By this time I was cowering in a corner of the musty-smelling motel room like an animal paralyzed with terror. I had wedged myself between the wall and a bureau, sprawled and panting telling myself If my mother intervenes. If my mother is here. She will speak to him, they will let her speak with him, it will be all right. Telling myself They won’t hurt him, or me. It will be all right. Daddy saw me, and Daddy took pity on me; didn’t chastise me, didn’t scold; moving restlessly about the room gripping the gun and speaking to himself, breathing heavily. His face shone with elation, excitement. Flashing red lights from the parking lot illuminated his battered and bewhiskered pirate’s face and his glassy-glaring eyes.
“Loveya, Puss! You better know that.”
Now the voice had become a megaphone voice, deafening as if it were in the room with us. A shout, an angry male voice, instructions repeated to Edward Diehl to lay down his weapon, unlock and open the door and release his daughter; to step through the doorway slowly and with his hands raised and visible and he would not be hurt repeated Edward Diehl would not be hurt and my father might have laughed, I think yes I heard Daddy laugh, or was it a sobbing sound that resembled laughter, Daddy’s face dazed and flushed and with that look of piratical merriment about his whiskers and twitching mouth and his racing eyes caught in the glare of a powerful spotlight aimed at the motel door and window penetrating the cracked and grimy Venetian blinds Daddy had yanked down over the window to shield us from the eyes of strangers. In these last staggering minutes of his life my father did not speak, he did not speak to me as if in the urgency of the moment he’d forgotten me, a kind of oblivion had washed over his soul, his hard-as-steel soul and he’d forgotten me, he’d forgotten his wife whom he had so desperately summoned to his side. He’d forgotten his family, his life that had gone bad. For it was his secret knowledge that death is easy, death is so much easier than life. At the door calmly unlocking and unbolting it as he’d been commanded and through my fingers as I lay in a paralysis of terror in a corner of the room rank with odors and dust-balls I saw through the crooked slats of the Venetian blind the brilliant dazzling light that was aimed against us from outside, a harsh blinding light, a white-tinged luminescent white, a white you might mistake for the purest star-light, illuminating and consecrating all that it touched even as it meant oblivion, annihilation, extinction and bathed in this light—for now the door had been kicked open by my father, now the musty-smelling motel room would be exposed to the stares of strangers—I saw Daddy crouching, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered, now his face was turned from me and I could not see if he was smiling, I would never see Daddy’s face again and must surrender him now, in his shaky right hand the revolver to be identified in the media as a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson in the illegal possession of Edward Diehl, I saw Daddy step confidently into that blinding light and lift this gun as if about to fire it in a seemingly spontaneous mocking gesture that would be the final gesture of his life.
25
TWO-INCH GLOATING HEADLINES in the Sparta Journal—
FORMER SPARTA RESIDENT DIEHL
SUSPECT IN ’83 KRULLER HOMICIDE
KILLED BY POLICE IN MOTEL SHOOT-OUT
In the Journal and elsewhere you would learn that my father’s full name was Edward James Diehl and that the dates of his life were 1942–1987. You would learn that he had been born in Sparta, New York, and so it seemed appropriate that he would die in Sparta. You would learn that, though never arrested for the crime, he had been a “prime suspect” in a homicide: for always Edward Diehl must be a suspect, even in death.
Falsely it was reported in the Journal as elsewhere that my father had died in a “shoot-out” with police officers but in fact it had not been a “shoot-out” with connotations of lurid melodramatic TV tabloid crime but a massacre: my father had not fired a single shot. Though his gun was loaded with ammunition the safety lock had not been released, clearly my father hadn’t intended to fire a single shot and this fact would not be reported, this was a fact I would not learn until months later.
Daddy had wanted to die. He had not wanted to kill. He’d had no intention of harming me. This I would come to believe. This I know to be true.
