The
words Rosa had spoken to him on that first day drifted through Mike's mind:
if we told you your first goal was to be able to crawl inside the heat
and live there, I imagine our success rate would not be so high. He
pictured her voice in his mind and then let it float away again. He was
inside the heat, and yet he did not feel it; he knew his skin was cooking
around him but there was no burning sensation. Of course it was unfathomable
that he, Mike Logan, was sitting a half-mile from anyone else in the world,
in the dirt, meditating, but there it was and there he was. He could not
help the queerness of it, for in the back of his mind he still felt like
a complete jerk being out here like this, but at the same time it was peaceful,
it was calming, and he did not feel lobotomized one bit. His heart did
not race, his thoughts felt clear and solid, not busy and overwhelming.
He had been outside under the afternoon sun for two hours now, coated of
course in SPF25 -- even Rosa did not expect the mind to be able to prevent
heatstroke or blistering -- and would remain here until the sun set, which
was like a gift for having been so patient.
All
of this was like a gift, in truth. Rosa had started him out, but quickly
Mike had taken over, once given the imperative that until he got his act
together Alexa would not see him. She had explained that he was a week
behind now, and would have to work twice as hard to catch up with Alexa.
First, they started on what she had, on that first day, termed 'concrete
goals': they made up a schedule for him which included rising at six, working
out in the gym, jogging around the perimeter of the facility (two and a
half miles, as Mike discovered), cleaning up, having breakfast. He began
to feel as if he had been dropped in Club Med's Boot Camp. The nutritionist
listened patiently to what he liked to eat, then designed a plan which
included very little of that, nothing fried, nothing fatty, no sign of
a dirty water dog anywhere. Mike had never eaten a squash in his life,
but there it was, lunch. After eating he was to meet with one of the counselors,
sometimes Rosa, sometimes not, to go over his progress. The afternoons
were up to him; he might decide to exercise, or read, or work on any number
of programs they had designed to help heal the 'inner spirit.' That was
where Mike balked. he had no comprehension of such gobbledygook and gave
no credence to empty-headed neo-hippie nonsense. And then Rosa had explained
it a little better.
"Whether
you believe in crystals, or astrology, or past lives, or nuts and berries,"
she had told him frankly, speaking more honestly now that he had begun
to apply himself to their program, "is irrelevant. That's all modern window
dressing for today, because so few people actually believe in established
religions any more. So we make up what suits us. A little of this, a little
of that...and spiritually, we're satisfied. But one thing I think just
about everyone alive today does agree on is the soul. Everyone, I think
even the most hardened athiest -- which you're not -- believes there is
more to a person than flesh and blood and fluids and the occasional deep
thought. There is an intangible otherness in every single person, an otherness
that makes me not only different from you, but impossible to duplicate.
Even identical twins will tell you that despite everything in their lives
being equal and similar there is a separate self unlike anything that has
ever gone or will be that makes them unique. And I don't think that's just
human beings trying to make something out of nothing -- oh, we must be
special because we've got souls -- I truly think there is something to
that otherness. I think even you do. So if you do believe in your own uniqueness,
then you absolutely must believe there are things we cannot explain by
science and events we cannot describe with words. There is a certain amount
of faith required. So take that as your guide. Imagine that thing you call
your soul being what you are feeding by doing all of this. And you don't
have to hug a geode or sip ginseng to make it healthy again. My asking
you to try sitting in an extreme environment, without any outside interference,
is a long-tried, and long-proven way to help clear your mind. Just as you
might try to clear your mouth by using clean, fresh water, just imagine
trying to clear your soul by immersing yourself in the heat, by living
in the heat."
He
had done this now for four hours, sitting out here in his shorts without
anyone around or near him, sweating profusely and sipping his water, applying
more cream to prevent burn, and yet not feeling like a beach bum at all.
He wasn't out here to tan, if that happened (as it was, Mike was turning
unevenly brownish-red all over) it was a sidebar to what he was really
trying to do, which was think of absolutely nothing. But thinking of nothing
had never really worked; regardless Mike felt his gears turning, and without
him steering them eventually they chose their own path and his thoughts
began to spiral deeper and deeper to find the thing he really should be
thinking about. Slowly, the sameness of his environment faded, the heat
felt less oppressive, and he seemed to retreate to a place within himself
where he felt nothing, and saw nothing, and heard nothing. A first tentative
step inside the cool chamber of his self startled him; he rushed back out
only to feel the heat slam into his consciousness again, a rivulet of sweat
balancing precariously on his nose, and he brushed it away, disengaging
his fear, listening to the pounding of his heart.
Gradually
the darkness fell over him again and he ventured back to the self inside,
the anticipatory dread of venturing into a foreign room seeping into him,
and he pictured a doorway opening, an apartment room door. He saw his own
arms raised, cradling a gun, prepared for everything except the void of
the room. Cold, lit by late afternoon dusk he saw the room before him extending
whitely vacant, ending in a painted fireplace and mirror built into the
wall above the mantle. He moved as through water, his legs heavy, his mind
not with what he was doing, which was entering a foreign room to greet
the unknown, his mind was with some future plan.
A
flicker of movement in the mirror like a water bug skating across a smooth
surface. He had time to turn his head a few degress in the direction of
the movement, but a flash of thick wood filled his vision and cut sharply
into his forehead. Staggering, his drunken weaving through water seeming
to slow even more, Mike took two steps, fell to his knees, and a cracking
thud against the back of his head seemed to push his eyes out of his skull.
And then, in a wash of blue-bright pain, he lost consciousness.
The
severing woke him up; to retreat from consciousness and then lose it again
was disconcerting enough to snap Mike out of the room in his head and hurl
him back into his body, the heat, the desert, the dust. He had been in
the apartment, the co-op back in Manhattan, the place where he had been
jumped. It was a place he did not visit, in reality or in his head; the
subsequent lost weeks trapped in a basement without human contact of almost
any kind -- that was a place he never intended to revisit. Mike's eyes
twitched open, staring wide, and his breaths were rabbity shallow and fast.
