Palindrome

 

Dedication

To Mom, who taught me to keep showing up.

 

Contents

 

Prelude

S
AVANNAH AWOKE TO
the sound of a faucet dripping somewhere over her head. She felt groggy and her mouth was dry. Couldn't quite remember where she was, and the thick darkness offered no clues.

Her butt was numb. She tried to shift around in the wooden chair she found herself sitting in. Frowned as she realized that she could hardly move. Fingers tingling, mind foggy. She felt drugged, detached from her body, like she was floating above her own head, looking down on herself below.

She took a deep, worried breath, and as the smell of the cellar rushed into her lungs—­rank, like damp soil—­her heart sank. She remembered where she was. A ninety-­pound dumbbell bound to her ankles had kept her prisoner to this chair for what felt like weeks, submerged in the complete darkness of this basement, flitting between terrible dreams and this cold, stale reality.

But something had changed since she'd last been awake. Her face. The skin on her face was burning, like she'd had a harsh chemical peel.

Savannah reached a finger to her cheek to inspect the burns and recoiled in pain.

She gritted her teeth as she lightly brushed her face to inspect the damage. Unfamiliar grooves ran down her cold cheeks, over her forehead and chin. She bit her lip and shuddered as she traced the fresh lines with her fingertips, trying to figure out what had happened to her. She imagined her face looked like the surface of some lonely moon, covered in deep canals and craters.

She dropped her hand as a door slammed somewhere off in the distance—­from the same direction as the faucet? Heavy footsteps clomped down stairs, then the door to the cellar groaned open, the ancient hinges protesting the intrusion.

“What happened to my face?” Savannah asked as her captor slammed the door closed. She was surprised at how weak and grainy her voice sounded. Her captor ignored her, was fiddling with what sounded like tools in a plastic bag. “Wait,” Savannah realized. “Did you turn on a light? I can't see you. I can't see anything. I can't see.”

“I know.” A deep, rumbling voice from across the room that reminded Savannah of a lawn mower engine.

“I'm also very thirsty,” Savannah said, her voice sounding small and pathetic coming from her parched lips.

Her captor dropped something on what sounded like a tabletop. Clanking of metal on metal. More ruffling of what Savannah definitely recognized as plastic grocery bags. Heavy breathing.

“Can I please have something to drink?” Savannah said.

Her captor ignored her again, now occupied with what sounded like a socket wrench. A pipe gurgled over her head. This was the first time this person had lingered here, done anything but drop food or water on her lap. The first time that she recalled, anyways; it felt like her memories were buried in the bottom of a deep well, and every time she tried to summon one, the bucket came up empty.

“Are you feeling totally awake? Alert?” her captor finally asked.

“I . . . guess.”

It sounded like items were being taken out of the plastic bag and dropped onto the tabletop. A cold draft from somewhere ran through her hair. Clicking, and the sound of metal on metal—­a gun?

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Yes.”

Savannah was surprised to find that this answer brought neither fear nor relief. It was simply a procedural footnote in the saga that had been the last few weeks—­or months?

“Today?”

“In just a few moments.”

“What did you do to my face?”

No response. She settled deeper into the damp wooden chair that she could hardly even feel beneath her anymore. She'd long since given up any hope of moving the dumbbell. Her captor muttered something that Savannah couldn't make out, then stepped close to her. She could feel warm, stale breath on her lacerated cheeks. She struggled to remember what this person looked like, wasn't sure if she'd ever actually seen their face.

“Okay.”

There was an unmistakable anticipation in the voice today. Until now it had always been bland, cold, methodical:
Here is your water. Here is your food.
But today her captor sounded almost nervous.

“I need you to listen very closely to my instructions. If you don't pay attention, this will all be for nothing.”

Savannah bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

More heavy breathing. Her captor's breath smelled not unpleasant. Like cinnamon gum.

“I was able to locate your sister.”

Savannah's heart fluttered to life for the first time in ages.

“I don't have a sister.” The listless lie left her dry throat quivering.

“Her name is Greta. She lives in Manhattan. In a studio on 86th and Amsterdam. She is a financial analyst for a large bank and owns a German shepherd.”

Savannah couldn't contain her whimper. The helplessness she'd felt the first days of her captivity—­before she'd resigned herself to her fate—­returned. She raised a weak hand in an attempt to slap or grasp the captor she couldn't see, but caught only air.

“Please don't hurt her,” she gasped.

“I won't touch her if you follow my instructions. Do you agree to follow my instructions?”

Savannah inhaled sharply. “Yes.”

“Do you swear to do exactly as I say?”

Savannah lowered her head. “Yes. I swear.”

“Good.”

