by Shining in the Dark- Celebrating 20 Years of Lilja's Library (retail) (epub)
And it was true. Who else’s?
Nobody’s. Before or since.
Not a single human being even touched me after Laura.
Not until Cassie.
I don’t even know for sure why I surfed my way into that dumb chatroom.
I think I was looking for a porn chat, really. Or maybe I was warming up to that. I looked at a lot of porn for a while. Another dumb escape. So it could very well be that I was building up the courage for a little porno-chat that day. Something at least remotely exciting. Maybe I’ll flip back through these pages at some point and see if I entered it here.
Not that it matters.
But for over a year I’d felt as hard as my goddamn wall. Harder. It was a way to get by I guess. Tough it out. What few friends I had left that goddamn Laura didn’t take along with her I put off and continue to put off and make excuses for not seeing because I know damn well I’ve become a bore on the subject as on most subjects like the goddamn copy I write for a living and the goddamn city I live in that won’t even let you smoke in a bar anymore. And I will not be a bore. I have some pride.
I talked to my cat instead. You couldn’t bore Cujo.
But if this building weren’t pretty well soundproofed the neighbors might have had me locked up. I ranted and raved. I cried. I was howling at the moon here.
Cujo didn’t mind.
Cujo was unshakable.
She could cure any hurt with that purr of hers. At least for a little while, until the hurt came back again.
But without her now this being alone just kills me. I’m in a city of how many million people? and I’ve never felt so completely cut off and alone. I might as well be some loony old hermit off in the Maine woods somewhere.
And whose fault is that? Mine of course.
Laura didn’t leave for no reason. She left me for the same reason I’m pretty much unemployable—except as what I am, a free-lancer.
I never had a boss in my entire life who I didn’t go off on at one time or another. I’ve lost more jobs than my TV has cable stations. I have this problem with authority figures I guess, with anybody who has power over me. Back when I could afford a shrink instead of just this journal Marty and I talked about it a lot. Goes all the way back to my parents we decided. A hell of lot of good that did me.
But Laura had power over me. The kind of power only a woman you love can have. More than I should have let her have. I realize that now. And I had this temper. We fought like cats and dogs half the time.
But then that’s all here in this journal.
I know I expected too much of her. I expected her to realize that despite the damn rejection letters I was a writer, a serious writer, that I had a writer’s sensitivity and a writer’s soul. I expected supportive. I expected quiet and gentle. From a New York City bitch born and bred, working her way up the ladder on Mad Ave and whose parents had left her oh, only about a million and a half.
I must have been out of my fucking mind.
I’ve got to remember not to expect too much from Cassie. Not right off the bat anyway. She could be ugly as a post for one thing. Despite the “long legs, green eyes, hot in a bathing suit” stuff. Green eyes do not a face make, right? But somehow I think her looks aren’t going to matter to me all that much. She’s the first one who’s touched me in so long, who’s really cared about me. And somehow I think she’s what I guess you’d call a “real woman.” With a real woman’s wisdom. Not like Laura, who turned out in the end to be a spoiled little girl when you get right down to it. Who couldn’t put up with the real Andrew Sky, occasional temper-tantrum and all.
But I’ve got to admit, I’m a little scared.
I’ve got a lot riding on this.
It may be that Cassie’s my last hope for any real happiness on this earth. It’s possible.
I’m not getting any younger after all. I smoke too much and probably I drink too much. I’ve only got twenty-five grand or so in the bank. I’m not bad looking but I’m no fucking Tom Cruise either.
She cares for me, though. I know that through her e-mails. So I’ve got reason to hope that my looks and all the rest of it won’t mean any more to her than hers will to me. She seems to see right down into my soul sometimes. And that’s an amazing thing, an amazing feeling. I might be driving off in a little while to meet my entire future. I’m scared, but shit, I’m excited too now. Writing this helped….and damn! it’s filled the whole hour!
Jesus! I’d better get going. Better hit the road.
FROM THE DIARY OF CASSIE HOGAN
He’s coming! Andrew’s really coming to see me! ME!! I’m so excited. I can’t sleep…I just had to get out of bed and write this down or I’ll burst!!!
