Suicide By Death

by Mark Anthony Waters

  Clair spent several minutes going through some old photos. Many of them brought back fond memories; some not so much. Two of them got her attention. The first one was of her father holding her in a white, christening gown when she was an infant. It put a smile on her face because her father looked happy and proud. The other confused her. It was a snapshot of her and Edward at a carnival. She was six, and he, twelve. It was a posed shot, and both wore cowboy outfits; Clair was mounted on top of a horse, and Edward held its reins. The memory ran through her mind, and for a moment thought it was cute.

  She rummaged through a few more boxes and came across something.

  “What do we have here?”

  She removed a piece of construction paper. It had been folded multiple times down from a full sheet to one small enough to carry in her pocket. Clair unfolded the brittle piece of paper and found a crayon drawing. The background was familiar.

  “I remember this. It's been a while.”

  The drawing was a little girl, adorned with long, dark hair, holding a stuffed animal, sitting on a small rocking chair looking out a window. The stuffed toy had brown fur and a bow tie. Below the drawing were some printed words and read them aloud:

  Once upon a time, there was a girl named Clair,

  Who sat on her favorite chair with Teddy the bear.

  She dreamed that one day a young prince would come and rescue her.

  Clair wished and wished, and tried and tried,

  But all that Clair had was Teddy the bear.

  She held it tight and cried and cried.

  A line in it caught her eye; the one about being saved by a prince and read the line again then said to herself, “That didn't work out so well, now did it?”

  She looked at it one more time and ran her fingers over her art piece, almost caressing it.

  “Pretty good for a kid.”

  She stared at it again, wadded it up into a tight ball, and threw it back in the box.

  Clair remained preoccupied for a while longer, then felt a presence. She turned, and there stood Edward. The dim light showed the shadow of a face. Startled, she yelled at him.

  “Dammit, Edward! You scared the crap out of me!”

  “I wanted to help,” he said in a sheepish tone.

  “And I told you I needed none.”

  Clair turned away from him and toward the box. She stood there firm and confident, but trembled on the inside. She felt his eyes gawking her body.

  With her back still turned, she said, “Why don't you go back downstairs and do whatever it was you were doing.”

  She looked through another box and tried to ignore him.

  He wore a stained, smelly tank-top and clung to a rafter with both hands swaying back and forth.

  “I'm in no hurry,” he replied with a grin.

  Again, ignored him and kept looking through the box.

  As she gathered a few things, Edward said something inaudible, like, “Do you want to suck my….”

  Clair turned toward him and glared.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You're right… I heard you. Guess what, Edward? Today is your lucky day. You're going to get your wish.”

  Still frightened, Clair approached and stopped in front of him. He was still suspended from the beam, and she slowly and seductively freed the top button of her blouse with her left hand and lightly brushed her breast with the other.

  “Why don't you take off your pants.”

  His stench made her sick to her stomach but remained calm. He happily obeyed and wrestled with his belt, then unbuttoned his jeans to lower them. Clair seized the opportunity right before his pants slid down, then gathered all her strength and kicked him in the balls as hard as she could; so hard, it took his breath away and lifted him off the floor. When she did, it sounded like two church bells bellowing out their chimes of freedom throughout the city, but it was more of a loud clunk. Nonetheless, it was effective. The pain shot throughout his entire body, and in an instant, fell to the floor screaming.

  Edward tucked his knees toward his chest in a fetal position and covered his injured groin with both hands, protecting them from another onslaught. Clair kneeled beside him, forced his hands aside, grabbed his crotch and squeezed as hard as she could. He yelled in agony, and the louder he got, the harder she clamped down. Above his loud moans, she got nose to nose and said with the sternest of warnings.

  “If you ever touch me or say anything stupid again, the next time I'll shoot those things off! Capiche?”

  He couldn't move and still moaned and gasped for breath. He tried to wrestle free, and when he did, the noose around “the boys” got stronger.

  “Well? I'm waiting for an answer.”

  All he could say, was, “Go to hell.”

  Clair released him and replied, “I've already been there.”

  She got to her feet and dealt him a final kick to the face, then gathered her things and left him alone in the attic, turned off the light and locked the ceiling door behind. Before leaving, she pulled the wadded piece of paper out of the box, reshaped it, and placed it in her pocket, back where it belonged.

  “I have a question, Edward. Who did to you, what you did to me all those years?”

  He was still moaning and groaning on the floor but managed an answer.

  “Who didn't?”

  She wasn't sympathetic, but offered a piece of final advice.

  “I suggest you get a therapist, and while you're at it, find a good urologist. From the looks of things, you'll need one.”

  She got to the front door, put her things down and made a makeshift bullhorn with her hands, shouting loud and clear.

  “I hope you like rats!”

  Outside, near the driveway, she heard him pounding on the ceiling attic door, but this time, they were pleas instead of demands like before.

  “Clair, open the damn door! Please!”