Something shuffled near her feet, and again she heard the crinkle of a plastic bag. A wet sound of smacking lips right next to her ear, then a tender whisper:

“When a person dies, their soul departs their body instantly. At the moment their heart stops. They are here one moment and gone the next. But that isn't going to happen to you, Savannah.”

It was the first time she'd ever heard this person say her name. It sickened her. The last syllable hung in the stale air between them for a moment. Her captor was panting in her ear like an expectant dog. The faucet in the distance continued to drip.

“Why isn't that going to happen to me?” Savannah finally asked.

“Because of what I've done.”

A cold hand suddenly brushed the scars on her face. She could sense a sort of affection in the way her captor traced the lines around her eyes, down to her chin. “My guess is you will have three to five minutes in between.”

Savannah's mouth was dry and sticky.

“I don't understand.”

“I want to understand where we go after we die. You will die, but you will be tethered, anchored here in physicality. We can only fool them for a few minutes, but that should be more than enough.”

Savannah's voice cracked.

“Enough for what?”

The voice seemed surprised. “For you to tell me what's happening.”

She heard some fidgeting as the voice backed away from her ear and moved directly in front of her face. Savannah heard two clicks. “This is a tape recorder. Everything you say while your soul is tethered will be recorded. As soon as you see something, anything, start speaking. Describe it. Describe everything you see in as great a detail possible. This is the most important thing. Do you understand?”

Savannah shifted in her chair.

“Yes.”

“And if you disobey me, if you intend to spite me by keeping silent, by keeping the secret to yourself, then I will find your sister and kill her also.”

Satisfied, her captor rose and shuffled around. Savannah heard what sounded like the clink of glass.

“Please don't hurt my sister,” she heard herself saying. “If I don't say anything, it's not because I'm not cooperating. It's because, maybe, because it's not working. Hurting her won't do any good.”

No reply. The silence deepened as the faucet in the distance was finally turned off.

Her captor again moved in close and said, “I'm ready. Do you understand your instructions?”

“I . . .” Savannah was crying. She felt very strange. “Yes. I understand.”

“Do you have any questions? If you do, please ask. It's important that you understand.”

“I . . . Will it hurt? Dying?”

Her captor made a sound that was almost like a light chuckle.

A click as the tape recorder was switched on.

“You tell me.”

 

PART ONE:

Play

 

“
L
ISTEN TO YOUR
breath. Inhale all the way, fill your lungs, and then let it out,
Hmmmm
.”

The wood-­paneled studio is filled with the exhalations of two dozen spandex-­clad students—­nearly all women, all of whom are either younger than me or just immaculately preserved by years of “practice.” The ten-­year-­old reason I'm here is crouching on the mat next to mine, her eyes closed in fervent concentration, stick-­thin arms stretching toward opposite walls in her miniature warrior. At least
she's
enjoying herself. My white V-­neck is soaked in sweat, my knees and butt are screaming in pain, and—­as anticipated—­I feel way more stressed than I did a half hour ago.

“ . . . down into the tabletop position, and then you're going to slowly touch your left knee to your right elbow.”

The instructor folds herself up into a pretzel like it's the most natural thing in the world. The blond woman next to me is a fucking contortionist; they'd burn you at the stake in the Middle Ages for moving like this. I try to jerk my knee up to my chest, forcing it, gritting my teeth, and instead of any sort of profound insight, I'm rewarded with a shooting pain up my back.

Sadie has no problem with any of the poses. Little kids' bodies are like putty, plus they don't really have any awful realities lingering in the back of their skulls while they're trying to stretch: unpaid utilities bills, looming root canals, sexual dry spells.

I'm more or less collapsed now on my mat, wheezing like the little engine who couldn't, almost certainly the person in this room who needs this the most and is enjoying it the least.

“ . . . We're going to bring it back to downward dog now. Bend your knees if you need, and remember we all have different levels of flexibility and strength . . .”

I'm sure the instructor is addressing this directly at me, but I'm too ashamed to meet her gaze. Instead I focus my attention on my daughter, effortlessly arching her lower back, swanlike. It seems impossible that we share genetic material.

As something snaps in my lower back, I curse the parents of her school friends. Who introduces their kids to yoga in fourth grade? Last week when I picked Sadie up from school she started begging me to take her to a yoga class because all her friends are into it. So I gotta choose between being the stick-­in-­the-­mud single dad who they whisper about at PTA meetings, the one whose poor daughter is missing out on all the opportunities afforded by your conventional healthy-­as-­fuck nuclear family, or exposing her to this indoctrinating witchcraft bullshit—­smug, slender women who think they're the only ­people on the planet who know how to breathe.

