The Throat

home.

I don't believe in premonitions, not personally. I believe that other people have them, not me.

A stalled truck kept me from seeing across Livermore Avenue. The truck was long and shiny, with some big name painted on its side, ALLERTON maybe, or ALLINGHAM. Elms still lined Millhaven's streets, and their leaves were strewn thickly in the gutter, where clear water from a broken hydrant gurgled over and through them and carried a few, like toast-colored rafts, to the drain down the street. A folded newspaper lay half in, half out of the water; I remember a photograph of one boxer hitting another in a spray of sweat and saliva.

At last the truck began to move forward, ALLERTON or ALLINGHAM with it.

The truck moved past the front of the arched little bridge to the St. Alwyn annex, and I leaned forward to see through the traffic. Cars slid by and interrupted my view. April's pale blue dress was moving safely through the tunnel. She was about half of the way down its length, and had perhaps four feet to go before coming out into the disappearing daylight. The flow of cars cut her off from me again, then allowed me another flash of blue.

An adult-sized shadow moved away from the darkness of the wall and moved toward April. The traffic blocked my view again.

It was just someone coming home through the tunnel— someone on his way to the Idle Hour. But the big shadow had been moving toward April, not past her. I imagined that I had seen something in the big shadow's hand.

Through the sound of horns and engines, I thought I heard a voice rising to a scream, but another blast of horns cut it off. Or something else cut it off. The horns stopped blaring when the traffic moved—homeward traffic at six-fifteen on an autumn night, moving beneath the elms that arched over Livermore and South Sixth Street. I peered through the cars, nearly hopping with anxiety, and saw April's oddly limp back. Her hair fell back past her shoulders, and the whole streak of blond and pale blue that was her back went up. The man's arm moved. Dread froze me to the sidewalk.

For a moment it seemed that everything on the street, maybe everything in Millhaven, had stopped, including me. The thought of what was happening across the street pushed me forward over the leaves packed into the gutter and down into the roadbed. There was no traffic anymore, only an opening between cars through which I saw April's dress floating in midair. I moved into the opening, and only then became aware that cars were flowing past on both sides of me and that most of them were blowing their horns. For a moment, nearly my last moment, I knew that all movement had ceased in the tunnel. The man stopped moving. He turned toward the noise in the street, and I saw the shape of his head, the set of his shoulders.

At that point, though I was unaware of it, my father came out of the Idle Hour. Several other men came with him, but Dad was the first one through the door.

A car horn blasted in my ear, and I turned my head. The grille of an automobile was coming toward me with what seemed terrific slowness. I was absolutely unable to move. I knew that the car was going to hit me. This certainty existed entirely apart from my terror. It was like knowing the answer to the most important question on a test. The car was going to hit me, and I was going to die.

Writing about this in the third person, in Mystery, was easier.

My vision of things ceases with the car coming toward me with terrific unstoppable slowness, frame by frame, as a car would advance through a series of photographs. Dad and his friends saw the car hit me; they saw me adhere to the grille, then slip down to be caught on a bumper ornament and dragged thirty feet before the car jolted to a halt and threw me off.

At that moment I died—the boy named Timothy Underhill, the seven-year-old me, died of shock and injury. He had a fractured skull, his pelvis and his right leg were shattered, and he died. Such a moment is not visible from a sidewalk. I have the memory of sensation, of being torn from my body by a giant, irresistible force and being accelerated into another, utterly different dimension. Of blazing light. What remains is the sense of leaving the self behind, all personality and character, everything merely personal. All of that was gone, and something else was left. I want to think that I was aware of April far ahead of me, sailing like a leaf through some vast dark cloudgate. There was an enormous, annihilating light, a bliss, an ecstasy you have to die to earn. Unreasoning terror surrounds and engulfs this memory, if that's what it is. I dream about it two or three times a week, a little more frequently than I dream about the man I killed face-to-face. The experience was entirely nonverbal and, in some basic way, profoundly inhuman. One of my clearest and strongest impressions is that living people are not supposed to know.

I woke up encased in plaster, a rag, a scrap, in a hospital room. There followed a year of wretchedness, of wheelchairs and useless anger—all this is in Mystery. Not in that book is my parents' endless and tongue-tied misery. My own problems were eclipsed, put utterly into shadow by April's death. And because I see her benevolent ghost from time to time, particularly on airplanes, I guess that I have never really recovered either.

On October fifteenth, while I was still in the hospital, the first of the Blue Rose murders took place on almost exactly the same place where April died. The victim was a prostitute named Arlette Monaghan, street name Fancy. She was twenty-six. Above her body on the brick wall of the St. Alwyn, the murderer had written the words BLUE ROSE.

Early in the morning of October twentieth, James Treadwell's corpse was found in bed in room 218 of the St. Alwyn. He too had been murdered by someone who had written the words BLUE ROSE on the wall above the body.

On the twenty-fifth of October, another young man, Monty Leland, was murdered late at night on the corner of South Sixth and Livermore, the act sheltered from the sparse traffic down Livermore at that hour by the corner of the Idle Hour. The usual words, left behind by the tavern's front door, were painted over as soon as the police allowed by the Idle Hour's owner, Roman Majestyk.

On November third, a young doctor named Charles 'Buzz' Laing managed to survive wounds given him by an unseen assailant who had left him for dead in his house on Millhaven's east side. His throat had been slashed from behind, and his attacker had written BLUE ROSE on his bedroom wall.

The final Blue Rose murder, or what seemed for forty-one years to be the final Blue Rose murder, was that of Heinz Stenmitz, a butcher who lived on Muffin Street with his wife and a succession of foster children, all boys. Four days after the attack on the doctor, Stenmitz was killed outside his shop, next door to his house. I have no difficulty remembering Mr. Stenmitz. He was an unsettling man, and when I saw his name in the Ledger's subhead (the headline was BLUE ROSE KILLER CLAIMS FOURTH VICTIM ), I experienced an ungenerous satisfaction that would have shocked my parents.

I knew, as my parents did not—as they refused to believe, despite a considerable scandal the year before— that there were two Mr. Stenmitzes. One was the humorless, Teutonic, but efficient butcher who sold them their chops and sausages. Tall, blond, bearded, blue-eyed, he carried himself with an aggressive rectitude deeply admired by both my parents. His attitude was military, in the sense that the character played over and over by C. Aubrey Smith in Hollywood films of the thirties and forties was military.

The other Mr. Stenmitz was the one I saw when my parents put two dollars in my hand and sent me to the butcher shop for hamburger. My parents did not believe in the existence of this other man within Mr. Stenmitz. If I had insisted on his presence, their disbelief would have turned into anger.

The Mr. Stenmitz I saw when I was alone always came out from behind the counter. He would stoop down and rub my head, my arms, my chest. His huge blond bearded head was far too close. The smells of raw meat and blood, always prominent in the shop, seemed to intensify, as if they were what the butcher ate and drank. 'You came to see your friend Heinz?' A pat on the cheek. 'You can't stay away from your friend Heinz, can you?' A sharp, almost painful pat on the buttocks. His thick red fingers found my pockets and began to insinuate themselves. His eyes were the lightest, palest blue eyes I've ever seen, the eyes of a Finnish sled dog. 'You have two dollars? What are these two dollars for? So your friend Heinz will show you a nice surprise, maybe?'

'Hamburger,' I would say.

The fingers were pinching and roaming through my pocket. 'Any love letters in here? Any pictures of pretty girls?'