Innocent Monsters

by Doherty, Barbara

  Going back to see his parents was not something Roger did out of pleasure but out of duty, out of respect for his father. If he did not go back home over the holidays, who would be there to stand up for an old man incapable of doing much else other than moan and look defeated? Who would soften his wife’s ugly remarks? Everyone else seemed to have forgotten how hard Daniel Wither had worked for his family when health was not an issue; how strong and proud he had stood in his small convenience store in Bergen Street, day in, day out; how he had paid for two university educations working weekends and every given hour behind that counter.

  Everything had changed the day his father had been diagnosed with emphysema and advised to move out of the city to avoid the pollution. The city air might not have made a massive difference to his worn out lungs, the doctor had told him, but moving somewhere else, where air was purer, might have increased his chances of maintaining his condition rather than aggravating it. Daniel Wither was only fifty-two then and still felt strong enough to believe he could stay in the same neighbourhood he had grown up in, where everyone knew him and his family. But his wife could not bear him getting worse. If inhaling New York’s polluted air could somehow contribute to his decline, they would have to move out. The thought of having to look after the man she had married had been enough to rush Sofia Wither into selling the business and their huge family home in Brooklyn to move to Putnan County, in the lower Hudson River Valley, where nothing ever happened and nobody knew who the hell they were. Gone was the community they had been part of all their lives, gone were their friends, Daniel Wither’s convenience store and everything that had kept him going.

  Both Roger and his sister Isabella had known taking their father out of his environment prove disastrous, but didn’t stop them. Back then Izzy had been busy looking after the first of her two sons and, in the general scheme of things, his parents making a mess of what was left of their own lives had not been on Roger’s list of priorities.

  After just over a year, the enormity of the mistake they had made had become obvious. Unhappiness and boredom had contributed to Daniel’s decline, so the Withers had decided to pack up again and move back to Brooklyn.

  They had been lucky enough to find a house not too far from Boerum Hill, but having given up the income from the convenience store meant they could only afford a much smaller version of the property they had sold only fifteen months earlier.

  Isabella had been unable to forgive her parent’s lack of foresight. Every family row took her right back to how their home in Boerum Hill should have gone to her kids, how their inheritance would be eaten up by health care bills to pay for her father’s declining health, now he was breathing in Brooklyn’s contaminated air again. Never did it seem to occur to her that Daniel Wither would have probably had a slow and suffocation death whichever part of the world he decided to spend his last years. His health problems had become a family affliction, a reason to spend get-togethers in discord. Discussing the grandchildren’s future was impossible without mentioning how much better off they would have been had the house in Boerum Hill been still theirs. Discussing work, groceries, holidays, any kind of small talk went with diminishing side-glances directed at Daniel Wither. His wife’s part in the mess their old age had become seemed irrelevant now. All that mattered was that nothing would have happened had Daniel been healthy.

  So Roger made it his business to go back to Brooklyn for the holidays: Easter, Thanksgivings, birthdays, Christmas, just to make sure the rest of the family did not gang up on an old man struggling to breathe. He could not be there for him on a daily basis —it would have driven him insane— but he could be there a few times a year, when he knew things would kick off.

  Which was exactly what had happened on Christmas day.

  Roger could not even remember why the argument had started; it seemed to be about the turkey and how the old oven wasn’t doing a very good job of cooking it. His mother had gotten frustrated about her husband’s inability to fix the problem, any problem, and had started shouting abuse at him, quickly followed by her daughter. But the image of his father shrinking into a corner coughing instead of lashing out against the two women had played out too many times over the last fifteen years, and Roger found he could not take it again. So he had walked towards his mother across the small and dark kitchen and raised a punch at her without hitting her. He had only meant to intimidate her, the way she now did with her husband on a daily basis, but while his mother stared in disbelief, Isabella had redirected her frustrations and outrage from her father to her brother, raising her voice even louder as she moved closer and closer to Roger’s face. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who the hell do you think you are threatening Mother like this? Where’s the kids? I don’t want them to see this. Get them out of here. You animal! And before he’d know what he was doing, Roger had slapped his sister so hard he had sent her flying across the worn vinyl kitchen floor.

  He had left in silence and disgraced, telling himself he would not go back but knowing he might.

  It was the first time Roger had hit his sister. Certainly not the first time he had hit a woman.

  “Anyway.” Roger leaned towards Jessica across the table, his face so close she could smell something like fried eggs in his breath. “Tell me you got a good reason to avoid my calls. Man? You seeing someone?”

  It was none of his business, but seeing someone was such a better excuse than I don’t have anything to write about, such an easier explanation.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I am.” She looked away.

  “Anyone I know?”

  Jessica could have spoken his name again —Yes actually, William Blaise, remember him yet?— but she didn’t want to talk about him, not with someone who wasn’t really interested. She looked at Roger, his dark bushy eyebrows, his inscrutable black eyes, the sly expression on his face, and was overtaken by a sudden urge to stand up and leave, get it over with. Why prolong her suffering with stupid chatter? But she knew she couldn’t. It just wasn’t an option.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “No, I don’t know him?”

