Woke Up Lonely

by Fiona Maazel

  On the back end of the website were chat rooms, among them one for the members wanting sex. Critics said that organizations like the Helix encouraged bacchanalia, and that as leader Thurlow must be an incorrigible roué, but it wasn’t true. Or not entirely true. He’d made these rooms accessible by video because the I Seek You protocol rewarded disclosure at a clip, and faces could help. Or so he’d thought until the Play Room took hold. In there, what strides the video option had made toward facilitating intimacy were Pyrrhic.

  Just last night he’d seen a man fellate himself with a Winnie the Pooh hand puppet, though what had Thurlow rapt was the affection and solicitude the man’s free hand lavished on the bear, as if the only way to thank ourselves for love received was through displacement. This show, one among thousands. People registering disbelief and gratitude for what was being offered them. A longing for more. Please don’t sign off until I am done. Don’t leave, please. It was a peacocking of misery that reasserted the virtue of what Thurlow was trying to do with the Helix, and so depressing as to keep him riveted for hours.

  Now he fixed on a live stream of Sophie18, who was a man in thong and thigh-highs, watching Lena04, who wore the same. They were doing for each other what could not be done otherwise. And so, for a second, Thurlow loved this chat room because it was a mercy killing of at least some of the self-hate grown in his heart for what he was soon to do to the people who supported him most.

  Before he signed off, he scanned a thumbnail list of users and noticed someone new. A guy not looking for pleasure; he just wanted to talk. He asked if his camera was working. He didn’t understand all this technology, but his wife had given it to him so that he might get out and make friends, he being incarcerated in his house and the Internet being the next best thing to bingo at the lodge. He was pecking at the keyboard with his index fingers. Thurlow wrote back immediately. He wrote:

  Dad, can you find some other chat room to be in? There’s about ten million to choose from.

  Dad, can you find some other chat room to be in? There’s about ten million to choose from.

  But Wayne wanted to talk about how his life was being dismantled from the inside out. How his marriage was on the skids. The torpor and routine. Mutual disinterest in all things relating to the home, money, or politics. Thurlow wrote back.

  But u don’t care about these things, Deborah or not.

  Dont be smart ass.

  But codependency and trust and comfort are important. Marriage is a sum of parts, some good, some bad, but maybe the sum is still good.

  Wayne smirked.

  Dad, sometimes u gotta take risks to get what u want.

  ??? Son wha ts the mater w/ y ou?

  But u don’t care about these things, Deborah or not.

  Dont be smart ass.

  But codependency and trust and comfort are important. Marriage is a sum of parts, some good, some bad, but maybe the sum is still good.

  Wayne smirked.

  Dad, sometimes u gotta take risks to get what u want.

  ??? Son wha ts the mater w/ y ou?

  This was not the first time they’d had a conversation that veered in this direction, though its precedents were few.

  “Dad, stop typing—you are driving me nuts. We can talk, you know. There’s a microphone.”

  Wayne got up close to the screen and pressed his ear to the camera, which felt like the lewdest thing Thurlow had seen in this room to date.

  “Dad, stop it, just sit in your chair.” Only the volume was on high, and, since Thurlow was not whispering, Wayne recoiled from the speaker with shock and began to chowter, “Stupid machine. Who ever heard of this talking machine?” So Thurlow said, “Dad, I can hear you,” and again with the shock, and because Thurlow was so strung out he couldn’t remember who he was to whom anymore, he said, “Dad, don’t make me demote you, too.”

  Finally Wayne sat back, which gave view to what Thurlow expected to be his room but was not his room at all.

  “Dad, what are you doing in the commissary? You know you’re not supposed to be there. What have I not given you such that today, of all days, you were moved to leave your place of dwelling and venture into mine?”

  “I was looking for the marriage counselor. I heard you called one in. And why are you talking like some poofcake?”

  “I have not called in a counselor. Where’d you hear that? And what made you think he’d be in the commissary?”

