by Stan Rogal
She’s somewhat aware of music playing faintly in the background. Voice of someone singing. Willie Nelson, maybe. The lyrics are difficult to make out and the title of the tune eludes her.
There seems to be something happening in the region of her upper left arm, a pressure. She drops her chin and tries to focus her vision in that direction. The figure of a snake wrapped around her bicep captures her attention and she wonders if it isn’t a piece of jewellery or a decoration of some sort and, if so, how did it get there? She wonders if maybe she isn’t reliving a past life experience where she was Queen Cleopatra or the goddess Isis? Though, in this case, the snake isn’t gold; it’s grey and stares intently at her through vertical pupils while a slender forked tongue darts in and out of its fanged mouth.
Apparently, we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
She allows her head to roll further right. Her eyes are met with a low rise of white breasts peaked by two brown nipples. Beyond this, a glimpse of knobby knees and bare toes, at the end of which she spots a big black crow patrolling her feet, its wings alternately spreading and folding, its black head bobbing behind an animated black beak. Further right, higher up, a man looms over her. He wears an Indian war bonnet. His face is striped with paint. A necklace comprised of beads, bones and feathers hangs from his neck. He holds one arm in the air and shakes an egg-shaped rattle in his fist. His chest is bare except for more painted stripes. The man chants something in a language she can’t understand. She follows the line of his breastbone downward and discovers he’s naked below the waist as well as above. He holds his erection with one hand and guides it slowly, gently inside her open wound. She wants to raise her own hand to say no; stop, but she’s unable to make a move; unable to say a word or make a sound. The man thrusts his pelvis rhythmically against her hip, slides his cock in and out; harder, faster. His chants turn to moans. She doesn’t feel him come inside her; doesn’t feel his cock withdraw, though she assumes as much, given his spent expression. He squeezes out a further thick spray of semen and rubs it into her thighs, stomach and breasts.
Is she dreaming, she wonders? Is she dead? Is she dreaming she’s dead? How does that ancient Japanese story go? A man dreams he’s a butterfly dreaming he’s a man? The old chicken or egg dilemma, as: What came first? Or a stone so heavy even God can’t lift.
One hour at a time, one day at a time, one step at a time.
Bit late for that now, she thinks, and, is it humanly possible to cram another archetypal image into this one fucking scene?
It is Willie Nelson. He croons from somewhere in the foggy background: la-la, something, something … “redemption and leaving things behind” … something … “Mendocino County line …” something, something, la-la … whatever …
It’s all too much. Her head hurts. She drops off.
She knows she’s had too much to drink and shouldn’t be driving. You’re in no shape, the man told her. Besides, what’s your hurry, we just met? Have another drink. We’ll get a room and crash for the night. Separate beds.
Right. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. Wasn’t it Dorothy Parker who said, three drinks I’m under the table, four I’m under the host? No, better (safer) to hit the road. There was still some light and it was only about two hours and change to Sault Ste. Marie where she could check into a cozy motel room with a cozy bed and a cozy hot shower all to herself. The main thing? Stay alert: hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, keep to the speed limit. Not much chance of a road block, though she doesn’t want to give a passing cop any reason to pull her over. She lowers the window, sucks in the evening air and gives her head a shake.
She turns on the headlights as she nears the outskirts of Massey. About midpoint to Blind River, she feels the front passenger side tire blow. The car veers to the right, careens off the asphalt, across the gravel shoulder and bounces toward the trees. The woman manages to guide the car into what might be a motorbike or ATV dirt trail and pumps the brakes to a slow halt.
Fuck, she says. Fucking hell! Why does this have to happen to me? Why now? She reaches for her backpack, unzips a compartment, fishes for a plastic medicine container. Her hands shake as she pops an Ativan. One per night and otherwise as needed. This is definitely a time of need, she thinks, and pops another. She feels her heart race. She considers her options and realizes none of them are good. She unzips another compartment, takes out a Blue Jays’ baseball cap and pulls it on her head. Of all things, why had she packed this, her husband’s cap? Meanwhile, she’d stashed her cell phone turned off in the top drawer of her bedside table, scotch taped to her wedding ring, likely to remain there undiscovered for days, if not months. Stupid!
