by Elyse Lortz
“Damn it, Keane, what—”
“—Did you get any on you? Lawrence, for God’s sake, open your mouth.” I did so, if only to protest, and found his hands splitting open my jaw and twisting my head painfully toward the glaring theatre lights. I made some vain, guttural noise as a glob of saliva settled in my throat. Before I could gag or—heaven forbid—begin revealing the remains of a scarce breakfast, Keane let go of my face and allowed me to clamber to my feet. Damn the man. What was he trying to do? Show the whole of society the state of my teeth? Admittedly they were quite good, but that was no viable excuse for such an action. Keane rested his hands on my shoulders, not so much out of some unnecessary form of comfort, but as a barrier between myself and whatever lay behind him. I stepped forward. His grip strengthened.
“Keane, if you don’t let me go, I’ll—” My voice caught as my fists clenched at my sides, but my companion’s vice did not lessen.
“I have no doubt that you are a capable and, God save us, an independent woman, but I really must insist you go into the hall.”
“Because of my femininity?” Keane said nothing. “That’s it, isn’t it? Well, I don’t need your chivalry. I will be fine. Now, step aside.” I expected many things. I was prepared for many things. In my own lifetime, I had witnessed events that had thrown grown men into madness and several sound minds over a bridge’s rail. But I was nothing if not curious when my companion stared down upon me, released a long, low sigh, and let go.
The weight of his eyes was still heavy upon me as I edged around his shoulder and toward the corpse motionless against the shimmering floor. She was indeed dead and just as attractive and unpleasant as I had known her to be in life. Her almost anemic body jaunted upward along the cracks of the stage, the bones in her ring-infected fingers clawed a path to Hell.
To think such things were, at best, sinful, but sin is rather like the whole of life; everything is relative. I did not think myself damned for believing such ideas, nor did I regret the venom with which they stewed in my mind as I peered down at the final form of the woman. Her pale skin was drenched in sweat, her eyes not but glass, and her fingertips blue against the pale white. I saw too why Keane had pulled me back. I saw and was glad of his swift actions.
A thick, almost yellow pillow of foam had risen out of her still mouth and trickled down one side in curdled globs. Had someone spilled spoiled milk over her, the result would have been identical. In fact, it might have been somewhat of an improvement. I stared at the corpse for as long as I dared before swiftly retreating into Harrison’s office; far away from death. Far from the buzz of those left to live. Far from my own sins and failings. Yes, sin may be relative, but one’s belief can make sin into the scale between eternal life and eternal damnation.
And I knew not which path I walked.
I WAS NOT SHAKEN IN the slightest by death. Death becomes rather like an old friend after you live through a war. I had seen worse—far worse—on our first trip to Ireland a little less than a year before. A fizzion of dark energy shot up my spine at the mere thought of it. A child had been mutilated, carved so deeply one could see the dark organs climbing out from the pale abdominon. His arms and legs ended abruptly where his hands and feet ought to have been. But they were not there, and neither Keane, nor I, ever discovered them. My body jerked again, forcing my throat to clench. No, I was most certainly not disturbed by the woman’s death. She was gone.
So be it.
The fist came as efficient as a battering ram, but I denied it enty, though, under what right, I remained unsure.
“Lawrence, are you indisposed?” His voice was low—hesitating ever so slightly with each vowel—but there was a hopefulness too, as though he said something for the sake of conversation itself, rather than a true answer. I folded my arms together, while keeping my back toward the door.
“Of course not.”
“May I enter?”
“No. Go away.”
“Lawrence.” There it was, that seaman’s growl hanging heavily over the thrashing waves. It was sharp enough to cut through wood unaided, and yet it caused no more harm to my flesh than a blade of grass beneath my shoes. “Lawrence, open the door.”
“Why? I believe I have answered all your questions sufficiently. I am not ill, nor am I depressed. Nor, I think, am I in the need of a psychiatrist. There. Go away.” Keane did not, in fact, ‘go away’. His shoulder proved quite capable as the gasp of hinges heralded his arrival. I leapt up from the corner of the large oak desk and faced him square-shouldered without fear of reproach.