  “Last I heard, it was called a pantry. Son, are you all right? These four people here have been telling me some things”—and he glanced the camera at the hostages, who were supposed to have been returned to the den gagged, hooded, cuffed. Wayne, who was suddenly adept with the zoom function on the camera, had zeroed in on Anne-Janet’s nose, which was narrow up top but fanned at the base like maybe she’d spent her formative years face pressed to the window, waiting.

  Thurlow said, “Dad, I don’t want to see those people.”

  Wayne said, “You know, this one’s a professional arbiter, which is almost like a marriage counselor, right?” He framed in close on Olgo.

  “Dad, what? You’ve been talking about your marriage? To them? What else have you been saying?”

  “Not too many options for chat around here.”

  “Dad.” But he stopped there. He could not expect to rationalize with this man. This man was his father; he was intractable. “Dad, you need to stop talking to those people. They are full of lies. Just stay put until I get someone over there.”

  Wayne shrugged. “Where exactly would I go?”

  “I’ll call for Dean, and he’ll escort you back to your quarters. There’s pink jellies in the kitchen, by the way. Edible foil. FYI.” He offered these as an olive branch because he didn’t like to be stern with his dad. He did like to take precautions, though, and he made a note to disable Wayne’s door opener and short the emergency override. Also: No more computer. And guards at his bed.

  At last he got Dean on the phone. Dean, frantic, saying, Where the hell was he? Thurlow was so vexed Dean had left the hostages with his dad, he could barely contain himself. Only, Dean insisted Thurlow had called him not half an hour ago, demanding he meet him in the basement. Aha, so that mole Vicki had them played. Never mind. Just hurry up and get to Wayne. And reassemble the film crew. To hell with it—they had to make the ransom tape right now.

  “Okay, Dad? You hear that? Dean’s on his way, so just sit tight”—which was when he noticed Wayne’s face derange and lock. Oh, crap. “Dad,” he said. “Not now!” But of course Wayne had no choice. He lowed, he bellowed, his limbs clenched. And though Thurlow had seen this happen many times, it never got any less awful, and today it seemed worse. Perhaps because where the footage should have lagged for being streamed online, it seemed to mayhem twice as bad. The tonic phase of the seizure lasted for thirty seconds, which gave Thurlow no time to get there before the clonic phase, which was more dangerous, insofar as Wayne could fall and hit his head, which he did. Some epileptics flail and twitch, but for Wayne the movement was more like the string of an instrument, a cello bass, that had been plucked too hard. Luckily, he had pitched to his side, which meant he wouldn’t inhale his own spit. Thurlow waited for Wayne’s body to slow down and then made a run for it.

  He had never sprinted across the house, so he was surprised how quickly he got there. Less surprising was that he was winded and likely to convulse himself if he did not sit down. The hostages were appalled, but what was he supposed to do? Wayne was on his side, unconscious. Thurlow propped his head on his leg and waited. The hem of his jeans had crawled up one calf. A vein thick and soft like pasta showed under his skin. Wayne’s head weighed a ton. Thurlow had his back to the hostages, but he knew what they were thinking. He said, “It looks worse than it is, I swear.”

  Then he spoke to his dad, “Wake up, boss,” which was the appellation Wayne preferred but never got. When he began to come round, Thurlow tried to diffuse wake-up panic with the facts: “You had a seizure, but you’re fi
ne.” Only he wasn’t having it. He said he’d broken his skull and needed to go to the hospital. Normally, it was hours before fluency with the language returned, and sometimes, for how long it took, Thurlow wondered if maybe Wayne didn’t have a tumor lodged in his brain. But today, he was all rebound. “I could probably get a doctor to come,” Thurlow said, but Wayne said no, it could not wait, his head was broken. The man tended to exaggerate—over the years he’d claimed six heart attacks and three strokes—but it wouldn’t do to ignore him. Ignore him, and he’d just have another seizure from the upset. To be fair, he was slurring his words. And one of his pupils appeared larger than the other.

  Thurlow said, “It’s possible you are just experiencing a postseizure headache.”

  Wayne said, “Do I look like the sort of man who can’t tell the difference between a headache and hematoma? Call an ambulance—I need to get out of here.” He winced in pain and then seemed to pass out from it.

