Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  *

  Franklin’s plane left Denver International Airport in four days. He’d been able to live without most of his belongings for the last week. Starting over meant starting from scratch. He’d already shipped most of his things earlier that week.

  He wanted to call Sarah and apologize. After the horrible things he’d said, he wasn’t sure she’d pick up the phone, let alone talk to him. They’d come too far, he thought, for him to leave on a bad note, though. He only prayed Sarah would forgive him.

  In his apartment—barren now except for a few boxes, a mattress on the floor, some Chinese food and a six-pack in the fridge—Franklin grabbed a beer, threw the cap in the sink, and took a long pull. He went to the window and stared into the street below.

  He sighed as the cars drove by. An ambulance screamed down a nearby street. Two black men argued on the sidewalk between an entire block. A blonde woman walking an Irish setter watched the black men, and veered away. Franklin finished his beer and grabbed another.

  He sighed and set the bottle on a trunk below the window, one of the only pieces of furniture he had left.

  Franklin leaned against the windowsill, soaking in the last memories of the city.

  “With you, Sarah,” he said.

  *

  On May 30th, the day proved blistering without a cloud in the sky, rare heat for this time of year in Denver. More heat, less water, Franklin mused, wondering if God could show a little sympathy and allow less heat and more storms.

  The heat emanated visibly in waves off the sidewalk and streets. Blinding chrome, bright reflections from windows and car bumpers stabbed Franklin’s eyes. He was perspiring heavily already. His thin T-shirt stuck to his skin. Sweat gathered between his toes. He should’ve worn sandals instead of socks and shoes.

  He was whistling, though, as he walked along Pennsylvania Avenue to Sarah’s—thankfully—air-conditioned apartment.

  She’d picked up the phone when he’d called earlier that day. Surprising him, she’d been patient as Franklin pleaded his case. She’d not hung up, slamming down the phone. Franklin had sincerely apologized with a broken heart. He hadn’t meant what he’d said, he told her. He’d been angry. She’d never had anyone talk to her that way before. He was wrong for jumping to conclusions. He only wanted to say goodbye. Would it be okay if he stopped by? Sarah surprised Franklin by telling him how good it was to hear his voice. She wanted to part—like him—on a happier note. He couldn’t have been more pleased.

  Sarah’s dark blue Saab was parked at the curb, he saw. She did fairly well for herself. The magazine she worked for, Everyday Issues, had been gaining positive readership since she’d been hired. The Saab, however, was a gift from her father. Franklin couldn’t remember what he did for a living.

  In the late spring heat, Franklin turned up the walkway to Sarah’s house. She rented the ground level of a green and white Victorian. The house was in fair condition. The paint looked fresh. The slabs of concrete, however, were in need of repair, cracked and broken along the pathway. Thistles and weeds grew between broken stones.

  At the porch, Franklin knocked on the door.

  The door opened after a fumble with the lock. Sarah stood as radiant and glowing as he remembered. Her eyes were wide and forgiving. She was wearing a sexy pink outfit today, looking like a child, her hair in pigtails, an adorable teddy bear holding a blue heart, smiled at him from the shirt she wore. She had tight, white shorts on. Her feet were bare.

  “Hi, Franklin,” she said, leaning against the door. Her smile, it seemed, was genuine.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Franklin took a deep breath and tried to smile.

  “Come on in,” she said, stepping aside.

  “Thank you, Sarah.”

  Sarah shut the door behind him. He was thankful for the air-conditioning. It was cool inside. Franklin vaguely noticed the apartment, family pictures on the mantle above the fireplace. A computer sat on the dining room table; sliding glass door led into the backyard.

  “I don’t know what to say, Sarah,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I guess I’m a little off my rocker sometimes. This hasn’t happened to me in a long time. But I have to go to Oregon. There’s nothing here for me anymore. With you, yes, but the city—”

  Sarah’s eyes went to the paper sack Franklin held. “I know,” she said. “What’s that?” She nodded at the paper sack.