She hauls the backpack out of the car, slips her arms through the straps, treks to the highway, stands there and considers: walk or hitch? If she walks, she estimates she can make it to Blind River in two hours or less. That is, if she’s not eaten by bears or abducted, raped and murdered by a psychopathic serial killer. The possibility of attack by a serial killer only more inviting if she sticks out her thumb. After all, the highways are alive with the sound of bloodshed, right? THE EYEBALL KILLER. THE SHOE FETISH SLAYER. THE VAMPIRE OF SACRAMENTO. THE MIDNIGHT MARAUDER. THE WEEPY-VOICED KILLER. THE GREEN RIVER KILLER. THE BOSTON STRANGLER.
At least, that’s what the television shows would have us believe. Two or three serial killers brought to justice each night of the week whereas evidence shows there are only about 30-50 active types in the entire country at any given time. Never mind that, while violent crime has increased by over 600 per cent in the past ten years on TV, it has decreased by about thirty per cent in real life. Facts that should set the woman’s mind more or less at ease, though they don’t. And how do these monsters rate such romantic nicknames? Do the killers themselves create them? No, they are conveniently provided by members of the media. Or the law enforcement agencies. THE BUTTERMILK BLUEBEARD. THE LIPSTICK MURDERER. POGO THE CLOWN. JACK THE FUCKING RIPPER.
She pictures her mother reading about her in a missing person’s blurb on the back of a cereal box. Or on a flashing screen in the subway. She thinks about being the unlucky one out of one hundred, wrong place, wrong time, picked up, violated, her severed parts bagged in plastic, wrapped in duct tape and scattered along miles of lake shore. What did she read about Blind River in the brochure? The discovery of uranium in 1955, sure. What else? Oh yeah, in 1991 an elderly couple was shot and killed at the local rest stop just off the highway. The case was profiled on NBC TV’s Unsolved Mysteries: “The killer may still be among us!” Shit! Her hands continue to shake. She feels the terrors entering her body. She reaches behind and pulls out another pill bottle. She gives the label a look: Hey doll, she says. Do your magic. She takes a Haloperidol, swallows, starts walking.
About an hour in, a car pulls over. A man calls through the open window. Hey, what happened? Are you OK? Where’s your car? She bends to get a better look. It’s the man from the bar. What happened? he repeats. The woman keeps mum. C’mon, get in. He reaches across and opens the door. She swings around, climbs inside, clutches the backpack on her lap. She shuts the door. Again the man asks, what happened? Flat tire, she says. A ways behind. We can go back, he says. Change the tire. I was already riding the spare, she says. Uh-huh. You OK? She nods.
He lifts the lid of the storage container that separates the bucket seats to reveal a small bottle of Jack Daniels. Take a drink, he says. It’ll settle you. He hits the gas pedal and the car lurches onto the highway. Alcoholism is an equal opportunity destroyer, she mumbles. What? Nothing. A joke. She takes a swig from the bottle, then another. She passes it to the man who does the same. Are you in the habit of picking up strange women on the road? Not so strange. I recognized you. Her back stiffens at this. She slowly unzips a lower compartment of the backpack and slides her hand inside. She grips the wood handle of a steak knife. What do mean, she says, recognized me? You know. Your general shape. Five-three or four, slim. The blue hiking shorts, sandals. Your ankles. My ankles
? Yeah, thin, slightly bowed. I could tell it was you. Pretty observant. Part of the job. Sales, y’know? Gotta keep your eyes open. Though the baseball cap threw me. I never would’ve thought. Have another shot. Do you good.
The bit about the ankles is perhaps slightly more than she can handle. It goes beyond mere casual observation so far as she’s concerned; it borders on intimacy. It approaches observation with intent. She accepts the bottle and drinks. Her brain is on fire, yet she can barely stay awake. Her head drops then snaps to attention. Where’s the seat belt? she blurts. Why doesn’t the alarm sound? The buzz, buzz, buzz. The seat belt issue is suddenly allimportant to her. Deadly important. She’s unsure why. Meanings within meanings and so on. Accumulation of events. You’re sitting on it, he says. I do it up so I can pile shit in the front seat. Product and such. Display folders.