  “I just said that. Why are you being so nosy?”

  Their drinks arrived and Roger grabbed his glass as soon as the girl popped it on the table, throwing half the whiskey down his throat. He seemed irritated, about to burst, as if knowing about her private life was part of the contract she was already breeching and Jessica decided she wasn’t going to spend the rest of the night sitting at the table waiting for him to tell her she was going to be in deep shit if she didn’t start writing another fuckin’ book.

  “Anyway,” she started. “I assume you didn’t invite me here to enjoy the music and discuss my private life.”

  “No I didn’t, you’re right. In fact, we’re here ’cause I need know what the fuck is goin’ on.”

  “If you’re talking about the outline, I’m just...”

  “Just, just,” he interrupted her, the palm of his hand in front of her nose. “Just is no good to me anymore, so don’t give that just bullshit, ok? The least you can do is gimme some fuckin’ credit here. What did I tell ya? Bet you can’t even remember. What did I tell you the last time we sat down for a drink?” She couldn’t remember. “Honest, uh? Remember now? I told you, you ought to be fuckin’ honest with me, that’s what I said. I said as long as you’re honest I’ve got your back. You think I don’t know what’s goin’ on here? You think I’m dumb? I tell you, you ain’t gonna like this, but I oughta tell you anyway: you’ve gotta come out of the shit hole you’re hiding yourself in.” Roger could hear his voice starting to rise so he paused, took another long sip. “And I tell you why. Point one: you signed a contract with the company. Contracts are signed to be respected. When was it that you were supposed to give us at least an outline of your new novel? Refresh my memory. Last week? Last month?” She didn’t speak and she wasn’t looking
at him, but he knew she was listening. “Point two: I’ve got people breathin’ down my neck now, and I don’t like it when people breathe down my neck, makes me feel like I’m the one that’s doing somethin’ wrong. Point three: you’re a fucking good writer Jessica...” He emptied his glass, burned his throat with the last mouthful. He pointed a finger at her. “I’m on your side. Told you from day one: I’m gonna watch your back. Who do you think’s been out there covering your ass for the past month? I’m tryin’ to be your friend here and as a friend I advice you to snap the fuck out of it, and you don’t do it for me or the company or anyone else. You do it for yourself. You hear me? Don’t let your sister do this to you, she’s long dead and you’re alive.”

  The sound of his words was so unexpected she cringed away from him, felt her head throbbing.

  “And lemme tell you, this detective business, it’s nothing short of pathetic.”

  Jessica was shocked. Inside her, a million thoughts were going off like bombs, but on the outside she couldn’t move a muscle and for a few seconds she thought she wouldn’t be able to open her mouth to speak. Roger was starting at her right in the eyes, waiting, looking not odd and charismatic, just plain ugly, infuriated.

  “What detective?” She finally managed.

  “The one that walked into my office four days ago and started asking questions about your sister.”

  Brown? Talking to Roger? Roger?

  “What questions?”

  “Did I know her? Have I ever had dinner with her? You know, the kind of stuff that makes you feel edgy even when you haven’t done a fucking thing wrong.”

  “What for?” Jessica shrugged, shook her head. “You didn’t even know her. Why you?”

  “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t got the faintest idea.”

  “Yeah, you mean this is got nothing to do with you?”

  “No… Of course...”

  Roger lifted a hand in front of her face again, stopped her from talking. “Stop it, right there. You know what? This ain’t the way you do it. You forget about the fucking detective...”

  “Roger, it’s got nothing...”

  The hand in front of her face again. She felt like slapping it away, slapping it hard.

  “...And you move on. This ain’t no crime novel. It’s the real world. Your sister killed herself, that’s sad, it’s unfortunate, but that’s all. I can’t pretend I understand what you’re going through, but you gotta overcome this, what is it? Is it fear? You afraid you can’t do it anymore? Is it fear Jessica?”

  ...Fear?

  She wasn’t looking at him, her eyes were fixed on her cocktail, still untouched, the beautiful contrast between the white of the cream and the black of the Kalua.

  ...Is it fear?

  No, it was not fear. It was the nothing she felt every time she sat in front of the computer. If she felt fear she would have probably, hopefully been able to write about it, but she didn’t feel, neither fear nor anything else. She felt nothing.

  “Jessica, you listening to me?”

  “Sorry?”

  Roger was about to repeat the question when Jessica watched his head bowing down, banging against the table then come up again, blood starting to drip from his nostrils. Behind him she saw William, his hand still clasping Roger’s hair, an awfully evil smirk on his lips. She watched him letting go repugnantly, as if he had just been holding a dead rat, watched him walk away while Roger held a hand over his nose, his mouth and chin streaked with blood now dripping on his crisp white shirt. People stared, whispered. Jessica gaped at him for what felt like an eternity, hypnotized by the red on the white fabric. It seemed a dream. Unreal. Impossible. Had to be. Then Roger turned to find out what kind of useless piece of shit had just dared do this to him.

