in order before they kill themselves. And, speaking as the only one here who has attempted it, I can tell you that I actually spent three hours finishing a school report before I did this,” and she held out her loathsome wrists. “The mind is a funny thing.”
“You know, Rachel, the problem with suicide is that everybody talks about it, but no one actually commits it.”
“All I’m trying to say is that you’re scaring me. You say you have to go away for business, but how do I know that they’re not going to find you dead in some hotel room?”
“Because I’m not suicidal. I swear it. Let’s make each other a promise. If either of us feels suicidal, we’ll tell the other and do it together. No more secrets.”
“That’s not funny,” she says, and the tears begin. She talks through her tears, but I have no trouble understanding her. In fact, it is at times like these that I understand her best. “If you want to fight, great, let’s fight. It’s the only time you show any emotion anymore. Any passion.”
“I don’t want to fight,” I say, and take her into my arms to comfort her, an action that needed no rehearsal, I’ve done it so many times before. “It’s all right. I’m all right and you’re all right. Don’t cry. I brought you something. A surprise. He’s in the car. Wait here.”
I wake Albert. He is sluggish from the medication. I navigate this lumbering giant through the garage and into the kitchen. I hear the bottle of his pills rattling in my pocket. As soon as she sees him, the mad fever leaves Rachel’s eyes. “Albert! Oh, sweetie!”
She stubs out her cigarette and rushes to him. She reaches her arms across his massive shoulders. She looks to me and gives me a grateful smile.
Albert grunts and hugs his mother. He speaks in his flat voice. “Albert did bad wrong.”
Rachel hugs him even tighter. “No you didn’t, sweetie. Mommy loves you. Mommy loves you so much.”
I go upstairs to pack my bags.
EIGHTEEN
The mountains are corrupt with fall colors. The trees bleed with beauty. In their colorful prelude to death, the maples turn a violent red. The youngest ones are only now beginning to change into their scarlet death masks. These trees are spotted and mottled with crimson lesions like illustrations in a medical manual. I have little patience for the dainty pastels of the hickory, birch, sycamore, and white oak. My attention is consumed with the maple’s garish horror movie colors.
The ride up is mostly silent. I am in a foul mood. Violet makes several attempts at generating conversation. Most of these attempts concern television talk shows and situation comedies and begin with the words, “Did you see ...” I simply shake my head and stare at the road. In the foothills, we pass a run-down clapboard church. A road sign in front of the church instructs all who pass by to PREPARE TO MEET GOD .
By the time we get to the cabin, my mood has lifted. It is as I remembered it from childhood when our family vacationed here, an elegant affair nestled high in the mountains overlooking a small lake. Our first order of business is sex. This is appropriate since it was here that my brother first initiated me into the world of women and what they were to be used for. Afterward, I walk out onto the deck that overlooks Lake Armistead. I stand on the deck, naked and bathed in sunlight. It feels good, I think, the light. I feel at home in the light. I shift my body so that my genitals are thrust forward and fully exposed to the sun, relishing the burn there.
Violet’s voice calls to me from inside the cabin. “You’re not done yet, are you?”
I walk back inside and Violet draws the curtains behind me. She flops onto the bed and waits for me. “No,” I say, “in the light.” I jerk the curtains open and sunlight streams over Violet’s naked body. I go to her. We nibble and kiss and bite. She climbs atop me, but I push her rudely off. I flip her over. Grasp her hips and pull
Needa Warrant, Miranda Rights