The Edge of Sleep (9 page)

He stared at the photographs for a long time, forcing himself to see every detail, to let the pain the boys had felt reach out and engulf him. Then, forcing himself to move against his own dread, he crossed the room and one by one turned out the lights.

Becker sat on the floor, surrounded by the pictures, and let the demons come. He was at home, but he was no longer in the safety of his own living room. His mind was once more in the pitch-black cellar of his youth.

He felt again the density of the darkness, an envelope heavy with menace that moved across his shoulders and down his back like a malevolent, living thing. It seemed to ripple over him like a giant serpent, and even though the muscles in his back twitched with warning for him to move he knew that to turn was worse, for he might have to see the creature face to face, its eyes glowing like fire in the dark.

He did not know how long he had been banished to the cellar; there was no time there, no way to mark the minutes except to count the terrified throbbing of the blood in his veins. Nor did he understand what he had done to deserve the punishment of which the cellar was only the prelude. He thought wildly, trying to remember what childish indiscretion had doomed him, what offense had merited this retribution. It was only much later in life that he would realize it was his punishment that mattered, not the crime.

They always left him alone in the dark so very long. Shivering with fright, fearing abandonment as much as he feared the creatures that peopled his imagination in the blackness, he would be almost relieved to hear the door open at last. So alone and so scared that he almost welcomed the appearance of his tormentor.

And finally there he stood, the object of Becker’s love and loathing all at once. The heavy tread upon the stairs. The sour smell of beer on his breath. The matter-of-fact tone that only gradually rose to anger.

The beatings often began as nothing more than a chore, dutifully but wearily tended to.

“I hope you’ve had a chance to think about your behavior,” he would say.

Or, “Your mother tells me you were a bad boy.”

Or, “Anything to say for yourself?” in a voice of such reason, as if there was room for discussion, a chance for repeal or pardon. It was often the cruelest hoax, giving young Becker the flash of hope, as if a chance to explain himself or plead for mercy would lessen his sentence by as much as a single blow.

Only later would the voice drop its veil of civilization. Then it would be “bastard” and “little son of a bitch” as the rain of blows grew into a torrent.

The boy Becker would cry, of course, and clutch his father’s legs and promise to be good and promise to try harder and promise and promise and promise. As if anyone was listening. As if there were some way to avoid punishment at the hands of parents who took their delight from it. As if there was any offense so vile that a child would warrant such beatings at the hands of his loved ones.

Over time it was the “loved ones” part of the equation that injured him the most. The body could recover and grow strong. But the shock, the continually stunning revelation that his abusers, the ones to whose whim his body was held constant hostage, were the people he loved most in the world, was the part that hurt most of all and did the deepest damage.

For it was not always this way. There were times, many times, when they seemed to love him. There were times when his father would ruffle his hair with the same huge hand that delivered the blows, when the voice that growled abuse would cheer him for his athletic skills. Moments when they would laugh at the dinner table at young Becker’s antics or congratulate him on his academic grades. There were times when his mother would caress him with her warm and gentle hands, soothe him with her smile, whisper in her urgent voice to “never tell.” Never. Anyone. To tell was to risk the loss of his family’s love. To risk the loss of the very family itself. Young Becker learned the value of secrets and the deeper truth that everyone possessed them.

There were also other moments when his father’s furies would overtake him so swiftly that he would send the boy sprawling across the floor with a cuff or a kick. But these impromptu beatings were rare and quickly over. They seemed to frighten both his mother and father with their volatility and caprice.

His father, Becker knew, prided himself on being a rational man, a reasonable man, a man in control of himself. Spontaneous violence was contrary to his self-image. Both parents preferred ordered, predetermined, “rational” justice. They liked to have him beaten in a way that was in keeping with their middle-class persona.

Now in the darkness of his living room the adult Becker shrunk once more from the abrupt and shocking sting of the blows, clutched his father’s leg, whined and moaned and cried and promised—and divined his own version of the truth of human nature—and his own. As he had over the years several decades earlier, Becker formed his own template of a starkly different kind than most. But not all.

