Therapy Mammals

by Jon Methven

  He disappears around the edge of the house, voices inside, my family returning, me standing in a wet suit. From the back porch, a set of eyes hover as I emerge from the Jacuzzi. Tungsten Sedlock is staying for dinner.

  Dark Tourism

  Tonight is the consummate meeting of our investment club. Since her return from the weekend with Ray McClutchen, things have been different with Laura, better—several chats about the kids and Standcake, my record weather prognostications, and the third threatening letter from the homeowners association. They have added “tent structure” to the language. Residents are allowed to build treehouses in weak timber, but according to the bylaws I cannot pitch a temporary habitat in my backyard for longer than seven days. Laura and I smile over the legalese. I miss talking to my wife at night, after the kids are in bed, our phones put away for the day. I have no intention of corrupting this streak with discussions about Toby Dalton, or what I plan to do about him.

  We gather at the Sedlocks on a Friday instead of our regular Monday appointment, our congenial beginning hampered by the presence of new guests. We barely manage to get in our hugs and triple kisses, Olivia making a wrenching face when it’s our turn—“Pisser, you need a proper bath.” The Sedlocks’ attorney is seated in the rear, along with Connor Mack of the Mack Strategy Group. A former lobbyist for the National Rifle Association, it will be his task to cram this aberration down the throats of critics. There are two members of the media who write about what Harry has referred to as murder culture. In a few weeks, they, along with a dozen of their constituents, will travel to sites along our tourism route. This will begin the publicity push for which the Sedlocks have hired a public relations firm out of Los Angeles that specializes in getting out front of what might become negative reviews. In preparation for tonight’s discussion, I have popped two of Sharon Li’s Luderica along with a tumbler of scotch to steady my nerves.

  A man named Pietre Graeme—Grim, I hear—writes for an underground German publication called Leichenbestatter. He is excited to speak with the investors behind the Moveable Memorial Tour. He looks like he is personally responsible for decapitating and hiding the bodies of several prostitutes in his lifetime, and he sniffs his cognac before every sip. A Danish woman, Hansa Schultz—Shank, I hear—writes for Voldtage. She looks nothing like the goth and emaciated character I would expect to write about murder culture, her blonde hair and spring colors more attuned to lifestyle journalism.

  Something has come to pass between Olivia and Ray, or maybe between Ray and my wife. Last week’s Cooperative Marriage meeting was canceled, no follow-up email or explanation. The three are sitting in isolated parts of the room, ignoring each other and concentrating steadily on their phones. Jackson and Jason are no more cordial to one another, all of us a convocation of one man gangs listening to Pietre Graeme explain the history and wonders of murder tourism.

  “Classically it’s referred to as thanatourism. After the Greek god Thanatos, who was associated with death. He wasn’t as popular as Hades. Most people have never heard of him.”

  I hate Pietre Graeme in ways that improve hatred. We are not reinventing the wheel, Pietre tells us, setting down his cognac to issue us air quotes with both hands. People enjoy death. The end of life is a mystical phenomenon that human beings have always valued. Haunted houses, dangerous rollercoasters, ghost tours, graveyard walks—all have transformed from macabre activities into traditional leisure events accepted by the mainstream. Tours of medieval torture sites bring incredible numbers around the world. People flock to Hiroshima and Auschwitz and the September-Eleven Memorial, places where mass death occurred. Chernobyl, the site of one of the world’s most devastating nuclear disasters, brings in tens of thousands of visitors each year.

  “Catacombs of Paris, celebrity murder tours in Los Angeles, Roman Colosseum,” Pietre says, smiling, sniffing. “I could go on.”

  And then he does. Sites of genocide. Penitentiaries where prisoners were electrocuted. Cambodia’s killing fields. Aokigahara, he says in a strange accent, the Suicide Forest in Japan where hundreds of people take their lives each year, and where tourists come to whisper and buy souvenirs and snap pictures they post to social media with bucket list verve. Haunted castles. Haunted barracks. A haunted bowling alley in a town I cannot make out through the accent. The site of a clown convention where years earlier a man dressed as a jester gunned down eighty-seven other clowns, and where each year tourists, dressed in brightly colored garb, rent hotel rooms and eat shitty chain food and revisit the massacre. Ford’s Theatre where Booth took out a president, group rates for the JFK Assassination Tour: the grassy knoll, Jack Ruby’s apartment—the sixth floor of the book depository where tourists can crouch in the spot Ruby prayed, even aim an imaginary rifle out the window at regurgitated history.

