The Juror (40 page)

“I dunno,” says Eddie.

“Does she think it would be a sin to offer
me
a seat at the table?”

“I dunno,” says Eddie.

“Did I tell you that I found out where she’s keeping that child? A little village in Guatemala, up in the mountains. End of
the earth. But didn’t I warn her about that? Didn’t I patiently explain to her that there was nowhere she could go? Didn’t
I move Heaven and Earth trying to stop this tragedy?”

“You’re crazy,” says Eddie.

“But no, it’s pointless, trying to interfere. Because it’s all under the wings of the Tao. It’s set. There’s nothing I can
do, there’s nothing Annie can do. It’s set. I’ll see you soon, Eddie. Give your daughter my love.”

He hangs up.

Eddie says to the dial tone, “You’re crazy.”

He cradles the phone.

Then he says to the air:

“Kill my
family
, you cocksucker? Kill my cousins and then call me like nothing’s happened? Treat me like I’m your fuckin poodle all my god
damn life, and you think I’m gonna let you get away with KILLING MY OWN FAMILY? Oh, you’re a stupid crazy fuck.”

A
NNIE
is rehanging the curtains in her studio when the news comes on the radio. She’s replaced all the broken windowpanes, sealed
them. Now she’s standing on the arm of the dog-eared recliner, reaching up, trying to fiddle the aluminum tab on the curtain
rod into its slot. Trying to keep busy here. And it’s almost working. For a sliver of a moment there’s nothing else in her
head, nothing but this curtain rod. Then a snatch of quick thumping theme music comes on the radio—the local news:

“Car bombing near Cold Spring. Police suspect a mob hit. Details after this….”

Annie drops the curtain rod. It clatters, bounces. She steps back off the recliner. She’s pushing her knuckles together in
an attitude close to prayer. She approaches the radio. She bites her lower lip, and her eyes shimmer. Oh, Jesus. They blew
him up? Up? You bastard. Up, blew you
up
.

She’s on tiptoe. The ad drones on and on. This studio of hers has a good smell, what is it? It’s all the lacquer. And all
this fresh cold October air from the window being broken for days. She only just now noticed how sweet it smells in here.
Please, it’s him. It’s
got
to be him, doesn’t it? Blew the bastard to little tiny bits? She tries to catch her laugh and smother it, but it jumps up
out of her throat. Don’t, wait till they say his name, but she’s laughing this long childish ungovernable laugh as though
this were the funniest ad in the history of radio.

The newsman comes back and he says:

“Four bodies have been recovered from a car bombing at an abandoned school near Cold Spring. Police say they have evidence
that the bombing was mob related. At least two of the victims have been identified. Their names are being withheld pending…”

Four?

Killed
four?
Why? Louie, you only had to blow up the one. Or maybe his buddy Johnny, OK
two
, but—

The phone rings.

She picks up and a voice says, “He knows where your kid is.”

She says, “Who is this?”

But she’s asking only to gain time, to collect her thoughts. She recognizes Johnny’s voice.

“He knows your kid’s in some little town in Guatemala. You gotta stop him. I can’t stop him. I got my own kid. I gotta get
my daughter outta here. I can’t help you now. You gotta do it. You gotta stop him, Annie.”

T
HE AGENT
at the American Airlines ticket counter looks at this poor woman before her. Then she glances up at the clock, shakes her
head. “I’m afraid you’ve just missed that one, ma’am. But the Aviateca flight leaves in a hour, that ought to be—”

“I can’t wait! My child. My child is down there!”

“Ma’am, I believe the plane has already left the gate.”

“My child, please! My child—I’ve got to get there now. He’s dying.”

“Your child is in Guatemala?”

“He’s dying. Please. It’s—there was an accident, he’s hurt. He’s dying. My husband called me. He’s dying.”

There are rules of course, strict guidelines, and the ticket agent knows them, she knows she’s going to get herself in trouble.
But there’s also this woman before her, and this woman is the most desperate and frantic and unstrung creature she’s ever
set eyes on. The ticket agent tells her, “Hold on,” and she reaches across the counter and takes hold of the woman’s wrist
and gently squeezes it, and with her free hand she reaches for the telephone.