  “Oh,” he said, looking down. “I packed my tape and markers accidentally, but I still have a few boxes to send. I didn’t realize it until I was on my way over. There’s that Walgreen’s right there, so—”

  Franklin shrugged. Sarah looked at him as if he were the most hopeless man she’d ever seen.

  “Look, Sarah,” Franklin said. “I don’t blame you, you know, for telling me what you did. I’ve never been with anyone like you before. Sometimes, I’m hoping I’ll hate Oregon, so I can come back and appreciate the city. With you, you know? But I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again. I just…didn’t want to leave on a bad note. I just want you to know how much I’ll miss you. I want you to know how sorry I am. If I could change it, I would. I admire you, Sarah. You’re very determined. I think that’s what I love about you.”

  Franklin bowed his head, nodding several times as if to say, ‘There, I said it. It’s out.’

  “Oh, Franklin,” Sarah said, stepping forward. She wrapped her arms around his waist. She put her cheek against his chest. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it, too. I never wanted this to happen to you—to me.”

  Franklin responded, hugging her close, despite the bag he carried.

  “Oh, Franklin,” she said. “I didn’t want any of this to happen. When I saw you that day at the bookstore, that goofy Othello thing I did, I just thought…I don’t know. I love you, Franklin. I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I do love you. I hope you’ll think about that when you’re gone. I hope you know that. I will always love you, okay?”

  Was she trying to denominate his love? Was her love more important than his?

  Franklin hated it when people said they always loved you. When you were never going to see each other again, what difference did it make? Were the words supposed to cushion the blow? Were they doing you a favor? Christ, people made him sick!

  Sarah was good, though. She could’ve been an actor.

  His chest was damp with Sarah’s tears. She wept against him, body hitching with sobs.

  Could it be? Surely, Sarah had never felt so much love for him! This, too, must be part of the act. She could turn tears on and off at will!

  “I love you, too, Sarah,” Franklin whispered next to her ear. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair. It smelled like strawberries.

  Yes, I love you, too, he thought.

  Franklin opened the paper bag, exhuming its contents.

  When the Spanish girl at Walgreens announced the total, Franklin specifically asked for, ‘a small paper sack.’ Once outside, he tore open the package and threw the knife inside the sack, then walked to Sarah’s house.

  He held her now with his left arm. With his right, he positioned the knife below her ear.

  “Of course, Sarah,” Franklin said. “I’ll always love you, too. Tears of joy and love, right?”

  Sarah nodded, the wet spot on his shirt slightly damp; sobs, louder.

  If any amount of love were impossible to measure, Franklin thought, this must be it.

  Franklin closed his eyes, smiling in his devotion, taking a deep breath of her hair again. In the next second, he rammed the blade into her throat. Sarah gasped and stiffened instantly. An arc of blood shot to the ceiling after he pulled the knife out. Sarah went limp, gagging on her own blood. She clutched his sleeve and fell away…

  He did not let her fall completely, however. Love brimmed from his inner core. It emanated outward, ricocheting off the walls and back toward him. To Franklin, he could virtually see it. His love was an intense ball of bouncing, white energy.

&nbs
p; Thinking of the daggers Sarah had delivered yesterday to his stomach, Franklin turned savage. He yanked her back up, grabbing her by the hair. He smiled like a villain and looked into her incredulous, white stare. She was barely alive. Seeing her shocked expression gave him satisfaction. Nodding—reminding her who had gotten the best of whom—Franklin drove the knife into her stomach, delivering repeated thrusts to her abdomen. He remembered the day on the bench, the pain of her pretentious pomp and condescension. Blood spilled over his hand and onto the floor.

  “How—?” Sarah tried to say, eyes wide. “How—?”

  Blood spilled to his feet. He let go, and Sarah fell to the floor. Her mouth was agape, eyes wide in shock.

  Franklin shook his head and smiled.

  He felt a mixture of loss and sadness, but only for a moment. Above anything, he brimmed with energy.

