A Cure for Suicide

by Jesse Ball

  If she had torn this out of the book, it must happen that they would discover it. Why would she give it to him? Would he now be guilty of her deed?

  But something in him spoke up, and that voice said:

  You are a fool if you think she did this for any reason but one: she loves you and wants you to be sure of her.

  And a thick warmth rose in his chest and face.

  He looked up. No one was near him.

  He put the pages in his pocket, and set out home.

  THE CLAIMANT woke, and he looked at the ceiling. It was the same plaster ceiling it had always been. The shapes of leaves were evident, shadows from the branches that abutted the window. His eye traced them and found a path from one end of the room to the other. He sat up and found his feet.

  All of a sudden, he thought, all of a sudden, nothing is enough for me.

  It was as if there were moments of strength in which he could understand everything that Hilda said to him, and then moments in which he felt that it was not worthwhile to, or that it was too much—that too much was required from him to do so. He thought again of the way the examiner had said—you must listen to stories, not to understand, but merely to be human. For Hilda, was it enough for him to just listen, or did he need to understand?

  When she was there, he felt the injustice of the whole thing, and he wanted to help her, he wanted to act. But here, in the comfortable house, with the examiner and their botanical work, with their quiet breakfasts and long walks, he felt a long light dim evenly, all along the horizon. He felt what was bright and new grow worn. He knew that the sterling fierce things were no concern of his. He need seek no conflicts, no unveilings.

  He was at the head of the stairs. He found his way down them, and to the table, and he began to draw. The examiner came in and sat next to him. She said nothing. She did not look at him. But a good feeling was there in the claimant. He was recovering. It wasn’t a lie. He had been sick. He was sure of it. And then a thought rose in him. Maybe Hilda was sick. Maybe Hilda was still sick, and she had just deceived everyone. Maybe she was deceiving him.

  There! He had spoiled the drawing.

  He pushed it to one side, laid out another sheet, and started over.

  THE EXAMINER took him for a walk that evening.

  As he closed the gate, she asked him what it meant for something to die.

  —What I am asking is, what is the meaning of death? If you wonder why I am asking, it is because, like everything else that we do here, this question is an arrow aimed straight at your recovery, your renewal. A person who does not know what death is can never be a healthy person. Such a person can only stumble along awaiting some final confrontation wherein their ignorance is exposed. At such a time, that person will learn, or break. So that you do not need to go to such a confrontation alone, we will speak of it now. And so, I ask you, what is death?

  He closed the gate.

  Her old face peered up at him. She had bound her hair back in a braid, and she wore a heavy coat unsuitable for the season. She often wore more clothes than were necessary. Of a sudden all her frailties came to light. She was much closer to death than he. How old was the examiner?

  —You are thinking about my age, she said. When I ask you about death, it is my death that comes to your mind. And it is rightful for that to be the case. Your empathy gives you that gift. You empathize with my life and with my death, and so you think, this old woman, she is soon to die, and as you imagine my death and my passing, you experience it to some degree. What is that like?

  THE CLAIMANT thought of the examiner, who had always been so strong, faltering. He thought of the triviality of it—that some random place should be the site of her death. That she would lie on the ground, everything spinning about her, and breathe her last. And then he thought of the uselessness of her clothing, of all the things that had been cut to her size, of all the tools that had been shaped under her hand, of everything in her life that had been measured to her—how useless it would all suddenly become. And he thought of how the world would rush into the space where she had been, and occupy it with something else. He began almost to cry, and tears gathered in his eyes. He felt very much that he loved her. She was his family, the whole of it. He loved her.

  The examiner saw this, and took his hand.

  —Walk with me, she said.

  They walked up the street to where a thin path ran between rocks up a hill. They followed that path and came to a wrought iron gate at the hilltop, where a fence barred their way. The examiner opened the gate and they went through.

  A long, rolling yard lay before them, going off down the hill to a distant tree line. Somehow the claimant had never been here before. His eyes crossed the landscape again and again, as if looking for something. He knew what this was. He was sure of it.

  —These stone markers, said the examiner, they are called gravestones.

  —Gravestones, the claimant repeated.

  —No one uses these anymore. But once they were common everywhere. They make a clear point, and a resounding one, and so they have become a part of the Process of Villages. We re-create this cemetery in every village. It is even there in the distance in the gentlest village, though perhaps your eye did not find it there.

  —But what is it? What are these stones for?

  —Let’s walk between them.

  So, they walked up and down the lines of gravestones, and the claimant read them, and soon saw what they were for. The examiner said nothing, but looked on with her steady, impassive face, and did not indicate whether she thought that it was a good thing, this idea: cemetery, or whether it was a foolish human development that we were better rid of.

  The claimant felt in the stones a great yearning. He felt that it was reflected in his own being at that very moment. The manner in which he was torn—his confusion in Hilda, of Hilda, about Hilda, his sadness for the examiner, and for her death—he felt very clearly what it was to be human at all and how it was encapsulated in the stones themselves.