A
NNIE
, three minutes later, sprints down the great wide vacant corridor until a steward steps out and signals to her, and they
hustle her aboard.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” as they show her to her seat. The plane is backing away from the gate even before she gets
her belt fastened. She has the window seat. No seatmates, thank God. She’s been given this simple oblong of gray window. Whorls
of minute scratches on the plastic. Something meaningless for her to look at. Why did I ever challenge him? Why did I imagine
I could fight him? He’s huge, he could crush us both with one finger—why didn’t I do what he asked? Why didn’t I? Why didn’t
I? The plane takes off and the boroughs of the city reveal themselves beneath her. Grim brick, the streets crosshatched or
whorled like the scratches on the window.

Then the Teacher takes the seat next to hers.

T
HE TEACHER
says, “This is somewhat eerie, isn’t it? That we find ourselves on the same flight today?”

He can feel her rage, he can feel the scream that’s boiling up inside her. He puts his hand on top of hers—urging, with this
gesture, her restraint. “Don’t raise your voice,” he says. He opens his jacket just enough to show her his weapon. “I have
friends who let me carry this pistol aboard. I won’t mind using it. I’ll kill you, kill the pilot, kill the crew, kill myself.
Will that help Oliver? On the contrary, it will seal his fate. A colleague of mine is on his way to T’ui Cuch right now. He’s
flying down from California. He’ll be there in the morning. Your only chance of saving your son is to stay alive. Get to him
first. If you approach this calmly, if you meditate on this, I think it will start to make sense.”

But the fear keeps pouring off of her. The fear and the indecision. He knows what she’s thinking: What if there is no colleague,
what if the Teacher is lying to her?

In fact he is lying, which he hates to do, but this is the necessary work of the Tao—the Tao, which turns temporal lies into
eternal truth.

“Believe me, Annie. This time, please listen to me. If you had listened to me before, I mean to
me
and not that foolish raggedy-ann doctor? I think we wouldn’t have come to this in the first place.”

He pushes the stewardess call button over his head. When she appears he tells her, “I was sitting in first class? Seat 3A?
But then I ran into this old friend, it’s an unbelievable coincidence, and I’d like to stay with her a while? Will that be
all right?”

“That’ll be fine, sir. Of course.”

“Could you bring us a couple of drinks?”

“What would you like?

“Gin tonic for me.” He turns to Annie. “How about you?”

She expresses no preference.

So he orders two gin tonics.

After the stewardess goes he says, “I had a dream about you today. In the taxi, I fell asleep, and I had a nightmare. You
were drunk, Annie. We were at a cocktail party at the house where I grew up in Bay Ridge, and you were drunk, and for some
reason I went out and found your car. Oliver was in it. I locked him in and set fire to it. Then I went up and told you, but
I couldn’t make you understand. You kept trying to blow out the birthday candles. I yelled, “No,
Oliver
is on fire!” and you poured your drink on the cake. And I woke up in a cold sweat. In the taxi. It’s incredible, how scary
that was—and now you’re here and everything’s fine. I don’t blame you, Annie. For anything.”

“I didn’t—Zach, I’m sorry for what I did—”

“You were scared.”

“I didn’t
understand
you. Now I do, Zach—”

“I know that. Still, what’s destined can’t be halted. True? Self-evident? The force of one rain-fed orchid will crush the
universe. Oliver is
destined
to be killed in the morning. I think we both understand that now. God, we fought it, though. Didn’t we? You and I, didn’t
we look like fools trying to interfere? And Juliet, stepping into the path of that fate, didn’t she look like a clown? We
were like a troupe of circus clowns—”

The stewardess brings them their drinks. He gives her a twenty-dollar tip, she gives him a flirtatious smile. When she’s gone
Annie asks him, “Zach, instead of, of…”

“Killing Oliver?”

“Yes. Why don’t you just kill
me?
I mean take me somewhere and torture me and kill me in some really interesting way? Wouldn’t that be satisfying?”

