So he went to the mall. Where he graduated. From cats and kittens and, of course, Aunt Phoebe’s canary. The canary was the only representative of the feathered-friend population to receive his attention. Couldn’t resist doing it even though it invited suspicion for the first time.
“How did Rudy get out of the cage?” Aunt Phoebe asked, mystified.
Rudy, a ridiculous name for a canary.
“Maybe the latch got loose,” he suggested, face all innocent. He had an innocent face. His face was also beautiful. Innocence and beauty, always confirmed when he looked into a mirror, which he often did.
“Rudy was a clever bird,” he told Aunt Phoebe. “Maybe he opened the latch with his beak and flew around and crashed into the wall.” Amused as he told her this, seeing her expression of mixed emotions: sad and mystified. Really sad, as she held little Rudy cupped in her hands. Poor thing, crushed like that, so easy, a quick snapping sound and it was over and done with. Tears in Aunt Phoebe’s eyes. Over a bird, of all things.
Dispatching Rudy was the highlight of his vacation that year with Aunt Phoebe in Wickburg.
Back home, visiting the mall, there was a pet store with small animals of all kinds, locked up nice and safe in cages. He regarded them without curiosity. He was tired of the animal population, anyway.
What did that leave?
He watched the people shopping, carrying bundles. Or just hanging out. Old people sitting on the yellow plastic benches, talking mildly to each other. Other people rushing past the stores, in a hurry, going somewhere. Teenagers in their oversized clothes, shirts hanging out, pants bunched stupidly at the ankles, baseball caps turned around. The girls looked really terrible, garish colors, crazy earrings, too much lipstick, hair going every which way, some with earrings in their nostrils and insolence on their faces, in their eyes.
He always dressed neatly. Clean clothes. Nikes all laced up, jacket without a spot. But not too neat. Did not want to draw attention to himself, did not want to invite inspection. Especially by those teenage girls with the insolent eyes. Or the watery eyes of old people.
Which would it be? A girl or someone old?
The questions surprised him, because he had not contemplated doing anything, anyone in particular, preferred to let chance take over, drift with whatever happened. Like with the kittens, cats, and even Rudy. Never plan in advance, go with the flow, follow his instincts. But knew it had to be different now. Suspicions. Investigations. That meant planning, scheming, which made it all kind of exciting.
Excitement was a new experience for him.
He seldom, if ever, felt excited about anything. But did not feel bored, either. Lived in a place between both, with the expectation of something big happening or about to happen. Went through the motions at school, made good grades, faithful with homework, amassed facts and figures and spewed them out as required, made honors without really trying, the computer doing most of the work. Made the teachers happy, his mother, even Harvey, who managed a stingy smile once in a while. But the hell with Harvey. He would put up with Harvey and his mother until situations changed. Meanwhile, he kept out of Harvey’s way and spent more time at the mall. Banners proclaimed that it was the Second Biggest Mall in New England although he didn’t think the second biggest of anything was much to brag about, but the mall was a more interesting place than home. For instance, he was amazed at the change of seasons at the mall. The mall, actually, was without weather, without sun or moon or stars or wind or rain or snow. Yet the seasons were in constant rotation, Christmas and Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, the colors and displays and decorations following the calendar. Saint Patrick’s Day, leprechauns and shamrocks, and Easter with bunnies and colored eggs everywhere. At the moment, however, the mall was between holidays, a pause after Mother’s Day and before the Fourth of July.
Waiting for a situation to develop, he began to ration his visits there. Did not linger in one particular section. Made small purchases, always carried a package of some sort. Did not always make a purchase but chose from a collection of plastic bags at home from Walden Books or Hallmark or Strawberry, which he filled with any old thing so that he looked like a paying customer. He began to disguise himself in small ways. Dressed more like other teenagers, although he disliked wearing baggy clothes that didn’t fit well. He visited a thrift shop downtown and bought secondhand stuff. Hated wearing clothing other people had worn but made himself do it. Combed his hair differently, sometimes with bangs, other times flat and sleek like an old-time movie star. Wore his arm in a sling occasionally. Other times pretended to limp.
