I closed the windows and locked the front and back doors at 3:00 in the morning. I snapped the phone connections out of the wall and moved the masks down into my father’s library. I slept with the money and the masks for a day and a half. People came to the front door but I didn’t answer. Once Ricky came around to the library window and called out my name. After he was gone I connected the phone long enough to call his mother’s house and leave a message on his answering machine.
“I’m okay, Ricky,” I said. “Just thinking about some stuff, so I need to spend some time alone.”
After that I disconnected the phone again and spent almost the next six weeks alone in my house. I only went out for pizzas and whiskey. And as time went by, I had less and less desire to see or speak to anyone.
I got letters, mainly from Bethany. Long yearning letters about wanting to see me and asking what was wrong. Ricky had told her about my phone message, and she said that she was worried about me. Every letter she sent was more intimate and more passionate. They were long letters, ten to twelve pages in a rolling cursive hand. I didn’t finish most of them but I got the gist. On week three she broke up with Ricky and wanted to see me. By week five she confessed her love.
“I don’t know how it happened, Charlie,” she wrote.
But I love you. I love you more than any other man I have ever known. There’s something so strong and gentle about you. You don’t care what people think and you just follow your own mind. I don’t know what you’re doing or thinking right now, but I hope when you’re ready that you will call me and see how deep I feel.
I got a letter from Narciss Gully too.
“Dear Mr. Blakey,” she wrote.
Enclosed you will find a check for six hundred dollars thirty-two. This is from the sale of four of your great-aunt’s paintings to the African American Experience Museum in Charleston, South Carolina. They were very excited to obtain these works and wish to buy more. First I thought that I would see how you felt you were being represented. I tried to get you on the phone, but there’s never any answer.
I also wanted to apologize about the way I acted at your house. I realized afterward that you were saddened over the loss of so much of your family’s history and that Geraldo and I were like invaders in your home. I would like to make it up to you by buying you a dinner sometime. I know it seems that we’re always at cross-purposes when it comes to dinner, but I’m sure we can make it work.
Please advise,
Narciss
I wrote a note in response:
Dear Ms. Gully,
You seem to be handling the sales well. Please continue as you see fit. I’ve been under the weather lately, but when I revive I will call.
Charles Blakey
Two women wanted to see me. At least they thought they wanted to. In my mind I had convinced myself that it was my unavailability that piqued their interest. If I dared to go out on one date, it would all be over.
I wanted to call both of them. I almost connected the phone two or three times every day. But when the moment came, I lost my nerve.
Bethany even came to the door one night. She rang and knocked and called out my name. But I didn’t answer. I just stood at the second-floor window at the top of the stairs and watched until she went away.
Those weeks, I felt, were just a small sample of my whole life up until that time—a waste. I slept and ate and drank according to my own clock. I didn’t shave or bathe hardly at all. I read for escape. If I was a brave man I would have probably killed myself.
I was everything that my uncle Brent said that I was, and less. Nothing ever changed and I never got any better or worse.
But then I received Anniston Bennet’s boxes, and the world I knew receded like an unfinished novel whose story had become overwrought and tedious.
The truck that came that afternoon was unmarked brown. The burly moving men had a knock that could not be ignored. I came down, expecting the police or maybe the fire department.
Both men wore green work pants and strap undershirts. They were white and at least one of them bore tattoos, but I think that they were both marked up with naked women, knives, and hearts.
“We’re supposed to put this delivery in the basement,” the blond and balding one said.
“Around the side,” I told him.
I was in swimming trunks and tennis shoes. We went around the side and down into the cellar. The men hefted six long flat boxes, one at a time, laying five of them on the floor in the rudimentary pattern of a flower (one flat box in the center and each of the other four parallel to one of the sides). The sixth flat box was laid up against the far wall. These boxes were very heavy. I could tell by the way the men strained when carrying them.
After that they brought in two dozen boxes of various sizes and weights. Finally they delivered a loose-leaf notebook that was vacuum sealed in shiny see-through plastic.
Upon handing me the notebook, the balding blond man said, “Well, that’s it.”
“Do I sign something?” I asked.
“No signatures, no tips,” he replied.
They turned away and climbed out of the cellar. I suppose that they got into their truck and drove back to a garage somewhere in Connecticut near where Anniston Bennet told me he lived. I didn’t see them out. Instead I sat on the stairs of the basement and began to read my instructions.
I don’t remember what I was doing when the movers came, but I do know I was suffering from a severe hangover. That was gone as soon as I saw the first handwritten page. The notebook contained about thirty of these pages. The paper was unlined but the words followed an equal and rigid pattern from side to side that resembled marching ants—they were so small and even in their progress.
THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE CELL was the headline of the first page. “OPEN BOX #1, THE CENTER FLAT, AND REMOVE THE CARDBOARD,” the sentence began. Following the instructions revealed a heavy slatted piece of metal that opened into a nine foot square. The flat steel bands, which were at least a quarter of an inch thick, became a latticework grid. A woman might have gotten her hands through one of the openings, or maybe a small-boned man, but a workman could only get a few fingers through one of those holes. At each angle there was a tie that the book told me would fit the tough-looking little padlocks that I also found in the box.
