It glistened with fresh acrylic. At first I thought it was a still life. There were a bunch of white roses against a pale red background, and something about these roses made me understand why some cultures consider white to be a sign of mourning, because, although the roses were in full bloom, very beautiful and lifelike, there was a quality of death about them; perhaps in the way they lay in the clear vase; a haphazard arrangement as if someone had picked them and then thrown them into the vase, not caring how they looked. Rather than admiring their beauty, it made me speculate on picking roses at all; on what one did when one took a blooming flower and cut it from the bush.
And then I noticed that behind the vase, almost invisible, in some sort of impossible red on red, was a face, staring out at the viewer, as if to watch him watch the roses, and while I couldn’t really see the features of that face, I knew it was a girl, and I knew that there was a single tear running down her face.
For quite a while I couldn’t speak, only stare, and wonder at the choking in my throat. I finally said, “What do you call it?”
“‘Self-portrait With Roses,’” she said.
“A good name.”
“Yes.”
I looked some more, letting the catharsis wash over me, and when it had, I realized that it was as much a portrait of me as it was of her, and that it was not flattering.
I said, in a voice barely above a whisper, “Jill, this is magnificent.”
“Thank you,” she said; her voice was neither loud nor soft, but, rather, inanimate, maybe even numb.
“I had no idea you could paint like that.”
“I couldn’t, before,” she said. “I suppose I ought to thank you.”
I looked at her looking at me, and I shook my head, unable to speak. I turned back to the painting, and in this mirror I was reflected; for me to see, and all the world. I don’t understand all that I felt then, but there was grief, and there was shame.
I said, “Come to me.”
She got up and stood before me, letting her smock fall to the ground. She wore a dark plaid workshirt, and as she reached for the top button I said, “No.”
She looked faintly puzzled, but stopped.
I took her hands in mine. “Look at me,” I said.
She did.
I squeezed her hands, willing myself into her mind, her heart, her soul. Her eyes grew larger, and in them, too, I could see my own reflection, for there is no silver there, nor, for that matter, is there any gold; perhaps there is only the gentle, soft fibers of a rose.
I said, “Jill Quarrier, you are free of me. Your life is your own.”
I felt her tremble through her hands, which seemed as cold as my own.
“Never again will I come to you, never again must you come to me. Your destiny is in your own hands, to make, or to destroy. You are part of me no longer, nor am I part of you. Go your way in peace.”
I let go of her hands and she fell to her knees, sobbing. I bent down and kissed the top of her head, and left her that way.
I don’t know.
Had she not painted that picture, I would have freed her anyway, for I had promised two people that I would, and I had already decided to keep this promise; but I wonder: If I had not, would I have released her anyway, after seeing what she could do, who she was?
In truth, I fear that I would not have, for my needs are strong and my patterns are ingrained very deeply.
But I am glad that it happened as it did, for I think it is indecent for anyone to go through his entire life and never know shame.
FIFTEEN
res pite n. 1. A temporary cessation or postponement, usually of something disagreeable; an interval of rest or relief. 2. Law. The temporary suspension of a death sentence; a reprieve. AMERICAN
After setting down what had happened between Jill and me, I took myself up to the attic and pawed through the leftover books. It struck me, as it hadn’t before, to wonder why they had been left behind. I can believe someone like Carpenter might, leaving in a hurry, have abandoned an old typewriting machine, and a few pieces of thirdrate furniture, but these books are probably valuable; I can only assume he didn’t know they were up here.
It made me wonder what else was in the attic, so I spent some time looking around. The attic is quite spacious, and mostly empty, but I found an old coffee maker; a set of silver that was probably worth something; a set of knives, stuck carelessly into a cardboard box, that included a very nice chefs knife with part of the handle stripped away; a box full of canceled checks; and a peculiar sign, which consisted of a red “R” with a circle and an arrow growing from it, and the words “Pickup Wednesdays” inscribed in red letters.
Attached to it was a pointed stick, presumably for putting it into the ground. I held it for a moment, and I thought of Laura Kellem. But come, let’s be serious; wood like that would splinter and, in any case, the wood is strictly symbolic; if her heart is destroyed, that will be that. I set the sign down again.
On the other hand, it forced me to think seriously about killing her, which brought to mind the ritual I will be attempting at the dark of the moon, in two days’ time. Do I really think I can kill her? Will I if I get the chance?
Laura Kellem is a vindictive soul; it may be that she feels she has not punished me enough. And if she does, indeed, feel that way, than not only am I in danger, but so is Susan.
I tested the edge of the chefs knife, found a butcher’s steel in the box and honed the knife. It had been a long, long time since I’d done that, but I managed not to cut myself.
I brought the knife down from the attic with me, and it is sitting beside me now, looking out of place on top of the pile of paper that records my visit to Lakota. When I have finished typing this, I shall take the knife with me as I go to rest, and I will place it with the rest of the items I have assembled for the ritual.
Two days.
Two days out of a lifetime of, well, of many thousands of days, and yet it seems impossibly far off.
Little to talk about tonight, but I must feed my addiction to this machine. I sneaked out of the house, past the watching policemen, and came to Susan’s, where I found an envelope with my name on it taped to her door. The note inside said, “Jonathan, sorry, forgot I have a dance ensemble tonight. See you tomorrow? Take me to your house? Maybe we can spend the night. Love, Susan.” Her name was signed with a big scrawl coming from the n and underlining her name. I mentally shrugged.
I walked around the campus area for a while, then spent an hour or so in Little Philly, not doing anything, just watching the people go by. There are so many of them: Decrepit old bums to well-to-do young white couples, the pimps, the whores, the crack dealers, and gangs of black kids filled with the delicious pleasure of knowing that you are intimidating anyone who walks past, just by existing.
I walked all the way back to the Tunnel, which took a couple of hours, and I visited some of the places that Susan and I had been to. With any luck, I’ll be leaving this city in two days, so this was a sort of farewell. Some snow had melted, although the wind still had its bite. Winter doesn’t want to give up, but it is a losing battle.
The contrast between the Tunnel and Little Philly, which are really the only areas of Lakota I’ve come to know at all, is so sharp that it is hard to believe that they are part of the same city; but I like them both, and the presence of each makes the other that much richer. It’s funny, but I’ve never been downtown, or to the Longfellow Park district, or by the Lakeshore; entire areas, like cities within the city, and I don’t know what they are like. For that matter, there are parts of London I know nothing about, and I spent many years there. Maybe it is time to go
