The Green-Eyed Monster

A Division of Whampa, LLC P.O. Box 2540 Dulles, VA 20101 Tel/Fax: 800-998-2509 http://curiosityquills.com © 2012 Mike Robinson http://www.cryptopia-blog.com All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information about Subsidiary Rights, Bulk Purchases, Live Events, or any other questions - please contact Curiosity Quills Press at [email protected], or visit http://curiosityquills.com Cover design by Alex & Me Design ISBN: 978-1-62007-104-5 (ebook) ISBN: 978-1-62007-105-2 (paperback) ISBN: 978-1-62007-106-9 (hardcover)

Table of Contents

0 ......................................................................................................................6 -2.................................................................................................................. 11 -1.................................................................................................................. 19 -7.................................................................................................................. 29 -6.................................................................................................................. 38 -4.................................................................................................................. 89 -5................................................................................................................ 100 1 ................................................................................................................. 209 -3................................................................................................................ 217 0 ................................................................................................................. 232 About the Author ................................................................................... 236 More from Curiosity Quills Press. ....................................................... 237

“It is a green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.” – William Shakespeare, Othello

Mike Robinson

0 Writer’ s Block This happens. This happens to them all. Just not you. “Just not me.” The phone rings, but he ignores it. Martin Smith has never had a case like this before. There’d been hiccups along the way, places to pause, turn over words, spat with particularly lively characters that refused the next sentence. But this—this was not the kind of nuisance obstruction typically associated with writer’s block. Rather it was a terrible vacuum that had seen his thoughts, his career, his creations, his soul torn away, digested, ground to emptiness. Becker is dead, too, so the words are his own now. The people are his now. The one major impediment gone. You should have no problem with this. The phone continues to ring, clanging into his brain. A headache blooms. His mind reruns the week. The police had hauled him in after the incident, questioned him. But that was all they could do. After a 6

The Green-Eyed Monster program of systematic stalking, Becker’s maniacal actions had culminated in his attack, his attempted murder, of all things. Smith had merely defended himself. What happened to people like that? What drove them? You know. “I know. Simple.” So why the emptiness? The crown sits only on his head now. The focus is on him now. The kingdom stretches before him, but it is barren and uninteresting and fraught with arduous uphill slopes. Finally the phone ceases to ring, and gives him peace. Smith remembers the Old Man, and the minute all had been revealed. Inside the seconds and milliseconds he’d discovered eternity. But even now he does not believe what the Old Man said. He opens a small drawer and begins digging through a pile of newspaper articles, some old, some recent. A career of eighteen novels, the last word of which had been put down mere weeks ago. No more had come since. The New Voice of Speculative Fiction, proclaims a fifteen-yearold headline from the Boston Globe. Martin Smith: The Millenial Author, says one from the San Francisco Chronicle. The headlines had only fed his widespread adoration, an outcome predicted long ago by his mother, whose voice still echoes in the distant chambers of his mind. You’re like a machine, Martin. You’re going to be brilliant, you’re going to be famous. Never let anyone get in your way. He hadn’t. Not really. Of course, those articles compare him to John Becker, a trivial note hackneyed in its sheer, unfounded prevalence. He’d hastily crossed out these passages, rendering them inky tumbleweeds on newsprint, little black holes in his history. Smith gathers a chunk of old book reviews, and thumbs through them like a flip book. Pictures of him smile back, grainy mirrors to better days, as do images of him meeting fans at the rare times he did 7

Mike Robinson a book signing. Swell times. Becker might have had more fans in numbers, but Smith’s were of a certain caliber, appreciative of things only he could bring them. Never ceases its white-water terror, the Los Angeles Times had said of Smith’s last book. What had they said of Becker’s book? He doesn’t know. Does it matter? Nothing matters. Not now. Their works had shifted considerably over the years. Having begun with short noir detective stories in high school and college, the fire-tide of their ambitions had taken their writings from simple mysteries to febrile nightmares that, for many people, would not end with the bookmark or the final period. Outrageous rumors grew—at least they were largely dubbed outrageous—culminating in that woman who’d sued Smith with claims of having been terrorized by a creature from one of his novels. Woman Suing Author Judged Mentally Ill. In that eternal minute the Old Man had told him of his power, a power that reached further than even he could ever have imagined. But it was too late now. He had failed, shaved the power bald. But we weren’t going to listen to good ol’ Grandfather, were we? He pops an aspirin, nestles it between his teeth and bites down. The pills help to calm the drumbeats in his temples, but not soothe the rest of his body. He can’t recall a time when he’d been truly relaxed, and reaches the conclusion that maybe that state of mind had never existed while he was conscious, that the only time he’d truly rested was while babbling away in a bassinet. For even his dreams were scarred by his own creations, all staring at him through gilded eyes. They accosted him, they flagellated him, they wanted him… A bath would do him good about now. Smith makes his way through the winding corridors and enters the bathroom. He turns the knob and water vomits into the tub. He walks to the kitchen. A glance at the clock shows it’s almost ten to 8

The Green-Eyed Monster one. It is getting late. Monday is dead and has given birth to Tuesday, yet he still has the remnants of the Becker dinner to clean up. It has now been exactly a week since Becker turned the friendly invite into a life and death struggle, since the Old Man and the eternal moment thereafter, and Smith still has not cleaned the glasses and washed the dishes and rid of the flies humming ceaseless over them. On the floor lies the small box his father had given him, its top flapped open in a wooden scream, frozen in time. Its lone content has no use any more—it served its purpose well. Smith still remembers the day his father had presented the gift to him, smiling. He had not been his father that day; the gilded eyes had shone in the man’s scalp, and Smith had known in that moment that it was not his father because those eyes had been so much grander than they’d ever been prior. Like his mother, his father had been regular, a drone adept at running errands, running forms, running a basic life. Not much else. They’d been creators, too, but like most everyone else they created in a most rudimentary sense. As if gathering their voices in protest, the cuts from Becker’s blade begin throbbing in unison. In the bathroom water continues flowing. A police siren blares in the distance. Smith returns to his den, and sees his computer. The room swirls around him. He clasps both sides of the monitor, rips it from its base in a torrent of flailing wires and volcanic sparks, and heaves it across the room. It pounds against the wall and tumbles lamely to the floor, its screen a fractured memory. Smith pops another aspirin, and crunches it between his teeth. The dizziness increases. He is wrapped in an unknown heat. All throughout his life he’s felt the heat of the muse, of competition, of an imagination that tackled trees and buildings, could transcend this space, this time. But this heat surpasses all else. It is the heat of terrifying confusion, of panic at being hopelessly, completely lost.

9

Mike Robinson He fixes a drink. The cool bite of alcohol feels good now, but it cannot prevent the unpreventable. It acts merely as a bittersweet epilogue to his life as a creator. The creator. Smith takes a few gulps and moves down the hallway. He passes the bathroom and looks in to check the progress of the bath. Almost full.

10

The Green-Eyed Monster

-2 The Crime Scene There was no other way to describe the feeling of first meeting someone like John Becker. After respecting and admiring the man for so many years, after knowing him only through his words and the black-and-white photo displayed on the back of every hardcover, Detective Richard Porter had only “giddy”— once uttered with some macho shame—to describe the sensation that had swelled him that day. Now Becker was dead. His corpse there, feet away from Martin Smith’s mantel. Becker’s glasses were bent and shattered, the lenses cracked from the blow of the bullet to his forehead. Rickety fingers of blood stretched across his scalp. This was it. He was inside one of the complexes, one of two such buildings in Twilight Falls owned and inhabited by singular persons. While now well-known, the fact that John Becker and Martin Smith lived in their own apartment complexes had long been a notion caught in the spongy limbo between truth and rumor, playfully speculated, though unverified. To TwiFalls residents the locations were widely known, though few had ever been inside either complex, 11

Mike Robinson both of which had for years been popular dare spots for mischievous kids, especially come Halloween. Of course, there were also the tourists, something Porter had once been, who stopped for a glimpse and a photo. None of this activity seemed to perturb Becker or Smith—their security was something felt in those who approached too close, an “alarm in the soul,” as one man had put it, a thing spoken of, though ultimately indescribable as to what prompted such rapid forfeiture of their curiosity. There were only words, though, and so whatever it was, whatever people felt—and by no means was it all people—would again be diluted in stories, would again titillate, feed rumors, bring new regretful seekers. What surprised Porter was how well-furnished were the other rooms in Smith’s complex. They felt lived-in, scuffed with daily movement though no one was there. More, care had been taken to infuse each with a different personality, qualities tangible and intangible though equally strong. In his swift initial survey, Porter happened by an apartment of grandmotherly décor—polished wood furniture, archaic in design, Persian rugs, tea set out, no television, must-scented—down the hall from another of far more modern sensibilities featuring two high-end computers, translucent furniture, music posters, and everything sleek and silver and black. Another had a strong family vibe: toys littered on the floor, the air cheesy with some recently-cooked dish of gooey preservatives. The television even played a muted Sesame Street. Yet there was no one. Then there was Smith’s apartment: three bedrooms, though he lived alone, a prevailing aesthetic (if it was an aesthetic) of bone-white minimalism allowing nothing beyond a table, single reading chair and lamp, a vast bookshelf of hundreds of editions—foreign included— of his own work, two typewriters and an outdated personal computer. There were no photographs, no pictures, couch, or television. Nothing of any expected amenities. Probably all such things were in the other apartments. With his ability to buy a damn 12

The Green-Eyed Monster complex, Porter mused, Smith could afford to turn a three-bedroom apartment into a mere study. “What in hell’s name did he do with all those other rooms?” his partner, Ted Harris, had remarked. “You’d think these guys would have swinging social lives, guests in and out.” Porter stared now at the corpse of John Becker. John Becker: the main deity of Porter’s life in words and pages. For decades, books like Spirit of Dreams and Brute Force had been something of what he liked to call portable escape pods. It had even been the lure of the author’s home, this place, Twilight Falls, which had prompted his transfer from the Baltimore precinct to California. A writer at heart, Porter had never really left the pen and thought perhaps, with all the stories of the Falls, his own stagnant career as an author might emerge from its dreary winter. Despite the sickness percolating in his gut, he couldn’t take his eyes off the body. “They take Smith?” Harris asked. Porter thumbed toward the door. “Yeah. ER for check-up then to the station for more questioning. Couldn’t get much out of him now. Figured he’s still pretty much in shock about the whole thing. McGill actually first thought he was dead.” Harris looked dyspeptic. The dark heap of Becker’s body continued to command Porter’s attention. Something much bigger than the man’s flesh had died here. He sensed a cloud of Becker’s orphaned characters in the room, surrounding the author from whom they were now isolated, speaking like ghosts amongst themselves. Creations like Sheriff Gabriel North of Brute Force, Porter’s fictive idol. In his mind, he reran the calls they’d gotten earlier that night. Reports of a single gunshot. Some of the calls had been so cocksure, almost unalarmed. He imagined the elder witnesses were, given the town’s unfortunately famous bouts of gun violence, perhaps conditioned to know precisely what it was they’d heard. There’d been 13

Mike Robinson the schoolteacher who’d decades ago murdered two people, and the even more brutal incident with the teenager—Zeeg or Zwieg was his name?—who’d pulled a Columbine at a fellow student’s party. “With all the stuff you’ve seen in Baltimore,” Harris said. “You shiver at this guy?” Porter shrugged, strapping on gloves. “Fucking different, Ted. I wouldn’t be standing right here if it weren’t for this guy. ’Course maybe that would’ve been better.” A headache hit him, like a batch of needles thrown at his skull. “This town’ll recover,” Harris said. “It’s been through worse. Two words: Harold Zwieg.” Porter nodded. He remembered hearing about the Zwieg murders. They had made national headlines. Thankfully there’d been an entire decade’s space between his move to Twilight Falls and the incident, which had occurred in the mid nineteen-eighties. Upon hearing of the tragedy, Porter had wondered if Becker had known Harry Zwieg, since they’d attended the same school. Perhaps they would’ve even graduated together had the kid not carved out sixteen graves, one of them his own. Harris began making the rounds, occasionally glancing at Porter. He stopped to analyze a wooden box on the floor. It was intricately and very ornately carved. Good candidate for Antiques Roadshow, he thought. Inside was a recessed outline of the older-model Smith & Wesson at the scene, the one Porter now held open-chambered in his gloved hand. “There was only one bullet in here,” Porter said. Harris narrowed his eyes. “That was lucky, if it was self-defense.” Porter was silent. “You think it was self-defense?” “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Porter said. “Really?” Harris said. “I’d think of all people you’d be the one defending this Becker fellow.” “He was unstable. That’s known.” 14

The Green-Eyed Monster “So what do you think happened?” There was doubt in Harris’ voice. “Can’t say for sure. Not yet,” Porter said, bagging the pistol. “These two had a major beef with each other—” “It’s what’s for dinner,” Harris quipped, looking at the remnants of the short-lived meal. Porter glared at him. “Sorry.” The grin crumbled from his face. “Continue.” “When I saw Becker speak I could tell there was something he was trying to hold back. He was repressed. People would ask him all these questions—” “Including you,” Harris interjected. “Including me, yes.” “Gorgeous metaphors, by the way.” Harris had a look of facetious scrutiny. “I can tell you were a writer in a previous life.” Porter ignored the comment. “But all these people would ask him questions and he’d either avoid answering them or try to get by in this very kind of calm, disconcerting tone. He seemed angry at the world, bothered by it. When he was signing copies of Spirit of Dreams in New York, some guy asked him his opinion of Martin Smith’s new book, since it was similar, like always, and he just up and exploded. Went supernova on the guy.” Harris walked closer, interested. “You see this yourself?” “Not directly, no. Only read about it the following day. He made a huge ruckus, threatened him, was restrained by the security officials there. He was ready to kill the guy. Kept shouting about how the book was his and his alone. Something like that.” Porter paused. “He was off his rocker. That’s what made him fucking good though. I may have been a writer in a previous life but give me five lives and I couldn’t do his stuff.” “Now his genius is all over the place.” They took in the spindly vines of blood stretched upon the walls. 15

Mike Robinson Porter’s thoughts were now a tornado of rampant locusts, flying through present and past, sometimes alighting cautiously on the future. Doubtless there had been a significant metamorphosis in Becker’s writings within the past year. The style had grown darker, more erratic. In fact Porter had had the uncanny notion the gifts were slipping away from Becker, or mutating somehow. He recalled the experience of reading the writer’s last work, the brazen brush of each word on his eyes, the tangible pulse of Becker’s imagination in his own, shuffling around, making room for itself. It was all part of the experience. The inspiration. The chaos of his dreams.

Cleanliness did nothing to diminish the volcanic impact the bullet had left on John Becker’s skull. The force of the shot, at that range, had blown his head nearly in two. Moving about the periphery of the autopsy table, where the body lay stretched and nude, Porter considered the manner of death almost execution-like. If Becker had been after Smith, Smith would have tried to move away from him, and the shot wouldn’t have been so close as to leave powder residue on Becker. What’s more, Smith would have been moving; not a situation conducive—for an amateur marksman—to a precision headshot, regardless of range. Harris orbited the table, snapping pictures. The coroner, a softeyed young doctor named Greene with a manner as cold and metallic as the table propping her subject, surveyed the body curiously, scalpel in hand. “What’s the matter?” Porter asked. “This body is unusually slow in its decay,” said Dr. Greene. “Rigor mortis has scarcely set in. Same with algor mortis.” “Algor mortis?” 16

The Green-Eyed Monster “Cooling. The body is still observably warm. That’s very strange.” Porter had noticed similar oddities but had said nothing, preferring to wait for medical confirmation. He wasn’t sure what it meant, if it meant anything. “Could that have been caused by any substances? Taken or given?” Porter asked. “Not that I know of. Any type of embalming wouldn’t correlate with those qualities.” This is wrong, Porter thought. In the face of the man’s name and presence, a presence transcendent of death, this more or less routine autopsy took on a violent and penetrative aspect, something almost sacrilegious. It was like Zeus himself on the slab, dissected. Grim science liposuctioning more of the world’s overstuffing of awe and wonder. As an added insult, Becker’s genitalia was on display and astonishingly small. It looked unused, an evolutionary holdover no longer necessary. Porter had a sudden vision of Becker wrenching from his position, in classic zombie or Frankenstein horror-movie fashion. Except he wouldn’t attack them but would instead place his stillwarm feet on the floor and drift, ignorant of all else, to the nearest typewriter or computer and resume writing. Porter held to this absurd notion. Somewhere in that tissue, perhaps life still thrived. Maybe this localized apocalypse had not yet wiped out all the extraordinary surplus of movement and thought that had composed John Becker. Greene extracted the bullet, a .38 special round, indicative of old Smith & Wessons. She dropped it in the tray. Harris photographed it. “We have the one bullet,” Porter said. Greene moved gingerly to the mouth, which was stained with congealed blood from the entry wound and nose. The instruments made soft metal clicks against his teeth. Suddenly she recoiled. “Oh my God.” The detectives steeled, looked at one another. Porter leaned in. 17

Mike Robinson “What is it?” Greene picked up tweezers and, with delicate tenacity, rummaged about in Becker’s mouth, clipping and unclipping, as if working with fragments. When she had a grip on it, she extracted it in full. “This was under his tongue,” she said. The coroner held the object directly beneath the lamp. Too transfixed to take a photograph, Harris just stared. In the fibrous weavings of color clamped by the tweezers, the world lost a little more logic. A butterfly. Dr. Greene said, “Any takers?”

18

The Green-Eyed Monster

-1 The Interrogation He looked like a nervous patient, shivering while awaiting care. No doubt the incident had shaken him up. Yet Martin Smith didn’t look so much scared as he did sick, eager for alleviation, for release of something. They decided it was better to let him calm down before they questioned him. “So strange,” Harris said, sipping a cup of black coffee. His eyes came together in a bitter squint. Porter stood beside him, looking at Smith through the interrogation glass. “What?” Porter asked, staring ahead. “Smith?” Harris finished a swallow. “Both of them. Becker too. You’ve read their books.” “Yeah…” Smith’s muscles were shuddering, almost in spasms, beneath a glossy tooth-yellow skin. “When was the last time you wrote anything?” Harris said. The question startled Porter. “Christ, I don’t know. Used to a lot in college. It was an excuse not to date. That was the year I had a lot 19

Mike Robinson of one night stands with a lot of majors. Became an English major and the next three years ruined the written word for me. Haven’t really done it seriously since.” He took a big gulp of coffee, immediately noticing that Harris hadn’t stirred the sugar enough. It slid down his throat in scratchy wet clumps. They would begin the interrogation soon, but either the detectives were too entertained watching Smith or too unnerved to go in there. Neither Harris nor Porter knew which. Harris said, “Do you remember that Kansas woman who tried to sue him?” Porter thought back. “Yeah. That was Backwoods she was reading, I think, the one about the fish monster.” They stood silent for a moment as Smith began to mumble, barely audibly. “…Sorry, Grandfather… I’m sorry... forgive me… please… don’t take them from me…” “Can you tell what he’s saying?” Harris asked. Porter shook his head. “Sounds like he said ‘grandfather.’” “Sounds like a chant or something.” “You know there’ve been other cases like that one in Kansas, right?” “What do you mean ‘others like it?’” “Cases of nutballs thinking they had a run-in with one of his or Becker’s monsters. I remember there was a teenager in Wisconsin who stabbed his girlfriend because he claimed she was a Bernie.” Harris couldn’t hold in the snort of laughter. Coffee sloshed from his cup and his feet dodged it. “A Bernie? What, she moved in with Ernie?” He laughed, then realized the joke made no sense. “You’re thinking of Bert. You combined the two, jackass.” “Eh.” Harris waved his hand, as though shooing away the embarrassment. 20

The Green-Eyed Monster Porter continued. “There’s this idea in Smith’s novels, and Becker’s too, though to a lesser extent, that the source of all these evils, the monsters and whatnot that go around killing everybody, can be found in ordinary places. It doesn’t need a mask because it’s so plain. Something you’d never think of. But it pulls the strings of inferior, lower evils. A puppet-master of sorts.” “So it’s the guy sitting next to you at the counter?” Harris said. He cursed as he noticed a trail of coffee connecting the buttons of his shirt. “Evil comes where you least expect it. A guy named Bernie.” Porter surprised himself with the amount he knew about these two characters, these men clearly not obedient to the world’s normal traffic signals. He thought about the Kansas woman and the others who’d claimed to have seen something, or suffered some sort of psychotic episode while reading one of their books. Porter thought them to be lunatics, already on the footpath to fantasy-land before crossing a Becker or Smith novel. The fact that they’d even been Becker or Smith novels was of pure coincidence. They could just as easily have been Lovecraft or King. But there is… something there. “So these people say what this Bernie looks like?” Harris said, licking his thumb and scrubbing his shirt. Porter stepped toward the door. “Well, for one thing life kicked these folks off their rocker a long time ago. But according to these guys Bernie has no face. He’s just a butterfly that flies all over, causing stuff that causes stuff that causes stuff—chaos-type philosophy. I don’t even understand half of it. Becker was easier to swallow.” Harris took another cautious sip. “Ready to go?” Porter nodded. Smith was still as they entered the room. Though it was faint, Porter could detect an odor swimming within the walls, a very elusive stench recalling memories of Baltimore police work and sights of decaying corpses littering damp alleyways. 21

Mike Robinson “Like something died in here. You smell that?” Harris asked, waving his hand in front of his face. Smith remained motionless. His eyes were porcelain drops, glossy but dead. Weighty. Gazing far. “What’re we looking at, Mr. Smith?” Harris said. Porter took a seat across from Smith. Harris stood. There was an infinitesimal wince on Smith’s face. “I am thanking God.” Porter leaned forward. “Thanking God?” Porter said. “For what?” “I am thanking God,” Smith said. “I am thanking God that I am still alive. I attempted to make peace with John Becker but I almost lost my life.” His head turned toward Harris, and for a split second Porter was reminded of Linda Blair’s boneless neck in The Exorcist. “Looks like I have nothing else to worry about, though.” “Well I don’t know,” Harris said, still wrinkling his nose at the stench. “Your buddy is dead.” Smith’s head whipped in his direction. A dull crack of bone. “Pardon? Buddy? John Becker despised me like poison. I wanted to put aside our asinine feud. To make peace with him.” “And this is why you invited him over for dinner?” Porter asked, crossing his arms. Smith watched the steam from Porter’s coffee haunt the air above the cup. “He threatened you?” Smith nodded. “Yes he did, and had before. For my entire life he was there, casting a shadow, becoming that thing you swear you saw out of the corner of your eye. He was always the larger man, posing threats if I didn’t kowtow to his desires. Jealousy coursed through his veins, as plentiful as blood. It clouded his mind and he became insane, wanting nothing more than to destroy me, my work.” “Certainly a storyteller,” Harris muttered. “You say your entire life?” Porter asked. Smith nodded. “My entire life, yes. We were put together because our families were close. He always hated me, though. Why I can’t say 22

The Green-Eyed Monster for sure. I praised his brilliance, and celebrated my own, yet since the beginning he did nothing but hold me in contempt.” “We don’t really need a memoir here, okay?” Harris said. “Just tell us in your own words what happened at your apartment.” “I wanted to assuage my fears, and to possibly begin a positive relationship with John.” Smith swallowed hard. The smell of decay was becoming much more potent. It grew as Smith spoke, seeming to feed on his words. It’s the smell of the words themselves, Porter thought. The stench of lies, of fiction, the burning of truth… “I wanted to avoid him,” Smith said. “I wanted to have us go our separate ways, but he wanted me out of the way. Fate toyed with me. Put us together as if to force amends. But even fate’s efforts can be futile.” Something about Smith’s testimony unsettled Richard Porter. It seemed so rehearsed, so… created, as though it had been through several crumpled drafts. “We were to collaborate, to meld our abilities, but he kept us apart. Him and his insane and childish desire to be… well, better.” Smith lowered his head. “When he attacked me, I had no idea what to do. I wasn’t myself at the time. I was overcome with panic.” “And you grabbed your gun and killed him,” Harris said. Smith paused, looking offended. Like curious fish to the site of a ripple, emotion was starting to creep into his expression. Porter wondered if he could smell his own decay. “I had to,” he said. “I feared for my life. Am I in the wrong? He came at me with my own knife, wanting to cut out my heart, no less. I had to do something.” “Where did the butterfly come from?” Porter asked. Smith blinked. “The butterfly,” Porter repeated. “There was a butterfly beneath Becker’s tongue.” Smith shook his head. “I don’t know about that. That might’ve been Grandfather. He speaks in butterflies.” 23

Mike Robinson Porter and Harris looked at one another. “Grandfather?” “Yes. Don’t think you can find him through me. No one can find him because he does not move here. Although he exists here.” “Was this Grandfather there with you and Becker?” “Yes. He’s here right now. But even I am not seeing him. He doesn’t like traditional forms. He likes to stretch out.” “Is that why you keep an entire apartment building to yourself? To accommodate him?” “No. It’s because I am larger than I appear. We all are. We are all larger than our material, and though many assume otherwise, all act as such because they know this, at a level below their conscious mind they know their largeness, and so seek it in relations, adding other bodies to theirs, seek it in status, in power. But those things fall short because they are defined things and defined things have limits. They create smallness, not bigness.” Porter scratched the back of his head. “Okay, getting back to Earth a little here… Mr. Smith, let me ask you this: did John Becker ever threaten your life before? And if so, why didn’t you notify the police about it?” He hesitated. “He’d never threatened me to any large extent, no. He admonished me, insulted me in public. But as time went on, I could see the madness percolating in his eyes, and in his works.” “You read his books?” Porter said. “Yes I do. As I said, I commend his brilliance, but he did not reciprocate. He thought of me as an obstacle to overcome.” Smith’s left eyelid made a fluttering twitch. “By reading some of his more recent works you can witness for yourself the cancerous perversion of his imagination. He wanted to become those monsters and killers he wrote about… just so he could eliminate me.” “Why get so bent out of shape about books?” Harris said, circling the desk. “Did John Becker really have it in for you simply because you had the same fans?” 24

The Green-Eyed Monster “It’s not about fans,” Smith said. “Authors are a privileged people; we grant flesh and life to ghosts in our heads. These creations are our children. We want them to be unique and special. How would you feel if someone stole your child and disguised him as their own?” “Sounds a little personal, Martin,” Harris said. “You sure you didn’t feel the same way as John?” “I could certainly understand how he felt.” A pause. “What reeks, Marty?” Harris asked. “Is Grandfather not wearing his cologne?” “So,” Porter said. “You’re saying you tried to bury the hatchet with Becker, but he went off the deep end and attacked you.” Smith nodded. “What was the deal with the box of shredded books?” His complexion misted with shades of red and gray and yellow. The cuts on his face glowed an almost neon brightness. “That was delivered to me in Los Angeles, as a warning from John. They were twenty five copies of my novel, Dream Spirits, torn to pieces. It was what initially prompted me to consider making peace with him.” “Why?” “Fate.” “What?” “It was meant to happen. It was time. Just as every book has its climax, its resolution, my creative journey with John Becker would eventually have to rise to a grand finale. I had to meet the beast in the heart of the castle. I apologize for the hackneyed analogy but my mind is not in its usual place right now.” Porter sighed. Damn childishness at work. These men had thrived in their own bubbles, had been grown kids who traipsed the playground all day fighting over who really tagged whom and which of them was indeed “It.” Their Muse (Porter had no problem believing it was the same Muse, whatever that may mean) was like an 25

Mike Robinson overprotective and spoiling mother, showering them with gifts and riches in a bribe to keep them within range, keep them grounded. Keep them working. There is something more. Yes, there was. Something more. Impressively prolific careers spanning nearly two decades, roots into both families and a dark well of questions the depth of which could not be glimpsed. The stench of decay was now, mercifully, subsiding.

“I have no idea what to think, that’s the problem.” The three of them stood in a small triangle—Ted Harris, Deputy Jon McKinney, and Richard Porter—hashing out any possible way of digging more than an inch’s worth on Smith’s testimony. “You guys couldn’t get much,” McKinney said. He peered over their shoulders toward the interrogation room. “Got nothing,” Porter said. “His words… ice too thick to break.” “Put down the pen already, Shakespeare,” Harris said, less amused and more annoyed. McKinney shook his head. “Keep working at it. There’s no evidence of premeditation but we need to make sure. Becker cut him up pretty bad. I would’ve pulled the trigger too.” He turned back to Porter and Harris. A sudden cry at the other end of the office brought their eyes to the square of glass in the door to the interrogation room. It throbbed and pulsed with energy, a typhoon of color so dense nothing could be seen beyond it. Porter and McKinley and Harris all stopped. Soon the rest of the office followed suit. “The hell’s going on?” Harris said. For a few long seconds no one tried to answer, until a young, unidentified voice said something. 26

The Green-Eyed Monster “They’re butterflies! My God they’re all butterflies!” The dots and swirls of color suddenly took on a more defined shape. Porter could make out the thousands of beating wings, endlessly looping, filling the interrogation room. The entire batch flew with the scent of freedom on their wings, a contagious happiness that Porter could feel beginning to stipple his own emotional canvas. They were free, liberated from ordered shackles… Yes, yes the shackles of a ruthless imagination. “For Christ’s sake what the hell—!” Harris scarcely had time to finish his outburst when the door to the interrogation room flew open as though kicked in with mad rage. The rookie who’d noted they were butterflies ducked behind his desk, spilling cola across the floor. The insects spewed into the open offices and hallways, a luminous maelstrom. People screamed, using their desks as futile fortresses. Others ran to the nearest exit or locked themselves in another room. Chaos reigned. The detectives remained on the floor, crouched with their hands over their heads, like children rehearsing an earthquake drill. Harris yelled something, but in the deafening whispers of thousands of butterfly wings no one could make it out. The incident ceased a moment later, though anyone who experienced it would attest it felt considerably longer. Several residual butterflies loitered on desks and papers or near the vents toward the ceiling. One frantic woman had a monarch entangled in the curls of her hair. Porter approached the door to the interrogation room. Martin Smith sat unperturbed. The storm of butterflies had had no effect on him. Richard Porter realized then he knew nothing, nothing about these two men. As much as he had read of and about John Becker, as much material as he had scraped together over the years, he knew nothing. He turned to Harris and McKinney. 27

Mike Robinson “Run background checks,” Porter said, shooting another wary glance toward the interrogation room. There were no more butterflies in there, at least none he could make out. “Find out everything you can about these guys.” Porter took a break and went to grab more coffee. As he drank, he wished with each sip it would turn to whiskey. He didn’t want to go back in there. Not for a long while.

28

The Green-Eyed Monster

-7 The Storm and the Sunshine

1 There was a day in mid-April, 1971, when the sky over the Northern Californian town of Twilight Falls was deathly ill. Radio stations reported flooding on several major streets. Water coursed through the town, overturning cars and destroying property as though executing a divine search warrant. Power was on and off again. Most businesses that day hid in the dark, and the town residents chose to wait out the storm in their homes, playing cards by candlelight, or, if they were of those with power, intently glued to the toupeed weatherman foretelling the storm’s path on a screen of elementary graphics. There were reporters submerged in three feet of water telling everyone not to panic, and disc jockeys saying what to do in case of a protracted blackout, and it was all in the interest of creating panic in order to quench it.

29

Mike Robinson Rain and hail pelted roofs and avenues. The clouds were abysmally thick, dark charcoal smudges. The obese grayness stretched to Berkeley eighty-five miles away. Twilight Falls was the hardest hit. Arrayed along Keller Avenue, just south of the concentration of shops and eateries casually dubbed ‘downtown,’ was the cookiecutter septet of houses known as the ‘nest of golden eggs,’ featuring, as one might expect, the most expensive homes in Twilight Falls. In every house but two, there lived a family. In moments, that would change: two young couples, Thomas and Charlotte Smith, and Carl and Melinda Becker, were imminently expecting. In what could’ve been construed as a divinely merciful gesture, theirs were among the few homes that retained power throughout the storm. The rest of the town had become an uneven chess board of the dark and the lit. Around eight o’clock in the evening, Melinda Becker discovered a pool of amniotic fluid collecting on the floor between her feet. “Carl.” No reply. Water roared outside, bullied by the lashing metallic wind. Melinda’s stomach knotted. “Carl.” Finally a response. Carl Becker rushed to his wife’s aid. She knelt on the floor, her face wrought with knifepoint anxiety. “Lindy. Is it time? Is it time?” “Yes,” she hissed. “Ok, just calm down, we’ll get through this.” Carl gripped her hand, helped her to her feet then nurtured her short trip to the garage, holding her delicately as though wheeling an ancient statue along the floor. With bear-trap ferocity Melinda gripped his hand. He opened the garage door. In rushed a small tide of ankle-deep water. There was a garbled crash of thunder. “How are we going to do this?” Melinda said, clutching her rounded belly. 30

The Green-Eyed Monster “Have faith, sweetie, now please c’mon, just get in the car.” He kissed her perspiring forehead. “Everything’s going to be fine. I can get us there.” He took a moment to analyze the height of the flood, as if to make sure he wasn’t completely out of his gourd. The current was angry and alive, egged on constantly by the furious pellets of rain, though he noticed the small rapids had diminished. They could get through this. Thomas and Charlotte Smith thought the same thing as they backed out of their driveway at eight-sixteen. The Beckers had done so five minutes earlier. Violently rinsed and churned, the city of Twilight Falls was buckling, its citizens cowering in the unlit corners of their houses and minds. Water now dominated the land and the air. A tree felled by lightning might’ve barricaded the Smiths’ trip but it struck after they had passed. An unfortunate victim three car-lengths behind them caught the tree, and was killed under the crashing weight. Charlotte Smith lay panting in the back seat. As did Melinda Becker. All senses in Thomas Smith were vibrant as he maneuvered with streamlined care through the gray tantrum. Carl Becker did the same. A major accident occurred on the intersection of Pine and Santa Barbara—the explosive meeting of a large truck and a small Volkswagen. Three lives taken. Glass and vehicle parts sprinkled the wet pavement and were immediately washed away as though someone was attempting to brush it all under some watery carpet. Had the accident occurred before the couples had left, or just prior to their arrival at Pine and Santa Barbara, their trip would’ve been delayed indefinitely. As it turned out, the incident took place at eighttwenty-four, just as Carl Becker swung into the wading pool that was the Emergency Zone at Twilight Falls Medical. That day, it seemed, fate held their hands. “Quick! Someone, please! My wife!” he panted, as he burst through the entrance. Immediately the room was ablaze with activity. 31

Mike Robinson Melinda Becker was wheeled down a long white corridor toward double doors proclaiming ‘Labor & Delivery.’ She breathed rapidly as Carl kept pace with her wheelchair, spoon-feeding confidence between each heavy breath. “Everything will be fine,” he chanted, as he suddenly realized the reassurance was just as much for him as for her. “Everything will be fine.” Four minutes later, the Smiths arrived.

2 Dr. O was a tall thin gentleman, outwardly young though age haunted his gold-tinted eyes, a moist catalogue of experience. He shook hands with Carl as he entered the room. Melinda breathed harsh and fast, more in anticipation than anything. “Call me Dr. O,” he ordered. “Too many people have trouble with my last name. It’s not from around here.” He flashed a smile at Melinda, who couldn’t care less. In a mechanical fashion his head swiveled back to Carl, eyes shimmering like a predator spotting prey. “I can assure you your wife is in good hands. I’ve done this many times.”

Three doors down a Dr. P greeted the Smiths. The two couples had arrived within minutes of one another, the only people that day to have entered the hospital of their own volition. Both Melinda Becker and Charlotte Smith had been rushed to Labor & Delivery, their bellies swollen with life. As Carl Becker had done, Thomas Smith ran alongside his wife’s wheelchair, clutching her hand. 32

The Green-Eyed Monster Dr. P was another younger gentleman whose eyes glittered like reflected sunlight. Tom Smith had the unnerving notion that the doctor could see right through him, as though he was some sort of human X-Ray machine, suited even to see past the bones and vitals to the soul, to the anatomy of emotion. Tom thought the young man should’ve pursued law enforcement or private investigation; the heat of the doctor’s gaze could feasibly shrivel any lesser crook. “Call me Dr. P,” he told the Smiths. He shook Tom’s hand. “My surname is not from around here and many people have trouble with it.” Tom didn’t know how to respond. Instead he gestured toward Charlotte, who lay spewing hot breath. “Doctor, will—” “Everything’s going to be fine, Mr. Smith, don’t worry. I may appear young but I’ve done this many times.” His smile dispelled some of Tom’s anxiety. “I can assure you your wife is in good hands.” Dr. P’s eyes twinkled. Nurses arrived to assist with the birth. Ten after twelve, both mothers began the final step of their labor.

Exactly one minute after two, synchronous screams filled the halls, turning patient and nurse heads alike though many were accustomed to such sounds. Both Dr. O and Dr. P cupped the babies with a kind of giddy pride, as though they were a third parent. Tom Smith and Carl Becker noticed this with wary excitement. An excited vein bulged from each doctor’s forehead, their eyes both distant and delighted. The fathers were given the honor of cutting the umbilical cords. It was then Mr. Becker and Mr. Smith realized their babies were utterly silent.

33

Mike Robinson “Doctor, what’s the matter?” Carl Becker asked. Melinda, fresh off her labor, was dizzy and nauseated and not very coherent, as was Charlotte Smith. Inappropriate smiles from both doctors worsened the mood. Midwives stood just beyond each wife’s legs, equally bewildered. “There is nothing the matter,” both doctors said at exactly 2:15 am. “Everything is just right.” They looked at the babies in their hands, small bloody loaves of flesh, and glanced around the room, met eyes with everyone. The babies were not making a single sound, nor had their limbs moved much since their births. “I will return in one short moment,” said both doctors. They disappeared into the hallway, each clutching a baby, and in seconds met one another. “Where are you going?” Carl was halted by one of the nurses, who tried in vain to settle him. “Sir, everything will be just fine. Please calm down.” “What’s wrong with our baby? What the hell’s he doing?” Two of the other nurses who’d assisted in the birth had chased Dr. O out of the room. The one who’d stayed behind to temper Carl Becker now edged slowly and steadily toward the door. She held her finger up authoritatively. “I’ll find out what’s going on, sir. Just stay here. Stay calm. Be with your wife.” She tried to exhibit strong confidence but the effort was transparent. The nurse disappeared out the door. Carl and Melinda looked at each other. As did Tom and Charlotte Smith.