He gripped the dusty, board-hard ground and felt the grains of earth dry
out his palms and slip through his fingers. With his breathing slowing
again, Mike realized the potent thrill of absolute fear had been almost
sexual, though more frightening than arousing. And why he had been able
to meditate far enough inside to open up a door he had firmly locked over
ten years ago -- that was something he could not explain.
Bereft
of understanding, surrounded by the silence of the desert the voices of
his parents, in strained, barely-repressed tones of contempt came to him,
his father asking him what kind of moron he thought he was, getting sand
in his jockeys and acting like some High Guru. You gonna smokem peace
pipe next, Mikey? You gonna kiss da ground 'n love da animals? Whafuck
are you doin'out there anyhow, ya bum? Let your wife boss ya like that.
Ya never were a cop, not like I was a cop, ya always takin' the wrong side,
the weak side, and noboddy survived what was weak, Mikey. His mother,
cutting his father off, admonishing him from the grave. Without realizing
it Mike flinched, anticipating the hit before, during, and after the scolding.
I never raised no idiots, Mikey, you ain't no dummy, but your father
is exactly right, what the hell are you doing out there, your shoulders
burning, heatstroke probably, and for what? 'Cause some half-spic tree
hugger told you to?
In
a buzzing, insistent, unrelenting tide the voices assailed him until Mike
thought he was going to go mad. What was he doing out here, the chorus
blending into his own voice, rising higher and louder. He gripped his head
and buried it in his raised knees, trying to shut out the hundreds of conflicting
angers and sorrows at once, until, when they would not quiet he burst from
the ground and found his feet, slowly backing away from the spot he been
sitting in, staring at it as if a fungus had taken root, then he turned
on his heel and fled further into the open desert, pounding hard like a
relay runner, the thick, warm, dry air burning his insides, evaporating
him internally, but slowly, the further and harder he ran, the voices changed
direction, they stopped asking a thousand questions, and only asked one,
just one, focused pinpoint that shafted up through his lungs and pierced
his heart. His body aching, Mike flung himself against an outcropping of
rocks, not even stopping with his hands, just run up against the granite
with his shoulder, and he stood gasping.
Why?
they asked, Why? they needed to know. Why are you doing this?
Because
she's dying, she's leaving me again, she's going to a place I can't reach
and she'll be totally alone and because this is the only thing I know how
to do, came his answer, and Mike thought he shouted it aloud, because
his throat was sore afterwards, but he never heard the echo, he never heard
the sound. And he doubted anyone else did, either.
But
the voices heard, and they quieted.
And
after a while, he picked his way back to his cabin and collapsed on his
bed, sleeping for the next twelve hours.
Mike
went back the next day, found a spot to sit in, and tried to relax again,
to let the heat and dust and dry force him into retreat, force him back
to that open doorway. This time, he thought, he would duck. But this time,
the doorway did not appear. This time, as Mike disappeared within himself
the way was very dark, very thick and heavy, as if trying to stare through
India ink. He quickly heard Rosa urge him to open his eyes, and he almost
did, almost brought himself back to the cactus and snakes and rocks, but
the eyes he had to open were not his real eyes, and Mike had grown attentuated
enough to know the difference. Inside of himself he pictured a separate
set of eyes opening, and after a long, long while, light began to stream
in, a pale, diffuse light, as if from a sickly light bulb. Which it was,
one sickly, plain, 45 watt bulb.
Inside
himself, Mike opened his eyes and was back in the basement.
That
he had returned was, in fact, not a surprise. That he had not returned
before now was also no surprise. Mike had never been egoistically introspective;
all of his psyche projected out, out, out, in the hopes someone would recognize
it and call it to his attention. What motivated him, what drove him to
do the sometimes senseless and occasionally insightful things he did on
a daily basis -- had never been a concern of Mike Logan. With Alexa he
had done some fumbling soul searching, in deciding to marry her and deciding
to remain married once his suspicions about Benjy had solidified, and then,
most recently, with her illness. But even then, he never felt he had truly
gotten his hands dirty, as if his psyche had become a rock under which
he had decided not to peek for so long that the unknown became spookier
than self-ignorance. But what Mike could not discern was why, in the midst
of the past days strangeness, his mind had decided to focus on the basement,
why that event stood out more clearly in his mind than any other time in
his life. Or, for that matter, why the event stood out more than the nightmare
with Alexa's sickness. He recognized the selfishness of it; that while
he was here supposedly helping Alexa to get better the only thing his subconscious
could choose to fixate on was his nightmare in the basement, but Rosa's
words came back to him again and he thought about what she had told him
a few days previous, how he might never be diagnosed but was also ill.
Perhaps this was what she meant. Perhaps she had been able to look into
his eyes and see the darkness behind them. She may well have known all
along this was where he would end up.
As
Mike's eyes widnened, dread took him over as a finger snuffs a candle.
He knew this, he knew where he was, and it was true that since this was
a waking dream he was conscious of the final results of the basement, they
really would come and find him, but that knowledge felt distant and hazy,
something he could not rely on. Gradually the sensations of the basement
came back to him...the moist, cavernous chill, the empty, abandoned nature
of his pit. His head throbbed and pulsed from the blows it had taken, and
if he strained he could hear small, shuffling movements. Something large
moved over his ankle, something with skittering prickles and a rough skin.
Mike convulsed upwards and yanked his legs from the bed he had been lying
on, his mouth twisting in revulsion as the rat jumped fearlessly from the
bed, fleeing into the dark.
It
was a basement, but this was no rec room or underground den. It was a hollowed-out,
roughly-constructed space of plywood, concrete, and dirt. One dim lightbulb
burned in the center of the L-shaped space; at a far corner several boxes,
all marked clearly with the Chef Boyardee smiling cook face, stared back
at him, laughing.
As
the drilling in his head muted to a vague whine, Mike-in-the-desert traced
back over the nearly eleven year memory, fresh to Mike-in-the-basement,
and tried to figure out what to do next. Leaving was a decent idea, and
finding the door was not difficult at all. Wearily, Mike climbed to the
top of a short staircase and turned the knob, which was locked. He pressed
his shoulder against the thick wooden door, but there was no movement;
so little give that he suspected the door was braced on the opposite side.