The mall was two-and-a-half miles from his house, and sometimes Harvey drove him there, glad to be rid of him for a while. Other times he took the bus, although he hated riding the bus, confined in close quarters with other people, who coughed and sweated, inhaled and exhaled, but he sacrificed his personal wants and desires to the cause.
What cause?
He didn’t know. But felt that he was involved in some great future event. And had to be ready when it happened.
Then it happened.
He spotted the girl late one afternoon. She was tall, with dark hair flowing to her shoulders, slender, cool, wearing a white blouse and brown slacks.
She carried herself aloofly as if she were balancing a book on her head.
He began to follow her, limping a bit. He had chosen this day to affect a limp, dragging his right foot as he walked. He was careful to keep her in view, not too distant from her, not too near. The mall was crowded. Thursday was payday at the local mills and factories, and workers streamed in to cash their checks at one of the bank branches, eat at McDonald’s or Friendly’s, and go on small shopping sprees.
The girl headed toward Exit E, perfect for his purposes, the distant end of the mall, woods less than the length of a football field away from the bus stop. He watched as the doors opened automatically for her departure. Careful to keep limping, he managed to quicken his pace, all senses keen and alert, colors everywhere bright and vivid, his step unable to keep pace with his hastening heart.
“My problem, Eric, is your lack of remorse.”
“But that’s my problem, not yours.”
“And your insolence.”
“I don’t mean to be insolent. I’m truthful. I tell the truth and the truth sometimes hurts. For instance, you have bad breath, Lieutenant. I can smell it from here. It must offend a lot of people. That’s the truth. But how many people have told you that? Instead, they either lie or try to avoid your company.”
Actually, Eric did not know whether or not the lieutenant had bad breath. But enjoyed baiting him, watching for his reaction. Was there a faint blush now emerging on his cheeks?
“Your gift of gab. That’s a problem, too,” the lieutenant said, continuing the verbal assault for which Eric admired him, not a whole lot but somewhat.
“Look, Lieutenant, we know what the problem is, right? Not my lack of remorse or my gift of gab. The problem is that I’m turning eighteen in three days. The state says that I can’t be held any longer. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
The lieutenant said nothing. He was an old man, crevices in his face, sorrowful blue eyes, wispy gray hair. He smoked endless cigarettes, the ashes falling indiscriminately on his shirt or tie. His jacket never matched his trousers. He had been one of the arresting officers three years ago and had slipped the handcuffs on Eric’s wrists. Then began visiting Eric after he started serving his sentence. He had been coming to the facility four times a year, at each change of seasons, for the three years Eric had been incarcerated.
“Why do you keep coming here?” Eric asked at the end of the first year.
“Why do you keep seeing me?” the lieutenant countered. Like a teacher making the student answer.
“Isn’t it about time for you to retire? You look old and tired,” Eric said, without sympathy in his voice. The old man looked sad, too, but Eric remained silent about that.
“What would I do if I ret
ired? I don’t have any hobbies, and no family. They give me easy cases. Wait a minute—you’re my hobby, Eric. Finding out what makes you tick. Like you’re the broken watch and I’m the repairman.”
“Who says the watch is broken?” Eric asked, annoyed, but the old cop hadn’t answered, merely lit another cigarette.
Which was exactly what he was doing now, probably the final cigarette on this, his final visit.
Lieutenant Proctor said, “You’re a psychopath, Eric.” The smoke came out of the lieutenant’s mouth as if his words were stoked by an inner fire. “A monster.”
Eric recoiled, as if the old cop had struck him in the face. Monster?
“Chances are you’ll kill again. You know it and I know it.”
Or was the old cop merely trying to taunt him? Trying to make him lose his cool? Don’t let him do that. Monster was only a word, anyway. And those were the only weapons the lieutenant had: words.
