Craft Essay #8 - The Trial

Craft Essay #8:
The Trial by Franz Kafka


Miriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary defines “Kafkaesque” as “of, relating to, or suggestive of Franz Kafka or his writings; esp. having a nightmarishly complex, bizarre or illogical quality.” As defined, “Kafkaesque” is a term we can apply to everyday occurrences in 2009: attempting to navigate the labyrinthine recorded message menu of a utility company will qualify. But how does Kafka create—with technique—this “nightmarish” quality, or what translator Breon Mitchell calls the “sense of slight unease” (p. xvii) that has inspired and maddened so many readers?
First and foremost, there is the contrast between tone and content. A young man, Josef K., is caught up in the bureaucratic maze of The Law, having been accused of an unspecified crime by unspecified accusers, his life and job hanging in the balance, the unknown lurking around every corner, and all this is narrated in the most straightforward, unemotional, logical tone possible. What makes these illogical events “nightmarish” is not just the events themselves but the fact that the (third-person) narrator describes them as if they are absolutely normal. K.’s first “inquiry,” held in the back room of a dingy apartment in a nondescript block of apartment buildings, perfectly exemplifies this contrast. Here is K.’s initial glimpse of the setting:
K. thought he had walked into a meeting. A crowd of the most varied sort—no one paid any attention to the newcomer—filled a medium-size room with two windows, surrounded by an elevated gallery just below the ceiling that was likewise fully occupied, and where people were forced to crouch with their backs and heads pushing against the ceiling. (p. 41)

K., with whom the narrator is closely aligned, does not seem surprised by the weird fact that the gallery is so close to the ceiling that the spectators are forced to stoop. Instead, in the next line, he merely notes that “the air is too stuffy.”
The novel is chock-full of such scenes. Unnoticed people suddenly make themselves known (the Chief Clerk who lurks in the lawyer Huld’s bedroom [p. 102]); peculiar architectural details abound (that gallery on page 41, the extra stair at the law offices [p. 68], the awkwardly placed pulpit at the cathedral [p. 209]); and bizarre occurrences erupt out of the most mundane circumstances (the two guards receiving a flogging in a storage closet at K.’s workplace [p. 80]). All are described in the most blasé of tones, and while K. may occasionally be startled, his reactions tend to be as logical as the narrator’s: faced with the flogging of Franz and Willem, for example, he simply exclaims that he hadn’t complained about their behavior to the magistrate—i.e., it wasn’t his fault they were being punished!
One of the more unusual tonal strategies employed by Kafka is the near total lack of metaphor and simile. The narrator can be quite descriptive—of both settings (the Juliusstrasse on pages 38-9, the cathedral on pages 206-7) and characters (Bertold on page 61, Leni on page 97)—and yet he resists any impulse toward the poetic or figurative. This technique (or is it a lack of technique?) works on an almost subliminal level—I was nearly halfway through the novel before I noticed it—to keep the story grounded in the reality that the events otherwise lack.
Writers often don’t consider the importance of how their work appears on the page, and how it can contribute to mood. If we are to believe that Breon Mitchell has rendered The Trial “precisely, paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence” (p. xvii), then we must assume that Kafka’s long, complex paragraphs are as intentional as the precise, realistic tone. He does not even separate the lines of dialogue, choosing instead to pile them up within the same paragraph. Some paragraphs go on for pages. The effect can be oppressive, as during K.’s prolonged anxiety attack at the law offices (pp. 73-5). In this way, the author creates another unnerving contrast with the logical, orderly tone of the story.
Yet another unsettling technique is Kafka’s brilliant use of the “unreliable narrator” (technically, it’s not the third-person narrator who is unreliable, but because he is so closely aligned with K.—transmitting to us K.’s every thought and feeling—the effect is similar to that of a first-person narrator). Throughout the story, K. maintains a cocky, even arrogant attitude toward his predicament. At the first inquiry, he mocks the magistrate, both out loud (going so far as to call the proceedings “sloppy” [p. 45]) and in his thoughts (K. assumes the magistrate is so knocked out by his eloquence that the official “slowly lowered himself back into his chair as if to keep anyone from noticing” [p. 45]). When he first visits the law offices, K. interprets the other defendants’ behavior as respectful toward him—“‘Everyone stood up. They probably thought I was a judge’” (p. 174). As with all skillfully presented unreliable narrations, however, the reader is way ahead of the character. The gap between reality (K.’s case is hopeless) and the character’s attitude instills in us a feeling of dread, even as we laugh (nervously) at his arrogant pronouncements.
Which brings me to my final observation: The Trial is often hilarious. (Of course, this could be just me. I also find Moby-Dick laugh-out-loud funny.) Huld’s extended riff on the necessity of lawyers (pp. 111-22) is a beautifully sustained comic monologue. K.’s unlikely adventures with the various women he encounters—they all throw themselves at him—are also quite amusing (K. notes this himself: “I recruit women helpers, he thought, almost amazed” [p. 107]—that “almost” makes it all the more funny). Even K’s execution becomes a comic scene, as the two killers (“old supporting actors,” K. calls them, noting how they seem to have been sent by central casting [p. 226]) are nearly stymied by their “nauseating courtesies”: they keep passing the knife back and forth, like the overly polite Disney cartoon chipmunks (“After you.” “No, after you.”) before one of them finally plunges the knife into K.’s heart. The imposition of such slapstick into this scene makes it all the more horrifying. K.’s final, dreamlike observation—of a “faint and insubstantial” human figure with arms outstretched at a far-off window (p. 230)—is as profoundly unsettling as any in the previous 229 pages. K.’s questions—“Where was the judge he’d never seen? Where was the high court he’d never reached?” (p. 231)—wrench the gut. His last words—“Like a dog!”—and the feeling that “the shame was to outlive him” (p. 231) make this one of the saddest endings in all of literature.