He was shut in, locked in, and he swallowed hard, forcing incipient panic
down. Someone would come. Lennie would come. Alexa would find him, she
had expected him for dinner hours ago. Mike glanced at his watch, but it
had been removed, along with his belt, his leather jacket, his shoes, and
his signet ring. His pockets were empty, and this discovery of how he had
been raided as if he were a cookie jar left him feeling violated in more
ways than one. The panic inside crept back upwards, and in frustration,
he banged on the door, shouting to be let out. He had no way of knowing
what time it was, or who might be on the other side, or if anyone could
hear him. He had no idea the world hadn't been blown up since he was knocked
out, he had no idea if he was even the last person alive. But he pounded
anyway.
The
more noise he made the more noise he had to make, and gradually Mike's
angry beatings turned frantic, his fists grew sore, then numb, and he scraped
at the doorknob in hopes of somehow pulling it off. The panic jumped up
from his throat and took him over, a blue light surrounding his entire
being. He was a cop, somewhere in his life he had been a cop but that was
several years ago and right now he was utterly, unreasonably, terrified.
After a long while he stopped, hearing his breathing harsh in his throat
and the blood pounding in his ears. Fighting to regain his composure, Mike
closed his eyes, erasing the dark room, and fitted his aching fingers under
his arms. Sweat fell from his temples and he did not wipe it away, focusing
only on not getting hysterical again. It made no sense to. Someone had
put him here, someone would take him out again. That was all there was
to it. All he had to do was wait.
And
then -- a click. A large movement on the other side of the door. Mike pressed
his ear against the wood and heard footsteps. He nearly cried in relief;
he had been found, his alarm had been heard. This was going to be over
very quickly, no problem whatsoever. He'd be back with Alexa that night,
all of this done with. Just then the desire to see her was almost more
overwhelming than his need to get out. Mike stood and took a few steps
back down the staircase instinctively. He might be getting out, or the
person on the other side could be the one who had put him down here in
the first place. No sense in making himself an easy target if they intended
to do him further injury.
The
heavy movement stopped, and a key turned in the door. Mike squinted, but
on his side there was no key lock, just a smooth, round, brass handle.
And then everything happened: he had a moment to catch a glimpse of a masked,
white jumpsuited person opening the door, holding a thick, white snake
with its mouth open like a bass. Then the snake began to gush, an enormous,
concentrated wand of water spurting from the mouth. It caught Mike in the
shoulder and knocked him to the side, then found his chest. He rolled down
half of the flight of stairs, grappling with his benumbed fingers for a
handhold, but the steps had seemed to flatten out and he could only roll
down them, smacking his hip and bashing his head against the ground where
he landed. Mike tried to scribble to his feet and avoid the tube of water
lashing into him, but he could barely see where he was going, and the dirt
floor turned to mud almost instantaneously. He raised his hands to shield
his head but the water wasn't aiming there, it struck at his bruised hip,
his chest, his back, anywhere it could poke and prod. Mike straightened
and tried to jump into the stream, get to the person aiming at him, but
the water caught him in the chest and knocked the wind from him. He twisted
and it caught him in the kidneys, a sucker-punch that knocked him to the
ground again, falling into the developing mud, and here he gave in and
curled into a ball, protecting as much of himself as he could. Still the
water came, dousing him, soaking him, his breaths layered with fat drops
of pulsating water. There was no word, no warning, no demand made by the
person weilding the hose, just the water, speaking louder than Mike could
hear.
He
had no idea how long it went on, but the water level in the floor began
to rise, the dirt unable to absorb it all, until there was a standing pool
of around an inch or so of water. But he did not move, gasping for air
through the mud and water, waiting either to drown or for the water to
run out. And finally, it did. The stream cut abruptly and he heard the
door close again, but he did not uncurl right away, just listening to the
silence of the basement, hearing a click and more heavy movement, and knew
he had been warned. Water dripped from his nose; his entire body felt like
a huge bruise, and his breaths came in sharp, shallow drags. After a long
moment he uncurled himself enough to drag back to the bed, where he collapsed
again and reformed his ball on the sheets, wishing he had learned to cry
properly years ago because it felt like the only proper response to whatever
was going on to him. But no tears came, just shuddering, gasping breaths.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered over and over, the sound of his voice comforting
him with its mantra. "Son of a bitch."
When
the eyes inside of his eyes opened again he was still in the semidarkness,
and though his clothes had begun to dry on him he still felt damp. And
the worst of it was the cold felt inside of him now; his feet felt like
ice blocks and his hands, though raw and bleeding in places from his pulling
at the door, were also bone-chilled. He was ravenous, and stared at the
laughing Chef. That was their solution for his food, and he doubted there
would be another. No one was interested in maintaining the Prisoner, only
in shutting him away. Mike slipped out of the bed again, stumbling cautiously
to the boxes, every inch of him either cold, aching, or throbbing, and
he tore open the Chef Boyardee box, revealing tens and tens of cans of
Spaghetti-Os, complete with the choice of either hot dog bits or turd-like
meatballs. A can opener sat wedged between two rows, and Mike shuddered
inwardly to think what he might have ended up having to do if the opener
had not been provided. There was no way to know how long they intended
for him to be down here; he would most likely have to eat beyond just one
can. Without the opener...a frostly finger traversed his spine, and he
opened a can, sniffing it cautiously, then began to dig in with his fingers.
It was cold, mushy, child's food but it tasted like a fine Porterhouse
with a baked potato and steaming peas.
He
gulped down the can and felt vaguely ill from the consistency afterwards,
but held it down, deciding to take a closer look at the room. There was
little to see. The cot behind him stretched, suspended above the floor
by a few feet, there were the boxes, but the walls were solid behind their
paneling. On the other side of the room, a utility sink leaked water from
a rusting tap, slow drips, and when he turned the tap a grumbling noise
belched forth yellow, then clear, water. Mike shut it off; he had seen
enough water, up close, for a very long time.
