Shelf Monkey (34 page)

I could have loved her, no question.

The sky was lightening in colour, black to a sooty grey. Soon, people would be waking up around the city. Page would be opening the store, cleaning up after Munroe’s performance. She’d hear about it on the radio, perhaps, or maybe she’ll get a phone call, Munroe is missing, is he there? The police would be called. Questions would be asked. Someone had to know. They’ll trace his steps. Employees will be separated, grilled under lights. Hotel staff will be quizzed. Surveillance tapes will be checked, apbs will be put out, a state of emergency will be declared.

The walls of the apartment warped and shrank, cocooning me. I needed space.

Snow fell as I walked, disguising my footprints, erasing the evidence of our act. Street lamps became ominous spotlights. Headlights lit me up from behind. I tucked my head down, pretended to be fascinated by my shoelaces, catching the first bus I could, giving the driver a surly early-morning grunt in response to her overly cheerful, “Late night, huh?”

I kept small in my seat until I reached Aubrey’s house. The curtains were drawn. The nose of Munroe’s car poked out from the backyard.

I knocked quietly at the door. Faint shuffling noises could be heard behind it. “Aubrey,” I said in a low voice. “C’mon, brother, it’s me.”

“Ubf!”

The door opened a crack, allowing Aubrey’s eye to peer out. It regarded me with displeasure. “What do you want, Thomas?”

“Let me in, brother. We need to talk.”

The eye withdrew silently into the dark. Hearing no movement inside, I pushed the door open and slipped in.

Aubrey had been busy with his houseguest. Munroe was drooped over the sofa. His neck lay at a painful angle. Short, bubbling breaths came out of his nose. Cigarette burns on his face. His legs bent in too many places. Margarita sloped herself over his lap, snuffling into his crotch.

Aubrey sat next to Munroe, lighting himself a cigarette, offering the pack to me. I politely declined.

He drew a long, deep puff. “I guess I went too far, didn’t I,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“We both did. We all did.”

“Oh, that’s right, you did, too.” He winked at me, inhaling smoke. “You remember that, brother.
You
did it too.”

“I know, Aubrey. I’m as culpable as the rest of them.
Factum fieri infectum non potest
and all that.”

“How’s that, friend?”

“What is done cannot be undone.”

He nodded. “Precisely, very good. I didn’t know that one.”

“What do we do now?”

Exhaling, he grinned, smoke filtering through his teeth. “What do you think we should do?” he asked, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. Serenely, his face neutral, he blew upon the embers until they glowed, and placed his cigarette against Munroe’s cheek. That odour of baked meat arose again as he ground the smouldering ashes in. “What should we do, Thomas?”

“We have to take him to a hospital.”

“That’s one option.” He didn’t seem inclined to follow my lead. “Hospital, yes. They’ll fix him up. That’s what we’ll do. Then we’ll go to jail. Get gang-raped.” He put his head on Munroe’s shoulder. A hushed moan escaped from Munroe’s mouth. “It’s what we deserve, after all.”

“Fuck that,” Warren said from behind me, emerging from the bedroom. “I ain’t goin’ to jail, not for this sack of shit.” He walked unsteadily to the couch, kicked Munroe’s leg. “He deserves all we gave him.”

“That’s one vote for, two votes against the hospital,” said Aubrey. “Democracy in action, Thomas.” He hopped to his feet, staggered his way toward me, putting his hands on my shoulders. Alcohol fumes burned my eyes. “Any more bright ideas, counsellor?”

“He’ll die,” I said.

Warren barked. “I thought that was the point.”

Aubrey looked at him. “Kilgore? You enjoyed it, I gather?” he asked.

“Fuck yeah!” Warren exclaimed. “I haven’t had that much fun
in a long time.”

“I’m glad, Warren,” said Aubrey. “Are
you
glad, Thomas? Has any of this made you happy?”

“No,” I managed to say, a muffled noise. “Yes. This has all made me happy. No. I am not happy.”

“I know exactly how you feel, brother.”

“I have to make this right, Aubrey.”

“I knew you would, somehow.”

“Fucking pussy,” Warren spat. “Never a surprise from Thomas. No balls.” He made a slow, cock-eyed lunge at me, catching his foot on a beer bottle and crashing to the floor. “Slippery little fucker.”

“Warren?” Aubrey asked.

“What?” Warren made no move to rise.

“Go to bed.”

“Good idea. Big day today. Gotta trash the evidence.” Warren squirmed his way past me toward the bedroom. “G’night, Aub.”

