Body of Immorality (33 page)

Amy couldn’t answer these questions, of course. She
refused
to answer. She was still trying to accept it, to get it into her head that it had actually happened, that it had been real and not a dream, that her Charlie—her beautiful Charlie—was gone forever, the life they had…

Her mind, however, refused.

She had no explanation, nothing to make sense out of what she’d seen. It just happened, like UFOs or ghost ships. Charlie Tenebrook would remain a phenomenon, forever part of the unexplained.

Amy stomped her feet. She felt like a child, throwing ridiculous tantrums, trying to understand. It wasn’t fair! She drove herself crazy
trying
to understand. No matter what she heard—how many accosted her, asking her questions—she could not bring herself to understand. She could not bring herself to
want
to understand.

Amy shook her head. She sat on the couch in her apartment going through the ritual: sadness, guilt, remorse. It wasn’t your average loss, of course. Charlie’s death hadn’t been cardiac arrest, a drunk driver hitting him. He hadn’t overdosed on drugs. What happened went beyond logic and reality and into a more difficult, unexplainable realm of madness and nightmare. How could God—if He was up there—allow such a thing?

A whiskey and water in a short glass sat on the coffee table. The ice had melted long ago. She wanted to get drunk, to get as inebriated as possible. If she could put distance between the real world and the numbness of forgetting, she’d be okay, but she’d had only two drinks in under an hour because of the tears. She could hardly take a drink and find the glass
because
of the tears. They wouldn’t stop. At the rate she was going, she didn’t think she’d
ever
stop crying, and she hated all these fucking tears!

There was blood on her hands when she reached for the tissue beside the whiskey. It made a circular patch on the carpet at her feet.

Blood by the gallon. Blood by the tub-full. Blood by the buckets gushed from her eyes. It splashed her satin blouse, her pretty white skirt, and brand new shoes.

Amy White shrieked in horror…

Standing behind her, Red Joe placed a hand on her shoulder, pleased to make her acquaintance.

“Ah, this ain’t
nothing,”
he said, leaning close. “Believe me baby, it’s better if you just accept it. Ask Charlie. Watch.
You’ll
see.”

Red Joe paused for a minute and looked toward the ceiling.

“Are you ready?” he asked, smiling. “Yes. I thought so.”

In her mind, Amy saw a stage, a crowd of people taking their seats. A hush moved over the crowd…

Red Joe motioned to a spot at the back of the theater, grinning like a maniac. Nodding, he pushed Amy aside, and took center stage.

Sometimes, they just needed a little persuading. A little guidance. After all, the seat of Entertainment was not for the amateur, let alone the faint of heart.

The last thing Amy saw was the curtains parting. Ironically, it reminded her of the Red Sea, a deep vermilion stain drowning out the rest of the world. With it, Red Joe’s voice rose in stentorian volume:

“
Lights, please!”

Richard Korbett

In the beginning, the beast…

Richard Korbett was a man of many vices. His past was soaked in blood. If not for the choices he’d made, he could’ve been ‘normal.’ He could’ve
believed,
bought birthday cards, visited family and friends, accepted charity: pies, cookies, enjoy a quaint visit for an idle chat. He could’ve loved and accepted love.

He could’ve been all these things and more. But the beast had power, and it finally caught up with him.

He was a law-abiding citizen. At forty-six, he went to work everyday, never called in sick, and was never late. He was a good employee.

His landlord, Mr. Fyuesterman, referred to him as, “A quiet neighbor. Always keeps to himself. Richard never complains.” He was, in the words of Mr. Fyuesterman, “the perfect tenant.” He paid his rent three days in advance every month.

“Richard,
thank
you,” Mr. Fyuesterman always said about the rent. “I appreciate you being on time. I never have a problem with you.”

His neighbor, Miss Dall, liked him as well, at least at first:

“Oh,
hi,
Richard!” she’d say.

Miss Dall was a short, cheerful woman. She lived across the hall with three cats in number 36. She brought Richard homemade cookies and chocolate pies on occasion, but she was worried about him. He spent all his time alone. He never had people over, and the way Richard greeted Miss Dall always troubled her. His smile looked forced, as if it pained him. Miss Dall wondered what Richard did at night. After a time, she stopped bringing pies over. Richard had begun to frighten her.

