Regretfully,
Richard
Hot on the heels of the above email, just an hour later, in fact, I received the following email:
Richard,
PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T PUBLISH.
I’ve been reading your manuscript without thinking hard enough about the consequences of your publishing it. What if we were identified? I realize I’ve been putting too much trust in your assurances about changed names and locations. Nick agrees with me.
I don’t believe you committed the unthinkable act, but Skitch certainly believed you did. What if Imogen should somehow find out you wrote this book and have her doubts, too? You’d break her heart. Knowing any of it would hurt her.
I remember a poem by Adrienne Rich in which she says she came for “the wreck and not the story of the wreck / the thing itself and not the myth.” Well, I’ve had the wreck (but didn’t come for it), and I don’t need the story. If you want to create a myth, Richard, one as profound as you can make it, I understand. I understand any artist’s desire for that. But I’m real, and so are the others. We bleed.
Nick is angry and wants me to find out what I can do, legally, to stop you. I’ve been telling him about some of things in the MS and also reading parts of it to him. (He was not pleased about the “sex in the alley” scene.) But I don’t see suing you, for example, as an option. There’s always the risk of unwanted publicity. Also, it’s very hard for anyone, generally, to prevent something from being published. And you have self-publishing options.
No, I’m appealing to your better nature and your love for Imogen. Don’t hurt us. I’m begging you.
Carol
THIRTY
NURSES KEPT GLIDING past his door with potions and murmurs, like members of some mystery sect. Richard hated this room, with its eerie mixture of homeliness and sterility; wished it had a portal closer to death than life, one he could crawl through into a pit that awaited the unworthy, the unholy. If it were true.
Oh, please, let it not be true. Any misgivings he’d had he’d attributed to her being too young, and to his guilt about the thought of being unfaithful. But her seductive behaviour, things like the ambushing kiss, should have been warnings: her siren call.
When he and Carol were in Venice, they’d been told that when a dangerously high tide loomed, seventeen sirens were sounded. They’d laughed about how many warnings human beings needed before they got any message. They’d pictured the Venetians sitting, counting to seventeen before they put down their coffee cups and strolled to a higher level. They knew their version was silly, but enjoyed the joke. Oh, Carol. I can’t think about you right now.
Had lust put his intuition to sleep, blocked its warnings? But no, he’d felt love, too. And how could even an awake intuition have conveyed to him the unthinkable? It was probably not true. Skitch must have lied after he saw Richard’s attraction to Jacintha, and hers to him. He must have gone mad with jealousy.
He was glad Skitch had got away and hoped no one besides himself and Beth, and maybe Jacintha, knew who his attacker was. If the accusation became known it would be widely believed, even though false.
Carol had come to the hospital just after he arrived. She’d kissed him, squeezed his hand, wept, kept saying, “Oh, Richard, my poor Richard.”
After a while, somewhat calmer, she said, “We’ve been so foolish. I’ve missed you so much.”
He was groggy from painkillers, and when she asked him about the attack, he said he couldn’t talk about it yet. She fell asleep in a chair by his bed and he slept, too. When he woke later, she was gone.
The police interviewed him briefly and left, apparently satisfied that he had no idea who his attacker was or why he had been attacked. Couldn’t describe him. Kind of a big guy. Masked. Didn’t say anything.
This morning, Carol was back with grapes and a large bouquet of red chrysanthemums, paired with maidenhair fern. “The doctor says you can go home tomorrow. You’ll come back with me, of course. I’ll pick you up in the morning. Gabe is teaching your class, says not to worry, take as much time off as you need. Christmas break is coming up, so the new year will be a good time for you to return.”
Richard looked out the window.
“Richard?”
He smiled. “Thank you.” He wouldn’t go back to her place, but if he told her now, she’d argue.
“Is it okay if I ask you about this now?” she asked. He nodded. “Do you know who did this? Or why?”
“No.”
“Was it awful?”
“It was very fast. I hardly knew what was happening, and then it was over. Chaos around me. Shouting and screaming and then the ambulance. With the painkillers they’ve given me, it’s not so bad.”
“Not so bad? The whole thing is terrible.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Yes, of course you will. I popped in with some flowers for Beth on my way here. Her mother and father were with her. I didn’t want to upset her by asking her what happened, just thanked her for saving you. The police told me what a witness saw her do. How amazing, risking her life like that. Her parents seemed dazed.” She hesitated before she spoke again. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask this, Richard, but could it possibly have anything to do with that student I saw you kissing that day?”
Richard saw she was holding her breath. “No, you were wrong about that. She just jumped at me. Nothing happened between us. This attack was unprovoked, random, nothing to do with her.” Lie, you bastard, keep on lying.
“Maybe he was crazy or on drugs,” Carol said.
“Maybe. We’ll probably never know.”
“Well, I wonder if the police have interviewed everyone who was there,” Carol said. “About twenty people?”
None of his students besides Beth had ever met Skitch, as far as Richard knew, and, thankfully, Tanya and Greg and Brian had been absent. Anyway, with the mask and cloak, he’d be hard to identify. Jesus, how banal. All Skitch’s costume needed was a large initial on his chest, an A for Avenger.