Box number nine held a heavy rubber mat that fit over the slats. Boxes two through five were the walls of the cage. These were exactly the same in design except that there was, of course, no matting. Also, number five had a small square opening in the front, three feet by three feet. Box number twelve contained the door that was to be fitted into this space. It had conventional bars and was designed to open by lifting it kind of like a portal that some people put on their back doors for pets. The roof of the cell was heavy, but it had been placed in such a way that, with a little oomph, I was able to push it over and on top of the nine-foot-cube cage.
All the walls and top and bottom had loops that fitted together and were designed to be held fast by the little padlocks. Each of the thirty-seven padlocks had a numbered key and a small brass key chain. There was a larger key chain onto which fit all of the smaller keys.
It took a couple of hours to construct the cage, or cell, as the instructions called it. The basement was large but that structure dominated the space. The tough metal slats gleamed as if they were brand new. I wondered what kind of animal Bennet would bring with him that was so dangerous it had to be kept in a cage.
There were more instructions but I was tired. I went to the house and ate some frosted cornflakes, and then, on a whim, I went back to the cellar, crawled into the cage, and stretched out. It was an odd sensation. I had never been in jail, but I thought that this was close to the experience of incarceration. The light around me seemed to be teeming, like insects in a swamp, because of the winking between the slats and spaces. The rubber was comfortable enough. There was a certain reassurance to the walls’ enclosure. I wondered if this cage was for Anniston’s rest. Maybe he was afraid that people would attack him in his sleep. Maybe he just liked the walls.
I wasn’t aware of falling into sleep. It was a deep, deep rest. The electric light moving across my face as I shifted around felt like a cloudy afternoon. The silence of my cellar spoke glowingly of eternal rest.
But when I woke up I was disoriented. I had forgotten where I was and the reality of the cell scared me. I jumped to my feet, trying to find a way out. But there was none. At least that’s what I thought.
I shouted for help, running from side to side, hitting the walls, but there was no give there. Finally I forced myself to sit down. I was shaking and wondering in spite of the situation how much of the shakes came from whiskey. Then I saw the door. It was down and unlocked, but the fit was snug and I had to push pretty hard to get out.
When I crawled out of the cage, the shakes got even worse. Cold and nauseous, I couldn’t rise from my knees. It came to me that I had never known real fear before, that I had lived a whole lifetime in complete safety. But there was no solace in that knowledge. I rolled up into a fetal ball and began to moan. Salty sweat trickled down between my lips. The shuddering music of a mothlike throbbing played along the nerves of my neck.
I don’t know how long I stayed like that. It may have been an hour or more. But when the fear subsided, I experienced a release so profound that even breath was an ecstasy of incredible joy.
It was dark outside. The evening was cool and clear. I got into my car and drove out to the beach past Bridgehampton and parked. I walked for hours down along the shore. The ocean played its music and the moon cast shadows through the clouds. My feet were bare and the wet sand was cold, but this was a good thing. I needed sensation in my body to counteract the fear that had not left but simply subsided.
Many miles down from my car, I came to an empty parking lot. It was 2:30 in the morning. There was a phone booth in the lot. Information gave up Bethany’s number, and she answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Bethany?”
“Hi, Charles,” she said, suddenly awake and happy.
I told her about the lot and she knew where it was. She didn’t ask how I got there or what I wanted.
“I’ll be right there,” she said.
I sat on the ground next to the phone and waited.
After nearly half an hour, a pair of headlights came down the long path from the road. A fog had rolled in by then. This softened the beams and tinged them with yellow. I stood up and began waving at the same time, wondering whether or not this late-night motorist was Bethany. The car veered toward me and I felt a catch in my lungs, fear that I was alone in the dark.
“Charles!” Bethany yelled out the window. “Charles!”
She applied the brakes, making the car squeal and slide on the gravelly asphalt. It was right out of an old movie, where the star-crossed lovers finally come together after war and famine and other cruel twists of fate.
A short black dress with no hose, lips a deep red, and every hair in place—that was Bethany.
“Baby,” she said. And then she took me in her arms. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I said and it wasn’t a lie. “I need to take a bath.”
It only took ten minutes to get back to her place. She kept asking what had happened, what was wrong, but I said I couldn’t talk yet. My teeth were chattering and I blamed the cold. She accepted my excuse. Maybe that really was why I couldn’t talk.
“My roommate’s gone back to Baltimore for the week,” she told me as she gave me a big towel.
I spent a long time under the shower. I washed completely, even brushed my teeth with a blue brush I found on the sink.
When I came out, draped in the towel, I was ready to talk but the time for talking was over for a while.
We kissed more than I had kissed in my whole life. Long wet osculations with hungry little grunts punctuating our pleasure. I kissed her breasts and her toes, the round crack of her buttocks and spaces behind her thighs. I massaged her shoulders while licking the back of her neck. When she moved back to watch me, I kissed the blankets on her bed.
After we had made love, I held tight.
“Charles,” she said. “Hold me.”
The hugging went on into the morning. It led to many more bouts of passion. I was making up for a starvation diet, broken in a fit of fear.
The next day I asked Bethany to take me back to my car.
“When will I see you?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll call you when all of this is over.”
“All of what?”
“I don’t know what, okay? I don’t know.”
She drove me without asking anything else. At the car she said, “Charles?” and hesitated. “Charles, I want to see you again.”
“Me too,” I said.
I left her feeling no shred of the love we’d shared the night before.