by Tom Deady
NINE: Coleridge’s Words
What is it that truly defines the nature of good? Or, for that matter, the nature of evil? Who is bestowed (or cursed) with the power to decide life? Is there such a thing as necessary evil? Is there such a thing as the greater good?
These questions haunt me still. Before, they were merely philosophical debates. Something to ponder while lying awake at night or perhaps to verbally spar with an acquaintance over drinks. After, those questions became something entirely different. After, the answers to those questions held my very soul in the balance.
I built Amaranth House with my bare hands. My sweat and blood and passion went into it, equally as important as the lumber and mortar and bricks and nails. Perhaps not as important as the other materials, or should I say ingredients? True, the construction became something more, an obsession, a quest. A necessity? It was what the Trinity Stone needed.
To say the end justified my means would be disingenuous. To say it was done with the best intentions would be a bold-faced lie. The simple fact is, it was done out of anguish and anger and greed, fueled by self-pity and rage and loneliness. It was the crown jewel on a life spent dealing in selfishness and profiting on the pain and sorrow of others. None of it can be changed now. I only pray it can be stopped.
So many times, I’ve held that godforsaken book in my hands and prepared to throw it into the fire. But, to what end? The evidence of my heinous crime might be destroyed, but with the same act, perhaps so would the solution. Would the book even burn, I wonder, since the house itself will not? Reluctantly, I preserved the book. No, that is too self-righteous. In the end, I was too much a coward to try to destroy the dreadful thing.
Levi Coleridge
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Dalia looked at Slade. “This is gibberish,” she yelled, “the rants of an unwell man, nothing more! It’s senseless questions and no answers.” She reached out her hand. “Give me the book.”
Slade held her gaze for a long moment. “I don’t think you want to do that,” he said quietly.
“This is my house, Slade. Give. Me. The. Book.”
Slade bared his teeth and held it to her.
Was this his plan all along? She had no answer, she was operating on sheer instinct. Dalia forced her hand to remain steady as she took the book. Slade’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d been expecting something to happen when she touched it. She looked at the ancient leather of the cover. A single word was embossed, worn and faded but still visible:
Αθάνατος
“What does it mean?” She asked, pulling her eyes away to look at Slade.
“Immortal,” he said simply, but something flashed in his eyes. Something that looked like fear.
Dalia returned her gaze to the book, then, without any warning, tossed it over the screen and into the fire.
TEN: Dalia in Charge
Orange sparks exploded into fireworks as the book landed amongst the burning logs. Slade screamed, “What have you done?” He jumped from the sofa and threw the fire screen aside, reaching for the book. Dalia grabbed the poker from the carpet and swung it in a mighty arc, catching Slade at the base of his skull in a glancing blow, but it was enough. He slumped to the floor without a sound. A huge burden left Dalia, and she again caught a faint aroma of cinnamon. Was Zadie pleased? Dalia moved quickly, dragging him away from the fire before his hair caught. I should just let him burn. She glanced into the flames and saw Coleridge was wrong: The book was burning quite nicely. She placed the screen back in front of the blaze.
Dalia speed-walked to the kitchen and rummaged through the “junk drawer” until she found what she knew was buried there. She returned to the living room, relieved to see Slade hadn’t moved. His head wasn’t cut—she had struck him with the blunt part of the poker—but she could see an angry knot rising.
Dalia and Zadie had enjoyed all types of physical activity. They tried to incorporate exercise into their daily routine in ways that was not so mundane as gym workouts or running. They spent weekends hiking the trails of western Massachusetts and New Hampshire. They took several different styles of dance lessons over the years as well as yoga and martial arts. Dalia had forsaken all of it after Zadie’s death, but kept up her workouts at the gym. Despite all of this, hoisting Slade’s dead weight onto the old Merklen Brothers rocker was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. She knelt by the rocker, gasping. No time for this.
Dalia tore open the bag of heavy-duty plastic ties. She’d bought them at a hardware store during the restoration to tie the bundles of rolled-up carpet they’d torn up. She bound Slade’s wrists and ankles to the heavy wood of the chair. Just to be sure, she used a second tie on each wrist and ankle. Satisfied, she went back to the fire and prodded what was left of the book. She wanted every last scrap to be ashes before he came to. Her movements were surgical, precise. She walled off her emotions and focused on the task. On surviving. Content that the vile thing was reduced to ash, she returned to the kitchen to brew another cup of tea and consider her next move.
Slade’s visit was no run-of-the-mill matter to be handled by local law enforcement. Even if she thought the phone would work, she dismissed the idea of calling the police. There was something else at stake here. Something that needed to be solved tonight, based on Slade’s obsessive peering at the clock. Something she might need him to help solve. She hoped burning the book wasn’t a mistake. The whistling kettle pulled her from her thoughts. She poured her tea and went back into the living room, grabbing Zadie’s journal from the table on the way.
She reoccupied her spot on the couch and began flipping through the journal. There was no time for her to read the entire thing chronologically. It was as if she could hear a clock ticking in her head, or sand pouring through an hourglass, piling up relentlessly in a heap at the bottom of the glass. No, there would be time to relish Zadie’s words later. Tonight, she was looking for answers.