The young doctors stood back. Given the obvious distress of the infants, one of the nurses stepped forward but Dr. O silenced her. 34

The Green-Eyed Monster The babies lay side by side, coughing, choking. Something writhed in their throats, ascending with determination toward their mouths, seeming to move in tandem. Briefly the motion paused below each tiny respective Adam’s apple, as if in hesitation, then continued upwards. The Becker child made a sneeze-like noise. Saliva bubbled in the corners of their infant lips. “Doctor, what in God’s name is going on?” said one of the nurses. “What are you doing?” Neither doctor replied. Smiling, they stood shoulder to shoulder in some twisted mimicry of conjoined twins. At 2:24 that morning, individual butterflies crawled from both babies’ mouths. The flailing antennae, then the brilliant hues of the wings emerged. One nurse fainted. Two others ran out to settle their stomachs. Dr. O and Dr. P stood silently watching the two creatures breach the soft fresh gums and taste-test the world beyond. The butterflies hesitated like little children afraid to touch water at their first swim lesson. “Doctor…” muttered a nurse. The two doctors paid no attention to the activity behind them. They saw no order, no world defined by rational shape and form but only the butterflies that would bring about their greatest weapon in the war. The two butterflies danced and twirled on their little wing-shards of stained glass as they found one another in the hot white hospital air. They flew out into the hallway, startling a maintenance man as they fluttered not six inches from his forehead. “There is no need to worry,” Dr. O said. “Everything is fine.” And there it was. The tsunami of emotion. It came in a magnificent rush, splashing across the nurses like paint from Pollock’s fingers. There was no reason to be afraid, and the doctors’ yellow-gold eyes confirmed it. The butterflies were simply part of the equation, one nurse thought, an equation her inferior brain had no business trying to dissect. This joy, this rightness, swelled out to every 35

Mike Robinson patient, nurse, doctor, intern, janitor, or nightly visitor that had fallen asleep holding the hand of their spouse or parent or child. The butterflies were a colorful whirlwind down the corridor. Dr. O and Dr. P watched with prideful fascination, looked at one another, then parted. Two miles from the hospital, a man named Jeffrey Hollander sat on the floor of his bathroom, listening to the storm pound his windows like a massive demon bent on brutal entry. Before him lay a scattered marbles game of painkillers and Aspirin, all strewn across the checkered tile after narrowly missing a ride down his esophagus. The combination could’ve been deadly, and Jeffrey had known it, had wanted it, but something struck him now. He no longer wanted to destroy himself. He’d lost Kate and his job was edging down the toilet but what the hell did that matter? How could he let those things define him? Life was not them. Life was life. Life was him. The time was 2:26. For days Martha McKenzie had not looked outside. Nor had she even watched television. The sun was a myth. Martha had never felt more boxed in. The storm roared around the house. Tiny agents of rain rappelled into the bedroom and kitchen through cracks Gary hadn’t yet fixed. But there in that moment, as she lay in bed with the door closed and the curtains drawn tight, she began to feel better. She would come out of this. She felt a glimmer of happiness. While initially afraid that dwelling on this feeling might reveal it to be an emotional Trojan horse, she was surprised to find it authentic, more surprised that it stayed. The time was 2:28. In the wilderness around Twilight Falls, the search party’s hope of finding nine-year-old Adam Zachary had dwindled. Taking in the amount of days he’d been missing, his age and the sheer temper of this storm, both his parents and the sheriff had decided reluctantly to call off efforts. But suddenly a wonderful vision bubbled up through 36

The Green-Eyed Monster the tears. His mother felt unprecedented serenity. The sensation passed through her in a wave-like motion, and as it grew stronger so did her vision of her son, surely alive. More than that, she could see what he saw, a quick visual relay of a stone cliff and two waterfalls draping endlessly down the face of the rock. The time was 2:30. By now, Thomas Smith and Carl Becker had met one another, brought together by concern for their children and finding solace in each other’s empathy. They shook hands at 2:34, and yet another item was scratched off a cosmic itinerary. At 2:42, word came that their children would be fine. Outside, the storm had let up a little. The moon emerged like a celestial pupil. The town brightened, as if in assurance of something.

37

Mike Robinson

-6 Childhood

1 I remember everything. Every detail, every quote trivial or critical. It’s all lodged there. I had to get it out. It seems to come out pretty damn well, too. I mean, who knew I could write? Who knew that, somewhere beneath the small town teacher, the heartbroken mother, and the isolated wife, an author waited to be born? I certainly did not. You might’ve heard of me. Anne Chatsworth, the crazy woman who blew away her husband and his other woman? No? Yes? Well, let me tell you that it wasn’t just me pulling the trigger. The finger was attached to my hand, yes, which was attached to my arm, which was attached to my shoulder, and head, and brain, but my brain was attached to something else, something beyond my control. I’m now in an institution. I blame them. The two boys.

38

The Green-Eyed Monster Their parents were extremely close. Both had just one son, yet their sons despised one another. I always found it strange given they were so alike in terms of talent and ambition, but I suppose that’s exactly what pitted them against each other on the creative battlefield. Little Einsteins. These kids could do anything—writing, drawing, arithmetic—and they’d do it all with a kind of robotic seamlessness. I remember joking to a friend of mine that they very well could’ve been the children of the Stepford wives. They came to my classroom on September 3rd, 1977, the beginning of first grade for them. I remember that week well, because Gerald and I were in the last aching stretch of our marriage. We’d spent several weeks that summer in Venice, a first for me since I’d never been to Europe, much less Italy, but for Gerald the sights of canals and coliseums and lavish artwork were all becoming secondnature, a grandiose yawn. As a curator for the Peters Museum near Twilight Falls, work usually sent him traveling—not vacationing—to the places I wanted to see the most. So by the time the final school bell would ring in June, he would be traveled out, and to spend a week at home would be vacation enough. We’d always argue about that. But it had never been as bad as it was that summer of 1977, and by the time we returned and Gerald had to head off to New York, I was ready to begin school. And for the first time in three years, I’d felt excited about it—excited about this class. I wasn’t exactly sure why. That morning, however, found me two-faced. Enthusiasm for the new year didn’t have far to travel before meeting anxiety or despair. After dispatching last year’s class to their new teachers, my classroom was empty for a few moments. I spent the time burning off some of my nervous energy, tweaking colorful décor, checking name tags against my roster, and making sure to declare my usual ‘WELCOME!’ across the chalkboard. My classroom had changed very little in the six years I had been teaching at TwiFalls Elementary. 39

Mike Robinson There was a large rectangular section, made of construction paper stapled together and framed by a banner of happy mice and bugs singing and dancing, an area to showcase work specific to that year’s class. As permanent staples were the space station poster, the arithmetic poster, the reading poster, all bound to the four walls of the room. “Mrs. Chatsworth?” The familiar full-white eyes, so anticipatory, peered at me from the doorway across the room. He was a typical-looking grammar school student, wearing dark beige cargo pants, a white shirt and a thin summer-starved backpack. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Chatsworth,” I said. “What’s your name?” The child rubbed his stoic buzz-cut with the palm of his hand. “Danny. Am I supposed to be here?” I smiled. “I don’t know, are you?” I picked up the roster. “Did they say you were supposed to be here?” He nodded. A couple of other kids swarmed the doorway behind him. I scanned the list of names on the roster. “Daniel Flannigan?” I said. His lips curved upwards. His cheeks became red. “Come on in. Everyone, come on in, I won’t bite, I promise.” Kids began streaming in, forking off from each other, and finding spaces next to their friends or kids they recognized. The air fluttered with innocent chatter, and the all-too-familiar sounds of chair legs raking the linoleum and backpacks slamming desks. I stood and surveyed them. “Everyone!” I called. Some heads turned, but most of the noise went unabated. Truthfully, it was always nice to hear the hard, jabbing sounds of kids’ voices after a summer spent virtually alone. You have William, came a voice. No I don’t. He was taken from me. 40

The Green-Eyed Monster I tried to focus and called again, this time even louder. The noise calmed. I checked the roster and called the names one by one, reinforcing every fourth or fifth name the ‘no-talking’ plea. Of the twenty-six names called, two didn’t respond. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Rosters were somewhat anarchic the first day of school; some kids didn’t show, others were shuffled around or put through what was sometimes referred to as The Odyssey, a stressful phenomenon that sent students from classroom to classroom, teacher to teacher, making them nothing but ephemeral blips on many a roster before finding a home for that year. After checking off the last child—a Harold Zwieg, who also had the distinction of being last on the entire school roster—I put down the list, satisfied with the look and number of this class. Then, at twenty after eight, they came in. They were attired in collared flannel shirts that inexplicably aged them beyond their tender years. One wore blue, the other red. Their backpacks were slung over their left shoulders, their faces were chalky white and their eyes absorbed the world through muscular prescription lenses. Given their similarity I thought they might be related; half-siblings, perhaps. The two boys stared at me. “What are your names?” I asked. “JoMarny,” they answered simultaneously. Somehow they appeared unaware of one another’s presence. “Hold on,” I said, not having understood the jumble. I pointed to the boy on the right. “You first.” He gave a condescending smirk, as if proud I had chosen him first. “Marty Smith.” “Smith… ok.” I raised my pen to ask the other boy, but he was already on it. “Johnny Becker.” I checked them both off, and waved them toward two vacant seats. I noticed when the boys sat down they made strong efforts to 41

Mike Robinson dodge each other’s glances, looking every which way but straight, eyes making butterfly dances in the air. Something separated them, like the force that keeps magnets from touching one another. The class was going nuts. Chairs gouged and scraped the floor, and laughter held a steady reign over every other noise in the room. I stood before the spread of summer-bleached hair, gesturing for their attention. “Everyone! Please quiet down for a moment!” My voice rose, steadily firm. “Class, please! Your attention right now!” They quieted slowly. The energy in the room was extraordinary. I could almost hear it now over the dwindling noise, a zealous hum, the base stuff that moved the world—the universe. “Welcome everyone. I wanted to give you all a couple of minutes to get settled in.” I smiled and clasped my hands together. A grin formed on a nearby girl’s lips. “But now I’d like to get to know you, and you can get to know me. I’m Mrs. Chatsworth.” Unexpectedly, the class shouted in unison, “Hi!” I was pleasantly surprised, but did take notice of Johnny and Marty, who sat with their heads down, cocked, like two rams ready to clash craniums. They hadn’t made a sound. “Hello everyone,” I said. “What I’d like to do today is get to know all of you, just so I can get a feel of where you’re coming from and what you like to do.” This crinkled some brows. I gave a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, there’s no homework today, just this assignment.” I looked at my watch, then up at the school clock, a device I never used to trust since its rogue hands displayed any time they wanted. The promise to fix them was now three Septembers old. “We’ll go around the room and you can give your names and tell us something interesting you did over summer vacation. Then I have a treat for you.” Expectation lit their faces. “We’ll begin with you,” I said, placing an amiable hand on the shoulder of the closest girl. She twitched, and peered up at me with a 42

The Green-Eyed Monster pale, puckered face. Something was not quite right about her. Her features were lop-sided, off-kilter, the kind of look that could easily buy you a nickname or two through these early years. I thought perhaps she had cerebral palsy. “I’m Mary Anne,” the little girl said in broken eloquence. I flashed her a smile. “Hi, Mary Anne. Welcome to my class.” She tried to reciprocate the smile but held back, afraid that I might notice the gaps in her teeth. I said, “And did you do anything over summer that you’d like to share with us?” Mary Anne lowered her head. This was one of my few annual exercises, and while it was sometimes criticized for putting kids in an inappropriate spotlight, I’d found it helped boost their confidence, set a good precedent for the year, and for their relationship with me. At least, in a lot of cases. “I went to Los Angeles with my mom,” she said under her breath, pronouncing ‘Los Angeles’ more like ‘Wos Anges.’ She had a lisp. “You went to Los Angeles? Woooow. Did you drive or fly down there, Mary Anne?” “We dwove.” “That’s a long drive, too. I’ll bet your mother was tired after driving so long.” She nodded. “We saw the Norto Sime Museum.” “The Norton Simon Museum, Mary Anne?” I asked. “You went there with your mom?” She pursed her lips in a restricted smile. The Norton Simon in Pasadena was a place Gerald had been several times. I’d accompanied him only once. “They have a lot of beautiful stuff there, don’t they? That’s where they have the Rose Parade, too.” Mary Anne nodded again, though I felt she would’ve nodded to just about anything. She continued. “We went to the beach and saw movies, too.” 43

Mike Robinson “Sounds like an ideal trip to me. Thank you, Mary Anne.” My hand graced her back. I saw her flinch slightly, as though she weren’t used to being touched―or had been touched too much. “Who here has been to Los Angeles before?” I called out. Nearly seven arms punctured the air. I was impressed. The average reclusive Twilight Falls citizen making the ninety-mile drive over to San Francisco was considered a rare trip. I myself couldn’t fathom such self-imprisonment. Over the next thirty minutes, I wove through the checkerboard of desks, soliciting stories. There were two tight-lips, kids that wouldn’t open their mouths publicly without some amicable prodding. Then there were the complete opposites, those that had drunk their fill of childhood adventure and were busting to let it all out. One boy named Jesse had hiked Half-Dome with his father, much to the panic of his mother. Another had camped in the Sequoia National Forest for a week, and had gotten lost with his brother on a night hike. Throughout the process, however, the kids would take any space between stories to resume their chatter. “Class, class!” I cried. “Please! We only have a few more!” The voices didn’t cease. Annoyance heated my blood. Something tingled near my right temple. It felt as though a fly were crawling across my skin. “Class!” Still no response. I shut my eyes and listened to my pulse, felt it drumming my chest in a monotonous beat that became more and more fevered with each increasing decibel. I couldn’t allow myself to become a loose cannon on the first day. I tried to deconstruct the issue into manageable pieces, addressing students individually. “You! Cut that out!” “Daniel! Quiet down!” “Put that away please, before I take it!” “No, leave those alone, they’re for later.” 44

The Green-Eyed Monster The results were like pulling a shark’s tooth. The energy was diminished, but it slowly grew back as I busied myself with other kids. I was beginning to go dizzy, and if you’d asked me at that moment what my name was, I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Came the voice, You really think you’d want a child? With your job? I’m sure construction workers don’t remodel their houses on weekends. I sat down at my desk, plunged my head into my hands. Shapes and colors flashed my vision as the crawling, tingling sensation along my temple mutated into a full-blown headache. I was struck with a sudden bout of depression. After years of trying to have a baby, succeeding and then failing, perhaps someone up there was trying to tell me something. I could barely handle these kids. I was not fit to be a mother. Maybe not even a teacher. A small but firm voice: “Mrs. Chatsworth?” I looked up. Standing before me, chest-high to the desk, was one of the two kids that had come in late. His friend sat still in his seat, gazing out the window with a mature sense of well-being. “Yes?” “I’m Johnny.” “Yes Johnny?” He turned, and did a quick sweeping survey of the room. Arms thrashed and wavered like blades of grass in a fierce windstorm. As he returned to me, he looked disappointed. “The class is really loud, right, Mrs. Chatsworth?” “Yes it is, Johnny, yes they are.” I plastered my hands over my face again, clouding it with my skin and the smell of the moisturizing lotion I’d used that morning. The boy continued staring at me. I could feel it through my hands. “If you’d like, Grandfather can make everything better. All you need to do is say the word.” 45

Mike Robinson “Grandfather?” I made eye contact with him again. There was a strange, disconnected look on Johnny’s face, as though he were actually addressing the file cabinet behind me. “Grandfather, yes,” Johnny affirmed. “I dunno if you can see him. He takes special shape for me.” He darted a glance at the other kid, who remained staring at the jungle gym outside. “Most of you see him everywhere. If you’ve seen a butterfly you might’ve seen him and not known it.” Johnny paused, ensconced in thought. “Grandfather loves butterflies.” I leaned forward, stretching my neck to see whether or not there was anyone out near the jungle gym. Nothing. There was a middle-aged man walking his dog on the other side of the playground. Other than that, the swings and the slides and the monkey bars were empty. “He can stop this noise, if you’d like.” Not taking him seriously, I gave Johnny a flippant wave. “Go ahead, do whatever it takes. I just want to get through this day.” “Okay Mrs. Chatsworth.” He turned and stopped, struck with a sudden thought. “What is it, Johnny?” I said, getting up. “You will probably owe Grandfather a favor for this,” he said. “Are you okay with that?” The headache was weakening, thank God. I smiled and slipped on my glasses. “Sure. I’ll do whatever your Grandfather wants. Is he that good with kids that he can quiet them down so–?” Clang! A chair had toppled backwards. The kids at the affected table all gasped with horror and the rest of the class soon followed. All chatter crumbled into silent shock as Mary Anne lay convulsing on the floor. “What’s wrong with her?” “Is she gonna die?” 46

The Green-Eyed Monster I ran and pressed the security button to summon help. A stupefied donut of children had formed around Mary Anne. Paramedics arrived and hustled her onto a stretcher. They said something about epilepsy. I stood quiet with the rest of the class. Looking over toward the table by the window, I noticed Johnny had resumed his position across from Marty. Neither of them seemed bothered by the incident.

2 The TV was halfway through an episode of MASH when Gerald came home. He saw me on the couch, head lowered in a book, the television flashing and laughing across the room in a vain attempt to get my attention. Gerald didn’t understand how I could simultaneously read and watch TV, but I was not doing both. I was reading. It was just easy for me to drown things out. After rambunctious classrooms, a television was nothing. He came home around ten that night, looking unnaturally refreshed after a business trip, though by comparison this one had been a walk down the block, a visit to Frisco’s De-Young Museum followed by a stopover at a Berkeley student art exhibition. I’d spoken to him last on his first night in the big city, where he felt, in his words, like “an unwelcome spice in a liberal stew.” I’d let the subdued ranting go with one eye on my book, often muttering “Mmhmm” (the telephone version of a smile and nod) every two minutes, realizing with a growing sadness that I was rapidly tiring of my husband, as each day seemed to peel away more lingering respect. The political tangents, the long hours, the pale interest in almost everything that wasn’t framed or mounted… something had died here, and it had left a pungent corpse which desperately awaited burial. 47

Mike Robinson “Any leftovers around?” he asked, hanging up his jacket. He came into the living room, trying to shake the wrinkles off his shirt. He kissed me hello. “I was at Cal until nine and all they had to serve were little appetizer things.” “No leftovers,” I said. “I haven’t cooked anything since you’ve been away.” The MASH audience laughed across the room. I turned a page. “No cooking?” Gerald snorted playfully. “What’ve you been eating then?” “Well, Susan took me out Thursday and Saturday. Other days I just got take-out.” “Take-out? From where? Hu’s?” I nodded. “None left?” “No, none left. Susan was over last night and we had the rest of it.” Gerald sauntered on into the kitchen. “How many times a day do you see Susan?” He brought out a small Tupperware bowl, looked inside, and scowled. “Yee-ow! This casserole’s growing a forest. I’m going to toss it.” “Go right ahead. I didn’t even know we still had it.” “Alright,” he muttered. “I think I’ll just have this TV dinner. Mind if I eat in there with you?” “Sure.” He didn’t like being in a room too long by himself. “Do you need any help in carrying anything in?” “I should be okay.” As he set up, I looked at him fully for the first time since he’d come in the door. Admittedly he was still in very good shape, his ‘marriage weight’ added in the right places. His face still bore the dark, porcelain features that had first drawn me to him, though several creases and wrinkles had since emerged, for which I felt personally responsible. 48

The Green-Eyed Monster You’re driving him nuts, I thought, filled with a sudden, brief guilt. Gerald sat there and ate with me, and watched the end of MASH, then the news. Footage of President Carter came on and he turned the channel, settling on boxing coverage. “I’m going to bed,” I said, getting up. In his eyes was a quick pathetic display of, you’re leaving? which hardened fast. He tried to say something but the words were lost in the mouthful of food. I could only make out, “Night.” I left Gerald to his dinner and headed upstairs and got ready for bed, then sat on my side of the mattress. For what seemed like five or six minutes I stared at the wall. The TV droned on downstairs. I could hear Gerald clattering around the kitchen again, washing and putting away dishes. I reached under the bed and pulled out a thin black portfolio. I wanted to see William before Gerald came up to join me. I should explain. William is my son, the son that survived the birth and made it into the pale glow of Twilight Falls Medical. He exists only in sketches, and in my head. I’d kept alive archaic art skills by drawing him, rendering him in pencil, charcoal, chalk pastel, from the side, front, back, anywhere and everywhere. He doesn’t seem to get older than five or six. What if Gerald found these? I thought. Good. Maybe that’ll be enough crazy for him. Maybe then it’ll be over. Done.

49

Mike Robinson

3 The initial weeks of school went rather smoothly. As observed that first day, the class was a volcanic ball of youthful energy. I’d learned to adapt, though, honing approaches to individual personality as well as the collective in order to properly control them. One thing about this class: they were exceedingly intelligent. All twenty-six heads proved to harbor extremely inquisitive and creative little brains. I could only hope to tap their full potential. Luckily, most of them seemed interested in exploiting their own abilities, running extra miles for a super-smiley sticker, taking zealous part in lessons and activities. Marty Smith and Johnny Becker continued to sit at the same place, largely quiet, aloof. While not partaking of the obvious alacrity of their peers, they produced some of the best work in the class. From time to time they would argue, too, not as much in the classroom but certainly on the playground. No one came to blows, and I never heard the subject of their arguments, but there was an intensity there, palpable across campus despite its invisibleness in their mutually stoic countenance. During the fourth week, I had an assignment for the class. “I want you all to write a story and draw a picture about something you’ve learned in your life,” I said. “This can be anything.” Mary Anne’s hand went up. I gestured toward her. “Yes, Mary Anne?” “D-D-Does it have to be something we learned at school?” “No, not at all. It can be anything, but it has to be appropriate. I don’t want to see if you learned how to fit five hundred gumballs in your mouth.” This elicited chuckles. “I’d like it just before the bell rings. And remember everyone, it’s Friday! So no homework!” 50

The Green-Eyed Monster I passed out long rectangular newsprint paper, three sheets per eager student. At my behest, two girls, Tori and Michelle, helped distribute the markers and crayons. I thanked them. For the remaining hour the kids worked. I went around the room, making sure not to look over any shoulder for too long, and returned to my desk. Then—and I’m not sure why I noticed it this particular moment—I realized something. I flipped open the roll-book and checked every week going back to the first day of school. Amazingly, there was nothing but a wall of checks on every page. Save for the day Mary Anne had had her seizure, in that entire month none of the kids had ever been absent. Strange, I thought, both startled and amused. I oughta send this in to Guinness. When the bell rang, I had them all line up and pile their stories on my desk. One by one the column grew. I saw Daniel Flannigan’s story My Piano Lessons, written in blue marker and cleverly decorated with music notes, which was soon eclipsed by Jack’s My Brother and Baseball, followed by Rita’s story of her dad teaching her how to hunt. At the end of the line was Marty Smith with his story The Big Brain: three pages of large, self-important child writing. I kept a special eye on it. “Thank you, Marty,” I said. He forced a smile, then left the room. Johnny Becker remained in his seat, hunched over as if in pain. I could sense frustration and bewilderment, could smell them almost, if that makes any sense. He was clearly having trouble, but I was hesitant to approach him. “Johnny?” I said. Kids’ voices droned far away. “Is everything alright? May I help you with someth—?” “No,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about it.” “Well, ok, but I’m here if—” “Don’t bother yourself.” 51

Mike Robinson He wadded his paper up into a scratchy ball and chucked it into the wastebasket, then promptly retrieved his book bag and fired his legs toward the door. He left without further exchange. The class was empty. I went to the trash and fetched his discarded assignment. I remember thinking, He’s due for a stroke in twenty years if he keeps this up. I unfolded the paper. Through the wrinkles it was hard to make it out, although even if the paper were clear and flat, I’m still not sure I would’ve understood what it was:

It was the only zero Johnny Becker would get in my grade-book. Marty’s story waited atop the pile. Highly curious after seeing the title, I sat down and looked at it. In purple crayon: The Big Brain by Marty Smith 52

The Green-Eyed Monster 1st Grade One day there was a Big Brain, bigger than anything, than the entire universe. Then it shattered into millions and millions of pieces. These millions and millions of pieces all became stars, planets, galaxies, and animals. That means that everything is just a part of this Big Brain. We are too, and so are fishes, bugs, dogs, everything. My Grandfather says that this Big Brain wants to be itself again, and the only way to do that is for everything to die and become one. He says everything wants to become one. That’s why birds fly in flocks and fish swim in schools. One day we will all come back to the Big Brain.

I put a normal smiley face sticker on Marty’s paper. There was no illustration and he hadn’t really followed directions, but I had to give him credit for technique, spelling and of course, imagination. He seemed a wise little weirdo.

4 If it wasn’t obvious, my politics tend toward the left. Yes, yes, the typical pinko school teacher from Northern California, at it again. Except in all honesty I’ve never been too political, even in my younger days with the storm of Vietnam blowing through the hearts and minds of my friends and peers. Marrying Gerald, strangely, had increased my liberal fire, perhaps in an intuitive Yin-Yang way of counterbalance. While not of the religious right, Gerald showed his conservative colors in two major areas: finance, and his membership with the NRA. 53

Mike Robinson One day sometime that November, there was a newsbreak about a lone Arizona boy who’d brought a semi-automatic to school and slaughtered nine classmates. As images of the school rolled across the TV, supplemented by the shooter’s creepily serene yearbook photo, my insides turned to ice. “He just came in and like started shooting everywhere,” cried one hysterical girl, her face tear-soaked and red. The reporter began tracing the kid’s movement through the school, with the aid of a crimson arrow graphic that wound its way through a map of the campus. The shooter—whose name was Steven Drake—had had most of the seniors and juniors in his crosshairs, the ones who mingled in the popular cliques. The ones who, in his words, “spat down upon him.” “Steven was an angry young man,” one official said. “He was confused, and confusion and anger are a dangerous mix.” There was a brief video of Phoenix police guiding the handcuffed boy toward a squad car. He went calmly and patiently, fully grasping his fate. I took a rest from my dinner to breathe. “I’d like to see that kid’s parents,” Gerald commented through a spoonful of stew. He looked as though he had golf balls wedged in his mouth. I kept quiet as the reporter spoke. Gerald continued, “I mean, who are these cretins that run around like this, that let their kids run around like this? They pull all these stunts, take no responsibility for their actions or their kids’ actions. They ought to be arrested too.” “Those parents are usually the type to have guns lying around,” I said quietly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “This kid brought a semi-automatic to school, Gerald. Maybe the parents left it out where he could get it. Of course, we know how easy it is for the parents to get…” 54

The Green-Eyed Monster Gerald tempered the rush of irritation with a mocking laugh. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and draped it back over his knee. “Don’t tell me—you’re going to start off on the Second Amendment now? Go ahead, I’d love to see how this one turns out.” Face flushed, I said, “No, no, I’m not falling into that trap. All I know is, nine people are dead who otherwise wouldn’t have been.” “If not for what? The revolution?” He burped. “That’s what I love about the media. This drivel they spill out. With their reporting you’d think everyone who owns a gun will either shoot themselves to death or live to see their children’s brains on the wall.” “Well—” “What about all the statistics on how well a gun serves its actual constitutional purpose? Where’s the data on how many homes have been protected and families saved because the gun was there to ward off an intruder?” He shook his head, not wanting me to answer. I did anyway. “I don’t know, Jerry, you tell me. Where is all that data?” “Not being exposed, that’s for sure.” “And where is it exposed? On your radio stations? I’d love to see where they get their facts. Who says anything they say is any truer than the news?” Gerald’s spoon stopped midway to the stew. He closed his eyes, trying to remain as civil as possible, to gather his thoughts. “All I’m saying is, guns are made out to be this huge problem when they’re really not. Look at it this way: you have to inject a bit of the virus into someone to inoculate them against it. That’s what guns do. They protect us. I mean, sure, there are morons. There will always be morons. But it’s that minority that the media finds newsworthy, so naturally everyone’s going to think that kids are killing each other left and right.” I was struck by a vision of a small revolver sitting enclosed. Very near by. “Do you…” I trailed off, timid all of a sudden. Gerald waited. 55

Mike Robinson “Do I what?” “Do you still have that gun?’ He watched as the question floated before him. “Yes, I do. I don’t keep it loaded, though, and I keep the bullets in a separate place. And trust me, we’re a lot safer with it around.” “In Twilight Falls? Jesus, Gerald! The worst crime here was that kid who stole napkin dispensers from cafes.” “Just, please, calm down and—” “And what about William?” I screamed. That moment was almost out-of-body, as though something had plucked my mind from my brain, and held it over my head to watch and listen to me scream at Gerald about the safety of the son he didn’t even know he had. It was the first time I’d ever mentioned William Chatsworth to him. Gerald stared at me as though I’d gone crazy. And who knows, that may have been the start of it. “Who the hell is William?”

5 The school year was a little over a month old when I got the first call. Back to School Night was still two weeks away. “I just wanted to thank you for your work with Daniel,” said an exuberant Mrs. Flannigan. “We can’t believe how well he’s doing.” “Well, he’s a very bright boy,” I said, not understanding her gratitude. Ever since the first week Daniel had showcased—as had many of those around him—remarkable intelligence and creative curiosity. “That’s just the thing,” Mrs. Flannigan said. “He wasn’t like this before. When he was in kindergarten, the teacher would try to get him into the lessons but he would never want to do anything. He 56

The Green-Eyed Monster never even played with the other kids and now he has a group of friends like a normal boy.” “Was there something wrong?” I asked, honestly intrigued. I had done nothing special for Daniel. “We weren’t sure. Doctors went through diagnoses like candy. They mentioned that new syndrome, Asperger’s or whatever, or high-functioning autism. Or just P.I.A.” “What’s P.I.A?” Mrs. Flannigan hesitated. “Pain in the Ass.” I chuckled. “Maybe he’s just coming out of his shell.” “I don’t think so. You see, he wasn’t the anti-social genius type. Frankly, he was slow and anti-social. Other kids made fun of him. We got him into piano lessons when he was four, but he never really seemed interested until now. Now he’s practicing almost every night, and really getting good.” My smile was wide and genuine. Gerald was making noise in the other room, gathering things for another business trip. He whistled to himself, full of the usual good mood before taking off. “I’m very glad to hear that, Mrs. Flannigan, you have no idea,” I said. “He’s done a superb job all on his own. I’ve hardly had to help him with anything.” “Well, thank you again,” she said. That night, I received calls from three other parents, praising me for their child’s academic renaissance. Mary Anne’s retardation had apparently been the result of her biological mother’s addiction to heroin, yet it hadn’t interfered with her schoolwork, at least not in my class. According to her adoptive parents, they’d given up hope of her being able to compete in a regular classroom and were making arrangements for specialized schooling, a notion hardened by her recent seizure. Then, she’d brought home an A+ spelling test. More had followed. She’d always seemed bright to me, despite the clear handicap she’d exhibited on the first day. 57

Mike Robinson I went to sleep that night feeling proud yet puzzled all the same. Genius kids with spotless attendance. Was it even me? You can’t teach them not to get sick, after all, especially at an age when they were all flypaper for germs. Many things came to mind that night. I felt as though I’d won an award I didn’t deserve. Had I arranged the room in some sort of positive feng-shui orientation? Were the moon and planets aligned? Who knew? I woke up around 4 a.m. to go to the bathroom. As I returned to the sheets, I heard Gerald mutter the name ‘Jackie’ in his sleep.

6 The man I thought I fell in love with and married came into my life my junior year of college. He was a stranger to whom I’d give occasional eye-treatment at Twilight Falls Community College. We noticed each other while taking summer courses (the time when the campus was the quietest), but never talked to one another despite attempts by fate to play matchmaker. I’d stand behind him in lines to get coffee; I’d stop at red lights, only to see him idling in his Chevy in the adjacent lane, usually bobbing his head to music. We’d somehow choose the same time to purchase or resell textbooks. You get the picture. We were seated next to one another in a Sociology class. The professor was a Ms. Hillary Haley, a thin, perfectly-sculpted brunette who I mistook for a student on the first day. At this point, I was sure I noticed Gerald much more than he noticed me. As a male entering the shallow end of his twenties, he took an instant shine to Ms. Haley. For the first few weeks of the course, I’d be stuck with polite head-nods and curt hellos, while Hot-Tot-Haley got all the substantive attention. 58

The Green-Eyed Monster Then, in a tragic turn of events, Ms. Haley was disfigured in a small two-seater airplane that never made it off the ground and crashed into an airport eatery. While she lived at the hospital and under the knife, the school brought in Donald Richardson to teach the class. He was an archetypal professor, an unkempt Santa Claus whose strict grading hand used the first two letters of the alphabet very sparingly. After Ms. Haley’s unfortunate incident, Gerald cast his line into my pool and I bit every inch of the bait. We talked casually, flirtatiously, for the rest of the semester, even studying together for Richardson’s notorious final exam. I liked him quite a bit, but the feeling was mostly superficial and highly accentuated since I’d been eyeing him for that entire previous summer. For Gerald, that was the final semester at Twilight Falls Community College. In the spring he transferred to the University of Virginia in pursuit of a liberal arts degree. I had his local home number, but never found out his dorm number or address. We fell out of contact as I continued charging away with my child psychology studies. Roughly a year later, my family and I were in New York visiting my grandfather, a former appraiser-turned-abstract artist who’d developed a local cult following with his pieces. He’d invited us to his first exhibition, which had been set up and organized by a professor and art critic from NYU who’d stumbled upon his works and arranged some gallery space for him. During the show, I was surprised to see Gerald perusing one particular piece. I watched him, initially unable to place him but remembering his face a moment later. I was shy, until Gerald approached my grandfather and they began talking shop. Apparently Gerald had “discovered art” at U of V and was highly interested in exposing lesser-knowns to the masses. He spoke also of reintroducing classical, or more romantic, definitions of art, of “taking artists back from the avant-garde.” 59

Mike Robinson At some point during their conversation, my grandfather introduced my father, mother, sister, and finally, myself. Memories were jogged, laughs shared. I still say, even to this day, that something wanted us together. As a young woman, I thought of serendipity, the possibility that we were two laces on the same shoe and had always meant to be tied. I think it was this bizarre trail of synchrony that really helped to feed the whole “Mr. Right” and “meant to be” illusion. And it wasn’t fleeting, or the result of an innocent, naïve heart. The illusion was strong enough to last me through nine years of splintering marriage, of seeing the handwriting on the wall become starkly legible. The initial years weren’t too bad. The honeymoon to Mexico had, in fact, been quite memorable, and as morbid as it may sound, I think the stillborn kept us together in some twisted adherent of guilt and obligation. We had shared a personal crisis, and neither of us wished to address it much vocally. To this day I don’t really know the true depths of Gerald’s feelings about it. Maybe we kept together because we expected we would eventually speak of it, truly speak of it, even though at one point Gerald, in the heat of some agitation, muttered a tenuous ban on the subject. “It’s in God’s hands,” he’d said, despite being, like me, a non-churchgoer. Over that following year, we began to resume what we thought was “our marriage,” but something raw and real had been exposed, something irrevocable, and I think neither of us could really handle it and so we denied it, slapped some plastic charm over it. A band-aid that would ultimately peel. I’d say I wish I could go back and change all this, but honestly (weirdly) I don’t know if I could. A large part of me feels as though I had little control over my entanglement with Gerald. Year by year, we grew worse. Often times I’d be stuck between a rock and hard place, looking forward to his long absences, but not to the loneliness that would set in the following day. My friend Susan helped alleviate that, at least for a while. From about the sixth year of 60

The Green-Eyed Monster our marriage on, she’d never let up on the opportunity to tell me to leave Gerald, but I found the greatest solace in teaching, thoughts of William, and the pulpy romance novels that would see me off to sleep every night. The transition from a room packed with little human beings to an empty house was jarring. And thinking of William also caused the very thing that it sometimes helped to cure. And around November or December of 1977 (I’ve since lost all sense of time from being in this damn institute), I came to the realization that Gerald Chatsworth was having an affair. I didn’t confront him. I suppose because, in my paranoia, I’d more or less long confirmed it. I’d already been through the aches and knots and now that the situation had stumbled its way into reality I was the first to shake its hand, welcoming it as our new, and perhaps final, problem. I tried not to think much about it, worried that personal problems could haunt my work in the classroom.

“Hey!” I cried, holding Daniel back as his scrawny arms pelted Harry Zwieg. “Now is that appropriate behavior? Is that what we do when we’re mad? What’s gotten into you?” I sat Daniel down in a time-out. He folded his limbs over one another, creating a straight jacket with his crossed arms and legs. His eyes surveyed the room, pupils ablaze in embarrassment, and frustration. Harry huddled in the corner, afraid to move while the others played blissfully between them. The boys had been engaged in a rowdy game of Superman and Batman that had, inevitably, popped the imaginative bubble. Daniel protested, “But Harry threw the block at m—!” “I don’t want to hear it, Daniel. We don’t fight.” There was a familiar presence behind me. One of the two boys. 61

Mike Robinson “Grandfather tells me revenge is the best way,” Marty said. I didn’t look at him. I wanted to make sure the situation between Harry and Daniel didn’t reignite. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Chatsworth?” Marty asked. Not really thinking, I answered, “Yes, but—” “But Daniel was fighting with Harry. He should be more respectful.” “Thank you, Marty, you’re right.” Marty smiled that distinct smile. He raised a finger toward Harry, who remained in the corner, his legs rubber-banded by his arms. “He’s going to do great things,” Marty said. “No one should disrespect a hero.” “I’m sure everyone in here is going to do great things,” I said. A collection of Playmobil toys and Legos clattered on the floor. “Oh I know,” Marty said. With his hands in his pockets and that sly grin on his face, he looked ready to impart either a prize or a punishment. “Thing is, there are lots of jealous kids in here that you don’t know about. Everyone is jealous of one another because they’re all so smart. They’re all mad. They act like friends but it’s not true.” My eyebrow furrowed as I half-listened. My other ear remained attuned to the rest of the class. “I can feel it, can’t you, Mrs. Chatsworth? The confusion. The kids don’t know what to make of these feelings they have. And when you’re confused and angry, you’re gonna cause violence. They cause violence because they are hurt that they are not special.” “Everyone is special and unique in their own individual way,” I said. “No.” He hesitated, and stared at me with that knowing curl in his lips, which said everything and nothing. “And no one should deny hurt, Mrs. Chatsworth. If someone hurts you, you need to tell them—or show them.” 62

The Green-Eyed Monster

The day chugged on without further incident, that is, if you discount the last twenty minutes of class. In the sleepy half-hour after P.E., I sat the class down and gave them one final assignment for the day. “Do any of you watch the news with your families?” I asked. Several kids looked at one another. I added, “Or the newspaper? Do any of your Mommies or Daddies read anything from the newspaper to you?” Hands went up hesitantly, as though from survivors in a collapsed building, calling to their rescuers. I nodded and took it all in. “Well, a lot of things happen in the world every day,” I continued. “Sometimes they can happen to us, or to a friend of yours, or your parents, or anyone—” “Chaos,” rang a small darkened voice in the back. “I’m sorry?” “You’re talking about Chaos,” he repeated. It was either Johnny or Marty. I couldn’t tell which. I cleared my throat. “Anyways, what I’d like you all to do is write about a news item you’ve heard or read, maybe from the TV, paper, anywhere, and I want to hear your solutions to the problem. It can be anything! Have fun with this. Use your imaginations.” Having assigned this kind of thing several years ago when teaching fourth graders, I wouldn’t have thought it appropriate for six and seven-year-olds. But this class had surpassed expectation. I felt no compunction in trying it on them. For another ten minutes they wrote. I made my usual rounds, overseeing. Then, at ten after two, twenty minutes before the dismissal bell, Johnny suddenly bolted up from his seat, snatching Marty’s paper before the boy had time to react. As he’d done with his own bizarre drawing not weeks before, he began mashing it into a 63

Mike Robinson crinkly ball. He stopped midway and savagely tore it to pieces, stripping it smaller and smaller. “You have no place here! You have no place here!” Johnny cried. It was the first time I’d heard either of the boys raise his voice. Marty took it all in as if it was expected. His expression was one of understanding laced with disappointment, seeming to say, “Great. Fun’s over. Now can I have my paper back?” Johnny’s hands had made a mess of it, however. I stormed over to their corner area, grabbed him by the wrist and plunked him down in the time-out chair. He went without protest, without a word, and in fact had held up his wrist as I approached, like a felon volunteering arrest. “What on Earth has gotten into you?” The class watched, stunned. “It’s not from Earth,” he replied. Calm. “Excuse me?” He made no further reply. I leaned in and pointed a long finger at him. “Listen to me, Johnny. There’s absolutely no excuse for an outburst like that. What did Marty do to you anyway? What did he say?” He looked over at Marty. I followed the gaze. The kid sat staring idly at the classroom sink. “Many things,” Johnny replied under his breath. He sounded a bit more winded, a bit more… human. “Like what?” “You won’t understand.” “Well, I understand that you got angry and did something you shouldn’t have. That’s all I need to understand right now.” I lowered my finger and just stared at him. “You can just sit there until I dismiss you.”