  “I’ve been to it twice,” Connor Mack says from behind us. He holds up two fingers so we get it.

  Hansa takes over. The Lizzie Borden House. Pompei, where two thousand years ago a civilization cooked, and people still pay to be photographed with the ghosts. Alcatraz. Al Capone’s Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. The sites and methods of various serial killers organized into two-hour increments and guided by an hourly wage historian. Tours of current and past war zones, adventurers not satisfied with the media’s version and willing to travel into danger zones to witness firsthand civilizations shredded for historical satiation.

  “Tours of America’s slave trade,” Allie says. “No one finds the Underground Railroad to be in poor taste,” as if taste needs to be defended.

  “That’s exactly it,” Hansa says.

  The women are taking sides with Hansa in ways we men never did with Pietre, a sinister gender politics at play. Harry nods quickly, satisfied; if the moms can come together, we can all get on board. Dan Mathers reads his phone. Pietre sniffs his glass. I notice an alarming tattoo on Hansa’s ankle, which in the shadows looks like an infant kebabbed on a spear. Laura stays out of it, the way Jason and Jackson and Ray and I stay out of it, subtle whisper of shifting alliances. The recent appearance of Russ’s body hanging over our congeniality; we inhale darkness and exhale guilt.

  “There’s precedent here,” Harry says. I blacked out for a bit and can tell from his rhythm that he has been at it for some time, reviewing what was already said. “Our society has long consumed murder and disaster as entertainment. The Moveable Memorial Tour is no different.”

  “It’s different and you know it’s different, Harry.” It is my voice I hear suddenly litter the room with anger. I am not sure where I summon the courage to speak, but now I am the opposition and I own it. “Otherwise, why hire a publicity firm?”

  “There’s an historical balm that comes from this type of tourism.” Connor Mack is brilliant when he speaks, his car sales pitch refined into selling drug addictions and sexual assaults and accidental murders to a hungry public. “We recover, as a society, from past negligence by learning about it, making it more obtainable for the public.” He holds a thumb over his fingers, hand held out, body language that former US president Bill Clinton patented. “Coping. Understanding. Getting better.”

  “We’re selling tickets to places where children were murdered,” I say.

  “It’s not all dead kids. There are several mass murder sites on the national tours at which no children perished at all.” He turns to look for a pamphlet to prove it. “Some will see dead kids. Others will see resiliency.”

  “It’s not just us,” Olivia says. “Without tourists there would be no necessity for our business. They share the blame.”

  Connor Mack is quickly in the center of the room, hovering over Olivia’s words, Harry as well. “Whoa, hold on here. No one said anything about blame. This is not about blame. Let’s get that straight.”

  I stand. The BB gun in my waistband grinds into my skin. “We have children,” I say. “We cannot be a part of this.”

  Harry is shaking. “
Solid perspective, Pisser. Let’s talk it out.”

  “Other parents will feel the same.”

  “You don’t know that,” Olivia says.

  “It’s common sense.”

  “Economics always conquers common sense,” Pietre says, holding up his glass, a toast. “This venture will be prosperous. A responsibility to shine light into dark spaces. This is important work. Never forget that.”

  From beneath the Luderica and my lofty observations, I cannot decide who is more repugnant. Pietre or Connor. Or maybe Olivia or Hansa. Or Allie and Harry. Or possibly it is me. The way Pietre and Hansa casually discuss murder, and how they have wrapped us all inside the responsibility of our endeavor. Have we come too far? We all need the money. The only thing I consider, as Pietre rips into another retelling of the intrinsic value of murder tourism, is how much I love my children. Dead or alive, they are not a tourist attraction. I owe it to my kids. I owe it to myself. I owe it to my wife who is quiet and removed from the discussion. If there exists even a fraction of a chance my marriage will survive, I will fight my way back.