“Do you realize it’s not even a year since you and I were in hospital together?” Carol said. “About ten months. A little over a gestation period, but giving birth to what? More disasters. Twin monsters. No, I shouldn’t say that. You’re alive and we’ll have another chance. That’s the main thing.”
“Twin monsters?” Ice travelled up Richard’s spine.
“You and me. You know, acting abnormally because of our trauma. Parting. All that.”
Richard sensed she meant more, that she had recently been doing something she regretted, too. But whatever it was, it couldn’t come close to the terrible act he’d almost committed. If it’s true.
Twin monsters, yes.
After Carol left, a nurse brought him an envelope that had been left for him at the desk. He opened it with trembling hands. It was a DNA test report, confirming what Skitch had told him. He read it twice, three times. The letters began to blur. He read it again. His name. Hers. The percentile. Within the boundaries of certainty. All his energy seemed to drain from his body. He felt so weak, he was frightened. Until then, he’d had room for doubt, to think some terrible mistake had been made. A terrible mistake had been made, but it had been he who’d made it. He lay limp and numb for several minutes, until he realized there was one pressing action he needed to perform.
Beth’s room was down the hall. He had to make sure she would go on saying she knew nothing. If it were his shame alone, he would scream it right now from the hospital window, but he needed to protect Carol. She’d be deeply hurt, and if the lie about an affair was publicized, her career would be ruined just because she was his wife. And she would hate me.
You are just thinking of yourself again, selfish bastard. He should tell her the extent of his involvement, admit that he had wanted Jacintha. Then he could suck Carol’s hatred into his blood and bones and organs, fill himself with it, treat it as a precious poison. Will it to kill him.
He got out of bed, put on the dressing gown and slippe
rs Carol had brought him. He went to the nurses’ desk and asked for Beth’s room number.
She was alone and looked so concerned when she saw him that it pained him. “Oh, Richard — I mean Professor Wilson, are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. What about you?”
Beth’s hand was bandaged and a bulky dressing protruded above the neckline of her hospital gown.
“How bad …?” he asked.
“Not bad. My hand is cut. And my neck was grazed. He missed anything vital. I’ll be going home tomorrow. You?”
“I’m stitched up, going home, too. Beth, I’m so sorry. How can I ever thank you enough? You saved my life.”
“I had to … I mean, thank you, but I could see what he was going to do, and anybody would have …”
“Don’t underestimate your courage. Use it. You’re talented. Write, or choose something else, but don’t be afraid to pursue it, to succeed.”
Beth blushed. “Thank you.”
“Beth, do you know who it was?”
“Yes. Skitch.”
“I thought you might have recognized him, too. Did you tell the police?”
“No, you asked me not to. I even lied about his height. Said he was very tall. Maybe six foot five.” She laughed nervously.
“Thank you. Do you know why he did it?”
She grimaced.
“Is something hurting? Shall I call a nurse?”
“No, I’m all right.” He could see the hurt in her eyes. “I think he did it because he loves Jacintha.”
The truth flared like a migraine, and he closed his eyes. She’s in love with Skitch.
She caught her breath, swallowed hard, looked at him from under her lashes so tenderly that he realized with horror it was him she was in love with. God help me. God help her. Poor girl. “He was jealous of you and Jacintha.”
Pity overwhelmed him and he held her uninjured hand, felt her shiver. “That’s right. Do you think you can continue to lie? To protect the people involved? The police might try to pressure you. I’m not asking for myself, but for the others. What do you say?”
“You really don’t want him arrested?”
“No, there’s my wife to consider. And Jacintha, of course. I don’t think he’ll try again, or hurt anyone else.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“No, but I feel it in my gut.” What Richard felt was that Skitch wouldn’t hurt Jacintha. He wasn’t sure whether Skitch would come for him again, but he felt unafraid at the moment. The shock of it all was probably numbing him.
“Thanks again, Beth. I’d better let you rest now.” He kissed her cheek.
Her smile was heartbreaking.
Jacintha arrived not long after he was back in his room, and stood at the foot of his bed.
“Skitch said you’ve seen the DNA test,” she said. Her hair swung loose, skimmed the collar of her green coat, glinted as if the sun had caught it, even though the sky outside the window was grey. Her eyes were huge with dark eyeliner and mascara, her mouth bright red.
Surely a clean-scrubbed, repentant look would have been more fitting, Richard thought, and then, just as quickly, he moaned inwardly. He was as guilty as she was; guiltier. He had no right to judge her. His head was pounding; his vision began to blur: a pale aura surrounded Jacintha’s head, and the green of her coat wavered, watery, its edges melting into the darker green of the wall.
“I’m so sorry. For everything. You don’t even know why I … Do you remember my mother?”
“What?”
“Do you remember my mother?”
“No, I mean … I mean, I don’t know if …”
“Did you abandon more than one pregnant woman?” Her voice was harsh.
“No, I didn’t … I …”
“She had this photo taken at a pub. Here, look at it. She wrote on the back that she was there with Richard. At the Driftwood Pub. One of those guys must be you.