64

The Green-Eyed Monster I stood up and went over to Marty’s desk. “You can do yours over again, if you’d like,” I said. “You still have fifteen minutes until the bell rings.” “That’s alright, Mrs. Chatsworth,” he said. He turned back to the sink. “Everything seems to be in order, anyway. I won’t do anything to disrupt it.” When the bell rang the kids lined up and piled their papers on top of my desk in the usual way. Johnny’s came third, beneath Harry Zwieg’s and his close buddy, Alan, both of whom wrote about Star Wars (their six-year-old emulation of the logo was absolutely priceless). I watched them go, waving back to Mary Anne and a few others. Once the hallway had slurped up the last bit of backpack, I turned to the stories. I dug two levels down and got Johnny’s paper first. It was untitled and scrawled in what looked like an overly-waxed crayon that left little clots on each of the letters. I started reading. A rising problem is gun violence. As usual, the tone was disproportionately sophisticated. The striking similarity between both boys’ handwriting also never failed to amaze me. There was a boy named Steven who brought a gun to his school and shot people, killing nine of them. Although some of the deaths were justified… My brain recoiled to the back of my skull. …the kid was wrong to kill people with his father’s gun, and as such should be punished. Whenever someone does something bad, whether they mean to or not, they are in debt to somebody, and it is their job to pay that debt. A grainy image hit my mind just then: Gerald and… someone else. It didn’t feel as though it were starting so much as continuing, like a movie reel that’d been running silently and blindly until the projector was turned on. 65

Mike Robinson One bad thing can create more bad things. Everything snowballs and has an effect. If someone does something bad like shooting at their friends then the effect should be revenge. It is good to get revenge if the person doesn’t pay his debt. Thoroughly unsettled, I read the remaining line with a kind of torturous ease: This is what my Grandfather told me.

Having had my fill of Johnny and Marty’s ‘grandfather’ quotes, I made my way toward the main office, roster in hand, on which I’d highlighted the phone numbers of the Becker and Smith households. I dialed the Smiths first. It rang… once… twice… A clatter, then a brisk female “Hello?” “Hi, is this Mrs. Charlotte Smith?” “Yes.” “I’m Anne Chatsworth, Martin’s teacher at the school—” “Oh hello!” she said, with sudden excitement. “Hi, yes, I was calling just to check up on something about Martin.” I paused, my mind wiped blank. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing, really, I… uh, I…” I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, unraveled the knot of words in my head. “I wanted to ask you about his grandfather. He talks about him a lot. He seems to be a great inspiration in his life.” What response did I expect? Certainly not the one that followed. “Grandfather?” Mrs. Smith repeated. “Marty never knew either of his grandfathers. One died of a stroke almost seven years ago, and my father’s been dead for nearly thirty years.” “Oh.” 66

The Green-Eyed Monster “Yes. There must be some misunderstanding. Marty is a very creative boy. Who knows what kinds of things he’ll come up with?” “Right.” After some small talk, I thanked her and dialed the Beckers. The reaction, the hesitation, was the same. Johnny’s grandfather had died of cancer seven years ago. His mother’s father had gone missing almost three decades before.

7 Open the window, said a voice in my head. I stopped. Just do it. Open the window. It’ll save you time. I obeyed the bizarre command and opened the window. The breeze felt nice in the stuffiness of the house. Upstairs, Gerald shuffled about, packing for a trip to Chicago. Whistling. Humming. A great mood because he was leaving. Or so I thought. Maybe he was seeing another woman, too, whose name was Jackie, the name I’d heard once or twice, the name I’d seen on a torn hand-addressed envelope I’d discovered in his desk. Maybe he was never going to return after this jaunt. It was something I halfexpected these days. I was downstairs grading math exercises, the desk radio my company. John Becker—100%. Super-smiley sticker. I came to the next worksheet: Martin Smith. My body shuddered, as if a thousand tiny fish had suddenly mobilized through my veins. Normally taking the same amount of time to complete the assignment, it wasn’t unusual to see their papers stacked together. However, in the walk to my car earlier that afternoon I’d dropped 67

Mike Robinson them and scooped them all up with frustrated haste. By blind coincidence, they’d reunited in the disarray. Struck by a stupid notion, I took the stack of papers and threw them. They curled and flopped and slid across the floor and came to rest: Daniel Flannigan’s perched precariously on the arm of a nearby easy chair, overlooking the unkempt slew of those floor-bound. I got up and peered closer, greeted by the many smiley-stickers I’d issued, some of which bore the added decoration of a red or gold or blue star. Harry Zwieg’s had only a star. Math was not his best subject. I found the two papers. They’d taken a side-trip, separating from the rest of the group and landing in the fireplace. Johnny’s lay perpendicular to Marty’s, forming a thick cross. Elvis was now singing Hound Dog on the radio. As I maneuvered around the pages, the bedroom door opened and Gerald bumbled his way down the stairs. I didn’t much acknowledge him. …nothin’ but hound dog, cryin’ all the time… “What’s all this?” Gerald said, noticing the papers. …weeelll you ain’t never caught a rabbit… “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Just student worksheets.” …and you ain’t no friend o’ mine! I glanced quickly around for an excuse as to why they were strewn like bird droppings around the room. Open the window. Then I saw it. “I had the window open and a breeze picked up.” “Well, please clean it up,” he said. “I just packed and I’m really in a clean-freak mode right now.” He continued on to the living room to grab something. On his return route he said, “I have to leave for Oakland at six in the morning, so I’m heading to bed. G’night.” I sat on the edge of my seat at my desk. Gerald’s feet on the stairs ceased and the bedroom door shut. Silence hummed. I cupped my face in my hands and thought of separation, divorce, suicide, and God knows what else, and then out of the corner of my eye I noticed the fireplace had sprung to life in a single note of flame. It danced 68

The Green-Eyed Monster and played, lapping like a volcanic tongue until it caught the only two papers within reach and spread in joyful and heated delirium across the smiley-faces, and the names Johnny Becker and Marty Smith.

8 From what I learned, the boys saw a lot of each other because of their parents’ close relationship, and as the school year passed, I got to know both families better. The Beckers and the Smiths would seldom miss a day in picking up their sons after school. Apparently they had accommodating jobs. They’d arrive at the school early, usually before any other parents, chatting amongst themselves until the bell clanged and the children began foaming from the school. The day following Johnny’s outburst in my classroom, I called both couples in for an after-school conference. I didn’t have much planned, or maybe I had so much I wanted to address that my mind was blank and I didn’t know where to begin. The dynamic between Johnny and Marty was one of the oddest I’d ever seen. One was not without the other in the nearby vicinity. I myself hadn’t seen them more than thirty feet apart, yet their interaction was minimal and moreover, they scarcely even seemed to like each other. Their closeness was obligatory, almost contractual. They shared an unspoken interest in one another too, competitiveness far deeper than the normal surface squabbles of games and who-can-drawbetter contests. It was unhealthy, and I was concerned. The Beckers and Smiths sat before me, confident and curious. “Do you have any idea why I asked you all here?” I asked, meeting all eight of their concerned eyes. All of them have brown eyes, I thought. “Not particularly, no,” said Charlotte Smith, despite a knowing unease in her voice. 69

Mike Robinson “To be perfectly candid,” I said, “I’m getting increasingly concerned about both of your sons and the way they interact.” “What’s wrong?” said Carl Becker, practically interrupting me. “Well, it’s an unusual situation. They are both incredibly talented young men. I’ve never had students so proficient in everything, and I mean everything. They don’t have any problems in any subject, and are outstanding amongst their peers. I have a very smart class this year, too, so that’s saying quite a lot.” The four parents smiled at one another, gleaming with pride. The Beckers found each others’ hands and held them. “But there is one thing I’ve been noticing that I wanted to address with you. They adhere to each other like best friends, yet all they seem to do is ignore one another or fight. They sit together at lunch but don’t talk. I’ve noticed they don’t socialize with anyone else, at least in my classroom.” I leaned forward, and tried not to think of Gerald, who tended to visit my head at the most unreasonable times. “I’m just worried and wondered if any of you could shed light on the situation.” “I don’t believe that,” said Thomas Smith. He glanced at his wife, then turned back to me. “Marty is getting along fine with his classmates. He’s told us about all the friends he’s made…” “Yes,” Charlotte Smith continued. “What about Gregory? Or Tom?” I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have any students by the names of Greg or Tom in my class.” I sighed. “This is precisely what I’m talking about. Your son must be making up imaginary friends to mask his abnormally anti-social behavior.” Thomas caressed his balding head. “Please don’t psycho-analyze our son, Mrs. Chatsworth, we didn’t come here for that. And we’ve met Greg, and Tom. One’s a redhead with freckles and the other is a little black boy.” “Don’t forget William, too,” Charlotte said. 70

The Green-Eyed Monster I looked at her. “William?” I asked. My brain told me to drop it, that there must be millions of young Williams running about the world, but I had to ask. “Yes, we haven’t met him,” Charlotte said. “But Marty told us he’s new to the school.” The Beckers were nodding their heads. “Yeah, Johnny’s mentioned a new classmate as well.” Carl looked at me. “So there doesn’t seem to be much of a problem.” Melinda Becker spoke up. “Mrs. Chatsworth… you think our sons are enemies? Or outcasts?” “My concern,” I said, “lies more in the fact that their unbreakable bond is built on nothing but competition. It’s normal for kids to compete, to say that they can color better than the next kid, or run faster, but I’ve never seen anything this… extreme. And if they didn’t have each other I’m not sure they’d be using their talents to the maximum like they are.” “But…” Thomas began. “They are doing the best they can, right? Isn’t that a good thing?” “Yes, they both are. I’ve never seen two boys who are so alike in so many ways, yet so distant from each other at the same time.” The couples looked at one another. Outside, the wails and whines of after-school activity needled the playground. “I haven’t really noticed anything unusual,” said Carl Becker. “Every time I see the boys, they’re busy doing something.” He rolled his head across his shoulders, cracking the meaty column of his neck. “What do you expect us to do about this? We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. You say they’re only motivated by their desires to top one another, so if we try to stop that then we’ll be risking their school performance. Am I right?” I sat back, feeling unprepared. “Um, well, not necessarily. I just think—” “And if we let this continue, we’re just greasing their slide into all sorts of weird mental and social problems later on.” 71

Mike Robinson “I can’t believe this is happening now,” Melinda said. “They’re only in first grade, and we still have four more years of grade school.” “Just means there’s time for them, hon,” said Carl. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually,” I said. “Have you heard of Newridge School for the Gifted? It’s right here in Twilight Falls, on Port Street and Sixth.” Both couples nodded as I spoke. In particular I noticed Melinda, seemingly the most emotional of the bunch, eager and agitated as she awaited my point. “Normally it’s tough for midyear transfers to get in—not that it isn’t tough to begin with—but I’m confident that they’ll find both of your sons more than acceptable for their curriculum.” I opened a folder on my lap and handed them brochures that said Newridge: Higher Standards, Higher Places over a faded picture of an oldfashioned brick building. The Beckers and Smiths read the literature with cautious optimism. “I think Newridge will further strengthen their abilities by surrounding them with peers of their level.” God how I felt like a cheesy saleswoman in that moment, but at least it was something I truly believed. “I’m sure they’ll be better suited to nurture your sons’ talents, and help them focus it all in a healthier way.” “We actually looked into Newridge,” said Thomas Smith. “But Marty wasn’t that interested.” He turned to Carl and Melinda. “Johnny wasn’t either, was he?” They both shook their heads. Carl said, “No, no he wasn’t. He was pretty adamant about coming to the elementary school.” “Yeah, they both were so funny,” Charlotte recalled. “Marty said he had ‘business’ at this school. He really wanted to go here, so we weren’t going to force him to go anywhere else.” “We could give it another shot, I suppose,” Thomas said. “I actually still think they’d be better suited there. Sometimes I feel as though they’re not being challenged enough.” He caught himself, remembering my presence. “No offense to you, Mrs. Chatsworth.” 72

The Green-Eyed Monster I smiled. “None taken. I agree, that’s partially why you’re here. And I actually know someone at Newridge, too. My friend Susan’s husband is the chancellor. I’ll be able to put in a good word for both John and Martin, perhaps write letters of recommendation. Whatever it takes.” I restrained myself from talking further, for fear of sounding desperate to be rid of their sons. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the cost, either. Of course, they don’t list it on the brochure so as not to scare you away, but it’s actually pretty reasonable. And I’m sure both Johnny and Marty would be shoo-ins for a scholarship.” The group appeared satisfied with my suggestion, and the meeting rolled toward conclusion, the whole process far more amenable than I’d anticipated. “Okay well, we’ll definitely consider this and talk it over with Marty tonight,” Thomas said. Carl and Melinda Becker added their agreement for Johnny. Leaning forward, I said, “Just one quick thing before you go…” “Yes?” “Have either of the boys mentioned a grandfather to you? I know I called both of you a while back about it, but I have to say, I’m still rather curious.” They stopped. “No,” Thomas said. He was clearly not aware of my previous phone call where I’d spoken to Charlotte. “Neither of them knew any of their grandfathers.” Carl spoke. “There was a time—I think about two weeks ago— when I saw Johnny drawing someone, an old bearded man. I asked him who he was and he said it was his grandfather ‘Geppetto.’ Figured he was just being a kid.” “It’s nothing, really.” I waved it off and stood up. The parents followed my lead and I extended my hand. “Thank you so much for coming in, all of you. It was a pleasure.” 73

Mike Robinson “Thank you, Mrs. Chatsworth,” Charlotte Smith said, shaking my hand. Her eyes, much like her husband’s, were cold. “You’re very welcome,” came my reply. “I don’t mean to intervene too much, but I see two extremely bright boys’ futures at stake.” I crossed my arms. “I just want to make sure they get off to a good start.” “You’re one in a million, Ms. Chatsworth,” Mr. Smith said. The compliment sounded forced. “Very few teachers would be as concerned as you are. Thanks for watching over our boys.” Carl went to the window, peered through the blinds. Shafts of afternoon sun painted yellow prison stripes across his face. “There they are. Sitting by the four-square courts.” After seeing them out of the room, I stood there before a wall of construction paper turkeys the kids had made that Thanksgiving. Then I went to the window and looked out. The couples were approaching their sons, both of whom sat like mannequins on a bench, watching the other children swarm the play yard. They sat as two old men might in a park, drowsy and still, watching the sun ease into a nightly grave below the trees. Johnny said something when he saw his parents, and his mother leaned in to hear better. She replied and he appeared to dismiss her irately. Charlotte Smith, clutching Marty’s hand, looked back in my direction and locked eyes with me. I waved, but no such gesture was made in response. She turned back and continued on.

9 Over the month of December, as the trees disrobed and the sky became an icy gray bog, Gerald was frequently out of the house. The Chicago trip had lasted three weeks, a believable prospect for his 74

The Green-Eyed Monster work, though I was sure he’d tacked on an extra few days, to ensure a recreational buffer between work and home. In early December he left for London, claiming he’d be back just before Christmas. In the interim Susan took me out several times, mostly to Hu’s. It was over cashew chicken and fried rice that I first mentioned Johnny and Marty’s transfer to Newridge. “What are their last names?” Susan asked. The waiter poured her more water and she thanked him with a smile. “John Becker and Martin Smith,” I said. “Those names sound familiar, actually,” she said. “I think it was the Becker kid who was the youngest writer to be published in Food for Thought, in the children’s section.” Susan rested her head on her palm, thinking back, looking scholastic. “I think he wrote a poem but I’m not sure.” “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

As it turned out, both boys were eager to change schools. Just after Thanksgiving, the Beckers and Smiths submitted applications, test scores, and portfolios of their work. For nearly a month they played the waiting game, occasionally calling me to see if I could use my Susan-connection to check up on their status. For them, time walked with a limp. I told them not to worry, that I had never been as sure of anything as I was of Johnny and Marty becoming Newridge students. And I wasn’t exaggerating. “Thank you again, Mrs. Chatsworth,” Melinda Becker said over the phone. “After our tour we can’t tell you how much we think Newridge will benefit Johnny. And Marty.” The week before Christmas break saw their final days at TwiFalls Elementary. Johnny and Marty would be transferring into the small brick building on Porter and Sixth, with the academic garden that 75

Mike Robinson sprouted future lawyers, politicians, doctors, and businessmen. The table at the back of the class, the darkest and closest to the sink, would now be unoccupied. Their final week was also the best and worst of my life. It was the week that brought me here, the reason I now stand in daily lines for a pill mashed into apple sauce.

After months of the same decor, my classroom needed a change. Twenty minutes past the final bell of the year, with winter break in official swing, I went to work giving the room a little cosmetic surgery. The Thanksgiving turkey cut-outs came down, piled on top of the nearest table. Right next to them went the arithmetic and space station posters, followed by an exercise called “Build-It-Yourself Monster” that was a shining example of the class’s overall creativity. The more I collected each segment of work, the more I realized just how many of Johnny and Marty’s I’d hung up. Collectively, they had about ten or twelve drawings, stories and color sheets that kept watch over various spots of the room. At some point, as I gathered the illustrated “what you learned” stories, on top of which rested Marty Smith’s The Big Brain, I became completely and utterly exhausted. It hit me in one enervating wallop, a totally inexplicable wave of fatigue. Yet in the midst of it I dared not try to analyze it, instead, I convinced myself that it was simply the year and my emotions catching up with me. I lay my arms on the desk, closed my eyes and fell fast asleep.

76

The Green-Eyed Monster My head jerked awake and the world blinked back into form. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep but my brain petitioned more rest. The lethargic cement in my bones had not quite gone. Drool had connected a small slip of paper to my lower lip. Feeling very unattractive, I peeled it off and looked at it. Morning Light Bed & Breakfast 346 Foulard Avenue Twilight Falls, CA 89607 Room 2 The handwriting was undeniably mine, but sloppy and shaky, as though written in a much younger time. My right fingers, numb from their duties as a pillow, awoke one by one and I noticed I was holding one of the pens from my Teacher’s Pet mug, on which the grinning cat suddenly seemed sinister. His grin was way too wide. Why was he smiling so much? And why did he have giant human-like teeth? Don’t cats have fangs? Anne. What? You wrote that address in your sleep, didn’t you? Did I? Looks like it. You don’t remember writing it. And there doesn’t appear to be anyone else around. Well, no… Just put it away for now, Anne. All will make sense in time. I folded the piece of paper and slipped it into my pants pocket. I yawned, wide and loud, energy trickling back but not the motivation. I didn’t want to do anything. The redecorating of the classroom now felt like mindless busywork. There was a knock on the door. It sounded like a small fist. “Come in.” 77

Mike Robinson The door popped open and Johnny Becker entered the room, leading in another boy who appeared to shimmer against the cabinets. I dropped my pencil, nerves aflame. I moved in fits and jerks. I pushed myself from my desk and I thought some movement, some abrupt motion might wrench me from this dream because it couldn’t be. I was still sleeping. I had dozed off on a stack of arithmetic papers. That was all, nothing more. I hadn’t woken up, I hadn’t written that weird address, and most importantly Johnny Becker was not walking toward me with this other child. “Mrs. Chatsworth,” he said. “Before I leave for the new school, I want you to meet somebody.” The air thickened. Suffocating. I tried not to look at either of them. “He’s a new friend of mine,” Johnny continued, knowing—he knew. That little bastard knew. How could he know? Gerald didn’t even know. “Leave, Johnny. Stop it. Please go, please go, oh please go.” Tears distorted everything into watery blobs. I didn’t want to look up. “But Mrs. Chatsworth, I want you to meet my friend.” “No! Please!” “He can’t talk much yet, but I’m working on it. He’s new to the school so I thought you could show him around.” Johnny spoke with the utmost confidence. I lifted my head, taking in the two kids slowly from their shoes to their knees, hips, all the while still not believing. How could I? How could a six-year-old pry open the coffin of my past, my desires, my fantasies? What in Christ’s name is happening to me? I looked at Johnny first. The other child remained perfectly still behind him, unnaturally still Like a robot awaiting instruction. “He wanted to meet you, Mrs. Chatsworth. I’ve been telling him about you, all good of course.” Johnny smeared a sick little smile across his face, exposing no teeth. Physically I felt his gaze in my brain. 78

The Green-Eyed Monster I looked over at the other boy, the boy who used to remain so far from me but who now stood touchable. He sported an impressive dome of auburn hair, his crisp-blue eyes cut from the sky. Just as I’d imagined. Just as I’d drawn. A rightness filled me. This was the purpose of my life. This was the plan behind all things of heaven and earth, predator and prey, yin and yang. No longer afraid, I stepped forward, and embraced William.

10 Beyond Johnny Becker’s mysterious impetus, I had no idea as to William’s origin. I didn’t want to know because he came from me, after all. God was fixing the worst mistake He’d made. That was my stance. And plus, you don’t interrogate wonders, not when they make more sense than the nuts and bolts of the rest of the world. There was no getting accustomed, no break in habit. As far as either I or my son was concerned, William had been an integral and real part of the house now for six years. I showed him my portraits of him, watching as his little hand peeled back page after page, revealing another variation of his freckled, doughy face. “You draw good, Mommy,” he said. “Thank you, sweetheart.” Due to circumstances I would have otherwise thought a lie, Gerald phoned and lamented that, due to numerous complications, he would be unable to fly back for the holidays. “I swear to God,” he told me. “It’s like something is playing and cat and mouse with me. Flights cancelled, buses break down at the last minute, rental cars unavailable. I don’t know what’s going on—” I didn’t doubt he wanted to stay away, but I couldn’t deny the apprehension in his voice. He genuinely felt conspired against, and 79

Mike Robinson worried—or so I imagined, vain old me—about my reaction. I think I both eased and disturbed him with my casual reception of the news. “I’m fine, Jerry,” I said. “I have all I need here.” With Johnny and Marty at Newridge, I was able to transfer William into my class. He didn’t talk much to the other kids, whose energy levels decreased significantly the last month I was around. Initially I attributed the decline to winter break. Fresh off three weeks of freedom, surely they needed to get back into the groove. But things got quickly worse. I saw Gerald—and this is not hyperbole—only once throughout the month of January, and briefly at that. He was here for only a night, arriving home after I’d put William to bed. I debated with myself whether or not to introduce them and decided, partially out of spite, to leave it up to fate. I wouldn’t say anything and maybe they would meet in the hallway. Maybe Gerald would sense a child in the house. I would let him ask me. I would let him come to me. If he was upset, so be it. If he accused me of cheating on him, or whatever might come out of his mouth, well… who the fuck was he to talk? By six o’clock the next morning, he had gone again. I felt like we operated now on two different frequencies, intersecting only as a cinematic world might intersect with an audience—visible, audible, but ultimately untouchable. Non-interactive. Mary Anne’s parents eventually pulled her out of Twilight Falls Elementary. Her grades deteriorated, and despite the medication she was taking—or maybe because of it—her speech was increasingly slurred. She reminded me of someone in drug rehab, suffering effects of withdrawal. Daniel Flannigan toughed it out but appeared to be having major difficulty keeping his friends and his test scores afloat. He lashed out violently in class, something that got him well-acquainted with the timeout chair. The rest of the kids weren’t as bad, but their performance was down, observably so. Despite strict warnings, Harry 80

The Green-Eyed Monster Zwieg and his buddy Alan Richmond continued to bring Superman comics to school. Harry’s math homework also got steadily worse. During William’s short period in my life, I discovered a love I’d never thought possible. The emotion swiftly eclipsed my naïve, disguised lust for Gerald on our wedding day. In some ways, I think I always knew I was destined for greater. Even back then, standing before him and my entire family in a sparkling wedding gown, I remember thinking, this can’t be what everyone is talking about, can it? Yet throughout everything, throughout the stories I’d read to William, the gifts, the trips to the local park, there was a thought that hid at the back of my mind. “Mommy, do I have a daddy?” he asked one night after reading a story called The Little Elephant. The last page had a heartwarming illustration of the little elephant intertwining trunks with long-lost Papa Elephant. I looked at him. “You do have a daddy, William. But he’s gone right now. He’ll be back, and when he comes back he’s going to love you so much.” “My friend Johnny told me that some people are like bugs in the kitchen.” William scrunched his face, his mind trying to digest whatever the Becker kid had told him. “They just don’t belong.” “Well, you have to remember that there’s a place for everyone in this world, honey,” I said. I brushed the red-blonde hair back from his forehead. “Just like your place is here with me, right now.” Cryptically, he added, “It won’t be forever.”

11 “William, it’s time for bed!” No response. 81

Mike Robinson “William?” Then came the noise that destroyed my world, the apocalypse of my soul: a large crashing thunder, like a sonic boom in my own home. My bedroom. “William?!” Launching myself from my desk, I raced upstairs. You sure you want to go up there, Anne? I wanted to wake up in the middle of the night, wanted to feel the sweat on my forehead and lips and realize with a great relieving sigh that it was all a nightmare. Nothing but a dream. Your son is nothing but a dream too, Anne. In a creaking sweep, the door unveiled the room, betraying nothing out of place, until I saw the crimson splash on the closet door and the pale fingers peeking out from behind the bed. “Oh God!” William lay prostrate on the floor, his whole face caved in, horribly bloody. I screamed and knelt by him, and I saw where the bullet had drilled through his right eye and out the back of his skull. The sheer volume of blood was overwhelming. He was dead. “No no no no no no! My baby! My baby!” Tears came in gallons, as if to abolish the sight, his gruesome deadness, his delicate yellow hand, draped limply over…over Gerald’s gun. – Gerald’s gun – … That motherfucking son of a bitch I’m going to kill him. William had opened and rummaged through the closet, for reasons unknown to me, though I had the haunting sense that he’d fulfilled whatever agenda he or some other fateful force had set out for him. But I had no face for this force. Only the face of my husband, the one who owned the gun, who’d left it there. Gerald you killed him you killed him. 82

The Green-Eyed Monster I sat weeping. Outside, a butterfly drew loopy random patterns on the dusky sky. It hugged the window like a nosy neighbor or curious spectator, wondering what was going on, wanting to see inside. I took the gun from under William’s lifeless hand, held it to my own temple. No, no, what are you doing? C’mon, Anne. He needs to pay his debt to you. He does, doesn’t he? Mmhmm. I lowered the gun. I’d never held one before, and its weight was startling. Check your pocket, Anne. What? Your right one. Just check it. I think you’ll find something interesting. I checked, found a thin slip of paper awkwardly folded in two. Opening it, I saw my half-conscious scribbling. Morning Light Bed & Breakfast 346 Foulard Avenue Twilight Falls, CA 89607 At the bottom of the small notepaper was the final piece of the jigsaw. Room 2 Oh, he’s back from his trip. But he hasn’t come home yet. He doesn’t want to come home yet. That’s why I need to make him. Yes. He killed William, didn’t he? Yes he did. 83

Mike Robinson Because he hated us. Worse, Anne. He didn’t hate or love you. To him you just… were, a symbol, a milestone. But he’s a liar, right? Yes. He lied to himself too. There’s no room for people like Gerald around here, is there? No. Or his bitch. No. … I knew what had to be done. A debt was owed by Gerald, had been long before William. Right now he lay in bed probably with Jackie what’s-her-face, not more than two miles away, insulting my intelligence, laughing at me, at my son. At our demise. If someone hurts you, you need to tell them—or show them. As I stood clutching the gun in a tight sweaty grip, William’s corpse blipped, or so I thought. It blipped like a TV program with hazy reception. I ignored it as an optical illusion, a glitch in my broken-down brain. One thing that wasn’t an optical illusion: the butterfly at the window had somehow slipped inside, finding its way to Gerald’s nightstand, where it circled, undeviating. You’ve never used a gun before Anne. You’re forgetting something. I made my way around to the other side of the bed, stepping over William’s askew leg, and pulled open the top drawer. The butterfly instantly broke its circle and flew off. Under the Bible, Anne. I lifted up the Good Book and saw what I needed. A gun’s not effective without any bullets, right, Anne? Even you should know that. At the time, I didn’t stop to recall what Gerald had said about not keeping the gun loaded. 84

The Green-Eyed Monster I wonder, now, how William even shot himself.

12 I took Keller Avenue to Foulard, surprised at the low amount of traffic for the hour. God was parting the seas for me. Yes. Yes, and I was high on raw power. Not the power that brightened lamps and televisions, or that of a political leader’s determined fist, but true power. Ancient power. The universe running whole in my veins. There was nothing else I could do because all else was beneath me. And each time something tried to pull me back, images of a William, his corpse, his precious body, were circulated throughout every corner of my brain. I was ready. The power confirmed it. He killed William, didn’t he? Yes he did. The sympathetic green eyes of traffic lights winked me through with no trouble. Yes he goddamn did. The last intersection was my only red light. An old man with a cumulus of white hair inched his way across the street. He held a cane in his right hand, and his nose hung about four feet above the pavement. I watched as he approached the front of my car, my head swiveling back and forth between this man and the signal. He passed to the other side and I continued to my destination. I inserted the car between two others in a terrible parallel parking job. The front bumper and left taillight jutted into the street like a broken bone. I picked up the gun. There was a sign at the fence that read Tuck Yourself in at Morning Light Bed & Breakfast, above a cartoon sun sporting a huge 85

Mike Robinson grin and sunglasses. I couldn’t see much else in the dusk-hued shadows. The lady to greet me at the door (I assumed she was the hostess) was a stout, blocky woman, well-aged yet her eyes were exuberant and bright. Tinted a noticeable amber-yellow, they reminded me of a sunset. “Oh, hello, are you here to collect the debt?” she said sweetly. “Um… I am.” “Come right in. “ Everyone knows He’s with you. “Thank you,” I said, and bolted past the hostess. I moved with heated authority, as though I’d come to reclaim my home and all its possessions. Morning Light was inviting and warm, expectant of my arrival. I’d never been inside before, but the place was familiar to me. Maybe I’ve seen it in dreams, I thought. Maybe I’ve seen it in dreams I’ve long since forgotten. I climbed the stairs, holding the gun in a death grip, afraid my sweat might loosen my grasp on it. I needed to be fast and accurate. I could hear giggling, flirty and adulterous giggling, through the door to Room 2, and after a quick scan of the hallway, I knocked twice. The execution was quick and painless for her, not so much for him. Jackie’s head exploded against the headboard like a cannon-fired watermelon into a brick wall. Gerald, having just about climbed into bed, bounded toward the bathroom. I fired two jagged eyeholes in the door. Gerald yelped, a tinny naked sound. “Come on out, Jerry,” I called, approaching the door. “Haven’t got all day.” “Get away from me you crazy bitch!” The gun punched another hole in the door. He yelped again. From the metallic sound of sliding rings I could tell he was in the shower. 86

The Green-Eyed Monster “Your girl and I just had a little chat. Everything’s fine.” I turned and smiled at Jackie’s burst corpse. “Anne what the fuck?” Gerald shrieked. “What in fuck’s name are you doing? Help me! Help me! Christ someone—!” “Shut up!” More screams. Through one of the door’s jagged bullet holes, I could see Gerald cowering behind the shower curtain, squatting. Wholly pathetic. The cosmic drug surged in me, the world stripping layer by layer the clothes my human-narrowed perception had, for over three decades, laid out for it. I felt almost harmonious with everything in me, around me, beyond me. The throbbing rhythm of the town’s pulse, of every citizen, dead and gone, charging through me like lightning. The gun trembling in my hand. I fired on the bathroom knob. The door slid open. Gerald spasmed. “Gerald…” I said woodenly. “Oh please God no—Anne please—” I raised the gun and shot him. Brains across porcelain. The debt collected. I felt bloated, but the good kind of bloated, the Thanksgiving kind of bloated. As if I’d digested their souls. The pulse of the world subsiding in me, I slumped against the wall, awaited corporeal justice. There was commotion outside. The police arrived soon enough, barreling into the room, arms outstretched and probably expecting resistance. I didn’t need to resist. Frankly, I was pooped. I was fulfilled. A young officer approached me as his colleagues checked the bathroom and several other areas of the room. One of them turned away in disgust. “Hello Mrs. Chatsworth,” said the young officer, his smile wide. Leaning in close, and with a very delicate touch, he brought me to my feet and cuffed me. His voice was soothing, massaging my entire being. As he led me out to the squad car, past the gawking neighbors 87

Mike Robinson with their comb-overs and hair-curlers, I noticed something about him that put me at a final, transcendent ease. His eyes were amber-yellow, gilded almost, and archaic looking. Kind of like those of the Morning Light hostess. He leaned in close to my ear. “Fine job, Mrs. Chatsworth.” he said. “You don’t owe me any more favors.”

88

The Green-Eyed Monster

-4 Creative Differences

1 Before sitting on the couch, Andy Brunetti handed Dr. Irene Washington the March issue of Pen & Paper magazine. She took it with a reluctant but curious hand. “I’d like you to read my article in there, before we start,” he told her. “Mr. Brunetti, we only have an hour—” “That’s okay. I have more sessions scheduled. Just read it for now. It’s not very long.” He plopped down onto the couch, breathless. Dejected. “It might help you get a head start on me.” The clock hit ten-thirty, their official appointment time. Washington opened the issue and began to read.

Published in Pen & Paper, Issue 11, March 1998 89

Mike Robinson My Dinner with Johnny Andy Brunetti Many were nervous in hearing the news: Spirit of Dreams, the lauded tome by John Becker, would be a film. Not only that, it was to be produced by White Shark Studios, the mid-sized production company known for its direct-to-video and television fare. They were determined to do it right, however. I was their second choice as co-writer. The first one had dropped out. The other half of the pen was John Becker himself. A note before I continue. Sections of this piece may read as fiction, as I realize it is unorthodox to feature dialogue in what is otherwise a journalistic account. Barring a constantly-running tape recorder, how could I remember with legitimate accuracy the very things about which Becker and I conversed? Yet I assure you I’m not taking license, or giving the ‘gist,’ though I have of course spared details for the sake of expedience. For reasons unknown, in my time with Becker my brain was a tape recorder. I remember everything verbatim. On either side of those few weeks, my memory is typical, fragmented. Loose. In between, it is inexplicably crystallized. White Shark flew him down to Los Angeles, which, according to what Becker had told them, was his first trip outside Northern California. This was a guy who did not do book tours. Readers came to him. Publishers came to him. Somehow, he was exempt from many of the rules us mortals are condemned to follow. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was anxious. My anxiety grew with our first phone conversation, the autistic awkwardness of it, his stilted, wooden exchange. He had been put up at the Beverly Hilton. White Shark was sparing no expense. Despite concerns of money and a strange partnership, my brain was nonetheless alive in imagining what this venture could bring me career-wise. I thought, how could this not pay off? Becker had the Midas touch. A built-in and rabidly devoted base. A reputation in the rare interstice between the cultures of the Literary and Commercial. It would bring me respect. It would bring me money.

90

The Green-Eyed Monster

“Mr. Brunetti, I’m not sure where this is going,” Dr. Washington said dubiously. She peered at him through lenses that looked like glass dominoes. “Just keep reading, please, doctor.” Andy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then I will tell you about my dream.”

“John?” Becker stood by the hotel entrance, hands deep in his jacket pockets. He turned and acknowledged me as I approached, and he didn’t move. “Mr. Brunetti,” he said with a wry smile. “A pleasure.” I stuck my hand out. It hung in limbo for long seconds. Becker moved in slow-motion. His grip was strong, an iron-clamp of confidence. “Would you like to get something to eat?” I asked. “We can hash over the script.” He paused, appearing bewildered but somehow very content with that. “I don’t know Los Angeles very well.” His eyes moved from me, narrowed as if in quick pain. “She seems to have enjoyed her hamburger from Venice Grill.” I looked. A forty-ish blonde woman was making her way past us to the entrance. She glanced at us with the indifference of a stranger. “Do you know her?” I asked. Becker shook his head. “How do you know she went to the Venice Grill?” “Come on,” he said, already in motion. “Let’s go.”

91

Mike Robinson We went to the grill to get burgers. By the coast, the marine layer had eddied in and sealed us in a murky gray fog. Based on time I’d spent up north, I imagined Becker felt at home in this weather. Thankfully this beach date had little of the awkwardness of that initial phone conversation, though Becker did become characteristically heated in expounding on himself. “I am highly proficient at many things,” he told me, “most of which encompass the arts. But writing is my singular triumph, because writing is every art formed into one. It is both universal and deeply individual. From writing come wars, come generations, comes the stuff of God.” He looked at me with that wry smile again. I don’t think it ever left his face. Mostly it was stored somewhere in his eyes, portioned out to his lips when necessary. “Are you the stuff of God, Andrew?” Not wanting to betray my discomfort, as well as the laugh resounding in me, I fidgeted, kept my gaze low. “I sure hope so.” Becker said nothing. Just stared. “I’d like to talk with you a little more about the book actually,” I said. “I’ve read it and started making notes on how to break it down.” “You’ve read my novel.” The statement fell into some flat region between a comment and a question. I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Of course. I’m writing the movie version, remember?” John nodded. “We cannot break it down. It should be obvious to you if you’ve read it. We cannot skim, extract from the book. We have to start from scratch.” “I don’t think I understand. Screenplays are a lot different than novels. I think White Shark—” I stopped. Becker was sitting back, eyes closed, rubbing his temples, a melodrama in his face worthy of the best headache infomercials. People thronged by us, the fleshy current of the coast. “Too much noise,” he said. 92

The Green-Eyed Monster “Sorry?” “Let’s do this later,” he said. “There’s too much noise.”

“It’s only ten to eleven,” Andy said, noticing Dr. Washington’s progress on the article. “We’ve got plenty of time and you’re practically halfway through. You’re a fast reader.” Hollowly, the therapist smiled. She turned the page. As Andy waited, he noticed the Martin Smith novel Black Sunday sitting on her desk, a bookmark jutting from the last hundred pages.

Our first writing session was scheduled for that Wednesday afternoon, in my office. Fittingly, the marina layer had not left since our lunch in Venice. Becker arrived complaining of another headache. I asked him if he wanted anything for it and he declined. “I’m not thinking very well right now,” he said. He lay on the couch and fell fast asleep. No stranger to migraines, I could empathize, but pain or no pain, we were on a tight schedule. White Shark wanted the first draft in mere weeks. So I worked. He slept. If you’ve read Spirit of Dreams, you’ll know of the scene where the main character is involved in a sleep study and begins to talk while unconscious in a monitored hospital cot. Violently and visibly he is, more or less, fighting his own mind. It was amusingly ironic then, that as I tinkered with this scene, Becker began to talk in his sleep. “I have the key, Martin,” he said. I turned to look at him. I had, and still have, no idea what he meant, though I did gather that 93

Mike Robinson ‘Martin’ could well have referred to Martin Smith, his literary twin. Or rival. “Let’s see what they had to tell us,” Becker said. “Let’s see what Grandfather had to tell us.” I was both amused and admittedly, unnerved. Yet I kept busy, fleshing out a basic timeline, gathering together a treatment. Like all “buckle-down” projects, the ignition needed several good turns to fire through. Once it did there was no going back. I was enraptured as I’d never been in my adult writing life, caught in a quasi-meditative timelessness. Only my blissful story-writing sessions as a child, when the sole agenda was playful distraction, could compete with the experience. I knew in the moment that I was writing good material, forty pages’ worth, it turned out. And there has been no regrettable hindsight. Scarcely revised, it remains some of my best work. As I wound down, I got an email notice. The weekly e-issue of Cinemaniac had arrived in my inbox. I was starting to feel spent, and decided to break. Becker was still asleep. Ranked number three on the news zine’s Hot Hollywood list was the White Shark deal with John Becker for Spirit of Dreams. I clicked the link and loaded the full article, and I’m ashamed to admit I looked for my name first, a futile effort, though my disappointment was tempered by that day’s unprecedented creative high. I do what I do to create, I thought. The way of the child in me. Not for money. Not even for recognition. Then there was the other link, listed seventh in Hot Hollywood. Martin Smith Proceeds with Dream Spirits Adaptation. My chest constricting, I read the short two-paragraph article, three times, in fact. Martin Smith was financing his own independent film version of his novel Dream Spirits, so humorously and suspiciously similar in title, theme, and plot to Becker’s work (and I could certainly say the same about Spirit of Dreams, too—the problem is, with both books having debuted within a week of each other, no one is sure who got the idea first). Already Smith had secured actors, a 94

The Green-Eyed Monster director, and a much larger studio than White Shark to distribute the film. It was the emotional equivalent of being winded. My motivation, my passion, whatever you might call it, became a thick and tangible substance I could feel draining out of me. I looked at the phone, expecting it to ring. I expected a somber voice on the other end to tell me White Shark had gotten cold feet. Two hours later, Becker awoke with a start. He looked refreshed. The first thing he said was, “I have ideas.” The phone never rang, and I didn’t tell him about the Martin Smith project. We worked into the night. He read my forty pages and approved, along the way offering notes (or, as they came out, commandments) to which I was agreeable. He traced my office floor like a man over-caffeinated, except I was the only one drinking coffee. He fired out ideas like sniper-shots, from places hidden and dark and unknown. My writing hand struggled to keep up. “We’ll want to milk every effect in the dream sequences,” he said, tenting his fingers just below his chin. “Those are the most important aspects of the story, so we need to ensure they’re done right. They need to feel even more real than the regular world, because that’s what’s true.”

