Faithless: Tales of Transgression Read online

  This trial will be for first-degree murder. Which is to say, it’s a capital case. A few years ago, New York state reinstated the death penalty, by lethal injection.

  As Rafe Healy passes by the defense counsel’s table, the defendant turns to stare at him. It’s the first time in the approximately ninety minutes we’ve been in this courtroom that the defendant, a muscular, near-bald man of about fifty, has roused himself to take such an interest. But Rafe, a vague dazed smile on his face, or a grimace of the lips that might be mistaken for a smile, makes it a point not to look at him.

  Not many jurors, Caucasians or persons of color (as we’re told they wish now to be called), are anxious to be assigned to this case. Downstairs the rumor circulated that it could last for weeks. And there’s a death-penalty trial that follows, if the verdict is guilty. I swear Rafe was actually praying, moving his lips during the voir dire as potential jurors were questioned one by one, a few retained in the jury box but most dismissed. Now Juror 93 is seated in the box being asked occupation? (“self-employed craftsman”—which makes a few people smile) and whether he’s associated in any way with the case, heard anything about it or believes he might be in any way disqualified to remain on the jury, and Rafe is staring pained at the judge, moving his lips but not speaking. I’m feeling, Jesus!—just so excruciatingly embarrassed for my cousin, and anxious for him; I’m worried as hell what he’s going to say. I can’t sit in judgment of any murderer. I am not the man. The way Rafe and I’ve worked it through, these past few days, less than a week but if feels like we’ve been together for a long, long time, there are times when murdering another human being isn’t just not-wrong but morally and ethically right. The law just can’t cover that. The judge rephrases his question, and again Rafe tries to answer, but can’t seem to speak; his face is mottled now like he’s got a sudden case of measles, and his eyes are glassy. “Mr. Healy, is something wrong? Mr. Healy?” the judge inquires, concerned; he’s a middle-aged man, friendly-seming most of the time though he’s been a little impatient with some of the jurors who’d clearly wanted to be dismissed, and now with Rafe he doesn’t know how to proceed. Is this juror just being difficult, to be excused; or is there something really wrong with him? I raise my hand like a kid in school and say, “Excuse me? Your honor? That man is my cousin and he’s kind of a—nervous type? He’s on medication, I think—probably he shouldn’t be here.” Now everybody’s staring at me.

  But it’s O.K. It’s the right, inspired thing. The judge contemplates me for a minute, frowning; then thanks me for the information, and calls Rafe over to speak with him in private. After a few minutes’ consultation (I’m watching Rafe’s earnest face and hoping to hell he isn’t uttering any sort of blunt truth, only just improvising a reasonable excuse to get him out of here) Juror 93 is formally dismissed for the day.

  In fact, it will be for the rest of the week. Rafe Healy is finished with jury duty, probably forever.

  For me, the remainder of the voir dire passes in a blur. I keep waiting for my number to be called, but it isn’t. By 5:20 P.M. the jury box is finally filled, twelve jurors and two alternates, and the rest of us are dismissed for the day.

  I’d been wondering if Rafe would be downstairs waiting for me, but he isn’t. But he’s in the parking lot, leaning against the fender of my car. “Jesus, Harrison! You saved me up there. Man, I’m grateful.” Rafe actually hugs me, it’s that weird. But I know I did the right, shrewd thing. It just seems as if my brain’s been revved up lately, like a machine working faster and more efficiently. Things falling into place.

