Body of Immorality (21 page)

He proposed to her at the park, getting down on his knee because he believed in tradition. He opened a small gray jewelry box with a beautiful diamond ring inside. Mary began to cry. She put her hands to her face. She nodded through her tears and said yes.

It began during the honeymoon, the aftermath of all good things, the sign of bad things to come. Reginald was enjoying his time alone, the cruise he’d paid for. Mary had slept in. They did not make love. He woke early as Mary snored lightly, and he walked around the boat, taking pictures of the Atlantic with a small Polaroid. Reggy wondered if Mary remembered the cruise at all. She claimed the Dramamine (even though he specifically bought non-drowsy) made her sleepy. She’d been a virgin, but he was okay with that, even though he wasn’t one himself. Mary had claimed it hurt, so it took some time breaking her in. Reginald chalked it up as the most sexually frustrating honeymoon in recorded history.

So, there he was on the ship, taking pictures by himself, masturbating in the bathroom because she was too afraid to make love, and he was too horny to ignore it, enjoying a vacation he should’ve booked for himself. All the time waiting to make love to her, the courtship, and this was what he got in return!

On their first night together, Reggy tried being intimate, but she’d fallen asleep, uninterested. He felt like killing her. He got dressed, went to the lounge, and watched the band play. He had a few drinks.

This is my honeymoon,
he’d thought.
All by myself.

It was the first time Reginald thought about cheating on his wife because he sat in the lounge, and a girl fingered her cocktail glass at the bar, looking in his direction. It would be sweet justice, he thought. The thought made him giggle.

The best sex I ever had was on my honeymoon, and it
wasn’t
with my wife.

A-yuk, a-yuk, a-yuk.

He must seem like the only person on the ship who
wasn’t
married. He’d sat by himself, wide awake, and watched the band play. Some songs were familiar. They’d played something by Prince, or The Artist Formerly Known As…Who the hell would ever say, “Hey, do you have that album by The Artist Formerly
Known
As Prince?”

He enjoyed his honeymoon, but only when he was by himself, which seemed ironic. When he was with Mary, and they were eating, he sat and resented her, wanted to pluck her eyes out while she smiled, that goddamn naïve look on her face, and her saying she was having a splendid time.

“Surprised you acknowledged it,” he’d said, when they were having dinner. “It’s going by a little fast because you’re sleeping all the time, isn’t it?”

“Reginald, are you angry with me?”

“Just forget it.”

The funny thing was he loved her. Mary was a good-natured girl. Her heart was pure. She was a bit naïve, though, because she’d had a sheltered childhood. Maybe that’s what eventually drove him away, ripped the marriage apart because she went through life on naiveté and Dramamine, and didn’t enjoy sex at all. Jesus, Reginald thought, why had he asked her to marry him?

But she
was
a sweet girl. She always seemed to be smiling, and he liked that. At times, her smile struck nerve endings he didn’t know he had. How could a person smile like that all the time? It drove him crazy trying to figure it out.

Eventually, the smile wasn’t enough, though, her good-natured spirit. Reginald and Mary were as different as black and white. It was all Reggy could see anymore. All they
had
were differences. She wanted to go to church; he didn’t know if he believed in God. She watched nothing but cartoons and Walt Disney movies. Reggy liked racy, rated R programs. Reggy wanted lustful, steamy, hour-long sex. Mary would hardly stick her tongue in his mouth.

Well, it was about all he could take! They had to call it quits, and if she wasn’t going to move out, he’d take matters into his own hands!

He was trying to see
both
their futures. They still had a chance to salvage the rest of their lives. They could be happy, but only if they split.

“I want us to be happy,” he told Mary once. “I don’t want us to regret what’s going to happen down the road. I don’t want us to look at each other and hate each other for what’s happened. Thinking we could’ve done this or that, or resent each other for doing whatever. It’s not right. It’s not healthy.”

He understood his words perhaps better than she did. He was the only one listening, the only one who understood. Mary did not heed his words or care to listen. She was happy. How, he didn’t know. She loved him, loved being married, and that was that. He couldn’t get through to her.

Until now.