“I enjoyed Dream Spirits, I think,” said Dr. Washington. “I read it quite a while ago. Was that the one about the man who disappears because he goes to live in his head? Or he kills himself, or something. I can’t remember exactly. It was creepy, though.” Andy nodded, and smiled bitterly.

95

Mike Robinson The day after we finished the first draft, I got the news. White Shark Films had buckled. Having been through movie miscarriages before, and having halfway expected this one, I thought I’d be able to handle it better than I did. I slid into a funk, which became a steady depression. Thankfully, I wasn’t the one to tell Becker. I did speak to him after it happened, though. It was a phone conversation, like our first one. Just as stilted, but darker. “There’s too much noise here,” Becker said for the final time. “Just too much.” I could sense the weight of geological disasters between our pauses. Thus, in opening the Los Angeles Times the following morning I wasn’t wholly surprised to find John Becker had thrown a disgraceful fit at a Westside bookstore. The target of his wrath: copies of Martin Smith’s Dream Spirits. It was a fitting epilogue to my experience with him. There is an innate, understated violence in the way he interacts with people, and in the way one must interact with him. There was little surprise it reached such a turbulent boil.

2 Dr, Washington closed the issue of Pen & Paper and looked at her new patient, sprawled on the couch before her, a rather pitiable, used-up balloon of a man. Deflated. Enervated. She imagined Brunetti the type to blame his troubles on an African ant hill before blaming himself. “Tell me about this dream you had, Mr. Brunetti.” “Well, it wasn’t so much a dream, that’s the thing. It was more like a very slow blink. The world moved with the aches and pains of an old man climbing from the bathtub. My eyelids closed and suddenly I was, well… not here.” 96

The Green-Eyed Monster “Where were you?” “I still don’t really know. I was standing, square and rigid, somewhere. Like a military base. Only I couldn’t really see what the actual place looked like. All I can remember is the night sky full of stars, and a smell that reminded me of a fresh spring morning.” “And what happened? Was anyone there with you?” “Yes, there were tons of people there with me. Rows and rows of them. As I said, it was like a military base. They all stood completely static, motionless, awaiting command. I felt like I was the only selfaware person there. And none of them looked the same, so I don’t think they were all drones or something. Or maybe they were, I have no idea.” Dr. Washington thought she could physically hear the bullets, explosions and screams from the civil war within Andy Brunetti. Chest heaving, he continued. “There were people of all ages standing like soldiers, all in a trance, like they were half-asleep. I could see burly firemen-type guys, middle-aged housewives, businessmen and even a few teenagers. They didn’t wear helmets. They wore brains, weirdly. Brains were strapped to their scalp, easily worn and easily removed.” “Did you have one on?” “I—I think so, I’m not entirely sure. I had to have. Yes, I did have one of those on. It was connected at my chin, like those old World War II helmets.” “What happened next, Andy?” The transition from the formal ‘Mr. Brunetti’ to his first name felt completely natural. She wouldn’t even realize she’d done it until listening to the tape later that night. “This general guy came out, standing in front of a giant picture of Earth and stars and galaxies. You ever see that movie ‘Patton’?” “I have, yes.” “It was rather like that. Reminded me of it, at least.” “Who was this general guy?” 97

Mike Robinson “I don’t know. I really can’t remember much of what he looked like; he was just big and crusty, the usual archetype. He started yelling at everyone in true Army-fashion, too. You know, maggot this, faggot that. All the people seemed to be unaffected by it. I expected the housewives to break down crying or something, but there was nothing. They responded like recruits, or draftees. He kept yelling about a war, and whether or not we were fit to fight it.” “A war? Did you see any of this war taking place?” Andy shook his head. “Then he fingers me out of the bunch. ‘You think you got what it takes, you little Italian shit?’ I guess he picked me out of everyone because I was in the front row, or maybe he knew I was the only one who actually didn’t buy any of it, that I still knew, or thought, it was all a lucid dream.” “Hm.” “He started screaming his head off, about what I thought of myself, my life, what I had taken seriously and what I had taken for granted. What I’d written, what I’d created.” Andy rubbed his forehead. “He said most people were nothing but salt in the world’s tears. I was apparently no exception. Then he fired a question at me: did I still want to wear that fine helmet?” “You mean the brain?” “Yes, yes.” “Okay.” “But before I even could answer (I couldn’t even get out a breath), he made the decision for me. My brain-helmet came off. I felt this huge whoosh from my body. But it wasn’t satisfying. It was more like when you’re vomiting. Sure it’s release, but goddamn you if it’s pleasurable in any sense of the word.” Andy shook his head. “I opened my eyes a second later and was back in my apartment,” he said. “And every day the recollection of that dream, experience, or whatever the hell it was, wanes and gets smaller. But my depression gets bigger. That’s why I came to you.” 98

The Green-Eyed Monster “When did this happen?” asked Ms. Washington. “When did you have this dream?” Prepared for the question, Andy almost cut her off with his response. “Exactly a week after John Becker left Los Angeles.” “And what do you think this has to do with your depression?” He closed his eyes. “Since then, I have not been able to write at all. Nothing.” A long, shuddering exhale. “That, doctor, is what depresses the hell out of me.”

99

Mike Robinson

-5 Adolescence “Harold Zwieg was a maniac and nothing more.” — Bill Eggert, The Bill Eggert Hour (KNA 970 AM)

FALL 1 The high school years are peppered with faces. Many of the more prominent faces, particularly in a town or a small city, are shared memories: the actors, the athletes, the student-body president, the valedictorian, those ranking high in senior polls. The extroverts, the bourgeoning egos, who define a class, an era. In looking back, the TwiFalls High class of ’86 would see, at the foreground of their memory, two young male faces. They were friends to none, though known to all. They held no office, played no sports, acted in no productions and seldom left the enclave of their own thoughts. Yet their presence was like a thread connecting every 100

The Green-Eyed Monster student. Whatever difference in class, rank or intellect, at some phantom level it was understood all things led back to the central nervous system of John Becker and Martin Smith. Mostly this strangeness went unacknowledged, with one direct exception. A passionate writer since age six, when he’d compiled a newspaper to report the events of his household (top headline: Father Breaks Kitchen Chair; Vows Diet), Harold Zwieg had, in the fall of 1985, been accepted into Bill Sizemore’s journalism class, the purveyor of the TwiFalls High paper The Butterflyer. Given that Harry was a junior in this class of primarily seniors, he figured it a notable achievement. I’m on my way, he thought. While supportive of his ambitions, his parents made no secret of their hopes that he might eventually pursue medicine. But that wasn’t the way he wanted to cure the world. He wanted to flush out the human diseases: criminals, corruption, all the “dirty shenanigans”, as his dad might say. He wanted to operate in dark places, expose them to the light of awareness. To extract the truth. Remove cancerous deception and falsehood. September of junior year started the usual way. Hot and long and tiring under a yellow-white sun. The exhaustion for Harry caught up to him at lunchtime, as he sat alone unpacking soda, chips and a sandwich from his bag. While eating he watched the cliques form, or reform, and wondered how he was going to handle the coming year now that Alan Richmond and his family had moved to Berkeley. Harry was the only one of his group left in Twilight Falls. He could feasibly make new friends; he was affable enough. And in the scheme of things Berkeley was a stroll down the block. But for a while now he would be alone, alone afternoons and weekends, revisiting his games or dressing up Superman comics with his textbooks to feign studying. The first meeting of Sizemore’s journalism class was next period. Over lunch, Harry kept himself busy jotting down possible news 101

Mike Robinson stories, some of which had potential. Others were hopelessly trivial: the two Coke machines with Root Beer buttons that dispensed Dr. Pepper. The lunch lady’s cigarette that snowed ash into the mashed potatoes. He could exaggerate, or even fabricate, but then the Butterflyer would become nothing more than a high school Enquirer or Weekly World News. Harry would not allow such a thing to happen. He knew Mr. Sizemore wouldn’t either. There had to remain some oasis of dignity, however small, at TwiFalls High. In between notes, he observed the crowds. Watched them gab, yammer, shout, laugh. Probably passing rumors, planning the Next Shindig with its broken condoms. Tits. Hot guys. He watched senior Max Fleckman place his husky arm around Stephanie Gold, who smiled a wide and gorgeous grin as the breeze loosened her auburn locks. Harry stared at her. Superman’s teenage girlfriend was Lana Lang. If he were Clark Kent, Stephanie would be his Lana Lang. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Why was the world of Superman the standard? Harry had grown up between those colorful pages, as devoted to the mythology of the Man of Steel as he imagined the average Greek might have been to Zeus or Poseidon. His fascination could not be properly explained. He assumed it was the same quality that had arrested minds for two generations, going on three. Lately, in his more metaphysical brooding, he had tagged Superman as ‘the soul’, the Self materialized: ageless, unlimited capacity, wholly unselfish, and dull as wood, effectively ignorant of the many bruises and imperfections of the livelier, ego-based personality. Superman had enemies, but there was little fear. He was the touchable untouchable. Of course, Superman was dictated by writers. All was as it should be, as his grandfather had said, even up to his final cancer-hardened breath. More than anything Harry pitied these people, these infants around him, as hopelessly loyal as they were to material pleasure, instant gratification. While they spent weekends 102

The Green-Eyed Monster passing disease and taking chemicals, he was in his room reading or writing, or working on his drawings or— Come off your goddamn high horse. You’re just a loser. You keep to yourself. Your chemicals are comics and videogames. Harry took a large bite of apple and chewed. Closed his eyes. He hated drugs, parties, was afraid of sex. He had yet to even kiss a girl, despite a couple of opportunities in middle school. He wanted solitude, though he ultimately did not prefer it. All those regrets, those failings, had ceased to bother him on a daily basis. Mostly he forgot about them, until those periodic “sessions” where everything he didn’t like about himself came crashing into his skull, and he sat as a defendant in his own mind, witness to the lashing storm of judgment that passed as quickly as it arrived. On good days, Harry thought himself possessed of the best of both worlds—good looks with a geek’s brain. On bad days he was paranoid that this mixture was a divine tease. At least if his geeky traits were total, there would be some cinematic romanticism to his struggles. He would be the quirky hip star of a John Hughes film, forced into a Darwinian adaptation of confidence in order to sharpen his tongue, win hearts, and get the girl. Rather he was wedged in limbo, unable and unwilling to move too far either way. Doubtless this contributed to his thinned-out circle of friends. Max Fleckman, Stephane Gold’s boyfriend, was by all objective measures a homely sight, but his humor, his skills and his blind confidence in such skills had enlarged his campus standing. It won him friends. Won him Lana Lang. Harry watched a familiar face, also alone, sit down at the table across from him. The kid kept strictly upright, the cement posture of a British palace guard. Others looked at him. Martin Smith. There was no sign of the other one. John Becker. That was it. Both seemed exceptions to Harry’s incomplete rules—decent looks 103

Mike Robinson with muscular, air-thickening confidence but no friends and no girls. Which made sense. They were goddamn strange. Harry had known them for a decade, when they’d been in Mrs. Chatsworth’s first grade class. In the middle of the year they’d left for another school. Harry remembered feeling simultaneously relieved and unsettled. Their absence had been tangible. He always envisioned either John or Martin transforming into some hideous monster, like Banner into the Hulk, or Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde. Harry sensed in them inner-beings larger and grander than the bodily containers in which they’d been crammed and stuffed. When release came, it would be irrevocable. Too many comic books, Mr. Zwieg. Martin Smith sat near a roly-poly redhead, who gave him an odd look and left immediately. He carried an empty pad of notebook paper that he placed delicately on the table before him. His complexion was a pale shifting palette of yellow, white and orange. There was heat there, a primal and cosmic energy. Smith’s hair was clean-cut, slicked back, with frayed strands that clawed the back of his neck. He wore a crisp collared shirt and black trousers, more appropriate, Harry thought, for churchgoing or a funeral. Smith opened one of his notebooks. He stared at it as if meditating. Behind Harry, there was a presence. He turned. The subject centered before he had a subject. The other one. John Becker approached the table behind him and sat down. Now between them, Harry felt oddly vulnerable, like he was caught in the middle of some radioactive exchange, a channel of soundless communication on a private yet powerful frequency. Or an imminent duel. Too many comic books indeed. Nonetheless, these thoughts scared Harry Zwieg, and he left the bench minutes before the bell rang. 104

The Green-Eyed Monster

2 The best class of the day was also the worst. People stared at him as he entered Sizemore’s class. He kept his eyes down, affording himself the luxury of survey only once he’d found a seat at the back of the class. As expected, he didn’t know anyone. He only knew of them. Harry sank into his chair. Six students ahead, Mr. Sizemore sat idly at his desk and shuffled through papers, acknowledging furtively the faces that drifted into his room. The man seemed excited but tired. Perhaps the summer had not quite cleansed the previous year. From what Harry had heard (and learned), Sizemore was a decent guy, gave a variety of assignments, didn’t impart Satan’s wrath when you missed a deadline, and was willing, on occasion, to stir some polemic. In this period before the bell, the room was an aural thorn patch of conversation. Harry didn’t listen to any of them. He lost himself in a sketch until a familiar voice brought him, like an alarmed rodent, to quivering attention. Stephanie Gold had entered the room. No no no no no no no please God no, Harry hissed to himself. Please be just visiting, please leave, please GO— “Hi Mr. Sizemore!” Stephanie called from the door. She held two textbooks like a football. Her smile was everything, a natural masterpiece. It could compensate for the loss of the rest of her face, if such a bizarre and terrible thing ever happened. Sizemore smiled. “Hi…” “Stephanie,” she finished for him. “Stephanie Gold.” “Oh that’s right!” He smacked the desk with the sudden recollection. “I had you for English in your sophomore year, yes?” “Freshman. Sophomore year I had Ms. Langdon.” “Okay, right,” said Sizemore. “That was a talented class.” The fluorescent light gave his scalp a warm glowing toupee. “I didn’t 105

Mike Robinson know you liked journalism, Stephanie. Didn’t you used to write poetry?” “Mostly, yeah,” she said. In a quieter voice she said, “I thought maybe I could write poetry for the Butterflyer too.” “We’ll talk,” Sizemore said. “Was it you that submitted the fashion article last year?” Stephanie nodded. A guy in a crew-cut pushed past her, and on instinct his eyes fell to her backside. Harry dove back into his sketch, a rough ink rendition of Belagor, his own comic book protagonist that had lived in his head now for five years but had yet to see an official comic panel. Lately Harry had felt stronger and stronger compulsions to draw him, to make something of him. As if the character were suffering cranial cabin fever, and desperately wanted out. Stephanie scanned the room for empty chairs, her eyes falling on the area around Harry. There was an empty chair in front of him. No, please. No. She zeroed in and started walking. Her perfect frame grew closer. Harry could smell her perfume or hairspray, a minty fog about her. Wholesome and feminine but also exotic, unabashedly sensual. Pressure built in his crotch. She sat down. Stephanie Gold’s sculpted auburn hair was now no less than one foot from Harry. His chest was small and constricted. His heart rammed against it, his lungs dry and withered as prunes. Tremors in his gut. He didn’t move. He dared not move, fearing he might bump her seat or cause her any kind of discomfort. The bell rang. “Ok everyone, welcome,” Mr. Sizemore said, rising from his desk. “I trust you are all budding wordsmiths, at least for the time being.” The nervous white goo was back. Harry could feel it forming, collecting in the corners of his lips, stretched like gummy fungus across the edge of his mouth. It happened often when he was 106

The Green-Eyed Monster apprehensive. Hastily and covertly he wiped it off, streaking it across the back of his hand. Don’t turn around, he ordered of Stephanie. Please. Not a moment later, she turned and, for the first time, really, met eyes with Harold Zwieg. “Hi!” she said. Caught off guard, Harry had no time to cover his half-finished drawing of Belagor, and his attempt only brought her attention to it. “Wow, did you draw that?” He chuckled, feeling nauseated. “Yeah,” he said, “just a doodle, y’know, hobby of mine, don’t really do it often, well, that’s not true, I do, but it’s… well… uh, I usually am either studying or playing videogames—” Videogames! Idiot! “—Well, what I mean is that I’m really busy now so the only time I really get to draw is in class, and after school while waiting for my mom.” “Oh yeah? Well I like your drawing a lot. I wish I could draw.” Stephanie tried to make eye contact. Harry allowed only a fleeting look. “I was wondering if you had a pen I could borrow. Mine’s out and Sizemore doesn’t allow pencils, if I remember correctly.” “I think I have one.” He rummaged through his backpack. Way too many writing and drawing utensils clattered around in there. He came across a pen, leprous with bite-marks, and continued searching. No way was he giving that one to her. “Here, why don’t you have the one I’m using.” He handed her the one in his hand. “I can get another one out for myself, y’know, it’s totally fine. All cool. No worries.” “Aw you’re sweet.” Stephanie looked at him. He could tell by the flowery dance in her eyes that she found him “cute,” which wasn’t unexpected, but still nerve-racking. That Stephanie Gold, Stephanie Gold, could find him attractive turned his lower half gelatinous. He could only fuck it up from here. 107

Mike Robinson He crossed his arms, burying all sight of his bitten nails. “Who are you?” she asked. “You look kinda familiar.” She brushed her auburn hair behind her ears. He loved when girls did that. Very model-esque, somehow. “Harry. Zwieg. Harry Zwieg.” “Zwieg?” “Yeah. Technically it’s pronounced ‘Zveeg’. I say ‘Z-why-guh’.” “I’m Stephanie.” She held out her hand. There were little silver clovers and stars drawn on her fingernails. Surreptitiously Harry wiped his hand on his shirt and took hers. Touch, my God the touch— “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “You’re one of those guys I’ve seen all the time but never really got to know.” Cryptically, Stephanie added, “Yeah, you’d be good for identifying in a police line-up, but that’s about it. I’m glad we’ll get to know each other.” “Me too,” Harry said. He looked at the half-finished Belagor and his now-empty hand, and reached down to fetch another pen. Stephanie turned back around. The nausea began to subside. Then, Sizemore’s voice: “You’re Harry Zwieg, right?” Overcome with the heat of both pride and self-consciousness, Harry nodded. He’d been wondering if Sizemore would remember him. In his sophomore year, Harry had submitted several articles to the Butterflyer, two of which, to his then-pleasant surprise, had been printed. Sizemore’s face beamed. “It’s great to finally have you in my class, Harry. You’re a talented writer.” Twenty-something heads swiveled in his direction, including Stephanie’s. His stomach flopped like a fish. She smiled at him with soft admiration. “I’m trying to remember what you wrote about,” Sizemore said. “I just remember being impressed.” “T-thank you…” Harry stammered. 108

The Green-Eyed Monster Sizemore would not seem to let the subject go, much to Harry’s embarrassment, and it hung over the classroom, fixating every student’s envious face upon him. “I think there was one you did I really enjoyed,” Sizemore continued. “Something about the Athletic Department. You might’ve been a freshman at the time, which is why I remember it better. Normally we don’t accept articles from freelance freshmen unless they’re very exceptional.” Harry’s smile was fractured. The class turned their heads back to the front of the class. Stephanie continued staring at him with a flighty, innocent expression he found both irritating and irresistible. “Good writer too, eh? You’re quite the talent,” she said. Harry closed his eyes, breathed deep. His heart rate slowed, an ominous drumbeat. He glanced outside where autumn sighed, rustling the red-gilded leaves. Sizemore prattled on about developing voice, respecting deadlines, codes of ethics. Blah. Blah. Blah. Harry knew this stuff. It had been a lifetime (well, his lifetime) in accumulation. In addition, that summer he’d interned at Visions magazine in Berkeley, which had taught him the day-to-day basics of journalistic publication. He knew it all cold. It overflowed in him. By school’s end, and after Harry’s pilgrimage through the crowds, his stomach had settled enough so that he’d be fine waiting the hour before his mother would be able to come get him. He didn’t mind the time. It allowed for unimpeded drawing, or comics. No parental inquiries into that day’s “Homework Situation.” He was exhausted. Twenty minutes into his wait, Harry saw Stephanie traipsing up the parking lot to meet Max. The unexpected sight of her, her long creamy legs, beyond-ten face, revitalized at once in him the circus of all sensations good and bad associated with her. He watched them embrace, share a long kiss, walk arms-linked to his car. 109

Mike Robinson Harry’s gut swelled. He staggered behind a nearby bush and unloaded his lunch.

3 “So how’d it go?” his mother asked as they hung a right down Milk Lane. He could tell she was trying to be casual. “Think you’ll be able to survive this year?” Harry fidgeted in the passenger’s seat. He was too tired for this. The normal monosyllabic verdict of his day would not be admissible for the first day of school. Mom expected more. Needed more. Craved more. Just leave me alone. Please. “Harry?” Please. The Chevrolet rolled down the street. Samantha Zwieg looked at Harry for an answer and, in that trice of distraction, their car planted a profound metallic kiss on the backside of a blue Cadillac. Harry whipped forward, then was jostled back. “Oh my God!” Samantha cried. She reached over and placed a flat palm on Harry’s chest, a belated ‘stop short’ gesture. “Are you alright?” “I’m okay, Mom.” She released a long, pulsating sigh. The driver’s door of the Cadillac opened and a man emerged, his older face a tight-knit interlacing of rage and confusion. He staggered to the back of his car to assess the damage. Anticipating the confrontation, Sam Zwieg climbed cautiously from the van and met the man where he stood. Harry melted in his seat. The man locked eyes with her and raised his hands. They flitted about. Sam recoiled, as if worried the violent gesticulations might 110

The Green-Eyed Monster strike her, which was not an absurd possibility given the man’s mounting belligerence. His eyes glistened and for a moment Harry thought the old man might actually burst into tears. “You looking where you’re goddamn going?” the man cried. “Hauling that heap around, you going blind?” His mother had left the keys in the ignition. Harry gave them a single turn, switched on the radio and turned up the volume, mercifully breaking the confrontation into fragments. The born assholes of the world, he thought. Mostly Sam lowered her head and nodded, but as the discussion persisted her own gestures became more firm, her eyes more stern. All of it for Harry was mimed. The music obliterated everything else, the sublime aural poetry of Beethoven—thunderous cacophony, filtered through genius, filtered through speakers that now filled the van, filled him. Pedestrians slowed to watch the man and his mother. How about some popcorn? Harry thought, glaring at a father walking a golden lab with his young grade-school daughter. He turned back to the belligerent old man. What if Superman were to fly down, grab this guy, haul up him a thousand feet and drop him? What thoughts would fill this man’s head as he plummeted? Would he have any regrets about having spent his last moments cursing out a fellow human being for a simple and universal error? Better yet, maybe Superman could just zoom him back down, ram him into the pavement, render him utter mush. Nothing recognizable left. Something you could scrape up with a dustpan. Good food for Belagor, perhaps. Of course, Superman would never do such a thing. Superman was the Soul, the Calmness, the Patience of the Universe. Maybe even of God. But once, just once, couldn’t this God lose a fraction of its patience, grow a little tired of watching us so frantically pacing the floor, and slide its foot out a few inches and trip us? Send us flat on our face? We needed that. 111

Mike Robinson We needed that. These thoughts comforted Harry Zwieg. I would give anything if this guy would just fuck off.

A block away, a muscular Buick rumbled down Rockport Avenue, which stretched into a T-junction with Milk Lane. The driver, a man named Jackson Guthrie, writhed in sudden and overwhelming unease. Pain flared. It was as if someone were stringing barbed wire through his chest and down his left arm. In the feverish breakdown of his cognition, he noticed only two things. He was having a heart attack, and ahead of him, at increasing proximity, was the scene of an apparent fender bender. He cried out and, in the height of mortal panic, jammed on the brake. Except it wasn’t the brake. Sam Zwieg took a step toward the old man, heard the roar of an engine, turned, and saw him no more. Guthrie’s Buick plowed into the Cadillac, the collision thinly separated by the old man, who was so quickly and horribly integrated into the annihilation visited on his car. Object and man were one in total death, though the force of the crash did send astray many parts flesh and metal. Glass stippled the sidewalk and the street, tiny crystal islands in a sea of blood and oil. The man’s hand was discovered two lawns over. Served well by her reflexes, and by the fateful dispersion of parts, Sam was fortunately unscathed, as was their van. Harry had been lost in distant dream and missed the moment of impact. His mother was screaming. In the ensuing shock and commotion, he also failed to notice the monarch butterfly hovering just outside his passenger’s window. It 112

The Green-Eyed Monster circled for a while, a curious bystander, flapping small sails of Halloween in the early-fall coolness of the afternoon. Then it was gone.

4 Sam fixed Harry’s favorite dish that night, red snapper draped in a special dill sauce. Whether she had planned this or was attempting to dull in any way the horror they witnessed that day, Harry didn’t know, didn’t really care. Hunger in him didn’t even make itself known until he was summoned to the table, despite eating an hour later to accommodate Rob Zwieg’s overtime. “Anything new on tonight?” Harry asked. “Nothing tonight.” Sam unloaded the snapper from the oven and gave it a quick quality scan. She had slipped on glasses to read the cooking instructions and they were still on her face. “It’s only a few days into September. Every year they push back the season premieres. I’m really getting fed up with it.” Harry nodded. He took a long sip of water. He noticed two headlights lurching into the driveway, distorted behind the curtains. An engine ceased. A door slammed. Keys jingled. “Rob’s home,” Sam said. Rob? he thought. As if he were some stranger, or friend. “Good,” Harry said. “I’m freakin’ famished.” As she placed the snapper on the table, his mother gave him the ‘evil eye,’ which for her was more of a suspicious eye. “You didn’t eat all your lunch?” The front door opened. Robert Zwieg, bald and bombastic, entered grand and enthused, bellowing, in his usual send-up of Mighty Mouse: “Here I come… to save the day!” 113

Mike Robinson Harry, sat stoic at the dinner table, and did not move. Sam flashed her husband a smile, as full as her day would allow, and went to kiss him. Then she went back to preparing the table. “Hey Dad.” “Hey guys.” His father hung up his coat in the nearby closet, then went and sat beside Harry. Rob’s forced enthusiasm lessened as he saw the mood of his family. He seemed relieved, too. Harry imagined the day had sapped much of his energy. “I didn’t make you guys wait that long, did I? Why the glum faces?” Playfully he elbowed his son, a paternal nudge. “How was your first day, Superman?” Harry shrugged. “Fine.” “Teachers seem alright? What about that journalism class you got into?” Harry looked at his mother, who was busy finishing in the kitchen. She cleared her throat. It was going to come out soon, that toxic image and memory that had yet to be redressed, diluted, with words. Outside of police statements, even Sam and Harry hadn’t properly discussed it. Not with each other. So much blood. Goddammit there was so much blood. Rob’s eyes narrowed, sensing wrongness. “Teachers are fine,” Harry said. “Mr. Sizemore is glad I’m in his class.” “Sizemore. He’s the journalism teacher?” “Yeah.” “And… do you think he’ll be helpful to you?” Harry took another sip of water. The rest of the house was somber and dark, an unknown place surrounding the tiny lit oasis of the kitchen and dinner table. Harry had a random urge to run through every room, and throw on every light. I would give anything… “Harry?” …if this guy would just fuck off. 114

The Green-Eyed Monster “Yeah, Dad, Mr. Sizemore’s a good teacher. I’m sure he’ll be helpful.” Rob appeared satisfied with that. Sam finally sat down, the glasses still on her face. “Uh, Mom…” Harry said, as he indicated her eyes. She sighed and removed the glasses. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t know what’s so distracting about me having these on.” Rob’s gaze followed an invisible ping-pong match, sharp lefts and sharp rights between his son and wife. “What’s the matter?” For a moment, silence fattened the air. “I’m just really tired,” Sam said. She took a bite of fish. “It’s strange because I didn’t even really do much today. What about your d—” “Dad, we got in an accident.” Rob snapped his head at his son, then back at his wife. “What?” He placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Are you okay?” “We’re okay,” Sam said. “It was just a fender-bender, that’s all. I was stupid and not paying attention.” “Funny,” said Rob. “Doesn’t seem like you. I’ll never forget the time you stopped thirty feet short of that cat that was in the road.” A distant smile came to Sam’s lips. “Then,” Rob continued, “you waited twenty minutes after it’d reached the other sidewalk before moving on, just to make sure it didn’t come darting back.” He chuckled at the fond recollection of his wife’s tendency for overt compassion, something he loved her for, despite the occasional nuisance of it. Harry suspected his dad loved it simply because it annoyed him. “As long as you two are alright,” he finished, digging into his dish. “So there was no real damage to the car?” Sam’s face went concrete. “No, only some chipped paint. But you wouldn’t know that listening to the guy we hit.” “Why? Was his car damaged?” 115

Mike Robinson “His car was fine,” Harry said without looking up. Another sip of water. “What was he upset about?” Sam, clearly perturbed, walked from the kitchen without answering. The light in a room down the hallway flicked on. There were distant coughing noises. Rob sat perplexed. He looked at Harry. “The guy was killed, Dad. Right in front of us.” Rob blinked. Harry discovered something. The ghastly incident had churned about in his brain, his vitals, eroding him from the inside-out. But now he’d spoken of it, breathed out some of it, released it. It was cathartic, but more than that it transmuted the wrongness into rightness. It had been cosmic intention. It had really been the Universe, an amorphous Superman, made of the intangible stuff of fate, saving him and his mother from one of its less pleasant inhabitants. Harry suppressed a smile.

He stared at them, all arrayed like colorful whale baleen above his Commodore 64. They spanned two shelves, his comics. Already there was some spillover into a third. In time, Harry imagined, their storage would demand an entire room. That was inevitable. He didn’t plan to get rid of any of them. Only accumulate. He drew out a 1981 issue of The Adventures of Superman, opened it. Once a casual affair between print books, his relationship with comics had since become more or less monogamous; not the greatest thing, he knew, given his aspirations as a writer. But comics were the best of both worlds: the visual and the literate, movies and text mashed together. It didn’t matter that for so long they’d been 116

The Green-Eyed Monster deemed mostly children’s fare. However, Harry sensed the tide might be turning on that prejudice, all the better as he stood now between childhood and adulthood. He wanted, needed, comics to carry him into the latter phase. They conveyed the legendary glories of life, turned absurdly inside-out, and they were made up of perfect snapshots of these glories: the most dynamic angles on the most colorful characters of the greatest stories and the highest challenges. Harry fantasized often about crunching his own life and memories, his fondest moments, into sequential snapshots. An album of the soul, perhaps. But life was too damn messy. Life’s lard overflowed, and it didn’t know when to stop or where. Comics gave one a sublime economy of reality, exaggerated jubilantly because reality was an exaggeration, one stupendous material hyperbole of blind elements. Adults just tired of it. He turned a page. “Harry?” His father stood in the doorway, surveying the room, eyes stuffed with the day. “What’s up, Dad?” he said, closing the comic book. “Just wanted to check on you.” Rob stepped into the room. There was conflict in his face. “Mom’s resting. She’s still pretty shaken up about it all. It’s just unbelievable what happened. I’m just… so sorry you had to see it.” With cautious ease reminiscent to Harry of his grandfather, Rob sat on the edge of the bed. “Thanks Dad,” he said. “I didn’t actually see the hit. I just heard this gigantic crash, looked over and, I couldn’t even really see anything. I was too shocked. Then I started freaking out about Mom…” His father sighed; his fingers diddled each other like insect feelers. “I remember when I was nine,” Rob said. “There was this old lady on our block. Ms. Finster. I hated her. We all did, my friends and I. When we were really young we thought she ate kids, baked cookies 117

Mike Robinson out of them or something. She was nasty and crabby, and so many times I wished that she would die because she had this great field near her house, perfect for baseball, but she would never let us play. Then that one day I see her coming back from Anderson’s Market and bam.” He clapped his left hand off his right. “This truck runs the red. Creams her. Stops her at seventy-three. To this day I still feel guilty about it. I mean I was nine at the time. No kid should have to see something like that. No one should.” Harry nodded. “Interesting you mention your wishing she was dead.” “Why?” “Well, I didn’t wish for the guy to be killed, at all. I just wanted him to shut up, to…get out of there, leave…to leave Mom alone. But I didn’t want him dead. Maybe just a bump on the head, a bird crapping on his bald head. Y’know, something to break his flow.” Rob gestured at the comic book in Harry’s hand. “One of yours, I guess?” “Actually it’s Alan’s. He let me borrow the whole series. I was hoping to bring it back to him soon, maybe a weekend from now.” He looked at his father, whose head was down. “Dad what’s wrong?” “Nothing, I just have a bit of a headache. Work was hell today, too long.” Rob rose from the bed and returned to the doorway, where he took in his son’s comic collection. “That was nice of Alan to lend you those issues.” Harry fidgeted and tried to find a place in his mind for the strange image his father had just put there: Rob Zwieg as a nine-year-old, reacting to Ms. Finster’s violent demise. “Yeah,” Harry said. “He’s good like that. And he has way more than me.” “Than I.” “What?” 118

The Green-Eyed Monster “Way more than I.” Rob grinned, shallowly. His eyes shone an eerie amber color, but it was indistinct, fickle, like shifting reflections on water. “Learn the language, mister wordsmith.” “Sorry. Than I.” “Just remember, Superman,” Rob said. “If you owe someone like Alan a favor, you’d better pay them back in due time. It’s only common courtesy.” Gently Rob closed the door behind him. That night, Harry Zwieg had a surprisingly restful sleep.

5 His brain packed with the cold gauze of the early morning, there wasn’t much academically—particularly math—that would be getting through. Starting school at ten to eight was not only counterproductive, it was cruel. Sadomasochistic. And there should’ve been greater oversight in scheduling math and science classes, which Harry imagined would be an art unto itself, to find that narrow-but-ideal time when teenage minds would be sharpest, most receptive, and unimpeded by morning exhaustion or post-lunch somnolence. Nevertheless, here he was. Math, his worst subject. Eight a.m. His teacher this year was a Mr. Reddin, who carried a decent reputation built mostly of indifferent shrugs. He wasn’t bad. Wasn’t great. Harry thought him a goofy anachronism. With the curly tufts of hair, the thin tie, and the bold-rimmed glasses, Reddin seemed to have stepped out of the photographs of old 1960s NASA engineers. Today Reddin was handing out the textbooks, a process Harry hoped would delay any lesson plan. His mind wandered, restricted though it was to imaginings of what he might be able to accomplish in Sizemore’s Butterflyer class. Then 119

Mike Robinson there was the other focus within the wider: Stephanie. Stephanie Gold was in his class. That class, specifically. Not this class, not trigonometry, where, going off prior math classes, he would certainly come to feel as a hapless animal caught in a quicksand of numbers. But in journalism he would shine, press his name in the cultural cement of the campus. He only had to keep his stomach in check. That would come, he knew. In time that would come. A textbook was passed to him. Sandwiched inside like bookmarks were two cards, one blue and one white. “Ok, so fill out these cards,” Reddin said. “I’ve written all the information on the board here. If your book is in good condition, give it an A or B. I should hope none of these are any worse than that.” A hand went up. “Yes?” “Someone tore like fifteen pages out of mine,” said a bubbly-faced girl. “Can I get another one?” Harry’s mind drifted again. It was pulled quickly back by a tall shadow passing by the door. The figure was too fast for identification. Who was that? “That was weird,” said a voice next to him. An exotic-looking kid, nicely bronzed skin, striking eyebrows that were two caterpillars facing off. “What?” Harry said. “Whoever just passed by. You saw that, right?” Harry nodded. “I couldn’t tell if the person was walking or running. Looked almost like they were floating. I didn’t hear any noise either. Did you?” “No.” “I’m Deepu, by the way,” said the kid. 120

The Green-Eyed Monster “I’m Harry.” “You a junior?” “Yeah.” Harry began filling out the blue and white textbook cards. “Me too. Well, kind of. I’m supposed to be a senior. Parents just moved here from New York. They worried about me adjusting so they held me back.” There had to be more to the story than that, Harry figured, but he didn’t press it, nor did he care to. Besides, who was he to pry into reasons for being held back? He’d been held back himself, after failing one year to dredge himself fully from that numerical quicksand. “I know the feeling,” he said. Deepu was now trying to flag down Mr. Reddin, who led an erratic path around the classroom, assisting, answering questions, burning with a small flame of incomprehension, perhaps, as to why there could be so many questions about the elementary rigmarole of textbook cards. He pointed to Deepu, who asked to be excused to the bathroom. Reddin hesitated, as though caught off-guard. He made several furtive glances around the room, once up at the clock. Another hand went up. “Mr. Reddin?” called another girl’s voice. “Go ahead,” Reddin told Deepu, heading over to the girl. “Just make sure to be back in the next few minutes. I want to get started on chapter one sometime today.” Deepu rose. “I’ll be back,” he said to Harry. He finished filling out the two textbook cards, then opened his notebook. So what’s this big article you’re gonna write about, huh? He wasn’t really sure and it was beginning to drive him crazy. The more he thought about it, the more the ‘muse’ resisted. He hadn’t run into anything or anyone he would’ve liked to discuss, and surely he would be assigned columns or topics once the paper got rolling. This 121

Mike Robinson wasn’t fiction, after all. But surely some brainstorming could bear some interesting fruit… – Martin Smith – He thought of the two guys, John and Martin. They’d been at the back of his mind since his odd witness of them at lunchtime on the first day. They were at the back of everyone’s mind, he imagined. They couldn’t not be. They did nothing but keep to themselves, but they projected an irrepressible vibe, an aura of total and superior understanding. They did not seem like teenagers. They used teenage bodies. Maybe they’re aliens, he thought. The Twilight Falls area did have its share of UFO sightings, and UFO enthusiasts. So much speculation. But to Harry’s knowledge, no one had tried to really engage them. What were their parents like? Twilight Falls was a relatively small city, or big town. Neighborhoods and communities stuck together. Information was tight-knit. From the little he’d picked up, there was nothing special about John and Martin’s backstories. They came from upper-middle-class families. Did they have siblings? Cousins? What did they do at home? He would get to know them. Write about them. Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. He made notes on the page. Several minutes later, Deepu returned from the bathroom. Harry looked at him and was surprised to see the kid’s bronze face was a shade or two lighter, his eyes wider. He stared at Harry as if silently pleading him to assure him he was dreaming. Or wasn’t. “I just saw something,” Deepu said. “In the bathroom.” “What happened?” “It was really, really weird,” he said, half-whispering. “What?” “There was…there was, I don’t know…a dead body in there. In the second stall. A guy. At least, I could’ve sworn. He was lying next 122

The Green-Eyed Monster to the toilet and blood was all over the place, splashed on the wall, all over the toilet, drenching the clothes. He’d been shot through the neck.” Harry laughed, assuming it a joke. Deepu chuckled too, but it was troubled. “So what happened?” “It’s not there anymore. I walked in there, saw it, flew back against the wall, shut my eyes. But it wasn’t there after. I swear. And I could smell it when I walked in, too. I mean, I could smell something bad but I’d never smelled a dead body before so didn’t know it was that. But… it’s gone.” Deepu paused, then said, “Then a guy came into the bathroom. I told him about it.” Harry looked at him. It was one of them, he knew. One of the two. “John or Martin?” A tiny relief, an understanding, lit Deepu’s eyes. “Funny, you know it was one of those. They’re fucking strange. I think it was John. He was walking to the bathroom as I was coming out. I told him about it, that I thought I was freaking out. He went in, gave me this big reassuring smile and said everything was alright. Said something about business being business. I don’t know. But that’s when I checked again and didn’t see it anymore, for sure.” Deepu rubbed his forehead. “Maybe it was the Martin one. I don’t know. I get them confused.” Harry had known of the two boys since first grade, since Crazy Ann Chatsworth’s first grade class at TwiFalls Elementary. Then, after being held back in seventh grade, Harry had been a freshman as they’d been sophomores. Somehow everyone knew them. Everyone knew them but dared not talk about them. It was time, he decided, for someone to not merely know of them, but to know about them.

