Body of Immorality (19 page)

This was the only part of the Bible I knew, but it helped.

Most of the time they just looked at me, as if
this
kind of thing proved my guilt.

I was getting tired of it, though. It was getting old. I was heartbroken. I cried alone in my apartment. After Ricky, I had no one else to talk too. What was I supposed to do, when I hadn’t done anything to begin with, and I had all this schooling still to go?

Trying to put my thoughts elsewhere, I was sitting home on a cold November night, reading an Agatha Christie novel when I saw something out my front window. I was so shaken and scared, I about hit the ceiling! Agatha Christie went sailing through the air. My hands did a flighty dance, as if someone had plugged me into a light socket. My heart leapt into my throat.

An old woman, roughly seventy-years of age and wearing a shoal, was glaring at me through my window. Her eyes were dull agates. She looked like a dead wasp, vindication in a glance!

I might’ve pissed my pants. I was so terrified and angry, I jumped off the couch and tromped to the door, pulling it violently open. I stuck my head into the cold November night.

“What are you
doing?”
I demanded.

She cowered at me, not shivering in the cold. She wasn’t scared. She did not run away or reply, just stood there, turning to me with her black eyes, wearing a thick, wool, old-lady’s coat and black, buckled shoes.

“You know, I deserve some privacy, too!” I said, angrily. “I’m getting
tired
of this! Maybe I’ll write a story about a guy who kills the entire
town
while they’re sleeping and washes his face in some old lady’s
blood.
How’s
that
for business? You’ll think some pretty thoughts then when you wake up with a sharp knife sticking out of your epiglottis!”

Maybe that wasn’t the best thing I could’ve said, but she only stood there anyway, glaring at me like she wanted to roast me alive. Finally, she spoke, a haggard, gravely voice, stern and authoritative at the same time:

“We know all about
you,
mister,” she said, shaking an old, crooked finger at me. “You’ll get yours.
That’s
certain.”

She did frighten me because she giggled like a schoolgirl. She turned and walked away, looking at me over her shoulder with a malicious glare. Had she come all this way—from wherever she’d come from—just to relay this message?

Going back inside, the chill going straight to my bones, I picked the book up and tried to read, but it was no use.

Maybe I
should
get out of here. What good could possibly come of this?

But I couldn’t. I wanted to win this fight. That’s what Red says.
Just win,
says Red.
Don’t let the sonsabuggers get you.

Red is an old friend, and I listen to what he has to say. We’ve talked on the phone a lot since I’ve moved, and I write letters to him. Red has been one of my best friends since the third grade. I wonder what he would do in this situation. Maybe I’ll call him and ask.

A few days went by and my landlady came knocking on the door, Mrs. Higglesby. She asks (get this) if it wouldn’t be too much
trouble
finding another place to live?

“Why the hell should I care where you live, lady?” I said.

She shook her head. No no no. She was talking about
me.
I’m bringing more attention to the complex than she appreciates.

“What attention?” I asked.

“The attention you’re bringing to the University Manor,” she says. (Another equally elegant name. This place is just full of originality, I swear to God!)

Did I get mad? Was I hot under the collar? Well, maybe a little…

I almost slapped her. I felt like it, wanted to. Wanted to run her face across a rusty cheese-grater.

Which brings us to Act II, because you know what happened then, right?

The
Idledale Post
was on my porch the next morning announcing the murder of forty-year resident of Idledale, Colorado, Mrs. Higglesby. She’d been the landlord of University Manor for twenty-seven years. She was a member of the Girly Girls Society and Homemade Pies for Neighborly Awareness. She was an icon to the community. She had no surviving members of her family.

Someone had snuck into her apartment and stabbed her to death.

I think Ricky’s doing it. I think he’s jealous of my story and is trying to ruin my life, or at least drive me out of town. It’s the only thing I can think of!

The University Manor was soon bombarded with sirens, an ambulance, several police cars, gawking neighbors, passersby, and a few dogs and cats. They hauled Mrs. Higglesby’s body, cocooned in black plastic, into the back of the ambulance. The police questioned me because someone saw me having a dispute with her the day before. You can’t trust anybody in this town.