  9

  IT’S PAST 8 P.M. by the time I get home, Thursday night. Should’ve called Rosalind from the bar but forgot. And the woman’s in my face as soon as I get in the door asking how’s the trial? and I say, Trial? What trial? (Goddamn, I’d kind of forgotten what I’d told her the other day) then—“Oh, that. It’s pretty ugly stuff like I said. I’ll be glad when it’s over.” Rosalind says, with that blinking little frown of hers that isn’t an accusation, but means to make you think along those lines, “I looked everywhere in the paper but I didn’t find anything. About any trial that sounded like yours.” I say, beginning to get pissed at her, “Look, Rosalind, I explained to you I can’t discuss it. Didn’t I explain to you I can’t discuss it?” and she says, “It’s got to be something terrible, for you to get drunk every night on the way home, like you haven’t done for twelve years,” and I say, “What? You’ve been counting?” as if it’s a joke, or I’m willing to grant her the possibility that it’s a joke. I’m an hour late for supper, but what the fuck, I get a beer from the refrigerator and Rosalind’s pulling at my arm in that way I don’t like, and she knows I don’t like, saying, “Don’t be ridiculous, Harrison, you can hint about it, can’t you? Is it a murder case? Some kind of murder case?” I’m drinking from the can saying nothing trying to walk away and the woman keeps pushing, “Is it a woman killed, and a man on trial? Is it some pervert? It isn’t a child killed, is it? And some disgusting pervert on trial? Just wink your left eye, honey, and give me a clue,” and I’m beginning to lose it, I say, “Look, we could both be in trouble if I breathe a word of this trial to anyone, including even my fellow jurors, before the judge gives permission, didn’t I explain that to you? Can’t you comprehend? Violating the judge’s order is called contempt of court and you can be jailed,” and she’s in my face persisting, in the way that she used to do with the boys, and that pisses me for sure, saying, “Harrison? Come on. Just wink your left eye if—” And I shove her back against the edge of the kitchen table, and she gives a little scream of pain and surprise and I’m out of the kitchen, I’m slamming out of the goddamn room, I’m shaking, muttering to myself words I’ve never heard myself speak aloud in this house, in such a voice, I’m thinking I’ve never touched my wife, or any woman, in anger in my life, never in anger like this, like flame, never until now and it feels right, it feels good, it feels goddamned good.

  TUSK

  As the knife fitted into Tusk’s hand, an idea fitted into his head.

  Look at me! Goddamn here I am.

  Exactly what he’d do, he’d make up when he got to the place it would be done in. Like a quick cut in a movie, you get to the place where something’s going to happen. Or when he saw the person, or persons, it would be done to. Like jazz, what’s it called, you make it up at the piano not toiling away for hours practicing scales and arpeggios and shitty Czerny exercises like he’d been made to do by his dad in the grim dead days before he was Tusk—improvisation it was called.

  That’s what Tusk was famous for, or would be famous for: improvisation. Forever afterward at East Park they’d be saying of Tusk, That Tusk! Man, he’s one cool dude! And over in the high school they’d be saying it, too.

  Exactly why they’d be saying this, shaking their heads in that way meaning no shit, blinking and staring at each other lost in wonderment, Tusk didn’t yet know. But he would.

  IT WAS his dad’s knife. Out of his dad’s desk drawer. A souvenir from ’Nam. You had to wonder how many gooks the knife had killed, right? Tusk grinned, contemplating such freakiness. They did the DNA and it’s more blood types than they can figure. Wei-ird!

  Probably it was going to happen at school, or after school. He was headed for school. His mom calling anxiously after him but he hadn’t heard, on his way out fast, like his new Nikes were carrying him. He’d been waking through the night charged with electricity like sex and it felt good. Liking how it was just an ordinary weekday, a Tuesday. Couldn’t remember the calendar month—April? May? It was all a background blur. It was just the pretext for what came next. On the TV news, that was what they’d be saying. Just an ordinary weekday, a Tuesday. At East Park Junior High in the small suburban community of Sheridan Heights. Thirteen-year-old Tusk Landrau is a ninth-grader here. Tusk hoped they wouldn’t get into the honors-student shit, anything to do with old Roland. Anyway he wasn’t going to plan much. He had faith the knife would guide him. When
he’d been Roland junior for twelve fucking years he’d planned every fucking thing ahead of time. Laid out school clothes the night before, even socks. Socks! Homework had to be perfect. Brushing his teeth, never less than ten vigorous brushings to each part of the mouth. Until the gums bled. Going down a flight of stairs he was compelled to hit each stair at the identical spot. Setting up the chess board to play with his friend Darian (when they’d been friends), he’d been compelled to set his pieces up from the back row forward as his dad had always done, always king and queen first. And his game planned as far as he could see it, until mist obscured his vision. Even wiping his tender ass with a prescribed length of toilet paper one two three four five rhythmic swipes. But no more! Now he was Tusk and Tusk moved in one direction only: fast-forward. He’d left every dork friend (like Darian) behind. His brain worked in quick leaps. Like Terminator III. Rapid fire and stop. Rapid fire and stop. Reload and pop! and stop. His brain was wired. His brain was fried. He didn’t have to smoke dope or pop pills (though sometimes for the hell of it Tusk did) to get to that place. His head was quick starts and stops and reloads and pops and bam! bam! bam! and stop. Tusk was a new master of the video arcade. The older guys admired him. One cool dude! That strung-out look, dilated eyes. Certain of the girls thought him sexy-looking. Wild. Hours rushed by in this state. It was an OK state. If he stepped sideways out of it he’d feel like shit enveloped his entire soul, so why? One direction only: fast-forward. Bam! bam! bam! and blip! on the screen. And the sweet explosion that follows.