Slade moaned and Dalia’s head jerked in his direction, convinced in that split-second he was loose and trundling toward her. Of course, he was still bound to the rocker, and still quite unconscious. Dalia exhaled in relief and returned her attention to the journal. There has to be something.
She skimmed the pages quickly, mindful of the dates as she turned each page. It all seemed so unremarkable, so normal. She sat up and rotated her neck clockwise, then counter-clockwise. She took a sip of tea, an unsettling feeling cloaking her when it was barely lukewarm. She glanced at the clock, mirroring Slade’s shifty glimpses, surprised to see that almost forty minutes had passed since she sat down. At this rate, Slade would be awake and the night would be gone before she even had a clue as to what she was looking for. She had to come at it from another angle, from Zadie’s angle.
She skipped ahead, past the entries where Zadie explored the attic, to roughly the timeframe where she thought Zadie had started acting out of sorts. It didn’t take long for frustration to creep in. She wanted the answer to leap off the page, but life didn’t often work that way. What if the answer isn’t here at all? The thought settled in her gut like poison, bile rising. The very real possibility she had destroyed the answer weighed heavy on her. She resisted the urge to look at the clock, her exhaustion was the only timekeeper she needed. She closed her eyes, gave herself a nod to strengthen her resolve, and returned to the journal.
After Zadie’s death, Dalia had devoted a great deal of energy into avoiding the things that reminded her of Zadie. An impossible task, of course, given that Zadie was alive in every part of the house, and in her heart, because of their restoration efforts. Still, Dalia stayed away from the coffee shop in town where they’d spent countless hours talking while getting their caffeine fix. She no longer hiked the trails or practiced martial arts or dancing, her workouts reduced to the boring equipment at the local fitness center. She stopped listening to the music she associated with Zadie, and changed the channel anytime one of their favorite movies came on.
The loss of Zadie had
left a crack in Dalia’s heart she knew would never be repaired. It had also left gaping holes in the fabric of Dalia’s everyday life. She assumed it would get easier and she would someday listen to those songs again, watch those old movies, even visit the coffee shop. Until then, isolating herself from all things Zadie had been her focus.
To say that revisiting their life together through Zadie’s eyes and words was difficult was an understatement only someone who had suffered the loss of their soulmate would understand. She forced herself to keep going, the words on the pages blurred through her unrelenting tears. She flipped closer to the end of the journal, to February, and her eyes caught the very word she had just used: soulmate.
ELEVEN: Zadie’s Words III
February 28,
“What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life...to strengthen each other...to be at one with each other in silent unspeakable memories.”
— George Eliot
I can’t remember where I first read this quote. What I do remember is the way it touched me, the way it defined the concept of a soulmate. I was not in the least surprised to find that George Eliot is a pen name for a woman, Mary Anne Evans.
There is something haunting about the words. Something that fills my heart with love and dread at the same time. It’s as if something so beautiful can only be short-lived, like a shooting star that leaves us longing for its impossible return.
I realized today that what Dalia and I have is the living embodiment of Eliot’s quote. Through our love, we have strengthened each other. And we are joined for life, and hopefully beyond. I need that to be true because I also realized today that what we have, our everything, is short-lived. And Dalia, my sweet Dalia, will be alone with her silent memories.
This house that we’ve nurtured back to life with our love and sweat has betrayed us. I’ve struggled with the knowledge for some time, alone with my own silent unspeakable memories, but the answer is irrefutable to me now. Inevitable. And it weighs on my heart to know the grief it will bring to my Dalia.
March 15,
We are nearing the end of our journey. The house is close to completion, including all the furniture and trappings that will complete the illusion of its newness. Then, the house will have what it wants. Then, it will take what it needs. I wonder, will others notice when they cross the threshold? Will there be that timeworn feeling of coldness, or some sort of emotional reaction? There was none of that for Dalia or myself, but the house wasn’t at its fullest. It was weak, possibly dying, and we’ve done the unthinkable in bringing it back. But how could we have known?
April 8,
It happened today. I’d hoped I could play my part out to the end, but there is no faking what Dalia and I had. Like the Eliot quote said, we were joined for life. And in that union, there is a symmetry and understanding that can only be found in two parts of a whole. I was a fool to think Dalia would not see through my façade. My only defense is that I did it out of love and self-sacrifice. I couldn’t save us both, but I knew I could save Dalia. I wonder if this is the coward’s way out. I know in my heart I could not go on without her, so I will gamble that she can go on without me. That she is the stronger of the two of us.
Dalia confronted me. She started out tentative, but once she got warmed up, she unloaded several weeks of pent-up concern and frustration. It was far worse than anything I could have imagined. Her pain and confusion nearly broke me. She spoke of the cold distance growing between us and my constant distractions and sometimes impenetrable disconnection. It shattered what little remained of my heart to be unable to tell her everything. To warn her. But that would only serve to doom her, as I am doomed. Everything for Dalia, even this.
TWELVE: Zadie and Dalia
Dalia placed the book on her lap, her head tilted back. That day, that awful day. Thinking about it, even now, widened the crack in her heart a little more. How could I have been so mean, said such horrible things to Zadie? How could I have not known there was something going on, some force that was out of Zadie’s control?
