The Cage (11 page)

“It’s terminal, Mr. Newton.”

Harold stared across the desk. “I’m sorry?”

“Your cancer. Chemotherapy and surgery would be ineffective at this point. Had we caught it earlier, perhaps… I don’t understand, Mr. Newton. You had substantial health insurance. Why didn’t you come in earlier, at the first sign?”

“I thought they were cysts,” Harold told him. “I used to get them all the time when I was a kid. But they were always benign. Just calcium and fatty tissues, they said. It wasn’t until the one showed up on my—well, my penis, that I got scared. Can’t you cut them out?”

“Not at this point. The cancer has metastasized.”

“I think God is trying to kill me,” Harold said.

The doctor gave him a puzzled half-smile.

On his way to the car, Harold’s vision blurred. He stopped, took several deep breaths, and closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass. Then he opened his eyes again, slid behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. His hands were trembling.

For the first time in a week, he thought of Marcy, and of Harry Jr. and little Danielle.

And Cecelia.

He began to sob.

On the way home, he called headquarters in Dayton, and told his Regional Manager that he needed a few weeks off, and that somebody else would need to fill in as Store Manager for him. He confided about the cancer, but not the prognosis. The RM agreed that Will, Harold’s Assistant Manager, was the obvious choice.

Then Harold stopped into the store and advised Will that he would be running the show. He explained to his sales staff that they’d have to sell big screen TV’s and DVD players by themselves for the next few weeks, and that Will was in charge while he was gone.

He didn’t tell them about the cancer, but he could see the pity reflected in their eyes just the same. Harold knew what they were thinking:
Poor guy. He’s still taking their deaths pretty hard.

Harold felt the scream welling up from deep inside, and he left the store before it could escape. In the parking lot, the shakes returned and he realized that his face was wet again. He wondered if he’d been crying in front of his employees, and decided that he didn’t care. Fuck them and their pity. It was an accusation, even if they didn’t know it. It was an accusation because he knew. He knew what they didn’t. He hadn’t asked for their pity or consolations. Consolation was like a judgment, and though they didn’t know, that didn’t stop them from judging him just the same.

They didn’t know that he’d killed his family.

Or that he’d killed Cecelia, too.

Beneath his skin, Harold’s tumors began to throb.

He stopped off at The Coliseum for a drink, and ended up having several. He slammed his fifth shot of Maker’s Mark, tried to concentrate on watching the Ravens get their asses handed to them, and found that he couldn’t. Those same looks, those knowing stares of pity, followed him here. He saw it reflected in the eyes of the bartender and of the regulars.

He’d never brought Cecelia here, thank God for that. There was nobody to add two plus two, nobody who could say they saw them together. His only tie to the slim dancer was her signature on the receipt for the thirty-two inch Panasonic and matching DVD player he’d sold her, and that was over a year and a half ago.

“Want another one, Harold?” The bartender nodded at his empty shot glass.

He held up his hand, shaking his head. “No, I’m not feeling so good. Think I’m gonna head home.”

“You don’t look so good, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“It’s the flu, probably.” Harold pulled out his wallet and placed a pile of bills on the bar. His family stared back at him and he snapped the wallet closed. “One of the guys at work had it, and I think he spread it to the whole damn store.”

The bartender leaned toward him, his expression that of a conspirator. “That’s not what I mean, Harold.”

“Well, what then?”

The big man fumbled for the words. “You look—lost. I dunno. Like you’re feeling guilty or something.”

Harold jumped.

“It’s okay, man,” the bartender continued, “I know how it must be, going through this, all by yourself.”

“You do?” Harold’s voice was a whisper.

“Sure I do, man. I mean, how longs it been? Year and a half? Two years almost? You’re lonely and you miss your wife, but you don’t want to hook up with anybody again because you’d feel guilty. You’d feel like you were cheating on Marcy. But look man, what happened to your family wasn’t your fault. You need to—”

Harold didn’t hear the rest. The blood pounding in his ears sounded like an onrushing freight train.

He turned and ran out of the bar.

The tumors hurt the whole way home. Stuck in traffic on Interstate 83, the car next to him blasted rap music with the bass cranked to a thunderous level. Wave after wave of sound crashed over Harold and his tumors throbbed with each beat. He reached into the glove compartment, grabbed the aspirin, and downed two of them, grimacing at the taste. With each beat of his heart, there was a twinge in his chest. It hurt to breathe. Then the pain faded, replaced by the ache in his hand. Groaning, he flexed his fingers.

As the traffic crawled along, he shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. The pain in his hand and chest had shifted to his back and groin, and each movement was agony.

The rap song in the car next to his was over. Now, a pop princess was mangling Elvis Presley’s ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight’.

“Is your heart filled with pain? Shall I come back again…”

The traffic started to move, and Harold gripped the wheel. He turned his own stereo on in retaliation, searching for escape.

“I used to love her, but I had to kill her…”

Cursing, Harold stabbed the eject button and flung the CD out the window.

He coughed, tasted blood, and reached for two more aspirin. He considered it for a moment, pondering the dangers of consuming aspirin along with the drinks he’d had at the bar, and then swallowed them anyway. What was the worst thing that could happen? He’d die? He was dying anyway, according to the doctor.

By the time he arrived home, Harold could barely stand. He felt the bile rising, and just made it to the toilet when the aspirin, the whiskey, and something that looked like part of his guts came spewing out. When it was over, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It came away red.

He collapsed onto the bed and curled into a ball. He lay there moaning.

Eventually, he slept.