  Now you see Tusk, now you don’t.

  Goddamn here I AM.

  WEIRD THAT a souvenir from ’Nam had been manufactured in Taiwan. Stainless steel with a seven-inch blade and an aluminum grip of some strange burnished metal or possibly mineral with a greenish glow. Tusk told kids his old man had fought in Vietnam but in fact his old man had been in intelligence probably just sitting on his ass until it was time to fly home again. He’d bought the knife probably from some dumb fuck who’d actually “seen action.” Tusk tested the blade by running it along his throat and wasn’t sure it was sharp as it needed to be. You get your chance you don’t want to fuck up, right? There was a fancy knife sharpener in the kitchen but better not. If his mom discovered him? A weekday morning? On his way to school? Why, Roland, what’s that in your hand? (Jesus, maybe he’d stick her!)

  So no way, Tusk’s out of here.

  Dad’s knife shoved in his backpack with his homework.

  IF THIS were a movie they’d pick up next on Tusk pushing into school like any other morning. A pack of round-head kids, muffin-face kids, kids looking more grade school than junior high. Tusk is the barracuda here. Not tall but slouched, lean like a knife blade, fawn-colored hair in flamey wings lifting from his face and that glistening in his skin like he’s got a fever. And shadowy hawk eyes that are greeny glow-in-the-dark like the Assassin in his new favorite video game XXX-RATED. He’s high but it’s a natural high. He’s a ticking time bomb but there’s no defusing. There are only a few cool dudes in the junior high like Tusk and they’re dressed hip-hop style in baggy T-shirts, baggy jeans and the cuffs dragging the floor, but Tusk’s mom won’t allow him to dress like a savage like some black ghetto gangster she says so he’s in just a regular T-shirt, regular but hole-pocked jeans and his flashy new Nikes. No ear studs, no nose ring. (Which the school dress code doesn’t allow anyway.) No punk streaked hair. That isn’t Tusk’s style. Tusk isn’t a goth or a freak, he’s the X in the equation.

  But shit, when there’s no camera you’re invisible.

  Tusk uses his elbows pushing some kids out of his way, you’d think the little jerk-offs would know to steer clear of him by now. Tusk says loudly, “It’s a damn good thing there’s no metal detectors in this school.” And some girls giggle like this is a joke?

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  AT HIS LOCKER Tusk couldn’t remember the fucking combination and so banged and kicked the fucking door. You can ask one of the nigger janitors but he’d done that just last week, and a few times before. So fuck that. Tusk was thinking almost he wishes there were metal detectors in the school like in some serious big-city school. He’d figure out some ingenious way to smuggle the blade in. That’d be the lead-in for the TV news that night: Despite metal detectors at East Park Junior High, a ninth-grader named Tusk Landrau succeeded in—After that, his mind goes blank as in a slow soundless explosion.

  Talking with some kids, and he’s sighting Alyse Renke down the corridor, there she is and it comes to him in a flash Stick Alyse. In her sweet cunt. Alyse is Tusk’s girl or had been or was gonna be, there’s been a kind of understanding between them off and on all this year. Alyse is fifteen years old, she’d been held back a year and Tusk is thirteen, he’d been promoted a year (back in grade school) which his mom hadn’t thought was a good idea but his dad pushed for. But Tusk is taller than Alyse and he knows he’s sexy in her eyes because she’d all but told him once. Alyse is, for sure, sex-y. What guys in high school call a cock-tease, and she hangs out with them so they should know.