“What
is
this?” I asked.

The officer stared at me. I could see it in his piggish eyes. He was one of them.

“Kill my landlady because she didn’t
like
me? I think there are better ways to solve a problem than that, officer.”

He looked at me for a long time, thinking of a reason to drag me in. I was surprised he didn’t. I thought it was funny.

Maybe they thought my story
wasn’t
proof, but some evil omen. I may not have physically
killed
Mr. Raintree, but I had—for a brief moment—been responsible for his fate.

The officer suggested I think about moving, too. A grin surfaced on his chinless face, and for a moment, I wished I
had
killed Raintree
and
my landlady, because I would kill this sonofabitch right now. Nothing would please me more than to see this short, neatly uniformed man’s throat gushing a scarlet lawn sprinkler.

I was committed to an education and minding my own business, and if the entire town was convinced I’d killed these people, then they should do something about it, shouldn’t they?

I smiled and winked, and that did not make
him
smile. He tipped his hat, nodded, and turned away. He said he’d back, and I believed him.

I looked over the courtyard. People were looking at me behind their windows. I felt animosity from every glare. They’d come to the same conclusions. They’d made a decision, and they were firm in their beliefs.

I am a monster, and I must be banished. I must be destroyed!

They dusted Mrs. Higglesby’s apartment for fingerprints, went the entire movie-show distance, and barricaded the place with yellow police tape. They proceeded to scrutinize every corner and bloodstain, every frolic of hair. I admired their diligence.

But then, I wondered…Maybe I
had
done it. Maybe someone had slipped a murder toxicant to me unawares. Maybe I was a sleepwalker. Maybe I was a
werewolf!

You never told me I was a
werewolf,
Red! You sly dog, you. You’re always full of surprises.

Confined like a rat.

I didn’t want to leave my apartment. Maybe I could get away with a few extra months rent now that my landlady was dead. Maybe there’s a silver lining after all. You have to find the good when something goes awry. If someone was framing me, they’d just done me a favor.

But seriously…

I didn’t go to school, didn’t go for a walk, get the paper (God forbid, why would I want to after all this?), too scared to go to the grocery store to get a gallon of milk. I was afraid of what was waiting for me in the shadows.

Thankfully, after several days, a single knock did not come to my door. No one shattered my windows, painted graffiti, or broke in while I was sleeping. It was hard enough trying to sleep, anyway. Every sound, creak, brush of wind against the window, sent me into a cold panic, thinking it was them, Idledale, coming to get me!

It was on another late November night, when I saw and orange blaze of lights from my window. I’d decided to open the curtains that night, tried to tell myself there was still a compassionate world out there wanting to hug and kiss me. The sky was a rolling, thick tapestry of clouds, threatening snow.

Fear rose through the cold of my spine. Sweat broke out on my temples. Inside, the cautious watcher of my heart turned frightened, tore into a sprint, and launched from my chest.

I stood and reluctantly approached the window. What I saw did not surprise me.

Torches blazed. Angry, upturned faces wished me dead. The sight of the entire community was shocking and a little exciting. Part of me was thrilled I was responsible for this.

Is this what fame feels like? Something like stardom?

Where were the pitchforks, the shovels, knives, and baseball bats? Were they going to tear me apart with their bare hands? Were they going to set my apartment on fire? Others lived here, too!

Feeling an impulse to stand and deliver, to take my shot—one risk—I decided to open the door. I walked outside into the November cold. I put on a winning smile, not an act, but the real deal.

Loud enough for them to hear, I welcomed whatever they planned:

“Well, well, well! It must be a
special
occasion! Look how you’re all dressed up! You
really
shouldn’t have!”

I nodded accordingly, walking back and forth across the landing with my hand on the rail.

My apartment is on the second floor. I looked down and saw them all. At least, being up here, I had an advantage.

Anyone could’ve pulled out a gun and killed me, pain over, problem solved. I was tired; I felt I hadn’t any options. They’d brought me to this.

