Snake Eyes Page 12
Somberly, they nodded.
Gina said, “Say hello, then!—where are your manners?”
Joel mumbled, “H’lo, Mr. Sears,” eyes downcast, and Kenny mumbled, “—’lo, Mr. Sears,” and Lee Roy Sears mumbled, “H’lo,” too, smiling a slit of a smile, his eyes glaring. But Joel and Kenny, shivering, did not smile back.
The O’Meara twins weren’t sullen from waiting so long for Mommy, in fact they were overjoyed, and relieved, to see Mommy, but, no, they weren’t going to smile at Lee Roy Sears, the black man, they just weren’t.
Not that Mr. Sears was black really. Not his skin, or his features, or anything about him really, except his hair.
Only seven, Joel and Kenny were too young to bend to the social obligation to smile, or even to appear to smile, when their hearts weren’t in it.
And Mr. Sears’s face was strange, even stranger than before, a queer coarse waxy-white, and his eyes damp, glassy, hard, and staring: as if there was some secret between them and him, or was meant to be.
Though, he smiled. He was trying to be friendly wasn’t he?
As always when she was late picking them up Gina peppered the twins with questions as she drove. “You weren’t waiting for Mommy too long, were you?” she asked brightly, smiling at them through the rearview mirror, and, shy in the black man’s presence, Joel mumbled, “No, Mommy,” and Kenny, a bit louder, “No, Mommy.”
“Were you playing with some of your nice friends, in the playground?”
“No, nobody!”
“Oh, now, I’m sure you were!—weren’t you?”
Gina swung her car along Crescent Avenue, and so back to Mount Orion Street, which would have been a direct route back to the Dumont Center except, as if impulsively, she turned right on Highland Street, sped up the hill, and braked to a stop in front of a handsome brownstone office building. Prominent on the building was a brass sign reading DOBERMAN & SCHATTEN, ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
“Excuse me, I’ll be right back!” Gina cried breathlessly.
Gina left the car keys swinging in the ignition and hurried up the walk. In her wake, in the car, there was a profound and embarrassed silence, and the airy sweetness of her perfume.
Lee Roy Sears in the front seat, in an attitude of sheer surprise, and Joel and Kenny in the back, blinking, puzzled, staring after Gina O’Meara, who would be gone, somewhere in that brownstone building, for a mysterious half-hour.
At first, the pained silence prevailed.
Then, an odd whispering began.
It wasn’t the twins—it must have been Lee Roy Sears.
He had not turned to face them, but he was leaning over to the left, to peep at them through the rearview mirror, so that, looking up to see him, those eyes, those dark-glassy staring eyes, they felt a single shiver pass over them, from Kenny to Joel, and from Joel back to Kenny. But was it a game?—for Lee Roy Sears made his eyes bug out a bit, to be funny, and wriggled his eyebrows (which were almost a single eyebrow, growing dark and tangled over the bridge of his nose), and the twins couldn’t help but giggle, in surprise and mirth.
And, still not facing them, Lee Roy Sears giggled too, a high-pitched hissing sound. And this made the twins giggle all the more, as if they were being tickled.
Then, suddenly, as if it were coming from all sides, there was a hoarse whisper, “—Hey li’l fuckers, hey hey hey li’l fuckers,” and Joel and Kenny froze, jamming their fingers into their mouths and watching the black man in the little mirror, who was watching them, only his eyes were visible, shiny like the surface of the pond behind the house when the light was fading and the water was black, black and opaque, not like water at all but like something else.
The boys were wondering if they’d heard right?—“Hey hey you li’l fuckers you wanna see something?—a secret thing nobody else can see?—yah?”
Joel stared blinking at the eyes in the mirror, and Kenny stared.
The black man in the mirror.
Was it a game, meant to be funny?—the whisper that was urgent, teasing, threatening, playful?—they shivered again, side by side in the back seat, arms pressed tight together.
“Li’l fuckers wanna see a secret, huh?”
Shyly the boys nodded, nodded in the same instant, as if mesmerized, oh yes.
“It’s a secret, though—got it? Like, it’s death if you tell anybody, no Mommy and no Daddy, got it, li’l fuckers?”
Lee Roy Sears drew a forefinger swiftly across his throat. Joel giggled shrilly, and Kenny giggled shrilly.