Craft Essay # 7 - Atonement

Craft Essay # 7:
Atonement by Ian McEwan

Ian McEwan’s Atonement offers a plethora of craft essay topics—the shifting point of view, the fracturing of time, the withholding of pertinent information, the use of description to enhance mood—hell, I could write three pages just on the way McEwan diverts our attention so that Robbie Turner manages to believably deliver the wrong letter to Cecelia. But these brilliant techniques would not be half as effective if the characters were not so vividly brought to life.
McEwan wastes no time. In the novel’s very first sentence, he provides us with a piercing glimpse into the character of Briony Tallis, the 13-year-old girl whose overheated imagination will wreak havoc on those around her:
The play—for which Briony had designed the posters, programs and tickets, constructed the sales booth out of a folding screen tipped on its side, and lined the collection box in red crepe paper—was written by her in a two-day tempest of composition, causing her to miss a breakfast and a lunch. (p. 3)

First, there is the matter of Briony having written a play, an impressive accomplishment in and of itself, never mind the producer’s duties she has taken responsibility for. The “two-day tempest of composition” clues us in to the girl’s tumultuous nature. Of course, at this very early point in the novel, we don’t yet know Briony’s age, but that final detail—“causing her to miss a breakfast and a lunch”—implies youth, since no adult playwright would care about missing two meals during the frenzied completion of a play. In one sentence, the author establishes Briony as precocious, tempestuous and immature.
Such a perceptive, economical sketch is typical of the novel, but McEwan uses many other techniques to establish and develop character. Because the third-person narrator is closely aligned with one character at a time (Briony in chapter one, her sister, Cecelia, in chapter two, etc.), we are privy to those characters’ opinions and observations of others. And these characters are very opinionated, constantly judging those around them. These judgments (for example, Cecelia’s labeling of Robbie Turner as “pretentious” on page 18) tell us as much, or more, about the judge as about the judged. Another example: to Cecelia, her mother is “distant, even unfriendly” (p. 19), but to Briony, Mrs. Tallis is “endlessly kind and sweet and good” (p. 151). We may find, as we read on, that both girls are right, in a way, but the narrator’s real purpose here is to deepen our understanding of the character who is doing the judging. Cecelia, just out of college, does not feel close to her mother and even resents her. Briony, on the verge of puberty, still worships her mother, who dotes on her, the baby of the family.
McEwan also utilizes lists to show character. Until chapter 8 (p. 73), we know relatively little about Robbie Turner, whose love for Cecelia leads to so much pain and turmoil. On page 77, the narrator lists the items in Robbie’s cramped study, which range from hiking maps and a compass to “ten typed-up poems [that] lay beneath a printed rejection slip from Criterion magazine, initialed by Mr. Eliot himself.” This list, combined with Robbie’s bathtub reverie over Cecelia’s plunge into the fountain earlier that day (pages 73 and 28, respectively) paints a vibrant portrait of a sensitive, adventurous, intelligent young man who is madly in love. (The compass and map also foreshadow Robbie’s tortuous trek through war-torn France later in the novel.)
Another tool in the author’s character toolbox is dialogue. Pierrot and Jackson, Briony’s young twin cousins, whom she recruits to perform in her play, are revealed the first time they open their mouths, on page 11: “I hate plays and all that sort of thing,” Pierrot says, and Jackson chimes in, “I hate them too, and dressing up.” These two may be brats, but, interestingly, our poor opinion of them evolves into empathy, and not because they change (in fact, they remain rather oafish throughout), but because we grow to better understand the narcissistic Briony and the twins’ manipulative sister, Lola.
Dialogue is also used to establish the characters of Nettles and Mace, Robbie Turner’s battle companions on the long march through France to Dunkirk. Because they are relatively minor characters, the author must render them quickly, which he accomplishes through the use of repetition. On page 181, as Robbie studies a map, Nettles jokes, “He’s seeing crumpet” (crumpet being British slang for “a desirable woman”), and Mace replies, “He’s having his fucking doubts again.” This exchange is repeated, almost word for word, on page 202. These two, with their routines, are like a pair of vaudevillians. McEwan then deepens them with very brief descriptions of their actions (Mace displaying unlikely domestic talents as he improvises comfy straw mattresses in an old barn [p. 184]) and physical characteristics (Nettles’s “sharp features and a friendly, rodent look” [p. 184]).