So, I stood on the balcony and said:

“I am merely a man, made of breakable flesh, richly surrendering my life to this town and its charming brethren! You make me want to cry! I see how special you must treat all strangers like me! I make my own rules! I
love
the way you gaze at me with winning affection! You startle me with your sway! I wish everyone could be like you! Give yourselves a round of applause! It’s really a stellar performance! Go on! Give yourselves a great big hand!”

No one said a word.

I tried leaving a lasting impression. I wanted them to know that if they planned to kill me, I was ready. I would take it. I would not let them dismantle me!

“How fortunate,” I continued. “Giving me this opportunity! To gaze upon
you,
the little people! So quick to administer justice! How you’ve survived so long without the pain of invasion is surely a mystery! Ah, the naïve, the simple whim of judgment that keeps you from progressing! It kind of makes me feel sorry for you!”

I put myself on display as the perfect model of narcissism. I was a proudly built young man of twenty. I was lean and well defined. I let the entire community of Idledale witness me, this modern marvel of a man! I should’ve been a racecar!

I was sought after, prized, and coveted! I was something every mother wanted for their daughter, streamlined, made to purr, a well-oiled machine, thrust into the imagination of every rare, excitable, teenage girl!

I held my hands up, turned, letting them observe me from every angle.

“Look closely!” I cried. “
Feel
that skin! Young and prime!”

I flexed my muscles, impressed them with solid biceps of diamond rock. I could’ve shot off into the night like a comet, a Fourth of July firework in jeans and a T-shirt.

“Who wants a thousand?” I said. “More? Make it two-thousand for you, sweetheart!” I said to a girl standing in the front row. “Who wants to start the bidding?”

Several people shook their heads, disgusted. They turned, dispersing over the snow-laden courtyard, back into the trees, and nearby streets. No one cracked a smile.

I was puzzled. If they’d taken the time to assemble as they had, why were they leaving? Had they originally constructed a plan then changed their minds? Were they going back for more pitchforks, knives, and shotguns? Despite my illicit candor, I tried to seem un-mystified.

What the hell kind of town
was
this?

One of them caught my eye, however, one who’d
not
turned to go. It was the old lady who’d come to my window earlier that week with the waspish black eyes. She was standing near the front of the throng. I hadn’t noticed her until now. She wore the same clothes, a tiny smile. She scared me. I didn’t like that look in her eyes. As much as she unnerved me, I tried not to show it.

“Wait!” I cried. “I’m not done!”

The crowd continued to separate, ignoring me.

I looked at the old lady, a twisted, maniacal promise on her lips, sending shivers down my spine.

They’d not begun to show me the harm they planned. Despite my performance, I felt a murky, bloody dread across my spine. The woman nodded, gazed at me a minute, then turned, walking away into the cold night.

Surprised, and a little frightened, I hurried back into the warmth of my apartment, shut the door, locked it, and closed the drapes. I didn’t know what to think, didn’t know what to do. I hugged myself and trembled until I fell asleep.

The next day, without further developments, Ricky Lee, the turncoat, that Mozart of country western singers, paid me a visit. He had to say his name several times through the door before I let him in.

I opened the door, ready to add him to the list of the dead and make it three. When he surprised me with concern, telling me he was scared for me, but still on my side, I smiled and asked him if he wanted an Orange Crush. He said no, which should have been answer enough, and he came in anyway.

“I’ve been in town all day,” he said, shaking his head. “Man, you should hear what people are saying about you.”

“I don’t
have
to know what they’re saying, Ricky,” I told him. “The whole lot of them were here last night. I thought it was the grand finale. What a disappointing audience.”

“They think you’re gonna slip,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “‘He’ll slip up, and when he does, we’ll be waiting.’ I heard someone say that.”

Ricky looked at me, putting on a rather convincing face, trying to prove he gave a shit.

“I think you should pack your things and go, Jeremy,” he said, seriously. “That Raintree incident…that was some strange coincidence, but the
landlady
…It’s like that was the last straw. You living in the same
complex!
I’m just worried about you.”