  His words were followed by more pounding. For the first time, she could walk away from the pounding and not be afraid and sang and whistled all the way to her apartment. She unloaded the box, hauled them inside, and worked on her next masterpiece. After several hours of solitude, Edward freed himself, took her advice and left her alone. They never spoke again. To this day, he still walks with a limp.

  * * *

  Clair made a few new friends and discarded many. Edward also received counseling, but not the way you might expect. Some states in the U.S do not have a statute of limitations for sexual assault of a child, and Clair's was one of them. Oops. Years later, several of Edward's victims filed a criminal complaint, but there were others who didn't because of the embarrassment. Clair was among the group that chose not to testify, but the bravest did. The charges were investigated, he was indicted and went to trial and found guilty of most of the accusations. The list was narrowed down to the ten most severe cases, and he was convicted on all of them. In a plea deal before trial, the best his lawyer could get was ten ninety-nine-year terms in the penitentiary, but if he behaves himself, he'll get out at the tender age of ninety-five.

  Clair heard while in prison, Edward got married. He had always been scrawny as a kid and into adulthood. He stood at five foot eight and was very thin, almost frail in stature. His wife's name was Bubba. They were cellmates, and I suppose dating wasn't enough, so they tied the knot —at Bubba's request. His bride was much taller than Edward. He was a six-foot-four-inch, two hundred forty-pound transvestite. Bubba loved dressing up as a ballerina, and a lifelong dream was to wear a tutu at “her” wedding — and did. The only photo Clair ever saw of the newlyweds was the one when Bubba cradled Edward like an infant. Bubba was all smiles; Edward's expression was that of terror.

  Chapter XVI

  It had been five years since Stanley's death. Since then, Clair's life had gone full circle, discovering how and why to live. Though he never knew, Stanley helped lead and guide her down that pathway.

  At thirty-three years old, her art career took off.
Her exhibits had become quite popular around the country, including many museums in Europe.

  She tamed her demon, and with a bit of humor told herself, “Except for that damn ape!”

  The gorilla experiment at the museum had been her motivation ever since. The piece that put her on the map was a watercolor painting of a beautiful lady pushing a young man in a wheelchair through a grassy meadow.

  “I guess it spoke to them.”

  She was working on a new project and was interrupted by a phone call.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Clair, it's me.”

  Right away, she recognized the voice.

  “Hunter?”

  “Yeah, it's me. How have you been?”

  “Great! It's good to hear from you. What's new?”

  She placed her brush on the easel, then paced back and forth as far as the phone cord would allow.

  “Going well. I'm working for Dad full time and going to give a stab at college again and start over.”

  More relaxed by now, she giggled, “Start over? You went for one day.”

  He laughed, “I have to re-enroll you know and go through that paperwork nightmare.”

  “I'm proud of you. Are you staying straight?”

  Hunter replied, “Clean as a whistle. I haven't touched a thing for over two years.”

  “Well, ditto on being proud again.”

  “It was hard at first, but I went to meetings and stayed after it. I had to start over a few times —I have a box full of relapse chips to prove it.”

  They both got a laugh, then he asked, “You?”

  “You, what?”

  “Are you, I mean have you…”

  Clair interrupted, “Tried to slit my wrists?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “You can say it Hunter; it won't kill you.”

  There was more laughter from the two.

  “Hunter, I'm doing fine —and don't say it or think it,” referring to the FINE acronym.

  “I won't say a word.”

  She couldn't see, but envisioned him gesturing the zippering of his mouth. They chatted for what seemed like hours, catching up on things since they broke up.

  It had been lighthearted up to this point, then he changed the tone.

  “I suppose you heard about Troy.”

  The conversation went silent for a moment.

  “Yes, I did. Why didn't you go to the funeral?”

  “Just couldn't. It was me who found the body.”

  Clair said nothing and stayed with him. She could hear in his voice he was getting a little shaky.

  “I went to his house to pick him up as usual. He was going to get his ninety-day chip for staying clean. Clair, it was the most horrible thing I'd ever seen. When I saw him, I couldn't breathe. He didn't fool around either. I don't know what kind of bullet he used, but it blew half of his head off! It took two days to clean up his bedroom. The coroner said he'd been dead somewhere between twenty-four and thirty-six hours.”

  With the phone in one hand, he rested his cheek on the other and sobbed.

  “I still can't get the smell out of my mind.”

  “That's terrible, Hunter. I never knew it was you who found him.”

  Clair heard the rustling of tissue paper and his sniffles.

  “The family wanted me to help with the arrangements and the funeral director suggested a closed casket service was in order because there was too much damage to make Troy presentable.”

  Clair could hear in Hunter's voice the pain and sorrow he was experiencing.

  “He was one of my best friends.”

  His sobbing continued.

  “I wish he would have said something. I could have helped him.”

  “Hunter, sweetie, there was nothing you could do.”

  “You're right.”

  His sadness turned to a hint of anger.

  “But don't they realize what they do to us?”

  Clair replied, “It's more complicated than that.”

  He talked for several more minutes, and she continued to listen. For once in her lifetime, got a firsthand account of the aftermath that goes along with a suicide the victim will never see or hear.

