Inexperienced with pharmaceuticals as I was, I hadn’t expected Vlad’s reaction to the drug to be so visible and violent. I had thought, rather hazily, I admit, that he would drift off on the couch and I would unpack our provisions, lead him (somehow, I hadn’t worked it out exactly) to my bed, and lie down beside him. Once there, I had hoped that the blunt forces of anatomical proximity and attraction, mixed with his still-intoxicated state, might take over. And after? I would have him away and to myself, he would be compromised, guilty, needing, ashamed, and, taking advantage of his inner conflict, I would heal him, help him, and thus create the space for the eternal, if physically fleeting, union of our souls.
I hadn’t anticipated his physical struggle. His form lay twisted over the armrest of the chair at an evil angle. He looked the way Sid used to look as a toddler when she would fall asleep in her car seat, her body so completely collapsed that, if John was driving, I would climb into the back to hold her in place. There was work to do in the cabin, but I felt as though I couldn’t leave him. I thought of a fact I had learned about preindustrial, agrarian times, and how in those times, some mothers would tie their babies to chairs with strips of cloth while they went about their duties around the house or in the fields. If I could only get him upright and secured, I felt he would be safe.
Considering Vlad’s girth and solidity, I needed something stronger than fabric to effectively restrain him, and found a leftover pack of zip ties in the junk drawer that I had bought to tame the television wires. I squatted below where he was collapsed and used my back to push him upright, then inserted the plastic strip in a space between vertical slats at the back of the chair, threaded it around his right bicep, and pulled it tight, careful not to pinch his skin. For extra security I added another, higher on his arm. This seemed to work momentarily, he rested straight up, but then his body sagged in the other direction, falling over the side I had bound. I thought about binding his other arm, but I wanted him to be able to have use of at least one hand, that felt safer, kinder, what if he had to itch? I stared helplessly, the alcohol I had drunk that afternoon dulling my thoughts. Then I remembered the chain we used on the shed where we stored the kayaks. I hurried outside, opened the combination lock, and undid the length of metal that prevented the doors from springing open. I then returned to the house and wrapped the chain several times around his chest and torso, inserting three fingers in between the binding and his form so that I knew it wasn’t too tight, and locked it in place. His head lolled, but that seemed all right; he had a strong pulse and was breathing normally and I now felt confident he wouldn’t choke or otherwise injure himself.
After I finished I stepped back, regarding him, and a feeling of pleasure revved within me, like the acceleration of a motor. The sight of him, the fact of Vladimir’s bound body, chained up in my hideaway cabin in the middle of nowhere, was fantastic and absurd. If someone were filming me, they might have seen me bite my palm in disbelief, cover my eyes, run my fingers through my hair, laugh, crouch, rise again, and put my hands over my face once more in shock at what I had done, at the spoils of my desire, the outcome of my obsession. I was playing up my reaction, for myself, like a child who wins a prize and can’t stop emoting about it, reassuring myself of my perspective in the face of the extraordinary scene displayed before me. Then they might have seen me become quiet, approach the bound man, kneel before him and rest my head against his thigh, breathing in the metallic smell of his selvage jeans like incense at an altar.
I rested there for a few worshipful minutes, then roused and busied myself arranging the cabin, checking in on him occasionally like one would with a sleeping baby. I unpacked the groceries from the car, filled the drawers in the large bedroom with John’s and my clothing. I put towels, washcloths, and bath mats in the bathroom. I unpacked the sheets and comforters from the Rubbermaid bins and after some wavering made up both beds. When he woke he should have the option to sleep in his own room. I dusted and swept and collected ant traps from the corners.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with Vladimir when he woke up. I poured a large glass of wine and drank it as quickly as my stomach would allow to quash my nerves. It seemed to make no difference. I connected our phones to the Wi-Fi in case he or I received any desperate texts that would be better dealt with than ignored. It was early evening. I had a text from Sid that asked where I was, and I wrote her back saying I had gone on a little road trip and not to worry—I would update her. I had a text from John saying he found out that none of his accusers—none of the seven women who had written the complaints—would testify in person. I nearly wrote back, “They can do that?” but realized one text might prompt another. I told Sid to tell John I wasn’t sure when I would be back. She texted, Good for you, and told me her time with Alexis was going well, though she physically felt “like shit” and she didn’t understand why. She sent me the fingers-crossed emoji and a picture of a green face, and I sent a kiss and a heart in return.