This second section of the novel contains many such minor characters. Here’s a “pink-faced [Major] of the old school” who tries to recruit Robbie for one last run against the Germans: “The major had a little toothbrush mustache overhanging small, tight lips that clipped his words briskly. ‘We’ve got Jerry trapped in the woods over there…We’re going to get in there and flush him out’” (p. 207). Later, a similarly gung-ho lieutenant appears for all of three paragraphs: “Round-shouldered, bony, with a deskbound look and a wisp of ginger mustache” (p. 232) Then there is the gypsy woman who gives Robbie and Nettles some water and food: “She was rather handsome, with dark skin, a proud look and a long straight nose, and a floral scarf was tied across her silver hair” (p. 240). These characters, along with the author’s terrifying descriptions of the landscape and action, make Robbie’s final days believable and agonizing.
Likewise the final section of the novel, which follows Briony’s harrowing experiences as a wartime nurse. The narrator deftly introduces wounded soldiers, injecting their brief time on the page with great meaning. Here is a fatally wounded lad whom Briony comforts in his final moments:
He was sitting, propped up by several pillows, watching the commotion with a kind of abstracted childlike wonder. It was hard to think of him as a soldier. He had a fine, delicate face, with dark eyebrows and dark green eyes, and a soft, full mouth. His face was white and had an unusual sheen, and the eyes were unhealthily radiant (p. 288).

It is impossible to discuss character development in Atonement without acknowledging the vital role played by point of view. McEwan’s narrator is remarkably controlled, almost surgical in her∗ descriptions of both landscape and character. She is wiser and more sophisticated than any of the people populating the story and thus can articulate their feelings and un- or partially-formed philosophies. Cecelia, though she may not recognize the underlying source of the tension between herself and Robbie, is, in the narrator’s translation, aware that “there was no ease, no stability in the course of their conversations, no chance to relax” (p. 26). Likewise, the narrator is able to describe Briony’s teenage musings on life and meaning in a way far beyond the girl’s ability to express it herself:
She raised one hand and flexed its fingers and wondered, as she had sometimes before, how this thing, this machine for gripping, this fleshy spider on the end of her arm, came to be hers, entirely at her command. Or did it have some little life of its own? She bent her finger and straightened it. The mystery was in the instant before it moved, the dividing moment between not moving and moving, when her intention took effect. It was like a wave breaking. If only she could find herself at the crest, she thought, she might find the secret of herself, that part of her that was really in charge. (p.33)

These super-articulate representations of what are probably, in actuality, confused and rambling thoughts, clarify the characters for us, and help us understand their desires and motives.
Atonement is a heartbreaking novel not just because its two lovers don’t live happily ever after, nor because Briony never reconciles with her sister. The twists and turns of the plot, the clever literary tricks, the crystalline language—it would all add up to nothing if not for the fully realized characters.

49 LOVE LANE - Section 5

8. Confession

Daisy and I were out in the front yard, sitting on the grass, avoiding her mother. I had just mowed the lawn with my new push mower, the old-fashioned, motorless kind with the curved blades. Abby thought it was ridiculous, but it was cheaper than a gas mower and I felt good about saving energy. Daisy had watched me go back and forth, fascinated by the clattering blades and the swish of grass being cut. Now, we sat in the shade of the tall silver maple, listening to the birds.
“Smell that, Daze,” I said, taking in the tangy aroma of freshly cut grass.
“Baby,” she muttered. “Baby.”
The mowing had not taken long. The far side of the yard remained barren but for a few clumps of fragile new grass. I would have to call Anders Lehigh again to come out and reseed. Or, more likely, given our financial situation, I could leave it like this, looking like a white trash yard. But I didn’t want to think about it. My mind was ping-ponging between my job situation and the Dead Baby Story. I still hadn’t told Abby about the disastrous meeting with Berk. For a week now I’d avoided the job topic altogether while waiting for her to ask a simple question—When does school start? Don’t you need to work on lesson plans? What kind of new car should we get? I wasn’t sure I could withstand the inquiries without breaking down and confessing everything. Just looking into her eyes—on those rare occasions when I could meet hers with my own—I felt on the verge of cracking. So I was spending a lot of time in different rooms, or outside. This was absurd, I knew. I was like one of those people who put off going to the doctor while a tumor the size of a bowling ball is growing in their belly. I was well past the point of early detection.
Daisy pulled at the grass and tried to stuff it into her mouth.
“No, sweetie. We don’t eat the grass.”
I was watching the baby because Abby had become exasperated by her antics earlier that morning. There had been an unusual amount of fussing and whining and willful disobedience.
“Carl,” Abby had called, “can you please watch her for just a little while?”
She used that accusatory tone that implied I didn’t watch Daisy nearly enough.
“Fine,” I said, putting down my book and coming in from the bedroom to sit down with Daisy on the living room floor.
Abby put a hand over her eyes. “Can you take her out of the house, please?”
“Are you alright?”
“I just don’t want to be in the same space with her right now.”
This was unusual. Abby was typically as patient with Daisy as she was impatient with me. But, grateful for the opportunity, I took the baby outside.
“Please stop,” I said to her now as she continued to eat the grass. “Stop.”
I yanked the grass from her little fist. Her eyes bulged up at me and turned shiny.
“Dear!”
Daisy and I both turned to see Mrs. Schwinn standing in her driveway.
“Hello,” I called out, not sure if she’d been addressing me. Maybe she thought I’d been too rough with the baby. I hoped she couldn’t see the bruise on Daisy’s forehead. She’d somehow managed to smack her head while sleeping in the crib the other night. Abby said she found her like that in the morning and we both spent the day monitoring her behavior in case of concussion. But she’d acted normally and now her forehead showed only a small red mark within a circle of pale blue.