  Hunter was gasping for words.

  “I liked him a lot.”

  “Me too. You okay?”

  Still sniffling, but more calm, replied, “No, I'm not.”

  “Time will heal.”

  “Does it?”

  Clair stayed on the phone with Hunter, giving him much needed comfort. He regained control of himself long enough to finish their talk.

  “Before I go, there's one more thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “I met a girl.”

  There was more brief silence at both ends of the line. Hunter was waiting for a response, and Clair was thinking about what to say. In her heart, she knew the two were not a match, and they'd go nowhere together. Hunter and Clair were two lost souls who ran into each other at a time and place when they needed it the most.

  “Are you still there?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes, I am. I'm happy for you, both of you.”

  “Thanks, that means a lot. I gotta scoot, I'm having a meeting with the managers at the car wash in an hour. Gotta fire one of them for handing out free car washes to friends.”

  “You have fun with that.”

  “You know I will.”

  Hunter stalled for a moment.

  “I will always love you,” he said with a little break in his voice.

  She thought about his words and didn't respond to them.

  “I hope you have a great life. We had a lot of laughs. I gotta go too. Bye now.”

  She hung up the phone, sat on the chair nearby, twirled a strand of hair and smiled.

  Moistened eyes followed her smile, and then whispered to herself, “I love you too, Hunter.”

  They spoke little afterward, but ran into each other occasionally. Hunter's life continued to prosper, and he picked up where he left off at school. He had experience with the first day; it was the second one that was a new beginning. Hunter graduated with a teaching degree. He married the one he told Clair about and had two kids; a boy, Hunter junior, and a girl, Clarice.

  * * *

  Though Rae had never been formally introduced to Glenn, and he had only met her once or twice, two weeks later after Clair's final visit with him, convinced her mother to find a counselor. Glenn helped find a good one and referred her to one of his colleagues at another facility. Months passed, and Clair had one last visit with her mother, then cut ties for the next four years.

  On a quiet day, Clair was at home doing much of nothing relaxing. She went off into her own little world and dozed off until a faint knock on the door woke her. Startled and half awake, got up, stumbled around, tripped over something, and almost fell getting to the door. She opened it, and to her surprise, it was her mother.

  She stood there and asked, “Are you drunk?”

  Clair thought that was a rude way to start a chat after such a long time, but kept it civil.

  “No, Rae, I fell asleep, and you woke me. I nearly killed myself getting to the damn door! And, no, I'm not drunk. I might have a fractured leg though! I don't drink anymore and haven't for some time. What about you?”

  Her mother said nothing and just stood there. Rae removed her sunglasses and Clair did a quick scan. She wore a stunning, baby blue dress with a matching scarf wrapped around her neck, all crowned with a stylish hat. Her hair and makeup were perfect, and for a moment, thought she was staring at Jackie O. Clair was stunned to see her and surprised at how great she looked.

  “It's good to see you. May I come in? And by the way, its mother to you.”

  In a condescending tone, she apologized.

  “Sorry, I'll keep it in mind.”

  Clair backed away from the door, and with a non-apologetic sweeping motion of her hand, asked her in, and led the way.

  “I must warn you, the apartment is a mess.”

&n
bsp; She straightened magazines on an already cluttered coffee table, stacked them, and wiped the dust from the top one.

  Rae walked in like a model on a runway. She looked all around, up and down with the eyes of an inspector and removed her hat.

  “Clair, your apartment looks charming.”

  “I've been neglecting it a little. I've been busy.”

  “It looks hunky-dory.”

  Stunned, Clair looked at her.

  “Do you know, Glenn?”

  “Who's Glenn?”

  “Never mind.”

  Clair went to the couch, fluffed the pillows, and told her to make herself at home. Rae sat and placed a pillow on her lap like a baby kitten.

  “Do you want some hot tea or coffee?”

  “I'll have a spot of tea.”

  Clair giggled.

  “Spot of tea?”

  “I'm dating a man from England, and that's what they say. Silly, isn't it?”

  Shocked, Clair asked, “You're dating? How long?”

  “Yes, to the first question, and four months to the second. Does it surprise you?”

  “Well, kind of.”

  Her mother put the pillow to her face and took a whiff.

  “You know what this smell reminds me of?”

  “I don't know. Dirt?”

  “No, it smells like you when you were a little girl, reminds me of your baby shampoo.”

  Rae took another long whiff, set the pillow aside, then gave herself a light tap on the knee.

  “Now, how about that tea? Let me help.”

  “That's all right, you sit, and I'll get it together.”

  Clair went to the kitchen and Rae followed. Clair reached for the teapot, removed two cups from the cupboard, and turned on the burner.

  “How do you like yours?”

  “A little cream and sugar, please.”

  From the moment Clair opened the door until now, they hadn't gotten into an argument. She was amazed they were having a pleasant conversation —so far —and wondered when the bickering would begin. She filled the cups with hot water from the whistling kettle, along with a single tea bag each. They stood in the kitchen until it brewed and steeped. While they waited, more than tea was brewing.