So Lee Roy Sears swung around to face them, and he was smiling, unbuttoning the left sleeve of his shirt, and rolling it up to show them something on his forearm, smacking his mouth as if chewing gum, “Hey hey hey better not look, li’l fuckers, if you’re scared!”
And he held it out toward them.
A snake: black and gold-spangled, and glaring gold eyes, and a forked tongue, and fangs—coiled, preparing to strike.
The boys lost control and threw themselves backward, screaming, panicked (the snake was wriggling, it was alive), Joel clutching at Kenny, and Kenny half-sobbing clutching at Joel, until Lee Roy Sears coaxed them in a daddy’s voice to calm down, calm down: “Nah—Snake Eyes won’t bite, kids. Won’t bite you.”
Lee Roy Sears glanced worriedly outside, hoping no one had seen.
Hoping their mother wouldn’t suddenly appear, hurrying back to the car.
He saw the little boys were scared, as scared probably as they’d ever been by anything, Snake Eyes was pretty scary when you were unprepared, and who could be prepared, the first time, for Snake Eyes?—but he saw too that they were hoping to be told not to be scared.
He saw (and this was a theme he wanted to portray in his art) that the seven-year-olds, like fully grown men and women, wanted to be coaxed out of fear even while knowing that there was reason, and good reason, to be scared shitless. So he said, chuckling, like an uncle or somebody, somebody they could trust, “Nah, Snake Eyes ain’t gonna bite you, ain’t gonna sink his fangs in you, don’t bite anybody unless I give the signal.”
So, after a few minutes, the twins were able to examine Snake Eyes, still apprehensive, wide-eyed, as Lee Roy Sears told them a little about Snake Eyes, how Snake Eyes had come to him in a dream-vision in the heat of a jungle far, far away from the United States and Mount Orion, New Jersey—so far away it might as well be in another world. “He don’t show himself, much. I mean, there’s reason for him to stay hid.”
Summoning up his courage, Joel asked, “Is he a tattoo, Mr. Sears?” and Lee Roy Sears laughed and said, ‘He is, yah, and he isn’t, y’know why?” and the boys shook their heads in wonderment, and Lee Roy Sears said, tensing his muscles so it looked again as if Snake Eyes was on the very brink of striking, and the boys couldn’t help but shrink back, “—’cause Snake Eyes possesses the power of life and death over all persons in his vicinity, that’s why.”
Lee Roy Sears was pleased with the O’Meara twins’ reaction; he saw that they respected Snake Eyes, and they respected him, and that was good.
All his life, and especially since being sent away to Nunsford, and now, as a “parolee” accountable to authority not his own, Lee Roy Sears raged in his heart that he was not respected as was his due.
A man requires dignity, and self-respect, and he cannot be blamed for his actions should such be denied.
He was enjoying himself, showing Snake Eyes to the boys, basking in their fearful attention, but he had to be careful (he was keeping a sharp eye) that she didn’t come out and discover them.
Someday, maybe, he’d reveal Snake Eyes to her, but only at the proper time.
Gina O’Meara: the bitch: teasing him as she’d done, and knowing it: ashy-blond cunt he knew the type.
And right now she was in there (he knew, he knew!) fucking some guy, she’d be breathless and apologetic returning, and they’d have to swallow it, that shit, Lee Roy Sears and her own kids, he knew the type.
You can fuck and fuck and fuck them a
nd they scarcely take heed so it’s more than just fucking the bitches require, yes but she was nice to him wasn’t she, and kind, and generous, don’t forget how generous, her and Mr. O’Meara both, like saints they were, no matter they were rich and could afford to be generous and Lee Roy Sears was shit on their shoes, the point is that Lee Roy Sears was a man with a true mission, an artist, already recognized and rewarded for his artistic talent. The precious flame that burned within must be maintained, he would make no mistakes this time.
So he rolled his shirt sleeve back down, and buttoned his cuff, warning the boys that it was a secret and it’s death if you tell and they certainly weren’t going to tell, oh no! oh no! so he was feeling pretty good, relieved too, thinking how these American-blond kids were nothing like the native kids he’d blasted away.