“I’d love to shoot them all!” Mrs. Schwinn said, squinting in the sun and twirling her car keys.
“Sorry?”
“Let me know if you find some way to keep them away. I’ve tried it all!”
“Who?” I asked. Daisy laughed uneasily, like someone watching a Beckett play.
“I’ve tried rotten eggs and garlic and cinnamon and stinky soap. I even tried peeing in the yard myself!”
She turned to her car, an old station wagon with, for as long as we’d lived there, one thin donut wheel on the left rear side. “Sometimes I watch from the window and wish I had me a gun.” She opened the car door and, just before climbing in, said, “Gosh darn deer!”
“Oh!”
She slammed the door shut and turned the key. The engine sputtered several times before roaring to life. She backed out of the driveway, brakes squeaking, and pulled away. I waved but she didn’t even glance at us.
“Did you hear that, Daze?” I asked. “Mrs. Schwinn wants to shoot poor old Bambi.”
Daisy grinned and grabbed another handful of grass.
Mrs. Schwinn’s anti-deer rant reminded me of Jerry Winters’s bizarre anecdote. I looked up at the house and the window of Daisy’s room. It was true that no deer, even on its hind legs, could reach that height. Nor could a man, unless he was unusually tall. Was the whole story made up? Jerry was so deadpan, and I’d been so high that night, I couldn’t tell if he really believed some two-legged, cloven-hooved creature had been lurking in the garden.
Daisy started coughing, her face pink with streaks of green around her mouth. I patted her on the back as a gooey mix of grass and bile dribbled from her lips.
“I told you not to eat that.”
I wiped her chin with my fingers, then dried them off on the grass. Daisy smiled and opened her mouth. I scraped a few stray blades off her tongue and she giggled.
Just before coming outside, while Abby lay on the sofa sighing dramatically, I had changed Daisy’s dirty diaper. I was not squeamish about cleaning up poop (though the odor never failed to surprise me), but I had to admit to a shyness about touching the baby’s genitals—her “woo-woo,” as Abby called it. I remembered the shock of seeing her swollen labia at the birthing center, and the nurse explaining that it was perfectly normal, something to do with hormones, and that I needn’t be alarmed. Now, those little pink folds, long since calmed down, seemed to hold all the mystery that had gone out of her mother’s older, dark-haired version. While wiping it gingerly—always gingerly—with a moist tissue, I wondered about those deranged men who got a sexual thrill out of touching children even as young as Daisy. Occasionally I’d read news stories about men who had gone even further. How absolutely far gone must you be to force yourself inside such a fragile, barely existent opening? Then my mind would move into the future to the point where my Daisy becomes a young woman and actually wants someone to push himself inside her, and I would again be confronted with wonder and terror at how any of us survive into adulthood.
Now, out in the yard, a bee floated drunkenly in the air around Daisy’s head, as if dangling from an unseen wire. The baby, unaware of any danger, swatted the bee away as she would a mobile. The bee danced away, then immediately returned. Daisy laughed. I leaned over and waved the bee off again.
“Get outta here!” I said, flapping my hand at the persistent insect. Daisy’s grin disappeared, replaced by a look of hurt. “Not you, sweetheart,” I said. “I meant the nasty bee.”
“Bay-bee,” she burbled.
Another bee materialized, and they both danced in the air around Daisy’s head. I sensed an illogical rage pour into me. I wished for a baseball bat to swat them right out of the air.
Then I remembered a trick I’d picked up while working in a hospital during summers off from college. I ran up the deck stairs and into the house. In the bathroom I found an aerosol can of Abby’s hairspray and ran back outside. Daisy was now waving her arms at the insects as they buzzed around her face. I ran down the deck stairs and knelt beside her. Covering her face with one hand I took aim with the other. I hit the first bee dead-on. Its wings immediately glued up, and it plummeted to the ground, buzzing angrily. The other seemed to sense danger and flew crazily around us. No sooner did I aim the can than the bee zigged and zagged out of harm’s way. I sprayed indiscriminately, dousing the air with sticky chemicals. Daisy squealed and tried to crawl away, but I held her close, my hand still covering her nose and mouth. I finally got a good shot off at the bee, but he had enough flying power left to carom back around me. I turned and doused him. Without a sound, he dropped.
By now, Daisy was crying sharply. I let her go and she crawled away, her eyes red, her mouth curled up into that terrible rictus.
“What the hell?”
Abby ran down the deck stairs and lifted Daisy into her arms.
“There were bees,” I said, certain this would explain everything.
“Did you consider bringing her inside?”
I didn’t answer, embarrassed to have not considered that option. Abby huffed and carried Daisy up the steps and into the house. I sat back on the ground, the aerosol can still in my grip. I looked up at the blue sky, at the thick green canopy of the maple tree. From somewhere in the grass nearby came a strangled buzzing sound. I stood up, located the crippled bee scrabbling among the grass blades, then I ground him with my shoe until the buzzing stopped.
