a saint! she said quietly, but with great feeling.

  "And so Liberace told you that if you told me about what was happening ... about the Satanists ... then his mother would relax about the — "

  Kotter poked him in the back hard and Bent stiffened.

  " — then his mother would feel better about what was happening because someone would know," he finished with a quiet gulp.

  Nattie Kotter nodded rapidly. "Yes, yes. Someone who could spread the word, who could put it in print and tell everyone!”

  "I see." He nodded again.

  "Well," she said, rather impatiently, "aren't you gonna take pictures? I mean, this is where it happens, y'know!"

  "Yes, yes, of course." He removed his camera from its case and snapped several shots of the room from all angles. The last two pictures he took were of Dave and Nattie Kotter standing in the corner of the Liberace room, their faces sad even though they were trying to smile. When he was done, he turned to her and smiled. "Well, I think that's all I need."

  "So you'll print my story?"

  "Well, that sort of thing is up to my editor."

  "What does that mean? That you're not gonna print my story?"

  "You have to understand, Mrs. Kotter, that that sort of thing is entirely up to my editor. I have no say in the matter. He decides."

  She pressed her lips together so hard that they turned white, then spun around and hurried away from them, leaving the room to cross the hall. She went into the bedroom and slammed the door hard.

  Bent turned to Kotter. "I'm very sorry."

  Kotter shook his head. "Don't you worry 'bout it, Mr. Noble. That's just the way my wife is. You did all you came to do, and I 'preciate it. You want a ride back, now?"

  "Yes, please."

  Kotter smiled, nodded, and Bent got his things as they headed out of the trailer and toward the car ...

  3

  The ride back was a silent one. Kotter's silence seemed to come from embarrassment. But Bent's came from constant twinges of guilt. He'd felt those twinges before, but he had not yet gotten used to them enough to ignore them. He knew others who had reached that point — other reporters at the Inquisitor — and who had reached it in a lot less time. It was taking longer for Bent. But that did not matter all that much because ... it was still better than the blood ... and the pain.