  “Hey! You!” He shouted, and that dragged her out of her daze. “Where the fuck do you think you’re goin’?”

  Roger stood up quickly, letting his chair fall on the floor behind him, and rushed out of the bar. Jessica tried to follow but as she stepped around the table she walked straight into a young woman holding a red drink in a tall glass, the whole content splattered onto her noticeably expensive low-cut dress.

  “Jesus Christ! Look what you’ve done”, was the last thing Roger heard before stepping outside the bar. And there he found him, the nose-smasher calmly walking around the corner. Roger half-ran, caught up with him, grabbed him by the shoulder and threw a fist at the side of his face, missed, tried again. William managed to dodge the second blow and punch him in the stomach at the same time, causing Roger to stumble backwards, holding both arms around his waist trying to catch his breath.

  “Ok, En... Enough,” he spat out. His nose was still bleeding. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing Blaise?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I don’t really like you very much.”

  Roger looked over his shoulder; he was running out of time.

  “So it is you she’s seeing. Isn’t it? If this is about you and Jessica, there’s nothing going on here. We’re having a meeting, that’s all, you asshole. And I’m gonna get you back for this.”

  But he knew it was an empty threat, he wouldn’t do anything about it. Roger knew it was in his interest to keep as much distance as possible from William Blaise now, and Blaise seemed to know it too. But how? What did he really know? He couldn’t risk asking.

  ”Yeah, well, I’m shitting myself, but I’ve got to go.”

  William turned his back and Roger let him go, watched him disappear around the next corner, searching the pockets of his jackets for a napkin, a tissue, anything to plug his nose.

  When Jessica finally stepped outside holding some of the napkins from the bar, all she found was the wind slapping her incredulous face. She stood alone on the sidewalk for a few seconds before Roger appeared from around the corner pinching his nose with two fingers.

  “Here, some tissues for you. Roger? What is going on?”

  “Fuck knows!” He barked. “The son of a bitch is gone. I didn’t get a look at him.” He drew the napkins away from his nose to check how much blood was still coming out. He looked absolutely livid. “Let’s just get the fuck outta here. I’ve had enough fucking excitement for one day.”

  In the darkness, across the street, Charles Brown sat in his red Dodge, watching.

  JESSICA HAD to see William that night. She didn’t expect him to let her in and she didn’t expect him to give her an explanation for what he had done. She wasn’t sure there was an explanation to be given but she kept thinking about the expression on his face the night before in his kitchen, the vengeful look on his face as he said I’m sorry, and she was certain he had known he would be joining her at the Phoenix that very moment.

  Then there was Charles Brown. What possible reason could he have to interrogate her editor? What could Roger Wither have to do with Kaitlyn’s death? It was madness. It had to be. Didn’t make any sense. How on earth had her life become so complicated?

  William’s house looked deserted from the outside, the windows a series of black squares reflecting darkness. She walked up to the front door, rang the bell once, twice, three times and waited. Then, just as she turned away determined to leave, the door opened behind her, slowly, as if pushed in by the wind.

  “William?” She called stepping in, but nobody answered.

  The entry hall was black and still, the only light coming from the moonlight filtering through the windows.

  “William...” She called again, and again nobody answered.

  Jessica felt foolish and furious standing there in the dark, calling out for someone who had obviously just opened the door. It wasn’t enough that she had to watch him smash her editor’s nose against a table, now she was supposed to play hide and seek when all she wanted to do w
as talk. If this was some kind of test, she was about to screw it up.

  “William, I don’t feel like playing stupid games, ok? I’m tired, I’m upset and if you don’t want to talk to me just say so and I’ll leave. But don’t fucking hide. We’re not kids anymore, in case you haven’t noticed!”

  Again there was no answer, so she half turned to get out of the door when she heard his voice coming faintly from the sitting room in front of her.

  “In here.”

  She found him crouched on the floor against the wall, just left of the archway, nothing on but a pair of white shorts, both his arms by the sides of his head covering his face, his elbows on his knees. She stared down at him, looking disturbingly frail in the moonlight. So frightening. And she felt stupid again, stupid and out of place, wishing she was in the wrong house, barking up the wrong tree, looking down at the wrong person.

  “What got into you? Why? Why did you have to do that?”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered without moving, his voice hardly audible. “It wasn’t me, I was angry. I can’t control it... I do things I don’t mean sometimes... I can’t explain it. I was just angry.”

  Jessica walked closer, squatted in front of him and noticed a thick dark trail of something running down his calf. She stood up and went to turn on the floor lamp by the sofa. Now she could see a deep cut by the side of his knee, she followed a large drop of blood following the trail down to the dark puddle underneath his foot.

  Careful, she thought. He should be more careful.

  “Please, turn it off,” he mumbled from behind his forearms. “Please.” She switched off the light and kneeled down beside him again. A strong instinct told her to check around him for anything he might have used to cut himself, but she couldn’t see well enough.