Then I sat and looked at him, this heap of man, my prey, my prize, my Vladimir. Yes, he was mine. I decided I wouldn’t make any decisions. I would be alive in the spontaneity of the moment. I didn’t want to release him any time soon. It was for his safety, I told myself, though I also couldn’t deny how pleased the sight of him made me feel. If he woke, I would trust that the right way forward would be revealed in the energy we exchanged. He might be upset or angry—nay, furious—but I would take that anger into my body, I would feel it, I would process it for him, and it would subside. He would be worried, but I would absorb his fear, so that it lifted from him like mist on a lake. He would hurl insults at me and I would catch and pocket them like a juggler catches and pockets floating scarves, knowing he did not understand what he said.
The main obstacle now, of course, was Cynthia. John and Sid would be satisfied by my text, whether they were angry or not, believing I was living some kind of Thelma-and-Louise-minus-Louise-style fantasy. They were absorbed by their troubles and lovers, they weren’t thinking of me. Cynthia, however, was used to a good, dependable partner. I was sure she was used to being the one who was waited for, used to Vlad being the net that kept the family aloft, the one who kept Phee fed and on a sleep schedule. She might come home, pay the babysitter, and fall asleep tonight, but when the morning came and he wasn’t there, I was concerned she might do something rash, like go to the police. An adult must be missing for seventy-two hours to file a report, was that right? Or was that simply some fact that they put in crime dramas to ratchet up tension? Furthermore, she absolutely knew that Vlad was going on this outing with me—he had texted her the babysitter information with my recommendation. If she went to John, well, I had to admit he knew me sometimes more than I knew myself, and I thought he might bring her straight here.
Then it came to me—of course, Cynthia and John. Vlad was with me, I knew about them, even if they didn’t know I knew. What if I told him? Vlad might be enraged, he might need to take some time to think. He might need distance as he processed her betrayal. It would be childish on his part, perhaps, but understandable retribution. The question was only how to say it. I used his thumb to open his phone and read through the text thread between him and Cynthia. They were the texts of young parents—all about pickups, time expected home, meetings, therapy appointments, groceries, cute pictures of Phee, the occasional article link, the even more occasional note of love or gratitude. He was often reminding her to do things—go to the DMV, fill out paperwork, meet for this or that appointment. Neither of them seemed so inclined to text lengthy or soul-bearing missives to each other or participate in long text chains.
I sat with my own phone and texted drafts of the message to myself so that I could see how they looked when sent and received.
I found out about you and John. How could you do this to me? I am going away for a while to think. Please do not try to contact me. I will not reply.
It was appropriately terse but a shade too melodramatic.
Cynthia, you bitch.
No—Vlad was a respectful man, even in his anger he wouldn’t resort to name-calling.
Cynthia. I know. Do not try to contact me. How could you do this to our family? After all you’ve put us through already?
While that might be the way I felt about it on behalf of Vlad, it was false as a message, and the vagaries and questions begged answering. Ideally I wanted as little follow-up communication as possible. Vlad began to snore slightly, a sweet, low purr. Why was I using her name? He wouldn’t use her name.
I know about you and John. I can’t think straight. I’m going on a trip. Do not contact me—I need some time. Use the babysitter as much as you want, we’ll find a way to pay.
Better. There was something about addressing the daily concerns that felt more true to Vlad. It would be like him to set something up for her—like those suicide notes that talk about paying the gas bill—he wouldn’t necessarily want to or know how to cut her off completely. Yes, that was the right tactic. I should enhance his caring aspect, even. I looked at his unmoving hands and thought of them lifting his daughter into the sky. I settled on the following:
I know about you and John. I can’t think straight. I’m going away for a while. Do not contact me, please, I need time. Tell Phee I love her and will be back soon. Remember she has swim class this Wednesday. Use the babysitter, I’ll find a way to pay.
I would wait to send it from his phone later tonight, with the hope that Cynthia might already be asleep. I had found the swim class information by looking at his phone calendar and seeing “Phee’s 1st Swim Lesson” and thought it added a convincing touch.