  —They are the error—our human error, he said. It’s what makes it worth living at all. But also, it is completely irrational. They have no reason in them.

  —What do you mean?

  —I mean, if someone is dead, then that person is gone. A gravestone does nothing to fix that. And if it makes a place that others can go to be near the body of the dead person—then how does that help anything? It just prolongs the grieving. Better to simply pass on along the road, thinking nothing of it. But,

  He kicked at the grass with his foot.

  —But, if life is just that, just being reasonable, then there is nothing in it—nothing worthwhile. So, the yearning that we have to keep dead things living—or to make unreasonable things reasonable. That is why a person should live.

  —Is it a paradox? asked the examiner.

  —I don’t think it is. I think the whole thought makes sense together. Neither side is complete.

  The examiner smiled. She took something out of her pocket, a notebook, and wrote in it for a minute.

  —I will die, she said. There are those who care for me, and they may be sad. But my life has had its effect, and will continue to have its effect after I am gone. I don’t ask for more than that.

  —Do you like the cemetery? she asked.

  —I don’t know, he said.

  and then,

  —Very much, I think.

  —There were other purposes that cemeteries had in past times, said the examiner. A wealthy family could buy enormous monuments and display their power in cemeteries. Also, the splendor and expense of a grand funeral could intimidate a community and help to preserve the veil of power that a particular dynasty might have. It’s also true that in cultures where patriarchal or matriarchal structures were quite strong, the passing of power through a family was of special importance. In such a time and place, events like funerals and weddings take on special importance, as the family drama becomes a societal drama.

  BUT, THE CLAIMANT was no
longer listening. They walked and walked along the green grass, cut by someone, always being cut by someone—it appeared to have been cut just then, or some hours before, it must have been—and he thought of his own life suddenly in proportion to the day in which he was alive, that very day in which he was standing.

  I am alive, he thought, and now I am capable of living.

  He suddenly felt very strong. And with the rising of his strength he felt an energy in him, a direction. He wanted to see Hilda and learn more. He wanted to know what there was to do, or whether anything should be done. The desire he had had to tell the examiner everything was still present, in fact, magnified by his vision of her death, but for him it was contingent on Hilda and what she would do next. Such a turmoil! It rose in him and rose, and then there flooded through his eyes the calm of the cemetery, of the close of evening, of this quiet walk. All the turmoil vanished as though it had never been.

  Perhaps it was the patience of the examiner wearing off on him, or perhaps it was something else, but he felt a great strength in his legs, like a swimmer does. Under the green boughs of the cemetery, he did not need to do anything. No action was needful there, nor could be.

  BUT, BACK AT THE HOUSE, when supper was through, he felt a lightness infect him, and with it he became brittle. The energy of his desire overbore him and he fell prey to it. Hilda, Hilda. She rose again.

  The hour was coming when they were to meet. He sat and watched the clock. I should be getting to my feet, he thought. I should be going out the door. But, he didn’t. The waters swept back. Again, it was as though he was beneath the green boughs of the cemetery. He stayed sitting there, and after a while, the examiner brought some tea, and they sat and played cards. When they were through and she had won once, twice, three times, they went upstairs to bed.

  NOW THEIR RENDEZVOUS had been broken. There had been a plan for them to meet, and they had not. It was simple but it was bewildering. If he had wanted to see her, he would have seen her. But he hadn’t. Yet now, the claimant was thrust suddenly back into his desire to see her. Nonetheless, he had not gone. What would she think? Hilda had no real reason to come to his house, nor he to hers. What could be done?

  Yet, I can go to her house—perhaps not to talk to her, but to speak to Martin. If he has befriended me, I can speak to him. Then, she will be there and something can be arranged.

  And in thinking of Martin, and of that house, he thought again—what is the condition of their life? A sort of jealousy was faint in his body. If they are to act as though married, do they do so in the house when no one is there? If that is their cover, is it kept at all times? And he thought of her flickering, how she flickered and flickered, and the way that she had clung to him, and he stood up. There in the kitchen of the house, he stood up as if to go right then to see.

  But, of course, this was foolishness. She was not his—not that way. If to be safe, she needed to act a certain way, it was natural. It was only natural. There was nothing moral in it.

  Yet, he was in the front hall, and he was telling the examiner he would go for a walk, and he soon found himself on Juniper Lane, knocking at the door of a certain house.

  —HELLO THERE.

  The claimant froze. This was a person he did not know. He leaned back and checked the address on the door. 23 Juniper Lane. It was correct.

  —I’m looking for, Hilda and Martin. I believe they live here.

  —Oh, there must be some mistake, said the man. Hold on.

  —Colleen, he called. Colleen, come here.

  A woman came out of the door to the left, and approached them.

  —What’s up, Tom?

  —This young man, he seems to think someone else lives here. Some, what were their names?

  —Hilda, said the claimant. Hilda and Martin. I am sure. I was just here last week.

  The couple laughed.