123

Mike Robinson

6 He had it all figured out, or so he thought. Harry would keep the idea from the rest of the class, even Mr. Sizemore, until he was far enough along on the debut article. Likely they would think the idea a gimmick at least at first, a fluff piece to fill up space. But it would grow on them. Where they once saw arrows, they would soon see bullets. The potential of this undertaking weighed in Harry, swelled him with a cool, self-important awe. It would be audacious, this investigation. Why? Even he could not properly say. He decided he would compare and contrast Becker and Smith, write of their lives, their habits, their quirks, some of which were already known. For inspiration, he looked at coverage of uncanny connections between notable historical figures, such as those between Presidents Kennedy and Lincoln. At three o’clock that afternoon, Harry went out the side gate, near the weight room and outdoor basketball courts, where he’d seen John Becker exit almost every day. He waited out the current of students, after a while feeling like a mute Wal-Mart greeter. Over the babble of voices, he heard yelling. It was coming from the area near the butterfly mural, where he normally waited for his mother. Max and Stephanie were there, shouting at one another in broad view. Stephanie seemed the instigator, the one with the upper hand. Max glanced around, as if embarrassed his buddies might bear witness. They’re fighting. Looks good. Don’t think anything more because you know it can’t happen. The couple took their argument around a corner and was gone from sight. Harry resumed his active waiting. After fifteen minutes, John Becker had yet to emerge. Another ten minutes and Harry began to feel what he called ‘museum restlessness’, that itchy urge for greater motion. He shifted 124

The Green-Eyed Monster his weight to the other leg, slipped on both straps of his backpack even though it didn’t look as cool. C’mon. Then he saw him, moving in mechanical stride, marching like a robot that’d yet to be turned off, or informed the revolution was over. Not ten feet from Becker, a basketball player fell hard after a failed dunk and lay blubbering on the asphalt. The passing senior took no notice. His head was fixed, his eyes laser-focused yet, at the same time, not here. The world is dead to him, Harry thought. Every mind is dead but his. John was coming closer. When he was not ten yards out, Harry moved to approach him as he came through the gate. “Um, John?” The boy stopped and looked at him. “Yes?” He looks so… old. “My name is Harry Zwieg.” Harry held out his hand. It went untouched. “Unusual name, Zwieg,” Becker said. As he spoke, his bottom lip moved yet his upper lip was as motionless as his arms. Harry was reminded of a ventriloquist’s dummy. “I know it’s unusual,” Harry said. “I’m proud to be the last alphabetical student.” “What is it you want?” Harry was taken aback by the abruptness but maintained his composure. He felt sweaty around his lips. Surely the gooey white crud had returned. “Well, actually, John I u—” Harry trailed off as he reached around to grab a pen from his backpack. In the other hand, he brought out a Mead notepad, its first page haunted by the indentation of a recent Belagor drawing. “Yes?” 125

Mike Robinson “I wanted to do a piece for the Butterflyer,” Harry said. “About you.” Becker’s eyes trembled. “Why do you want to write about me?” Becker said, in a tone that wasn’t curious, nervous or surprised, more testing. “You’re fascinating, John,” Harry said, trying to inject some showmanship into his grin. “You and the other guy, Martin. You two never talk to anyone. And you’re always in the library, writing away. What do you guys… ” Harry haltered, realizing he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. “What do you guys… do?” Idiot idiot— Becker glared at him, but there was a distant compassion, of all things, an understanding analogous to that of a man annoyed with his untrained mutt for defiling the carpet. Becker said, “I am always working. I have no business or time for social interaction. I’ve been told my stay here has been shortened and therefore I must make the best of the time I do have.” He exhaled, long and hard. “I can’t concern myself with Martin Smith, either.” My stay here, shortened? The statement turned Harry’s blood to ice milk. “Where are you from, John?” “I am a native of Twilight Falls, California. I’ve never left. Grandfather would worry.” “You live with your grandfather?” “No. With my mother and father.” Overhead, large gray clouds accosted the sun. “Do you get along with your parents?” Harry asked. “Are they overbearing? Strict?” “No. Grandfather is, though. But he has reason to be. He tells me everything. Though I have not seen him in quite a while. But I’m confident he’ll return. He never actually left.” What the fuck is he talking about? 126

The Green-Eyed Monster Harry held back from asking anything further about personal life, perplexed as he was about this Grandfather. But as he’d learned from that summer’s internship at Visions magazine: business first in interviews, then personal. “What do you write about?” Harry asked. Just then the world to Harry slowed, as if the world were a movie with an affected frame-rate. Becker’s gaze moved past Harry, over his shoulder. “What? What is it?” “If you must use ink,” Becker began, his perfectly-combed hair releasing select hostages to a strong breeze, “you should learn more about shading techniques. I also suggest black ink instead of blue. Psychologically it’s stronger.” Harry was silent. “I like to use cross contours,” Becker said. Without asking, he took the Mead notepad from Harry and went to it with his own pen, sketching. Harry watched, enthralled and bewildered like an audience member involved in an on-stage magic act. Becker’s hand flew around the page, the image clarifying further and further, from loose lines to full rendering. Harry felt extremely inadequate, artistically impotent, wholly outmatched. Becker finished and presented the sketch to him. It was of Harry. A few odd licenses had been taken: atop his portrait’s head sat an old-fashioned hat, the kind worn in the forties. From his lips jutted a smoldering cigarette. Becker handed him the picture, his face smiling except for his lips. “Cross contours,” he repeated. “It will help tremendously in bringing Balrog to life.” Harry was too engrossed in the portrait to correct him, but Becker caught himself. “I’m sorry, Balrog is Tolkien. But you know who I mean. He’s of your mind.” Harry chuckled. “I like the hat. I look like some private eye.” 127

Mike Robinson How did he know about Belagor? “It’s called a fedora,” Becker said. “Many characters in the worlds of Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammet or Ross MacDonald wore them.” “I love the cigarette, too. I look so surly. I—” Becker cut him off. “Everything’s too ordered, wouldn’t you agree, Harold?” Harry blinked. “Everything’s too light and I don’t particularly like that, either. Why should there be light? God said ‘Let there be light’ but the universe is completely pitch-black. No night and day in space. I like the dark, I like the chaos, because that’s what the universe is.” Turn away end this right now please what are you doing—? Several minutes into their conversation, Harry was struck with a crippling inferiority complex. Who was he to be talking to this guy? “Here,” Becker said, opening his backpack. He handed Harry a copy of Waves, the student literary journal, read, in these days of Nintendo and MTV, by a very select few on campus. “My latest story is in there. Page thirty-five.” Becker left. Harry stood clutching the issue, watching him go, then moved hastily back to the routine place where, in an hour, his mother would pick him up. He jotted down everything he could. He looked at Becker’s portrait of him, then tore it off and folded it and slipped it into his back pocket, where it would be discovered months later by police.

That evening he read Becker’s story, after finishing the last of the comics Alan had lent him. The piece was called Predator & Prey, and it chronicled the pursuit of a man by a criminal organization which he’d betrayed. Near the climax, the man meets his bloody end in an 128

The Green-Eyed Monster abandoned warehouse. It was described by John Becker in the following passage: “Mickey was left in the stall closest to the bathroom door, between the toilet and the wall, two crimson holes in his neck that looked like ragged vampire bites. His body remained undiscovered for days, a buffet for the building’s vermin population.” There was… there was a dead body in there. Deepu. That night, Harry’s sleep was restless.

7 From the window of Sizemore’s second-story classroom, Harry watched the usual lunchtime crowd ripple about the quad. He could hear the one big crackling multifaceted voice of Adolescence, shouting, laughing of minutiae. Was it predominantly male or female, he wondered. He couldn’t tell. It seemed a nice mix of the two, but was grating in the way female voices could be. In between these contemplative observations and musings, he scribbled hard on his notepad. Across the room, Bill Sizemore watched him. “Harry.” “Yeah?” “You’ve been here every lunch this week, writing.” Sizemore approached Harry’s desk, arms folded amiably. “You should hang out with your friends.” “Don’t have any,” Harry said. He realized how pitiably cheesy, how TV Movie-of-the-Week, that sounded. “Not here anyway.” “I find that hard to believe. You’re a nice kid, good-looking too. No girlfriend either?” Harry shook his head. “Once people get to know me, they seem to think it was a mistake.” 129

Mike Robinson You’re really laying it on thick today, aren’t you? Sizemore snorted, then sat on the desk next to Harry, who drew tighter around his notepad as he wrote. “What are you working on now?” Sizemore asked. “Compare and contrast,” Harry stated. “Oh really? On schools? Colleges?” “No. Students.” Sizemore raised an eyebrow. “Students at our school?” “Yes.” “Do they know about it?” Harry paused. “Yeah.” “Care to share with me?” The young journalist sighed. “John Becker. You know him?” Sizemore nodded. “I sure do. And Martin Smith. Both were in my Honors English class their freshman year. Very gifted students. Extraordinary. Very strange, though.” “That’s why I thought they’d make an interesting piece.” “I always had trouble talking with them,” Sizemore said. “Neither of them seemed very interested in what I had to say. They probably thought they were better than I.” Harry’s teacher was pensive. “Two gangly juniors thinking they were better than everyone…when you strip it down it’s really not that strange, I guess.” Sizemore got up and made his way back to his own desk. Harry looked up. “Mr. Sizemore?” “Yes?” “I may need to interview you soon.” Harry smiled. “Y’know, for the piece I’m writing.” “Anytime. Just tell me where and when. I don’t know too much about the two boys, although I think I still have a couple of their old papers. I could show them to you if you’d like.” “That’d be great, thanks.” Harry lowered his head. “I’ll let you know.” 130

The Green-Eyed Monster After a few quiet moments, Sizemore said, “I should get going. Finish that sentence and pack up. Lunch ends in fifteen minutes so you can come right back.” “You can’t leave me here?” Sizemore chuckled. “You know I trust you, Harry, but it’s not smart for me to leave you locked up in here. It’s more a safety thing.” He gathered up his keys and attaché case and waited by the door. “Let’s go, Harry.” Harry dotted his last period and got up. “Can I just leave my things here? I’ll just write out in the hallway.” Sizemore petted his ashen-speckled goatee. “Sure, go ahead. I’ll be back in a few.” Harry followed the teacher out and sat in the hallway. The stucco wall gnawed his back. He always found it secretly enjoyable to sit on the corridor floor, where he could withdraw from the rushing current of students, of hectic and noisy High School, much the way a homeless person might from the destination-minded passersby. Ignored. Untouched. No deadlines. Nowhere to go. There was something calming and pleasurable about that. He sat writing until the bell rang. Knowing the hallway would soon be impacted with students, he hurriedly finished the current paragraph. The chat with John Becker, however strange and short, had proved surprisingly helpful. He was more motivated about this than anything he’d done, school-wise or independently, in recent years. Since speaking with Becker, writing had taken up nearly every free moment, also cutting into time he should have been doing homework. There was a self-flagellation in this, but also an external push from sources, or a source, vague and unknown. And he had yet to talk with Martin Smith. But there was so much, so much he could feel. He could feel the essence of this information, wordless knowledge that filtered through him, steadily, indefatigably. Harry mused that he did not need to speak directly with these boys: just 131

Mike Robinson observing them seemed to be enough. There was an excess in Becker, an excess in Smith. Just as electrical appliances gave off heat, something radiated beyond their localized skin. He had begun to wonder: could this be only one piece? No. No, there was too much. Perhaps it could a series of articles? Slowly unraveling the enigmas of John Becker and Martin Smith every other week. The rest of the Butterflyer class began to gather by the door. The editor-in-chief, a boisterous African-American senior named Colby Webb, approached Harry. “Still working on that mystery piece, Harry?” He nodded, quiet. “Well, if you want it in the next issue then we’re gonna need it by Friday, you know that, right?” “I know.” Colby turned away. Sizemore returned just as the tardy bell rang. “Sorry I’m a bit late, everyone.” Harry looked around as the twenty or so kids streamed into the room. A familiar face, the most aesthetically pleasing, the star of many a fantasy, was missing. He knew Stephanie was here, though. He’d seen her earlier that day by the bungalow vending machines. Colby stood up and addressed the class about the upcoming pep rally. Harry didn’t listen. He wanted to find Stephanie. Had to. Something was wrong. Something was wrong and he could be the one to fix it. Mend it. Touch it. As Colby talked, Harry waved to Sizemore, gesturing to the bathroom. The teacher returned an understanding wave. Harry scurried from the room, moving briskly, unsure exactly where he was going but knowing he had to work fast. He went downstairs. Just go back to class, Harry. …past Mr. Reddin’s sixth-period Discrete Math class… Truant! Truant! Harry’s ditching class! Get him! 132

The Green-Eyed Monster …past Mr. Shuhgalter’s class, the Russian dictator who bizarrely taught Spanish… He glanced up at the right moment and found her. She stood on the second story breezeway, leaning over the railing, gazing off through watery eyes toward the horizon. Occasionally she looked down, as if considering spitting on someone. Or jumping. Harry climbed the stairs behind her slowly. He studied her, took in her long silken legs, the tight ass snug in Daisy Duke-type denim shorts. He imagined sneaking up behind her, ripping down her shorts and taking her doggie-style right there, plowing into her, fucking away all her silly ache. How many such thoughts, how many such imaginings, had he had? Not even just about Stephanie. About virtually every attractive girl he’d seen. And they would never know. They would see him and smile at him, call him a ‘nice guy,’ as if there were really any base difference in the cravings of the male organs. Harry never understood why the Stephanies went for the Maxes, why the pretty girls liked the jerks. Both nice guys and the jerks wanted the same thing. Both wanted to ram the stuffing out of girls, tear their clothes off with their teeth, devour their breasts, lick their creamy twats, fill their bellies with their seed. At least in the run-up, wouldn’t girls rather be treated nicely? “Stephanie?” Under the breezeway, Harry’s voice was louder than expected. Stephanie turned. Instant comfort washed over her. With a broken smile, she said, “What’s up, Harry?” “Um, not much. You’re not in class.” “That obvious huh?” “What’s the matter?” “Max is a dick,” she said. “I don’t think I can take much more of this. He’s always busy now. He doesn’t seem to give a shit at all about us anymore. If this is what it’s gonna be like now, imagine what college will be like.” 133

Mike Robinson Harry wasn’t sure what to say, but stepped closer. “That’s, um,” he began, trying to compose himself. She was vulnerable, he had to be careful. “That’s why this is all bullshit.” “What is?” “This, all this. Relationships. Break-ups. Who needs it all? Especially at our age. I say fuck it all to hell.” Stephanie wiped her right eye, puffy and swollen with recent tears. “That’s not true. It’s worth it if you find the right person. It just takes time, and some heartache, but you get there eventually. As they say, no pain, no gain.” “Yeah, yeah, I don’t know…” “You seem bitter,” she said. “Why? You’re a sweet guy. You shouldn’t have any problems getting someone.” “That’s what all girls say, Steph.” He stumbled over ‘Steph,’ unsure whether he’d known her long enough to warrant such a casual nickname. “They all say how easy it would be for me to find someone, so long as it isn’t them. There’s always going to be a better fucking guy, so why bother?” “So we can be bitter together then,” Stephanie said. Harry smiled at this. She pulled away from the railing and headed back toward class. Harry followed, but not before noticing the mourning-cloak butterfly perched on a broken light, not ten feet above their heads.

8 Harry had what in closed circles he called a baseless fear of butterflies, ironic, certainly, for someone who worked on a paper called the Butterflyer. But the fear wasn’t baseless. He knew its exact germination. 134

The Green-Eyed Monster His paternal grandfather, Ted Zwieg, was eighty-two when he died, diseased but comfortable, on the fourth floor of TwiFalls Medical. Harry had been alone at his bedside, at Ted’s special request. The rest of the family, his parents, uncles, two cousins, had waited down the hall in the lobby. Harry remembered feeling like they wanted to be sadder than they really were. His grandfather’s eyes were sunk in old flesh and shiny with water, like lakes surrounded by ridges of worn geology. “People die in this world, Harry,” Ted said. He found his grandson’s hand, clutched it in a wrinkly, liver-spotted grip. “That’s what you’ve gotta understand. We are born so we can die. Little goofy logic there, ain’t it?” Harry just stared at him. He had seen hundreds of variations of death on TV, in comics or in movies, but its purpose, its fundamental concept, continued to elude him. Why did there even need to be a Heaven or a Hell? Why couldn’t people just keep living their lives? “You’ll be starting first grade soon, yeah?” Harry nodded. How to feel? He could really only recall two of the five years he’d been around to know his grandfather. Unsure what to say, what to do, he just looked at his shoelaces and nodded whenever something was said. Teddy Zwieg said, “Funny, huh? I’m leavin’ and you’re comin’. You’re gonna be great, y’know that Harry? I wish I could be around to see you when you start school, go on your first date, get into a good college. Follow your dreams. That’s what it’s all about, but be aware of what you need just as much as what you want. And you don’t let anyone stand in your way. Got it?” Harry kept nodding. This was the most he’d heard his grandfather speak in the last several months. Many years later, Harry would attribute Ted Zwieg’s sudden verbosity to his impending death, a surge before shutdown. “There are bad people in the world, Harry,” said his grandfather. “You’ll soon learn. Some of them you’ll see. Don’t ever let them stop 135

Mike Robinson you. I can’t emphasize that enough. You’ll see the butterflies. But it isn’t their fault that they’re bad, which is what you also need to keep in mind.” See the butterflies? Harry turned and looked directly into the old man’s eyes, which were bright, almost a different color than the usual grey-blue. “There’s a bad man living in these people, living in their brains.” Ted’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling. “You can spot him by the butterflies. You’ll know when you see them. You’ll know what to do. I have faith.” Harry was confused. “Grandma used to tell me that Jesus lived in everyone’s hearts. Is it like that?” Teddy Zwieg chuckled. “I suppose so, if that helps you. But this man is not Jesus. In fact, he’s the opposite. He’s been around a very long time, and people are fighting him, brave soldiers, as common as you and I. You might meet one as you enter first grade. Who’s your teacher, by the way?” “M-Miss Chatsworth, I think.” “Ahh.” Somehow his grandfather appeared familiar with the name. He coughed harshly, three times; the noise was hollow, like a deflated rubber ball striking cement. “Pretty soon you’ll grow up and see for yourself… you will…” Warmth receded from his grandfather’s grip. His skin turned grey. “Grandpa?” There was no response, and Harry—even at that age—didn’t expect one. Teddy stared with lifeless slack-jaw at his grandson. “Bye, grandpa.” There was a tickling sensation on his palm, the one still clutched against his grandfather’s. Harry wrenched his hand away and Ted Zwieg’s limb fell limp, clamping against the bed the thing, bristly and colorful, now moving beneath his fingers. 136

The Green-Eyed Monster Harry watched, transfixed, as a giant swallowtail butterfly emerged from beneath his grandfather’s hand, liberated itself, fluttered about the room, sailed, dipped, came toward him and then Harry screamed and ran into the hallway, his loose shoelaces whipping the linoleum. Samantha was there to take him into her arms.

Except for two kids smoking and waiting for the bus, the area at the school’s back gate was empty. Harry waited there for Martin Smith, this time better prepared, so he hoped. The boy appeared suddenly, materialized from the fleshy sea-foam of students, from the concrete shade of the school. Harry didn’t even register his presence until he was close enough to see his blank face. There was an odd herky-jerkiness in Smith’s movement, too, much as a retinal afterimage, superimposed and blinked into broken rhythm. Smith stopped and said, “Why are you asking about me?” “What?” “Haven’t we done this before? You’ve already talked to me.” Smith burned with a defensive confusion. “You write for the Butterflyer. You wanted to write about me.” “Um, I do want to write about you, yes,” Harry said. “But… we haven’t talked before. I’m Harry Zwieg.” Slowly, Smith nodded. “So why are you writing about me?” Above them, serpents of wind slithered in the trees. “You’re fascinating, Martin,” Harry said, feeling very repetitious. “An enigma. People like that. You do realize you’re somewhat of an enigma, right?” Smith was silent. Nearby, the number five bus pulled up and the two smoking kids boarded. The driver remarked on the cigarettes and the kids begrudgingly chucked them to the ground. 137

Mike Robinson “We are all enigmas, Harry,” Smith said. “The universe is one big enigma and we’re all just a part of it. That makes us enigmas, wouldn’t you say? We’re just self-aware stardust, after all.” Harry felt once more the uneasy force on him, tingling, prickling his skin. “I suppose you’d like to know what it is I…” Smith gave a mocking smile, “…do.” Harry blinked. “Mostly I write. Writing moves. Stories move. Other arts are but snapshots, I’d say. But language and story are the soul of art, its fluid base. Informs everything. It is the garment worn by our consciousness. Since we learned of ourselves, we have attired the world in story. At the same time we harnessed the flame, we discovered this, what is our internal fire.” The questions Harry had scribbled on his Mead pad in preparation for the interview now seemed moot. Martin’s presence was dominating everything but still giving him what he needed to know, be it consciously or unconsciously. “Would you like a copy of my latest story?” Smith asked. With a gesture similar to John Becker presenting the Waves copy, he reached into his backpack and handed Harry a stack of type-written pages. The manuscript, only eight or so pages long, had on its front page the title Hunter in jumpy typewriter ink. Nearly every corner of every page had been dog-eared. Smith said, “It actually marks the debut of a character I think you’ll like, a Mr. Roy McCullough. Do you like noir, Harry?” Recalling Becker’s ‘private eye’ portrait of him, Harry said, “I don’t really know…I couldn’t say…” “I don’t mean film noir,” Smith said. “I mean in literature. The shadow is palpable in noir. There is not one definition for the genre, but it usually sees an embittered protagonist through a series of hurdles, physical and mental. The events draw out his complexities, his taste for the rugged, the uneven, the dark. Often times the character feels like Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his 138

The Green-Eyed Monster back, something with which we can all empathize.” Beside them two squirrels chased and tackled one another. Smith looked at them. “Because that’s what we’re doing, right? Even those squirrels are conjoined with the enormity of the universe, strapped to its unfathomable density.” Smith ended with, “In the noir world, if you’re not paranoid, you’re dead.” Right there, Harry peeled back the cover sheet and read the first paragraph of Hunter. “His bullet-ridden body was left in the fourth stall, mangled and sprawled beneath the cracked Pelican-beak shape of the toilet bowl. A massive spider had made a home in its left eye socket, and when Roy McCullough saw it, he threw up.” Smith began moving away. “I have just recently learned that I have but a hyphen of time left here,” he said. “I must use it wisely. Most people don’t. Wouldn’t you agree, Harry?”

9 The following weeks saw an increase in Harry’s popularity but a noticeable decline in his health. He didn’t eat as much at dinner, and he told his mother he would be buying lunch at school when he was really writing or drawing, feeding some other stomach. His weight dropped. He slept less. He was also spending more time with Stephanie Gold. At least initially, such interaction was not conducive for Harry to a great appetite, nervous as he was. At her behest, they branched out from Sizemore’s room to other less-populated realms of campus. She worried about running into “Max and his people,” as she called them, even though she apparently still deemed some of them friends, at least some of the girls. 139

Mike Robinson There were other nerves too, tied directly to Harry’s undertaking with his piece on Becker and Smith. Already anxious to make a splash at the Butterflyer, whatever exactly that meant, with this material he worried he’d taken on more than he could, or should, chew. Dreadful significance weighted every word he composed. Those two would one day change the literary landscape, if not the landscape somehow. They would become household names, they would live in millions of souls, on millions of shelves. You can’t fuck this up. Wanting to remove themselves from the social nucleus of the quad, Stephanie and Harry lunched at a secluded oak-shaded spot near the front of the school, away from what Harry referred to as ‘Max’s territory,’ intending the animal connotation. There they spoke of trivial subjects, until one day edging into that of relationships. “You’re serious?” Stephanie said. “Yeah.” “You’ve never even kissed anyone before?” “Nope.” Harry looked at his shoes. A moment ago he had felt proudly honest in the admission, but he was now regretting it. “Wow.” She chewed two grapes. “I guess it’s not that strange. It sounds like you’re just passionate about other stuff.” She took a gulp of water and smirked. “You don’t seem to eat much either, weirdo.” “Yeah, I am. Passionate I mean. I just wish…” “Wish what?” “I kind of wish prostitution wasn’t illegal.” He held back laughter. Surreptitiously he checked for the white goo collecting on his lips, and kept his gnawed fingernails curled within his palm. “If I wasn’t risking arrest I’d buy myself a few rounds with a hooker, y’know, to learn the ropes and all.” Stephanie was visibly amused. “I suppose that’s a good justification for legalizing the spread of disease.” “Yeah, I know you can’t really do that. I wouldn’t, especially with that new disease they’re talking about now. But I’m talking in a 140

The Green-Eyed Monster perfect world, y’know? I wouldn’t have to go through all the dating bullshit or anything, just learn how to, how to, like, do it… y’know?” Stephanie gave an uneasy chuckle. “You sound like Max and his cohorts. Not a place you want to go. Stay where you are.” “I know, I know,” Harry said. “It’s not really what I want. I want a girl to love, to be in a relationship with, but… I don’t know. There are things I need to learn that I wish I could without embarrassing myself. And I’m still a male, after all, just another guy here at TwiFalls High.” “Yeah seriously,” Stephanie sighed. “Sometimes I think every guy here is the same.” “I wouldn’t say that.” The bell rang for sixth period. Stephanie got up and turned back to Harry, who remained seated, dazed, as if caught in a trance.

Samantha Zwieg studied her son as he climbed into the passenger’s seat. “Are you okay?” Sam said. “You look a little ill.” “Yeah, I’m alright, just had a long day.” He rubbed his wrist, which pulsed with artist’s cramp. While waiting for his mother, he’d entertained himself drawing multiple variations of Belagor. Stephanie would’ve waited with him but had to leave early for a track meet. It was just as well. Although increasingly comfortable around her, he was still afraid of exhausting his time with her, of widening the possibility of making a fool of himself, of showing his true dorky colors. Scheduled for Saturday was what they’d agreed to call their ‘first date.’ Although they were aware of Stephanie, Harry’s parents had yet to be informed of this date. Harry preferred not to invite further

141

Mike Robinson inquiry. Hence, he’d suggested a weekend when Sam and Rob would be out of town. He would see what happened, then go from there. “So were you writing or drawing?” Sam asked, as they pulled away. As had been the case since the accident, she passed Milk Lane, using Westminster Avenue instead. “Drawing, mostly,” Harry said. “Stephanie didn’t wait with you?” There was disappointment in her voice. His parents seemed starkly divided on the Stephanie issue. His mother, thinking it a door too far long in the opening, was proud of him. Rob Zwieg was more reserved in his opinion. Harry had a sense his father’s uncharacteristic stoicism was a subtle way of instilling in him caution and unease, without ‘talk,’ without confrontation. “Stephanie has track on Wednesdays,” Harry said. He looked at the freshly-minted sketch of Belagor. Doubtless his drawing was improving, as it had the last few years he’d been devoting to it serious amateur effort, the trajectory of talent steady, observable mostly in hindsight. Except…except he’d gotten so much better recently. He’d experienced a kind of quantum leap in clarity, in swift second-nature ability. Watching Becker had enlivened something in him, imparted a concentrated dose of insight and inspiration. A five-minute art seminar. Maybe next year I can make it into Advanced Art Studio. “Stephanie seems really nice,” Sam remarked. “So pretty too. I’d like to get to know her better.” “Mom, we aren’t even officially dating, really.” “Yeah yeah, that’s what they all say. And don’t let Dad hold you back, either, okay? You know him. He can just be a little oldfashioned on those things. But you’re young, almost done with high school. You should be out there, exploring gi—” Bangin’ pussy. He held up his hand. “Okay Mom, I got it.” His mother noticed the Belagor sketch. 142

The Green-Eyed Monster “You drew that?” she said. For a few seconds her focus went back and forth from the paper to the road, road to the paper. The drawing seemed to command a gravitational force on her, appealed to an illcontrolled reflex the way feminine flesh might fix male eyes. As Sam had become an extraordinarily cautious driver since the accident, one who seldom moved now to switch radio stations, Harry considered this quite noteworthy. It was also very strange. At the next red light, his mother took the notepad from her son and held it a foot from her face. “That’s easily the best thing I’ve ever seen you draw.” “Thanks.” The light turned green. They lurched forward and she handed him back the pad. “How did you get to be so good all of a sudden?” she asked. “I dunno, I just read comics and practice a lot, I guess.” Harry turned to the window at his side and watched the town bump and roll by. “Not like anyone taught me.”

“When are we leaving Saturday?” Sam asked at dinner. Rob shrugged. “Well, the reception starts at four, so we should get going around eleven, I’d say. It’s a good three or four hour drive.” This food looks so good, Harry thought. And it was, the little he was able to taste of it, the little allowed by the premature anxiety now swelling his mind, his stomach. Why couldn’t he just live in the present, abolish the future and all its haunting and overwhelming possibilities? It would be bliss to find the taffy-ness of time once more, to be able to stretch it out, hide forever in the seconds, fit snugly as a child might within the infinity of each moment, the way he once could. His life had since been hijacked by hormones. Homework. Girls. Dates. Stephanie. 143

Mike Robinson Your first date, your first real goddamn date that is not with just a girl but with Stephanie-fucking-Gold, is three days away. Three. Days. “So no parties planned, right, Harry?” Sam said. Harry forced a smile. “No, no.” Rob wiped his mouth. “Think you’ll be able to handle the house okay, Superman?” Feeling belittled by the question, Harry replied, “Dad, it’s only a day and a half. You guys are coming back Sunday, right?” “Sunday evening, yes,” Sam said. “Who’s getting married again?” “My co-worker John,” Rob said. “I think you’ve met him. We played golf one time and he was here for dinner.” The brief history lesson didn’t help, but Harry nodded anyway. “Do you have much homework this weekend?” Sam asked. “I don’t know, you tell me. Didn’t you do your routine rummaging today?” “Harry…” Rob said, frost on his voice. Sam studied her son. “Is everything okay?” “Everything’s fine.” “Thinking about what you might want to do Saturday?” Sam teased. “When the cat’s, or cats, are away…” “He’ll be fine,” Rob said. He reached over and clamped Harry’s shoulder affectionately. “Right, Superman?” “It’ll be fine,” Harry muttered. “Don’t worry about it.” This line of questioning was only reminding him of Stephanie and the Date… (three days away three days away) …and Harry excused himself from the table.

144

The Green-Eyed Monster

10 His parents left at eleven o’clock Saturday, leaving Harry eight hours to burn off mounting anxiety before Stephanie arrived to pick him up. He wrote, but could scarcely concentrate. The passivity of television and comics had negligible effect on the din of his mind. Videogames seemed to provide the most distraction. Half an hour prior, his nerves rattled about like stones in his cold and hollow tin-can body. He made ten trips to the bathroom in the span of fifteen minutes, tweaking his image and his hair, angling his head to see which side he should emphasize in facing or addressing her. He chewed peppermint gum to soothe his stomach, which was marginally effective. In the back of his mind, he heard his friend Alan: Harry, sometimes you are such a fucking girl. Stephanie pulled up five minutes late. He watched her from the window, then went out the door and met her halfway up the walk. Her attire nicely mixed ‘hangout casual’ with ‘date casual,’ a denim jacket and low-cut scarlet top contrasted with tight milk-white jeans. Long peace-sign earrings complemented the sparkle of her green eyes, which were sharpened by a mathematical appliance of mascara. Her hair was a bunched avalanche down her shoulders and her skin glistened with lotion. Much to Harry’s pleasure, she’d foregone lipstick. “Hey there!” Stephanie said. They exchanged a loose hug. Harry’s throat closed. An absurd thought occurred to him: was it possible to have a physical allergy to girls? “So what’re we doing tonight?” Stephanie asked. “Any big ideas?” The inside of her car smelled of air freshener and old apples, a femininity mixed with the transient staleness of a typical used car. With sputtering throat-clears, the worn engine came to life. 145

Mike Robinson “I thought we could see Poltergeist 2,” Harry said. “It’s out now.” He shut his lips tight as his gag reflex grew. He had to squeak words around it. “It’s supposed to be pretty cool.” Stephanie shuddered playfully. “Ok, but I’m not big on scary movies. I’ll probably spend the entire two hours against your arm and closing my eyes.” No harm in that, Harry thought with a concealed grin.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Stephanie said as they approached the World Cinema. Harry tried without success to discern in her the ratio of honest unease to flirty fright. “Promise me you won’t get up or anything during it.” “Don’t worry, don’t worry.” They bought tickets and after deliberating on whether or not to get popcorn, they forewent snacks and entered the theater, which was about half-full, more than Harry expected even though it was a Saturday night. The lights dimmed and Stephanie lowered in her seat. Film splashed lambent upon the screen. With no previews, the movie began. As expected, she spent much of the movie cringing, scrunching herself against Harry’s fabric. He kept one eye on her, excited but very self-conscious, his head wrapped in her smell, her pretty face less than a foot from his. His groin swelled. Harry had an unprecedented urge to touch himself. Stephane-fucking-Gold. “Do you believe in those things?” Stephanie asked as they made their way from the theater. Night had since fallen. The autumnal air had a cold, burnt crispness to it. “What? Poltergeists?”

146

The Green-Eyed Monster “Yeah. Or just ghosts in general. I mean, I actually know a couple people who’ve seen them. My Aunt Margie once said she saw my dead uncle in a china cabinet, just looking at her, observing her. For weeks after she felt like some unwilling animal in an experiment, being watched.” Stephanie pulled her coat tighter around her. “It was creepy. If I ever saw one I think I’d totally go nuts.” “Hmm,” Harry said. “I think I believe in ghosts, but to me they’re more like geophysical holograms, or ‘stains,’ than evidence of some afterlife. And I’m not sure ghosts are the cause of all the poltergeist activity.” “Really? What do you mean?” “Well, they’ve done a bunch of studies on those things. You know, real life cases of objects being thrown around, floating in midair, etcetera. All of them seem to happen in the vicinity of a teenager, usually sexually frustrated ones, so there’s a theory they may be involuntarily discharging the energy in some weird form of telekinesis.” Brow furrowed, Stephanie asked, “What’s tekelanesis, or tele—?” “Telekinesis?” “Yeah, what is it?” Harry thought for a moment. “Did you ever see the movie Carrie?” “No, I don’t like scary movies, remember?” She chuckled. “Plus, I wouldn’t have been allowed to see it. I was seven when it came out.” “I was too,” Harry said. “I never saw the movie but I read the book. Basically, it’s about this girl, Carrie White, who can move things with her mind—anything, like chairs, tables, power lines, whatever. It’s like she has an invisible third arm to throw all this stuff around with. That’s telekinesis.” “Okay…” “Point is, in the story, once she discovers the power and learns how to control it, she can use it at will. That’s where the fiction comes in for me, since I doubt anyone can use it consciously. Some 147

Mike Robinson of those teenagers don’t even realize they’re the ones causing all the mayhem.” “Weird.” “Yeah, weird indeed. Cool though.” He remembered when the movie had come out. It’d been the same week Mrs. Chatsworth had been arrested for double-homicide, forever cementing her nickname ‘Batty Chatty.’ Images both personal and cultural from that time had been branded in his memory. “So she has this awesome power,” Stephanie said. “Doesn’t she end up killing everyone at her prom?” “Oh yeah, and almost destroying the entire town.” Harry was about to add his own short review of, ‘It’s good shit,’ but Stephanie’s unsettled face held him back. “Why waste a power like that on just killing everybody?” She was shaking her head as they headed down Santa Barbara Avenue, past a crosswalk and toward the Rainbow Ice Cream Parlor on the corner. “Well, I don’t know,” Harry said with grim humor. “Sometimes I can completely empathize with her.”

As they polished off ice cream cones, they veered into a wooded section near the center of town, TwiFalls’ answer to Central Park. Past the playsets and swings stretched a short rustic stroll, paralleled by a stream and deceptive in its isolated facade. Pine and oak were tight-knit, damming up shadow, holding solidarity against the concrete artifice around them. Harry liked to think of this park as a dollop of wilderness from that surrounding Twilight Falls. He enjoyed drawing here sometimes, sitting in view of the stream now speckled with light from the moon and the lampposts aflame every twenty or so yards. 148

The Green-Eyed Monster Stephanie leaned in close to him and half-whispered, “So I hope you know… everyone’s talking.” Once on a steady relaxing descent, Harry’s nerves flared up again. “What do you mean?” he said. “What are they talking about?” “You’re so funny,” she said. “I could just see the terror in your eyes when I said that. Loosen up! It’s not a bad thing. At all.” Stephanie slid her arm through his. Hormonal voltage coursed through him. “So what are they talking about?” “Oh, this mystery article you’re writing for the Butterflyer. Colby said he’s asked you about it but no one really knows what it is. Sizemore said you told him briefly.” “Yup,” Harry said flatly. “It’s not that big a deal.” “What is it then?” Stephanie cocked her head as though listening through a door. “I’m all ears. You can tell me.” “It’s nothing. I’m just doing a kind of… expose on a couple people. I’m not sure whether to make it a serial piece or not. Depends on how it does in the first printing.” “Uh oh, who are you doing an expose on? Max and his gang?” Harry laughed. “No, just two students. I’m sure you know them. John Becker and—” “Martin Smith.” “Yeah, see, you know. Everyone knows them, but they don’t know why they know them. And everybody associates them, even though they don’t look too much like one another and they don’t hang out. At least I’ve never seen them hang out. I’m maybe hoping to shed some light on it all.” Stephanie frowned. “Wow, you’ve actually been talking to those guys? I don’t know anyone who’s done that. To me they’re like pit bulls; you just don’t go near them. They really kinda freak me out.” She looked straight at him. “Just be careful around them.” “I will, I will… Mom.” Harry braced himself. The playful punch struck lower on his arm than expected. 149

Mike Robinson Stephanie said, “So what else are we doing tonight?” Dammit she’s getting bored hurry quick think of something… “Well, actually…” Harry had to stop and smile. He felt as an actor rehearsing lines for a hackneyed Hollywood young-date moment. “Actually what?” Stephanie said. “My parents are out of town… at a wedding… for my dad’s coworker. They’re not supposed to come back until tomorrow night.” “Ah.” “So… you know…” Stephanie nodded. “Sure thing,” she said. “I’d love to see where the Butterflyer’s best writer does all his work.” The two strolled on back toward her car, hands loosely interlocked. The world peered curiously at them that night; Harry could feel its eyes. They nestled into Stephanie’s car. The engine sputtered and whined to life. “This piece of crap,” she said, in a harsh maneuver of the steering wheel. “My dad said he was going to buy me a new car when I turned sixteen. He made the promise when I was seven, hoping I’d forget about it. I keep bugging him to this day.” Harry smiled, but didn’t empathize in the least. To him, cars were cars. Metallic conveyances from A to B. “You’re going to have to tell me how to get back to your place,” she said. “Is it very far from here? I’m horrible with directions.” “Just make a left on Milk Lane, down three blocks, and right on Sparrow Road. I’ll show you. It’s on the right side.” As they passed the area of the September accident, Harry squirmed. Then smiled. He thought of mentioning it but refrained.