*
To further avoid my wife, I decided to take a walk around the lake. Heading down the hill I could sense the air thickening, as if the algae that clogged the lake were somehow sending slimy, invisible tendrils onto dry land. I could smell the lake rotting in the hot air. Overhead, trees hung limply, their leaves still. The sand on the beach was littered with twigs and leaves. I wondered when someone had last played here. Maybe in the spring, though the water would have been too cold for swimming. I picked up a stone and tossed it into the lake, where it landed with a thuk atop the algae. The pathetic sound of rock against impenetrable muck steered my thoughts back to my job situation. Not only did I need to tell Abby what had happened, I needed to look for work. Our savings would run out by year’s end, and our insurance coverage was minimal. Basically, we were covered if someone got hit by a truck. Anything less than that came out of our own pocket. Daisy was late for her one-year check-up because we were waiting until September, when my teaching coverage was supposed to kick in.
Perspiration poured from my forehead as I continued walking the lake road. On my right were houses that once looked like ours but had been renovated into respectable two-story homes with large picture windows looking out onto the lake. At one time these views were probably impressive.
At the end of a driveway lay a rolled-up newspaper in a clear plastic bag. I thought of the articles I’d read at the library, and I wondered where the reporter had ended up. I couldn’t remember the name, only a few phrases and that grim black-and-white photograph.
I looked up and down the road. Deserted. The house appeared unoccupied—the windows were shut, no car in the driveway. I snatched up the newspaper and quickly walked on.
I was half way around the lake before I stopped and sat on a stone wall in front of a squat, brown house with an unkempt lawn. Blood pounded in my ears. While walking I’d been certain someone had seen me take the newspaper and was following me. But no one was on the road. In fact, I hadn’t seen a soul the entire mile I’d walked. I imagined everyone at their jobs, frantically earning money.
The plastic bag was damp from having been carried under my arm. I pulled out the newspaper and searched for the banner. What were the chances that the reporter had remained at the same publication for twenty-five years? Only three reporters were listed, none of whose names I recognized. Nonetheless, I decided I’d call the newspaper offices when I got home.
Still a little short of breath, I sat there on the wall for a while, skimming the news. The air on this side of the lake was slightly less oppressive, plus I was in no hurry to get home, anticipating a tongue-lashing from Abby about the bee incident. How great it would be, I thought, to just take off, to climb into the Corolla and drive west until the ties that bound me snapped. I could work odd jobs—short-order cook, house painter, gas station attendant. I’d meet desperate, lonely women who would come back to my weekly-rate hotel room and drink tequila and we would dance to a transistor radio before tumbling into the sack. Of course I would last about two days before I longed to hold Daisy in my arms. She was on the cusp of turning into a little person rather than a helpless baby, and I didn’t want to miss out on all the interesting things she’d have to say. It would take a little longer to miss Abby, but I would, eventually, and I’d remember how sturdy she was, and how she made such an effort to forgive me.
She’d known something was awry immediately. Even that first night, when I came home from the school theater with the smell of guilt all over me, she could tell I had changed. “What’s eating you?” she asked, and I told her I was stressed about school—the play, upcoming finals, difficult parents. Somehow I managed to put off my confession for two weeks, which gave me plenty of time, unfortunately, to accrue more things to confess.
I almost skipped the second performance of the school play, knowing I’d be too weak to resist a repeat of opening night, but I went anyway. Throughout the show, Okay Peterson glanced over at me in the wings until I lost sight of her (and everyone else’s) performance, thinking only of what was to come after the cast and crew went home, leaving Okay and me at the theater alone.
The third night—closing night—I did not hesitate. I kissed my wife and daughter goodbye and left our apartment with my heart skipping in anticipation. I was already getting the hang of denial.
I wondered many times since then if our affair would have lasted longer if I’d had a confidant to share information with. But there was no one I could trust—my friends were Abby’s friends, and my family was crazy about her—and so I was alone with this thing. For two weeks I lugged it around, the kisses and the sex and the notes and the glances in the hallways, like a rapidly filling steamer trunk, never able to open it up and show someone else the crazy, beautiful, awful things inside. I didn’t confess out of guilt; I confessed out of loneliness.
One night I just blurted it out. Daisy was asleep in her crib in the bedroom and Abby and I were in the living room, folding laundry. I’d taken an unusually long time bringing the clothes up from the apartment building basement, where the coin-operated machines were located, because I’d called Okay to tell her I couldn’t meet her. We had planned to get together that night in the park, but there was no way for me to sneak out without arousing suspicion. Okay had been upset and I’d had to talk her down—just the latest manifestation of her immaturity that was wearing at me. When Abby asked me why I’d taken so long, her tone of voice told me she expected a lie. By now she’d stopped asking what was bothering me, having tired of my stock answers. And it would have been easy to make something up—the towels were still damp, the dryer broke down, the super asked me to help him carry something—but I couldn’t do it. At the same time I couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth: I was on the phone with my sixteen-year-old lover who was in tears because I can’t hook up with her tonight.
“Well?” She folded a pair of my boxers into a neat square.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I said, and the steamer trunk I’d been dragging around burst open.
At first I tried to minimize my sins. I spoke generally of giving in to temptation, of inappropriate behavior, as if I’d cheated on my taxes instead of on my wife. But Abby had never been one to accept partial bad news. If a doctor told her she had cancer, she would ask to see the bloody tumor the moment it was torn from her flesh.
“Who is it?” she asked. She didn’t seem angry. It was more like she wanted to hear some hot school gossip.
