Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (13 page)

He called Margaret at home immediately after to
explain what he'd done, but when she answered, like always when he
called, he couldn't make himself speak. All he did was listen until
she hung up, feeling that he had betrayed her by giving in to
Wiladene.

After that the walls of his house seemed to close in
on him. He tried to think of other things, to read or relax somehow,
his stomach a bundle of nerves that even belladonna would not loosen.
He paced, he cursed, he hated himself. A pawn to other people's
desires, a piece to be moved around, that’s what he was, what he'd
always been. He was not a man, at least not his own man. Otherwise he
would not have betrayed Margaret like that.

He sat at his desk. If he couldn't bring himself to
speak to her on the phone at least he could write to her. He picked
up his pen. The words flowed like acrylic paint onto the paper. The
beauty of the contrast between the black ink and the white paper was
hypnotic. This was right, he felt it. Margaret had to know. There was
too much not to pass it on. Essential information. Not the present,
that was only confusion, bad dreams, chaos, except for her, but the
past. She had to understand heroics were not important, only
survival. Concentration camp lessons from legions of the undead. Nazi
lessons. He decorated the margin of one sheet with swastikas to
illustrate, knowing she would understand when she saw them. On the
third page he redrew the picnic picture they'd spoken about in
therapy, only this time he included his stepfather with Hitler's
features and gave his mother huge breasts. Above her picture he wrote
the words "Eva Braun."

It was all clear to him now and would be to Margaret.

Sometime during the letter he heard the music in his
mind. He wasn’t aware of the exact moment it started because once
he realized it was there it seemed like it had been there forever.
The letter went to sixteen pages before everything was said. All the
answers to all the questions. All the knowledge that the terror of
his history had given him. His sin, his years of punishment.

When he finished he felt closer to Margaret than ever
before. Her face was with him as he got in his car and started to
drive. He imagined her sitting next to him as the Jersey shore towns
rolled by, her knees tucked under, coolly smoking, watching him.

He thought of her breasts as his free hand strayed to
his own nipples, and he began to caress them through his shirt,
feeling a pleasant sensation that moved over his body. This wasn’t
sin. It wasn’t dirty. It was pleasure. This was how Margaret would
feel, he thought. It would feel good like this if he touched hers, or
she touched his. He knew the sensation would be the same because he
was her, she was him. Not peas of the pod, but one, free to use this
oneness to bring goodness, not pain or humiliation like others did.

Now on the rocks hours later he was alone again. Just
himself and the sea. His body was shivering as he looked east toward
the horizon, the letter tucked safely in his pocket. The words of the
book of Genesis came to mind. First there was the darkness, then the
waters, then the light. The sea was where it all began. Life as we
know it, he thought. Sea creatures to land creatures. Out there
somewhere off shore it's still happening. A wave is born, moving slow
and small, gaining momentum, maturity on its way to shore. Each one
separate and distinct from all that have come before it. Each one
powerless to change its course or to stop itself from dying in white
water on the beach, he thought. Like me. . .

He got up and started for his car, the music no
longer playing in his mind.

Erin and Wiladene were in one of the upper rooms at
the Braddon laying out items for a Channel 12 telecast on the exhibit
when he arrived. They both looked up as he came in, and Wiladene
smiled. She should, he thought. I'm here like one of the waves.

"Aren’t you working today? I'm not used to
seeing you without a suit," Wiladene said.

"I'm taking the day off."

"That's not like you. Don't you feel well?"

"I feel fine."

Erin didn’t believe him. He looked haggard, worn,
like he hadn't slept all night. She hoped he wasn’t coming down
with something.

Wiladene looked at her watch. "Gosh, I just
realized I've got to run out for a few minutes. I'll be back in a
little while," she said, gathering up her coat and purse.

They watched her go. Erin knew it was a ploy to leave
them alone. Wiladene had told her Loring was going to invite her to
the party but that he was shy about such things.

He moved around the room, looking at some of the
items, lightly touching others. "All these things are from the
Caribbean . . ."

"That’s right. Mainly from Haiti and Jamaica.
They have the richest cultures, but there are items from most of the
other islands as well."

Shyness was a quality she could appreciate since her
own relationships with the opposite sex were marked by an awkwardness
she found impossible to control.

"Do you ever want to go back to the islands?"
he said, thinking of how life had been so simple when he was planning
his own trip to Barbados. It seemed like he’d grown old in the
short time since his sister's call about her wedding had ruined those
plans.

"Sure, all the time. Especially when the
weather's like this. Doesn’t everyone?"

"I guess."

She had to admit she liked him better in a parka and
jeans than in a suit. He seemed more real. She’d already made up
her mind to accept if he asked her. Wiladene had seen to that,
singing his praises every time they were together, but he seemed so
uncomfortable. Maybe if she helped him a little

"What brings you to the museum today?"

Her question brought Wiladene's call back to mind.
"Ask Erin to the party," she'd demanded, as if the decision
was hers to make, his to obey. Like his mother. . . If you love me,
you’1l do what I want . . . The times he had bitten his tongue to
keep from telling her the truth . . . that he did not love her. . .
never had. She wouldn’t have understood. To her, love was a
capitulation. That's how she measured her own, how much she gave up.
His, too. The greater the cost, the greater the love.

It was the only possible explanation for what he’d
seen her do with him . . . her husband, long ago.

"I dropped by because I . . . wanted to ask if I
could take you to the opening party for the exhibit," he said.
"I know with you being the director it's not exactly right for
me to ask. I don’t mean to intrude but I thought . . ."

"
I'd like that very much. Thank you."