He had the solution. He didn’t care about amputation. What made him think about his foot—and that it would be enough—was Mary’s own fetish. She thought feet were the most adorable parts of the human body. If he rid himself of this particular appendage, she’d be mortified, disgusted, repulsed. She’d pack her bags and move out.

He was out in the garage now, and the fear settled in. He believed strongly enough in his marriage to know the measures he had to take. But did he have the guts to go through with it? He believed he did. And what about the pain? What about afterward? How would he explain what happened?

Uh…honey, somehow that goddamn saw fell right out of my hand and just started gnawing at my ankle. I didn’t know how to stop the bastard. Don’t bother calling a doctor. We’ll take care of it here.

To hell with the consequences, he thought. He wasn’t worried about it now. He wanted to make Mary leave, and he would do whatever he could to
make
that happen.

He took up the
Skilsaw.
He looked closely at the black letters on the silver machine. The tool looked like some hybrid wolverine turned mechanical.

This is the jaws of life,
he thought.
Or the jaws of death. This is what the future holds.

It looked like something out of a Transformer cartoon, some maniacal machine, Pac-Man with rabies.

Reginald took up the saw, plugged it in, and put his foot on the counter, balancing as best he could with the other.

This is my body,
he thought.
I bet no artist cared enough about his work to do this. I bet no one believes like I do.
Van Gogh doesn’t count.

He said a silent prayer, looked to the heavens, and closed his eyes. He pressed his index finger to the trigger and the blade whirled, loudly, to life.

“For freedom,” he said, aloud. “For the unbounded redemption of man and his freedom.”

Clenching his teeth, he put the saw to his ankle and pushed the blade in. Immediate fire and pain ripped through his flesh. Why hadn’t he had a few drinks first? That would’ve numbed the pain at least. Did he realize he could die if he weren’t given proper medical attention?

Still, he was undaunted. He kept the saw applied to his ankle. Blood and bone, like confetti, exploded around him, showering his face and chest. He squeezed his eyes shut. Blood splattered through the garage. Reginald opened his mouth and wailed in agony. He let his finger off the trigger, put the saw down, not hearing it whir to a stop. The pain was a din of sirens.

His foot was no longer a part of his body. He opened his eyes, looking at it, a separate appurtenance, something that belonged now—like an alien—to something else. He could not believe he had the mind-set and willpower to do what he just did.

He was handicapped. He could now park at the closest spot at any Wal-Mart or grocery store. His foot lay, white and bleeding, on the surface of the workbench. It didn’t even look like a foot to him now. Already, it was pasty white, like the papier-mâché structures he’d built as a kid. His thoughts screamed in agony and horror! Was he going to bleed to death?

He could not paste his foot back together. He needed some other means of provision. He hopped about, a crazed lunatic hoping for a cure, a simple remedy. He needed a blowtorch, something to staunch the deathly flow of blood gushing from the wound. Napkins and towels wouldn’t do it. He had succeeded only in killing himself, he realized. His route to freedom had ended in death.

“
MARY!”
he shrieked. “
OH GOD, MARY! HELP ME!”

He had to find something fast, something to staunch the flow. How come he hadn’t thought of this before? Perhaps he
would
bleed to death.

He looked down at his leg. A ragged, torn, and splintered ankle shrieked at him. Blood poured from the wound in a steady flow, seeming not like blood at all. Blackness came from all sides. He was suddenly light-headed. He was going to pass out.

He swooned.

Mary came in through the garage door. He swept his separated ankle onto the floor before she noticed. Would they believe it, if he told them he’d dropped the saw on what was—ironically—a naked foot, when his other still had a shoe on?

He didn’t have time to acknowledge any of this. Mary was screaming in hysterics. The blackness gathered thick, congealing around Reginald’s head.

He slipped into unconsciousness and hit the floor.

*

When he awoke, he was in the hospital. Mary was by his side, holding his hand. He didn’t feel his foot or any pain, but he felt strange. Of course, they’d drugged him. He didn’t realize until now what would happen. Would they commit him, put him in an institution? That would be perfect, he thought. That would be the perfect thing after all he’d done.

For some reason, he felt a wave, a surge of unequivocal love for Mary. He didn’t want anyone else by his side then.