150

The Green-Eyed Monster For so long, sex had been a thing behind the screen, on the page, a two-dimensional concept with which his organs, from top to bottom, had become increasingly obsessed. Now it had form. Now it was here. Now it reached for him and he felt clammy and directionless. He shivered. They stood before his bed. Stephanie removed her shirt. A lavender bra hugged her torso. Her skin was a pale Northern California white and it was so smooth and there was a gleam to it. It was the most touchable skin Harry had ever seen. “I’ve never done this before, Steph,” he said. “I know,” she said, leaning into him. “Don’t worry about it. You worry too much. Just let yourself enjoy it.” As if to clarify her point, she put her hand on his crotch. Pressure built at an aching rate. She kissed him softly on the cheek, inches from his own lips that were beginning to foam with sweat. He prayed the white gook hadn’t collected in the corners of his mouth. If it had, however, that didn’t seem to deter Stephanie, who slowly retracted her head and stared at him with sultry half-closed eyes, awaiting Harry’s reciprocation. He dove into her and kissed her long and rough, and she returned it all in full. The sensation of kissing was unpleasant at first touch, rather softer and more gelatinous than he’d expected, but in seconds he acclimated and the sexual entity in him, the one who had scraped by on mere fumes of fantasy, now enlarged fast and famished in his skin, craving everything, ecstatic with the sheer physicality of it all. From his jeans his erection pressed her. Stephanie put her arms around his shoulders, her lips migrated down his neck and found shivering flesh. He put his hands on her waist, as if sculpting her sensual figure into existence. They fell on the bed imbedded in one another, Harry atop her. “Are you okay?” she asked as she scratched the back of his head. “I—I think so.” His eyes hung over hers. His trembling was ceaseless, erupting all over him like miniature explosions on his body. Stephanie rubbed his arms, his back, hoping to calm him. 151

Mike Robinson “Why are you shaking so much?” she asked. “Just let yourself be.” Uh oh she’s getting impatient and irritated already… “I’m sorry, just need to break myself into… all this.” He fed her another open-mouth kiss. She took it with earnest. Then he halted. “I need a condom, don’t I? I don’t have any.” “You don’t have to use a condom if you don’t want to.” She stopped scratching his head. “I’m on the pill. Most guys don’t like condoms, but if you want to be absolutely failsafe…” Harry stopped to think. His erection, the strongest he’d ever had, could sustain itself. Nothing was failsafe, he knew. There was always the chance of something falling asleep on the job. His father had once shown him a clipping from the paper about a teenage father who, despite a condom and birth control, wound up impregnating his girlfriend. Harry couldn’t remember much more than that, or why it’d been a significant enough story to put in the paper. But Rob’s use of it had worked. At some level, he had no trouble believing his sexual abstinence to be partly voluntary, affected by the imagined visage of that juvenile father. “It’s just another way to complicate your life, Superman,” his father had said. “Remember that.” “Harry?” Stephanie was staring at him, appearing enamored. Jesus, Harry, you honestly think she’s gonna put up with this awkward shit for very long? C’mon, you’re wasting your time. Max would’ve satisfied her ten times by now you slow-ass piece of— Harry moved and they began. Thoughts in his head became spectators in a crowded stadium, screaming and yelling, heard but disregarded. Background noise. Stephanie moaned and grinned wide and Harry fed off her enjoyment, and in that moment of young pleasure she was deserving of all he could give her. Their overall intercourse lasted another twenty minutes. They spent a subsequent two hours under the sheets. Stephanie asked Harry about all his comic posters and other obscure geeky things 152

The Green-Eyed Monster (surely that’s what she thinks of them, he reasoned) adorning his room. Through it all, he expected to hear tires on the driveway, the keys in the front door and his father’s voice, booming from downstairs. Their early return home! Between kisses and conversation he strategized what he might do in such a scenario. They remained alone. By the time they made their way outside, it was 3:17 in the morning. They’d spent nearly eight hours together, and it was an eight hours far surpassing those he’d spent anticipating her arrival. There was no more anxiety. All of it had washed from him. Harry was submerged. Stephanie gave him a furtive kiss and headed to her car. As she pulled away they exchanged dazed, satisfied smiles. Harry stood on the curb and watched her taillights round the corner and disappear, like the eyes of a creature backing quickly away into shadow. Just another way to complicate your life. For the first night in two weeks, his work on Becker and Smith went untouched.

WINTER 1 In the first few weeks of their relationship, Harry found himself on the phone with Stephanie, on average, two or three hours a night. He constantly wanted to see her, to make sure she saw enough of him to forget the dwindling residue of Max. He didn’t call Alan for weeks and worked only on school. Recreational drawing or writing took a backseat to short nature hikes, movies and trips to the Rainbow Ice Cream Parlor. I have a girlfriend, he thought one afternoon. Though a month into dating Stephanie, it was oddly revelatory, a final snap-shut realization. I have a goddamn girlfriend! 153

Mike Robinson “How could you be on the phone with that Stephanie for three hours?” his father asked. Harry shrugged, smiled. “She’s great, Dad. We have a lot to talk about.” Rob Zwieg’s eyes narrowed. While he knew his dad was hardly the biggest fan of his more ‘dorky’ hobbies, occasionally addressing Harry about time spent reading comics or playing games, doubtless his father was glad that these things had thus far kept Harry out of step with what Rob saw as the far more questionable exploits of other teenagers: drinking, partying, doing God knows what nowadays. Now that Stephanie was pulling him more into the TwiFalls High social scene, Harry sensed in his father a conflicted nostalgia, and an anxiousness betrayed by attempts to hide it. However, Harry didn’t put up much of a defense in Stephanierelated inquiry. He knew why, too: he wasn’t sure if she was right for him either. But it was a relationship. He was dating. And it was Stephanie-fucking-Gold. “Don’t worry, Dad,” he found himself repeating. “Just know your territory, Superman. You’ve got a lot going for you. Have fun, but don’t get too distracted. Too involved. You know what I mean?” “Yeah, I got it.”

The phone rang once before Alan Richmond picked it up. “Well, look who’s back from the dead!” Alan cried. Harry smiled. “Yeah, it’s me, man. I know we haven’t talked in ages…” “Damn right.” A bitter enthusiasm haunted Alan’s voice. Was he actually offended? “What’ve you been up to these last few weeks? Been backpacking through Tibet or something?” 154

The Green-Eyed Monster Harry shot, “You know you can always call me too, jackass.” “Whatever. I’m just so fuckin’ heartbroken, dude.” Alan chuckled. “So what’s happening these days? Gonna come up anytime soon?” “Not sure.” “Aw c’mon, we both get three weeks of break this year, don’t we?” “Yup,” Harry said as he paced the floor. “So why don’t you come down here for a change?” “Well, actually,” Alan began, sounding unexpectedly serious, “I got a job at the YWCA here in Berkeley. It won’t pay much but it should snag me some nice chump change for the holiday season, definitely to recoup my losses on Christmas presents.” “The YWCA?” “Yeah, but don’t let the Young Women’s part of it fool you. There’s nothing ‘young’ about the middle-aged hags that come in to work out every morning.” Harry stopped to look at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t sure if it was the angle of the light, or if he was just tired, but there was real age to his face. He was pale, his eyes pregnant with exhaustion. Scattered about his cheeks and chin was dark stubble, more plentiful than it’d been in the last year. Maybe that was it—the facial hair. It made him look older, wiser. Even cooler. He thought he might look good with a cigarette, per John Becker’s portrait of him. “So what do you do there?” Harry asked. “Ogle the middle-aged women?” “Fuck you. I’m teaching a kid’s art class. Should be pretty cool. It’ll help me develop my own painting too. And the kids are like third or fourth grade, out of the annoying pipsqueak stage but not yet tainted by junior high.” After brief hesitation, Alan said, “So what’re you up to? Any particular reason you called?” “I’m actually going to a party tonight.” “Hey that’s cool. You’re not really one for parties though.” “I’m going with my girlfriend—” 155

Mike Robinson “Girlfriend?” “Stephanie Gold.” “What? Stephanie Gold?” Harry relished Alan’s green-eyed incredulity. “She is freaking hot. Wow. I guess there really are such things as modern tall tales.” Harry just broadcast his smile over the phone. As the minutes marched toward the party that night, his gut began to twine. He’d gotten over the nerves of Stephanie. Now he needed to get over the nerves of High School. “God, you’re really dating her?” “Indeed.” “How’d that happen?” “We’re in the same journalism class. She sat right in front of me.” He left out the saga with Max, which certainly had softened up Stephanie’s standards. He didn’t like to think he was a rebound, but the notion lived deep in his mind and would not die. “Well,” said Alan, “you know you guys are together because of me, right?” “Huh? Explain that one, please.” Alan sighed, as if enervated. “When I had history class with Stephanie in eighth grade, the year you were repeating seventh, I sent her a gag valentine from you.” “What?” “Shit, yeah, telling you now, I realized I never told you before.” Alan sounded mildly embarrassed. “But that’s what I did. She always got so many valentines that it didn’t matter anyway. Yours and mine were just more grains of sand on the beach.” “That doesn’t count,” Harry said. “I didn’t like her then. I didn’t even really like girls then. I was a late bloomer remember?” “No one’s a late bloomer. That’s bullshit. They’re just shy about admitting it. People have crushes in kindergarten for God’s sake. But I was trying to bring you out of that little shell. You get Stephanie Gold talking to you, there’s no way in hell your gangly little thirteen156

The Green-Eyed Monster year-old self would have said no to that. And, see, it also implanted your name in her subconscious somewhere. You’re familiar to her.” “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” “Whatever, dude, you so owe me.” (If you owe someone like Alan a favor…) “I ought to get going,” Harry said. “Alrighty, I guess I’ll talk to you later. You’d better get up here during break. Maybe you can paint Belagor in one of my classes.” “Eat me,” Harry said. “Have fun at the party.” “Thanks.” “And don’t forget Grandfather.” “What—?” Alan hung up. Harry stared at the receiver, thought about calling him back, then hung up too. Alan was forever a strange person, with an impeccable memory. Maybe he’d referred to something about which Harry had long forgotten. Nine o’clock was coming fast, and he needed to get ready for the party. Should he shave? Stephanie had said she “kinda liked the scruffiness,” said it was macho. He decided to keep it. But he needed to look more alert. He needed to shower and gel his hair. Downstairs in the kitchen, his parents played a quiet game of Scrabble. Five minutes after nine, Harry was summoned by two timid honks from Stephanie’s car, idling outside. He stopped at the door to adjust his jacket, then addressed Sam and Rob, who stood in the doorway leading from the lobby to the kitchen. “I won’t be too late, guys,” he said. “Why can’t Stephanie come to the door?” Sam asked. “I’d like to formally meet her.” A thousand possible answers pounded his brain. “It’s easier if I just go out there,” he said. “Saves time.” Sam smiled, but it was slightly pained. 157

Mike Robinson “Use your best judgment, Superman,” Rob said. They shared a look, then Harry was gone. The door closed behind him.

2 “How long are we staying?” he asked. “I don’t know,” Stephanie said. “However long we feel like.” She glanced at him curiously. “Just relax.” “I’m okay.” “You’ll have a good time, I promise,” He sensed uncertainty in her voice. “I think you’ll like my friend Jake. He used to write for the Butterflyer. He’s two years older than me—” Than I, Harry corrected silently. “—and he goes to Santa Cruz. Runs cross country. Loves to write. Although I’m not sure what kind of writing he likes to do exactly. But whatever, he’s cute. Definitely throws good parties.” They reached the house, which pulsed with music and voices. Stephanie slid her Honda Civic into an askew position between two parked cars. They got out and traipsed over the lawn and were greeted by a tall college-aged boy surrounded by several of his intoxicated peers stretched upon the grass. “Hey hey, what’s happening?” Jake said. He gave Stephanie a plump, friendly squeeze. She hugged him with questionable fervor. “Who’s the stud?” “This is Harry,” she said. “Harry, this is Jake, the coolest guy on the planet.” She laughed and touched Jake’s arm. “Good to meet you, man,” Jake said, shaking Harry’s hand. The shake was slippery, amphibious. “You go to TwiFalls High?” “Yeah.” “Senior?” 158

The Green-Eyed Monster He shook his head. “Junior.” Jake exchanged a glance with Stephanie. “Cool beans, dude, you enjoying it?” “Enjoying what?” “The school. TwiFalls.” Stop talking to me like I’m some sort of fucking kid. “It’s alright.” He despised this Jake guy. The hatred felt longrooted, as if they’d known one another for years, suited to betrayal though Jake had done nothing to him. There was actually a rush to it, Harry noticed. Because he hadn’t known Jake, he felt no guilt in his antipathy. He didn’t care. The jackass was a good outlet for directionless contempt. “So why are you in my way, Jakey?” Stephanie said. “Let’s get crazy already!” She lunged and tickled his ribs and he recoiled. “You should know,” Jake said, suddenly serious. “Max is here.” “What? Why? He knows I’m friends with you. That’s dickheaded of him.” “You’re not gonna leave though, right?” Jake asked. “I mean, you just got here.” “No, no…” “Good. Cause I got something to show you.” She inhaled, excitedly. “Did you guys—?” “We sure did. Came in first by a long shot.” “That’s so totally awesome!” She embraced him. “Show me, show me.” What if I slit my wrists right here? Harry thought. Would anyone notice? Jake took Stephanie’s hand and led her toward the house. She turned to Harry. “You don’t mind, do you?” “Go ahead.” “Cool. Go have fun. There’re tons of cool people here, I swear.” Then Jake pulled her into the house and into the crowd and she was gone. All was smoky, cauliflower billows, frenetic skin-lit motion 159

Mike Robinson and voices swarmed in and about his head. From the stereos, ‘The Cars’ played. He wanted a drink, but strayed from the free-for-all punch bowl on the kitchen counter. He fought his way to the fridge and grabbed a coke. A headache surged, abrupt and white-hot like a woodpecker drilling into his brain. He held the cold can against his forehead but it did nothing. He closed his eyes. What’s the matter, Harry? He looked. Blinked. The entire kitchen became a muddled impressionist’s painting. Objects and people smeared in dizzy motion trails. He could see through everyone, and he could hear everything: someone puking in the backyard, where he hadn’t gone yet, the smack of a wet and drunken kiss. Someone close asked, “You okay, man?” “Yeah, I am, just need to sit down.” “Alright. Bathroom’s down the hall to your left if you need it.” From the living room corner he could hear, over Wang Chung’s Dance Hall Days now on the stereo, a drug-greased debate amongst socially-acceptable geeks, a haywire delve into grand philosophical discussion. “…it’s perfectly rational to believe that God is simply all the intelligent creatures that have transcended material existence…” “… but God is supposed to be the creator of everything, author of the universe…” “… the first cause theory is the problem here…” “… you want another drink… ?” Stephanie was nowhere in sight. That was fine. He felt dizzy, achy and nauseated. She’s off talking to ‘Jakey.’ Or Max. 160

The Green-Eyed Monster A girl named Gabi, someone Harry knew but didn’t know, passed him and made a snide comment—a comment about him, stupid cunt—to a friend of hers. “Are you okay?” Gabi was looking at him, but kept her distance. “What’s the matter?” Her eyes brightened infinitesimally. “You look kinda familiar. Aren’t you Steph’s secret new guy?” Harry’s reply flew out on auto-pilot, helmed by his tongue and not his brain. “Isn’t it about time for your weekly abortion?” Gabi made a face as if she’d just smelled something rancid. The steady pain in his head increased Harry’s desire for violence, and he wanted desperately to throttle them and to crush their throats in his hands. Don’t waste your efforts on them, kiddo, came a voice. Huh? They’re not the ones you should be worrying about. He looked down at his shoelaces. Gabi and her friend moved briskly away. Good. Plus, Gabi’s got something inside of her, an awful little thing, and she doesn’t even know it. It will sleep for years, but when it wakes up, her time of carelessness will come roaring upon her flesh. This brought a grin to Harry’s mind, but not his face. Leave the kitchen. He pushed his way past three girls, knocking one cup and spilling punch. He pressed on. “Hallway to my left, hallway to my left,” he muttered. This had to be a migraine. I’ve never had a migraine before. He found the bathroom and shut the door. The Fortress of Solitude. At least for a little while. “You’re not alone, man,” someone said. 161

Mike Robinson What? The tub. Harry pulled back the shower curtain and met eyes with a young guy, whose name he thought was Tyler or Thomas or Tony or something with a T. He was a freshman, and had the awkward physiology of one. Redness clouded his eyes and he moved slowly. On his face was what seemed a permanent, blissful grin. “What’s up?” the kid asked. “I don’t know.” “What’s your name? You look familiar.” “Harry.” “I’m Tyler.” He peered up at the mold-stippled ceiling. “Weird. Is it still Friday? Time is getting all screwy on me. Maybe I stayed here the whole week. Maybe I missed school. That’d be fun, huh? Just clear all your memories of the week, so that the only memories you have are of parties. Damn. Someone should invent that!” Harry didn’t respond. “You know what I’ve often thought,” Tyler continued. “I’ve often thought, what if drugs actually didn’t fuck with your brain, so much as heightened it? What if they actually gave you a sneak preview of places we can’t even see with our normal human brains? Like this thing here, flying around and around my head. It keeps going! Look at it! Whee! And it blinks too, like it’s some kind of hologram. Crazy.” “What are you talking about?” “I’m talking about this butterfly, man.” Tyler pointed to nothing. “It keeps going and going! And you can’t see it. Maybe just get more shit in you and you’ll see. You will.”

162

The Green-Eyed Monster Tyler fell asleep not too much later. Harry sat on the rim of the bathtub, massaging his mind. Minutes and seconds grew fat, lazy, slow. When he felt a little better, he emerged from the bathroom. As he opened the door, Max Fleckman was the first person to see him. He was leaning against the hallway wall, beer bottle in hand, as if waiting. Harry’s chest throbbed. “You’re the writer guy for the paper,” Max said. “Yeah?” “Harry Zweeg, right?” “Zwieg.” “Huh?” “Zwieg. Zuh-WHY-guh.” Max’s nodded. “Sounds like that cartoon character. You know— the one with the really big nose. Ziggy I think.” They stood there for another moment, a party-noise pause. Max was clearly buzzed. He bobbed back and forth, and when he did speak, his words, while still coherent, tumbled clumsily from his mouth. Max said, “So you’re dating Stephanie, huh?” Resisting the urge to look at his shoelaces, Harry said, “Yeah I am. Sorry.” Anger flared in Max’s eyes but it passed. He shook his head, took a swig of beer. “I fucked it all up. I know I did. But you gotta be the one to make her happy, got that Ziggy?” Harry didn’t say anything. His eyes wandered over the crowd, this writhing cornfield of teenagers, scanning for Stephanie. “Well, Ziggy,” Max fired. “Hear what I said?” “Yes I did.” “Cause if you fuck things up, you’ll have me to answer to, got it?” Max moved off and was gone. Harry circulated further and finally saw Stephanie across the dining room. He stepped forward. Someone nearly cut him off, muttering, “’Scuse me.” Harry let them pass, attention mired in something happening to Stephanie. 163

Mike Robinson What’s that around her head? The clock ticked 11:42. “Harry? That you?” Harry turned sharply to see saw Deepu, his neighbor from Reddin’s math class. “Hey,” Harry said. “Nice to see someone I know around here. I mean, I know a lot of these people, but…” “I just had my fifth Brain Hemorrhage,” Deepu said. “Not the greatest drink, but good for a quick buzz.” He gave Harry a onceover. “How’s it going? You come with anyone?” “I came with Stephanie,” he said. “She’s over there somewhere.” Deepu smiled. “Wow, Stephanie? Good job. She’s not going with that basketball player anymore? Max?” Harry shook his head. “I have kind of a funny story about Max, actually,” Deepu said, “that you’ll probably appreciate.” “Oh?” Laughing, Deepu began his story. Inexplicably, his voice grew tinnier, distant, as did the rest of the crowd and the Madonna song now stabbing ears from the speakers. The aural whirlwind of the party ebbed to a breeze. Then it happened. The air creased, the very fabric of being folded, the seams and the lines collecting on Deepu’s face, dividing it into various obtuse shapes like a sketchy schematic. Color drained from the world, and there was a sudden lethargy to all movement. The entire room and all its occupants became simultaneously thin, flat, wide, thick, stretched, defined, finite and infinite. Harry made a noise but it was made far away. Somehow, his body was across a dark theater, performing on stage while he was— Where was he? It is a Universe of dimensions, after all, broken into shapes and directions. That’s the rough pitch. 164

The Green-Eyed Monster What is this? Who are you? Just a friend, popping in to visit. I wanted to show you something. I’ve been tinkering around a bit in here, and I think you’re ready to see this. See what? Shhh, lights are dimming and curtains are opening. The party became a work of art, a hybrid of every artist who had ever lived, brought to poignantly animated life. People moved, shimmered and rippled, in geometric shapes of the first, second and third dimensions and many beyond, all walking pieces of cubism, of impressionism, of abstraction. Color heavily diluted. Non-existent. Sound, like snow, a physical unheard thing. Connecting everyone, entwining every skull, were channels of butterflies, flying in slow obedience back and forth, from one mind to another. Rivers of wings rippled through the human geography, nourishing life and sentience. You won’t be able to ride the butterflies yet, kiddo. Those are Chaos Frequencies, they knit together the minds of every conscious species here, of every portion of a Whole Mind, a Big Brain. Somewhere, far off in some dimensionless space, Deepu still spoke. Harry had no idea how he was reacting to it, or even if he was reacting in any fashion. He had no control anymore. Not over his body. I haven’t separated you entirely, Harry. Doing so would more than likely undo everything we have worked so hard to create. What are you talking about? Where are we? Your reality is defined by everything in your head. This world, this universe, is colorless. Soundless. Truthless. I’m outside of my own head right now? Yes. You’ve spent all your time cooped up in there. I thought I’d break that innate agoraphobia and let you catch some “sun” for once. But, as mentioned, I have not separated you entirely. This is a taste, not the feast. What you’re glimpsing is True Chaos, the reality of 165

Mike Robinson which your brains aren’t allowed vision because your corporeality imprisons it. Physical life is nothing but diseased membrane grown around divine tissue, tissue heavily impaired and diluted by anatomical limitations. Harry looked at his arm, which flickered in and out of shapes, dimensions. His palm a pentagon, his forearm undecided between a thin trapezoid and rectangle. Then strip-by-strip, chunk-by-chunk, it all started to decay, to peel off, exposing an overgrown jungle of vibrating nerves, humming strings. All pieces of the Big Brain exist on every dimension, including you, kiddo. But you really only know one. You are merely familiar with the rest of them: Time, for instance, or the concept of a twodimensional plane, where movement is restricted to the up, down, right and left. Such things, in your neck of the woods, are only seen in mundane objects like clocks or television screens. But can you really imagine what it would be like to walk through Time, or move only in the second dimension? Harry Zwieg’s consciousness was silent. I didn’t think so. But you’re getting there, you’re getting there. Give me some time and you’ll have the Universe as your oyster. You’ll be all-powerful. He remained quiet. He had a vision of an overweight plumber working deep within his brain in a fever of repair. Or improvement. Soon you’ll be a superhero. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, kiddo?

As he was reeled back into his physical self with Deepu standing before him, Harry felt dead. He was in a void, wedged in the fine seam between the Realm of Human Perception and the Realm of Chaos. So much had been diluted in the reality to which most were 166

The Green-Eyed Monster accustomed, yes, so much, but he had returned with knowledge. Wisdom. Gunk had been cleaned from his windshield, the world clarified. He was empowered. But it wouldn’t last long. I’ve had my tour, he thought. Now I’m being booted out. Partially submerged in both realms, Harry could see the familiar world he knew cut starkly off by the other, much as a goggle-eyed swimmer at the surface, seeing above and below. Just drift back, kiddo. Harry was back, crumpled on the floor. Unaware. He now recalled very little, and knew, in moments, even that would be gone. The perpetrator, the plumber, whatever it had been, had cleaned up after itself, backtracking and picking up every last fallen memory. The clock read 11:43. Only one minute had passed. What the hell was I doing? Where was I? Deepu peered down at him. “Dude what’s wrong?” Other faces entered his field of vision, clouding the ceiling. Constellations of concerned or curious eyes. “I think I’m okay,” Harry said. Deepu kneeled by him. “You just buckled to the floor like you had a seizure.” “I’m fine.” Harry resisted attempts to help him up. He rose and scurried through the crowd. He felt like an exhibit, some laughable display. Where was he? Where was he going? He struggled to gather the shards of his memory, piece together what he could. Then he saw Stephanie, still in the dining room. Jake stood behind her, his arms around her waist as she spoke in lively gestures to another girl—Gabi’s friend, he recognized. She saw him as he stumbled over. Quickly Jake drew back. Harry ignored the others and clasped her soft pillowy bicep, pulling her to him. Her breath was stained with alcohol. “Harry what’s up?” 167

Mike Robinson “I don’t care how drunk you are,” he said. He put his hand on her shoulder, steadying himself. “Take me home. Drive me home. Please.” Stephanie looked back at her friends, then at him. “Okay, Harry. Okay.”

3 Harry’s column on Becker and Smith debuted a week later, not long before holiday break.

YOU KNOW THEM, TOO by Harry Zwieg I do, that’s for sure. Martin Smith. John Becker. Names you wouldn’t look at twice. But we all know them, don’t we? Why is that? What quiet charisma is at work in these two exceedingly diligent and reclusive TwiFalls High seniors? And why do we lump them together? Only occasionally are they seen talking to one another. Before I go any further, I should mention that this article comes with their full permission...

“Harry,” Sizemore said one afternoon. “Your article…” He nodded, smiled a hollow and knowing smile. “This was sort of the introductory article. To get feet wet.” 168

The Green-Eyed Monster Sizemore’s eyes were a trying blank, at work on deciphering some futile code. “How are you able to talk to those guys? They’re so…strange.” In the hallway, the current of students receded. The room was more quiet. “That’s the thing,” Harry said. “I haven’t really talked to them… well, I have, but not so much as you’d think.” “How do you mean?” “I watch them. Observe them.” Sizemore chuckled. “So you’re stalking these guys?” “Maybe. I don’t know, Bill. I know they’re aware of it. It’s a weird kind of exchange. I feel like an anthropologist. I can get several paragraphs’ worth just by observing them at lunchtime. Stuff just flows when I’m around them.” Sizemore studied him. “You sound different, Harry.” “What do you mean?” “Well for one you called me Bill. And your voice… is your voice changing?” “I’d’ve hoped it changed a while ago. Why?” “Nevermind. It sounds gruffer, somehow. Like you developed an accent.” Harry shrugged. “I haven’t been anywhere I know of.” A beat. “So they’re completely okay with this,” Sizemore said. “John and Martin I mean. I never thought them ones for publicity or attention.” Harry got up, strapped on his backpack. “They are, Mr. Sizemore,” he said. “Trust me. I mean, in a weird way I feel like they came to me.”

169

Mike Robinson Harry woke up, mind inexplicably clean and refreshed, ready for school. It was still dark out. He leaned over and peered at the nightstand clock. The numbers were a blurry digital mist, but once his eyes adjusted they showed a glaring 3:26. The alarm indicator was still on, dormant, itching to erupt at the set hour of 6 a.m. Harry frowned and slumped back onto the pillow. He hadn’t awoken prematurely since fifth grade, when a dream he couldn’t recall had sent him rising stiff from the sheets, like an old vampire from a coffin. Mind blank. What had awakened him? Stingy Sandman? Since dating Stephanie, his sleep schedule had become more erratic. He had ascribed it to all the energy and excitement, the rush of newness upon him, not only with Stephanie but with writing for the newspaper, with college coming faster and faster. In a nearby room, something buzzed, constant and distorted, like a long sigh too close to a microphone. Beyond the faint mechanical click of the kitchen clock, it was the only sound audible in that deep trench of night. Harry got out of bed, tucked his feet into his slippers and set out bleary-eyed into the hallway and down the stairs. The noise increased. He entered the family room, where in the corner the newly-erected Christmas tree was a big bristled vortex cut into the wall. Across the room, oddly, the television burned with static, thousands of swarming electric bugs buzzing on the glass. Had his parents forgotten to turn off the TV? In the tenuous blue glow of the screen, something was perched on the counter dividing the family room from the living room. It was a thing of deep blackness, a yawning piece of impenetrable midnight. Harry stepped forward and saw the faint glow of an eye, shrouded by an arm. Then there was roiling motion. The object, impressive by the 170

The Green-Eyed Monster second in its unfolding size, took on a more identifiable shape as it curled its limbs out like petals of a blossom. An animal stench filled the room, zoo-like, ripe and fecal. What is this? “H—Hello?” The creature—he was by all accounts sure that’s what it was, a goddamn creature, a shadow-animal—crawled forward on the bar, its movement simian, though he sensed grand intelligence in its gilded slit-eyes. It knew its cause. It knew its own being, which seemed not very solid. The more Harry’s eyes adjusted, the more he could make out behind it sections of the piano and the fireplace, as if it were in essence transparent. A ghost. I know who this is. His own creation crouched before him, in purest form, the way he’d first drawn it years ago, when Belagor had been more bestial, without all the recent attire. The family room shifted abruptly, wavering as if caught in an ocean current. Harry could feel reality on him, tiny particles prodding, needling his skin, every fiber of every vital within. An enormous weight embraced him. He felt a cosmic claustrophobia. The Belagor-thing raised its arm high, claws glistening. Then, in one fluid stroke, it cleaved a neat and surgical hole in the air. Harry watched, stunned, as the very fabric of the world fell away in two, folded about like collapsed wallpaper at the feet of his massive character. From the television the static expanded, hummed behind and below everything. Strips of space-time hung from Belagor’s claws, and it licked them clean in loud kissing smacks. “The connection is being severed,” said the Belagor-thing. Its voice sounded like his own, with far more bass. I never really thought about what his voice sounded like. “What do you—?” “The connection is being severed, Harry,” Belagor repeated. It rose on its hind legs and touched the ceiling. “Take caution, Harry. 171

Mike Robinson You’re up for grabs. Geppetto is watching. You may not have much time.” Geppetto? “What?” And then Harry sensed something else—that his creation was not here to threaten or intimidate him. It was here to warn him, to warn its creator. Then an even stronger vision appeared, very brief but vivid all the same, of numerous corpses littering a carpet. They looked like photos Harry had seen of dead soldiers in Vietnam, slack and bloodied and mangled. “What the hell is going on?” Belagor was thinning, his opacity giving out. “Agras, Harry,” it said. “Find them.” The nothingness rapidly redressed itself, meshing peacefully back into the Zwieg family room, through which a strong and sudden zephyr passed, sweeping the Belagor-thing along into finer grains of material, rendering it as mind-sands adrift once more behind the walls of time. One final time, nighttime wavered, then hardened back into familiar place. The television was off. The alarm went off. Harry Zwieg rose, heavy with exhaustion. He slapped on clothes, rinsed his face with startlingly cold water, and ambled downstairs and poured a bowl of cereal. The newspaper was sprawled on the kitchen table and he took out the comics and read quietly, annoyed to find one of his favorites, King Hal, had been replaced with a new strip called Calvin & Hobbes. Amidst all the early morning distractions, a whispering thought rode the coattails of his brain. He remembered little of anything during the night, and thought perhaps he’d had a powerful dream, a dream that might have meant something but was now walled up in his subconscious, out of reach, slippery to the touch. Nothing of it 172

The Green-Eyed Monster remained, though, like a lone, vague clue at a crime scene, there was a word that had been at the forefront of his consciousness when he awoke. “Mom,” he asked, voice croaky. “You ever hear of ‘Agras?’” Samantha Zwieg, with a steaming coffee mug in hand, mused on it with a furrowed brow. “They might be some kind of cult,” she said. “But I’m not sure.” Harry would have asked his father, but Rob had since left for work.

4 Harry left Sizemore’s class early. By the time the bell rang, he was halfway to the TwiFalls Public Library, not more than ten minutes from campus. Through cottony marine layer, the pale sun turned the day a sickly shade, the afternoon queasy. Cold wind danced. Harry regretted not taking a jacket with him that morning. The library was musty and warm, a relief from the outdoor chill. The young librarian, a woman named Jane Stewart, tossed him a distracted smile from the Biographies shelf. With her back turned, he watched her for several seconds, replaying old fantasies. Perhaps sensing his eyes, she glanced again at him. “How are you, Harry?” she said. “What do you need?” “Nothing. I’m okay, thanks.” He hung there for a moment; then, as Ms. Stewart moved briskly to the front desk, he followed her. She stood fiddling with a brand new Apple II computer, clearly to her annoyance, but kept her smile for him. “Actually,” Harry said. “I do have a quick question.” “Yes?” “Out of curiosity, do you know what the Agras are?” 173

Mike Robinson “Agras? As in, A-g-r-a-s?” He nodded. “More like what they were, I think.” Her eyes went toward the ceiling. “They were an Indian tribe around here, if I recall correctly. I remember going to a small exhibit about them a few years ago, at the Peters Museum. Why? School project?” “Kind of. Are there any books I could look at?” “You could try the history books, in the cultural section. You know where they are. They may have something useful.” He left her to the computer and set up at a table near the back of the library, then browsed the shelves, erecting along the way a small stack of books, atop which rested Volume A of the Encyclopedia Britannica. This he opened first. Harry scanned backwards through the gilded-edged pages. …Agoraphobia… …Agriculture… Finally he caught something and stopped. AGRAS (Ah-grahz) The Agras were descendants of the Aztecs, having escaped from the Valley of Mexico to California during the era of Cortez and the Spanish Conquest. While many of their practices continued, over the years their Aztec traditions took an unorthodox turn. They sought a form of inner peace, and called themselves ‘sustainers of all’. In a somewhat gnostic fashion, the Agras believed that their gods were trapped within ‘mud-bound flesh’, and that it was their duty to relieve them of the same fate as the body. Okay, Harry thought. A couple leads. Cortez. The Aztecs. Keep going. Why do you even wanna know this stuff, huh? Harry discarded the Britannica and opened simultaneously several books, some pertaining to the occult, others to broad tribal history. He felt prodding, an intuition running his choices, his sources, as 174

The Green-Eyed Monster though from some cellar of his brain an ancient mentor whispered wordless, formless guidance. Harry happened upon, and perused, a nearby shelf labeled Native American History, from which he plucked two books. One was California Indians: Cultures & Customs. It was an old tome, creased and smelling of the two decades since its printing. Though hardcover, it had no jacket, the title listed only on the spine. He found this passage: The Agra Tribe lived mostly near the San Francisco Bay, practicing what they called “Ancualtin”, or ‘inner-worship’. The process called for numerous prayers that were normally performed communally. The Agras believed that each human being was a small part of God, and the union of all mankind would eventually birth a powerful entity they called Xiuhtecutli, named after the supreme deity in the Aztec pantheon. Some writings also referred to it as “colli,” the Aztec word for ‘grandfather’. Harry bypassed the other world history book he’d pulled out, which was called International Relations, a title that threatened sleep by the second page. He peered instead into the occult books. Despite inner objections, Harry pressed on, knowing he would not be able to rest until his brain was full and aching. With what? He searched the index of a book called The Unexplained, finger trickling past the world’s weirdness both popular and niche, legend and obvious farce, and found something. He flipped to the indicated article. IDENTICAL TWINS?… HARDLY Possibly one of the most well-documented cases of a psychic connection between complete strangers is the vigilantism unleashed upon criminal Edward Tooley, a former resident of Portland, Oregon who made his way down to Napa Valley to elude charges for a misdemeanor. Not much is known about the time between his 175

Mike Robinson move and the following, much worse crime, or what prompted such depraved behavior in an otherwise normal individual, but how Tooley came to justice is a phenomenon that continues to generate much head-scratching speculation. On June 8th, 1962, a woman by the name of Erin Worswick was making her way back from a KostMart when she was approached by a man clad all in black. The man asked her for directions, but could scarcely wait for her to answer before forcing Worswick into the nearest alleyway where she was raped, beaten, and stabbed. She spent the following year in recuperation, but the emotional wounds were irreparable. Three years later, Erin Worswick committed suicide. Police searched for the perpetrator, later revealed to be Tooley, to no avail. The consensus was that he’d fled the city, successfully eluding police and law enforcement officials. An arrest warrant was circulated to neighboring states, but it would not be any conventional detective work that would bring Edward Tooley to justice. In Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a nation away from the crime scene, Tooley was tracked for six blocks and shot by a florist named Fred Melman who, as far as can be ascertained, had no connection to or knowledge of Tooley. Eyewitnesses said Melman followed him with grim diligence, as if on a mission, and shot him twice, leaving him for dead. Tooley was put in intensive care. Two days later, a nurse named Lilian Rogers, wife and mother of three children with no prior criminal background, smothered him to death with a pillow. Despite never having known Erin Worswick, and despite any evidence they’d known Edward Tooley, both Melman and Rogers said of Tooley that he’d destroyed their lives. Even more eerie, Rogers’ body bore physical markings correlative to Worswick’s injuries. Theories abound as to why these completely unrelated people took it upon themselves to avenge Worswick, or how they experienced a kind of Stigmata-like effect from a seemingly random occurrence 3,000 miles away. Investigations uncovered no prior connection, significant or trivial, between them and Tooley. Some have advanced vengeful guardian angels, others an identical-twin psychic connection, though it is hard to see what might psychically bond complete strangers, 176

The Green-Eyed Monster unless one subscribes to the notion of Singularity, forms of which exist in many texts and practices. Might they all be correct? Could the Singularity of mankind physically create otherwise unknown entities that might be characterized as guardian angels? Some point to the phenomenon Tibetans once called Tulpas. Also a major practice of the Agra Circle tribe, Tulpas aren’t just manifestations of mind, but also represent the Jungian collective unconscious, a singular bond between all mankind. Some cryptozoologists suggest this may explain the nebulous existence/non-existence of entities like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. Tulpas? Finding no further mention of the term, Harry opened another Fortean log – Encyclopedia of the Bizarre – and thumbed to the index. Tulpa (see also Agras) 130 – 131 He flipped to page 130 and began to read. A tulpa is a phantom entity engineered by the human mind, its creation practiced well into the twentieth century in the northern regions of Tibet. The process requires intense concentration in a windowless room for approximately three to four months. Participants are given basic nutrients such as rice or water during the meditation. While most have only generated ghost-like apparitions, others claimed to have created interactive, fully tangible beings, some of which have allegedly developed lives of their own. Some tulpas, if powerful enough, are said to have produced their own entities, called yang-tuls, which in turn might produce a third degree of entity called a nying-tul. Similar phenomena were thought to have been practiced by the Pacific Indian Agra Tribe. The Agras believed that human beings were collectively “God,” unwitting creators through their dedicated worship, and could make of reality literally what they wished. 177

Mike Robinson

The symbol of the Agra Circle. Human minds move from their first home in the skull up a proverbial ‘cosmic ladder,’ through higher and higher planes of existence.

Unlike the rituals in Tibet, which were normally performed individually, the Agras would create their versions of “tulpas” collectively, calling them “Xiutlocs,” believing more minds meant a stronger unified consciousness, and thus a more powerful creation. The only account of a tulpa in recent times was documented by an American traveler in 1932. Given its questionable, enigmatic nature, the process has, expectedly, been disregarded by Western science. Harry clamped the book shut, unsure why. His chest was tight, his breathing labored. Suddenly it felt too musty and too warm in here. “Harry?” He looked up. Stephanie stood there, across the table. “What’re you doin’?” she asked, through smacks of lime-green gum.