  Fondling the knife through the nylon fabric of the backpack like it’s Tusk’s secret prick.

  Was a time he’d been Roland junior. Only twelve months ago but can’t remember old Roland except to know the guy was a nork, a dorf, a nerd, a geek, a jerk-off. That asshole Roland who busted his balls for his old man getting high grades the old man examined like something stuck to his shoe. Son, you know, and I know, this isn’t the best you can do.

  Baptized himself Tusk. Where this name came from, he didn’t know. Only a few kids called him Tusk but one day they all would. And his teachers too. (Alyse called him Tusk now. Wrapped her pink tongue around “Tusk” like it’s his sweet cock she’s sucking.)

  Staring at his skinny rib cage in the mirror still steamed up from his shower (Roland had a habit of hiding in the shower, water as hot as he could stand it, running it for ten minutes or more believing himself safe there, the door locked and you can’t hear voices in the shower unless they’re voices in your head and his mom wasn’t so likely to knock on the bathroom door if she heard the shower though of course she would if he hid in there too long) contemptuous of his puke-pale white-boy skin and the nipples that looked like raspberries and skinny as he was a little potbelly (visible if he stood sideways to the mirror and puffed it out in disgust) and dangling from peach-fuzz reddish hair at his groin a skinned-looking little penis maybe two inches long he’d try to hide from the other guys changing for swim class which he hated. Rol-lie! Wowee! Let’s see what Rollie’s got!

  But all this was before Tusk. In that totally weird space when he’d been Roland junior. And Roland senior had been what’s called alive.

  BUZZER SOUNDS for homeroom. Everybody slams their lockers and it’s tramp off to homeroom. Tusk slouches into his seat and lets the backpack fall gently. His usual posture and deadpan style. Miss Zimbrig reading announcements. Tusk is nervous. Tusk is excited. Tusk is sweating. Tusk is picking his nose. Needing to stoop to touch the knife hidden inside the backpack. Taking a chance maybe. He’s twitchy, compulsive. If Zimbrig calls out, Roland, what d’you have there? Please bring that backpack here. Checking for drugs and the nosy bitch is gonna get stuck like a pig in front of twenty-seven bug-eyed ninth-graders.

  Wow, you heard? Tusk Landrau whacked Zimbrig in homeroom this morning, I mean totally wasted the bitch, slitting her from throat to gizzard. His old man’s combat knife from ’Nam. Yeah, that Tusk is one bad dude!

  Except Zimbrig doesn’t notice Tusk. Or, noticing, wisely decides not to call him on the backpack. Zimbrig never knew Roland junior, through ninth grade it’s been Tusk and for sure she knows not to mess with him. Not even to joke with him like she does with some of the other cool dudes flashing skull tattoos on their biceps. (Tattoos are in violation of the East Park public school’s dress code. But these are just vegetable-dye tattoos, not the real thing done with needles which is the only kind of tattoo Tusk would wish for himself. None of that chickenshi
t for him!) Could be, Tusk runs into Zimbrig in the parking lot behind school, he’d get the signal Her! Stick her! She’s the one. But Tusk doubts he can get it up for an old bag his mother’s age. (Though Tusk is vague about his mom’s actual age. Makes him squirm, he’s fucking embarrassed. He’d read in the obituary that Roland Landrau Sr., investment attorney, had been forty-one when he’d bought the farm last year.) Tusk crouches down to check out the knife through the canvas fabric another time, man it’s there.

  PA announcements. Blahblahblah. Amazing to Tusk how shit-faced ordinary this day is. Not knowing he’s squirming in his seat like he’s got to go pee and picking his nose and there’s Zimbrig casting him dirty looks, an old nervous habit of his, of Roland’s, his mom scolded him in her anxious-hurt way for bad manners as she called it, and his dad slapped him for a dirty habit as he called it—Dis-gusting, Roland! Stop that at once. As if picking his nose till sometimes it bleeds was nerdy Roland’s dirtiest habit. And there’s Zimbrig definitely eyeing him through her black plastic glasses. Fuck, where’s he gonna wipe the snot? The bitch glaring at him so he wipes it on his jeans at the knee where it sort of splotches in with the other greenish stains and crud.