  Dean arrived, breathless. He took in the scene and said, “Where’s two through six?”

  “How should I know?” Thurlow shook his head with disgust. So Dean had left guards on duty. But where were they now?

  “He all right?” Dean said.

  Thurlow nodded.

  “Wayne’s a tough old bastard.”

  “He wants to go to the hospital. Says he broke his skull.”

  Dean gripped his lower lip between thumb and index finger. A thinking man’s pose. He had a set of formulas that helped him determine risk-to-benefit ratios so that when he spoke, it was never knee-jerk.

  “Not good,” he said. “Downright stupid. Chances of hematoma: slim.”

  Thurlow glanced at the hostages, hoping they agreed with Dean and would indicate as much in their bearing or demeanor. What he did not hope was that they would volunteer advice out loud, which Anne-Janet did, saying, “Not to overstep, but you’d best let him out,” the others nodding and maybe even weeping because, if nothing else, watching someone have an epileptic fit was terrifying.

  Wayne looked peaceful, but his breath was short.

  “Call an ambulance,” Thurlow said. “And, I don’t know, tell the feds not to shoot anyone when they come out.”

  Then he kissed his father on the cheek. He probably would not see him again, though he knew Wayne would be fine.

  An hour later, a knock at the door. Norman.

  “How is my father?” Thurlow said. “What’s the news?”

  Norman flipped through a notebook. “Dean handled it. Ask him.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Norman palmed the back of his own neck like he might slam his face into the desk. He said, “I thought I was the one dealing with the negotiator. Dean let one out and got nothing in return. Good job.”

  “He’s not one, he’s my dad.”

  “Just trying to get with the lingo,” Norman said. “Now that we’re all criminal.”

  “You weren’t around, Norman.”

  “You could have called.”

  Was this really the time to be discussing his hurt feelings? Thurlow said, “You should know and tell the others: Vicki is out. She was bugged.”

  “I heard.”

  “She won’t be the last, either.”

  “Naturally.”

  “So, can you find out about my father?”

  His face blanked just long enough for Thurlow to realize he wasn’t listening. “Fine,” Norman said. “I’ll check it out. Sorry.”

  “You’re sorry. Since when is ‘I’m sorry’ our panacea of choice?”

  This time, Norman did not hesitate. He said, “‘Self-indictment will be considered adequate restitution for mistakes made in dereliction of duty, so long as the derelict is earnest in apology.’”

  Thurlow snorted. Norman said, “I’m sorry. I’ll look into it.”

  “Norm, look, I know this day hasn’t produced yet, but let’s make it happen—right now, okay? Let’s get this tape filmed. How hard can it be just to hit Record? I’ll talk about the Helix; we’ll grow tenfold! Can’t you round up the crew and get us going here?”

  But no. Norman looked like candle wax come down the shaft. He was melting, drooping.

  “Norm, come on, cheer up, things will change once the ransom tape is out—you said so yourself. When have I ever let you down?” But the look on his face stayed put, and it was as if the specter of their history together scared out all the breathable air in the room.

  “We just got word from the money,” he said, which was what he called Pyongyang. He pulled up a website, and there it was: a plaint from the North Koreans. Apparently, they appreciated how the Middle Eastern clubs communicated worldwide and, to similar effect, had usurped back-end control of websites unlikely to attract big notice. Today’s effort had been dumped in noise on the Birdhouse Network.

  The message said they were not happy. They were concerned about the safety of their investment. They wanted reassurance that the Helix had not been imperiled by this hostage situation, and they wanted this reassurance in the form of words Thurlow was to speak on the ransom tape. They had instructed him to pay tribute to the most beloved leader Kim Jong-il but to do so in a way that would not expose their relations. By way of subtlety, Pyongyang had suggested he say, “In the tradition of the most beloved leader Kim Jong-il, and though I cannot speak with half as much wisdom as he, and though the DPRK is the most blessed and enlightened nation on earth, the ascendancy of which I cannot even hope to broach with what feeble ambitions are mine and my people’s, nonetheless, hello.”

  Norman read over his shoulder.

  “These people have some nerve,” Thurlow said.