Finally we're doing the only position my creaky body is qualified for: lying flat on your back, chilling. But even now, as we're supposed to be clearing our minds of karmic toxins, I'm thinking about last night, combing through the jacket pockets of a corpse someone threw in a Dumpster behind a Chinatown deli. Hoisting 180 pounds of deadweight onto my shoulders and tossing him facedown onto the cold cement, cutting a line down the back of his sweatshirt with my ceramic knife, other hand clasped over my nose to keep out the smell. Pulling back the fabric with a gloved hand to reveal the end of a two-­week-­long investigation: a splotchy brown birthmark the shape of a ketchup bottle. Snapping a few pictures to erase any doubt in the widow's mind, then flipping him over onto his back, writing his name, address and phone number on an index card. I call the cops from a pay phone, tell them where they can find the guy, then head over to his widow's house both to deliver the bad news and collect my fee—­
I promised to find your husband, sweetheart, didn't say anything about what condition he
'd be in.

Not my fault that he was a bad high-­stakes mahjong player but didn't know it. Or at least didn't figure it out till he owed enough to buy a small house in the Poconos.

“Dad, come on. It's over.”

Sadie is standing over my heaving form, her pink face expressing both gratitude and sympathy. I sit up with a grunt. Around us, flushed coeds roll up their mats and talk about which juice bar to go to.

“Did you like it?” she asks as I follow her to a wall of wood cubbies and squeeze between a skinny woman who's positively glowing and a sweaty man in a wifebeater to retrieve our clothes.

“It was alright,” I tell Sadie as I hand her her coat. Before handing Sadie her backpack, I covertly remove my Magnum from the side pocket and tuck it into my waist. Was starting to feel naked without it. “A lot of it hurt, to be honest.”

“That means you need it!” she says seriously as we get in line to exit. No way to avoid the instructor, who is standing by the door with a tissue box for donations. I force a smile and drop in a five—­if I just think of these classes as a self-­serve S&M dungeon, I guess it's sort of a bargain.

I hold Sadie's hand as we walk down the staircase, past a flurry of glistening women too young for me to even think about in a sexual way. At this point it's just painful. They do smile at Sadie though and even grin at me when they realize the nature of today's masochism session. I'm no longer a creepy, groaning, forty-­five-­year-­old guy in their eyes. I'm a daddy.

“Can we get ice cream?” Sadie asks as soon we burst out into the brisk January afternoon. St. Marks Place is momentarily jarring after the calm of the studio: teens loitering in front of head shops and tattoo parlors, impatient taxi drivers honking to no avail, tourists taking pictures of storefronts I've never even bothered looking at.

“It's too cold for ice cream,” I protest, even as Sadie's tiny gloved hand pulls me toward an admittedly enticing dessert spot across the street. The line extends all the way outside. Better be good.

“How can it be too cold for ice cream if I want it?” she replies.

I drop her hand to inspect the dwindling contents of my wallet and curse to myself. Costs twenty dollars just to leave your apartment in this city, triple that if you have a kid. I have only four bucks left after that gouging at the yoga studio. They better take cards. I look up, and Sadie's already sprinted across the street and gotten in line.

“Sadie!” I say and barrel after her, squeezing between the bumpers of two taxis. I wedge beside her in line, ignoring a dirty look from the orange-­faced guy behind her. I grab her shoulders and stare into her wide eyes. “You can't do that. There's too many ­people around here. I could lose you.”

She shrugs and looks away, cranes her neck trying to get an advance view of the selection of artisanal flavors.

“I can't see,” she complains. “Pick me up.”

I grip her skinny hips through her puffy green coat and, with a grunt, heave her up onto my shoulders so she can see over the line. My first involuntary thought: how light she is compared to last night's dumpster corpse. I try to push that from my mind.

“See anything good?” I moan, my shoulders and arms still shaky from the yoga.

“I don't know. I don't know what they taste like by just looking.”

I roll my eyes and lower her to the ground. Within moments, Sadie is rocking back and forth impatiently. The line is moving glacially, each client appearing to take at least six or seven samples, nodding seriously as they taste, mulling each one over, discussing the flavors with their companions like they're philosophy dissertations. Sadie looks tormented.

“How was school today?” I ask, trying to distract her.

“Fine,” she shrugs, not taking her eyes off the distant dessert counter. To her it must seem we're an eternity away. Everything is so black and white at her age. Right now she's in hell—­is there anything worse than waiting in a stagnant line? And once she gets the ice cream: total, unadulterated bliss. Maybe it's silly, but I envy that feast-­or-­famine mind-­set. Certainly better than middling in the neutral nether-­zone. If my life were a food, it would be bland grey pudding, sweetened only by a touch of Sadie and the rare occasion when a client pays me on time.

“Fine? Did you learn anything cool? Besides what all your friends are doing?”

“Nah.”

The line inches forward as a satisfied young ­couple peels off from the cashier and leaves the shop, sharing a grotesque mound of chocolate ice cream piled tenuously atop a waffle cone. Another man a few spots ahead of us throws his hands up in exasperation and storms off, giving up.

