Mr. Apology Page 16

  “Maybe if it had been something else, like a kid mugging an old lady, maybe then I’d have done a Galahad act.”

  “So why didn’t you stop that kid?”

  An old memory, he thought. Something shimmering inside. Something he might have forgotten. The kid reminded me. The kid brought something back, a taste that was sharp, a vision that was keen.

  “Well?” Madeleine asked.

  “He reminded me of something. When I was a kid—”

  “I can’t imagine you as a kid.”

  He drew her towards him, hugging her spontaneously. “I used to get up to the same things as that kid. I used to do pretty much the same as he was doing right there.”

  “Doesn’t every kid?”

  “I guess. Only in my case I used to steal things from stores out of a sense of belonging. At least to begin with—the old peer-pressure thing. The clan, the tribe, the desire to belong to a group. The group I wanted to belong to liked to steal things from stores. It was a conspiracy. It made me feel warm. I don’t know. I didn’t like my home life much, because my old man was always on my case about how I was wasting my time with art. And the kids at school—the real kids, I mean, the rough guys—used to think I was some kind of weirdo. I wanted to show them. I wanted to be part of them.” He paused, looked directly into her eyes. “So I shoplifted. Usually one of the other guys would get the clerk’s attention while I slid around out of sight, stuffing things inside my jacket. Then it was something more than just a sense of belonging after a while.…”

  “Like what?”

  “The thrill, Maddy. The electricity.”

  “Stealing for kicks.”

  “Right. It’s damn hard to explain. I’d go inside a store on my own and I’d wait until the clerk wasn’t looking, then I’d steal something useless. For some reason, it had to be something I couldn’t use. A packet of tampons. A huge bottle of vinegar. Useless stuff. Then it got to the point where it had to be big as well as useless, because there wasn’t any fun in stealing small things. Huge boxes of detergent. One time it was a framed print of The Naked Maja. If it wasn’t large, there wasn’t any excitement. I wish I could explain the sheer goddamn thrill of knowing the clerk could turn around at any moment and catch you. You lived on the edge all the time. You expected to get caught. That’s what made it thrilling. I used to leave those stores and my mouth would be bone dry and I’d be sweating and shaking.…” He paused. Why was he telling her all this in any case? What sudden urge to spill his past in front of her? I want her to know me, he thought. I want her to know who I am and what I’ve been. The whole bit. “I never wanted to be a criminal as such. Sometimes I tried to imagine what it might have been like if I’d been a different kind of person, say a guy with a fondness for guns and sticking up liquor stores. Do you know what I mean? But I never had criminal ambitions beyond those good old shoplifting days.”

  “So you sympathized with that kid?” she asked.

  Harrison nodded.

  “Maybe you sympathize with criminals in general, Harry.”

  He smiled at her. “I don’t think I’d go that far.”

  “You’re selective, huh? Only juvenile shoplifters, right?”

  He put his hands flat against the sides of her face. “One time, we were on vacation in Virginia, I think, and I remember seeing these guys working at the side of the road. They were all dressed in these olive outfits and they were chained together. I was pretty young then but I remember looking at their faces and wondering what it was they’d done that would set them apart like that. It was as if they carried some kind of mark, like they all had the same tattoo in the center of their foreheads. And I remember wondering what I’d have to do to end up on a chain gang.… It was how they looked, I guess, that really interested me. Withdrawn, desperate, defeated. Like they belonged to some strange club they never wanted to join in the first place. I wondered what they were thinking. How they spent their time. What kind of people they were. I’ve never quite forgotten those guys. If I close my eyes, I can see them clearly even now. A race apart. A secret society. I remember being puzzled. Drawn towards them. I remember I wanted to talk with them.…” He paused. Another ancient memory. Another floating fragment of the past. The pale young kid seeing his first criminals, looking at them with eyes of wonder. He remembered the dust that rose up from beneath their picks and shovels, the clanking of chains, the brown green color of the grass verge that sloped away beneath them. Why had he suddenly dragged out this dilapidated recollection? The Apology connection, he thought—the criminal minds, dark burdens of guilt, the secret confessions of those who had broken the law. It was all wrapped up inside the notion of Apology, inside the inspiration of the project. Links, correspondences—the kid who shoplifted, the one who’d been fascinated by the faces of criminals on a chain gang, the adult who’d been drawn by the violence of graffiti and an attempted rape by a high school student—all these things were involved in Apology. He thought of poor old Albert slashed in the chair by the window—crimes and victims. The confessions of the guilty. The desire to hear those confessions. Criminals and artists—weren’t they similar anyhow? Weren’t they somehow set apart from a social mainstream, only obliquely attached to society?