  “Maybe they just want what’s been promised them.”

  “I promised to try to make them look good, that’s all. Everyone’s been promised something.”

  “Great,” he said. “I’ll be sure to pass that on.”

  Thurlow wanted to shoot him a look of such authority, it would crush the revolt in his heart. Except why bother? He noticed Norman’s Helix boutonniere was brass, not silver, only they had never ordered brass, so it was all clear. Clear like Vicki—one by one, down they went. Norman followed his eye—“You must be kidding”—and he wrested the pin from his lapel. He plunked it in Thurlow’s hand with the insolence of a kid surrendering his gum to the principal. Thurlow examined it with a magnifying glass he kept in the desk, and when he was satisfied the silver was just tarnished, the button was a button, he squirreled it away among other contraband, including a sunburst, a class ring, and an ivory cameo heirloom his new TC had cried about for an hour.

  “What do you want me to write back?” Norman said. “Tell Pyongyang that everything is fine and not to worry.” “You should know a couple tanks just crossed the river. There’s kids giving the National Guard balloons and pie outside the stadium.”

  “So much for the stealth of night,” Thurlow said.

  “So much for everything,” Norman said back. He tossed a crumpled sheet of printer paper on the desk, which he’d obviously snatched from the garbage. It read:

  If my wife comes here with Ida.

  In exchange for the hostages, Ned, Bruce, Olgo, Anne-Janet, I request. I demand. The Helix requires.

  On behalf of the Helix, I demand that for the release of the four detainees, Esme Haas and daughter Ida present themselves at my door for cookies and milk. Tea and cookies. Hot chocolate and pfeffernüsse, because what little girl can resist the spicy, chewy, finger-lickin’ euphoria of the German pepper cookie?

  Christ fuck bring me my wife and daughter or I will kill myself. Or them. Or someone.

  If my wife comes here with Ida.

  In exchange for the hostages, Ned, Bruce, Olgo, Anne-Janet, I request. I demand. The Helix requires.

  On behalf of the Helix, I demand that for the release of the four detainees, Esme Haas and daughter Ida present themselves at my door for cookies and milk. Tea and cookies. Hot chocolate and pfeffernüsse, because what little girl can resist the spicy, chewy, finger-lick
in’ euphoria of the German pepper cookie?

  Christ fuck bring me my wife and daughter or I will kill myself. Or them. Or someone.

  Thurlow ironed the sheet with his palm. He summoned for calm—Will the calm in me please stand up?—and said, “Norman, why are you sifting through my trash?”

  Norman shook his head. “It’s one thing to do this to me, but what about everyone else? They’re expecting something. Something great.”

  “I wasn’t going to say all that on the tape, Norm. I was just messing around. You found it in the garbage, right? Where is your head?”

  “Yeah? So what are you going to say?”

  They gave each other the eye. When two people had been friends that long, the eye was murder. Thurlow decided to murder first and thought him the truth: Nobody wants to play the endgame of his life alone.

  Norman leaned against the wall and murdered back: You are the collapse of all the hope I have ever had.

  Thurlow said, “So you told the film crew to go home? No crew, no tape? Are we just supposed to walk out of here now, hands up?”

  “There’s worse ideas.”

  Thurlow didn’t even have to tell him to get out; Norman turned his back on him unbidden.

  His study was locked, and his bedroom was the least solacing place on earth. He could get to a meditation parlor via one of the tunnels, but, with the encampment outside and the rigors of what was left to him of this day, he settled on his stepmother. She was not parent enough to reap from his flaws motive to hug him, but she might not curse his name, either.

  The halls were quiet as he went to her quarters. He had hoped to find guards outside his parents’ door but was not surprised to find it unmanned. On the bright side, since there was nothing to keep Deborah from leaving, her being there was a gesture. She believed in him and wanted to help. That or, in her deafness and solipsism, she still had no idea what was going on. There were no windows on this side of the house, but there was still the noise of sirens and helicopters, and the special din of so many cameramen struggling for best sight line to the action. All part of what Thurlow imagined was a late stage in the day’s ratcheting into chaos.