  “I’ve heard enough.” This quiets Pietre. Allie rubs her arms. Harry hangs his head. Dan Mathers glances up from his phone long enough to shake his head at my financial ruin. Jason clutches a pillow. “Laura and I are out. We don’t want any part of this.”

  Dan Mathers sighs. Connor Mack pumps a fist into a palm. Ray McClutchen appeals for our cooperation. “What about you, Laura? We didn’t hear from you tonight?”

  “I’m in agreement with Tom. It isn’t right. You all know that.” Once my wife makes a decision, there is no deterring her. She is a flood, a raging fire, a gospel of conviction. “We cannot support this.”

  “Let’s find a solution,” Olivia says.

  Ray is broken. “There isn’t one,” he concedes. “I hate to say it, but I’m in agreement with Pisser. There’s nothing positive about any of this.”

  Allie’s fists grind at her hips, her tongue beating a tirade into her cheek. Harry places a hand on her shoulder. “We’re sorry to hear it. Honestly, I’m just really surprised at the both of you.”

  “Our investment,” I say, though I know this is not the time.

  He shrugs, hands shaking. “We’ll see what can be done about returning…a percentage. I have to caution, as I said before, there will be a significant loss.”

  We cannot afford the fallout my words have created. I am less concerned with the money and more intrigued with the state of my marriage. Laura just nodded at me, a partial smile, proud for a change. Despite the state of our financial situation, we are in this together the way we once promised. Olivia says she and Ray are staying in, a house in the Hamptons, another for her parents in Arizona, nanny wages; despite Ray’s lucrative book sales and tours, they cannot afford to lose the investment. Jackson and Jason are staying as well. Laura and I are no longer members of this investment club and we excuse ourselves. Our neighbors avoid our eyes as we exit, Harry asking me to the backyard for a private word.

  In the foyer, I find Laura’s coat and help her into it, letting my hands rest gently on her shoulders as I fit her inside the warmth. “Shall I wait?” she asks.

  “No, get home. Check the kids.”

  “You’re sleeping in the backyard tonight?”

  “It’s for the best.”

  She kisses my cheek, and my insides fall apart, the scent of this woman conquering my civilization. “Don’t be long, Tom.”

  Seventy Percent Chance of Vengeance

  In the manner I sense weather patterns, I know about the backyard conversation before we exit the foyer. Overcast moods turning to clenched fists, high of pointed fingers and flying spit with a chance of middle-aged wrestling. Harry is six foot four, a business casual addict, his gray, floppy hair godlike when he arrives in a room. Only now it has fallen into his eyes, his neckline pulled lower by an extra button. He runs a hand across the back of his head, shaking, perspiring. He is upset, he tells me, discouraged. He thought we had an understanding. He confided in me about Moveable Museums. He trusted me.

  “I understand it might take time to return our investment.”

  “Fuck your investment.” The phlegm I forecast on my way to the backyard finds my cheek. “This isn’t about money. It’s about perception. When one person loses his nerve, others follow. And we were counting on your relationship with Lustfizzle.”

  “Ethically, I just don’t—”

  “Ethically?” He’s in my face. “Don’t talk to me about ethics, Pisser.”

  The Luderica dries my mouth, makes me sleepy, part of me anyway. It dulls the tribe living in my wilderness, squatting on my plains, and hunting my woods. Harry has awoken them. They are arming their warriors. They are ordering their women into underground bunkers with the children, but the women are not vacating. They are flashing teeth and slapping horses.

  “Step away from me, Harry.” We pace the yard until there is sufficient buffer. “Don’t talk about ethics? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Harry laughs, his lips hard against his gums. I have never noticed before. His teeth are fake. “Russ Haverly.”

  “What about Russ?”

  “You and Toby Dalton. The nannies get it right most of the time. Tell me,” he says. “The nannies talk about some photos. Do the police know about the photos?”

  “You don’t understand, Harry.”