The day had started out like most. The two women out of bed early, a quick breakfast, then on to whatever house project they were working on. Dalia remembered they were cleaning up the overgrown flower beds that day. It was early spring, winter barely past, but warm enough to work outdoors. They’d been pulling weeds and trimming back the worst of the out-of-control bushes. Dalia had filled up the wheelbarrow with weeds and was going to take it out back to dump it. She grabbed the wooden handles when she spotted Zadie staring up at the house.
This had been happening a lot. Zadie would space out, gazing at something Dalia couldn’t see. If Dalia tried to talk to her, she would generally not answer. It was as if she was in a trance of some sort. A sudden anger had risen in Dalia, unexpected and irrational. She let go of the wheelbarrow and stomped over to Zadie, stepping directly in her line of vision. “Exactly what the hell are you looking at?”
Zadie tilted her head, not to acknowledge Dalia, but to keep staring at…whatever. Dalia clenched her jaw and stepped closer, making it impossible for Zadie to see around her. Zadie blinked, then shook her head. She seemed startled to find Dalia right there in front of her.
“Dalia, is something wrong?” Zadie’s voice held its own concern.
Dalia licked her lips with a dry tongue. “You…you went away on me again.”
Zadie shook her off. “Don’t be silly, I was just thinking. Don’t start this again.”
Dalia sighed. They’d had this conversation before. It never went anywhere. “I’m not being silly, Zadie, you did it again. You were staring off at nothing. I stood right in front of you and asked you a question and you just kept right on staring. What the hell is it? What is going on with you?”
Zadie stepped back. “It’s nothing. I was thinking about the window trim—”
“Bullshit,” Dalia roared. You were not thinking about the window trim, or the garden, or the house, or me, so what the hell were you thinking about?”
Zadie gaped at her. “You’re overreacting. I’m just tired, okay?”
Dalia stepped closer still. “No, it’s not okay. You’re never here anymore. You’re off in your own little world thinking about—” A thought struck her and made her stomach clench. She thought for a dangerous minute her breakfast might come up. There’s someone else. “Who is it?” Her voice, a moment ago that of a lunatic, was strangely calm.
Zadie blinked in surprise, her lips starting to curl into a smile. Then her mouth dropped open. “Dalia, no.”
Dalia threw up a hand, her head shaking back and forth. “No more, Zadie. Tell me right now why you’ve been so distant. If you don’t, I’ll know it’s someone else.”
Zadie’s face was unrecognizable as it went from shock to confusion to sadness to…something else, something like anguish. But she remained silent.
“Okay,” Dalia said, her voice thick. Then she turned away and walked toward the house, ignoring Zadie’s cries for her to wait. Then ignoring Zadie’s sobs.
g
Dalia pulled herself from the memory with a tortured cry. She leaned forward in her seat, elbows on knees, face in hands, moaning in agony. She’d cried a million tears since Zadie’s death, but these burned like acid, tears of guilt always did, she guessed.
In the days that had followed the argument, Dalia had wanted to somehow make things right, but the moment never came. It never seemed like the right time, or Zadie did that zone-out thing and Dalia’s anger returned. Then it was too late.
Dalia sat up and swiped the tears from her face. The weight of her guilt and remorse was suffocating. She knew in her heart, even at the height of her anger, Zadie wasn’t cheating. She’d realized too late that Zadie was probably sick, a brain tumor or some other neurological issue causing her odd behavior. When the autopsy came back showing no health issues, brain or otherwise, Dalia was floored. The answer was in the journal, and Dalia knew she had to ke
ep reading. She also knew she didn’t want to.
THIRTEEN: Slade Awakens
A grunt pulled Dalia from her memories. Slade was waking up. His head lolled back and forth, his eyes fluttering. He shook his head and tried to sit up, finally noticing the bonds that held him. His expression went from confusion to anger to rage. He turned to face Dalia with murder in his eyes.
“Release me immediately!” His voice trembled with indignation.
Dalia watched him struggle against the plastic ties. “It doesn’t look like you’re in any position to be making demands, Mr. Slade.” She kept her voice even.
His struggles escalated, his body flailing around to the point he nearly tipped the chair over. Thin lines of blood ran down his hands from where the ties had knifed into his skin. Finally, he gave up, slumping in the chair, a look of angry defeat on his face.
“Now,” Dalia began, “here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to start asking you questions and you are going to answer them—” Slade renewed his struggles and started to protest but Dalia held up a hand to silence him. “My patience for your games has run out, Slade. You’ve inconvenienced me, disrespected the woman I love, and held me captive in my own home. I’m done. I ask questions, you answer them. No more evasive replies and half-truths.”
Slade seethed, shooting daggers at her. Sweat had beaded on his forehead and his hair was a mess. He looked unhinged. “You have no idea what you’re doing,” he sneered.
Dalia shook her head, tired. “I know exactly what I’m doing, and I suggest you cooperate.”
Slade barked out something that was supposed to be a laugh. “With all due respect, Miss Cromwell, you can go fuck yourself. That’s essentially what this little stunt is doing anyway.”