“What are you gonna get, Dad?” Sadie asks, jumping out of her skin.

“Nothing. I told you, it's too cold for ice cream.”

“I think when you see the ice cream up there you will change your mind,” she says.

“Nope.”

“You don't know. You don't know what you'll feel like when you see the ice cream.”

“Yes I do,” I say. “I've been around ice cream before.”

Sadie rolls her eyes and sighs, like
I'm
the child.

“You think you know everything, Dad. You know a lot, but not everything.”

I'm probably not supposed to let my daughter speak to me like that, but then, I probably won't be winning any parenting medals anytime soon either.

It takes fifteen minutes to reach the pearly gates. Saint Peter is a slightly overweight redheaded boy wearing his corporate baseball cap backwards. His pitiful rebellion. He stands slouched behind his array of gourmet offerings, his vacant eyes not exactly conveying pride in his work.

“Next customer,” he grunts wearily.

Sadie takes a moment to scan the brightly colored flavors until she fixates on a bucket of pink.

“Can I taste the strawberry oatmeal cookie?” Sadie nearly shrieks.

Glassy eyed, the boy diligently scoops a tiny sample onto a plastic spoon and hands it to her. Her eyes go wide when she sticks it in her mouth.

“I want that!” she declares.

“Are you sure you don't wanna try anything else?” I say. “We waited so long.”

“Nope. I like that. That's what I want.”

“You heard the lady,” I instruct the employee. “A small strawberry oatmeal cookie in a cup.”

“Cone!” insists Sadie.

“No. You'll drip it all over yourself. Cup,” I assure him.

I stare at Sadie's exuberant face as the boy readies her dessert. She looks like she's gonna burst.

“This is the best part,” I tell her. “The anticipation. It's always better than the actual thing.”

“No it's not.”

“Six bucks,” says the boy, the cup of pink ice cream visible beside him behind the glass display.

“You take cards?”

“Cash only.”

“Jesus,” I mutter to myself and open my wallet, pantomiming surprise when I discover my four pathetic singles. How the hell is that not enough for a small cup of ice cream? I summon an exasperated look—­it doesn't take much—­and hold out the four pitiful bills.

“I have four,” I say. “I'm sorry. Is that alright? I'll come back later and bring you another two.”

The boy looks confused. “It's six,” he states.

“I understand. But I only have four. I'm sorry. I'll come back later with another two.”

Sadie is wearing a mask of horror as the possible implications of the situation become clear to her.

“There's an ATM across the street,” he says.

“Alright. Can we just have the ice cream now though? I don't want to wait in line again. Then I'll run across the street and get the cash.”

“Uhhhh . . .” The boy's mouth is open slightly; this sort of decision tree analysis is way beyond his job description. “Sorry, it's six bucks.”

Sadie's upper lip is trembling. Jesus. I bite my lip and lean in close to him. My daughter is not leaving here without her ice cream.

“Listen to me carefully, you shit stain,” I whisper. “I want you to look down, through the glass, at my waist.”

Confused, he obliges, and first squints, then recoils when he understands. The silver butt of a .38 Magnum is protruding from my belt line.

The color drains from his face.

“W-­w-­what the fuck, man?”

He nearly shoves the cup of ice cream at me.

“Take it, man. Fucking
nut job
.”

I smile and hand him the four dollars.

“Thanks, we'll be back in a second.” I give the cup and a plastic spoon to Sadie and watch her face light up as she takes a monstrous bite. The boy is still staring blankly at me, terrified.

“That's fucked up, man,” I hear him mutter.

Maybe I should write a parenting book.

I take Sadie by the hand and pull her out of the ice cream shop into the busy sidewalk before the kid can gather his wits. It occurs to me that while I fully intended to bring him his money at the time, it would be really awkward at this point.

We walk to Washington Square Park and find a park bench where Sadie can plow through her ice cream with abandon. I can't help feeling a little satisfied.

The case of Frank Lamb and the overpriced artisanal ice cream: closed.

My phone starts vibrating. Must be the widow. Probably can't accept the finality of last night's revelation and wants me to play therapist.

Nope. Blocked number.

“Hello?”

“Is this Frank Lamb?” It's a woman's voice, but not the widow. Deep and silky.

“Last time I checked.”

“I'd like to hire you,” she says as Sadie scrapes the bottom of the cup.

“Let's talk. You're in the city?”

“Yes.”

I try to imagine what the woman on the other end looks like and have a hard time even getting started.

“Whereabouts? I could swing by your office or home or whatever.”

“I'll come to you.”

I sigh. “That's fine. I should caution you though, I work out of my apartment. But I assure you I'm the consummate professional when it comes to—­”