  —Completely understandable, said the man. These towns do that to you. I know, because it has happened to me a time or two. Play tricks on your mind. Anyway, we have been here for thirty-five years.

  —and counting, said the woman.

  —and, I’d know it if we hadn’t been here last week. Why, last week we had a barbecue. Matter of fact, you could have come, if we’d known you then. What’s your name?

  —Martin.

  —Like the man you’re looking for? Well, isn’t that something. Are you looking for your own house?

  He grinned at the woman.

  —If it’s true, it’s a good trick. You can’t find your own house, so you go door-to-door asking. And is Hilda your wife?

  —No, no! I’m really looking for them. But, it seems…

  The claimant overcame his desire to go past them into the house and look deeper.

  —I’m sorry, I…

  —Oh, no trouble. No trouble at all. It’s good to finally get to know you. Martin, eh. I’m Tom. Tom Bedford. That’s Colleen in the back room. She isn’t very social these days, sorry about that. But, let me tell you. Our daughter is coming to visit. She is about your age, I’d say. Perhaps you’d like to meet her. We’ll send an invitation to your house. How’d that be?

  He excused himself and made his way back home. They must have removed her in the night. Those people must have moved into the house this very day, he thought. How could it have happened so quickly? Unless he was confused about the days. It sometimes happened…

  But why would they have taken her away? Martin must have discovered something. Or, could it be—could he himself have given her away? Could that be it?

  PARTWAY THROUGH THE NIGHT he woke. At first he thought someone was in the room with him, but there was no one—just furniture carrying the obscene shapes of shadows. It was very quiet. Everything had grown as quiet as it could. He held his breath and listened. Silence, silence, silence, and then a light rap. Then silence, and a rap at the window. He looked out. Someone must be out there. His eyes scanned the yard, moving slowly from one end to the other.

  There! She was there—it was Hilda, throwing bits of earth. She had seen him at the window. She was crouching there in the yard, waiting. He looked down from above—the street, the fence, the yard, the porch, Hilda. Hilda!

  Be as quiet as possible, as quiet as possible, he told himself. He eased out of bed, and went down the stairs. Out the back door and into the yard.

  Hilda rushed to him.

  —I went to your house, he said, there was…

  And at the same time, she said,

  —They took me away, they took me away, darling. Oh. I waited for you and waited for you, and you never came, and then I went back to the house, and Martin was there, and he was angry—he was so angry…

  —Took you away? Who?

  —I woke up in the back of some kind of closed truck. They were moving the bed that I was in. I was lying there, and we were stopped for some reason. I jumped out the back and hid, and the truck drove on without me.

  They stared at one another. Hilda was not even wearing proper clothes—just a nightgown. It must be true—they must have taken her while she slept.

  —They’ll come looking for you. When the driver gets where he’s going. When was this?

  —Last night. I walked all day, and then hid and waited to come here. Look at my feet.

  Her feet were covered in cuts from walking barefoot. One was partially wrapped with a cloth. It must be true.

  —How did you find your way? he asked.

  —What do you mean?

  —From the road where you got out of the truck. How did you know where you were?

  —There isn’t anything out there. Just a road. It’s just a road. I went the opposite direction the truck was going. As you approach the town, the waste turns slowly green. There are trees and grass, and then the town begins. I can show you. I don’t know if there’s time.

  A great confusion and tiredness settled over the claimant. He felt that he was dealing with the situation and understanding it, moving through the details with celerity and sharpness, a
nd then he wasn’t. A weight settled and confounded all the variables. Everything seemed the same. He could make no progress.

  —I don’t know, he said. I don’t know what to…

  —Help me hide, she said. Someone is coming.

  —Martin, Martin.

  A voice was calling from the house. It was the examiner. A panic rose in the claimant’s heart. He didn’t want to do anything wrong. Nothing at all.

  —I…

  Martin hesitated.

  —My love, said Hilda, you must…

  She was pulling at him desperately.

  —Help me. They’re all against me.

  —Martin!

  The examiner’s voice came from within the house.

  The hall light came on, and then the light on the back porch.

  There was an overgrown bush along the fence. Hilda pushed into it, and hid just as the examiner came out the door.

  —Martin, she said. Is everything all right?

  THE CLAIMANT stood there in confusion. He could hear the slight breathing of Hilda where she hid. The examiner stood looking down at him from the porch, a scant twenty feet away. What was he doing in the yard? Why was he there at all? What could he say?

  He had never lied to the examiner. He didn’t want to. She was standing there on the porch with a quilt wrapped around her. Her face was full of concern for him. If anything, her appearance in the middle of the night was even more aged than usual. He felt a sympathy for her, a profound worry. Also, he was terrified that he would be found out, and that she would be displeased.

  —Martin, are you all right? Shall we get help? Come inside. Come with me.

  The weariness that he had been feeling grew in him. He walked to the house and went up the steps. There he was, standing beside her. He found himself whispering, speaking to the examiner. He found himself talking to her, telling her things. What was he saying? What had he said?