The Separation

  “So long, Charlie,” I said to the night. “Have a good ride, Freund.”

  8

  Yet Charlie came back. It was later the following day, well after lunch. Demitris had been out in the yard when he came streaming back into the house, shouting that Charlie had come back, Charlie had come back. Jerry and I, who had spent the earlier part of the day packing up the remainder of Charlie’s things, were in the parlor drinking brandy and winding down when Demitris came bursting into the room, his face red, his eyes so wide in his head I feared they might actually pop out and clatter to the floor. So we stood and rushed out to the back porch just in time to see Charlie still perched atop the mottled stallion come galloping through the woods and down the gradual slope of the lawns, through the budding birch trees and fields of yellow Rape, his weight lifted ever so slightly off the horse’s back, hooked into a comma, his face beaming. When he saw us out on the porch he hazarded a wave, but nearly lost his balance and quickly gripped the reigns.

  “There he is,” Jerry said. “The son of a bitch, he’s grinning.”

  Charlie brought the stallion to a halt alongside the corral. He climbed down and looped the reigns around a fencepost. The horse whinnied, pivoting its head up and down. Grinning, walking steadier than I’d seen him do in days, he moseyed up to the back porch and, upon closing the distance, burst into an uncontrollable stream of laughter.

  “Well,” Jerry said, not laughing, “I’m glad you think this whole thing is funny.”

  “I didn’t know you could ride, Charlie,” Demitris, the little dunce, marveled.

  “All right,” said Jerry, no doubt unsatisfied that his last comment had gone unanswered. “What do you have to say for yourself, Charlie?”

  His laughter finally subsiding, Charlie Pronovella said, “I’m starving.”

  9

  We all watched while Charlie gobbled down eggs, bacon, sausage links, Pommes, a variety of juices and coffees at the kitchen table.

  “A party,” Charlie said. “A celebration.”

  None of us could say a word.

  “Demitris,” Charlie went on, his mouth crammed with food, “you’ll be in charge of inviting people up from the town. It has to be immediate. It has to be tonight.”

  “You’re—you’re requesting we throw a party?” Jerry said, his voice so dry the words nearly stuck in his mouth.

  “A celebration.” The prizefighter held up one hand, palm facing out, directly before his face. “Everything’s clearing up. See?”

  “You want to have it here?” Jerry went on.

  “Tonight. I want it tonight.”

  “Charlie,” Jerry said, but quickly silenced as I placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “That sounds like a good plan,” I interrupted. “Demitris, you should get right on that.”

  Out on the back porch and out of Charlie’s earshot, I explained to Jerry that throwing this party may be just the thing for him—that last night’s ride on the mottled stallion had apparently cleared his mind and that any advance from his former state of depression should be encouraged.

  “Marcus, we can’t have a party here,” he insisted. “We shouldn’t even be here to begin with, in case you don’t remember. It’s illegal! Gloria technically owns the compound.”

  “I understand,” I said, placing both my hands on his shoulders and looking him square in the eyes. “But this is a good thing. If he wants a party to celebrate his return to normalcy, then we should grant him his party.”

  Angered, Jerry brushed my hands from his shoulders. “What he needs is a good punch in the mouth,” he spat, and stormed back into the house.

  Demitris spent the remainder of the day traveling into the town to collect guests for Charlie Pronovella’s impromptu celebration while Jerry ordered some food to the compound. He maintained a bitter pout on his face the entire time but did nothing to derail any of the plans that had been set in motion. Despite his abrupt turnaround, I remained concerned about Charlie, and several times during that afternoon I found myself compiling a mental list of antidepressants to sift through once I returned to London. With each passing hour, my resolve and determination to help the man grew stronger and stronger.

  “I think he’s flipped,” Jerry said at one point, cornering me in the kitchen. “I think this is it, and we’re setting ourselves up for the big showdown this evening. The main event. He’s going to make monkeys of us all. You just watch, Marcus.”