The first glimpse he’d had of the O’Meara twins, he’d flashed onto the native kids, but that was erroneous: they were dark-haired, and chinky-yellow-skinned, sort of like rats there in the mud, half-drowned, and in any case Lee Roy Sears hadn’t meant to blast them, he’d meant just the adults, but he’d lost control, and anyway he had not been the only guy to lose control, the hell with feeling bad.
He’d had enough of feeling bad. There was a shimmering moment when feeling bad turned inside-out to feeling good he’d have to concentrate on. That meant his art.
The promise too was no danger with medication twice daily except: what if the dosage had to be increased without Lee Roy Sears being informed?—you had to trust the doctors, who didn’t give a shit.
One of the twins asked, “Mr. Sears?—did you ever kill anybody?” and the other giggled, and Lee Roy Sears laughed too, though a bit surprised by the question, and by the sobriety of the question, and he said, innocently, “Nah—not me!”
IV
1
Said Janet O’Meara, smiling, raising her voice to be heard over the genial buzzing of the crowd, “Isn’t it a delightful coincidence, that CBS should send me here! That, on this beautiful June day, I should find myself here!”
The occasion was a cocktail reception for the Friends of the Dumont Center, on June 21, at which Lee Roy Sears and three of his art-therapy students were being honored. Michael O’Meara was taking Janet around and introducing her to his friends and acquaintances not as his sister, or not as his sister primarily, but in her professional role as television interviewer and filmmaker. She had been assigned to do a documentary piece on Lee Roy Sears for a CBS series titled “Community Watch,” which was broadcast on Sunday mornings, and, in her ebullient, cheerful way, she was making much of the coincidence that she, Michael O’Meara’s sister, should have been assigned a story on a subject so close to Michael’s heart; a story that, in fact, owed its very existence to Michael’s efforts. “Of course,” Janet said, “it’s an absolutely irresistible subject for television, and for ‘Community Watch’ in particular. ‘Death Row inmate saved from execution’—‘prison rehabilitation’—‘Vietnam veteran’—‘therapy through art.’ It’s upbeat and encouraging and it happens to be true.”
Michael said, trying not to sound reproving, “Yes, Janet, but we don’t want to overwhelm Lee Roy with attention, so soon—we don’t want to appear to be exploiting him. He’s already been interviewed by local papers.”
“‘Exploiting him’?—what on earth do you mean?” Janet asked, smiling quizzically at Michael as if he’d said something preposterous, and glancing at others for corroboration. “He wants his story told. He’s a man with a mission, he’s remarkable.”
“Well, yes,” Michael said uneasily, “but all this is happening so quickly. I wonder why you didn’t wait a few months, for your program? Until Lee Roy was a little better adjusted, and he and his students had more work to exhibit.”
Janet spoke breathlessly, laying a hand on Michael’s arm to forestall further comment from him. She’d pushed her glasses with the large round maroon-tinted lenses up on her head, the wire frames hooked around her ears, and this underscored her look of youthful vigor and impatience. “Of course, Michael, ideally, yes—I agree, and so does the show’s producer. Except—one of our competitors would beat us to the story. And the art Lee Roy and the others have produced so far is, well—striking. The segment will only be twenty minutes long so we wouldn’t have much time for that aspect of it anyway; the focus is on Lee Roy Sears’s situation, his courage, his resolve. I know, with your busy schedule, you never watch television, Michael”—this uttered in a wry, mildly reproachful tone—“but ‘Community Watch’ highlights people who have overcome obstacles, primarily. They needn’t be geniuses, or ‘successful’ in conventional terms. I would think that you, of all people, would be enthusiastic—your friend Mr. Somerset is!”
Why, now that Janet had grown up, now that she clearly was, not Michael O’Meara’s adoring young sister, but a woman of some achievement, and much ambition, did she seem so frequently to misunderstand him?—why, when they saw each other, did Michael fall into a pattern of defending himself? He said, maintaining an air of affability, as if that hand on his arm wasn’t a bit insulting, “I’m enthusiastic, Janet, of course. It’s just that I wish we could all go more slowly. Lee Roy has certainly made progress in the past eight weeks or so, but it hasn’t been easy, adjusting to—”
“But that’s part of what we discuss. We talked about it yesterday, and we’ll talk more about it now. A parolee’s re-entry into society. Into our world, which we take for granted, as if it were the only world. We have two hours of footage already; Lee Roy told us some frank, fascinating things, about having been a ‘casualty of institutions.’ Once he gets talking, he talks!” Janet squinted toward Sears and his students, on the far side of the crowded lobby, where blindingly bright lights were shining; the camera crew was nearly set up. “You’ll see—you’ll all be amazed, I think—when the program is broadcast.”