I looked away. “Someone at school,” I said.
“Not Janet Weisbrod?” she gasped, referring to a recently divorced speech teacher.
“No!”
“Then who?” She tried to move her face into my line of sight, but I wouldn’t let her see my eyes. “No,” she said. “You didn’t.”
I chanced a glimpse at her horrified expression, then looked away.
“A student?”
I flinched, expecting a physical attack, but none came. She was hoarding her ammunition. The energy buzzed inside her.
“What exactly did you and this girl do? Assuming it is a girl.”
“Yes, it’s a girl,” I said.
“What did you do, Carl?”
“Well, we kissed.”
A pause here, as she took it in. Then: “What else?”
I dithered, my tongue slack in my dry mouth.
“Come on, Carl. This is about more than some hormonally-charged teenager.”
I looked down at a pile of my socks. One of them had a gaping hole. “You’re right,” I said.
For some spouses, including me, that would have been enough. No details, please!
“Tell me,” she said. She was getting some enjoyment from this grilling, and I couldn’t blame her. I was paying for my bad behavior. “Tell me,” she repeated. I noticed then she was holding a pair of novelty boxers she’d given me for my birthday. The shorts were black with a vividly rendered tiger on the front flap.
“Carl.”
I used the most neutral language I could muster: foreplay, oral sex, intercourse. As I said these words they sounded insanely filthy, much worse than the crass terms I might normally use.
“How many times?” Abby asked. Her face had grown more rigid, as if she’d been told of a death in the family.
“I don’t know.”
“How—many—times?”
I felt myself twisting in anticipation of those physical blows.
“Twice?” she said. “Three times? Five? Ten?”
“Maybe half a dozen times.”
“You mean you fucked her six times? Does that include blowjobs?”
“God. I don’t know.”
“Think, Carl. How many times did you put your dick into this little girl’s mouth? How many times into her tight little twat?”
“Jesus, Abby.”
“Tell me.” Her knuckles were white as she clutched at my tiger shorts.
“Maybe, like, six times we had intercourse, and maybe…I can’t remember.”
“You don’t remember this little chickie going down on you? Come on, Carl. You can do better than that.”
“Okay, okay. Five times.”
“Five?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Her bullying made me want to be defiant now, but it was like standing on a tall, wobbly stack of ice blocks.
“You did use a condom when you fucked her.”
“Of course!”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
And I had, except for that first time, when I’d pulled out. I tried to wipe away the memory of Okay’s amazed expression.
“What positions?”
“What?”
“Was she on top? Did you do it doggy style? Good ol’ missionary?”
“Abby, stop!”
“Did you do it up her ass?”
“Please!”
“I want to know everything,” she hissed, tugging at my boxers. “I want to know every fucking thing you did, you fucking fucker.” Tears flew from her eyes, little sparkling diamonds arcing over her cheeks and onto her hands.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
We were up until dawn. She would cry for a while, then rear up and demand more details—“Did you lick her pussy? Did you come in her mouth?”—before crumpling again. Twice Daisy interrupted us to nurse, for which I was grateful. Abby neither wept nor cross-examined me during these brief respites. Then, as soon as the baby was down, she launched another round of interrogation.
As the first pale rays of sunlight dribbled through the windows, she asked her final question: “Is it over?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
She looked at me for a long time, trying to decide if I was lying or not. This time I did not turn away. And though I’d been uncertain when I answered her a moment earlier, her stare made me stronger, and I knew I’d told the truth. It was over.
*
“Can I help you?”
The voice came from behind me. I turned to see Charles standing in the doorway of the house where I’d paused to rest. He wore a gaudy pair of Bermuda shorts and a tank top. His dark hair stood on end, as if he’d just woken up. He had his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.
“Sorry,” I said. I stood and stepped out into the street. For the first time I noticed the burgundy Cadillac parked in the driveway.
“Do I know you?” Charles asked.
“I’m a friend of Arnie Johnston’s.”
“Oh,” he said. “Do you need something?”
For a second I considered purchasing some marijuana, just for the hell of it. I’d sort of enjoyed getting high. But I didn’t have the correct paraphernalia, never mind the nerve—or the money. “No,” I said. “I was just resting.”
“Well, please don’t rest on my wall.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He stood there in the doorway, waiting for me to move on. His feet were bare.
“You know, you really should drive more carefully,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I said it except that I felt I needed to give him a poke.
He stepped out onto the small cement porch. “What?”
But I just waved and walked on.
*
When I got home, Abby and the baby were out. There was no note. Relieved, I picked up the telephone and went out onto the deck. For some reason I didn’t want to make this call inside the house. I dialed the newspaper office.
“Press,” a man answered. He sounded harried. I tried to explain what I was after—that I’d read some articles from twenty-five years ago and was hoping to track down the reporter.
“Which reporter?” It sounded as though he were doing three or four things at the same time.
I told him I didn’t remember, and before he could stop me I explained that the articles had been about a local murder case, that a child had been killed. I mentioned Arliss Taylor’s name.
“Oh, yes,” the man said. “I remember it quite well.”
“Can you tell me who wrote those articles?”
“I sure can.” It sounded like he’d stopped doing those three or four other things. “That was me.”
I was speechless for a moment.
“Hello?”
“Sorry. I’m just surprised is all. Listen, I was wondering if it would be possible to meet with you to discuss the case.”