It was determined that eight police officers had fired at Edward Diehl within a space of several seconds and not one of these police officers had missed his target. It was Herkimer County policy, police officers must fire no less than two shots at their target. And so eighteen bullets had torn into my father’s head and upper body, some of them as he was falling, some after he’d fallen, some as he lay writhing and dying on the carpet inside the room where the power of the bullets had sent him sprawling on his back, out-flung and the Smith & Wesson revolver flying from his hand.
This, I did not see. I have no memory of this. Though I was the daughter of Edward Diehl who’d been “taken hostage” in that room, I was the fifteen-year-old daughter of Edward Diehl whom police had “rescued” from that room, I did not see my father die, I would not remember anything beyond the deafening gunfire.
Part Two
26
FEBRUARY 11, 1983
IT’S A SNOW-BLINDING SUNDAY morning slowly he’s pushing open the door at 349 West Ferry with the silver-tinselly Christmas wreath on it, sprig of blood-red berries and big red fake-velvet ribbon though Christmas is—Christ!—a long time past and he knows something is probably wrong, his mother’s life has gone wrong, he’d like to think it isn’t because of him, she’d gotten fed up being his mother like she’d gotten fed up with being Delray Kruller’s wife, who could blame her? So he’s steeling himself for what he’s going to find inside. Shades pulled at every window upstairs and down he’d seen from the street, walked around to the rear of the bruise-colored row house in the snow blinking and staring and it’s weird, it is not a good sign Aaron Kruller thinks, the front door is not locked.
No one here? No one downstairs? The living room—if that’s what you’d call it—is pretty messed-up. Like they’d been partying but never got around to clean-up. And a single lamp burning, in daylight, with a crooked shade. Aaron is hoping that he won’t meet up with Zoe’s woman friend close as a sister Zoe claimed though Aaron had neither seen nor heard of this Jacky before, shiny face and dyed-beet hair and pushed-up breasts in some sort of corset-looking nylon thing Aaron was made uncomfortable to see, there was Jacky licking her lips gazing at him like she knows his innermost thoughts and they are not-nice thoughts, frankly filthy-sexy-teenage-boy thoughts, her friend Zoe Kruller doesn’t look old enough to have a kid Aaron’s size, at least six feet tall with a bumpy shaved head and a stippling of scars on his face and steely eyes like the wrath of God judging her.
Any woman, could be older than his mother, like Jacky DeLucca, one of his teachers at school or the mother of a friend he’d see stopping by the home of one of the guys after lacrosse, and Aaron finds himself staring at the woman like he can’t help seeing her inside her clothes, the actual naked body of the woman, the female, fascinating to him, appalling and astonishing and his wonderment is like something squeezed through a narrow pipe coming out a smirk of disdain, can’t bring himself to smile at them in dread of them guessing the kind of thoughts he was thinking O Christ couldn’t wait to get away from the DeLucca woman to beat himself off going off like a gun making a mess like whipped egg white in his pants.
But Jacky isn’t here, seems like. Not even the TV is on.
Last time he’d been here, the front door had been unlocked too but there’d been people inside. He’d heard voices inside. This time it’s weird and unsettling, so quiet.
“Hey: Mom? It’s me.”
Asshole thing to say it’s me, it’s me Aaron, calling out in his voice Zoe said was loud as a young calf bellowing, she’d laugh pressing her hands over her ears but now Zoe doesn’t seem to be here, to complain of him.
Aaron is disgusted, and Aaron is angry. Seems like Aaron is always disgusted and angry and not wanting to think he’s anxious what he might find inside this hou
se.
Because she hadn’t called him, for a while. First she’d moved out she had called him—Aaron—at certain times she’d promised and he’d been home to answer and he’d been sullen and insulting to her but O.K., that was O.K., she’d called him, and talked to him, and even if he’d said Fuck you Mom and hung up the phone, it was O.K. between them and she knew it. And he knew it. But now, hadn’t heard from Zoe in maybe two weeks. And had not glimpsed Zoe in Christ how long—maybe a month. There was Christmas—a shitty time he’d like to forget—and New Year’s—worse yet—that passed in a drunk-drugged blur and she’d called to tell him she had his Christmas present for him all wrapped up but never got around to delivering it. Come by the house to pick it up, she’d said. How the fuck is a fourteen-year-old kid going to do that, on a bike?—Aaron’s old junker Schwinn?—sliding and skidding in the snowy-icy streets?—sure as hell Delray isn’t going to drive him.