“It wasn’t locked, but I suppose you’re just too well-educated to consider such matters.” I snapped as Keane gingerly fingered the abused door behind him. My words either did not affect him, or missed the man entirely. With quick, deliberate steps, he had swept up my leather jacket from a nearby chair and shoved it into my arms.
“Put that on; we’re going back to the house.” I wish he had said home. If he had I would at least hope that he meant England, or Ireland, or some such land that was far from the heat of sunny California. “Now, Lawrence.”
Later, as I considered the events of that moment, I wasn’t entirely certain what prompted me to do it. I am still not quite sure. But oh how satisfying it was to see Keane’s face when I hurled the leather bomber right back at him. It was a pitch worthy of any respectable baseball team out of New York, but they were on the other side of the country, while I was here with a red-faced Keane towering over me. By some show of physical strength and verbal eccentricities, he got me into my jacket and herded, prodded, shoved, and pulled me out onto the pavement and into the car.
It is a miracle we survived that ride, for nothing short of an angel’s touch kept Keane from veering off of the road as he forced the machine along at speeds no automobile ought ever go. Unlike the country roads of Ireland, these were straight and well paved; therefore, I was not afraid of the path itself, nor the motorcar’s capabilities, nor most anything else. I was not afraid.
But I did not like that look in Keane’s eyes.
I did not like those flecks of grey pulsating through the blue of his irises, nor the ruddy color invading his square-jawed cheekbones. The hands gripping the steering wheel had been crudely carved from blocks of wood, tapering into fingers when necessary, but only so much as the general shape with a slight bleaching where the knuckles ought to have been. His posture was painfully stiff as his right leg pressed violently against the accelerator. Only once did his foot flinch toward the brake, and even then I was thrown into his shoulder by the centrifugal force. The other turns were equally heart-stopping. Those scarce few that were not were hardly bends at all. Rather, they were merely interruptions to my companion’s unshakable purpose. I could only hope he had not planned to end our lives by sending the automobile over a cliff’s rigid edge.
At last Keane came to an abrupt halt in front of the beach house, nearly tore off the car door as he got out, and stormed over to my side. The vice-like grip on my arm was not at all worse than his bite. More so it was that uncomfortable reminder of his temperamental masculinity as he pulled me into the house, allowing the door to shut with a resounding crack. Keane thrust me toward the nearest seat of the sitting room before plucking the cigarette case from his pocket and smoking each one violently; thrusting their final stubs of life into a rather audaciously bright ashtray. As he picked at the gaudy green and blue fabric of the chair, I noticed a second pack of cigarettes peeking tentatively from Keane’s breast pocket. I glanced at my wristwatch. Seven thirty-five.
God, it was going to be a long night.
My companion suddenly shoved himself up from the chair to lean against the mantle of a large, and most certainly obnoxious, fireplace. The redness had drained from his features, only to be replaced by long shadows hanging from him like cloaks. One, long hand scrubbed tiredly at his face as his voice came only a fraction louder than an ocean’s midnight hum.
“Out with it, Lawrence?”
�
�Out with what?” A slight flash of grey splashed over his eyes.
“You know very well ‘what’. You wish to say something, now say it and let us move on with our lives.”
“Really, Keane, I don’t—”
“Damn it, Lawrence. We’re in private. There are no other eyes to prod at our minds; no outsiders to judge our thoughts.” No, there was no one. We had no witness. We had no third party. We had no fence; no net; no safety. There was only Keane and myself, and that was more than enough to convince me to say nothing. Another cigarette passed through this life. Then another. Keane was soon reaching for the second package and began to tug one of the little, white cylinders from its snug rest. I had rarely seen him falter from most anything the world placed before him, and certainly he had never held any trepidation about a hearty smoke. And yet, the match paused—if briefly—before meeting the paper end and burning the first wisps of dried tobacco. The faint orange circles branded themselves into the cigarette, accentuated with each slow draw. Keane’s attention had turned slowly to the ashtray’s yellowing rim. I inhaled deeply, allowing the tobacco and brisk smells of the ocean to fill my lungs. When I released them, I too allowed the question—that horrid breach of conscious thought—to slip carelessly from my mouth.