Mom’s been a bitch all night. First she yelled at me about doing my homework…like I’ll need to know Geometry…then she told me she made “arrangements” for me to stay with Aunt Kay while they’re in Hawaii! No way.
What does she think I am? A baby?
I hate her! She’ll be sorry when they get back and find out I left to be with Andrew. I’m not even going to leave them a note. Let them worry about what happened to me.
No. I can’t do that to Daddy. I’ll leave them a note and tell them the truth. That I love Andrew and we’re going to get married and live happily ever after so they don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’m a big girl. No…I’m a WOMAN.
I’m Andrew’s woman. And he’s my man. My love. My lover.
I wonder if he’ll want to “do it” when he gets here? If he does that’s okay…because I found some of those things in Daddy’s end-table and took one. A rubber. And my mother thinks I’m too young to stay by myself! Well, I’m old enough to know about rubbers, aren’t I?
I wonder if one will be enough?
Heather is going to be SO jealous!!! She thinks she’s so hot because she’s dating that dork from the junior college…but HE’S only nineteen and Andrew’s in his forties. He’s a REAL man! And he’s mine. He loves me…he said so. And I love him!
And he’s really, really coming!
God, I’m so excited. I just wish I looked better!!! I tried to get mom to drive me to the mall so I could get a haircut—I HATE my hair—but she wouldn’t. Said she had too much to do and that my hair is fine the way it is. The BITCH! I wanted my hair to be perfect for Andrew but now it’s just—UGH!
But I know my face will be okay. I took some of The Bitch’s facial mask and scrub and used it on those stupid pimples on my chin. They’re all red now but I think they’ll be okay by morning. If they aren’t I’ll die! I’ll kill myself if they aren’t! Because Andrew deserves the best…and I want to be the best for him. I love him! And he loves me! But I’ll still die if those pimples aren’t better!!!
But really, I know he won’t care about my hair or my skin. He loves me. The real me inside. Just like I love the real him inside.
I’m going to SURPRISE him! I’m going to wear my red nightgown when I open the door! That will REALLY make him happy!
I’ll do anything to make him happy because I love him and his cat died.
Maybe we can go to the pet store after we do it and buy a kitten! I would just LOVE that!
God, I’m so nervous. I know I won’t be able to sleep, but I have to. I HAVE to so I’ll look good for Andrew. G’night, Dear Diary. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow…when Andrew comes for me!
TRANSCRIPT OF AN INTERVIEW GIVEN BY ANDREW J. SKY, OF 233 WEST 73RD STREET, N.Y., N.Y., WITNESSED BY LT. DONALD SEBALD, WARMINSTER P.D., 5/16/03
SKY: So I’m late because of this goddamn tire blowing out on me so a trip that should have taken me what? an hour and a half? took me about two and a half so I’m nervous, right? Nervous about meeting her and nervous about being late and I’m also filthy from changing the tire, anyhow I finally find the place in the dark and I ring the bell and she comes to the door wearing that little…
SEBALD: The red nightgown.
SKY: Yeah, and well, you know, she’s not leaving a whole lot
to the imagination and she’s really pretty as hell but I can tell right away she’s not happy to see me. I mean, there’s no hugs or kisses or anything like in the e-mails and she’s kind of frowning but damned if I know why. I’m not that ugly and I’m not that dirty and I’m dressed okay. Anyhow, she invites me in and asks if I want something to drink and I tell her I could sure use a beer and I tell her about the flat and ask could I wash up somewhere so she points me to the bathroom and I do. When I come out she’s lightened up a bit and there’s a beer open for me and a Pepsi for her and we’re both on the couch in the living room only she’s way over to one side while I’m over on the other and I’m wondering, why the frost? and it’s making me even more nervous so I figure, you better just go ahead and ask her so that’s what I do.
SEBALD: You ask her what, exactly?
SKY: I ask her what’s wrong. She says she’s been waiting for me all day. Like we’d set some specific time.
SEBALD: And you hadn’t?