  “When it comes to love, Sarah,” Franklin said, wiping the bloodied blade on his shirt, “you obviously have a lot to learn.” He looked at her for a few more seconds until she was still, her eyes incredulous in death. “Maybe now you’ll understand this theory I have…a little thing called…Destiny.”

  *

  He found a roll of trash bags in the kitchen drawer, a saw in the shed in the backyard. He made a pot of coffee, poured a cup, and occasionally sipped at it while he went to work.

  Franklin sawed off Sarah’s arms at the shoulders. He sawed through her legs at the top of her thighs. He sawed off her head and dispersed each of her body parts into several trash bags. The chore was abominable and tiresome. Blood stained the living room floor in a wide pool of gore.

  When he was done, he went to the fridge, hoping for a beer, but discovered eggs, syrup, a gallon of milk, and a block of cheese, so he made another cup of coffee.

  “My first dismemberment,” he said, aloud. “How did it go, doctor?”

  “Very well, thank you,” he answered himself. “Considering the circumstances, I think it went very well. I must be a natural.”

  Finishing the coffee, Franklin scanned the apartment for the keys to Sarah’s Saab.

  *

  Her arms were small enough to put in one bag by themselves. The other body parts were in their own bags: the legs, the torso, and the head. Sarah was in six pieces in five different bags.

  Franklin found the keys in Sarah’s purse on the mantle above the fireplace. The smell of blood and gore thickened, bringing tears to Franklin’s eyes.

  Not heeding his bloodied clothes, he took the bags to the car, making three trips. He shut the trunk when he was done. No one, that he saw, paid any attention. He could’ve been taking out the laundry for all they knew.

  Taking a deep breath, Franklin went back inside and turned off the coffee pot. He closed the front door behind him, moving along the broken walkway with a bounce in his step. He looked up and down the street. He got into the Saab and shut the door. He stuck the key in the ignition, revved the car to life, and drove to his apartment.

  Once home, he carried the bags up three flights of stairs, making three separate trips again. Bloody trails followed him to the front door. He must’ve accidentally punctured one of the bags.

  Miraculously, in the unnatural heat of midday, no one had paid attention to him. If they did, they simply ignored him.

  “That,” Franklin said, toasting himself in his apartment when he was done, “was sheer luck. Or Destiny. However you want to look at it.”

  *

  He used the empty trunk under the window. After padding it with sheets and pillows, wrapping, and re-wrapping the body parts in extra trash bags, Franklin positioned Sarah inside and filled the leftover space with air fresheners. With a thick black marker, he wrote his aunt and uncle’s address on the lid and secured the trunk with rope. All he had to do now was get her to the post office.

  Carrying the trunk down three flights of stairs, however, proved a daunting task. With his back throbbing, Franklin was able to get it to the curb by the Saab, but that was a s far as he got. How was he going to lift it up into the trunk of the car?

  Franklin took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips.

  He’d changed his shirt, but not his shoes and pants. Sarah’s blood was still on his jeans.

  “Need some help with that?”

  Franklin turned, slightly out of breath. With the heat, he was sweating profusely. A blond man, roughly his same age, wearing a Doors T-shirt and jeans, stood behind him. The man was gangly, a face marked with acne.

  Franklin smiled. “You’re a life saver,” he said.

  The trunk of the Saab was already open. With the man’s help, they heaved it up into the Saab with a heavy thud! The rear of the car bounced and settled.

  “Man!” the Doors fan exclaimed. “What do you got in there?”

  “My girlfriend,” Franklin said.

  The man looked serious for a minute, then burst out laughing. “By the looks of you,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” He nodded toward Franklin’s blood-splattered jeans.

  The color drained from Franklin’s face.

  “You must paint for a living,” the man said. “Not that I could tell. I’m colorblind, anyway. Could be sea-foam green, could be blood. Maybe its hot pink!” The man burst out laughing at his own joke, nudging Franklin with his elbow.

  “Is that the last one you got?” the man asked.

  “That’s it,” Franklin said. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Glad to be of service,” the man said, and shook Franklin’s hand. Without an introduction on either side, the man waved and continued down the street, leaving Franklin alone by the Saab.