“Will I go to Hell?” Keane’s long, thin fingers toppled from the smooth edge of the ashtray, spilling a small pile of dark powder atop the white mantle. His eyes sought mine in an instant.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I know it sounds dreadfully childish, and you needn’t answer if you feel it below the line intellectuals must draw, but . . . ” My voice fell away as if I expected his answer to come at that very moment; to have a pool of infinite wisdom pourn at my feet from which a conclusion may be properly drawn. However; he was silent. So horribly silent. As the tobacco smoke drew on, I began to fear he thought less of me for asking such a thing. It was infantile, I admit, but it had fallen to the floor with a harrolding of destruction and could therefore not be repaired. Fear was not an emotion I made use of often, yet I felt it deeply as my fingers knotted themselves further into the chair’s faded and fraying fabric. A heavy cloud entered the air.
“Lawrence, you do realise I am not privy to such information.” I nodded and opened my mouth in some pitiful defence, but Keane raised his hand. “I am not God. I am not something above human weaknesses and morality. There are times when I am not even certain I am a good man. In fact, I know I am not. But I will tell you that, in the years I have known you, I cannot think of anything that would doom you to such a fate.” Again I nodded, but this time, rather than preparing some string of ill chosen words, I remained dutifully silent as my companion reached for the box of matches. The brisk scent of sulfur sighed as it took light. “May I ask what prompted you to ask such a question?”
“Am I not allowed to make certain philosophical statements from time to time?” Keane chuckled lightly, causing the flame to dance in rhythm to his deep, rich baritone.
“Statements? Lawrence, that was hardly a statement.”
“True, but it brought up an important discussion.”
“About death?”
“Yes, death. Do you not consider that important?” Again the match danced, the yellow flame scarcely above Keane’s fingertips.
“At my age, death is a topic discussed easily and with about the same amount of enthusiasm as an ulcer.”
“But you are only—”
“Fifty-five? Yes. And you are twenty-four. I ought to be testing your mental state for considering such dark and dreary paths, but, as your youth has been infested by a global disturbance, I shall say nothing more unless you give me a reason to do so. Now, I am awaiting your excuses, Lawrence, and if you say you have none, I shall be testing you for dementia, as well as depression.” I sighed, which slowly slipped into a nervous laugh that was quickly matched by Keane. The jovolity lasted only an instant, but even the briefest of moments is enough to give necessary strength. My companion edged away from the mantle and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he was escorted by two mismatched glasses and a bottle of something too good for American whiskey and not quite so adored as his beloved Madeira. He poured a generous amount of the pale liquid between the two cups and, having handed the first to me, returned to his place at the mantle. I stared dubiously at the liquor in my hands.
“I do hope this is not the same stuff we drank yesterday.” I joked, swirling the pale substance until a perfect representation of a hurricane was visible in the glass. They say that there is nowhere so calm as the eye of the hurricane. And yet, to enter into that world of tranquility, one must endure a hell lethal to human life. I stood there now, teetering on the edge between storm and bliss as Keane took a long, slow sip of the wine.
“Lawrence, do you recall the name Dionysus?”
“You mean the Greek god of theatre, ritual madness, wine, and—” My face burned a vivid red, but Keane, ever the gentleman, remained unshaken.