  They moved along the sidewalk a little way. The rain was falling harder now, turning from gentle drizzle to large splashing drops. He turned up the collar of his coat. A certain fascination with the criminal mind, sure, but it wasn’t an intoxication, a desire to emulate, an urge to become a member of a certain lawless class of people. It was something else: What makes them tick? What kind of clockwork drives them? And how do they feel afterwards? And he thought of the voice that had confessed to killing a kid in some one-horse town in Ohio. He remembered the total lack of remorse in that narrative. I figure I just wanted to know what it felt like.…

  He experienced a sudden urge to get back to the loft and see what new messages had come in over the Apology line. He turned to Madeleine and said, “Let’s get a cab. Go back home.”

  “Any time you’re ready,” she answered.

  He grabbed her by the hand and they ran along the sidewalk in the direction of Canal Street.

  I’M A PRIEST. I’VE BEEN A PRIEST IN A CERTAIN PARISH IN LOWER MANHATTAN NOW FOR ALMOST TWENTY YEARS. I CONSIDER MYSELF, IF I MAY SAY SO, AS BEING EXTREMELY GOOD AT MY WORK, LOVED BY MY PARISHIONERS. I AM, IN SHORT, A CONSCIENTIOUS MAN. SOMEONE BROUGHT YOUR POSTER TO MY ATTENTION AND I WOULD LIKE YOU TO KNOW THAT I BELIEVE YOU ARE UNDERMINING MY FUNCTION. I UNDERSTAND NOBODY HAS A MONOPOLY ON CONFESSIONS, BUT AT THE SAME TIME I MUST POINT OUT THAT I SPENT MANY YEARS AT SEMINARY SCHOOL AND I FEEL EQUIPPED TO TAKE CONFESSION. CAN YOU MAKE THAT CLAIM? DO YOU HAVE THAT THEOLOGICAL BACKGROUND? IF NOT, I THINK YOU SHOULD DESIST FROM YOUR PRACTICE. I INTEND TO PREACH AGAINST YOU THIS COMING SUNDAY. GOODBYE.

  “Now you’ve gone and offended God,” Madeleine said. “I wouldn’t be surprised, Harry, if you burned in hell.”

  Harrison smiled, taking off his clothes, throwing them over the chair by the bed. “I’m harming the priestly business, I guess.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me.” Madeleine was under the covers, her knees raised in the air, hands tucked behind her head. She was watching Harrison undress. “You know something, Harry? Your shyness is quite charming.”

  “Shyness?”

  “Yeah, every time you take your clothes off your turn your back on me. I get this terrific view of your nice little ass, which is fair enough, but how come you never turn around?”

  “Coy,” he said. He turned towards her, facing her now. “How’s that?”

  “Gasp! Is that all yours? Is it real?”

  Harrison smiled and went towards the answering machine, turning the volume low. He felt Madeleine’s hand against his hip as he gazed at the red light; it was odd how it seemed to have this intrinsic hypnotic power. He wanted to reach out and turn the volume up and listen to the incoming message, but he didn’t move.

  Madeleine was silent for a moment. He
heard her sigh, then say, “I wish you’d come to bed, Harry.”

  He didn’t answer. He listened to the sound of Madeleine draw the sheets up over her body, the faint whisper of her hair upon the pillow. He imagined slipping into bed beside her, encircling her body with his arms, the flat of his hand resting against her stomach, his fingers lightly rubbing the surface of her skin. So what are you waiting for, Harry? It’s the red light, he thought. It’s the curiosity of the red light: It might have been a weak signal sent to some distant ship from a stormy shoreline. Ah, shit—he gave in, reached out, adjusted the volume. The voice he heard was muffled, indistinct, as if the caller were talking through a linen handkerchief.

  I’M A HOMOSEXUAL.… IT’S AN EXTREMELY DIFFICULT SITUATION FOR ME, BECAUSE I HAVE TO PRETEND TO BE STRAIGHT. MY POSITION IN LIFE DEMANDS IT, YOU UNDERSTAND. I HAVE TO PRETEND. EVERY GODDAMN DAY.… THE PERSON I LOVE, OH, I DON’T QUITE KNOW HOW TO SAY THIS. THE PERSON I LOVE … I’VE BEGUN TO THINK LATELY THAT THE BEST SOLUTION WOULD BE FOR ME TO MURDER HIM. TO KILL HIM. I’VE NEVER CONSCIOUSLY HURT ANYONE IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.… CAN YOU UNDERSTAND MY PREDICAMENT? IF HE WAS OUT OF THE WAY. I WOULDN’T HAVE ANY MORE PROBLEMS.…

  The murderous heart.