He gives her a look full of concern. “Annie, listen, I don’t
want
to kill anyone. It’s just that I know what I’m going to have to do. Do you remember that night in your studio? When I told
you that if you would only trust me, then Oliver would be safe—but if you betrayed me, then no matter what the personal cost
to me, then Oliver would suffer. Do you remember that? And I
begged
you to believe me, I begged you. But how could I ask you to trust me when mistrust, and betrayal, and faithlessness are rooted
in who you are? Change your character? I could have as easily asked you to change the pattern of the stars. Do you understand?
I know that I can’t change what’s going to happen. I can only witness. I can only watch, in agony, as you hold the body of
your dead son in your arms.”

“But Zach, Zach,
please
—”

He puts his fingers to his lips.

“Ssshhh. Relax. Cut the universe a little slack, OK Annie?”

He envelops her hand in his own, and he holds it tight. He thinks what a long strange ride it will be, just the two of them,
sitting together like this, and there’s much for them to talk about. So many questions he wants to ask her. Fear and sorrow
and rapture at the same moment. He takes a sip of his drink. And it tastes like liquid silver.

A
NNIE
, four hours later, descends to the tarmac of the Guatemala airport. She pushes through the mob of passengers toward the terminal.
The Teacher is twenty paces ahead of her. He looks back at her once, and winks, then weaves on through the crowd.

They enter a long broad hallway, at the end of which are the booths for customs. The Teacher moves quickly, and when the queue
forms, he’s near the head of it.

A customs agent, a woman, summons him to her booth.

Now, Annie thinks,
now
should I call for the police? But no, he can still see me. He could still kill me, and kill himself, and the assassin will
get to Oliver.

So she has to stand there and watch as he flashes his floppy smile at the agent, as he breezes through.

He vanishes into the baggage claim hall.

Now.

In a moment he’ll pick up his rental car, he’ll start toward T’ui Cuch, too late to catch him.

Now.

She steps out of line. The passengers around her raise a complaint. She walks right past the woman in her booth, who shouts
after her.

“Murderer!” Annie says to the air. “He’s got a gun! He’s a murderer!”

She points. There’s someone in front of her now, in a uniform. And other uniforms are coming.

“He’s got a gun!” she cries. “Stop him!”

They answer in Spanish.

“I don’t
speak
Spanish.
Gun!
The man in the blue suit! Doesn’t anyone speak English? Please, stop him! Stop him!”

One of them tries to hold her. She wrestles her arm away, keeps moving. She sees a glass-walled office to the right with several
uniforms coming out, coming toward her. She stumbles that way, shouting.

Again she’s snared.

A voice at her ear, speaking English, says, “What is the matter here?”

A small trim police officer.

She says, “There’s a man with a gun! Up there!
Up there
. Blue suit, red tie, an American. Stop him! He said he’d kill someone! STOP HIM!”

“Who are you?”

“He sat next to me! Please, he’s going to kill someone.”

“Who is going to do this?”

“Blue suit! Red tie!”

“What color of suit?”

“
Blue suit! Red tie! Handsome!
Guapo! KILLER!”

The man mutters to his aides. A melee, cops coming from everywhere. “How do you know this man!”

“Killer! He’s got a gun!” What’s the word? “
Pistola? PISTOLA! PISTOLA!
”

Now her shouts cause an uproar in the lines. Some woman panics and screams, and the scream catches fire and spreads. The shrieking
and the echoes of the shrieking are deafening.

“How do you know that he has a pistol?” shouts the officer.

“HE SHOWED IT TO ME! FOR CHRIST SAKE! KILLER! ASSASSIN!”

T
HE TEACHER
, standing in line at baggage check, hears the commotion, the uproar, swelling behind him. He knows what it means: Annie is
struggling again.

He knows that her struggling is foolish, but he loves her foolishness. He smiles. He doesn’t look back. He takes a breath.

The baggage checker walks away from his post to see what’s going on.

The Teacher shuts his briefcase. He heads for the wall of glass doors.

“Señor?”

He turns. A policeman is standing there. And two security men are coming toward him. Indicating that they want him to put
his hands up.

Two more cops are crossing toward him from the baggage carousel.

He pulls out his HK and takes down one of the cops. He fires at the other but misses. Instantly he’s the center of an eruption,
a concussive wave expanding from the muscles of his heart outward, toppling hundreds of people at all points of the compass.