“You’re going to be all right,” Mary said. Her voice came from limbo. Was she crying? He couldn’t tell. The lights and the terrible smell of the hospital were all he knew. “They couldn’t reattach the foot because of the damage. The doctor says you’ll be able to leave in a couple of days, though. He said accidents happen like this all the time. Power tools are the worst. People think they have them under control, they work with them with confidence, and the next thing you know…”

He wasn’t hearing any of this. That was what he told himself. By God! What had he done? He squeezed her hand. She said something else, but he didn’t hear. He lapsed into unconsciousness again.

*

When he went home, he couldn’t believe it. How had he
not
been committed? Did they honestly think he’d made a simple mistake? How did that explain his naked ankle? Did most people walk into their garage with one shoe off and one shoe on? Maybe they wouldn’t believe someone would deliberately sever their own appendages.

Whatever the reason, he was home now in bed. He looked at the geese in the frame to the side of the mirror. He looked at the pictures of Mary’s family atop the dresser.

She was still here. She was helping him. He’d have to use a crutch for a while, and then he might be able to live a normal life with an artificial foot, the doctor had told him. Reginald was in dreamland. He was listening, but not hearing the words. Could it be his life had not changed at all? Perhaps she loved him more than he realized.

She came in, lovingly, with a bowl of soup. She was wearing a white sweater with her black hair tied up, green eyes smiling at him. She was pretty, but it wasn’t enough to save him.

The smile was easily forced, he saw. She was struggling with the idea of him living without his precious foot. Maybe he’d struck a chord after all.

“Doctor says you’ll be up and ready to go in no time,” she said. She acted as if it were a simple cold or the flu. “Here, have some of this. You look pale. Get your strength back.”

He looked at her as if he hadn’t heard. The soup was nothing to him, another pain to endure. He wasn’t hungry anyway. Surprising himself, he said, “Why don’t you just go away?”

She looked at him as if he’d slapped her. “What do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean,” he said. “What’s it gonna take to get rid of you?”

Her head twitched. She heard what he’d said, then quickly put it out of her mind. She did not heed a word.

“Eat some soup,” Mary said, filling the spoon with vegetables. She put it to his lips.

“Goddamnit,” he said. “Don’t you see what’s happening? This is ridiculous! We can’t go on like this! I don’t
want
to go on like this! Don’t you know when you’re not wanted? Why don’t you do something special with your life, find someone who makes a difference, makes you happy? Goddamnit!”

Mary winced, holding the spoon in mid-air. She put it back in the bowl and started to cry.

Reginald wanted to smack the bowl out of her hands, but watching her cry was satisfaction enough. He felt his ears burning, his face turning red. Ah, the bliss of anger! His heart was beating fast.

“Just leave me alone, will you, Mary? I can’t stand the fucking sight of you.”

Her sobs were quiet, another thing he despised: she cried quietly, not making a sound. She wiped tears from her eyes. She set the bowl on the nightstand beside him, then got up and left.

She had no intentions of leaving, never had. His amputated foot meant nothing to her.

*

Through the next few weeks, he began to recuperate. The doctors had tried to save his foot, but the damage had been extensive. Mary left him alone, and Reginald hobbled about the house with a cane. They could get him a prosthetic foot to help him walk easier, but he would always have a limp. He wasn’t thinking about this now. He welcomed the idea of making life more difficult for himself. Hobbling reminded him of his dispassion for his wife.

“You don’t know it, Reginald,” Mary said once. “But you
need
me. We need each other. I know you think you want to be alone, but we both know it’s not good for you. It’s not good for
us.”

This angered him more. Time would tell, he thought.

*

In the night, as he lay staring at the ceiling, he realized he’d have to do more. Mary would not leave him. His foot felt as if it were a part of his body still, even though he knew it wasn’t there.

Yes, there was more he’d have to do.

He thought at times of beating her. She once told him if a man beat her, she wouldn’t be able to stay. It would be reason enough for her to leave. But like sleeping with someone else, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. That left no other choice. His foot was one thing, but what if he permanently scarred his body, put a clean razor blade to his face, for example, and sliced his features off? She’d
have
to leave him then, wouldn’t she?