Cautiously
venturing towards the darker, more hidden area of the room's 'L' shape,
Mike kicked his foot into a stack of what turned out to be books. Picking
a few up Mike recognized none of the titles, just a selection of water-dampened
fiction. Beyond the stacks of haphazardly arranged books it was too dark
to see anything, but he felt forward with his hands, tentatively brushing
them against the wood paneling. It all felt the same as the area near where
his cot sat, just solid wall..and then he found the opening.
Like
a hole, only not quite a hole, a fissure at the juncture of two wood panels.
They had been ripped away around two feet or so, jagged, splintered wood
but beyond their tear was a scooped-out portion of wall Mike could not
estimate the depth of. He wondered if it might possibly be a route up and
out, a way to circumvent the door and emerge in a sewer, or even in the
store next door. Recklessly he stuck his hand in the hole to see how far
back it went, and brushed up against something warm and bristly, something
which flinched at his touch, and then sank its teeth into his probing hand.
Mike
screamed. He had never truly made that noise before; he had been startled,
frightened, and even sometime recently he had been hysterical. But he had
never screamed until those teeth found his finger and latched on. And then
a second set, and a third, and then he lost the ability to count, all he
could try and do was wrench his hand from that dark hole, wriggling like
a fish on a hook, unable to pull back, jerking and yanking. He reached
down and tried to hurl some mud into the hole, and that seemed to work;
at least one fire in the meat of his hand released its grip and he stumbled
back, lost his balance, and his hand emerged from the hole with at least
three or four wriggling, pit-bull rats attached, their tails twitching
like Medusa's hair. He tried to flick them off but only felt his own skin
tearing, and instead bashed them against the wooden wall, dislodging them
one by one, hearing them uninjured run back into their hole, leaving him
with an appendage that no longer seemed to belong to him, just a bloodied,
torn thing ablaze in agony. He clutched his wrist with his good hand and
felt tears squeeze from the corners of his eyes, not exactly weeping, but
an absolute pain he had never imagined. Backing away and falling over one
stack of books he made it back to the sink and rushed the water on, sticking
his fiery hand under the spigot, trying to wash away the blood and see
exactly what damage he had done to himself.
Tetnaus.
Had he gotten a booster lately? Mike had no idea. There was the distinct
possibility he would die of rabies, of tetnaus, of gangrene, of sheer stark
raving terror and insanity before this was over. And for the first time,
Mike began to realize it wasn't just possible, it was damned likely.
With
that realization he began to shake, his entire body overwhelmed by the
events of the past several hours, and his knees buckled slightly. He gripped
the edge of the sink with his one good hand and vomited his dinner back
up, feeling the bile in his throat and nose. Mike closed his eyes and fought
for control, fought to get the quaking suppressed, and slowly he stopped
shivering and reached for a cupped hand of water to wash out his mouth.
His
hand. That still needed attention. The best solution he could come up with
was to bind it, so he reached down and removed his socks, which were soaked
anyway, and ran them through the spigot to clean them off, then wrapped
them around his hand to staunch the bleeding and prevent any further infections.
If he was meant to die by rabies, there was nothing he could have done
about that, but if the hand got an infection and fell off, that would be
his own negligence, now, wouldn't it.
His
hand bound, Mike once again retreated to the cot, completely awake but
exhausted, and rest his head against the mildewy, lumpy pillow. He had
never felt so helpless, so completely unable to change his surroundings,
at least not since he had lived at home. The old oppressive night terrors
of the violence at his childhood home, that was what this reminded him
of. Home had been a place where if you stuck your hand in the wrong place
it could get bit off, home was a place where the savagery was random and
brutal, and always, always he had been entirely unable to change any of
it. Not until he had gotten bigger than his mother and could stand up to
her fists did she leave him alone. The lesson of might making right had
always been strong in Mike's mind, and yet, because of the remembered misery
of being a child unable to change the hell of his prison he had also felt,
with equal passion, for babies and children. Now, down in this dungeon
with faceless jailers and comrades of the rodent type only, Mike felt a
child again, trapped, helpless, alone. Abandoned.
He
slept again. It made the most sense.
And
he woke up. The sun was leaving the desert.
That
second day in the desert, or, more rightly, in the basement, shook the
life from Mike, and when he opened his real eyes the fading warmth of the
desert was like a blanket of calm someone had draped over his shoulders.
He smoothed his hands over the dirt and wondered at first where the water
had gone, then remembered everything. He was eleven years removed from
that basement, yet eleven years still connected to it. Everything he was
today stemmed from that basement; without his kidnaping perhaps Alexa might
have vanished from his life, just another lover, one of eventual faceless
many. Of course he knew from the start they had something unique, but before
the basement he had not realized it was special. He could not have known
how having her with him defined him in a way no other woman he had been
with would. So few relationships are tested that way, fewer survive, most
just limp forward, assailed by time and the eventual loss of energy in
both parties to want to begin again. And then marriage. And then, death.
But with Alexa he had been wrenched from her and held captive, he had come
out and been ill for weeks with only her vague presence by him to remind
him there was something worth waking up to. And then, her disappearance,
his pursuit, their reunion. She had stuck with him through all of that,
and he had stuck with her through her betrayal.
That
was still the hardest thing about reliving any of this, knowing that just
above ground life went on, and the life that was going on brought Alexa
and Ben together for a few weeks, turning Mike into an obstacle, like a
vegetating corpse. The two of them had done...whatever it was they had
done, and he had come from the cellar, and later she had been pregnant,
and then she had made him swear that incautious oath not to ask...and here
they were eleven years later.
Would
Alexa have gotten sick had they not been married? Probably. Had they gone
their separate ways Mike suspected she still would have become ill in her
thirties. And there was always the chance she might not have been with
someone who wanted to help her through as much as he did. For good or bad,
Mike realized, every step forward is another step that can't be backed
up. Had he not gone into the basement he might not be with Alexa today.
There might not be a Caitlin. There might not be a Benjy. All roads he
could imagine ceasing to exist. And yet, had someone come to him eleven
years ago and said if you agree to be locked in a tomb for two weeks,
develop pneumonia and malnutrition, if you let rats gnaw at you and subsist
in damp chill with no real knowledge of when you would be let out, if you
would be let out -- if you agree to these terms and survive you will be
rewarded with a loving wife and two children and a big house in the suburbs
and financial and career security...would he have agreed?