  Madeleine was staring at him; there was a vague look of irritation on her face. She wants me to shut the thing off and go to bed. He stared at the wall above the bed, the assorted posters—a Klee, something by Lichtenstein, another by Hopper. Why were so many of the messages such sad statements of the heart? Such obvious failures of love? He rubbed his hands together. Madeleine had turned on her side, away from the machine. She’d drawn a sheet over her face, as if she didn’t want to hear anything more. Maybe she couldn’t stand the sorrow in some of the statements, or maybe—and he turned this over in his mind briefly—she wanted to impose some kind of curfew on Apology. Don’t listen to any tapes after nine o’clock, Harry.

  There was another message now.

  Harrison recognized the voice; he felt a thin skein of sweat form on the palms of his hands.

  The laugh.

  The broken laugh that sounded like walnut shells being cracked open or the grotesque noise of a bird trying to imitate human laughter. He was aware of Madeleine throwing the sheets away from her face, conscious of her sitting up, turning to look at him as if she wanted to say for God’s sake, Harry, enough is enough—

  ME AGAIN … REMEMBER, APOLOGY? WELL, I GOT A HOT FLASH FOR YOU, JACK.… I DID WHAT I SAID I WAS GONNA DO. I DID EXACTLY WHAT I TOLD YOU, YEAH.… CAN YOU DIG IT, MAN?

  What did you do? Harrison wondered.

  Exactly what?

  Tell me, he thought.

  Come right out and tell me.

  “Harry,” Madeleine said.

  He held up a hand to silence her. He listened to the maniacal laughter. No, it wasn’t crazy, it wasn’t lunatic—instead, there was something coldly calculating about it. And he had the sensation, as he’d had once before, that the caller was somewhere inside the loft, somewhere in the deep shadows of the place, just waiting … but for what?

  YOU’RE GONNA READ ALL ABOUT IT IN THE PAPERS, APOLOGY.… YOU’RE GONNA BE READING ALL ABOUT WHAT I DONE.… I STRANGLED THE FUCKER!

  There was a strange sound now, like that of fingers beating against the surface of the telephone receiver. Loud, then louder still. Out there in the dark, Harrison thought, hunched against a phone, maybe watching the street in case somebody saw him. It’s a joke. It can’t be serious. It can’t be serious at all.… He shut his eyes very tight and tried to imagine himself looking inside that phone booth, tried to perceive the face, visualize the expression, tried to imagine himself knocking upon the glass door with a coin, rapping it impatiently, watching as the face turned towards him, seeing—seeing what? I need to see this guy’s face, he thought, and the ferocity of the thought surprised him.

  HE HAD ALL THESE GODDAMN PICTURES ON THE WALLS OF THESE DANCERS AND THE WHOLE PLACE STINKED OF SOME KINDA DISGUSTING PERFUME.…

  Harrison felt Madeleine’s hand cover his knuckles. “Do we need to listen to any more of this creep, Harry? I don’t like it.”

  HEY, APOLOGY, I KINDA LIKE TALKING TO YOU LIKE THIS … I JUST WISH I HAD SOMETHING TO SAY I WAS SORRY FOR, MAN.… OKAY, YEAH, LEMME SEE.… I COULD SAY I WAS SORRY ABOUT THAT OLD FAGGOT … BUT I’M NOT REALLY SORRY.… I’D BE LYING TO YOU, APOLOGY, AND I DON’T WANT TO MAKE A HABIT OF THAT. ESPECIALLY SINCE WE’RE GONNA GET TO KNOW EACH OTHER REAL WELL.…

  “What does he mean, Harry? What the hell does he mean when he says that?”

  Harrison sat hunched forward now, trying to absorb this voice, the nuances, the accent, the intonation. Real well, he thought.

  SAY, DON’T YOU EVER ANSWER THE PHONE YOURSELF, MR. BIGSHOT APOLOGY? YOU TOO GOOD FOR THAT, HUH? TOO REFINED? DON’T WANT TO GET DOWN IN HERE AMONG THE DIRT, HUH? IT DON’T MATTER. YEAH … ANYWAY, I GOT CERTAIN PLANS THAT INVOLVE YOU, MAN, AND THIS TIME YOU CAN’T GO HIDING BEHIND YOUR GODDAMN MACHINE.…

  Laughter.

  Harrison heard the swift intake of Madeleine’s breath. It’s getting to her, he thought. It’s getting to her.