Not there. Not to the house on West Ferry. Delray’d said not ever was he going there, couldn’t trust himself what he’d do, if he did.
Your slut-mother. Slut-junkie mother go check the bitch out, see for yourself.
Delray’s heavy hand fell on Aaron’s shoulder. With a shiver like a horse casting off flies with its rippling skin Aaron cast off Delray’s hand like he’s holding himself back from slugging the old man in the face.
Don’t believe me she’s a slut, eh? That just proves you don’t know shit who a slut can be.
Loudly he called: “Mom?” The calf bawling for his mother.
A few times he’d actually heard a calf bawling, it was something to hear!
Thinking maybe she’d shout at him down the stairs. Say Oh God Aaron that’s you? You’re here? Jesus wait I’ll be down in a few minutes you’re thirsty go get something from the fridge, sweetie, O.K.? Don’t come up here it’s kind of messy, O.K.?
And he’d think with a shiver of disgust She’s got somebody up there—has she?
He’d seen his mother with a man, just once. Maybe more than once. Maybe he hadn’t exactly seen them, quickly he’d looked away. Or maybe—they’d been at a distance—it had not been Zoe but another blond woman who’d resembled her. It was mostly what he’d heard—what he’d overheard. Delray on the phone. Delray’s relatives complaining of her. Maybe it was all bullshit, how’d Aaron know? Them saying that’s how a white bitch behaves, can’t trust them, comes down to it they’re white and you’re shit on their shoes like Delray was a full-blooded Seneca which he was not, still less was Aaron, and Aaron was Zoe’s kid not just Delray’s and maybe he looked Indian but there was more to him than that. Hell yes.
Aaron poked his head into the kitchen—nobody there. Vinyl chairs looking like they’d been kicked partway across the floor. Bottles, glasses, plates soaking in the sink. Like the party spilled into here like high tide lapsed to low tide and the surf drained away and what remains on the beach is litter you don’t want to examine closely. And beneath a stale-garbagey smell, a scent of Zoe’s perfume.
It’s too quiet here. Zoe isn’t easy with quiet. In the house on Quarry Road which was too damn far out of town to suit her, miles into the country Zoe always had the radio on loud or was singing to herself, practicing her Black River Breakdown voice you’d hear through the house and it was a sound that was both comforting and unsettling for it meant Zoe Kruller’s other life, the life she lived away from the house and in the eyes of admiring strangers, the life she’d yearned for that Delray and Aaron could not give her, and that they resented. Why aren’t we enough for you was a question never asked for neither Delray nor Aaron would have had the vocabulary for such a question. But there were good memories too, overall mostly good memories Aaron thought, when he’d come home from damn fucking school where he was treated like shit or from lacrosse bruised and banged up and bleeding from cuts in his face and there was Zoe singing in the kitchen and she’d sounded happy.
Proud of his lacrosse scars. The older guys respected him. If he had his lacrosse stick he’d bring it into the kitchen with him but Zoe wasn’t allowed to touch it know why?—Females are forbidden to touch your lacrosse stick. Even your mom.
What kind of damn old Indian superstition is that, Zoe asked.
He’d shrugged and muttered in reply. Zoe laughed annoyed saying it’s an insult like I would contaminate the damn thing and Aaron said smirking That’s the way it is, Mom. That’s l’cr—.
Zoe made a swipe to touch the stick. Knowing she’d do this Aaron lifted it high over his head. Laughing red-faced, and Zoe said O.K. smart-ass make your own supper, you’re so smart.
He hadn’t had to, though. By supper, it was O.K. between them.
On the stairs he’s calling in the bawling-calf way, “Hey Mom—you up here?”