178

The Green-Eyed Monster “Hey.” His smile was crooked. “Just, uh, boning up on some tidbits for an article I’m writing.” He opened the book again to a random page featuring sea monsters, hardly betraying serious scholarship. Stephanie’s eyes narrowed, her right eyelid fluttered spastically. “This for your column on the two guys?” “No, not really.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you up to?” “I’m here for Ms. Cleveland’s oral report. Remember the one I told you about?” “Vaguely,” he said. “It’s due next week and I feel, like, totally unprepared. Seriously, you have no idea. I gotta stock up on all this crap about like Charles Dickens and I hardly even know where to begin. I swear I hate Ms. Cleveland, she’s such a bitch about making us give presentations and doesn’t even help us.” Harry flipped mindlessly through the pages before him. “Hey, you want to catch a movie this Sunday? They’re playing Carrie at the World Cinema.” “Guess we could,” Stephanie said. “Just have to make sure I finish my report.” “Great.” Harry stared at her. “Be prepared. Try not to get too scared this time.”

5 The telephone rang, abolishing his sleep. Harry, half-awake, rose from bed and ambled down the hallway, drifting momentarily in hazy disorientation. He passed a clock and realized his nap had been longer than planned. Night had since fallen. There was no one home. 179

Mike Robinson He reached the phone, stared at it for two more rings, ran fingers through his bed-tousled hair, and picked it up. “Hello?” “Hi,” said Stephanie curtly. “Hey,” he said. “What’s going on? I thought you were having dinner with your godparents—” “I wasn’t,” she said. “I actually went to see Max. I needed to talk to him about something.” “Oh.” “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d take it well. You never seem to take things well, that’s why I didn’t tell you before. I was afraid of hurting your feelings. But not so much anymore. You know why?” This feels like I’m still dreaming. “Why?” “Because you don’t give a shit, that’s why. You would much rather sit in your room and do whatever than go out with me.” “Wait, what? We went out on Sunday.” She laughed, although it was more of an angry bark. “I could so tell you didn’t want to be there with me. Admit it.” “Come on, that’s not true. I love being with you. I know I can be a little weird and stuff but you just need to tell me and I’ll—” “I don’t believe you. You’re gonna grow up to be like a hermit. I mean God forbid anyone should upset this, like, balance of genius you’ve got going by calling you or asking you out. It’s no wonder you have no friends left.” “You know how I am, though. You said—” “I know what I said, but that was then and this is now. I was hurt when we started going out. I still am, and I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, Harry, but I can’t love someone like you, and if you keep up being like this then it’s gonna be impossible to love you.” Words welled up, a geyser in his throat, inexorable. “Fuck you, you fucking cunt!” 180

The Green-Eyed Monster He slammed the receiver down and hurled the entire cradle to the floor. A chunk of beige plastic broke loose and scuttled under the sink cabinet. Impossible to love you. Harry wanted to set something aflame, see it curl and decay, see it shrink into fragile black nothing. The house. Stephanie herself. Her entire family. Her dog Snickers. Stop the psychopathy and calm down. As feared, he had been a rental. A rebuttal. A rebound. Stephanie was full of shit and, perhaps out of guilt, attempted now to blame him for severing their relationship when it was just her and her fickleness, her tiring of him, her… Harry sat down, his eyes moist and red. The first few cautious tears made their way down his cheek, and then they came faster. He stared at the phone and thought he ought to clean it up and fix it—if it was indeed repairable—before his parents returned, but they would not be back for a while. That could wait. Everything could wait. It was the second night he didn’t work on his column.

6 His mother was there, standing over him. “Harry, c’mon, get up,” she said. “It’s almost ten. Two hours till ‘Christmas morning’ is officially ‘Christmas afternoon.’” Harry stirred, groaned, and rewrapped himself in the warm flannel cocoon of his sheets. Sleep brought relief. So far Stephanie had yet to infect his dreams, at least the ones he remembered, but it was probably only a matter of time. Why couldn’t he rid himself of her? She obliterated everything else. It was Christmas, goddammit. Not six years ago he would have been scrounging around the tree at dawn, all 181

Mike Robinson else beyond the ribbons and lights a piddly concern. But now she was all he could see. She was all he could feel. “C’mon, get your lazy butt up. Santa’s stuff is waiting for you.” Sam let him be for a few minutes, then it was Rob’s turn. “Hey Superman, let’s go! I wanna find out what you guys got me. Get up already.” He rustled Harry until he was forced to sit up. “Mom’s cooking up a nice breakfast too, so get a move on.” In a cold and croaky tone, Harry said, “Alright…coming.”

The breakfast was good: French toast and sausage, a Samantha Zweig holiday tradition. Conversation was a mere peppering of words. By eleven-thirty they were finished and set to gather about the tree. Harry went through his gifts swiftly, indifferently. His parents noticed the behavior but said nothing. By twelve-thirty, two presents remained. One for Rob—a Beta documentary on World War II Harry had gotten him. The other was for Harry himself. “This one says me,” he said, picking up the final gift, which was wrapped in green paper imprinted with a colorful seizure of Santa Claus and reindeer cartoons. His parents met furtive eyes. “Who’s it from?” Sam asked. “Says ‘To Harry, From Santa’” he said. “That’s kinda funny. I don’t think you guys have actually labeled anything ‘From Santa’ since I was ten.” They said nothing. With scavenger’s frenzy Harry began shredding the paper, revealing a cardboard postal box with the words UNIVERSAL SHIPPING printed in bold across the sides and taped flaps. Harry shook it and the contents slid about. 182

The Green-Eyed Monster “Hand me the scissors, please,” he said. Rob leaned forward and relayed the scissors. Harry sliced through the packaging tape and opened the box. There was no packing material, no Styrofoam bits or shredded newsprint. Just five wellsealed, mint-condition EC comic books, the old line from the fifties. Atop the pack was an issue of Amazing Crime Stories, its cover depicting a curly-blonde woman slapping a man and shouting, “I know about you, you thief!” while the man, in recoil, thinks to himself, “That dame’s a canary, she’s gotta disappear. I’ll call Mr. Albright, he’ll know what to do!” “What is it, Harry?” Sam asked. “Looks like a bunch of old comics,” he said, leafing through them. “Kind of random, but thanks anyway, guys.” There were five issues of Amazing Crime Stories in the box, the fifth cover of which showed, in the foreground, a shadowy figure holding a smoking pistol at the crumpled corpses of three men. Glasses of brandy lay broken on the floor, tumbled from the dead men’s grasps. Over the shooter was a dialogue bubble: “That’s it for Antonio’s boys. Now to flee the city with the dough!” Later that night, Harry slotted the comics at the end of his DC collection, where they went unread. The subject of who’d given them to him was never properly addressed.

SPRING 1 “So are you coming to my party?” Max asked. Stephanie stopped at the edge of his front porch, glanced at the steel sky. Why did Max have to do this to her? Why did she go along with it? He wanted to ‘work things out.’ Yeah, like they all say. He’d seen her with Harry and he’d gone ballistic. He’d tried to hide it, of 183

Mike Robinson course, but she knew him well. Even though she couldn’t trust him, she still felt she knew him well. She wondered how much control she had over herself. It seemed other people, their words, their actions, whether real, like those from Max, or scripted, commanded greater influence over her than her own brain. Stephanie imagined that, in scripting those soaps and those TV shows, those stories to which she often found herself hopelessly addicted, those writers did not realize the souls they plied with their pens. So many stupid expectations, hopes, urges for how things should go, so many cardboard feelings ostensibly authentic but really instilled. If guys aren’t fucking dishonest, they’re crazy. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know why I came over, really.” “We aren’t gonna see each other,” he said. “You’re going to U of A right?” “Maybe.” Doesn’t even know which college I’m going to. “Bye Max.” Without looking back, Stephanie left with Max’s look tingling her backside. She quickened her pace and thought about how so very goddamn alone she was. Maybe that was good, though. Maybe she was preparing emotionally for the fall’s Big Move, as her dad called it. She would be out of this town. Away from freaks. Such was a gradual process: she’d moved out of Mr. Sizemore’s class after her falling out with Harry, her Butterflyer legacy a single article and one dumb poem no one seemed to read. She was now in Mrs. Yarvin’s Beginning Photo. Called you a cunt. That nerdy asshole-prick you let touch you called you a cunt. As she walked, a cramp grew in Stephanie’s leg, a leaden ball in her muscle. She slowed. She couldn’t wait to rid herself of this damn heavy backpack and the big textbooks cradled in her arms. As if, between Harry’s weird detachment and Max’s uncharacteristic bumbling and guilt-tripping, she needed more weight to carry. 184

The Green-Eyed Monster What she needed to do was sever ties with them both, get out of here once and for all. Start again. That’s what college was for. Everyone in high school was still asleep, but it was college when the dream ended and the world was supple and real. Not like this constricting pinhole of a town. Time to grow up. Move on. Maybe she could even convince her parents to move with her to Arizona. You were created to be destroyed, Stephanie. A voice, like a loud breath inside her mind. Dreams are death’s baits, to lead you along The Path, to steer you as it sees fit. She continued to walk, and a ghastly image took shape in her head as she made her way across the intersection of Dwight and Pine: Max strung upside-down, possum-like, bloodied and naked, his feet tied to (what was he tied to? A pipe? Some sort of beam?), screaming for her to stop. One of his eyes dangled limply from the socket like some grotesque tetherball. Bruises blossomed and deep cuts smiled crimson smiles in the most unlikely places on his body. From his mouth, ropes of blood and saliva rappelled to the floor. The sheer agony of his inflictions brought screams from the furthest reaches of his throat. She watched all this with the desensitization of a longtime office worker, as though this torture were daily, something carried out long in a corner of her soul once inaccessible to her. “Stop,” she mumbled. “Stop it.” Glancing up, Stephanie saw Martin Smith coming her way. They slowed as they approached one another. Stephanie tried inconspicuously to speed up, clutching her history and math textbooks tight to her chest as if in an attempt to shield herself. You did this to Harry, she thought suddenly. You did this to Max and you did it to me and it all comes back to you, you creepy motherfucker. Smith gave her a wry grin, his eyes alit with levity, a social glow rare to him. “Stephanie, hello,” he said. “Come from Max’s?” 185

Mike Robinson She blinked. “Yeah, um, visiting Max.” She looped a strand of hair around her right ear, looking everywhere but his face. He stared at her. Air frosted in her lungs. “You live around here, Martin?” Stephanie asked. “Around here, yes, but not here. I just came from the library. I’ve finally completed the first draft of a new story.” “Oh. That’s… good.” “It’s a romance—rather unorthodox, but a romance nonetheless. I cannot take full credit for it. Grandfather told me I should write something different. He suggested this.” “Well, don’t feel hard-pressed to give it a happy ending.” Stephanie glanced furtively back toward Max’s house. Smith had the look of a game show host ready to impart the grand prize to a winning contestant. “Don’t worry, Stephanie,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

2 The final edition of the Butterflyer debuted several weeks before graduation, just before the period casually termed ‘the walk to the walk,’ or ‘graduation mode.’ This last issue had no markings of Harold Zwieg, who’d wrapped his coverage of John Becker and Martin Smith an issue prior, concluding with the none-too-surprising tidbit that the two boys had no plans for college. Despite limited interaction, he felt a sort of distant rapport with Becker and Smith, something which defied classification, though ‘close acquaintanceship’ was the best he could dredge. In another ten years, he imagined he might be writing of them for The New York Times. 186

The Green-Eyed Monster April and May passed virtually sunless. The waxpaper cloud-cover was total in its steady presence, sealing the remnant chills of a longer and wetter winter in the earthen and cement pores of Twilight Falls. Then, defying an expected continuance as June Gloom, in the few weeks before the school year’s end the sun burned through, parting cold curtains, filling the town with the young heat of summer. Harry walked home under a sunset-rouged sky, looking at the newly-released high school manual. Artwork by Martin Smith graced the cover: a watercolor of the school’s facade, enclosed within the contours of a butterfly. At the bottom was the decidedly uncreative title Yearbook ’86. Harry wondered why, in the entire year, they couldn’t conjure a better name. Together, Becker and Smith had been voted in the senior polls Most Likely to Succeed. He wondered how much his column had had to do with that. Likely it wouldn’t have mattered. Their names were there, familiar to every ear, almost elemental principles. Next Harry hunted for his picture, steeling all the way. Every flip of a page, every collapsing checkerboard of young smiling faces, brought him closer to his own. And suddenly there he was, his smirking September self, at the end of the Junior Class of 1987 section. Not too bad, he thought. Goofy, but workable. Something caught his eye. There was another image, faintly superimposed on his forehead. It changed shape the more he looked at it and the closer he brought it to his face. It was difficult to analyze because of the weak opacity. A little Rorschach test. At first he thought it a crescent, like a moon. But there was more. An eye. It was an eye. He shut the book. It was a glitch. One of those photographic flubs. How’s Stephanie’s picture? 187

Mike Robinson He pressed on. Like two great gray eyelids closing on a radiant iris, clouds moved over the sun. Harry neared Foulard Avenue and approached the long, shrouded steps cut in the hillside leading northward through town toward the woods. He heard voices idling in the shadows. Max Fleckman and two of his friends, Eric and a large junior named Ian from the volleyball team, sat smoking cigarettes at the base of the stairs, though by their red-laced eyes and loopy manner it was evident that earlier they’d been smoking something else. “Hey!” It was Max, calling him. Harry ignored him and kept walking. Head down. Fists balled. “Hey Ziggy come on don’t be rude!” Harry stopped and turned, unsure why. Keep walking, he told himself. Just let these fuckers shout and laugh all they want. “You comin’ to my party tonight, Ziggy?” Max tested. Harry stared at him. In a surge of confidence that died halfway through his reply, he mumbled, “Fuck no.” “What was that?” They accosted him, gathered about him like prey-minded wolves. Harry remained still. “C’mon, Harry, what’s the matter?” Max said. “What are you afraid of? Having another seizure or something?” Everything in Harry clenched harder. Something new in him writhed, opened its eyes, pressed hard at his skin, and, like a spectator of some cinematic unreality, he watched his fist strike Eric’s cheek— the nearest boy to him—in the first punch of his life. Against the hardness of jawbone and enamel, Harry’s forearm thundered with ache. He withdrew it quickly and tried to conceal his grimace. Eric fell. Max and Ian took a step back in surprise. “Holy shit.” Max looked at Eric, uncomprehending, then at Harry. They’re coming at you they’re coming at you… 188

The Green-Eyed Monster They weren’t, but Harry’s instinct overrode him and he went at Max and at Ian and he kicked at Ian’s crotch and grabbed at Max’s throat, though his grasp was easily removed. Mouth-bloodied, Eric staggered to his feet and went at him and held him, and soon they were all on him, pounding, stamping. He felt it all through bodily cushion, through some merciful buffer separating him from the direct harshness of these attacks which he imagined might’ve been more severe had these cocksuckers been sober. Max struck his nose and prickly fireworks exploded from the center of his face. Warmth flowed into his mouth, down his cheeks, pooling at his throat. His consciousness dipped. From some recess in his head he heard a voice not his, distant initially but louder each time he neared blackness, as though he were moving down some mental avenue toward an active theater, some stage on which bellowed other personalities unknown to him, other people perhaps auditioning for his flesh. (I’m gonna rip out your fucking heart, rip your life limb from limb and I’m gonna do your dame too, maybe strangle her a bit to get going. You want this roscoe in your face junior? You want this in your pathetic fucking face?) “Scratch that,” Max said. “You’re not invited.” The boys, wincing and battered, withdrew, peered at him. “Pussy faggot.” They left. Quickly Harry got up and moved, against the pain, toward home. Home. Where he’d be alone now that his parents were down south for the week, for Rob’s business. Imagine that. His first time meeting violence, the first fight of his life and there was no one there to tend his wounds, to reassure him, to cleanse him within and without. Dusk followed the sun behind the trees, and there was only night. At home he washed his face rigorously, which stung. He put Neosporin on what were all shallow wounds. His mother used to put Neosporin on every nick and cut of his childhood, and there was still some distant conditioned part of him that deemed it the requisite 189

Mike Robinson treatment for every outer affliction. In the mirror Harry analyzed the bumps, the fat lip, the scratches. They were of his body only. They had tried to get to his soul but they couldn’t. That was the intention of everything in this rough-rollicking brutal cosmos. The diseases, the storms, the asteroids, the evils, the dismembering catastrophes, the chaos—all tools, all methods, employed by some unseen and desperate soul-hunter, prodding, poking, even stabbing despite the sad futility of it all, despite the soul’s seal beyond mortal reach. You can’t touch Superman. You can’t touch me. Under the chalky glow of the bathroom light, he continued staring at his bruised face. I have to show them they can’t touch me. Like some interjection of nightmare, one of the cuts on his forehead opened wider, painlessly, on its own volition. Nestled in the red tissue, rolling excitedly about, was an eye, pupil jerking in every direction, filling itself with its new gift of sight. He could feel every throb of movement in his head. Harry screamed and dropped below the mirror. He remained under the sink for several minutes. He felt nothing now, and so cautiously rose to look. He saw nothing. The cut was back to normal. Oh God. He went across the hall to his room, lay on his bed and cried. In time, he slipped into dreams.

3 Sometime later Harry awoke. The house was silent save for dead clicks of the clock. He sat up. The room undulated, as if submerged in water. Swelling. Wavering. Harry felt at once uncanny terror and familiarity. 190

The Green-Eyed Monster He noticed bubbles about him, bubbles of time, adrift and non-linear, floating past his eyes like thin snow globes showcasing blurred moments from his past, much of which he either couldn’t make out or didn’t recall, but he knew it had came from him. Images overlapped. There was his birth. The cat that had died when he was three, nosing his face. On the monkey bars with Alan. A Superman cartoon. I know this place. I’ve been here before. In one bubble, he saw his first drawing of Belagor, and some memory trickled back. (Geppetto—Agras—up for grabs—) A large wobbling bubble of his recent years hovered before him, slideshowing his own actions back at him like some teasing mirror, and the notion, once intuited, became clear: these were the archives of his life, the times in Time, going nowhere in space but there always, simultaneously. He could reach inside one, pop one, and fill himself again with the thoughts and sensations of those moments, those weeks and those years. The seam dividing realms. There was a bubble with Stephanie. Harry moved to touch it when a voice stopped him. “Good nap, junior?” It sounded almost like Teddy Zwieg, what he remembered of his grandfather’s uniquely gravelly voice. “Who’s there?” Dizziness grew. Mild seasickness on his bed. “See the butterfly, kid?” He saw it lingering in the doorway, aloft by its hard-beating purple-silver wings. Carefully, Harry set a foot on the floor. Steady. Steady. The butterfly flew in circles, waiting for him. The room straightened and he could move against the undercurrent of nausea. Upon reaching it, the butterfly, in a burst of excitement, fluttered down the hallway toward his parents’ bedroom, from which spittles 191

Mike Robinson of pale light shone in the periphery of the door. As he tread the carpet, he heard the voice over both shoulders, though no one was there. “No need to be afraid,” it said. “You’re through with the first issue. You know how the superhero gets his powers. Now to the real work.” Harry reached the door and went in, his eyes hazy, head cocked like some oblivious zombie. His parents’ bedroom had been utterly transformed: old ornate furniture and a bright-colored Victorian couch and an elaborate oak desk near the corner. It all had a musty grandfatherly smell to it, the feel of a World War II-era, though even grander history was palpable in its many corners and interstices, centuries folded in shadow. Sitting at the desk, smiling and staring, was an old man, bald, a yellow sweater-vest buttoned about his torso. His face was patient and certain, and there was exuberance in the way he greeted Harry. A name plate on the desk read “Leo Albright, Boss.” Boss? Boss of what? “Good to see you Harry!” said the old man. He stood and offered a cigar. “Cuban?” Harry shook his head. “Sure.” The man lit his own cigar and a blue nebula of smoke shrouded his face. “I’m Mr. Albright. You might not think we’re acquainted, but we are. We’ve seen each other quite a few times, in fact. Around here they call me Geppetto. I pull a number of strings. Favors and the like. We provide a lot of services to people.” He sighed, sucked long on his cigar and the smoke came out like escaping phantoms. “And as you may know, we’re in a bit of a pickle here. We need something delivered tonight, see?” Harry nodded. The back of his neck tingled. “What?” “My boys,” said the man, “keep telling me that you aren’t the right kid for the job. But they don’t know you as well as I do, see. You’ve 192

The Green-Eyed Monster got what it takes. You see that we’re in trouble and that you must do your part. “Our Family’s in a war, Harry,” he continued. For the first time, Harry noticed the gilded tint of the old man’s eyes. “People need to die for all this hoopla to be settled. Those are the unfortunate breaks when someone comes on your turf and steps on your toes. “That’s why I need you, kid. I recognize your potential. Dames don’t give you a second chance only because they fear you, and you should be proud of that. You don’t need them. That fear you project is a defense mechanism. It should be nurtured and embraced. Get me?” Again, Harry nodded. “I’m going to need that fear now Harry, because you’ll be delivering a new shipment tonight. It’s some of the most potent and powerful dope in the world, and it courses through your veins in spades. You hate them, right? I hate them too. They think they’re better than you, but don’t let them fool you any longer. They’re just jealous of you, see. Not the other way around.” The old man grinned. “So can you do this for me, kid? It would mean a lot. Deliver an extra chemical to Max’s party. Lord knows they’ve got just about every other one in there. Show them why they should fear you.” His grin recruited several more teeth into its menacing act. “You’ve got plenty to share with the rest of the class.” Harry smiled without knowing it. “That’s my boy.”

At 8:46 that night, John Becker entered the Twilight Falls Public Library and sat in the Science and Health area, two tables removed from the desk at which Harry Zwieg had read about the Agras that

193

Mike Robinson winter. Becker had no interest in the subjects around him, but the area was secluded and dark and it was just what he needed. At 8:48, Martin Smith entered and sat in the History and Philosophy section, on the opposite side of the library. At ten to nine, both boys began writing.

At five to nine, Max Fleckman’s house party had taken on its share of guests. At 8:57, Stephanie Gold reluctantly set foot on the porch and rang the doorbell.

By 9:22, Becker had written nearly three-hundred words. Smith, two-ninety. It was at this time a quiet junior named Marissa Gill, at Max’s party with her boyfriend Cameron, began to hallucinate. “What’s that?” she said, pointing. Cameron followed her finger. “What’s what, Maris?” “I thought I saw… something… someone.” “There’s a lot to see,” Cameron said, his eyes on Stephanie as she passed. He brushed his fingers through Marissa’s hair. She rested her head lightly on his arm, and closed her eyes.

At 9:34, two women driving north on Clover Boulevard spotted Harry Zwieg. They would later tell the police he appeared dazed, almost in a trance. One of the women insisted she’d seen his mouth moving as if he were speaking to himself. Despite the apparent waywardness, they said he looked determined. 194

The Green-Eyed Monster Like he had someplace to go.

Come 9:56, the writings of John Becker and Martin Smith had grown into firestorms of language. Their wrists yelled pain. Their foreheads glistened with perspiration. They could not stop. They wrote and wrote and the library, the town, became a dapple of eternity. At 10:25, Harry placed his first knock on Max’s door.

“That! There it goes again!” screamed Marissa Gill. In a hot clamp she gripped Cameron’s arm. “It’s like a flash of some guy. You know those old movies with gangsters and stuff? It looks like one of those guys. I swear to God I’m not making this up!” There was another knock on the door, but no one heard it. “Maris, you’d better go lie down,” Cameron said. “Take the couch in the den. I don’t think anyone’s in there.” The clock hit 10:26. Another patient knock. No one heard it. Cam led Marissa to the den on the other side of the house, moving across throngs of inebriated heads that mingled and laughed. In the lobby Stephanie Gold stood at the base of the staircase, holding a plastic cup she’d autographed in loopy permanent marker. She spoke tenuously with Max. “I only had two shots,” Marissa said. “You’re a lightweight,” Cameron said. “That’s all.” The couple passed the front door just as Harry knocked a third time. Cameron turned his head. “Someone’s at the door.” 195

Mike Robinson

At exactly 10:28, as Cameron approached the front door, John Becker had reached 1,663 words, and Martin Smith tailed close with 1,245. The night ran faster.

With katana sharpness, screams slit the air. Stephanie dropped her cup of Jack and Coke on the stairs. Amongst many others, Max gawked. The crowd nearest the lobby stopped dead and the rest of the party, like some interrupted machine, wound quickly down at the single note of thunder and the ghastly vision of Cameron Mathews sprawled on the floral entrance rug, a ragged opening leaking red in his chest. Marissa Gill had but a moment to scream before she fell limp, a neat red hole in her forehead. Stephanie scrambled upstairs and locked herself in Max’s room. The entire party churned, fractured and panicked like a group of perturbed ants. 10:30. Harry saw the blizzard of movement. Individual shapes were hard to discern, save for the butterflies circling the heads of those destined to die. Yet he felt in command of it, as if he could, if willing, wield power down to the molecule. Right now he glimpsed the ocean but intuited it was both more and less, that it was a grander ocean at the same time it was trillions of mere water drops. The gun in his hand shimmered, undecided between dimensions. He fired it several more times, dropping a freshman and two juniors. A delightful blonde dame tried to skitter out of his way behind a nearby wall but Harry’s next bullet took a voracious bite out of her

196

The Green-Eyed Monster thigh, and she went screaming headfirst to the floor. When he finished her, the butterfly was free. Cleaning house. Cleaning house for the Boss. With the agility of a trained assassin, Harry moved, his eyes stones of petrified soul, his limbs mechanized for mortal efficiency. Yet in all the febrile horror no one noticed Harry Zwieg did not really have a gun. He kept his hand outstretched, clutching air as if holding one, and at each squeeze of the ethereal trigger the chosen targets collapsed like dummies. There was one point where Daniel Flannigan, now a senior sporting the same buzz-cut he’d had in first grade, thought he saw a cigarette dangling from Harry’s lips. The image was ghostly, fleeting. Two minutes later, Daniel lay against the hallway wall, torso drenched in blood from a shot to the neck. 10:48. Harry ascended the stairs.

Now passing the 4,000-word mark, Becker and Smith continued to run across the page, conducting the storm roiling and flaring within Harry Zwieg. By three pages they had exceeded Ms. Langdon’s allotment, but cared not at all. But exceeding limits on her short story assignment was not what would force Eleanor Langdon, the Creative Writing teacher, to recoil when reading Becker’s story the following week.

He pounded on the door. “Get away from me!” “Open the door, miss,” Harry called. His voice was unusual, deeper and distinct. With a nasal quality. “Or we’ll have no choice 197

Mike Robinson but to break it down, me ’n the boys here. And you know you don’t want that.” The boys? Stephanie could now hear the faint savior whines of police sirens, felt small comfort. She again went to the window to try and open it but it was caked-shut. Her lips were wet, salty from tears sticky on her face. Her heart worked fast and hard. “You bitch!” Another gunshot and several more screams. “Little cunt! Open this door right now! You hear me? Open it goddammit!” Another voice: “Hey, Roy, cops are comin’.” Harry’s voice: “Don’t worry, we’ll blow as soon as this bitch lets us at the dope.” Yet another voice: “She ain’t even sayin’ nothing! Just kick it open already.” Stephanie’s eyes darted around the room, scouring for items heavy enough to smash the window. There was a basketball, on the athletic shelf between the trophies and awards. Scrawled on its goose-pimpled surface was an illegible autograph. She went and grasped it. The pounding grew louder, harder and more successful, the door splintered and gave way. Stephanie hurled the basketball through the window and glass sneezed sprinkling to the backyard cement. The wall yawned now with crystalline fangs, a gaping jagged hole that was her only escape. Across the room, the door splintered and flapped open. Three dark figures stood there. Harry was the most pronounced, though Stephanie had little time to look as she maneuvered through the glass. “Where you going, doll-face?” “Get away from me you fucking psycho!” Only Harry was there now. In the pinches of reason allowed in this horror, Stephanie thought the other two figures must’ve been optical illusions, products of her current delirium. Harry came at her full-force, face dead, eyes unblinking, and in her attempts to avoid 198

The Green-Eyed Monster cutting herself on the glass she slowed enough for him to take her violently by the arm and pull her with inordinate strength back into the room. The glass fangs scraped her back, her arm, her leg. Blood opened in her skin and fell. In this air moist with panic and perverse desire, she smelled cigarette smoke though there were no cigarettes she could see. “Where’re you going, sweetheart?” Harry’s voice was almost choral, as if he spoke in tandem with unseen people. Harry released her and she staggered toward the door. Calmly he raised a gun and shot her in the leg. She fell with a pain she would’ve thought too big for the world, much less her body. She writhed on the hardwood and screamed for help, every word a flame in her throat. Briefly Stephanie’s vision imploded and she could only see black and white, a grainy drain of the room’s colors. She saw Harry but he looked different. He looked far more aged, and he wore clothes like those of old detectives. Or gangsters. She tried to claw at her attacker, whoever he was, whoever was using Harry’s body to do these things. He moved swiftly into her lashing and easily caught her wrists. He leaned close to her. “Maybe, sweetheart, that’ll teach you.” Stephanie felt many hands grasp her. Like flesh-serpents, Harry’s arms coiled about her as she kicked and batted in vain. He threw her onto the bed, dotting and streaking the sheets with blood, then mounted her. Stephanie struggled beneath his body but the effort was driving her into a milky unconsciousness. Lamely she tried to thrust her good leg into his groin but Harry’s artful positioning had ensured that couldn’t happen. He burrowed his face in her throat, massaging it with eerie wipes of his tongue, dripping frustration with each lick, every ‘kiss’ a cockroach scurrying across her skin. She tried to scream but he struck her in the jaw. Blood and tears bubbled. She heard a snapping and tearing of fabric. Her breasts exposed. “Harry, what are you… please… what…” 199

Mike Robinson “Name’s Roy, sweetheart, and this is just business,” he said. “They fuck our women, y’know, no one’s good around here. Everyone fucks everyone. I’m just returning some of the favor.” “What—?” Harry removed his hat, unzipped his pants and wrenched hers low enough for entry, the process goopy with blood though he paid no mind to the mess. He entered her and it was a collision, and he thrust and he thrust again. More. More. I’m going to die, Stephanie thought. Good. Another voice: “C’mon, Roy, let’s blow. Leave the damn tail.” A lurching climax, and he sighed a miasma of liquor and tobacco. Evil-smelling. He rose from Stephanie’s crumpled body, zipped up his pants. “I’m on it,” he said. Stephanie croaked, “H—Harry, why are…why…” He turned and raised his gun. A single breath left Stephanie. Then the shot her. He moved downstairs, where he thrust open another door and, like a startled feline, Max Fleckman went cowering toward the back of the closet, sobbing and whimpering, pathetically trying to shield himself with his parents’ disarrayed coats. “Oh Christ, Oh Christ—!” “Close your head,” Harry said. “You think you can just mess with my family like that and expect to get away clean, eh? Well boy I’ve got skin blemishes with bigger brains than you.” “Harry what the fuck—?!” “I said shut up!” Then Max saw it, faint but certainly visible: a phantom image hovering holographically about Harry, shimmering, unsure of itself though it was there. Max could now see what Harry saw. A raincoat hung loosely over the thin boy’s frame, a gray fedora perched atop his head. The outfit flickered and wavered in static. In his right hand, 200

The Green-Eyed Monster Harry clutched an old war pistol—a Luger, if he remembered correctly. He did have a gun. Yet the gun, the clothes, Harry, were caught in some kind of dimensional overlap, and as Harry lived his reality Max realized everyone else must live it too. “What did you do to Stephanie?” Harry smiled, pointed the Luger and shot him. Drifting from the hallway, he saw the house was dead and empty. Blue and red lights twirled outside. The police had arrived. Though Harry’s back was turned, he sensed another boy, another butterfly agent, scurrying from one room to another. He tracked down the boy and shot him in the neck. The body shuddered and gushed blood, then settled cold and still. Grandness filled him. He was on his way. They’re not touching me now. Calmly, Harry went to the front door and stepped out into the funereal, pumpkin-colored porch light. “Freeze!” A demand from the garden of officers. Although Harry had no visible firearm, he acted as such. In this darkness, in this uncertainty, illusion and reality were one. Twenty professional marksmen curled twenty triggers, all aimed at Harry, who walked unabated toward them. “Mr. Albright’s just going to buy you all out!” he shouted. Again they commanded he freeze. One officer pleaded not to make them shoot him. Harry did not stop. He couldn’t. He was an empty mine cart, on a mindless trundle across a single predestined track. Thanks, kiddo, said Mr. Albright. You get to stay with me now. The first bullet struck Harry square in the chest, but he did not die. Instead he felt a great release of inner pressure. He slumped to his knees. Pain was a spidery tree rapid-growing through his body. The second bullet struck him in the temple and still he did not die but again became Harry Zwieg, innocently neurotic, and before the 201

Mike Robinson final bullet delivered blackness, he was terribly confused, wondering where he was, why he was here. What in fuck’s name he was doing. At exactly 11:28, one hour after the Fleckmans’ door had opened to the deaths of sixteen high school students, John Becker and Martin Smith capped their pens and shut their notebooks.

4 The coffee was bitter that morning. Everything was bitter. Eleanor Langdon remembered seeing the Challenger explosion live on television, remembered the suddenness of it and the shock that had frozen her heart mid-beat. All that day she’d shared in a nationwide grief, a physically taxing depression. Endlessly the image of that fireball, of the lucent showers of light and debris, had looped in her mind much as it had in the collective mind’s eye of the media. Yet the Challenger explosion, for all its freak tragedy, had been an acceptable kind of freak tragedy, admittedly because she had been personally removed from it, but also because of the innate risk in such a complicated venture as space exploration, in which even reaching our cosmic frontyard was a grand undertaking of much brilliance and even more faith. Langdon could understand it on a ‘shit happens’ level, crass as such a distillation might be. The mass murder of sixteen TwiFalls High students at the hand of a peer, was not a thing as easily comprehensible to her. It was not an inherent risk, a glitch of fate, a blind misfortune. It defied all these. It was against nature. It was malaria in the Garden of Eden. It was death trespassing, it was hell and chaos overstepping bounds. This is not real, she thought. This cannot possibly be real. On television an older male reporter delivered the news from the front of the school, then relayed it to a female colleague standing bleary-eyed beyond the police-cordoned perimeters of the Fleckman 202

The Green-Eyed Monster home, which was now overrun with officers. Squad cars twirled like colored dance lights in the driveway. She registered two names. Harry Zwieg, of course. The shooter. The murderer. Dead now. Langdon had not had him as a student, but had known him as a fine writer for Bill Sizemore’s Butterflyer. He had written about her own students, the Becker and Smith boys, their likeness, their strangeness; if she would have guessed who might snap in a catastrophic fashion, she would have instead chosen either one of them, even though, if she thought about it, their quiet aggression did not seem real. It seemed theatrical. At some deeper level, the Becker and Smith boys appeared content with themselves, unbothered by anything. Obviously not the case with Harry Zwieg. What had happened? What in hell’s name had happened? And there was Stephanie Gold, the campus ‘it’ girl, as she’d gleaned. Also dead. Stephanie had been in Langdon’s class a couple years ago, when she’d taught sophomore English. Beautiful girl. Sharp. A little entitled, perhaps, a little underdeveloped emotionally, but they all were, for Christ’s sake. They were teenagers. From the physical playground of childhood, they’d moved to a mental playground, a shifting sandbox of sensation, sliding and leaping in social and spiritual capriciousness through the adventure of identity. That was the new game. That was the game they were playing. The game of becoming. And now, sixteen, including Stephanie, including Harry Zwieg, had ceased altogether. They were never to become. Never to be. Although she did not want to go in today, and was frankly surprised school was still open, Langdon forced herself out of the house and started her brisk three-block walk to campus. En route, she avoided eye contact with anyone. At the first trash can, she poured out her remaining thermos of coffee.

203

Mike Robinson

The final stories of her first period Creative Writing class, the accumulation of readings, revisions and many rough drafts, made for a small pile on her desk. It was the semester’s final project, a great dictator of grade, but more than half the class was missing. Langdon understood, and told those present, “Turn them in if you have them.” In rapid succession, John Becker and Martin Smith approached her and placed their drafts neatly in the tray. Both wore neutral smiles, persisting in their air of detachment. Langdon almost wanted to grab them by the collar and the scream the news to them, as if they might not have heard, to jostle some kind of reaction out of them. They’ll deal with it the way they will, she thought. Everyone is different. Three days later, she read their stories. Both were set in Depression-ravaged America. Both involved the underground and violent efforts during prohibition to distribute alcohol. Both had a very noir feel. Both had a young protagonist. Smith’s story was called The Kid, Becker’s The Rookie. The name of the crime boss in each story was a Mr. Albright. While prior stories had indeed shared similarities, the degree of similarity here made Langdon suspect tight collaboration, not altogether forbidden, but something she would have recommended against, especially if it meant her reading, in essence, the same story. Yet it’s not the same story. There is an umbrella connection but a distinct voice in both, somehow shining through the words. The two works, at fifteen pages and roughly seven-thousand words, climaxed with a mass shootout that felled the protagonists. These scenes alone took her hours to get through, and she mutilated with red pen the explicit rape scene in Becker’s, a passage mercifully 204

The Green-Eyed Monster absent from Smith’s story. Despite top-notch construction, she gave both stories a C, one of very few instances—if not the first—where Eleanor Langdon willfully allowed emotional influence in her judgment as a teacher. None of what she read was appropriate, given what had happened. They won’t care anyways, she thought. Who the hell am I? Both boys graduated three weeks after the Harold Zwieg tragedy. The rest of the world awaited them now.

Scrapbook VIRGINIA KILLER ARRESTED CHARLOTTESVILLE, VA – He went confidently and calmly, a man fully aware of his debt to society and willing to pay it. In a dirty flannel overshirt, sweats and a pair of loafers, Roger Mellows looked more the unemployed bachelor type, unsure about that night’s dinner much less the bizarre philosophy police say spurred his brutal slaying of five people. The first victim, 19-year-old Sarah Burns, was discovered in a janitorial closet at the University of Virginia, her throat cut deep to near-decapitation. Mellows went on to viciously slay four other people before capture. “Probably the most disturbing thing about this man was the completely random selection of his victims,” commented Police Chief Richard Karlson in a statement on Monday. “He was like the D.C. snipers, no rhyme or reason.” The family of Sarah Burns, or any other victim, was not available for comment. Police say Mellows is a rabid fan of bestselling author Martin Smith. Thousands of his books, many copies of the same edition, were discovered in Mellows’ public storage lot. Mellows claimed that, collectively, the books both ‘birthed and entombed the universe.’ “Watch the butterflies,” Mellows said just after arrest. 205

Mike Robinson Martin Smith was unavailable for comment.

FOUR FOUND DEAD IN AREA HOME Two couples, Carl and Melinda Becker and Thomas and Charlotte Smith, were discovered comatose in the home of Thomas and Charlotte Smith. Rushed to the hospital, they died that night, in quick succession. All were in their mid to late fifties, with no known history of medical issues or unorthodox social behavior. Police say they that, according to evidence so far uncovered, the young couples had been engaged in nothing unusual. Only mild alcohol use was present. Toxicology reports are due in the next few weeks. “Certainly this is an utter shock to the neighborhood, to the town,” said Sheriff’s deputy McKinley. “By all accounts the Beckers and Smiths were wellrespected, loving parents who deserved nothing of this bizarre fate.” The couples are survived by their sons: John Becker, 18, and Martin Smith, 18, both recent graduates of Twilight Falls High School. “It is very sad about the death of my mother and father,” said John Becker. “But I am thankful they were able to give me their gift beforehand.” “They gave me an exquisite antique box as a graduation gift,” said Martin Smith. “I am not able to open it yet, but in time I will. When the time is right.”