Warming
back up again, Mike ran his dusty hands through his hair and let the desert
soak him up. The sun had been falling for some time now, and he gazed up
into the blazingly colorful cumulus clouds, catching his breath suddenly
and holding it. The sky dazzled him, like a gift after a long and difficult
journey the sunset was like none he had ever seen, To have spent the day
revisiting his underground dungeon, then to open his eyes to this made
Mike feel as granola crunchy as he would ever allow himself to be. It was
the most glorious thing he had ever encountered, staring into infinity
as the sun pinked the sky like the end of the world.
Back
in his cabin, Mike showered off the creams and oils and sweat he had accumulated
during the day, toweling off and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror
as he headed from the bathroom back into the main cabin area. Had it only
been four days since Rosa put him on track? In his mind the days had dragged
out like long needles, but when he looked back on them the time blurred.
The mirror proved some time had passed: he had lost his bloatedness and
turned a golden shade of brown, his workouts were beginning to tweak muscles
he hadn't used since accepting his Captain's position a few years back,
and though four days was too short a time to show much improvement, he
thought he caught the beginnings of change. His hand reached up to the
slight grey at his temple and near his ear; that would not go away, that
was there unless he chose to dye it, but that he did not mind. For a moment,
Mike dropped the towel and stared at himself, not so much for narcissism's
sake, but as an appraiser, trying to decide if the product had dropped
in value, and if so, how much. He had never had the washboard stomach or
well-defined muscles of some of his peers; Mike had never had the time
or interest in working out, and over the years his poor eating habits and
sporadic exercise had made him, if not flabby, soft, But there was no tendency
towards the pear-shaped mass of his father, and he did not feel spread
out. No, he felt good, he felt pretty damn good, and he knew he didn't
look his age. A candle of guilt flamed in him, for he did not feel he had
the right to feel this good when Alexa was somewhere in another cabin possibly
--
Mike
cut the thought short. Over the past four days, while he sat in the desert
remembering the basement by inches and moments, he had tried not to think
of her, and later in the evening as he headed off to dinner, he tried not
to ask after her. Mike wanted to know, desperately, how she was doing,
but one thing he had taught himself, sitting out there in the desert alone
for four hours a day was patience. If Rosa said nothing, Mike said nothing.
She knew his intentions, she would tell him when Alexa gave the clear.
So he did not ask. He kept to himself, heading back to his cabin after
his meal, and sat out on the porch reading until his eyes no longer could
comprehend the text. In bed usually by around ten, Mike's nights were deeply
slept and dreamless, and all of this made him feel, if not serene, at least
something close to it.
Then,
one evening a week after issuing her instructions, Rosa appeared at the
foot of his porch steps, holding a tray, on which sat two glasses of mixed
juices. Her lantern dangled from her arm like a pet firefly. "May I join
you?" she asked, and he nodded, waving his arm to the other chair. Rosa
handed him a glass and sipped hers for a few moments, not speaking at first,
the calm evening air full of rustling insects and oddly placed chirpings,
all muted and low, somehow managing to emphasize the vastness and depth
of the desert beyond.
Mike
had been startled to discover the stars. Earlier in the week, when he had
begun sitting on his own porch and reading by lantern-light he had heard
a crackling out in the dark and stepped out into the front yard area of
his cabin, trying to discern a shadow in the shadows. He had decided it
was a jackrabbit or some other innocuous intruder, and had been about to
go back to his book when he glanced up and found the sky nowhere near as
dark as the ground around him. Every cliche flew into his mind just then,
how the stars were a canopy, how they dotted like jewels, and none of them
truly described his wonder. City lights were always so bright that he had
only rarely seen one or two stars poke through, winking maliciously down
at him. And even then he had not been able to be sure if they were satellites.
He thought of the Billy Bragg lyric: is it wrong to wish on space hardware?
But out here, with an infinity of novas above him he knew at least one
was the real thing, at least one of the stationary sparkles could be true.
He had stared and stared until his neck hurt, then dragged the chair out
into the yard and leaned back, staring up until he fell asleep.
Slightly
more blase a few nights along, Mike could handle not staring up at the
stars all evening, letting them just be part of the exterior decoration
for his reading hours. With Rosa there, though, he found himself gazing
out at them again, patiently waiting for her to explain the reason behind
her visit.
After
a long silence, she spoke. "I was raised in California, Mr. Logan. My family
still all live there. They can't fathom why I've chosen to make my home
out here, in the desert. No one can ever fathom why anyone would want to
leave the perfect, idyllic weather of California or the tides of the Pacific.
But after coming here, I learned how much more natural it is to the body
to have a challenge thrown at it. Complacency is such a killer; maybe that's
why I find so many people from my hometown so dull and fat. Not their bodies,
no, fat practically gets your evicted from California, but fat in their
minds. Soft. Whiny. Something's too cold for them, they have to banish
it. Something's too hot, they're frightened of that, too. They're not afraid
of the earth moving under their feet, but even that...they laugh it off.
There is no challenge, no danger, no need to understand the forces around
them, because all you have to do is turn on the heat, turn on an air conditioner,
rebuild a section of your house. Where you come from...out East...that
is, at least, a kind of challenge, with the snowstorms and hurricanes and
freezing temperatures. To live there you have to adjust: you can't just
move in and expect instant compatibility. Out here...failure to adapt will
kill you. There are no fat people in the desert, fat in their minds or
bodies. The desert abhors complacency. We have air and heat out here...but
just the everyday elements of living require being challenged. Out here
a person is constantly under attack, and every day lived through is a victory
of sorts. Do you see what I'm saying, Mr. Logan?"
Mike
nodded slowly, "I think so."
"I
did worry about you for a while. I really thought there was no turning
back for you atter last week. But I was wrong. Sometimes I really do like
to be wrong."
Mike
smiled in the darkness and sipped a little more of his juice.
"Do
you understand why it was I couldn't let you see your wife last week, Mr.
Logan?"
He
leaned forward. "You told me she didn't want to see me."
"Exactly...but
I did have something to do with it."