  For the most part, Charlie sat on the back porch drinking water. He was quiet and did not speak to any of us. To Jerry’s chagrin, it appeared the old boy had decided to take up smoking, too, and was puffing away on a reeking cigarillo when the food arrived at five-thirty. I helped Jerry set the platters of meats and cheeses and bottles of alcohol along the bar in the parlor. We found an old transistor radio in one of the upstairs closets. The reception wasn’t great, but we managed to harness a signal from the air, and soon we had easy jazz riffs to accompany our impending celebration.

  When Demitris arrived, it was already dark. He flung himself through the front door and I could tell he’d been out drinking. Behind him, still on the front porch, a gaggle of pigeon-eyed onlookers were straining their necks to see into the foyer.

  “Please tell me you didn’t wreck the lousy car,” said Jerry.

  “Car’s fine,” Demitris said, shuffling into the house. His collection of miscreants followed him; they looked like extras in a George Romero movie, their faces pasty and gaunt, their eyes wide and staring.

  “Where’d you dig up this lot?” I said, pressing my face close to Demitris’s collar as not to alert our visitors. “These can’t be friends of Charlie…”

  “Too short notice,” Demitris said, a blossom of bourbon breath accosting my nose. “No one was available.”

  “So what—you picked these folks up at the local pub?”

  Demitris looked irritated. “I’m tired of you, Doc.” He wrinkled his pug nose. “I’m tired of you treating me like a child. We used to be friends.” And then he walked away.

  Surprised by the comment, I remained standing in the hallway as our guests peeled off their coats and filed into the parlor. Each one smelled like a different brand of alcohol; it was a conga-line of drunkards.

  “I don’t think we’re going to have enough booze,” Jerry remarked, not looking directly at me.

  I turned and saw Charlie, freshly showered and neatly dressed in a shirt and tie, standing atop the landing.

  “Dr. Marcus Llewellyn!” he boomed. “Gerald Lieder, my good friend and manager! Hello to you both!”

  “He’s lost it,” Jerry murmured.

  I, too, was not getting a comfortable feeling...

  Charlie moved swiftly down the stairs. He was like a completely different person. I could not take my eyes from him. Hearing the music coming from the parlor, he clapped his hands, laughed, and said I was one of his best friends on the entire planet. Then he joined his guests in the parlor. Boisterous laughter ensued.

  This sudden change had come on too quickly, it was reminiscent of psychosomatic disassociation—

  “Let’s go, Doc!” Charlie shouted at me, poking his head out from the parlor. He waved me forward.

  Reluctantly, I joined the partygoers. Demitris’s drunkards continued to pickle themselves with booze and dance to the fuzzy music coming through the transistor radio. After a few drinks, even Jerry managed to loosen up and, at one point, was coerced into dancing on one of the armchairs, a glass of scotch in one hand, a demure little smile on his thin lips. None of the guests spoke English and, in their inebriated state, even their German was suspect. At one point, one of the drunken Germans managed to scrabble up on top of the bar and, in a booming baritone, bellowed, “Ich liebe Euch! Ich liebe Euch alle!” Then he made a move as if to adjust a necktie that he was not wearing and we all watched as he stiffened like a plank of wood
and keeled backward, dropping straight off the bar and landing flat on his back. Unfazed, he blinked twice…then burst out in raucous laughter. A second later, and his drunken companions were laughing right along with him.

  Most of all, Charlie was in high spirits and even ate a bit and drank a beer or two. He was a boxer again—light on his feet, bouncy, but agile and aware of his surroundings. Jerry saw this, too, and we exchanged a look from across the room. Jerry simply winked and faked a jab in my direction. I mouthed a colorful swear in return, and finished off the rest of my drink.

  Moments later, I saw a rather concerned looking Demitris waving at me through the crowd. I made my way through the parlor and met him out in the hallway. When he spoke, he was nearly out of breath.

  “What is it?”