“You’re taking a lot for granted, Lieutenant,” Eric said, the sound of his voice reassuring, establishing his control of the conversation once more. “You’re making wild accusations. I wasn’t even convicted by a jury. A judge heard my case. He didn’t think I was a monster. He was very sympathetic. So were a lot of other people.”
“Other people? Did you take a close look at them? Who they were, what they were? You killed your mother and father, Eric. In cold blood.” Not sounding tired anymore.
Eric did not smile but his eyes gleamed. The lieutenant did not know about the others. Nobody knew about them.
“Harvey was not my father,” Eric said, leaving behind the thoughts of others. “He was my stepfather. I had just cause, Lieutenant. All that pain …”
“What do you know about pain?” the old cop snorted.
“You don’t even allow me my pain, do you, Lieutenant?”
He had stolen three cigarettes from Harvey’s pack of Marlboros. Went to the shed in the backyard, his hideaway, the shed tucked under overgrown maples, branches almost hiding the doorway. A combination lock prevented entry by anyone but himself. His retreat from the world. When he was tired of his mother and Harvey, the mall, school, everything, he went to the shed and just sat there. On the old revolving office chair. “What do you do in there, anyway?” Harvey often asked, suspicious, always suspicious of everybody and everything. “Nothing,” Eric answered. Most times he didn’t bother answering Harvey, which he knew made Harvey furious. He only answered him when he could score points. Actually, nothing was an honest answer. Because he did nothing in the shed but simply sit there and think. Or didn’t even think. Let himself become blank. Like sleeping while awake.
But now he did not simply sit there and think. Instead, he set about doing what he had to do. Opened the only window a bit, to let the smoke out. Lucky the window faced the woods, away from the house. Lit the first cigarette, did not inhale, grimaced at the invasion of smoke in his face and eyes, the taste of it in his mouth. Looked curiously at the glowing tip. Placing the cigarette on the cover of a mayonnaise jar serving as an ashtray, he rolled up his left sleeve. Smooth and pale skin. Tapped the ash from the cigarette, studied the burning end for a moment, then braced himself and pressed the burning tip against his flesh.
Taken by surprise by the sheer ferocity of the pain, he uttered a single syllable of agony: Ahhhh. Then shut his mouth, clamping it tight, pressing his lips together. The burning tip fell off the cigarette and dropped to the floor. He stepped on it, still absorbing the pain in his arm, reluctant to look at it. With trembling fingers, he lit another cigarette, eyes slitted against the enveloping smoke, and through moist eyes watched himself place the burning end of the new cigarette against his flesh, an inch or two from the first spot. Grimacing, he gasped, emitted a muffled scream through his lips. Seeing the tip end still glowing red, he pressed it against another spot on his arm, learning that pain reaches a certain point and does not get worse but remains in all its intensity and you can survive it. But, Christ, how it hurt … causing strange things to happen to his body, a wave of nausea sweeping his stomach, his knees turning weak and watery, and his head swimming with sudden dizziness that made the room whirl sickeningly until everything settled into place again. He held his arm stiffly in front of him, making himself look at those three cruel scorched places, could smell his burning flesh—no, not flesh, but the small hairs on his arm, singed and blackened now.
He suddenly leaped from a flash of more pain, this time unexpected. He’d been holding the second cigarette between the first two fingers of his right hand, and the cigarette had burned down to his flesh. He dropped it, stepped on it. Then he extended his arm again and smiled grimly as he inspected the three burned places.
He had also planned to use the hammer today but decided the burning was enough this time. He would put the hammer to work tomorrow. Looking at the vise fastened to the edge of the worktable, he wondered how he could use it to facilitate breaking his arm. Might be better than using just the hammer.
Lieutenant Proctor said, “You’re a menace to society, Eric. Because you are incapable of feeling. Have you ever really felt anything? Sad? Or sorry? Sorry for what you did to your mother, your stepfather? Sorry for anything at all? In fact, have you ever even felt happy? That’s what makes you a psychopath, Eric. You are incapable of connecting with other people. Emotion, that’s what connects us all. Without emotion, without feeling, we’re animals.”
