The Executor (18 page)

And but so now these once-harmless thoughts had grown terrifyingly specific, terrifyingly concrete, and though I’d done nothing—nothing at all except treat her well and think—I felt guilty, I felt sick, I tormented and lacerated myself, I lost my appetite, I had heartburn, I had palpitations, my head hurt, my liver hurt, I could not sleep. And while these terrifyingly specific and concrete thoughts were bad enough qua themselves, they seemed factorially worse when I realized what they said about the kind of person I’d become. Not only was I the kind of person who would marshal arguments in favor of murdering someone who had done nothing but good for him—someone he loved—but I would do so solely for material gain. It was this that frightened me most. I had grown fat and happy, drunk on comfort. I had come to take for granted that I should have food and shelter and books and beautiful objects; I had come to possess these things in my mind, so that they were not luxuries to be wary of but necessities to plan around. It was not a chair that I sat on: it was
my chair
, and, if not willing to kill for it, I was willing to allow the thought of its loss to serve as a premise for the vilest fantasies. I was impure. I was a merchant in the temple. And so I afflicted myself: I fasted. I read until the text blurred and my eyes burned. I brushed my teeth until I spat blood. I did calisthenics to exhaustion. I slept on the floor without a pillow. I took no pleasure in these exertions, like a man wallowing in a toothache. I wanted to be free. But my lust, once provoked, could not be undone: I desired.

I had hardly seen any of my friends since the night of my birthday. Now I began frantically calling people, making plans, meeting for cocktails, going to movies, engaging in all manner of trifling chatter, drinking myself stupid; that is what wine is for. Still I had no peace, and as Indian summer arrived, I again took to the streets, rambling over miles, sweating through my sportcoat, smothered by heat and dust, abused by the racket of jackhammers and the clang of construction, tripping over piles of bricks laid out across the brick sidewalk, Eric’s grinning face blooming in shop windows and on strangers; and I turned and fled into the bosom of the crowds, hounded by guilt, haunted by the awareness of my own power, the knowledge that I had the capacity to do evil, even if I chose not to exercise it. One cannot fire the gun until one recognizes it exists and that it is clutched in one’s own two hands. When that happens, one wants to fire it, because that is what guns are for.

And I felt guilty for feeling guilty, because I had no right to dismember myself for something I hadn’t done. All I’d done was think. What’s wrong with thinking? Was anyone ever hurt by a thought? I had no control over which images my brain chose to present to me, did I? One must distinguish theory from practice. I repeated to myself G. E. Moore’s famous proof of the existence of an external reality. “Here is a hand,” he said, holding out one palm, “and here is another.” I held my hands out. They were clean.

But I could not do anything to prevent it when, at night, in my dreams, I really did kill Alma. Was that my fault? I could not stop the thoughts from coming. I dreamt of strangling her. Bludgeoning her. Stabbing her with a kitchen knife. I dreamt of riding a horse, a red-eyed horse, across her body, trampling her to death. The horse was large and fiery; its nostrils shot steam; its hooves crushed her bones to jelly. I halved her skull with an axe, spattered her brains across the carpet, wiped my hands on my shirt. I crammed pieces of paper down her throat, filling her throat with paper, her smile widening as the light left her eyes, her lips mouthing
Thank you,
Mr. Geist.

“HOT AS HELL,” said Eric.

“Is that my nephew?” called Alma. “Tell him to come in.”

I stood aside to allow him into the entry hall, then went to my room and closed the door. I lay down on the bed and tried to nap, but I was trembling so violently that it was impossible, and anyway their voices from the library kept me awake. I was about to leave the house when Alma knocked and asked if I would be so kind as to heat up dinner.

I rose to my duties, then sat at the kitchen table, pretending to work the crossword.

“What’s up.”

He stood before me, his lean body curved against the doorframe.

“She’s taking a bath,” he said. “She’ll be down soon.”

I said nothing.

“Gimme a clue,” he said.

Still I didn’t answer, and he sat down across from me.

“Hey, I’m making conversation. Isn’t that what you do?” He sat back, laced his fingers behind his head. “Come on, let me try one.”

I said nothing.

“You think about what I told you?”

I said nothing.

“You must’ve thought about it a little.”

I said nothing.

He said, “I don’t know what you’re so worked up about.”

“I’m not worked up.”

Silence.

“I’m no good at those things, anyway,” he said.

I said nothing.

“You know, I really think we should talk it over.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Sure there is.”

I said nothing.

“Let’s talk,” he said.

I said, “I told the police.”

For a moment he paled. Then the smile. “Oh, yeah?”

I nodded.

“What did you tell them.”

“Everything you said to me.”

“What did I say to you.”

“You know what you said.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then there’s nothing I can tell you.”

He smiled again. “Didn’t I say you’re a shitty liar?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Okay,” he said. “Well, then, I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

“I guess so.”

“You guess right. Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. Either way, it’s okay. I mean, you can tell them whatever you want. I mean, it was your idea.”

I looked at him.

“Sure,” he said. “I mean, you’re the one came to me. Right? Of course you did. You’re the one asked me to make a deal. You asked for the house. So, I mean, if they’re going to come talk to me about anything, I’m going to have to tell them the truth. And the truth is that I love my auntie. I thought you did, too. But, look, man. If they ask me what happened, I’m going to have to tell them what you said.”