A
hot flare seared his brain -- then fizzled out, as if doused in a bucket
of water. Mike knew he should have been angry, but the emotion felt buried,
and unimportant. The fact was that Rosa had been right. The last thing
Alexa needed to worry about was why Mike had fallen apart without her.
"I understand," he said.
She
smiled at him. "You don't have to tell me," she said, "but what has your
mind chosen to meditate on while you're out there?"
"What
do most people meditate on?"
She
shook her head. "There is no one object. Or event. Or smell. Or instance.
Some relive old memories. Some focus very hard on the reason they are here.
Some say they have dreams. Personally, I think they are all the same."
"I'm
not sure I get that."
"The
reason everyone is here is, of course, to either get well or see someone
they care very much about get well. Improve, at the very least. So that
hangs over everyone's subconscious, like...like perhaps the theme of a
play. Unstated, but always present in every move, thought, or action that
occurs onstage. What one meditates on, then, is like the action and the
choreography of the actors, the actual play itself. And since the action
has to center around theme, and develop the theme, it is inevitable that
what one dreams, what one relives, or what one recalls in their senses
all bears some relevance on why they are here."
"I
was..." he said quietly, "I was trapped in a basement for two weeks about
ten years ago. It had to do with my job. I was a homicide detective then.
Alexa was the one who figured out where I was, and got me out of there."
"So
you are reliving that time."
He
nodded slowly, remembering how after that first major breakthrough where
he had remembered the rats on his hands and the water soaking everything
he had almost not gone back. But he felt a door had been opened inside
of him, and he was being given a rare opportunity -- and, he hoped, the
last -- to peer inside and feel around, to come to terms with what had
gone on. Alexa had never asked him directly, and he supposed he did not
really want her to, but had she done...he would have told her what went
on. Since she had not, the incident had faded in the background of the
rest of their lives. No one had ever been prosecuted for his kidnaping
and neglect; they were nearly positive it was Alexa's sister Amelia, still
serving the rest of her days in Ossining, rotting for all they cared, but
no one had pursued it very hard once Mike had been found. With entirely
separate evidence she had been convicted of three murders. Who cared about
tacking on another charge? It could hardly have changed anything. Mike
had agreed; pressing charges would have meant a public explanation, dredging
up every detail for the record. Better to bury it. But it had not stayed
buried; it was being unearthed where no one thought it could be found --
in the middle of the desert. So he had gone back. The past three days had
been difficult, but nowhere near as hard as that first day. But he was
nearing the end of his memory of the incident; after a week and some odd
days down there the pneumonia had put him in a kind of coma, and he had
not stirred for anything until they found him. That part of his time in
the basement he could never remember, because he was only half-alive at
the time. Another few days and he would have died. Soon his reliving would
be done. And then what?
"Are
you understanding it better?"
Mike
swiveled his head diffidently. "I think so. In some ways I feel in the
dream a lot like I do now."
"How
is that, Mr, Logan?"
"Alone.
Separated. Not knowing when it ends."
"It
will end, Mr. Logan." She pushed herself out of her chair and Mike stood
to see her down the steps. "You've really done remarkably well," she told
him.
"Rosa,"
he called after her.
"Yes?"
she called to him, holding her lantern aloft, the orange glow making her
seem like a specter.
"When
does it end? When can I see --"
"Soon,"
she told him. "Very soon."
"Soon"
wasn't good enough any more.
As
soon as the crunch of Rosa's tennis shoes against the dusty ground began
to fade, Mike leaped over the porch railing and landed noiselessly in his
yard. Gazing once up at the stars and then back into the nothing of the
night, he found her shadow and lantern movement easily, bobbing and weaving,
a wandering star, drifting away from him and back towards the main cabin
area. Mike's cabin was on the edge of the grounds; he had few neighbors
and when he stared out into the desert no other cabin light broke the spell.
Turned this way, however, he could see the windows of ten or twelve cabins
aglow like eyes, and when Rosa passed before one of them her silhouette
created a pupil. He was being watched, if not by any one person, by the
camp itself. Mike moved quickly, feeling the muscles in the back of his
legs tense with an instinctiveness he had not remembered for years, the
sort of feeling he once remembered having when he played basketball on
the hard asphalt courts of Manhattan. He did not feel fifty, he felt younger
than when he had met Alexa, he felt...ready. Ready for what he did not
know, but certainly ready enough to tail Rosa.
She
had told him he had to do these things if he wanted to see Alexa, if he
wanted Alexa to want to see him. And he had done these things, tonight
had been, quite obviously, a checkup. But a week of penance was plenty.
He would keep up the routine, but he would not be alone in his efforts.
Enough was enough, and "soon" wasn't going to do it any more. Mike wondered
why he had not thought to follow Rosa before, and after a moment the reason
came to him: he was clear now. He had cleared his mind out and now could
think rationally, sanely. Tailing Rosa, finding out where she went, presuming
it would eventually lead to Alexa, made sense Mike had not divined a week
ago. He had been clogged then. And though he might never have admitted
it aloud, had he not adhered so closely to Rosa's instructions, he might
still be stumbling around, feeling sorry for himself and Alexa. She had
been right.
But
now he was taking the reins bark. Keeping his steps light and quick, stepping
heel-toe, heel-toe Mike whipped around the sides of cabins, following Rosa
past the main office, and a knot of anticipation grew in his stomach. He
had been right; his progress report was now going to be brought to Alexa.
And then he would know where she was. As he ducked behind the side of a
building Mike wondered how blind he had been on arriving to think there
was nothing in the desert to hide behind, no place a perp might disappear.
He rounded another corner and watched Rosa head up to a cabin, one like
all the rest, nothing at all special about it, and he crept to the side
of the building, adhering to the space just under a window, listening.
He couldn't make out words, the window was open but whoever Rosa was speaking
to used a quiet, modulated tone. He could hear Rosa's Zen Valley Girl voice
rise and fall, then some steps, and after some time the screen door opened,
smacking closed, hard wood on wood. Mike watched her head back towards
the main cabin area, holding her lantern aloft, the wandering star bobbing
out of view.