“The heat and the soot were just unbearable. I remember wondering how I was possibly going to survive this, how anyone could possibly survive this. My guys were nowhere in sight, swallowed by these ashen clouds of death. It was Hell on Earth, is what it was… so it was even more amazing when I saw the butterflies. “They rose from the smoke and the fire, very natural-like, flying off into… somewhere. Somehow they put me at ease—I felt like I was supposed to be there, 206

The Green-Eyed Monster that today was the day my entire life would be cashed in, the accumulation of everything I’d ever done, dreamed or hoped.” – NYFD Firefighter Joel Graves, 9/11 first responder

TOP OF HIS HEAD, TOP OF HIS GAME New Artists’ Movement going back to the natural drawing board by Marcus Fremont, Staff Writer A former banker from Seattle, 54-year-old Clifford Feldman might not look like the type to give the art world a wedgie or hold its head in the toilet, but that’s exactly what he has set out to do. “Art has lost its way,” he claims. “It is time we begin again, to create from scratch and to leave behind the confusion and the ambiguity of today’s artistic culture.” He is doing this with a style called Neo Naturalism, a new movement Feldman is promoting in exhibitions across the country. Its primitive method that relies on an ‘anything goes’ philosophy (or, the artist’s first instinct) has also been dubbed ‘Caveman Art.’ But perhaps the most outlandish of all about Feldman, and also quite possibly the most intriguing, is his claim of being the latest incarnation of a legendary count from the 18th century, a Count Saint Germain. When asked if this was his literal belief, he laughed and said, “Of course. The spirit of anyone who inspires you lives within you.” Neo Naturalism has attracted many modern avant-garde names to its rudimentary, bare-bones approach. It has been shown in New York, British Colombia, Seattle, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. Feldman also claims to have drawn inspiration from the Pacific Indian Agra tribe that once settled in Northern California. “They had a vision for us that has unfortunately been lost in the hustle and bustle of history, the history of a society that is, at the moment, going nowhere. The 207

Mike Robinson Agras knew where to go. They knew the meaning and the essence of conscious existence.” (please see NEO, E14)

208

The Green-Eyed Monster

1 The Call A week after receiving the call, a week after seeing Martin Smith walk from the station, after the butterflies that most of those in the station chose to classify as a mass hallucination, Richard Porter, for the first time since the author’s death, drew from his shelf the works of John Becker. Dorian was with her Tuesday-night bridge group, and Porter was alone. He was glad she’d finally found something social here. The move to Twilight Falls had, for the most part, been mutual, but Porter could never shake the parasitic guilt of having taken Dorian from the comfortable circle she’d built in Baltimore. A Becker fan since college, Porter had insisted they detour on their long-ago California road trip to hear him speak at a bookstore in Twilight Falls. Dorian, ever the understanding and wonderful woman she was, obliged. Never had Porter imagined they’d one day be living here. He ran his finger down the hardcover keyboard of book spines. Individual memories of each, particularly his first experience with every title, burned through him. There was Skullduggery, the one about Reverend Hardwick’s inner-demons; Norman, the college 209

Mike Robinson student’s insanity; My Playmate, the one about the devil child and voodoo. So many more. Then there was Brute Force. Three times he had digested the cosmos of that book, line by line. It had seeped far below the cracks of his brain and blended with his own thoughts. He pulled it out once again.

“Well, did he live up to your expectations?” Dorian asked as they moved, hands linked, down Clover Street. Porter could tell she wasn’t too impressed; either that or she was still under the weather. Or both. He felt guilty. “I would say so,” Porter said. “He didn’t say much that I haven’t heard before but, it was a different experience to see him in person.” “He actually didn’t seem that weird to me,” she said. “From what you’ve told me and all the stuff I keep hearing about him, I expected some… I don’t know… introverted schizophrenic up there.” “Now that would’ve been interesting.” He gave her hand a plump squeeze and she reciprocated. “Yeah, I was able to keep awake.” Dorian sounded surprised. They approached the corner of Clover and Keller. “He and Martin Smith lived down this street, by the way,” Porter said. Dorian didn’t know how to respond so she just nodded, her interest feigned. She motioned toward the bag in his other hand. “What’s this new book about?” Their hands fell away as Porter shoveled through the bag to unearth his first copy of Brute Force, freshly autographed, the ink on the ‘k’ lightly smeared. “It’s about a cop, actually,” Porter said. He perused the back cover, rereading. “He seems to be edging away from speculative and 210

The Green-Eyed Monster doing more realistic stuff, so this should be interesting.” He fed the book back into the bag. “Although I think this one still has some supernatural stuff in it.” Dorian shook her head, not understanding. “I don’t get scaring yourself. Give me a happily-ever-after any day.” Porter said with a hesitant smile, “You’re such a woman.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” The cold had singed her cheeks a crystalline red. “Just because I don’t like ghouls and death?” The couple turned down Keller Avenue’s business area three blocks from the ‘Golden Nest,’ the array of upper middle-class houses where, three decades prior, Melinda Becker and Charlotte Smith had fallen to labor during one of the worst storms in California history. He looked at his wife’s neck. It was soft and long. What if he strangled her? What would she do, what would happen, if he went at her and clutched her throat and squeezed as hard as he could, pressed at her windpipe. Maybe also dug out her eyes with his thumbs. Everyone would see, sure. The police would take him, sure. And? And would I care? Yes he would. He would. Beyond this sudden and dark eclipse, the light of Richard Porter shone still, and he was terrified at this inexplicable sensation. “Rich,” said Dorian. “Is that who I think it is?” She pointed. Turning to follow Dorian’s finger—and to also settle this hideous impulse—Porter looked toward the sidewalk across the street, where he saw Martin Smith, hunched down, the collar of his coat providing a sort of outer wall for the bottom of his face and his neck. He walked alone. Porter felt thunder in his stomach and chest. He kept focused on Smith, not wanting to turn back to Dorian for fear he might strike her. He watched Smith disappear down a hill, just east of them. “Wasn’t that Martin Smith? Or am I nuts?” 211

Mike Robinson Porter didn’t say anything. He kept his gaze in Smith’s direction, waiting out the urge. “Rich are you okay?” “Yes, that was Smith,” he said, turning back to Dorian. She looked at him strangely and he tried to ignore it. They continued walking.

John Becker dead. Smith let off on self-defense. Porter kept trying to tell himself that it really was self-defense, hoping it would water some seeds of forgiveness, but there was only barren dirt. Never before had Porter regretted being a cop, but for the entire last week all he could think about was Becker’s corpse and the desire to seek personal vengeance on Martin Smith. He’d had a similar sensation in Baltimore with a prolific con-man they’d caught, a polygamist with families in New York, Virginia, even as far west as Utah. He’d been discovered after drunken violence against his first and eldest wife. Porter had returned some of the favor, sans the alcohol. The incident had occurred the same day Porter had finished reading Brute Force for the second time. During his subsequent suspension, he read it a third time. The protagonist of Brute Force, Sheriff Gabriel North, was a legend in Twilight Falls. Portraits of the modern Marlowe or Spade adorned the walls of the post office and Rosie’s Diner on Third. He was frequently quoted in magazines and town newspapers, and he’d appeared only in one book. Porter supposed the public always ate up rogue characters that did things their own way, but there was something about Becker’s language in describing the man, and the way the character carried himself, that made North stand out. He had 212

The Green-Eyed Monster a head like a bowling ball, an intellect that split hairs. Ironically, Porter now felt as though he’d read Brute Force to prepare himself for this investigation, if there even was one to be had. The inside of his edition’s front cover was an aged coffee-brown. The pages exuded a stiff and stale cigarette odor. In muscular font the title page proclaimed BRUTE FORCE by John Becker. Porter remembered hearing that early drafts had once had a subtitle. In idle musings he’d wondered what it had been, why Becker had scratched it. What hadn’t worked? What hadn’t been good enough? Trivial stuff to ponder, sure, but to a young fledgling novelist, details were everything. Porter nestled into an armchair. With each turn of the page, each step that brought him closer to North’s opening line, he began to feel the character taking shape in his head, filling his usual groove like a man with a favorite chair. North had a seat in his head. There was a single blank page before the first chapter. Porter read the opening line aloud. “I was always awake before the city.”

After reading the first chapter, Porter set the book down and perused the rest of the collection, eventually pulling out The Complete John Becker Collection, a formidable tome of short and obscure work from Becker’s early years and onward. It opened with Becker’s earliest known published work, a poem published in the magazine Food for Thought. Becker had been their youngest contributor. The fine text at the bottom of the page said “Johnny.” He had, unbelievably, been five at the time. Porter tried to imagine Becker as a child but found it a near impossibility, that his imagination couldn’t stretch that far and that wide. For such a long time, the man had seemed to Porter as one of 213

Mike Robinson those people that never had a childhood, that hadn’t even been born into the world but was instead a natural fixture, always there, consistent and timeless. Yet Porter of course knew, all too well, there had been a childhood. The poem was called White Gray Black. My name is William, I have no father, Life is full of silence, Unplayed baseballs, no bother, My name is William, I have no father, My mother cries, And with a burst of fire, Black are my eyes, The blood runs as water, My name is William, and I have no father. Five years old. The collection continued on through Becker’s teenage years, dedicating certain sections to the infamous ‘JFK-Lincoln’ similarity between him and Martin Smith. It traced his noir period in his latter high school and early college days, during which he penned numerous mystery and crime stories. The most famous, and certainly most powerful, was a story entitled The Rookie, a tale about an adolescent boy recruited into the mob and assigned violent and unscrupulous tasks. In addition to having it in print, the volume also had a photograph of the original manuscript, scrawled in blue ink, his teacher’s comments scribbled in the margins. He read the last paragraph of The Rookie. The kid had done his best, and Albright patted him on the shoulder, squeezing it with the love of a father and an uncle and a godparent all in one. His eyes held something Roy McCullough had 214

The Green-Eyed Monster never seen before, and he wasn’t sure if it frightened him or made him proud. “Ya did good, kid,” he told young Roy. “Now you’ll hole up with me for a while.” Flipping through several more pages, sleep crept up on him. Porter looked back at his own collection ending at Becker’s final novel, Spirit of Dreams, the one considered his masterwork, the accumulation of his now tragically-truncated life of letters. The same was true with Martin Smith’s Dream Spirits. Porter felt a pang of anger and even a sense of vicarious jealousy that Smith would live on to write. Yet he also knew such a gift could very well deteriorate to a curse. Smith may never be able to top Dream Spirits, and could feasibly spend the rest of his prime and golden years trying to scale an impossible mountain. His status and reputation would suffer while Becker would remain forever triumphant with Spirit of Dreams. Porter had never read Smith’s novel but had seen the independent film. The tale was similar to Becker’s and vice versa, both telling of a man at war with his past, his dreams, his imagination. In short, his own psyche. The idea was that he is a Columbus or Magellan, of sorts, of the last vastly unexplored terrain of the human mind. Yet like Percy Fawcett in the tangles of South America, the man becomes lost, unable to return to anything outwardly resembling sanity. The subconscious jungle swallows him whole. In Becker’s version, the man crumbles within himself, slips into a coma and dies. In Smith’s Dream Spirits, to the best of Porter’s recollection, the man comes out alive but so broken he takes his own life. He dwelled on these things. He grew tired. (takes his own life) (My name is William and I have no father) (Ya did good, kid. Now you’ll hole up with me for a while) For ten minutes Porter fell into a superficial nap. He awoke with a revelation. 215

Mike Robinson Ice permeated his lungs, reached to his throat, through his gut. Porter stood, looked at the books arrayed on the shelf. Smith’s and Becker’s lives weren’t a mystery and never really were. They were there all the time, in the characters and worlds of their pages, as the orchestrated reality between covers. The child in the poem, the bloodthirsty young man, the warring imaginations… The cop. It all happened. It was there for him, for millions, to see. They had written their lives and the lives of those around them. Richard Porter thought again of the ending to Smith’s Dream Spirits. He picked up the phone.

216

The Green-Eyed Monster

-3 Confrontation “It’s interesting that, if you read Spirit of Dreams and Dream Spirits in tandem, or one right after another, they almost seem to fill in each other’s holes.” –Wayne Bloom, PhD, literary critic and scholar “I think it’s all a big publicity thing. John Becker and Martin Smith are probably pseudonyms for one writer.” –Anonymous reader

1 A knock. It was time. Smith went and opened the door and greeted Becker. “Come in, John.” Becker entered, taut, aware. “Please have a seat. Dinner will be ready in a moment.” Instead Becker followed Smith to the kitchen, which was overcast with steam, as thick as the food-smell permeating the rest of the 217

Mike Robinson apartment. Becker stopped in the doorway and watched as Smith continued cooking. “Stop, please,” he said. Sharply, Smith turned, as if having anticipated the command. “You heard me,” Becker repeated. “Stop cooking.” A smile pressed at Smith’s lips. “You want to make it? You want to make it better?” “Not make it better,” Becker said. “Make it safe. You’ve been preparing it since before I arrived. I can only speculate as to what you might’ve put in there, what might send me twitching and convulsing to the hospital.” Smith laughed. “Not likely. That would be your way of doing things. I want to move past this jealous barricade between us. We are adult men, for goodness sake. That is why I’ve asked you here despite your consistent threats. Let us look into the green eyes of this monster and laugh. Let us mock it back.” Becker’s face narrowed in sharp thought. Smith was about to resume cooking when he spoke again. “Throw it all out,” he said. “I don’t trust you.” They stared at one other. Smith spoke. “What do you suggest, then?”

2 “We are both brilliant men, John,” Smith said, running his fork through the canned pasta. A pause. Becker glared at him. “Yes, Martin. And?” “We were born to become one, John,” Smith said. “We just never wanted to accept it before. Here we were told our whole lives about how special and unique and talented we were, by our parents, teachers and others. But along the cushioned ride there was a tack, 218

The Green-Eyed Monster slowly poking its way into our minds and always reminding us that we were not special. There was someone else just like you, just like me, someone with the same dreams, someone with the same abilities, someone…” Smith leaned forward in his chair. “…that deprived you of that feeling of specialness.” Becker was still wary of the pasta, even though he’d supervised its heated round-about in the microwave. Each bite was a risk. “Your public loves you, and my public loves me. Imagine then, John.” “Nonsense,” said Becker. “You and I both know that’s nonsense. Attempting to bury the hatchet won’t work here, Martin. You’re driving yourself mad trying to fill my shoes. You want to stop the madness when you can. But you can’t.” Smith sighed, got up from his chair. He began to wander about the room, hands in pockets, like a business executive casually trying to close a big deal. “It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, John. Grandfather didn’t bring us together like this just so we could lock ourselves in an endless battle to outdo each other. What are we even trying to outdo? Money? Fame? You remember Grandfather, don’t you? Of course you do. He was a sight only we could see. That was because he loved us both, John. We were brought together for a reason. Our parents knew that, too, and encouraged us to reach our grandest potential. For him.” Smith looked at the wooden box his father had given him after his high school graduation, just months before their death. Thomas Smith’s words resonated still. You will use this when the time is right, Marty. You’ll know. He remembered more. Fate will choose the best man for the job. His father had stared at him that day with the gilded eyes, and Smith had been reassured. Becker said nothing at first, then something clicked and he realized where Smith was looking. There it sat, calling him from its throne-like position on the mantel. Was it… the box? Could it be? 219

Mike Robinson Long ago, just after high school, his own father had presented him a key. It had been old, caked with rust. Came Carl Becker’s words: This key is important now, hear me? Don’t lose it, John. You’ll be needing it when the time is right. He too had looked at his son with the gilded eyes. Becker’s little head had nodded obediently, listening because he knew it wasn’t actually his father speaking. Smith said, “This box was given to me by my father only a week before our parents’ death. It’s always been here, never opened, perpetually locked.” Becker hesitated. The metal draped around his neck now seemed like a shard of ice against his chest. His temples throbbed to the beat of his heart. “I have the key, Martin.” Smith looked at him with disbelief. Becker reached down his shirt and produced the brass key hanging about his neck. Silence deafened the room. The final word from the life beyond. They would hear now. They would see now. The merging of roads paved by Grandfather. Without so much as a breath, Becker removed the necklace and approached the box, which sat smirking a dead smirk, knowing, teasing them. Smith’s imagination had yet to mine the area within the box; for every thought, every idea, was nothing but a bullet on Plexiglas. He only knew it was heavy. The metal was crooked at the tip, which made it difficult at first, but he shoved it in and turned the lock and it slid open with a satisfying click. Smith leaned in as Becker opened the lid. A small cosmos of shadow, and then— It was now there, open: a Smith & Wesson revolver with a glossy satin nickel finish. Smith carefully lifted it in both hands as though picking up a newborn babe.

220

The Green-Eyed Monster Neither of them said anything as Smith unlatched the chamber. Five slots empty. Resting inside one, however, like some entombed archeological artifact, was a lone bullet. Fate will choose the best man for the job. “Russian Roulette,” Becker stated. “Who’s going to go first?” Becker asked, trying to ride the wave of panic as steadily as possible. The clock ticked 9:14. “Spin the chamber,” Becker commanded. Smith looked at him with another quizzical expression. They locked eyes for a final time before Smith whipped the gun forward and shot Becker between the eyes. Like a discarded marionette, Becker collapsed to the floor. Pulps of brain matter oozed down the walls, dappled the carpet. Looming over the body, Smith laughed. The bullet had dug a maroon tunnel through Becker’s skull. Smith had an absurd urge to peer inside as if it were some kind of organic peep-hole. Nothing to worry about anymore. The mind that had given him so much trouble, the mind that had produced books like Brute Force and The Kindred, was now in disarray across his floor. No hindrance. Nothing he couldn’t do. The straight jacket unfurled. However, if he wanted to get away with this, he had to believe himself what he’d be telling the police not an hour later. John Becker attacked me, attacked me in my own home… The glint of the utensils. A knife. Maybe he had used a knife. Cliché but it worked. The real world was all a cliché – hence the need for true artists, people of genius. Break the rut. Give it ideas. Okay. A knife. In paranoid analysis, Becker had used his to dice up the pasta into tiny chunks. John Becker attacked me, yes, yes he did. ATTACKED ME, I tell you… 221

Mike Robinson Smith went to the kitchen and strapped on a sun yellow dish glove, then went back into the dinette and grabbed the utensil. Blade streaked with thick tomato sauce, it ironically resembled a used murder weapon. It is. He raised the knife and began cutting his left hand in swift arcs. Through crimson cracks, blood seeped out and drooled across his skin. Smith switched hands and applied the wrath to his other hand and worked his way up his arm to inflict minor cuts along his bicep and elbow area. Yes officer he just started swinging that knife at me like a maniac and I feared for my life and I couldn’t stop him so I fumbled for my box and got out the revolver and— Next came the face. Smith carved a few long, red eyelashes around his cheeks and chin. He could feel a cloak of sticky smothering warmth. It ran down his neck, massaging and caressing his flesh. The sensation almost counterbalanced the jolts of pain from each cut. He became so utterly engrossed in the process it took effort to keep from slicing his neck. Smith surveyed his territory, glanced at himself in the mirror. From many corners, his flesh smiled thin red smiles. A great weight drained from his body. Relief simmered. He realized he needed to put his gears to work and crank out a story of how Becker had threatened and stalked him, had dismissed Smith’s attempts at conciliation. For this, he would need some kind of evidence. Smith flew into his small den and yanked open his closet. Hundreds of his own book spines glared back at him. There were hardbacks and paperbacks of everything, even a few Books-on-Tape. Taking anything he could, Smith poured a dense pile of around twenty-five to thirty books into the center of the floor and began systematically ripping and smashing them apart. 222

The Green-Eyed Monster Yes officer he’d been threatening me for a while and demanding I stop or I’d pay… He even sent me a carton full of my own books, all ripped to shreds in some insane rampage… I wasn’t so much scared of him… it was more like I pitied the man… Within ten minutes, there was a haystack of dismembered tomes, shredded and creased photos of himself, mangled contents of his mind, the sight reminiscent of a mound of books awaiting the touch of a censurer's match. He felt rushed, as if a domineering shadow were timing the whole process, holding the stopwatch close to his ear so he could hear the infernal ticking. After all, someone must have heard the shot. Perhaps the police were already on the way. Grandfather can take care of such matters. He piled the mound of “evidence” into a large cardboard box, clump by clump, stuffing it in like trash into a dumpster. Time breathed down his neck in fiery, stertorous gasps. How had Becker given this box of shredded books to him? Think, think… ah, the hotel in Los Angeles, yes. That’s a good place. He would tell the police Becker had a box full of torn up Martin Smith novels delivered to his room. That would work. But why would you keep such a thing? He stopped. A hole in the frantic plan. Why would he keep this box of his books? Because, he thought, because they are mine.

3 He turned the corner, his heart like a medieval brigade, ramming the wall of his chest. The clock ticked 9:31 when Smith saw it. He stopped, breath becoming petrified wood in his lungs. 223

Mike Robinson Standing by the far window, silhouetted against the moonlight, was an entity of unnatural proportion, adorned in a silken-looking cloth, hair a frayed silvery crown atop its scalp. Smith hadn’t seen Grandfather, this Old Man, in his entirety since his childhood, but somehow Martin Smith knew he’d always been there, in the interstice between Twilight Falls and the real world, as the marrow of him and the town, as the dreams that fought his claustrophobic cranium. “You’re back?” Smith said. No reply. “I wish I knew who you were.” The entity stirred. “Who am I?” Its voice was at once artificial and natural, an electronic thunder. “After all these years, you finally have the courage to ask.” “After all these years I finally have the chance to ask.” A snigger. “Call me Geppetto, my dear boy. But do not ask who I am, for that question is irrelevant.” The shadow’s eyes burned, cigarette-punctures in the dark. “I will ask who you are. Can you answer that question? You may have been able to yesterday but I doubt you will today.” Smith felt some of his breath return. Outside, Twilight Falls had grown eerily quiet, and he imagined there was nothing else beyond, that either it had all been destroyed or the Old Man had taken him somewhere or destroyed him. For the first time he could recall, Smith knew loneliness. “You have been blinded by the very forces that birthed you,” said Geppetto. “This drive to create, to create something more than pages or canvases or notes, it exists within every one of… you.” The entity lifted a finger and beckoned. Smith was a pajama-clad child lost in a fairy tale forest, welcomed further into a brambly abyss. Through the darkness he thought he could see—no, feel—the Old Man smiling beneath those gilded peepers. He’d seen those eyes many a time in his life, but now they were naked, unadorned, without the souls of unknowing townsfolk to dress or dilute them. They were 224

The Green-Eyed Monster miniature suns that gleamed with billions of years of light and knowledge. “What do you mean ‘every one of us’?” Smith asked. This time Geppetto laughed. Its throat made an eerie clicking sound. “Human beings. It is humanity’s nature to create. They are chips off the old block. But you were among a rare breed, Martin, and so was Becker. Both of you stood at the door of supreme power but could never bring yourselves to open it. You have let the voracious green-eyed monster destroy your true potential. But it is not your fault. Human nature is to blame.” Its voice resonated in every cell of his body—it was every cell. “That is why John Becker is dead and you are alive.” “What do you mean? Why?” “I am still learning this medium called humanity, this scarcely workable material that is your species. You and Becker were nothing but experiments of mine, guinea pigs to test the waters, to show me the corners and alleys and avenues yet unexplored in my efforts to make humanity creatures of design, to send them away from elemental chaos.” “Who do you pretend to be, Old Man? God?” “God, yeah, don’t get me started on that one, kid. This God you speak of… nothing has been more disarrayed or haphazard as the way mankind perceives its Creation. This God you speak of is nothing more than a child at the beach, building a sand castle too close to the waves. He labors over his creation for a while, putting up with the uncooperative nature of his medium with frustration and struggling to fend off the occasional foot or breeze or wave that threatens to destroy it. He builds the castle but cannot make it anything but sand. He builds the castle knowing that, eventually, he will leave the beach and will not be able to save his creation from the eventual wave that will wash it back into the earth from whence it came.” 225

Mike Robinson At once, Smith recognized nothing around him. His entire apartment, Becker’s body, the town outside, all seemed to converge on one incomprehensible plane, like the multiple floors of a demolished building heaped upon the ground. “Creation is a blind art,” said Geppetto. “We were all blind artists… until the Teacher came along.” “What does this have to do with me?” Smith said. It scared him that he could not think straight. His mind was impacted, a taffy of language and visuals with little distinction. “Both you and Becker were one higher consciousness, shared by two human bodies and savagely imprisoned by human tendencies and emotions. Elevated consciousness brings elevated emotion, and the emotion you felt, this searing jealousy, this contempt toward your identical mind-twin could be felt everywhere, could be smelled and heard and almost touched by those around you.” A butterfly made its way into the darkness, flapping with all its feathery might. In its wake it left trails of cosmic residue, gases and stars and planets that gleamed as a distant page of connect-the-dots. The Old Man gestured toward it. “The Universe’s purpose is to die, in order to be born, in order to die. Talk about repeating history, huh, kid?” Smith remained still. Watched. “What are you?” Smith repeated. “We are the owls of space, peering down on you from a higher branch in the cosmos. We all create, but not in the manner that you and Becker did. We use Chaos as our paintbrush, something you may have glimpsed with the butterflies.” Another colorful pair of wings materialized before him. “The butterflies you see are the visual manifestation of Chaos itself, the lifeblood of the One Consciousness. You remember the One Consciousness? The Big Brain? Your six-year-old self wrote a very nice report on it for Anne Chatsworth.” 226

The Green-Eyed Monster Smith did not say anything. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything. “Humanity often links butterflies with cause and effect. The beating of wings in Mongolia triggering a hurricane in Florida. You know the deal. The image has been so deeply woven into the fabric of the masses that your brains see Chaos as a butterfly when it is simply energy, reality itself, fluttering about in unpredictable patterns.” Smith tried to look directly into the gilded eyes but found it impossible. He would surely go blind. He lowered his head, squinting and blinking away green-blue afterimages, and asked, “Did you create me?” “I instigated your evolution, yes, but not intentionally. I was ill at the time, suffering feverish delusions, visions that only grew harsher and stronger. They evolved, surely as your species did, until they manifested here on Earth. Intention to create, a conscious desire, did not exist… until human beings emerged. “You are, as several of your species might put it, one of my Tulpas, one of the few not just created, but designed. You see, before this link with mankind was forged, we were all blind. One could argue we didn’t really exist in the first place. We created through complete and utter Chaos. Our functions—the human correlative might be sneezing or coughing—would sometimes prove generative, creative, yet we would not fully understand what it was we made, or why. That is why humanity is so unique, my boy: through strategy and hardships you are able to realize the type of object or entity you wish to create. You have visions. That was a gift unknown to us until we became aware of you, and now we share these gifts, able to use Chaos as consciously as an artist might a paintbrush. “You all thought God controlled everything, that He molded each and every one of you in His image and had a plan for every one of the seven billion individuals inhabiting the Earth. You thought everything happened for a purpose. Well, ironically, because of my 227

Mike Robinson connection, because of my ability to lend a human touch to Chaos, that is true. But it is not the reigning will of the One Consciousness. Life is simply Chaos disguised as Order.” The Old Man sighed, as though hesitant to say what came next. Eventually he spoke again, but not in the manner of moments prior. This time he spoke with images. Suddenly Smith was not himself. He saw the world with eyes only three feet off the ground, supported by a plump, hairy body. Everything around him had changed, but it was temporary, its fabric thin as it ruffled across his brain, distorting reality like tears over vision. He saw an ancient land of brambly bushes, trees and hills, nature’s playground thousands and thousands of years ago. Smith took a step forward and became instantly taller, and it was then that it struck him. He was Human; not a human, not the human of one name that had penned eighteen books, but Human the Whole, the Species. As he walked forward, he lived a three-dimensional evolution chart, growing taller, his features straightening, pulling, stretching themselves into modern Human. But it wasn’t just the physical that changed. Within him he could feel the significant shift of his mental capacity as it broke from instinctual boundaries, explored terrifying and uncharted self-awareness. As Human evolved, its thirst for knowledge brought religion, artwork, filler to satisfy the mysteries of existence. Yet the mysteries were ceaseless, a battalion for every generation. “Something happened to human beings in their evolution,” the Old Man said. “Along the way, you became aware of yourselves. Intellect grew. Agriculture, writing, and civilization rose from your bare mammalian soil. That was the doing of this entity called The Teacher, the one who threatens my plans.” Decades and centuries whizzed by Smith with insectile ferocity, smearing themselves upon history’s windshield, and as Smith lived the lives of every creative individual in history, he knew that all along 228

The Green-Eyed Monster Human had sensed The Teacher. This figure had been ever-present, an intuited, undeniable reality interpreted differently by many eyes, many minds. Smith was cold. “There is a war being waged for humankind’s ultimate purpose,” said the Old Man. “The town of Twilight Falls is a base of sorts, a base of my being, my molecular make-up of thousands of human minds, built in my image, and the precursor to a rebirth of your species that will bring your creative instincts true purpose. “The Teacher is a threat to us, to you, to the cosmos, and our greatest weapon against him is the influence human minds have on one another: religion, music, art and, of course, literature, the weapon you and Becker once wielded with spectacular cunning and grace. Fine recruiters you were.” Smith blinked. “That I once wielded?” The Old Man swept its crenellated hand across the dark. In a single flash, Smith’s muscles became putty and he was thrust in front of a computer. “Write, my dear boy.” Martin Smith melted his hands over the keyboard, assumed his usual position, but he could not write. Words rioted in his head, sprinkling glass, shouting, dizzying about, ignoring his command. In another flash, Smith was bent in half, creased and folded like a flimsy piece of typing paper. When the blurriness settled, he was hunched over a clean sheet of Bristol board, a 6B pencil in his right hand. “Draw, my dear boy.” Martin Smith put pencil to paper and struggled to draw a face. His hand jittered spastically, carving an awkward circle. Two dots. The grace, the ease, wholly eroded. “No!” Smith cried. “No! No! No! No!”

229

Mike Robinson The Old Man smiled. “I realized emotion makes your species soft, pliable, easy to mold, and thus easy to recruit and to be strung along by my machinations, much as the characters of your novels.” There was a steady inhaling noise that sounded like a drag on a cigarette, and the Old Man exhaled a thick purple-blue nebula. Faint images were visible now: billions of stars, little glowing eyes that almost camouflaged the Old Man’s. Planets pushed through orbits laced with cosmic gases and asteroids. The body of the universe engulfed Martin Smith now, embracing him with strange dark arms. His apartment, a nostalgic fantasy. “I have millions of unwitting agents around the world ensuring The Teacher’s eventual demise. Serial killers to terrorists to ruthless tyrants of past and present. Ironically, it is belief in higher beings, religion, that is our sharpest sword and biggest gun in this war.” “Give me back my gifts,” Smith said, voice tremulous. “You can’t do this to me. Give them back!” He’d continually tried to convince himself that the entity standing before him (if it actually was ‘standing’, who could be sure in this place) was real or just a loose fragment of his thoughts, a fugitive of imagination. If so it was something he could wrangle back, control. Geppetto laughed. “I have little intention of doing such a thing,” it said. “Then what in hell’s name do you plan to do with me?” The dark moved. The Old Man’s eyes grew brighter. An ancient heat permeated the space. The entity flitted about its hands, conducting. “You want to see things to believe, to accept them into your empty library of knowledge,” it said. “Yet I say empty because this facet of your personality has never been used. The drive to love, to be inquisitive, to procreate—all of humanity’s other bare essentials were cobwebbed filler compared to your drive to create.” Smith felt another tug, this time on his left leg. The stars and distant galaxies faded. Their magnificent colors funneled into two 230

The Green-Eyed Monster small wings that flapped in sync. Space-time was a butterfly that danced before Smith’s eyes. The entire universe could be summed up in a butterfly, he thought in an odd epiphany, a small entity of design that moves through different stages and flies in random patterns. “Physical lives are just the currency of the universe, my boy,” said Geppetto, “And that is all. No more significant than pennies. And because of this, I have—and will always have—control.” The hands continued to conduct the air, propelling Smith into a flurry of impossible contortions and involuntary spasms. With flips and waves of its tree-branch hands, the Old Man sent him this way and that, dancing him like a marionette, dancing him across space, across the immaterial into a void of the absolute, and in this void of no light and no darkness anything could be done. It was a workshop of the universe. The entity thrust his leg high, bent it back like rubber yet he felt no pain. Pain did not exist here. Neither did joy. Maybe I don’t exist. Or so Smith thought as he stared up into a fuzzy kitchen light. The smell was gone. So was the butterfly. So was the Old Man. The clock: 9:32. A single minute had passed. Moments later, the police arrived.

231

Mike Robinson

0 The Bath The phone rings again. He ignores it again. The bath is ready. Smith steps quietly into the bathroom, disrobing as he nears the tub. There had once been such empowering separateness in his relation to everything: the stage before him, the players moving about at his command, the scenery and the stories shifting to the long-whistling zephyr of his indefatigable imagination. But it was all fake, all empty and he was part of that emptiness now, no more substantive, no realer, than his creations. Shakespeare had said: All the world’s a stage. He’d also said there were a limited number of plots. Fourteen, maybe. No. Maybe the Old Man was right. They knew about it. They knew about us, how special we were. We would change the world, Martin. It wasn’t writer’s block, it wasn’t a dry spell or the banality and loneliness of this apartment or this town or its people, or a demoralizing sense of cultural failing. 232

The Green-Eyed Monster Because without John Becker you are nothing. The phone stops ringing. He goes to the kitchen. The only positive side to all of this, he thinks, is that the answer is now very much crystallized. There had been a distant glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t run into such a revelation, especially since the police had let him off on self-defense. It had seemed, at least for a while, that fate still had plans for him. Until the Old Man, Grandfather, Geppetto, whatever the hell he, it, was called, put him to the final test. Now, standing here in the kitchen again, in the same spot where he’d collapsed exactly a week earlier, Martin Smith knows that had been nonsense. Everything had been nonsense. He opens a drawer and grabs a knife, then returns to the bathroom. The bathtub. Slips in. The water is warm, soothing, engulfing him to his throat. Smith sits for a moment, watching the last few thoughts wink out like stars in the eradicating light of dawn. Taking the knife, he begins etching his final message to the world in a series of jagged arcs and loops. Bits of crusty wall rain down, forming a tiny archipelago in the water. He finishes writing. There is something familiar about this scene. He has seen it before. Imagined it before. Written it before. Martin Smith takes the blade and presses it firmly to his right wrist. In one fluid motion he slices it, severing flesh and artery. Blood jets, splashing upon the rims of the tub and the surrounding walls. He closes his eyes. Life draining from him. Release. Almost orgasmic, a lightening of soul. His body slips, head tilting toward the message scrawled over the tub, as if in final acknowledgement: JON BEKR LIVES 233

Mike Robinson Life ceases in Martin Smith as Detective Porter is minutes from his building. And yet. And yet, Smith perceives no change about him or his position. He does not lose consciousness but gains it, though he senses nothing of a physical body. There is nothing. Everything elemental of him, everything of blood and clay, has returned its deadweight to the world, which is now the only thing in drastic flux. He remains still as everything, yes, as everything else transmutes: walls are sandblown into wind, the fundament of earth melts, bleeds, is released into the empty miasma of its essence. Death is not his death but all else’s. Death is not an individual force but one applied outwardly, ripping asunder all that was prior. I am larger than myself. But he is not very large. He scrambles in the scrimmage of another’s thoughts. He is placed at discretion upon the chessboard. There is a sense of coming into largeness but it is not his own, rather an ethereal plaster encasing him. Grandfather has never been so close. There are others forming here, in this mix—voices, spirits, energies, whatever they are. They are all bubbling and they are all becoming. He himself is an old generation. An outmoded edition. Becker is there too. And somewhere distant, a newborn screams. A new one. And soon the crying ceases, as the infant leaves this new place to enter the old, the realm from which he came, the realm where he was once Martin Smith, the creator.

234

Thank You For Reading © 2012 Mike Robinson http://www.cryptopia-blog.com Curiosity Quills Press http://curiosityquills.com Please visit http://curiosityquills.com/reader-survey/ to share your reading experience with the author of this book!

About the Author

Mike Robinson has been writing since age 7, when his story Aliens In My Backyard! became a runaway bestseller, topping international charts (or maybe that was also just a product of his imagination). He has since published fiction in a dozen magazines, literary anthologies and podcasts. His debut novel, Skunk Ape Semester, released by Solstice Publishing, was a Finalist in the 2012 Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Currently he's the managing editor of Literary Landscapes, the official magazine of the Greater Los Angeles Writers Society (glaws.org). His supernatural mystery novel The Green-Eyed Monster wss published by Curiosity Quills Press on October 23rd, 2012. cryptopia-blog.com (Official Blog) twifalls.webs.com (Official Site) facebook.com/mike.robinson.758 (Facebook) @MikeSkunkApe (Twitter)

236

Please visit CuriosityQuills.com for more great books!

The God Particle, by Rod Kierkegaard, Jr. Ricardo Alomar’s four best friends are discovered dead at the launch of their high-tech start-up company. The police can find no cause for their mysterious deaths, but as their bodies start disappearing from the morgue, Ricardo is drawn into the investigation of his friends’ strange behavior and their even stranger invention: A kind of time-displacement generator utilizing the Higgs boson — the socalled “God Particle”.

Shadow of a Dead Star, by Michael Shean As an agent of the Industrial Security Bureau, it is Thomas Walken’s duty to keep the city of Seattle free of black-market technology. But when a trio of living sex-dolls he has recently intercepted are stolen from custody, Walken finds himself seeking a great deal more than just contraband. He will be forced to use his skills and preternatural instincts to try and keep his career, his freedom, and his life.

237

Please visit CuriosityQuills.com for more great books!

The Department of Magic, by Rod Kierkegaard, Jr. Magic is nothing like it seems in children’s books. It’s dark and bloody and sexual – and requires its own semi-mythical branch of the US Federal Government to safeguard citizens against everpresent supernatural threats. Join Jasmine Farah and Rocco di Angelo – a pair of wet-behind-the-ears recruits of The Department of Magic – on a nightmare gallop through a world of ghosts, spooks, vampires, and demons, and the minions of South American and Voodoo gods hell-bent on destroying all humanity in the year 2012.

Bone Wires, by Michael Shean In the wasteland of commercial culture that is future America, police are operated not by government but by private companies. In Seattle, that role is filled by Civil Protection, and Daniel Gray is a detective in Homicide Solutions. What used to be considered an important – even glamorous – department for public police is very different for the corporate species, and Gray finds himself stuck in a dead end job. That is, until the Spine Thief arrives.

238

Please visit CuriosityQuills.com for more great books!

Automatic Woman, by Nathan L. Yocum There are no simple cases. Jacob “Jolly” Fellows knows this. The London of 1888, the London of steam engines, Victorian intrigue, and horseless carriages is not a safe place nor simple place… but it’s his place. Jolly is a thief catcher, a door-crashing thug for the prestigious Bow Street Firm, assigned to track down a life sized automatic ballerina. But when theft turns to murder and murder turns to conspiracy, can Jolly keep his head above water? Can a thief catcher catch a killer?

The Devil You Know, by K.H. Koehler Not only does the devil have an only begotten son, but he’s currently residing in the rural town of Blackwater in northeast Pennsylvania. Semi-retired from law enforcement, the handsome, if cynical, Nick Englebrecht becomes quickly caught up in a local missing child case that seems mundane on the outside, but when the sheriff requests his help as a psychic detective to help find the missing girl, his off-the-books investigation quickly leads him to some terrible truths about life, love and the universe as we know it. And if that isn’t bad enough, the angels have begun an ethnic cleansing of all beings with demonic blood. Of course, Nick is at the top of their to-do list.

239