  “I could give a shit about Russ.” It’s soft but I hear it, the growl, his own monsters. “All the times I bailed him out. You know, I’m actually glad not to have to clean up his mess anymore.”

  “There’s video. Something you need to know.”

  Harry sighs, talks to me like a dad. “Iliza. I know the rumors.”

  Russ never told his friend because he knew what it meant—the end of Gopa, the end of his coaching career, the last hand that would offer assistance, the cessation of his investment in Moveable Museums, more than likely drug money he was laundering. It’s on me to deliver the news. “Iliza is in the video, that’s true. But so is Tungsten. In the shower. With Russ.”

  I cannot halt his momentum across the patio, a larger man with more rage. He goes for my neck, but I am prepared. We tumble against the house. He smells wonderful, like summer in the Florida Keys, a whiff of rodeo. I smell of homelessness, deer entrails. “Say it again, Pisser. Say what you just fucking said.”

  “I saw the video.”

  “You’re lying.” He tries to punch me but I’m holding the lips of his collar, the worst fight in the annals of male testosterone. “You killed Russ. Everyone knows it.”

  I know better than to confess anything to Harry Sedlock. I hold the stare and he pounces to the far side of the patio to straighten his collar. A thick hand through his mane, he comes around for fresh negotiations.

  “All right, this is how it is.” He walks close, calmer now, too exhausted to punch out my teeth. “I don’t want trouble, Pisser. Russ gone is a blessing. I’ll keep quiet. You’ll keep quiet about Moveable. These things happen in business.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “Laura’s Standcake interests are tied into the Gopa community. She has reasons not to piss me off.” If I’m not mistaken, Harry just threatened my wife’s occupation. My neck tingles, the tribal lords lifting their weapons. “But you, Pisser. I never liked you. Strange, a man sleeping in his backyard, the way you smell, the way you mope about. Can’t trust a man who doesn’t have his house in order. I associate with you because our daughters are friends. Were friends. That ends tonight.”

  “I’m not lying about the video, Harry.”

  “You’ll pull Iliza out of the play. You’ll do it this week.”

  The world stops spinning. The island goes silent. The cell phone trees hiccup a ballad of descent and ire and then doom. Somewhere Clint Eastwood rests her paws midway into a kill near a freshly raked bunker, an idi
ot chipmunk out for a stroll only to cross the pregnant cravings of gnashing death. I feel the Luderica break down and mist against my cells, the chemicals suffusing into my blood and rolling along my ganglia. There is no wind. The hum from distant Manhattan takes pause as existence centers on the Sedlocks’ backyard. The steel from the BB gun grinds into my skin. My mind replays his last sentence as I step toward Harry Sedlock, a second threat to my family.

  “We were counting on Russ to get Tungsten into ECI. That’s over now. Playing the lead in the play is a credential she needs.” He transforms from extortion to business. “Come on, Pisser. Small price to stay out of prison.”

  “Iliza worked hard. She needs the credentials as well.”

  “Iliza’s father killed someone.” He shrugs, renegotiating our neighborly boundaries here in perfect, mirthful Slancy. “I’ll tell the police. I’ll tell the lacrosse fathers—both about Russ and the stolen bus, which I’m certain you had a hand in. I’ll make Gopa a living hell for your kids.” A third threat. “Pull her out, Pisser.”

  “That can’t happen.”

  “Blame it on trouble at home. Difficulties with studies. The fuck do I care?”

  The tribe is irate, begging for eyeballs, to hoist his testicles on a spit, cook it over fire, and serve it with chocolate and graham cracker. Tom Pistilini, Channel Fourteen meteorologist, has righted the ship. Tom Pistilini is doing his best to appeal to higher moral ground, following Ray McClutchen’s advice, seeking the positive. “Let’s sit down with Allie and Laura, the four of us talk this out.”

  “Allie?” He laughs until he moans. “She wanted me to force this weeks ago. I said no. I appealed to her business sense. You know what I said? ‘The Pistilinis are neighbors,’ I told her. ‘Laura and Tom are on our side,’ I said.” He shakes his head at me. “You want to fuck my wife. I see how you look at her.”