  PLANS, APOLOGY. IF YOU WON’T COME TO THE TELEPHONE, THEN I’M GONNA HAVE TO COME TO YOU, DIG? I’M GONNA HAVE TO GO OUT AND FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE SO YOU WON’T HAVE THE CHANCE TO HIDE BEHIND A MACHINE.… YOU THINK YOU’RE SAFE, HUH? THINK I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIND YOU, HUH? YEAH, YOU’RE LIVING IN A DREAM IF YOU THINK THAT, MAN.… ONE DAY WE’LL COME FACE TO FACE.… I CAN PROMISE YOU THAT.…

  The laughter again.

  IT’S KINDA FUN, APOLOGY.… YOU AND ME CAN HAVE SOME REAL FUN TOGETHER.… I REALLY GET OFF ON THE IDEA OF FINDING YOU AND KILLING YOU—BECAUSE THE REAL KICKER IS I CAN APOLOGIZE FOR MURDERING YOU IN ADVANCE.… HOW DOES THAT GRAB YOU, MAN? HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL? CAN’T YOU SEE THE BIG MOTHERFUCKING HEADLINES? MR. APOLOGY KILLED BY HIS OWN CLIENT!

  The line was suddenly dead.

  Madeleine was staring at him. “Tell me it’s not for real, Harry. Tell me.”

  “It’s a fantasy,” he said. “The guy just feels liberated from restraint, lets his imagination run wild, that’s all. Don’t you see? He uses the Apology line to let off steam, Maddy. That’s what he’s doing—”

  “How the hell do you know that for sure?”

  Harrison wandered out into the dark of the loft, staring at the misshapen figure of Albert in the chair. I really get off on the idea of finding you and killing you.… He went to the window, looked down into the dark empty street. Nothing moved save some shapeless items of garbage floating in the night wind. He heard a sound at his back and turned, seeing Madeleine come naked across the floor. She put her arms around him; she was shivering.

  “He says he’s going to find you, Harry. He says he’s going to find you and kill you!”

  “Relax, relax.” He rubbed her bare shoulders gently for a minute. He could feel her anxiety, her fear, as if these were emotions that lay just beneath the surface of her skin. He kissed her on the side of her face. “You knew we’d get some pretty weird messages, didn’t you?”

  “Weird, yeah. I didn’t figure on anything like this guy, though. I can’t get that voice out of my mind.” She was silent, her face pressed against his shoulder. “Can he find out who you are and where you live? Can he do that much, Harry?”

  Harrison didn’t answer. He tried to imagine the anonymous caller tracking shadows through the dark, following old scents, sniffing the wind like a hunting animal. Where would he begin to look? How could he possibly get hold of the name and address? I think you overestimate the propriety of telephone company officials, Mr. Harrison, Shultz had said. How easy would it be? And what would be involved? A bribe? A threat of some kind? A shadow passed across his mind a moment—what if it were on the level? What if it were a real threat? How strong is the fortress anyhow? What would it stand up to? No, you can’t afford to take it that seriously, because if you did you’d scrap the Apology project and everything it meant to you—out of sheer cold fear, cowardice. You couldn
’t begin to let one maniac out there prevent you from finishing what you’d begun. Couldn’t afford to let one caller erode your enthusiasm for the whole thing.

  “He said he killed somebody, Harry.”

  “People say all kinds of things on the tape.”

  “I know. But why does this one guy keep calling, for Christ’s sake?”

  Harrison placed his palms against her breasts.

  She said, “What if he’s telling the truth? What do you do then?”

  “I told you. Stop worrying. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “I wish I felt that way. But I don’t.”

  “Maddy.” He pulled her close to him, putting his arms around her. This fear—how could he soothe it out of her? How could he make it dissolve?

  “He said something about pictures of dancers, some old queer—”

  “I heard him,” Harrison said.

  He took her hand, led her back into the bedroom, drew her body against him, moving the open palms of his hands over her bare breasts. He kissed her, losing himself in that connection of lips, tongues, as if they were building a bridge that linked them inexorably together. He stroked the soft flatness of her stomach, letting his fingers fall between her legs, listening to the quiet sound of her moaning. Forget whatever it is out there, he told himself. Forget the dark streets and the shadows that move between doorways, forget all the madness, the guilt, the wild confessions, forget everything except this woman. He felt her hand against his cock, her gentle touch, her light stroke, and in some profound place at the back of his brain he sensed the slow origins of an explosion.

  Later, he turned off the bedside lamp, noticing through half-shut eyes the red glow of light on the answering machine.

  Somebody is looking for me, he thought.

  Out there, perhaps even now, somebody wants to come face to face with Apology.

  I really get off on the idea of finding you and killing you.…

  He watched the red light recede as his eyelids became heavier; he watched it float off into darkness like a pale beacon burning against a stormy sea.