Feeling
a little foolish, Mike peeped over the windowsill and tried to peer in
through the screened window. The cabins were not ostentatious at all; little
more than one room and a toilet, they were recently fashioned but entirely
made of wood. A fireplace dominated the far wall of every room, and the
only furnishings were a bed, nightstand, dresser, and table. It was cozy,
and nothing was shabby, but it all had an aura of austerity, as if to further
indicate to whoever might be staying there that the focus was on the inside
comfort, not the outside. In a moment Mike had scanned the room and found
it empty, but caught a shadow shifting in the bathroom. He lowered his
head as far as he could, trying to shrink his size to fit the windowsill.
He wanted to see her. After that, Mike had no idea what he would do next.
The
first time he had seen her she had not really been herself. A child almost,
still, even though well out of her teens, she had come to the big city
to find her long lost family, all of whom turned out to be exactly the
wrong sort of people for her. Alexa had learned late in life she had been
a twin, and discovering her sister Amelia (who had been, at that moment,
in a state of slow descent as she gradually picked off the men who had
dumped her by stabbing them in the back at parties -- at least, that was
as far as Ben Stone had been able to develop a motive, that Amelia had
dated every one of her victims and been rejected by every one of them)
had been a dream for Alexa. Of course, she had no idea of her twin's extracurricular
activities, but Amelia had instantly seen Alexa as the way to generate
a cover for herself. No one knew of Alexa; therefore, if Alexa was seen
somewhere, it was as good as if Amelia herself had been there. It had worked,
briefly, until Alexa got involved with Mike.
But
on that first day when he had seen her he had thought he was seeing Amelia.
Alexa had been pretending to be her sister, wealthy since birth, comfortable
in clothes that equaled a month's pay for Mike, walking Amelia's dogs down
Gramercy Park. Of course, had Mike been more fluent in the world of Amelia
Page he would have caught Alexa out instantly, from the way she walked
her own dogs -- naturally there were people for that -- to the way she
walked them in an Armani suit and heels, which made no sense, to the way
she was unable to assume the internal arrogance of someone who knows the
road parts for her as she passes through. But what Alexa had learned from
her sister had been very, very convincing, and Mike had been both immediately
attracted and immediately repelled by her.
That
they ended up lunching together had been sheer accident, and as the hours
passed and more of Alexa emerged, Amelia had fallen by the wayside and
Mike had found himself irresistably drawn to her. It had not been just
a moth to a flame, it had been more like a chain fastened to his insides.
She was illicit -- a possible witness at that point -- she was insanely
wealthy -- at least, Amelia and her Page family were -- and she had flashed
her garters at him. She reeked of sex, at least so Mike thought. Later
on, discovering how wrong he had been had reoriented his whole way of thinking
-- and he had still wanted her. She was not the most conventionally beautiful
woman he had ever dated, and in no way the most self-assured (except when
she had been briefly acting like her sister) but he had seen in her a potential
to be both, in his eyes, a potential that over the past eleven years had
borne out beautifully. She was the only person he could have married, and
the only one he ever would.
Mike
raised his head up and peeked in her window once more. She had emerged
from the bathroom, wearing only the white terrycloth robe everyone was
given, and she was brushing her teeth as she wandered the cabin, lost in
her own thoughts, walking around and around. She was wonderful. She looked
wonderful. Her hair, freshly washed, hung on her shoulders, loose, wet,
and crinkly, her face glowed with health. He glanced at her bare feet and
ducked back down, knowing if he thought too much more about her he was
going to have to go in there and stay all night, and he knew that would
be too much right now. He had already broken the rule and found her, he
had seen and that should be enough of a tresspass to satisfy him for now.
Rosa had been right thus far; Mike decided he should not tempt fate further
by insisting on seeing Alexa again prematurely.
Still,
he wanted to leave some remembrance of his presence there, some way of
alerting her he had come by and was thinking of her. Mike scanned the thin
dry prairie grasses around the base of the cabin, wishing more wild flowers
grew here, so he could leave a bunch at her door. Barring that, for a moment
he did not know what was best. And then...he had an idea. Racing off to
the main cabin he burst in and asked for some help. Too bewildered to ask
what Mr. Logan was going out this late wandering around, the staff member
behind the counter gave him what he asked for, and Mike bounded back to
Alexa's cabin, finding it effortlessly, running with abandon through the
dark dusty paths. He peeked in the window one last time; she was braiding
her hair in preparation for sleep. A quick flash: when he had brushed her
hair the night they spoke to Ben about taking the kids, how soft that hair
was and how she loved nothing more than to have him massage her scalp,
holding her head in his large hands like a precious orb.
Then
he was back at the cabin and he crept around to the front door and moved
the mat out of the way, writing upside-down as best as he could, so she
could read the chalk message as soon as she got to the front door in the
morning. Just a few words, but it was enough.
She
would know.
She
always knew.
The
basement again. Always the basement.
He
was dying in the basement. Of a cold.
Well,
more than just a cold. He felt as if he had drowned in his sleep and been
only half-revived. After countless waking and sleeping periods Mike felt
the sickness come over him like a set of blinders, tying him to the bed,
turning his joints hard and stiff, his lungs thick and watery. Breathing
was like drinking mist. He was hot and cold at the same time, constantly
shivering, constantly sweating. He had no strength, and no will to open
another can of the crap food they had left for him. For a while he had
tried to shake off the creeping cold, making sure to walk around and get
some kind of exercise, eating as frequently as he could, drinking a lot
of the metallic-flavored water. But the room was against him: it was not
just cold but rock solid cold, a cavern with a continuous inch or so of
standing water on the ground. One morning he had woken up and his hand
had felt better but his body had failed him, and he had stumbled out of
bed like an old man, failing to his knees. The fever came strong that day,
and never left.
And
now, after more countless resting and waking periods, he could feel himself
decaying inside. He was dying. He could not remember the last time he ate
or drank anything; his world had reduced to periods of half sleep and half
wakefulness. The half sleep was preferable; when he was half asleep he
imagined Alexa, he could almost picture her in front of him, and he could
remember what it was like to wrap his arms around her and feel her solidity.