  “There are police here,” Demitris said. “They’re waiting in the foyer. They’re looking for Charlie.”

  I handed Demitris my drink and proceeded down the hallway toward the foyer. Indeed, two policemen stood in the entranceway. They looked too young to be wearing uniforms. Through the front windows, I could see the flashing lights of their police cars...and I counted five cars in all.

  What the hell did you do now, you son of a bitch?

  “My name is Marcus Llewellyn, I’m Charlie Pronovella’s therapist,” I said, introducing myself. “I’m afraid my German is rather poor—”

  “We are here to see Mr. Pronovella,” one of the officers said, his English more than passable.

  “Has he done something?”

  “Is he here?” spoke the second officer. His English was less impressive and heavily accented.

  “Well, now, I believe he’s in the other room. We’ve got some”—and I considered the drunken louts partying in the next room—“uh, friends over for a small get together...”

  “We will need to speak with him,” said the first officer, and they both moved past me and down the hall toward the parlor.

  “What has he done?” I called after them, but was afford no acknowledgment.

  I followed them into the parlor just as someone shut down the music. At the sight of the police officers, the drunken Germans quickly gathered their coats from the armchairs and stuffed hats on their heads. They said nothing as they herded out the door and pooled out into the foyer where they milled about in their individual stupors, apparently still sober enough to realize that they had no ride back into town.

  Charlie was no longer in the parlor. The policemen looked around, mutual expressions of disgust on their faces.

  “Where is Mr. Pronovella?” one of the officers said.

  Jerry looked petrified. His mouth was open but no words came out.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but did his ex-wife file a complaint about him? She has been—”

  “She has been murdered,” said the other officer.

  I froze. Suddenly, I could feel every nerve and cell that comprised the makeup of my body.

  “If he is not—” the officer began, but was cut off.

  “The barn,” Demitris said. “I saw him wander out back just a few moments ago.”

  The officers shared an expression. I had found my balance again and quickly took to my feet, moving past he officers and down the hall to the back porch. I heard them shout after me in German, their heavy footfalls clacking on the hardwood floors.

  I hurried out into the field...and sure enough, I saw Charlie’s silhouette pass in front of the lighted doorway of the barn. I shouted his name but he did not pause in his stride; he entered the barn and, a second later, his elongated shadow followed him inside.

  With the police, Jerry, and Demitris following me, I continued toward the stable at a steady trot. When I reached the stable, I leaned against the doorway for support, breathing heavy, my heart galloping in my throat. “Char—Charlie—”

  Charlie had torn the bay door off the horse’s stall. The mottled horse shrilled and kicked up its front legs in protest. This did not influence Charlie in the least. Nothing more than a smear, a shadow in the darkness, I saw Charlie reach forward and grab a fistful of the horse’s mane. He tugged hard and again the horse cried out. It was so similar to a human scream that it caused a knot to tighten at the base of my spine and I shivered.

  Still holding onto a fistful of mane, Charlie pulled the stallion from its stall; I could actually see the animal’s sturdy legs locked and unmoving, resisting, yet dragging across the ground. It was then that Charlie released the animal. In that second I was almost certain the horse was going to rise up and pummel him with its front hooves. But instead, and to my utter surprise and absolute horror, Charlie took a swing at the animal, an actual roundhouse punch, which connected directly with the side of the horse’s massive head. At first, my brain almost didn’t register what I was seeing. The punch was delivered with such force that it stunned the giant animal, and it stood there, nearly vibrating like a tuning fork, or a piece of petrified wood. Charlie followed up the roundhouse with a left jab which landed square across the horse’s nose, then a sharp right hook. One of the horse’s rear legs came up and slammed against one of the support posts. It tried to back up, to turn away, but Charlie was too quick to permit evasion. He moved like a boxer all right; but it was like watching a dream, a nightmare. The punches kept coming until the stallion’s head cocked unnaturally to one side and I saw its entire body first go rigid then go limp. It collapsed in heap to the ground. And still, Charlie did not stop. And I did not stop him, either. He pummeled the great beast until his knuckles were bloody and covered in white and brown horse hair. I could not move; I could not do anything; I could only watch.