“And what exactly is your interest in this case, Mr. –“
“Hammond. Carl Hammond.”
“Mr. Hammond. If you don’t mind my asking.
“Of course. The murder was committed in the house I live in.”
“Oh, okay. I was worried you were a writer doing one of those true crime books or something. You see, I’ve always wanted to write that one myself.”
The man’s name was Philip Harper, and he was now editor of the newspaper. He couldn’t meet until after Wednesday, he said, because of the paper’s deadline. I scheduled a meeting for Thursday afternoon.
“Thanks so much, Mr. Harper.”
“Phil. And it’s no problem. It’ll be good to refresh my memory.”
“See you Thursday then,” I said.
“Yeah.” He paused, but I could tell he wanted to say something.
“What is it?”
“How is the house?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Sure. Fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“No reason. It’s just…”
“Yes?”
“Nothing, really. We’ll talk on Thursday. Sorry, but I have to go.”
Then he hung up.
*




Dear Daisy,
The box the box the box the box the box. I’ve pulled and poked and banged and still it does not open. I’ve shaken and tilted and rattled it beside my ear and still I don’t know what’s inside. So today I took you to the hardware store to find some sort of tool that would help. Inside the little family-run shop on Main Street that I fear will no longer exist when you grow up, an older man in a red apron smiled at your precious face before asking if he could be of help. His nametag said “Tom.” He wore a bristly gray mustache and combed his hair from just above his right ear all the way over his scalp to his left ear. Normally this looks silly, but somehow Tom carried it off. I showed him the box and asked if he had any ideas how to open it. He whistled as he held it in his hands. “Where’d you get this beauty?” I didn’t want to tell him I found it buried in the yard, so I said I’d inherited the box from an aunt. (As you grow older, Daisy, I will often tell you never to lie, but the truth is there are times when you must. You’ll see.) Old Tom poked and prodded but could find no way to open the box. He admired the craftsmanship and was hard-pressed to identify the wood. He called out to another clerk who was also stymied, saying only that it might be oak or some other very heavy wood. The only way to open it, Tom decided, was to saw it in half. I could see he was reluctant to do that. “How much do you want to get in there is the question,” he said. “A family heirloom like that.” He asked what was inside and I confessed I did not know. He put his ear to it and shook. “Something pretty darn solid in there.” He asked if I’d like to buy a saw, though I could tell from the way he asked that he wanted me to say no. So I said no thank you and turned to leave. “Ma’am,” he called out, startling me, since I’d never been called that before. “The box,” he said. I had left it there on the counter! I thanked him and left the store. By then you had become very heavy and restless in my arms, and when we got outside you started bawling. I opened the car door but when I tried to put you in your seat you stretched out your arms and legs and straightened your spine so that it was impossible. I set the box on top of the car and tried to bend your limbs but you are strong, Daisy, and I was afraid of hurting you. Your face was red and tears rolled down your cheeks and splashed onto your pink cotton top. I took a deep breath and tried again. Thankfully all that bellowing had weakened you a bit and I was able to force you into the seat. While you wailed into my ear I strapped you in. You strained against the straps and let loose with a shriek that nearly melted the windshield. By now people were staring at me on the street, their eyes alert for some sign of abuse. People are always so ready to judge, Daisy. I confess I scowled at them as I walked around the car and climbed in. It was only when we arrived home, after a seemingly endless ride during which you never stopped howling, and I had gone around the car to open your door, that I realized I’d left the box on the roof! There it still sat, unmoved, on top of the car. I think I am meant to have it. It’s now under your crib, where you lie sleeping as I write this. It’s past midnight, and your father is snoring in bed. I’m not at all tired. Outside, lightning flashes every few seconds, but no thunder follows. The night is absolutely silent. It’s strangely exciting, Daisy! For a split second at a time, the world lights up as bright as daytime, then plunges back into darkness. Just now I saw a pair of deer out on the lawn, illuminated by a strobe of lightning: a buck atop a doe. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me until I realized what they were doing out there. And the buck, in a flash, he turned to look at me—am I crazy to think so?—before darkness fell again. Sometimes I am so glad we live here.

9.
On Thursday, I entered the Hungry Hen Diner at exactly noon. The booths along the wall were all occupied, as were the stools at the U-shaped counter. In the far booth sat a man sipping from a cup of coffee.
“Philip Harper?”
“That would be me.” He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and a faded blue and white tie. His graying hair was cut short, military style. His thick glasses, held by black frames, gave him an owlish look.
We shook hands and I sat down opposite him. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Not a problem. But I only have an hour. I have to come up with an editorial about this ridiculous sewer issue.”
“Must be hard to edit a newspaper in this town.”
“It’s a joy and a pain in the kiester.”
A waitress with pendulous arm flab took my order of root beer and French fries.
“A fitness nut, I see,” Harper said. He ordered a tuna sandwich, hold the potato chips. Then, after the waitress waddled off: “So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, like I told you on the phone, my family and I have recently moved into 49 Love Lane, and we heard this story about the baby…”
“Jane Bingham.”
“Jane?”
“The baby. Her name wasn’t in the paper, of course.”
“Right.” My spine went all icy. “My daughter’s middle name is Jane,” I said.
“How old?”