“Fertility? Yes. It was believed he was raised in a cave and fed on honey. In many depictions he can be seen holding ivy-wrapped wands from which bountiful streams of the gold nectar flows.” Keane raised his glass, allowing the pale wine to sparkle in the last lights of evening. “Behold the sweat of his prosperity: mead. The nectar of the gods and the love of all things sacred among men.” I tentatively sipped the sweet liquor, allowing the gentle fragrance to mingle politely with the tobacco still lingering in the air. It was a light wine, delicate to the extent one might hardly believe the masculinity of the thing. I suppose there is, in some men, that poetic nature I so often saw in Keane, but there too was his voracious temper quelled only by the knowledge and wisdom time often provides. There was also, to my eternal consternation, that gift for reading people as effortlessly as books, and not being satisfied until the end has been completed and analysed.
“Lawrence, you still have not answered my question.” I tipped the glass away from my mouth with only a small pool of wine left within its crystal walls.
“How did that woman—Miss Smith—die? I know you haven’t an autopsy report, but, by your own judgement, what do you think the cause was?” Keane chuckled; harsh, dry, and—what was that? Regret? Guilt? Or a past to which I knew little?
“That phrase alone suggests you have already plotted some of your own theories.”
“I had thought it was drug use gone awry, but . . . ” My words fluttered away with a defeated shrug just as Keane relinquished his perch at the mantle and settled his tall frame in a rather depressed armchair. His cigarettes were again at hand, but, as the first began to burn, he did not smoke it. Rather, he gazed despondent at the dreary tail of smoke that gracefully curled and danced through the air. With one great, heaving sigh, the waltz became a ballet then dissipated completely into something held tightly in memories.
“I saw it first in the war.” Keane muttered deeply. “I fear it is something inescapable no matter what time has passed. I have seen fathers, mothers, even children affected by its horrid hands, and yet—” He took a stiff draw from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. “You are quite right, Lawrence. Could you name what drug might have caused a reaction? It was opium, or some derivative thereof. Did you note the slight jaundice in her eyes?” Of course I hadn’t. He had pulled me away. “That, along with the profuse sweating and foaming of the mouth, create the clear signs of an overdose. A thoroughly damning sight, but not, I thought, one that would affect you so.”
“It wasn’t that.”
“Oh?” Keane’s eyebrows arched high on his head, as if he had suddenly recalled I am not so feminine as to shirk from sights ignored and overlooked by society. “Would your reaction then have something to do with that little theological conference we just had?” Damn the man, it did. He knew it did. But how smuggly he looked as he awaited my confirmation that it was so. I would not give him that. My self dignity would not withstand such a blow. Instead, I turned to him with an Englishman’s stiff upper lip and hurled m
y words at him with a strength entirely deceptive to my own self.
“Do you think Miss Smith went to Hell? I do. God help me, I do. I know I shouldn’t think such things—that it’s disrespectful and a mortal sin—but I honestly believe I’m right. I want to be right. I want her to burn for the things she said. I’m just so sick and tired of not caring what society thinks that I want to be accepted, leather jacket and all. It is acceptable for soldiers to return without arms or legs or even a living soul, but here I am, shaped and affected by war and still invisible to the world’s good graces. I am tired of being thought of as a harlot. Lord knows I’ve never thought about being such a thing. But they don’t see that. They only see a woman with a man slightly older than herself and—God, Keane, what is wrong with me?” He was silent, which was just as well as I could not face him. How could I have thought to tell Keane such things? He was a Victorian born Catholic. He had been raised amidst the starched collars and enforced folkways. He had been brought up in the Irish traditions of strength and dignity.
Dignity. Always dignity.
I was dead. I could feel his sharp, blue eyes drilling into the side of my face. After an eternity, the thin smoke disappeared completely, leaving only silence to strangle my lungs. A part of me wished to be struck by lightning, drop of a heart attack, be swallowed by a sinkhole, anything other than facing Keane. He cleared his throat.
“You think this?”
“Yes.”
“And did you wish the same fate upon Michael?” The gun fired. A bullet slammed into my side and dislodged a desperate rush of words.
“No. I could never think of such a thing. Or at least I didn’t after a while.”
“But you did consider it.” I sighed, my shoulders heaving forward as a shield over my head.
“Not when he died. I was always sorry about that. But, when he held that revolver on you while you offered to write—and commit—suicide, I—”