  Franklin watched the man in the Doors shirt for a minute, then grabbed the rest of the rope, securing the lid to the bumper, so Sarah wouldn’t spill onto the road.

  “Painter,” he said, unable to believe it.

  Before he went to the post office, Franklin decided to take a long hot shower, and put on some clean clothes.

  *

  Everything was in order. He would be leaving for Oregon later today. He had successfully shipped the truck to his aunt and uncle’s house. It would arrive in a week, maybe more, the man at the post office had said. Franklin nodded.

  Mr. Bennet, his landlord, handed him a check for the deposit, and Franklin handed Mr. Bennet the keys to the apartment.

  “Don’t forget us little folk,” Mr. Bennet said. “When you’re in that beautiful Oregon.”

  Franklin said goodbye to the building, Mr. Bennet, and took a shuttle to the airport, leaving the Saab at the complex.

  His flight was number 403 at 5:40 pm, Gate 13A. He was two hours early. He checked in with no baggage, only a carry on. All his things had been shipped. Uncle Walter was taking care of his mail.

  Franklin bought a hamburger, fries, and a large Diet Coke at a McDonalds before his plane took off. He lingered at the gate reading a Time magazine.

  Once on the plane, the flight seemed to go by in no time. He did not talk to a single person. He watched old episodes of M.A.S.H, wearing earphones provided by the airline.

  He ordered two beers, not wanting to get too light-headed before seeing his aunt and uncle. How many years had it been since he’d seen them? Franklin couldn’t remember.

  The flight was two and half hours long. Finally, the plane touched down in Portland. When he followed the directions to Baggage Claim, he saw a short redhead and a tall, gangly, graying man with deep blue eyes. His aunt and uncle had aged.

  “Franklin!” Hilary said, anxious to embrace her nephew.

  “Hi, Auntie,” Franklin said, smiling.

  “Franklin,” his uncle greeted him, pleased. Franklin shook the tall man’s hand and closed in for an embrace. Not ten minutes off the plane, and he already felt better.

  “How was the flight?” Walter asked.

  “Good,” Franklin said. “Hardly a bump.”

  “I got some people I want you to meet later in the week,” Walter said. “I think I got some good news for you.”

&nbs
p; Franklin shook his head. “That’s incredible.”

  “Your uncle is a go-getter,” Hilary said.

  “Got you,” Walter said, and Hilary laughed.

  Franklin joined in the laughter.

  They made excitable conversation on the way to a black Lincoln Continental.

  “And Sarah,” Hilary said from the passenger seat, once they were on the road. “When’s she coming?”

  “A few more days, I think,” Franklin said. “She’s gonna love it out here.”

  “We can’t wait to meet her,” Hilary said. Walter turned and smiled at his wife.

  “I hope you like her,” Franklin told them, staring out the window as the highway unfolded. They drove into the suburbs around Portland.

  The house was on Bleeker Street. They’d moved since Franklin lived here. The house was a wide, brown, single story, stretching across an expansive, manicured lawn. Elms and maples shaded the yard. Yes, his Uncle was a ‘go getter,’ Franklin saw.

  “This is incredible,” he said.

  Walter parked the car, and they stepped outside. Franklin surveyed the house.

  Walter smiled. Hilary wrapped her arm around her husband’s elbow, and the three of them walked along the pathway to the front door.

  “Welcome home,” Uncle Walter said.

  “It’s good to be home,” Franklin said.

  Walter unlocked the door and pushed it open. “After you,” he said, inviting Franklin inside.

  Franklin couldn’t believe it. He shook his head, experiencing a moment of private wonder. He stepped across the threshold. He eyed the inside of the house with intimidation, comfort, and a sense that he did belong.

  Not, just belonging, he thought, but welcome, too. Welcome home.

  Walter and Hilary were just as pleased, it seemed. They directed him to his room down the hallway, replete with a queen-sized bed, a desk, computer, telephone, television, reading chair, and a view of the sloping back yard. Franklin was a long way from the city, he thought.