Alarm bells rang in the minds of various tenants throughout The Coachman (a modest apartment complex in downtown Denver) when they saw Richard. He was a haunted man; he owned a stare of soulless black that gazed from a lifeless face.

It was no secret Richard liked to drink. Some suggested A.A., but he laughed at the idea. His problems were greater than alcohol, he’d said. He could go a long time without touching the stuff. Months, sometimes. Once, he’d gone an entire year-and-a-half.

Throughout The Coachman, Richard Korbett became a regular topic of conversation:

“Something happened to him,” some said. “He’s just trying to get over it.”

“He needs to find a nice young girl,” others said. “He should start going to church.”

Richard had found his girl, and his church came in fifths.

He discovered alcohol at the age of fifteen. He’d gone to a party when he was a sophomore. A friend had invited him. Richard did not have to acquire a taste for drink; he liked it right away, not only the taste, but the way it made him feel. Life’s confusion became tolerable. It prolonged his years. Drinking kept the horrors at bay, the beast from gobbling him up. Drinking—in a strange twist of fate—had saved Richard’s life.

Lately, he’d retreated to his ‘old self.’ He was there now. No persuasion, no ribbing, just a simple nod.

Yes, dear. Of course, dear. Anything you say, dear.

He was sitting on the floor, shirtless, his back against the entertainment center. He was wearing unwashed jeans with crusts of vomit embedded in the denim. A fresh urine stain at his crotch sent a sharp, acidic stench to his nose. He wasn’t concerned. Richard’s prerogative was to keep a full supply of alcohol, sit in the leisurely bliss of catatonia, and tip the bottle back. Life was a playground of horrors, and it was his duty to forget.

The ‘old self’ had been battling the ‘new self.’ He didn’t know which one he liked better.

Oh, yes you do,
he thought.
You like the old self. You like the old self
much
better.

True. Richard liked the ‘old’ self, the one who pushed the ‘new’ Richard aside.

His concern came with forgetfulness. Childhood, he thought. How much of his childhood could he drown in alcohol?

He was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, a perfect, antisocial outcast. He had oblivion, nothing more.

Goodbye responsibility, priority, care
.

At one time, a violent Richard had come to the foreground. It happened with Danine, his girlfriend at the time. More than ten years ago already. He couldn’t remember why he’d gotten so mad. They’d gone to dinner one night. Afterwards, all he remembered saying was, “
Get in the goddamn car!”
He’d grabbed her by the arm, yanking her shoulder from its socket. Danine’s arm had popped. He’d asked her a simple question was all. He couldn’t remember. The tone she’d used to answer back had infuriated him. “
I’ll pull your goddamn hair out of your fucking head in clumps! I’ll shatter that pretty porcelain face all over the sidewalk, if you don’t get a move on! Do you want me to spell it out for you in blood?”

Danine had been terrified, eyes wide with fear. No one had ever talked that way to her before. Richard tried calling her later in the week, but Danine never answered. It was as if he couldn’t remember acting like an ass. Danine had her number changed. She’d left a message for him at work. If he tried calling of stopping by, she’d call the police. She’d had to go to the hospital because of her arm.

No big deal, Richard thought. He had more important things to worry about.

The beast smiled in the dark, not saying a word. It nodded, agreeing—virtually complacent—and breathed shadows deep into its lungs.

*

His current state began on Monday, April 17
^th
, at 7:34 a.m. He was getting ready for work. He opened all the windows in his apartment, letting in the fresh air.

“Man! It’s a
beautiful
day!” he said.

Richard went to the bathroom for one last look at himself in the mirror before heading out the door. He straightened his tie, looked at his clean-shaven face, and rubbed a hand over his wet, black hair. He smiled to himself. In his opinion, he wasn’t a bad looking guy. He considered himself handsome.

But when he opened the front door, he saw the woman standing in the doorway. She'd been waiting for him.