Janet was moving away, and Michael called after her, “—Two hours? And you’re going to do more? For only twenty minutes of television time?”
Janet called back, as if this were an answer to his question, “The interview will be edited, of course. That’s what film is all about—skillful editing.”
Michael followed Janet’s broad shoulders and high-held head across the crowded lobby, as much to avoid conversations with certain of his friends as out of genuine curiosity about the interview. He was feeling, this Saturday evening, unusually tense; yet tired too, for it had been a long week—a malpractice suit, delayed for years, had at last come to trial, and if Michael O’Meara and his assistants did not argue their case persuasively, Pearce Pharmaceuticals might be liable for as much as $10 million, payable to the widow of a thirty-year-old man who had crashed his speeding car on the Garden State Parkway after taking twice the dosage of tranquilizers his prescription indicated, and drinking hard liquor. (The suit was absurd, the widow’s claim unjust, yet Michael could not help but feel sorry for her; and he worried that others, for instance the jury, might feel sorry for her too.)
So many people, attractive men and women, crowded into the marble-floored lobby of the Dumont Center!—a blooming buzzing confusion of the kind that, these past few years, had begun to weary Michael O’Meara, though, as he told himself, he liked his friends; and quite understood the necessity of such large celebratory occasions. Like many gregarious souls Michael imagined himself a recluse, in his innermost being—he might have said, vaguely, that he did not feel he deserved the company of others. He had work to do, he had serious thinking to do, yes and repenting too, if only he knew what it was, and how to discharge it.
That old throbbing wish, edged with guilt, yet the satisfaction too of guilt, that he be elsewhere—anywhere, but elsewhere!
But there was this reception to get through (it was only seven o’clock: another hour to go), and, afterward, the O’Mearas were having Lee Roy Sears to their home for dinner; and Janet would be joining them, since she was a house guest. Though Michael truly looked forward to the evening, thinking of it, hopefully, as a sort
of family evening, he did feel uncharacteristically tense, and he did feel tired. Drinking wine wasn’t a good idea in such circumstances, he knew, especially this strong red wine that was sure to give him a headache, yet he found himself draining his glass and cheerfully accepting another from a uniformed waiter who came by with a tray.
And where was Gina?—Gina in her new raw silk purple sheath, with the stylishly short skirt, and the very sheer mauve stockings? She’d been at Michael’s side earlier, with Janet, and had then drifted off, as she did at such gatherings.
Michael scanned the room, but did not see her.
Unless—was that Gina, in a farther corner, laughing with a man who resembled Marvin Bruns from the rear?
No. Not Gina. Another woman.
Not that Michael O’Meara was seriously looking for his wife: he wasn’t.
That would be demeaning, and he wasn’t.
For he had no reason to be jealous, any more than Gina had reason to be jealous of him.
What a pleasant surprise it had been, Gina’s hospitality to Lee Roy Sears!—not only had she volunteered to take him shopping two or three times, helping him to buy clothes and other necessities; she had even made appointments for him with a doctor, a dentist, an optician; she’d even taken him to her hair salon to have his crudely cut hair restyled. At first, Lee Roy had been frightened of virtually everything: riding in a car, walking on the street, crossing at traffic lights; talking to salesclerks, buying things, ordering food from menus in restaurants. “It’s as if the poor man really had died, and has come back from the dead,” she’d said, with a happy little shiver.
Michael too kept in contact with Lee Roy Sears, of course, and made it a point to drop by the Dumont Center at least once a week when Sears was in his basement studio. He persuaded Gina to invite Lee Roy to dinner once a week, usually on Friday evening; this meant cutting back on the O’Mearas’ social life, but Gina had not strenuously objected. Like Michael, she’d come to think it important that Lee Roy Sears get to know a normal, happy American family, after all he had suffered of lovelessness and deprivation.