At first, the dreams were nothing more than memories.

It had all been Thom’s fault.

Thom Fox had applied for a salesperson’s job that October. Harold was short-handed (Branson had been transferred to another store, and the god-damned Nock kid had quit) and the Christmas season was right around the corner. Christmas was their busiest time—a time when all of the salesmen would be working long hours, and when Harold himself would be working seven days a week, open to close. Fortunately, they would also make a lot of money. The salesmen earned commission off of every item they sold, and Harold’s managerial bonus was based on their sales volume. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, they could easily make seventy-five percent of their yearly commission. After the holidays, things would slow down again until air conditioner season.

Despite the fact that Thom Fox had no previous home electronics experience, and even though he looked disheveled and spoke slower than turtle shit, Harold hired him. He had no choice. He needed cannon fodder—somebody to fill in the gaps while the rest of his staff hustled and bustled and glad-handed and asked “How can I help you folks today” or said “Yes, this is the top of the line.” Maybe the kid would get lucky, and sell a few microwaves and car stereos. Except the kid couldn’t sell, and to help the store’s performance (and his own paycheck) Harold began closing Thom’s deals.

That was how he’d met Cecelia Ramirez. She’d had her eye on a TV (a Christmas present to herself, she’d said) but was still hesitant. Thom asked Harold to get involved and close the sale.

She was beautiful—a Cuban immigrant with skin the color of light coffee. She had long, raven-black hair that flowed with her every movement. She was slender, graceful, and Harold learned that she was a dancer at the Foxy Lady downtown. Her low-cut jeans hugged her hips in just the right places, and her belly ring gleamed like a diamond.

Harold talked up the television, demonstrating the twin tuner picture-in-picture technology, the black screen for better picture quality, and the benefits of the universal remote. As he did, he felt himself hardening. He was embarrassed, and tried to turn away, but she brushed up lightly against him, smiling as she did.

“It looks awfully hard to hook up,” she purred, and her accent almost sent him over the edge right there in the store. He chuckled nervously and backed away.

Her eyes dropped to his crotch and then rose back to his face. “Do you have someone who can hook it up for me?”

“Normally, our salespeople are glad to come to your home and do the installation. You pay them directly for the service. But I’m the manager, and since you’re buying the DVD player too, I guess I could do it this evening—no charge.”

It had been that easy. He’d read about it (in those phony letters to Penthouse) and seen it in the movies, but he’d never expected it to happen to him. Harold was thirty-nine, and middle-age had begun to settle upon him. His six-pack abs were lost beneath a small pot belly, and his thinning hair had just begun to sprout some strands of gray. Despite that, this beautiful creature wanted him.

He’d shown up that night, hooked up the television and DVD player, and then accepted her offer of a drink. Half an hour later, they were undressing each other on her couch. They made love in the bedroom, and when Harold awoke at four in the morning, his heart pounded with apprehension.

When he arrived home, Marcy and the kids were sleeping soundly. He hadn’t been missed. They never missed him. Things hadn’t been good with Marcy for a long time.

“You have my heart.” That’s what Harold had told her through their first few years of their marriage, holding her at night when she worried about the bills or having children or affording to buy a home.

You have my heart…

By the time he slept with Cecilia, Marcy no longer held that position, and hadn’t for quite some time. In the years before the affair, he’d thought often of leaving her, but then Harold Jr. came along, followed a few years later by Danielle. He’d tried to make it all right—to enjoy what he had. Playing baseball in the backyard with Harry and giving horsy rides to Danielle until his back ached. But thirty came and went, and Harold grew resentful. The three of them were like anchors, weighing him down. Marcy was distant, and their lovemaking was nothing more than a ghost—murdered by valiums and antidepressants. Harry Jr. grew into a sullen pre-teen, a stranger, and Danielle decided that she much preferred her mother’s company.

His father had died at sixty, his grandfather at sixty-two. The odds didn’t look good for him either. That meant his life was half over. At times, Harold could feel his mortality approaching, as surely as the hands ticking on a clock. Cecelia changed that. That first month with her, he felt alive again. He hadn’t felt that way since college. She told him she loved him during the second month, murmured it into his neck as he thrust into her. He’d reciprocated the words in the dark, and meant them. She said she wanted him for herself, and made promises in the dark.

Now the dream shifted, as if on fast-forward.

“Don’t sweat it,” Tony assured him. “We’ll make it look like she took off with the kids. The cops will never suspect a thing, as long as you’ve got your alibi—and as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

“Of course I will.” Harold was sweating. “Come on, Tony! How long have you guys known me? I’ve sold Mr. Marano every piece of equipment he’s got in his house. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“You got the money?” Vince asked around a mouthful of pasta.

Harold handed it to them, and as the envelope exchanged hands he thought,
There’s no turning back now. Good. That’s good. I’m doing this for Cecelia.

“How will you—” he began to ask, and then realized he didn’t want to know.

Tony took the envelope from Vince and placed it inside his jacket. “We don’t ask you why a four-head VCR is better than a two-head. You don’t ask us how we do our job. Keep your mouth shut.”

But Harold hadn’t kept his mouth shut. When his family vanished, Cecelia had been properly sympathetic at first, but Harold could see the relief and sheer glee beneath the surface. Two months later, after an especially frenetic bout of lovemaking, he had told her the truth.

Her reaction was not what he expected, but watching it now through the lens of a dream, Harold didn’t know what he had expected. Certainly not for her to slap him, or to reach for the phone, threatening to call the police, which was what she had done.