The world slipped away: priority, responsibility, care. In a flash, Richard was transported to a time long ago. He was a boy again, even though he was forty-six and on his way to work. Terror gripped his windpipe and squeezed when he saw her. He’d not be taking showers for a long time now. Something to do with,
Psycho.
For a second (as he stood with the door open, looking at her), he was vulnerable and naked, standing in the shower as a boy. The woman took a step toward him, bringing a knife into view.

The colors faded from the hallway. Everything turned black and white like in the movie.

She was not an ex-girlfriend, the traumatic memory of his mother…

She is all that and more,
Richard thought.

He nodded to himself, accepting the dark twist without a squabble. As a child, he was obedient. He proved his faithfulness.

He closed the door, though he never shut her out of his sight forever. She was, in fact, the demon from his past, somehow related
to
the beast. She was here to stay.

She can walk through walls,
he thought.

Back inside the apartment (forgetting about work, his day, his life), Richard smiled, happy to return to his ‘old self.’ She held sway, played him like a puppet. He did everything but pop his thumb in his mouth and suck.

He did not call into work, telling them he was sick. He went to the window and pulled the drapes over the bright sunshine he’d let in just minutes ago.

It’s fun not caring about the world,
he thought.

It
was
funny. Despite the horror, it was a relief when she appeared.

Richard was not surprised to find he’d missed her.

*

Afterwards, he drove the Chevy Rabbit to the liquor store, purchasing all the booze he could. He emptied his entire checking account. The employees thought he was having a party. They helped him load his car with cases of cheap vodka and whiskey. One of them had asked him about it.

“No, it’s all for me,” Richard said.

The liquor store attendants looked at one another, raised their eyebrows, and shrugged.

“It’s your liver,” one of them said.

He drove home, slipped the chain into place, and bolted the door. He set the boxes on the kitchen counter. He did not waste a second. He broke the seal of the first bottle and drained a fourth of it in seconds flat. He was anxious to get started. The warm
swoosh
of alcohol moved through him, easing, pacifying, calming his thoughts.

*

Alcoholism had its joys, of course: layers of filth, like a carpet on his tongue, the cold sweats, body trembling, a painfully swollen brain, and that ceaseless ache throughout his bones. He enjoyed smoking now, too. It simply added to oblivion. An entire bottle of aspirin wouldn’t dull that jagged pain behind his eyes. He’d tried all that before. Nothing but alcohol helped. Nothing but alcohol
worked.

He’d gone to therapy before, too. He was smarter than his therapists. He’d taught
them
a few things about life and how to survive.

Richard needed time to think, put things in demented perspective. That’s why he was here now: back against the entertainment center, tipping the bottle back. He was a puppet, and
she
pulled the strings.

Drink,
he thought.

Escape from the horror. He’d never meant to
become
an alcoholic. Every drinker said so. But drinking, anymore, rang with tones of destiny.

True love, not so lost. Sit beside me. I’ll make room for you. There’s always room for you.

He never pushed her away completely. She was family, the best of lovers, the woman in the doorway…

Aren’t women and drink the same,
he thought?
Another lover? A testimony to my manhood? She is nothing without me, and I can be nothing without her.

He would live and die by that alone. Death was inevitable, painless, the woman seemed to say.

Just don’t think about it,
Richard told himself.

What else was the bottle for? Hadn’t someone said you drink to forget? Jackie Gleason?

The irony was that drinking hadn’t killed or maimed him. Drinking had kept him from going mad.

Richard closed his eyes. A hulking beast with blood red eyes—slavering in the shadows—crouched lower, studying his every move.

Those are not your claws and teeth. That is not your drool, wanting me.

Soon, he’d be in pieces, torn apart, drawn-and-quartered on the living room floor. He didn’t know how he knew this, but he did.

This is my corner to hide, my refuge. I’m safe under drink’s spell. This is when I have the
most
control. This is how I…survive.

He hid in dark corners made by fables, fairy-tale things chuckling as he went mad. Elves sprinkled magic powder on his nose.

Richard laughed in the fantasy.

Anymore, he didn’t think about fairies or magic powder. He thought about her, that
un
fairy-tale-like princess, that benevolent little benefactor made
not
from milk and honey...