He knew he was not alone in his vision of the world, or in the bent and ugly pattern of passion that had gouged a space in his heart. There were others out there. He could recognize them. He wondered if they could recognize him before it was too late.

Chapter 6

I
F IT HAD BEEN HIS CHOICE,
Edgar Rappaport would not have reported his incident with Dee to the police because he was afraid that word of it would get back to his wife. He could explain his broken nose to her in a number of ways. The multiple bruises could have been the result of a mugging. Mimi would probably accept even being locked in his own car as the cruel whim of thieves, although by the time he got home there would be no way for her to know about his hours in the trunk curled atop his sportswear samples. He had bled on two golf shirts and crushed and wrinkled a peach-and-cream-colored tennis skirt almost beyond recognition.

The police wouldn’t accept a story of mugging, however; not after they had been summoned by the motel owner, who had finally responded to his muffled cries for help and found him in full possession of his wallet, credit cards, and cash. Edgar had no choice but to tell them the full story—or a slightly edited version that omitted his striking Dee in the face and allowed for a more spirited self-defense against Ash, of whom Edgar offered the speculation that he was probably a jealous husband.

Since the motel was located more than two miles outside of the city limits of Saugerties, New York, the state police answered the motel owner’s call. They dutifully took notes, wrote down the descriptions given by both Edgar and the owner, photographed the room and the blood stains. The owner, who had been paid a week’s rent in advance, had come to like Dee, a bright, bouncy woman, but she was definitely uncomfortable around the man, a hulking brute whose name she never knew. However, since stains in her carpet were nothing new and she had three extra days of unearned rent in her pocket, the owner was indifferent to Dee’s apprehension. After a time, when Edgar had made it clear that he would not press assault charges, the police released him.

One week following Edgar Rappaport’s interview with the New York state police. Dee and Ash were in Connecticut.

Director Lewis tapped Dee’s letters, sucking in his upper lip. He was a fat, sallow man who lived his life steeped in hypocrisy and exercised it without thought or hesitation.

“These certainly appear to be in order,” he said, referring to the letters. “Naturally I’ll have to check them out.”

“Of course,” said Dee. They both knew that he wouldn’t check her references at all. It was hard enough to find anyone to do this work, much less a trained professional. The whole industry was chronically short of workers; she had the job when she entered the building, and both she and the Director knew it.

“Perhaps I should speak to you again when you’ve checked my references,” she said, deliberately tweaking him. It was one of the few times she would have any power over him, so she might as well enjoy it. The truth was she needed the job as much as the man needed her. After a week living in the car, her cash was gone. Savings were impossible, she owned little of value. She needed work now.

“Well. I don’t see any reason you couldn’t start working first,” the Director said. “I’m sure everything will be fine. How would tomorrow suit you?”

Dee smiled.

“Tomorrow would be fine,” she said. “I have a little shopping to do first.”

“Of course, of course,” said the Director. He rose with some difficulty because of his weight. “If there’s any way I can be of assistance ...” He tried to suggest the wide range of assistance he would be willing to offer her without giving offense. Women were so touchy these days. But she looked like she’d be a hot number, there was something in the eyes that suggested abandon. The husband is probably a drunk, he thought. That was what usually brought them to this place—family problems, general unemployability, desperation. This one didn’t look desperate, however. Nor unemployable. Which usually meant troubles at home, a recent separation. A woman like that was frequently amenable to extracurricular comforts, of course. The Director wanted to let her know he had a very understanding nature.

“There is something,” Dee said.

“Yes?”

“I wonder if there are any shopping malls close by,” she said.

“These days, there’s always a mall close by,” he said, and then he told her how to find it.

With her purchases in a bag on her lap. Dee settled into a chair at the food pavilion. Her feet hurt and she had a mild headache. The day had been taxing but filled with optimism. The first days of a new leaf always were. She would behave herself this time, she would devote herself to her work and to Ash and really sink some roots. Most of all, she would stay on her medicine.