SKY: No, never. I don’t know what she expected, that I was going to be there first thing in the morning or something so I tell her that. That I’m really sorry but that it was just a misunderstanding because we really hadn’t set a particular time but I’m really, really sorry and that’s when she tells me she didn’t even go to school today, she stayed home waiting for me and that’s when I start looking at her. I mean really looking at her. Up close, y’know? I guess I’d been afraid to do that before. I guess I was too fucking nervous at first and then there was all that frost. That plus the nightgown. But anyway, I look at her and realize that there’s hardly a line on her face. Hardly a single line. I mean, I knew she was young, that was obvious right away. But still I figure, got to be college she’s talking about. She skipped classes today waiting for me and I feel real bad about that so I tell her but jesus! then all of a sudden she’s about to cry! I can’t believe it! And I feel like, I don’t know, I feel like I’ve probably fucked up again. Just by being late. Even though I’m not late. Not really. But then she stands up and says, come on, I want to show you something so I do, I follow her, and she walks me into her bedroom.
SEBALD: She leads you in? Of her own volition? That’s what you’re saying?
SKY: That’s right. Of course of her own volition. And the first thing I notice, the first thing that anybody would notice is that this is a bedroom, right? And now I’m confused. I mean, she’s just met me for the first time and she’s damn near crying and she’s led me right into her fucking bedroom! There’s the bed, and there are all these posters on the wall, rock stars and movie stars and whatever, and there’s her desk with the computer. And I’m looking at all this. Taking it in. But she’s not interested in what I’m doing. She’s pointing down beside the bed and she’s got two suitcases there, sitting on the floor and she says look at that. So I ask her, suitcases? And she says I was going to run away with you tonight, you know that? Something like that, anyway, I don’t remember exactly because by now I’m barely listening to her. It’s like this whole thing is washing over me finally. I’m finally beginning to get it.
SEBALD: Get what?
SKY: The posters, the goddamn pennants on the walls. The teddy bears on the shelves over her desk. The photos on the mirror. She’s a kid! She’s a goddamn fucking kid! So I ask her. I get myself under control and I say, Cassie, exactly how old are you? And she says something like old enough and now she’s crying for real but I don’t give a damn, I’m having all I can do to stay calm enough to ask her one more time but I do, I ask her how fucking old, Cassie? And she says fifteen. Just like that. Fifteen! Defiant, like. Can you believe it? She’s jailbait! All this time she’s been conning me! Leading me on! I can show you the goddamn e-mails for chrissake! And now she wants to run away with me? Is she out of her fucking mind? Shit! Fuck!
SEBALD: Take it easy, Mr. Sky. Unless you want those cuffs again. Just go on telling us what happened.
SKY: Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just that…never mind. I just…jesus, I guess I just lost it at that point, you know? Went ballistic I guess. I grabbed her and slapped her and told her what I thought of her, called her a stupid little bitch, and she’s crying, really going at it, and I remember grabbing her by the arm and throwing her across the bed so hard she fell all the way over to the floor on the other side. Then I trashed the room.
SEBALD: Trashed the room. Be explicit, please, for the record.
SKY: Tore down the posters, the pennants, broke the mirror with my fist, which is where these cuts come from, kicked in the full-length mirror on the door, knocked all the cosmetics and whatever shit she had there off her dresser and the dolls and bears off the shelf, tore up books, papers, whatever. (Pause.)
SEBALD: Go on, Mr. Sky. And where was she all this time?
SKY: She’d gotten up. She was standing on the far side of the bed and she was screaming for me to stop, she had a little cut on her forehead and I remember her face was all streaked and red from the crying. But she stayed right there yelling at me. Right up until I went for the computer. It was the computer, I guess, that did it for both of us. It was our link, you know? For me it meant one thing. For her I guess it meant another. But it was our link. Like a totem. She came at me as soon as I tore the wire off the mouse.
SEBALD: You’re saying she came at you?
SKY: I guess she was trying to protect the computer. She kept calling me a bastard. I’m not a bastard. I was in love with her. Anyhow, before she made it around the bed I’d kicked in the side of the printer and by the time she actually reached me I’d torn the keyboard loose and I hit her with that, swung it at the side of her head.
SEBALD: Left side or right side?
SKY: What? Oh, left side, over the ear. And she went right down. Hit the floor at the foot of the bed, you know? Kneeling there, her arms on the bed, bleeding a little onto the bed, her legs curled under her on the floor.
SEBALD: She was alive then?
