Tenderness (4 page)

So he went to the mall. Where he graduated. From cats and kittens and, of course, Aunt Phoebe’s canary. The canary was the only representative of the feathered-friend population to receive his attention. Couldn’t resist doing it even though it invited suspicion for the first time.

“How did Rudy get out of the cage?” Aunt Phoebe asked, mystified.

Rudy, a ridiculous name for a canary.

“Maybe the latch got loose,” he suggested, face all innocent. He had an innocent face. His face was also beautiful. Innocence and beauty, always confirmed when he looked into a mirror, which he often did.

“Rudy was a clever bird,” he told Aunt Phoebe. “Maybe he opened the latch with his beak and flew around and crashed into the wall.” Amused as he told her this, seeing her expression of mixed emotions: sad and mystified. Really sad, as she held little Rudy cupped in her hands. Poor thing,
crushed like that, so easy, a quick snapping sound and it was over and done with. Tears in Aunt Phoebe’s eyes. Over a bird, of all things.

Dispatching Rudy was the highlight of his vacation that year with Aunt Phoebe in Wickburg.

Back home, visiting the mall, there was a pet store with small animals of all kinds, locked up nice and safe in cages. He regarded them without curiosity. He was tired of the animal population, anyway.

What did that leave?

He watched the people shopping, carrying bundles. Or just hanging out. Old people sitting on the yellow plastic benches, talking mildly to each other. Other people rushing past the stores, in a hurry, going somewhere. Teenagers in their oversized clothes, shirts hanging out, pants bunched stupidly at the ankles, baseball caps turned around. The girls looked really terrible, garish colors, crazy earrings, too much lipstick, hair going every which way, some with earrings in their nostrils and insolence on their faces, in their eyes.

He always dressed neatly. Clean clothes. Nikes all laced up, jacket without a spot. But not too neat. Did not want to draw attention to himself, did not want to invite inspection. Especially by those teenage girls with the insolent eyes. Or the watery eyes of old people.

Which would it be? A girl or someone old?

The questions surprised him, because he had not contemplated doing anything,
anyone
in particular, preferred to let chance take over, drift with whatever happened. Like with the kittens, cats, and even Rudy. Never plan in advance, go with the flow, follow his instincts. But knew it had to be different now. Suspicions. Investigations. That meant planning, scheming, which made it all kind of exciting.

Excitement was a new experience for him.

He seldom, if ever, felt excited about anything. But did not feel bored, either. Lived in a place between both, with the expectation of something big happening or about to happen. Went through the motions at school, made good grades, faithful with homework, amassed facts and figures and spewed them out as required, made honors without really trying, the computer doing most of the work. Made the teachers happy, his mother, even Harvey, who managed a stingy smile once in a while. But the hell with Harvey. He would put up with Harvey and his mother until situations changed. Meanwhile, he kept out of Harvey’s way and spent more time at the mall. Banners proclaimed that it was the Second Biggest Mall in New England although he didn’t think the second biggest of anything was much to brag about, but the mall was a more interesting place than home. For instance, he was amazed at the change of seasons
at the mall. The mall, actually, was without weather, without sun or moon or stars or wind or rain or snow. Yet the seasons were in constant rotation, Christmas and Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, the colors and displays and decorations following the calendar. Saint Patrick’s Day, leprechauns and shamrocks, and Easter with bunnies and colored eggs everywhere. At the moment, however, the mall was between holidays, a pause after Mother’s Day and before the Fourth of July.

Waiting for a situation to develop, he began to ration his visits there. Did not linger in one particular section. Made small purchases, always carried a package of some sort. Did not always make a purchase but chose from a collection of plastic bags at home from Walden Books or Hallmark or Strawberry, which he filled with any old thing so that he looked like a paying customer. He began to disguise himself in small ways. Dressed more like other teenagers, although he disliked wearing baggy clothes that didn’t fit well. He visited a thrift shop downtown and bought secondhand stuff. Hated wearing clothing other people had worn but made himself do it. Combed his hair differently, sometimes with bangs, other times flat and sleek like an old-time movie star. Wore his arm in a sling occasionally. Other times pretended to limp.

The mall was two-and-a-half miles from his
house, and sometimes Harvey drove him there, glad to be rid of him for a while. Other times he took the bus, although he hated riding the bus, confined in close quarters with other people, who coughed and sweated, inhaled and exhaled, but he sacrificed his personal wants and desires to the cause.

What cause?

He didn’t know. But felt that he was involved in some great future event. And had to be ready when it happened.

Then it happened.

He spotted the girl late one afternoon. She was tall, with dark hair flowing to her shoulders, slender, cool, wearing a white blouse and brown slacks.

She carried herself aloofly as if she were balancing a book on her head.

He began to follow her, limping a bit. He had chosen this day to affect a limp, dragging his right foot as he walked. He was careful to keep her in view, not too distant from her, not too near. The mall was crowded. Thursday was payday at the local mills and factories, and workers streamed in to cash their checks at one of the bank branches, eat at McDonald’s or Friendly’s, and go on small shopping sprees.

The girl headed toward Exit E, perfect for his purposes, the distant end of the mall, woods less
than the length of a football field away from the bus stop. He watched as the doors opened automatically for her departure. Careful to keep limping, he managed to quicken his pace, all senses keen and alert, colors everywhere bright and vivid, his step unable to keep pace with his hastening heart.

“My problem, Eric, is your lack of remorse.”

“But that’s my problem, not yours.”

“And your insolence.”

“I don’t mean to be insolent. I’m truthful. I tell the truth and the truth sometimes hurts. For instance, you have bad breath, Lieutenant. I can smell it from here. It must offend a lot of people. That’s the truth. But how many people have told you that? Instead, they either lie or try to avoid your company.”