She took a pill from her purse and lifted her coffee to wash it down. There was a twinge inside her as something leaped up. It felt like the first bubble of something just beginning to simmer. Dee savored the feeling; she knew the pill would kill it. She waited to see if it was still there, the pill and coffee both suspended before her mouth.

It came again, a little tug like a distant voice calling for her to come and play. If she took the pill, it would go away. It wouldn’t trouble her, she wouldn’t be sad anymore. Nor happy, either.

The feeling came again, bubbling up through sense and caution, something lighter than air that could not be suppressed. This time she thought of it as the first tentative pant of laughter of a schoolgirl trying not to giggle behind her hand. She wanted to laugh inside. She was just exploring the possibility, seeing if there was any interest in merriment in the rest of her. Dee knew that if she let it, the laughter would come full force. She would ring and peal and roar with laughter. And they wanted her to stifle it. Ash wanted her to, the doctors all wanted her to. But what did they know about it? They were gray, drab, dull people who had never known this kind of laughter. And they all wanted her to feel it, deep in their hypocritical hearts they did, because they loved it when she entertained them. They, too, were drawn up a bit by her levitation; she made the world better for all. And it was always her they expected to do it. Always Dee they waited on to infuse them with her energy and her enthusiasm. They never complained when she leaped to her feet to lead the dance. She was the dance, the music, the twirling lights, all the elements in herself. She always had been. Even when she was on their medicine she knew she was the life, not only of the party, but the world.

She continued to pause, pill suspended. The tickle inside her wanted so badly to expand.

And then she heard the boys. They were laughing out loud just as she was inside and the sound rang through the mall like bird song in the spring.

Dee turned and saw them, angel boys, cherubs taken straight from Italian frescoes and put in baseball caps and jeans.

Perfect boys. Young and funny and sweet. As jolted with energy as young cubs frisking outside the den, as innocent as seraphim.

Perhaps one of these wonderful boys was hers.

Dee put the pill back in her purse.

Ash knew there was trouble as soon as he saw the box of plastic gloves on her bedside table. He held them up and looked at her in wordless reproach.

“I have to handle wastes at work,” she said.

“You promised.”

“You don’t want me catching AIDS or hepatitis or something, do you?... Well, do you?”

“No.”

“All right then.” Dee took the box from his hand and shoved it into the night table drawer.

“You promised,” he repeated.

“I put them away. See? All gone.”

Ash continued to look at her reproachfully.

“Case closed,” she said. She dusted her hands and tried to look serious, but the merriment inside her could not be contained.

“You are such a worry wart,” she said, laughing now. “Haven’t I been good lately? Haven’t I?”

Ash watched her narrowly. She had been good for several days. But several days was not long enough.

“Haven’t I gone to work every day? Haven’t I? Yoo-hoo, Ash, I’m talking to you?... Haven’t I gone to work every day?”

“Yes,” said Ash.

“Haven’t I been sitting home with you when I wasn’t at work? Haven’t I?”

“Yes.”

She was moving ceaselessly around the room now. Ash stood in the middle and slowly pivoted to keep her in his view. She was not pacing, there was nothing frantic about her movements. Indeed, she seemed to have a purpose at all times, straightening the bed, adjusting the curtains, picking his socks from the floor and putting them into the laundry bag. But she never stopped moving.

“Well, then?” she demanded. She put her face close to his, grinning, shaking it in front of him. “We-ell?”

Ash looked down the front of her blouse. She caught him at it, of course. Dee waggled a finger at him, clasping a hand to her chest.

“Peeking? I am shocked. I am stunned. What kind of a man are you?”

Dee pulled the coverlet from the bed and held it in front of her. “What sort of a man am I locked in this room with?” she declaimed in mock horror. “A peeping Tom?... Or, gasp, worse?”