The woman scans the inside of the car. There’s nothing. Makes it easier. Yeah, I bet it does, just go down, open his pants and perform the obligatory blow-job. Or else he climbs on top, hikes her skirt, lowers her panties and … Bob’s your uncle. Nothing to interfere. Here, let me release it so you can buckle up. His hand fumbles for the catch and brushes against her hip and ass. She yanks the knife from the bag and lunges at him across the seat. She presses her face to his and holds the knife to his throat. What are you doing? he says. What does it look like? This isn’t funny. It’s not supposed to be. What’s the matter with you? The matter with me? What’s the matter with you? Not exactly what you were expecting, huh? What are you, crazy or something? Put that knife away. I’ll put it away all right. I’ll shove it through your gullet.
She’s close enough he can smell her boozy breath. Get off me! Get off me, you drunk bitch! I’m tryin’ to drive. He shoves her away and she flies back at him. You wanna piece of me, she snarls. You wanna fuck me up good and proper, huh? Is that it? You’re crazy, he screams. You’re crazier than a shithouse rat. You better believe it, pal. Now tell me, what does the name Charles Albright mean to you, huh? How about David Berkowitz? Or Ricardo Caputo? What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sit down, fer chrissakes. Put the knife away. I can’t see the road. She keeps in his face. Ted Bundy? Gary Ridgway? Huh? Ring a bell? How about a non-descript, late model, four-door sedan, blue or green, with out-of-province license plates? How about an average-looking travelling salesman with a wife, three kids and a dog living in the suburbs and a penchant for killing prostitutes? And I’ll give you a hint — it’s not a joke. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I offered you a ride, that’s it. He attempts to get an arm between himself and the woman. Will you let me drive? I can’t see with you … He fires a finger toward the windshield. Christ, what’s that?
She doesn’t have time to react. The impact knocks her against the passenger side door and she feels the serrated knife blade penetrate her flesh. She jerks the knife out and drops it on the rubber mat floor. What the fuck? The man spits. We hit something. What the fuck? Are you fucking nuts, or what? Do you wanna kill us both? She scrambles for her pack, blindly searches out the car door handle, grabs, pulls, bangs her shoulder into the door and ejects herself from the still-speeding vehicle. She bounces and rolls across the shoulder and lands on the grass. The car barrels down the highway, its taillights fading to pinpricks in the distance. The woman’s backpack lands several yards away from her. She stretches her arms forward, digs in with her knees and crawls toward the trees. She loses a sandal, manages to push a few extra feet. Finally, she gives up, turns over, stares up at the sky.
Crazy as a shithouse rat. She grins. Look who’s calling the kettle black.
We are only as sick as our secrets.
Damn straight.
She blinks once and everything goes dark.
It’s a media frenzy: Abandoned car hidden in trees along a lone stretch of highway sniffed out by dogs belonging to early morning hikers, license plate belonging to missing Toronto woman, mysterious disappearance, foul play not ruled out, packed suitcase in back of car, area known for previous instances of road-side murders, rumours of a possible serial killer at large. All the lurid elements of a sensationalistic story in the making. Victim’s mother offers reward for information leading to the whereabouts. Victim’s husband goes on camera to make a plea for the safe return. Victim’s psychiatrist paints ominous patient profile including hostility toward herself and others as well as sexual fixations which leave her open to abusive relations. Do not discount Stockholm Syndrome. Further agrees to provide grief counselling to those closest should the situation arise. Fee negotiable.