“Fourteen months, give or take.”
“That’s more or less how old Jane was. She was a cute kid, too. I saw pictures.”
I had a vague impression of the waitress bringing my soda.
“What else wasn’t in the articles?” I asked.
“There’s not a whole lot.”
“Were they married? Annette Bingham and Taylor?”
“No.”
“Was Taylor the baby’s father?”
“That’s what they claimed. I heard rumors to the contrary, but nothing solid. They didn’t perform any blood tests or anything.”
“Rumors from neighbors?”
“Yeah.”
“Which ones?”
“I’d have to look at my notes again. I talked to everyone I could.”
“Our neighbor, Mrs. Schwinn—“
“Across the road?” Harper asked.
“Yeah.”
“I remember her.”
“She told me that ‘strange things’ had gone on in the house.”
“I heard similar things. I remember the lady had a husband—“
“Mr. Schwinn.”
“Right. He said something about Satanism.”
“What—like devil worship?”
Harper chuckled. “Nothing solid. I think he was a religious nut or something.”
The waitress brought our food, but I’d lost my appetite. Harper picked up his sandwich—daintily, with both hands—and took a huge bite. He was probably accustomed to eating quickly.
“What happened to Taylor?” I asked.
“Pled guilty,” Harper said with his mouth half-full. “Got ten to twenty-five, or something like that.”
“So he’s out.”
“Unless he got into more trouble.”
“Did you ever speak to him?”
“Nope.”
“And the mother?”
“She refused to talk. Then she moved away with the boy.”
“Bill?”
“That’s right. Bill. Or Billy. They went down south, I think.”
“I wonder whatever happened to them,” I said.
Harper took another big bite. “I felt sorry for the boy,” he said. “To grow up in a house like that.”
“A house like what?”
“You should’ve seen the place.”
“You went inside?”
“When I took the photo of the house. The door was unlocked.”
“What was it like?”
“A mess.”
“You saw the crime scene?”
He nodded.
“The bedroom?”
“Yeah. Right off the hall there, as I recall. Jeez, I can still picture it pretty clearly. There was a blood stain on the far wall.”
“Across from the doorway?” I asked. That was where Abby had hung a portrait of her parents.
“The plaster was dented. That was worse than the blood. There wasn’t much blood, actually. I think I expected more.”
“Small head.”
“Uh huh.”
“What about the rest of the house?” I asked.
“A shit hole. Annette just up and left the place, maybe took some clothes, that’s all. There was junk everywhere, crappy furniture. Very white trash.”
I pictured the house in such a state. It was difficult—Abby was obsessively neat. Though in the past few days I’d noticed she was letting some things slide: Daisy’s toys didn’t get picked up as quickly, dishes lay in the sink all afternoon.
I picked up a french fry but didn’t eat it. “Why did you ask about the house?”
“Hm?” Harper had finished his sandwich and was poking at a small cup of cole slaw with his fork.
“On the phone. You asked how the house was.”
“Just curious, I guess. Something like that happens in a house, you never know.” He shoveled some slaw into his mouth. “I wonder how many people have lived there in the past twenty-five years.”
“Quite a few. Why?”
“Sometimes that’s a sign. People move in, don’t stay for long.”
“A sign of what?”
Harper took up a napkin and wiped his lips. “The place my ex and I got married—down south? It was an old plantation. Every single person who came, including myself and my wife, as we were driving up this very long drive to the house, saw a couple of old black ladies out in the field with their hoes. I didn’t think anything of it, but when someone asked the old caretaker about it, he said those were the slaves. ‘Slaves?’ we said. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They’ve been here more than a hundred and fifty years.’”
“So you think my house is haunted?”
He shrugged. “If there’s a house that would be haunted, it would be yours.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”
“Neither do I, actually.”
“What about those slaves?”
“I think that old guy was pulling our legs. So who told you about little Jane’s murder, anyway?”
“Our lawn guy. He said he was there when it happened.”
“That’s right. There was another kid there. A friend of the boy’s. What’s this lawn guy’s name?” Harper took out a pad and a pencil.
“Anders Lehigh. You shouldn’t have any problem with him. He seems to enjoy talking about it.”
Harper wrote down the name. “Excellent. Maybe he’ll have more on this Satanism angle.”
“You think there could be something to that?”
“You’d be surprised how many people are into burning black candles and sacrificing small animals. It’s a fad, like bowling. I mean, these are not rocket scientists we’re talking about. They shouldn’t have had children. Then again, I know a lot of people who shouldn’t have children.”
“I think you’re right,” I said.
He started to pull out his wallet, but I put up my hand and said, “It’s on me. Thanks for your help.”
“Thank you.” He stood up. “This story’s got my juices flowing again. I’ll do some checking around, make some calls. In the meantime, let me know if you find out anything else.”
“Same here.”
“You got it.” We shook hands.
“Hey,” I said, as he was starting off. “Do you have any job openings over at the newspaper?”
“Looking for work?”
“Sort of.”
He shook his head. “We don’t need anyone at the moment. Unless you want to deliver papers.”
Sadly, I considered it for a moment.
“There’s only three full-time staffers,” he said. “And the pay stinks.”
“Just thought I’d ask.”
“Sorry. I’ll see you, Carl.”
The waitress brought the check and set it on the table. I ate a french fry, but it was cold.