  It all must have happened in under a minute, surely. Once he’d finished, Charlie straightened himself and turned away from the crumbled, broken body of the horse. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his necktie askew, the cuffs and front of his dress shirt speckled with black divots of blood. Fists still clenched, Charlie Pronovella staggered toward me. He wasn’t looking at me—I didn’t think so, anyway—but there was no one else around at the moment. I was almost certain that he was planning to slam me around next. But it never got that far.

  The officers appeared beside me and shouted something in German at Charlie. They were pointing guns at him.

  Just like the stallion, Charlie Pronovella collapsed to the ground in a messy heap.

  10

  More uniformed policemen materialized through the darkness. They came down the sloping lawn toward the barn at a hasty jog. Some of them had their weapons drawn.

  Standing just outside the barn’s double doors, Demitris, Jerry, and I watched as the two officers hoisted our unconscious friend onto his feet. They slung Charlie’s arms around their necks and Charlie’s head rocked lifelessly on his neck. Beside me, Jerry made a disgusted grunt way down in his throat. I could sense his urgency to speak, to break this bitter and hellish silence with words of explanation and understanding...but there was nothing any of us could explain or understand.

  “He must have done it last night, when he rode off on the horse,” Demitris said to no one in particular. “I never thought...”

  “Hush now,” I told him.

  Charlie moaned and came to just as a few of the other policemen reached him, guns still unholstered. I expected Charlie to struggle, to complain, to drop his arms from around the necks of the two policemen who were supporting him, but he did not do any of that. He simply rolled his eyes in my direction. And grinned like a cadaver.

  That isn’t Charlie. It was an unrecognizable voice that had spoken up in my head, and I wasn’t quite sure what it meant. Yet I knew there was nothing but truth to the statement. I was no longer looking at Charlie Pronovella.

  The officers led Charlie back up the lawn toward the house as another officer barked at us in German.

  “He wants us to go back inside,” Jerry said. “He wants to ask us questions.”
br />   But they never asked any questions. We followed them around to the front of the house where they stuffed Charlie into the back of one of the police cars. The cops themselves milled about for a while, talking in their mysterious tongue, while Jerry, Demitris, and I waited on the front porch for them to come over and question us. A few of the drunken partygoers were still loitering about the front yard, having taken up a seat on the rim of a marble fountain to watch the show unfold.

  Eventually, one of the officers approached Jerry. They exchanged words in German, their voices low, as if there were a child present whom they did not want overhearing. After the officer left, Jerry turned to Demitris and me and, looking ill, said, “They’re charging him with murder. Gloria was strangled in her home last night. There were hoofprints left behind and one of the neighbors identified Charlie climbing out of one of her windows.”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  One by one, the police cars pulled down the long driveway toward the street. The three of us watched them go in incredulous silence.

  “I failed him,” I said.

  Jerry and Demitris both looked at me.

  “He needed a friend, not a therapist,” I said. Then, turning to Demitris, I said, “I’m sorry for barking orders at you, too, Demitris. I apologize.”

  “Oh.” Demitris looked stupefied. “Oh, hey, Marcus. No problem there. For sure.”

  I clapped Demitris on the back and the three of us went inside, where we lingered in the grand foyer out of a sheer inability to refocus our minds and move on to other things. What was there to do now? Clean up the parlor? Report a dead horse to the constable? The notion gave me a chill.

  “Marcus.” It was Jerry, close to my face now. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  I was about to say something—to refute him, perhaps—but when I looked up at him, I noticed his eyes trained to something far above my head. Behind him, Demitris was staring at the same thing, a look of utter terror etched on his face. I turned around and followed their gaze to the top of the winding stairwell.