“Good night, brother.”

“Good night, Warren,” I said to Warren’s retreating form. An eventual door slam was my response.

“He used to drink a lot more,” Aubrey commented. “Lucky for you he’s no longer that man. He was a mean drunk.”

I looked over at Munroe. “Lucky for all of us.”

“Oh, don’t blame Warren for all that. He got in his shots, but he’s too sloshed to cause any real damage. Most of that is my own handiwork. We all contributed to the piece, but as editor, I felt I had final say. Publisher’s privilege.” He blew a fogbank of smoke into Munroe’s face.

“We went too far, Aubrey.”

“You think?”

“We lost our minds.”

“That we surely did. I did. Where did I put it? I don’t care to know. Overrated organ never caused anything but trouble and misery to me.”

“I’m going to take him, Aubrey. He’ll die.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to stop me?”

“I guess we’ll see.” He sat there, hunched over his knees, daring me to move.

I started to walk forward. I walked to Munroe. I shoved Margarita rudely from his legs. I gathered Munroe up in my arms as best I could, grunting with the effort. I walked backward to the door, dragging Munroe slowly out.

I looked over at Aubrey. He hadn’t moved.

“Take care, Yossarian.”

I began to cry again. “You too, brother.”

I dragged Munroe down the stairs, his mouth drooling blood onto his shirt, his feet thumping loudly at every step. I manoeuvred him into the passenger seat of his car, praying that Aubrey had left the keys in the ignition. Luck was with me. I drove Munroe to the nearest hospital, leaving him lumped on the sidewalk in front of Emergency. I went home, put some clothes in a bag, grabbed what money and pills I could, and ran.

I imagine how my life could have ended differently. I stay a lawyer. I meet a nice lawyerette, settle down and litigate each other to our hearts’ content. Raise a litter of solicitors to carry on the gene pool, take some big cases, pervert the intent of the Law for my own personal success, raise a mint of a nest egg. I retire early, open my own second-hand bookshop, name it dog ears. People stop by to browse and chat, no pressure to make a purchase, I recommend whatever I feel like, and if I never make a profit, who the hell’d even care? Weekends, I hold screenings of movie classics in the back storeroom, discussing the thematic differences between the novel and its cinematic interpretation with anyone who cares to attend. Aubrey visits the store, and Warren, and Danae, we become fast friends, they tell me about a bizarre little book club they belonged to when they were young and foolish and honestly believed they could ever hope to make a difference in this world. We laugh over the whims of our youth, and rearrange the bookstore shelves according to date and publisher, giggling like schoolgirls.

We all know the rest.

Aubrey, Warren, and Danae. Gone. Together? I don’t know, but I’d put money on it. Aubrey’s house burned to the ground, I suppose a distraction manoeuvre. Aubrey splashed the entire house with gasoline, and in that house, what wasn’t covered with fuel was
likely made of paper. The most indiscriminate burning of ’tags the Monkeys ever had. Firefighters didn’t have a chance at putting out this blaze. They sifted the ashes for days before they concluded that the house was empty.

Munroe slipped in and out of a coma for two weeks. Our disappearance was suspicious, but no one firmly placed us and him together until he awoke. Once he described Aubrey to the police, mentioning his hair, all the pieces fell into place, and the manhunt began in earnest.

The other Shelf Monkeys? Fortunately, Munroe couldn’t describe any of them in enough detail to conduct an effective search. They might have gotten away clean. But Emily, damn her therapist-encouraged soul, turned traitor in exchange for immunity. Claimed to find religion. Munroe has already professed to have forgiven her. Big of him. She’ll get a book deal out of this, I’m sure. Published by MuPu Incorporated. The brazen story of one woman’s fight to escape the clutches of a diabolical cabal of biblioclasts. I hope she appreciates the irony. Know this: that as she carved her entry into the book of Munroe, the look on her face was that of a child riding the teacups at Disney World, wanting the ride to go on forever.

Most of the Monkeys went willingly enough. I think they were happy to be caught; it saved them the trouble of atoning for their actions on their own. I rather liked Tracey/Lyra Silvertongue’s high-speed chase down the Trans-Canada. Good television. They all quickly received major sentences. At the time I thought it was very decent of Dr. Newhire to speak on their behalf. A mass delusion of omnipotence brought about by a combination of work-related stress disorder and a charismatic yet insane leader with ideas of godhood. They were helpless, held in thrall to his charms and promises. We would have swallowed the phenobarbitol and begged for seconds. Nonsense, but it sounded good for the cameras.