In a way he felt relieved when she accepted. It made
his surrender easier. Like all the other times, he told himself.
Don't think about it, just do it and it'll be over with.

Erin saw the look on his face and was glad she'd
helped him. She would have preferred a bolder approach, but there was
something charming about him.

He picked up a mask from one of the tables. "What’s
this?"

She went to stand nearer him. "It’s a Haitian
voodoo mask. The reason it's here is because of its unusual design,"
she said, thinking of the circumstances in which she'd first seen it
worn.

He turned it over in his hands. It was plain like a
death mask, following the imprint of the face closely. There were no
feathers or decorations except for a trickle of rhinestone tears
leading downward from the corners of the eyes. The top half was
violet, coming to a point at the tip of the nose, making it seem
elongated, animal like. The bottom half was the red pink of torn
flesh.

As he looked at it he heard the music again in his
mind. The sacrificial mass. The music seemed to make it clear to him,
and he understood the mask. It was the inner face of the damned, the
soul of the one who made it and wore it.

The feeling scared him. What if they were kindred
spirits? The feeling of doom he’d felt in the fitting room came
back. He knew that had been caused by overwork, but there was still
the feeling . . . the same feeling so plain to him in the mask. Then
there’d been his lunch with Erin, something he'd dismissed as just
bad food, but now he wasn’t so sure. What if it had been an
episode, too, or even worse . . . a sign. Of what? Movement toward
the same knowledge the maker of the mask had had?

Something started to form. A memory he didn't know
was there. One that was worse still because of its newness. He tried
to push it back, out of his consciousness. It's just a fantasy, he
told himself, but the harder he tried, the more clearly he
remembered. His chair. . . his cleric's chair. . . waking up there,
not knowing how he'd gotten from his bed . . .

He put the mask down and walked over to a tapestry on
another table, trying to focus on it. It was red with gold, woven,
blocky figures of three stubby-legged men and a dog. The dog was out
of proportion, like Wolf in his own picnic picture.

From a distance he heard Erin say, "That's a
Mayan tapestry from the ruins near Cozumel."

"
My mother makes tapestries," he said.

Erin watched the way he touched it, traced the
figures with his fingertips as if they were Braille. He was
experiencing them through touch. "It's very old, over three
hundred years," she said.

He heard her words but they didn't register. When he
turned to ask her to repeat it he saw the mask again. It's position
on the table caught the light and made the rhinestone tears look wet.
The anguish of it drew him, unlocked the scene in his mind he knew he
didn't want to remember. Get a grip on yourself, he told himself,
you're not a character from Shakespeare. You're Loring Weatherby,
stockbroker.

As he thought this, he remembered getting up from his
chair and looking in the mirror. Like the mask, the lower part of his
face was covered in blood, too . . .

Then he knew — what he was remembering didn't
happen.

He was remembering a dream, a nightmare. It had to
be. Wasn't Margaret always talking about dreams, wanting him to tell
her his . . . That's what it was . . . a nightmare. More than a
nightmare . . . the granddaddy of nightmares. I’ll go to her now
and tell her. She’ll be glad, finally one of my dreams to
interpret.

The thought of being with Margaret made him smile. He
looked at Erin. On some level she reminded him of his sister. Going
out with his sister was no betrayal of Margaret. That thought made
him feel much better than he had since Wiladene's call. He reached
out and touched her arm. "Thanks for accepting. I’ll call you
later to go over the details. Now I have to run."

He took Market Street from West Philly back into
Center City, weaving in and out of the heavy traffic. He wasn't due
to see Margaret today but he knew she'd understand, be glad to see
him. At Nineteenth he took a right, crossed Chestnut and Walnut and
circled Rittenhouse Square. He parked illegally near the Warwick and
hurried to her office.

He felt buoyant, like bringing home a good report
card. His troubles were over. She'd led him to the key in her soft
womanly way. He wasn't going crazy. All these things were just
dreams. Super realistic dreams. If he talked about them they would go
away.

The waiting room was empty. He crossed it in two
strides and opened the door to her inner office. The sight inside
shocked him. Margaret was not alone. There was a man with her.

She looked up in surprise when he burst into the
room.

"Loring. . . Mr. Weatherby, what are you doing
here?" he heard her say.

The man was lying on the couch, his jacket off.
Margaret was sitting in a chair near the head of it. She seemed to be
writing something on a pad, but the look on her face gave her away.
It was guilt, he decided. The same look he'd seen on his mother’s
face that night long ago when he'd come into the den and found her on
her knees with him mounting her. She stood and smoothed her skirt.
"I'm very sorry about this. Please excuse me for a moment,"
she said to the man. As she crossed the room to him, he saw the anger
on her face and now he was embarrassed. If only he could turn the
clock back five minutes he could undo it, but like that night, the
damage was done.

"Step outside, please," she said.

He stumbled backward through the door and she
followed him into the outer office, closing the door behind her.

"I'm with a patient . . ."

"But I need to see you."

"Right now that's not possible. Your appointment
is tomorrow. . . if you feel it's so urgent you can't wait, then I
can refer you to someone — "

"Please, this
is
important . . ."

She could see he was telling the truth. He did need
her. Worse, when she looked at him she knew the way he was seeing her
now . . . the unfaithful one, he had caught her with another man.
Seeing them like that was to him like seeing her in bed with someone
. . . the physical act was not what hurt so much as the shared
intimacies, and the idea that Loring, her patient, could see her in
that way hurt her more than it should have. It was hard to do the
right thing, but she had no choice. He needed her too much. She had
to be strong . . . even if it meant hurting him.