27
MARCH 1990
THE WOMAN TURNED TO HIM, at his touch she turned to him and seeing his face began to scream. And he didn’t like that, God damn he did not like being screamed at. Reaching for her to quiet her with his hands blunt and clumsy as a beast’s paws and at his touch she began to scream louder shrill and piercing in his ears in her terror he’d needed to silence her but instead he was waking and there was no woman—the woman had vanished—except the screams were a telephone ringing close beside his dazed head where he seemed to have fallen at a sprawled angle across a soiled bare mattress in just boxer shorts, T-shirt yanked halfway up his back and fumbling for the damn phone he’d knocked it onto the floor, snatched up the receiver and there was an actual woman’s voice frantic in his ear Aaron! God damn answer the phone! It’s Delray come get him immediately.
In his drunk-dazed state Aaron managed to sit up. Where he was exactly he’d postpone for later. Head felt like he’d been struck with a shovel. Mouth sour as puke. His grimy bare monkey-toes dug into the stained carpet like that part of him was instinctively grabbing hold of something solid. The woman he’d been with seemed to have vanished. There had been an actual woman here with Aaron on this mattress naked and grunting and straining but she was gone now. By a luminescent watch seeing it was 4:20 A.M. No moon to reflect snow outside the window thus so dark it was like the bottom of the sea. He’d seen a TV documentary on the depths of the sea where no light ever came, weird fish-shapes there in the perpetual gloom no human eye had ever seen nor could the deep-sea creatures see one another. Why such creatures existed was a mystery no one could solve. What purpose to life on earth, no one could solve. But the situation was, you were here, you’d got born, you had to play the cards dealt to you. Aaron rubbed his eyes seeing through the part-opened doorway—into the bathroom—there was a light, a scent of steam from the shower wafting to his nostrils but the woman was gone.
“Jesus!”—seeing on the doorframe and on the wall beside the bed what appeared to be smears of blood of a kind made by a swiping hand.
Could’ve been blood from a bloodied nose he seemed to recall a woman’s nose he had not meant to injure, or was it his own nose, the woman had smacked with her elbow. Aaron wasn’t sure.
Out of the phone came the female voice urgent and bossy more clearly now: “Aaron! Are you there? Are you awake? God damn this is Viola I’m talking to you! I said Delray is hurt bad. Must’ve passed out hit his head on the pavement. Or somebody hit it for him. If you don’t come pick him up he’s your God damn father you owe him that, if you don’t get your ass over here Aaron I’m going to call 911 to come get him. Take him to the ER. God damn Delray isn’t going to die on these premises.”
Aaron was stammering telling his aunt not to call 911, don’t call for help, Pa wouldn’t like that—“Tell me where he is, Viola—I’ll come get him.”
“Where he is’—didn’t you just hear me, for Christ’s sake! Are you drunk? Are you high? He’s here! He’s at my place! He’s got no right here! All of you, you and him, and her, your damn mother—all you are has been trouble to us! To the family! Last time Delray showed up here it was half the night trying to locate you, you took your own sweet time getting over here, and this time I am
not hauling your father inside, and up the stairs, and him puking on me—the hell with that. Where he is, Aaron, he’s in the driveway here, outside my house in the snow where somebody dumped him. One of his biker buddies. Or a cop friend. You know that crowd he runs with. Has to be somebody knows that I am his sister. I’m in bed I hear a car horn, someone yelling, look out the window and there’s somebody laying in my driveway dead or too drunk to stand. Delray must’ve left his car somewhere, at some tavern and he couldn’t drive in that condition so they brought him here and dumped him on me. Oh, God.” Viola paused breathing heavily. When she resumed she was sobbing, furious. “What if your father has some brain injury? You know he’s half-crazy as it is. What if his liver is poisoned? Try to talk to him he says yes, sure he will cut down on drinking, check into detox, there’s half of us in the family offered to drive him there and visit with him while he’s in then this happens, scares the hell out of me. I’m Delray’s sister not his mother! Not his wife! Or his son! You’re his son—see? So get over here, Aaron, take him back to your house with you or I’m calling 911 and if it’s the police or the ER the hell with you both.”