“And this book. ‘Richard Wilson’ is written inside.” She held up the thin volume that was Blake’s Songs of Innocence, an edition that reproduced all of the original colour plates. A purple border. An engraving of the naked piper, looking up at the infant on a cloud above him. Richard remembered vividly now: the place in Kits where he’d probably left the book, the pretty blond girl with eager eyes, how he’d gone with her, how after a couple of times he had had to escape from her neediness.
“Her name was Catherine,” Jacintha said. “Catherine Peters. You met her one night and took her home. You had sex a couple of times more. Then you said you’d call her but you never did. When she found you again two months later, at the same pub, to tell you she was pregnant, you asked how she knew it was yours. She said she wasn’t a whore and she was sure. You gave her two hundred dollars and told her to have an abortion and not to contact you again. She never told me this. She told my adoptive parents, who told me only recently. Maybe they shouldn’t have told me, should have left me with the fantasy of a mysterious stranger lost at sea, or a soldier who died a hero in a war.”
Richard moaned. “I wasn’t sure it was mine.”
“It, as you put it, is me.”
She moved to the side of the bed and sat down and he saw then the dark circles under her eyes, the puffiness of her eyelids. She’d been crying. She reached out to touch his face and he said, “No!” She stood up abruptly, as though he’d slapped her, and paced back and forth beside the bed.
“I didn’t want you to find out the truth. At first I did, but then my feelings for you changed. You know that. But Skitch saw the DNA report and put two and two together and got five. He thought I’d been sleeping with you. He’s a lot more sensitive than he looks and probably picked up on my feelings for you. And then sometimes I went out walking at night by myself and didn’t tell him where I’d been, and he got suspicious.
“I didn’t want it to be true, that you were my father. I wasn’t going to tell you, ever. I don’t believe incest is a crime. Or anyway, there are degrees of it, and we’d never met before.”
What is she saying? “You can’t mean that,” he managed to choke out, hardly above a whisper. “Oh Christ, this can’t be happening.”
“Please don’t say that,” she said, and stood up, ramrod straight and still.
Richard found it hard to breathe; hard to think clearly. Finally, he asked, “How did you find me?”
“Through the photo and the book, of course. And a lot of luck. Did you give the book to my mother?”
“No, I lost it.”
“Do you want it back?”
“No, it’s all right.” Nothing was all right. “Little Lamb, who made thee?”
“I loved it as a child. Used to sneak it out of the drawer where she kept it and look at all the pretty drawings. She didn’t want to read it to me. The snapshot was tucked into it. I knew the book and the photo were important to her. I’ve kept them ever since she died.”
Richard groaned.
“How did she die?”
“A heroin overdose. When you met her, she was only nineteen and her parents were dead. It turned out to be a hard life for her, with no family and me to drag around. She did become a whore then. She started to use drugs after I was taken from her.”
“It must have been terrible.”
“Yes,” Jacintha said, “the last time I saw her, I was twelve. She was just skin and bones, and after she died, I had a recurring nightmare that always ended with worms crawling out of her eye sockets. But you know, to paraphrase I forget who, ‘Women have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’ Not for love, but the lack of it.”
“What?” Richard said. All her words were clear as crystal beads, but for disturbing moments impenetrable, hard to string into meaning. “Oh, yes, I see, but why, I mean why these things you did, this …”
“Seductiveness?” Jacintha said.
Richard heard a high-pitched sound in his head, followed by a ringing in his ears. He didn’t hear her answer. “What? Why?” he said, wh
en an awful stillness had replaced the din. The air was heavy, dense as water.
“Because,” she said slowly, “it was the way I knew you would suffer the most. I wanted you to want me, and then I was going to tell you and make you ashamed for wanting me, for almost committing incest. I wanted to avenge my mother. She used to moan that you had hurt her. ‘Richard hurt me,’ she said over and over when she was stoned. She said you hadn’t hit her or anything like that, so as a child I didn’t understand what she meant. I didn’t understand the hurt of abandonment, but I do now.
“I thought I would say you had committed incest. People get so freaked out about it. Even you, but really you don’t have to. I almost made love to you that night even though I knew who you were, but something stopped me. I don’t know what. Love, I guess.
“Anyway, if I’d gone through with my plan, you would have been humiliated and disgraced in the eyes of your wife and colleagues — everyone.”
Richard sank into his pillow, drained, shaking.
Jacintha watched him as he began to cry quietly.
Then another figure appeared so suddenly at his bedside that Richard thought he might be hallucinating, that this tall, stern being was a guardian angel come to set things straight, to say, None of this is true. You’ve been dreaming. Rest now.
“Is everything all right?” the nurse asked. “Are you in pain?”
“Yes. No. Not physically.”
“I’ve brought bad news, I’m afraid,” Jacintha said. “Family news.”
The nurse frowned at Jacintha. “Not a good time for bad news.”
“There’s never a good time for bad news,” Jacintha said.
The nurse took a slightly menacing step toward her. “He should rest. You’d better leave.”
“Just another minute, please?” Jacintha said in a small voice, managing to look apologetic and sad.
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