SKY: Oh yeah, she was alive. But she wasn’t cursing at me anymore. She just sat there staring at me like I was dogshit, like I was the lowest thing she’d ever seen. And like she was afraid of me too, you know? Both things together. And I’d only seen that one other time on one other face, that combination I guess you’d say. On my ex. My girlfriend Laura. That she was scared of me and disgusted with me at the same time. So that was when I tore loose the monitor and used it on her. (Pause.)
SEBALD: Mr. Sky?
SKY: She loved that computer. So believe me, it wasn’t easy.
THE NOVEL OF THE HOLOCAUST
BY STEWART O’NAN
THE NOVEL OF the Holocaust is coming! Yessiree—alive, alive, alive! SEE the freak of the twentieth century, the soul-searching survivor of the ultimate battle of good and evil! HEAR his pitiful story of torture and degradation! THRILL to the savage, inhuman acts of his captors! Yes, he’s coming, one command performance only, the sideshow setting up its tent in the meadow by the river. All day children have been racing their bikes across the bridge, fighting to peek under the canvas. Come one, come all!
No, it’s not that bad, the Novel of the Holocaust thinks. But close. He’s been chosen by Oprah, lifted up, summoned, so he’s going. He leaves his walk-up in London while fog still hangs over Leicester Square, drenching the statues, the pigeons jabbing at his new shoes, bought just for this trip. He’s got money now, and a famous name (though no face). He takes a taxi to Gatwick and pauses at the duty-free, the bottles of Scotch like parting gifts.
Irony is never lost on the Novel of the Holocaust. He grins at practically anything, yet is never more than amused. The Novel of the Holocaust is sober, and dresses well. If he should laugh out loud, people would turn and stare, as at a crazy old lady. Walking through the airport, the Novel of the Holocaust talks to himself, remembering storefronts and round, growling buses, letters in precise handwriting—the age that passed while he was waking up, shrugging off the losses of his boyhood. Now he is being celebrated for them. Waiting at the gate, he stops watching the miniature, r
epeating news and stares at his hands, wonders if this trip is worthwhile. He is used to a quiet life, his feelings for the world buried in his writing. Flying makes him nervous, and when the Novel of the Holocaust uses the restroom, he washes his hands before and after, alert for germs.
Of course the Novel of the Holocaust is nostalgic and melancholy, struck dumb by so many families parting as the plane boards. Children cling to their mothers’ necks and scream until the grandparents haul them off, make them wave goodbye. The Novel of the Holocaust doesn’t approve.
First class is new to him, a mark of how his stock has risen—utterly inexplicable, the result of a few phone calls. It’s like Hollywood, he thinks; one day he’s a starlet, the next a star. The screen at the front of the cabin shows the soft arc they’re traveling, and their speed, the temperature outside (minus 500). The hours to New York tick off like a bomb. The Novel of the Holocaust can’t sleep in his seat, drifts off to wake abruptly, his face falling forward.
The Novel of the Holocaust comes from an island with a view of a rocky shore, huts, goats tinkling as they navigate steep paths. The country people are simple and wise as mud. Until this, they considered The Novel of the Holocaust a failure, a child who knew too much and did too little.
The Novel of the Holocaust has no brothers or sisters, no wife or husband, no children, only lovers, and those are inconstant, staying a week on their way to Greece or the Middle East. They see the Novel of the Holocaust as harmless and a little outdated, good-hearted but hardly charming, the devotion he instills lukewarm. A friend, they say; I’m staying with a friend. The Novel of the Holocaust makes them breakfast and sees them downstairs to the taxi in the rain. He holds an umbrella, helps with the door, kisses them meagerly through the window, then climbs back up to the flat, gray in the morning light, the radiators hissing. The Novel of the Holocaust has the whole day and no plans.
Sometimes the Novel of the Holocaust goes to museums, hoping to meet people. Sometimes the Novel of the Holocaust doesn’t leave the flat for a week, reads the paper cover to cover, flips on BBC 3 and lies on the couch, watching Antonioni, falling asleep. Sometimes the Novel of the Holocaust closes his eyes in the bathtub and sinks under, his thin hair lifting like kelp, and imagines a stranger’s hand lurking above the surface, waiting to push his head down again.