“I read somewhere that swans mate for life, Lieutenant. Must be some kind of feeling involved there, some kind of emotion. Maybe animals know more about emotions than we give them credit for.…”
Eric liked these verbal games with the old lieutenant. He knew he could talk circles around him. His gift of gab was actually for the lieutenant’s benefit. Ordinarily he didn’t have much to say to anyone, especially in this place. Talking to the old man, baiting him now and then, broke the monotony of the facility.
“Stop playing games, Eric. You know very well what I mean about lack of feeling.…”
Ah, but he had felt bad about the girl at the mall. Holding her limp body in his arms afterward, cradling her gently, he had seen that her makeup was too heavy. His fingers stroked her long black hair. He opened her mouth and counted five fillings. But he had no time for further inspection because footfalls reached his ears, along with the crackling of bushes being pushed aside. Someone was nearby and coming closer. He crouched down, the girl beneath him, stilling himself, listening to the crunch of footsteps passing by and then receding, growing faint. Then silence again, except for the distant sounds of cars on the highway. He sighed with relief and vowed to be more careful in the future.
It had been so easy to lure the girl away from the mall. First of all, he had dropped the limping act once he followed her out the door. Outside, in the chilled twilight air, he had spotted her waiting at the bus stop. No one else was in sight. He approached her and turned on The Charm. Ever since he was a little kid, The Charm had worked wonders. That smile, along with his blond hair and blue eyes. When he smiled, something happened to his eyes. His eyes seemed to smile, too, sort of glowed. Irresistible. He had watched The Charm happen when he studied himself in a mirror. What a sweet little boy, he heard people say when he was just a child. And later: a great-looking boy you’ve got there, Mrs. Poole. Eric was tall and slender. At fifteen, he was almost six feet tall. Girls flirted with him at school but he didn’t respond. Boys stayed away from him and he didn’t mind. He preferred to be alone. He found himself reflected in other people’s attitudes. Basked in their admiration. Or seemed to. Yet not everyone was affected by The Charm. Some people were indifferent. Some people he could not win over. A teacher now and then. People who regarded him with indifference or simply turned away, unimpressed, even suspicious. Maybe a store clerk or a bus driver. Specifically, Ginger Rowell, whom he’d asked to the Spring Dance in the eighth grade. He’d had no inclination to go to the Spring Dance, but his mother kept hounding him about it. “Everybody wants to go to the Spring Dance,” his
mother insisted. “Everybody normal, that is.” Which stung him. Normal? So he asked Ginger Rowell. Who was nothing special although pretty and energetic and a cheerleader. She looked at him with cool appraising eyes and said: “No thanks.” Humiliating him, leaving him staring in disbelief as she walked away. So he had learned early on that there were people who did not respond properly to The Charm and he stayed away from them, ignored them, set them apart from his life, as if they did not exist.
His mother was a puzzle to him. She usually looked at him with the tender eyes of love. Always kissed him goodnight, a kiss that left a moist spot on his cheek. He dimly remembered good times when he was a small kid and they’d cuddle in bed. But he didn’t like to think of those times after Harvey came along. Once in a while he caught his mother studying him, eyes narrowed, as if she were regarding a stranger.
He was always a dutiful son. He kept his room clean. He made no fuss when she sent him on errands even when it was inconvenient. He never played his CDs too loud. He was not insolent, never answered back when she said stupid things. She had a habit of saying everything twice: It’s cold out. It’s cold out. Or Did you have a good day at school today? Did you have a good day at school today? He put up with that, sometimes joked with her about it, didn’t let it get on his nerves. But it got on Harvey’s nerves. A lot of things got on Harvey’s nerves. Eric was the major thing. They hated each other at first sight. Amend that: Eric did not hate him. Harvey was not worth hating. He was such an ugly specimen of humanity. What does she see in him? That was the question to which Eric never found an answer.