Further rewards are offered by special interest groups as well as more local concerned citizens and businesses requesting information that may lead to the arrest and conviction. Police claim they are doing everything possible, warning that the longer it takes, the less likely are the chances of the missing woman’s survival and safe return. The usual suspects are being gathered and interrogated. Bolos and APBs are being issued. DNA from hair and fabric samples is being analyzed. Promises and assurances are being made: There is no need to panic. If a heinous crime has been committed we will apprehend the sick sonofabitch responsible. ABC, NBC, CBC, CNN, CTV, FOX, CP24, CityTV and the like, delve deep into similar past cases and re-broadcast these along with recent interviews, commentary and thought-provoking analysis in order to allow the viewing audience the opportunity to share and enjoy as much information and participation as possible under the circumstances. Contact numbers have been set in place to enable anyone to easily offer information, opinions or points of view via telephone, email, Twitter, Facebook, Blogs, Livestream and so on.
Be part of the solution, not the problem.
The lines of communication are open 24/7. The boards are lit with callers.
What does the woman remember? Very little, if anything. Most of it is gone now, relegated to the part of the brain that stores useless information and empty memories. The rest is simply vague impressions: a car, a highway, an accident of some sort. Hard to say. She seems to recall a wound in her side. She feels for it with her fingers and there’s nothing. Skin smooth as silk and not even the hint of a scar. None of this matters. What matters is here and now — lying on a table in a strange room, staring up at the slow revolve of a ceiling fan’s dusty blades. She’s naked and can feel the cool air drift across her skin; stiffen her nipples; bristle her pubic hair. She lowers her eyes and recognizes the same black crow positioned at her feet, beak open, wings spreading and folding. The woman wiggles her toes. Around one wrist is the coiled weight of the grey snake, vertical pupils fixed on her. She spots Reuben across the floor, putting a CD in the player. Like her, he’s naked. He hits the play button. It’s The Tragically Hip with Killing Time. Gord Downie sings: “I need your confidence, need to know you’re mine, when it gets right down to the killing time.” She wonders if everything has meaning beyond itself or if it simply is what it is and anything further is pure misguided human folly, wishful thinking or blind coincidence?
Chicken or egg? Background become foreground? A stone so heavy even God can’t lift? Black rainbows followed by white rainbows?
Words, words, words.
Reuben walks toward her and puts out a hand. She takes it, sits up, climbs off the table onto the floor. He studies her. Her skin sparkles; it absolutely glows. Not a mark, not a blemish. He leads her to the back door, wraps a hand around the handle. He steps to one side and swings the door open. The woman is struck by a flash of blinding sunlight. She covers her face with an arm, then slowly drops it as her eyes become accustomed. She gradually takes in the scene. The sky is filled with big, fluffy white cumulus clouds sliced through by brilliant golden beams. She seems to recall a similar picture in a book she once owned as a child. Beneath the clouds grows a beautiful garden complete with cascading stream, waterfalls and a quiet pond surrounded by leafy tall trees, beautiful blooming flowers, the whole diorama alive with all manner of birds, insects and animals roaming freely and cohabiting peacefully one with the other: a deer grazes
within inches of a lazing timber wolf; a raccoon playwrestles with a coyote.
Lions among lambs, foxes among hens and so on.
The woman squeezes Reuben’s hand.
Don’t quit five minutes before the miracle happens.
Reuben kisses her forehead and she smiles. From somewhere close by, the desultory sound of a lone guitar emerges. Man in black intones: Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
What brave new world is this?
The two step forward. They exit the house and enter the garden, their naked bodies haloed in a blaze of brilliant white light.
THE REEVE SISTERS’ TALE
In which twin sisters decide to honour the memory of their late mother by attempting to seduce her former lovers.
Martin enters the apartment, crosses to the kitchen where Maggie is enjoying a glass of wine.
“I received the most incredible email just as I was leaving the office.” He kisses her on the cheek. “What are we drinking?”
“Pinot Grigio.”
“Fantastic.” He squints at the label and pours himself a glass. “Fish?”
“Teriyaki grilled salmon, wild rice with mushrooms, French green beans sautéed in garlic and sesame oil. I’m tossing a salad with prosciutto and herbed goat cheese.”
“You’re a marvel. Managed to stop along the way, did we? Pusateri’s? I don’t know how you find the time. I look at my watch and it’s ohmygod, where did the day disappear?”
“You picked up Chinese last night. Beef and broccoli with black bean sauce. Chicken Chow Mein. Fortune cookies. Very nice.”