In my daydreams, the Monkeys still meet in prison, gathering new recruits among the convicts, sacrificing the unworthy. Starting an underground network of Shelf Monkey Clubs. Perhaps a sanctioned franchise one day. The first rule of Shelf Monkey Club? You do not talk about Shelf Monkey Club.

Of course, I didn’t help my case by fleeing into the wild. Maybe
I should have stayed, taken my chances. Maybe the four of us could have fled together. It wouldn’t have been so bad then. Just as well. I wouldn’t even have tried to protest my innocence. As a lawyer, I blew, but I understand the law well enough to know when someone is well and truly fucked.

Goddamn, I am tired of all this. I’ve said all I have to say, and I’m no better off than when I started. I hoped for some closure, but I’m still on the run. Only difference, I’m even more desolate now. I ran out of anti-depressants two months ago, and the edges of tall buildings are beginning to tempt me. I can’t remember if I even had a point. It’s all so stupid now.

I’m going to stop running, Eric. I won’t turn myself in, I won’t willingly stick my head in the lion’s mouth, but I will step into the cage to see if he’s hungry. Start eating in restaurants again. Going to movies. Joining a book club. Going to bookstores. Reading in libraries, in plain sight. That’s what I’m going to do.

If I have to go out, I’ll go out on my terms.

Goodbye, Eric. I wish I could say I’ll see you around, but we both know that won’t happen. Unless you visit me in prison. Or the morgue.

Goodbye, Detective Daimler. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.

If someone could apologize to my parents, I’d be most grateful. They neither asked for nor deserved all the attention.

On second thought, just leave them alone.

All I ever wanted was to read a good book.

Yours truly,

Yossarian

From
The Globe and Mail

NEW YORK CITY
— One of the largest manhunts in American history came to a violent conclusion yesterday as Thomas Friesen, suspect-at-large in the Munroe Purvis kidnapping, was wounded and captured by police.

Agnes Coleman, friend of Munroe Purvis and author of the bestselling novel
My Baby, My Love
, contacted police when she glimpsed Friesen browsing the stacks at a Barnes & Noble bookstore.

“I was there for a book signing of my latest novel,
Baby Madeleine, What Happened
, when I thought I saw him in my audience. Then, that horrible man appeared in the customer line, asking for my autograph,” Ms. Coleman told reporters. “I immediately notified store security, who called the police.”

According to eyewitnesses, once officials had cordoned off the area, Friesen began throwing copies of
Catcher in the Rye
at police before running throughout the store.

“He led us on quite a chase,” Sergeant Luis Rizzuto related at a press conference later that afternoon. “He evaded us for quite a time by ducking into the Travel section, but we finally cornered him between Women’s Studies and Gay Issues.”

Despite attempts to calm him down, Sergeant Rizzuto said the former lawyer’s actions left police little option but to open fire.

“He nailed our negotiator in the head with a copy of Elmore Leonard’s
Stick
, leaving us no choice,” said Rizzuto. “Despite our best efforts at calming him down, Mr. Friesen was determined to die.”

Sharpshooters were called to the scene, finally managing to bring Friesen down near the music department.

“He had armoured himself by placing several large novels under his jacket, which proved difficult to shoot through. Our bullets were unable to penetrate the leather-bound edition of
The Collected Works of Herman Melville
that he used to protect his heart.

“They got through
Billy Budd
all right, but the bullets stopped about halfway through
Moby Dick
. We finally had to bring in armour-piercing shells. That is one hard book to get through.”

FILE # 09978

DOCUMENT INSERT:
Personal letter from Thomas Friesen.
        From patient files of Dr. Lyle Newhire

Dear Doc,

Before I begin, allow me a little literary license.

How many people get a second chance to discuss the end of their life? The only example I can think of is
A Clockwork Orange
; bloodthirsty Alex finally maturing beyond his nightly visits to the milk bars with his droogs and the intoxicating rush of a touch of the ol’ ultraviolence afterward. I hadn’t planned on it, certainly. I thought I was finished there, all over but the shouting. When the bullet pierced the Melville, driving seventy-two pages of dense maritime symbolism deep within my chest cavity, well, that was it as far as I was concerned. I felt Ishmael’s journal carve itself through what turned out to be the lining of my right lung, the leaves neatly perforating the tissue with their gilded edges, and an extraordinary fragrance filled my nose as I collapsed, a spicy mingling of blood and ink. If one gets to choose their final sensation on this plane of existence, it was the most appropriate scent I could ever have hoped for.