Actually, Eric did not know whether or not the lieutenant had bad breath. But enjoyed baiting him, watching for his reaction. Was there a faint blush now emerging on his cheeks?

“Your gift of gab. That’s a problem, too,” the lieutenant said, continuing the verbal assault for which Eric admired him, not a whole lot but somewhat.

“Look, Lieutenant, we know what the problem is, right? Not my lack of remorse or my gift of
gab. The problem is that I’m turning eighteen in three days. The state says that I can’t be held any longer. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

The lieutenant said nothing. He was an old man, crevices in his face, sorrowful blue eyes, wispy gray hair. He smoked endless cigarettes, the ashes falling indiscriminately on his shirt or tie. His jacket never matched his trousers. He had been one of the arresting officers three years ago and had slipped the handcuffs on Eric’s wrists. Then began visiting Eric after he started serving his sentence. He had been coming to the facility four times a year, at each change of seasons, for the three years Eric had been incarcerated.

“Why do you keep coming here?” Eric asked at the end of the first year.

“Why do you keep seeing me?” the lieutenant countered. Like a teacher making the student answer.

“Isn’t it about time for you to retire? You look old and tired,” Eric said, without sympathy in his voice. The old man looked sad, too, but Eric remained silent about that.

“What would I do if I retired? I don’t have any hobbies, and no family. They give me easy cases. Wait a minute—you’re my hobby, Eric. Finding out what makes you tick. Like you’re the broken watch and I’m the repairman.”

“Who says the watch is broken?” Eric asked, annoyed, but the old cop hadn’t answered, merely lit another cigarette.

Which was exactly what he was doing now, probably the final cigarette on this, his final visit.

Lieutenant Proctor said, “You’re a psychopath, Eric.” The smoke came out of the lieutenant’s mouth as if his words were stoked by an inner fire. “A monster.”

Eric recoiled, as if the old cop had struck him in the face. Monster?

“Chances are you’ll kill again. You know it and I know it.”

Or was the old cop merely trying to taunt him? Trying to make him lose his cool?
Don’t let him do that. Monster
was only a word, anyway. And those were the only weapons the lieutenant had: words.

“You’re taking a lot for granted, Lieutenant,” Eric said, the sound of his voice reassuring, establishing his control of the conversation once more. “You’re making wild accusations. I wasn’t even convicted by a jury. A judge heard my case. He didn’t think I was a monster. He was very sympathetic. So were a lot of other people.”

“Other people? Did you take a close look at them? Who they were, what they were? You killed your mother and father, Eric. In cold blood.” Not sounding tired anymore.

Eric did not smile but his eyes gleamed. The lieutenant did not know about the others. Nobody knew about them.

“Harvey was not my father,” Eric said, leaving behind the thoughts of others. “He was my stepfather. I had just cause, Lieutenant. All that pain …”

“What do you know about pain?” the old cop snorted.

“You don’t even allow me my pain, do you, Lieutenant?”

He had stolen three cigarettes from Harvey’s pack of Marlboros. Went to the shed in the backyard, his hideaway, the shed tucked under overgrown maples, branches almost hiding the doorway. A combination lock prevented entry by anyone but himself. His retreat from the world. When he was tired of his mother and Harvey, the mall, school, everything, he went to the shed and just sat there. On the old revolving office chair. “What do you do in there, anyway?” Harvey often asked, suspicious, always suspicious of everybody and everything. “Nothing,” Eric answered. Most times he didn’t bother answering Harvey, which he knew made Harvey furious. He only answered him when he could score points. Actually,
nothing
was an honest answer. Because he did nothing in the
shed but simply sit there and think. Or didn’t even think. Let himself become blank. Like sleeping while awake.

But now he did not simply sit there and think. Instead, he set about doing what he had to do. Opened the only window a bit, to let the smoke out. Lucky the window faced the woods, away from the house. Lit the first cigarette, did not inhale, grimaced at the invasion of smoke in his face and eyes, the taste of it in his mouth. Looked curiously at the glowing tip. Placing the cigarette on the cover of a mayonnaise jar serving as an ashtray, he rolled up his left sleeve. Smooth and pale skin. Tapped the ash from the cigarette, studied the burning end for a moment, then braced himself and pressed the burning tip against his flesh.

Taken by surprise by the sheer ferocity of the pain, he uttered a single syllable of agony:
Ahhhh
. Then shut his mouth, clamping it tight, pressing his lips together. The burning tip fell off the cigarette and dropped to the floor. He stepped on it, still absorbing the pain in his arm, reluctant to look at it. With trembling fingers, he lit another cigarette, eyes slitted against the enveloping smoke, and through moist eyes watched himself place the burning end of the new cigarette against his flesh, an inch or two from the first spot. Grimacing, he gasped, emitted a muffled scream
through his lips. Seeing the tip end still glowing red, he pressed it against another spot on his arm, learning that pain reaches a certain point and does not get worse but remains in all its intensity and you can survive it. But, Christ, how it hurt … causing strange things to happen to his body, a wave of nausea sweeping his stomach, his knees turning weak and watery, and his head swimming with sudden dizziness that made the room whirl sickeningly until everything settled into place again. He held his arm stiffly in front of him, making himself look at those three cruel scorched places, could smell his burning flesh—no, not flesh, but the small hairs on his arm, singed and blackened now.

He suddenly leaped from a flash of more pain, this time unexpected. He’d been holding the second cigarette between the first two fingers of his right hand, and the cigarette had burned down to his flesh. He dropped it, stepped on it. Then he extended his arm again and smiled grimly as he inspected the three burned places.

He had also planned to use the hammer today but decided the burning was enough this time. He would put the hammer to work tomorrow. Looking at the vise fastened to the edge of the worktable, he wondered how he could use it to facilitate breaking his arm. Might be better than using just the hammer.