Leaving the rest of the kitchen mess for later, I sat down across from Vladimir’s sleeping form and opened the manuscript of my novel on my laptop. I found, however, that for the first time since I began the book, in this very cabin so many weeks ago, I felt an absence of momentum. I simply could not continue from my stopping point—a problem I had not yet encountered. I opened a new document and wrote a bit of autofiction, maybe even the start of a memoir—some paragraphs about old men and desire. But then I stopped after barely even a page. The stillness of the scene was too alluring to disturb it with deliberate thoughts and tapping fingers. For a while I simply looked at him—watching the light pass and fade on his form. Had I cursed myself by manifesting my desire? By shackling the engine of my ardor to a beer-hall chair? He was tied for his well-being, I reminded myself, not for my pleasure. Yet I couldn’t deny how I felt, considering the pliability of his languid form, to have him all for myself, at the whim of my discrimination. But did I wish for the body of Vladimir, if it would even come to that, more than I wished for a finished book? Yes, no, in the moment I couldn’t tell what was more noble—to submit to want and flesh, to give up everything for real person-to-person connection, or to forsake that entirely in favor of creating something lasting. And while I couldn’t translate the experience into writing right now, perhaps later I could, later, having had the experience of resisting my timidity, my goodness, my incessant desire to please, all those (to use some academic verbosity) constructions of my femininity, I could call on this moment to give my writing real strength, real lived and felt power. And yet, I argued, I could also still find a way to get Vlad into my car and leave him at the entranceway of an emergency room, simplifying the entire situation, and return to the purity and productivity of unrequited longing.
The back-and-forth of my mind made me feel shaky and rattled. Like a mother who knows her child is not hateful, only hungry, I pushed those thoughts away—they were the thoughts of exhaustion. All the drinking of the day had left me headachy and restless. That was all, I said to myself, I simply needed some real food and to sleep—the excitement had taken too much out of this old girl.
Grateful for my foresight at having brought the groceries, I tore into the roasted chicken, and made a quick dinner of that with some pears and cheese and a premade broccoli slaw. I stood at the tap and drank several large glasses of water. I poured a tiny bit of bourbon into a juice glass and ate and drank at the kitchen counter. The bourbon proved soothing, so I poured some more, and then more again until I felt my hazy contentment give way to a sense of blurriness. Forcing my attention, I showered without wetting my hair and dressed in my most attractive nightgown (white, fitted and crocheted to the waist, then a billowing, full skirt) with a seamless nude bra underneath. I hoped the bra would not cut into my back flesh, but I have found that no matter how much one tries to prevent such mishaps—to ensure that one’s pants don’t pinch the waist, or that one’s shapewear doesn’t show through with an unsightly seam, some photograph will be taken in which you realize that you do, after all, look ridiculous: bulgy, baggy, and effortful.
Before retiring, I leaned against the door frame of the hallway that led to the bedrooms, letting my cheek rest on the smooth wooden wall, and gazed at Vladimir once more. I shut all the lights except for a small lamp; if he woke I didn’t want him in total darkness. In the cast of the dim light he looked like a Francis Bacon painting—one of the artist’s seated figures—constrained and exposed. I thought about the lore that George Dyer, Bacon’s lover and frequent subject of his paintings, was a burglar, and they met because he had broken into the artist’s home. I considered moving Vlad one more time, but then realized that even if I wanted to, I was too exhausted and bleary to complete the task. I slipped into bed with a novel that had recently won an award. It was a book Vladimir had suggested I read, and I hoped perhaps we could discuss it over coffee in the morning. The sheets were cool against my skin and I twisted my newly shaved legs luxuriously against the material. I masturbated, less out of urgency than habit, to keep my muscles alive and toned and to encourage lubrication. Unable to use Vladimir’s image now that his physical presence was in the room next to me, I thought of some well-worn scenes from my distant past. I am amused at female masturbation scenes in films that show women on their stomachs, an uncomfortable position that does not allow for the full range of motion in the hand.
Returning to reading, and ruing my quitting of cigarettes, a truly foolish act, I made my way through the terse, enigmatic sentences, all of which seemed to be suggesting a dystopian situation. The writing was funny, but my attention lagged and drifted until I realized I was asleep with the book in my hand. I turned out the lights and lay in the darkness. At first it seemed like real sleep might elude me, but I eventually slid off. The air coming in from the open window was cool, the lake water lapping.