When he was half awake it was much worse; he could see the rats growing
bolder and realizing he was no threat to him. They would creep out of the
dark corner he had tried to stuff with pages from the books and sniff along
the water, venturing close to his cot, and he would do his best to stir
and look menacing, but lately they had begun to disregard him, like a tree
shifting its leaves Mike's movement to them was nothing to concern themselves
with. And awake, he was terrified they would soon decide they wanted to
see how his hand was getting along.
Light,
shadows, movement.
For
the first time, the memory altered.
All
this time, Mike knew what he was seeing inside himself was what had really
occurred down there. He had not touched on those memories in over ten years,
but almost from lack of use they were that much more vibrant and painful.
What had happened after he got sick was he blacked out, and after a very
long period of smells and sounds and sights just beyond his vision and
ability to grasp he woke and found Ben Stone standing over his bed. But
now, the eyes inside his eyes were seeing something entirely different.
The door opened upstairs, and Mike cringed inside, fearing the wide-mouthed
hose again. But he was too weak to move, and just lay there, wretched,
breathing shallow and ratchety.
A
man came down the steps and, oblivious to the water on the ground, advanced
to Mike's bed. The light bulb was still burning dimly, so it took a moment
or two to recognize the face, but by the time he settled at Mike's bedside
there was no mistaking Ben Stone. Mike-in-the-desert was so surprised he
nearly yanked himself away from the memory, but Mike-in-the-basement was
so delirious there was something natural about Stone's presence. There
was one other change: Mike-in-the-basement had become preternaturally aware
of the fact that Ben and Alexa were now together, as if the introductions
had already been made.
"Why?"
he asked Ben. "Why couldn't you leave her alone?"
Ben
craned toward him. "Nothing was planned, Mike. It was never like that.
In my heart I think I've always known I was in love with her. That day
at lunch, when you couldn't take your eyes from her, that day she spoke
to me, Mike, we talked while you glowered and leered and acted as
if her presence at the table was some kind of embarrassment. But to me,
Mike, she spoke. She always came to me when you rejected her. You wouldn't
listen about Amelia. Sure, you said you weren't permitted to discuss an
ongoing investigation but in the privacy of your own bedroom, Mike? You
knew full well the reason you didn't want to talk about Ameila was that
the incident reminded you of how you had been duped so easily. It never
occurred to you that Alexa needed help more than you needed your pride
salved. You were foolish with her, you were always a few steps behind where
she wanted you to be. So she came to me. I told her we could talk. And
that was all we did, for weeks we talked. With you gone, we acted. "
"She's
half your age," Mike told him.
"And
you don't think I can't do the math?" Ben's composure slipped a little.
"Do you think I don't know how utterly ridiculous and silly this all is?
No one knows. It's as secret as we can possibly make it. I'm risking my
career here, even if we weren't sleeping together having her at my house...I'd
be brought up on misconduct, removed from the case. If Jack McCoy could
prove it he'd be on my back faster than you would, if you were above ground.
But you see, Mike, you won't remember this, not for a long time. I'm not
really here. You're dreaming me. But you're very sick. You're dying. And
if they don't find you soon, the rats will have you for dinner. There's
really little motivation for me to help you to be found, you realize that."
"Alexa
will come for me," said Mike.
"True,"
said Ben. "But she can't do it alone. She needs the ear of my offices.
Of course, always has my attention, Mike, even if it means finding you
down here. Because the truth is, no matter how much you think I'm ruining
your life, you never really lost her. I told someone once I was like a
book she'd rented from the library, until the real thing appeared for purchase.
I think she loved me, in her own way, but she bonded with you, Mike. And
nothing was going to change that, no matter what I said or did. She formed
herself in the shape of your heart and decided that was the only story
she ever cared to read again. And soon I'll have to learn to enjoy being
back on the shelf again. But not yet. First, we have to find you."
"Soon?"
his voice faded out on him.
"Now,"
said Ben.
Mike
opened his eyes in the desert.
Before
him the night stretched out and the cliche of stars had unveiled while
he was in his trance. He had never stayed out this late; always he had
woken before sunset but today, in the fevered memories of his own head,
he had lost track of time. The way he had lost track of it in the basement.
In the end, two weeks had felt like two years. In two weeks, he had nearly
died. In two weeks, he had nearly lost Alexa. And as he opened his eyes,
he knew the memory was over. He understood why it had played out here.
But he was done with that line of questioning. There was no more need to
probe it, no more need to stick his hand in the darkness.
The
darkness had emerged with him, coating the landscape like paint on a canvas.
A few feet from where he sat a tall, willowy shadow obscured some of the
night, blotting out a few stars. The shadow rippled in the evening breeze,
trailing a long sail from its base. And then the shadow moved a little
and he could make out the silhouette better, the blue night sky tracing
the profile he was so intimately familiar with, and the shadow came to
him. He could smell her before she touched him, a sharply, vibrantly clean
smell of fragranced soap and earthy presence, and when she crouched down
to him he breathed it in deeply. Alexa covered his hands with hers and
bent her face to him, their shadows merging as her lips brushed his. Mike
reached a hand up and pulled her to him, tumbling her into his lap and
over his legs, stiffened from so much sitting, and cradled her against
him, kissing her over and over again, his chest expanding with every touch.
But he did so without desperation, without a sense he was losing her; for
the first time in as long as he could remember he was touching her because
he loved to do so, not to restrain her or keep her closer to him. There
was a difference. He now felt the calm assurance that she was with him
and would always be with him, and even two weeks, on a desert health resort
or in a cavernous basement would not change that. The notion profoundly
moved him. He pulled back from her for a moment and took a breath to speak,
but she covered his mouth with her hands. "I got your note," she told him.
He
had written, on her front porch, Let's go dancing sometime.
"Is
the offer still good, Detective Mike?" she asked, calling him by an old
nickname, and lowered her hands.
"The
offer," he told her in a low voice, "never expires." He stood creakily,
lifting her as he did so, and felt a thrill when she latched her hands
around his neck to prevent falling, then he lowered her legs down on to
the desert floor. Taking one of her hands in his he wrapped his arm around
her waist and pulled her close. The insects sang their nightly concert
and the stars winked above, and under the blue night sky Alexa and Mike
danced around and around and around.