Though I had tried to prepare myself for this moment, I still felt completely upended. “Tell them what.”

“Lots of things.”

“Like what.”

“Oh, you know.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Think,” he said. “It’ll come to you.”

A silence.

I said, “Do you expect this to change my mind?”

“I don’t know, man. Maybe. I do know that you’re a shitty liar, though. So, really, you can consider this me giving you a second chance.”

I said nothing.

“Up to you,” he said. “Just remember, if I feel worried, I might have to go to the police myself, first. I don’t want to have to do that, but look. It’s one way or the other. Hey, here comes the bride.”

“Good evening,” Alma said. Her hair was damp. “Shall we eat?”

“For sure,” Eric said. “I’m starved.”

 

 

“HE EXHAUSTS ME.”

Alma groaned as she sank into the sofa. I was standing near the entry hall, having just closed the door on Eric. He had winked at me again on the way out, and my mind was still spasming.

Tell her.

It would be so easy.

Speak up.

Use words.

“You have disobeyed me,” she said.

I looked at her.

“Your shoes.”

I looked down at my loafers, much the worse for wear.

“For shame, Mr. Geist. One thing I ask of you before I die. I gave you that money for a specific purpose; did you think I would forget?”

“I’m ...”

Tell her.

“I’m still looking for the right pair.”

“Well, do find them, or else I shall think you ungrateful.” She shifted with discomfort. “Forgive me for noting that you seem a tad anxious today.”

Tell her.

I shrugged.

“I imagine that it has to do with your imminent return home.”

I’d forgotten all about my trip.

“I don’t have to go,” I said. “I can cancel.”

She raised her eyebrows.

Tell her.

“I don’t want to go,” I said. “It’s going to be depressing.”

“A little angst is good for the soul.”

“But,” I said. “But who’s going to look after you?”

“As I have said, I managed very well without you for years, and I shall continue to do so in your temporary absence. Dr. Cargill is due Monday. I expect that I shall survive until then.”

Tell her.

“But what if something happens to you?”

“What in the world would happen to me?”

Tell her now.

“Anything could happen,” I said.

“You would shield me from the Apocalypse, then?”

“I—”

“You are expecting a typhoon.”

“I can’t leave when you’re ... like this.”

She frowned. “I shall elect to let that pass without rejoinder.”

“Don’t. Let’s be honest. Isn’t that what you want from me? Honesty? Well, I’m being honest, and honestly, I’m worried about you. You’re not well.”

“Surely you do not believe this to be a new development.”

“You know what, I’m going to call and cancel. It’s far, and I’m not in the mood to get on a plane.... I’m going to call her right now.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“It’s really fine.”

“It may be fine with you,” she said, “but it is not fine with me.”

Tell her.

“But I don’t want to go.”

“Rubbish.”

“Ms. Spielmann—”

“Mr. Geist. Whence this obstinacy?”

“I’m
worried.”

“Unreasonably.”

“You don’t know that.” This was not some logical exercise, a point of debate to be won or lost. This was real, with real consequences, and I felt myself beginning to lose my head, heard my voice beginning to rise. “You don’t know what’s reasonable or not.”

“Until I am more convincingly dissuaded, I shall rely upon my own critical apparatus, thank you very much.”

“But, no. Look. Look: you don’t know.”

“What, may I ask, is there to know?”

Tell her.

“I—I can’t explain it.”

“Try.”

“I can’t.
”

“Then I cannot see how you shall win this argument.”

We volleyed a while longer, with me growing progressively more strident, until finally I spit it all out, everything Eric had said to me in the bar. I stammered throughout and was panting by the time I finished, waiting for her to react with appropriate horror. But all she said was,

“Ah.”

“That’s it?”

“Mr. Geist, I am moved by your concern. And I can appreciate that you have been under a good deal of strain. However, I cannot see why any of this bears upon your travel plans. Were my nephew truly capable of such a thing—”

“I’m telling you what he said.”

“You misunderstand me.” She smiled. “Morally, he may be capable. But he is far too incompetent to bring it off.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“You needn’t worry, Mr. Geist. I shall arm myself.”

“This is
serious.”

“Oh, quite.”

The more agitated I got, the less seriously she seemed to take me. That I could seem to express myself only in the form of impotent anger frustrated me immensely, making me even more petulant and angry in turn. “For God’s sake—”

“Suppose you are correct. What, then, do you propose I do?”

“Call the police.”

“Ach, Mr. Geist, be reasonable.”

“You
be reasonable.”

“Allow me to point out that if in fact Eric does mean to harm me, he would be unwise to do so now, having shown you his hand. Were I him, I would gnash my teeth and regret that I had mistakenly chosen an accomplice who turned out, against all odds, to have scruples.” She smiled again. “One of my nephew’s profoundest limitations is that he sees himself in everyone.”

I couldn’t understand why she was so calm. “I’m not leaving unless you call the police. Even then I might not.”

“Then what do I stand to gain by complying?”

“You can’t stop me from calling them.”

“I can. It is my house, and my telephone.”

“Then I’ll call from somewhere else.”

“You will not. My nephew needs no more bother from the police—”

“‘No
more
?
”’

“—certainly not when—”

“What does that mean, ‘no more’?”

“Merely that I have no desire to see him interrogated over a matter which shall inevitably prove to be so much sound and fury.”

“This is your safety we’re talking about.”

“I assure you that your fears are ungrounded.”