Against Nature Page 4

  I got out, followed, didn’t disagree. The house seemed to look down at me with an unwelcome energy.

  Chapter 4

  A ram’s head was mounted on the wall by the door, as if to discourage visitors. Opaque dead eyes, coarse brown fur with a fringed mane under the throat, a stern mouth faded white with age. The horns, thick and weathered from battle, curved down around his face like a well-earned crown. A gold medallion with an insignia of New York hung from his thick neck.

  “That’s Eddie,” said Cass. “He keeps watch over the place.”

  I was examining the dead beast and didn’t notice the live one coming at my crotch. A big, wet nose nuzzled into me. I looked down at a panting chocolate Lab eager to welcome.

  “And that’s Filly,” said Cass. “She’s a poor excuse for a guard dog, but she’s the sweetest gal in the world.” She knelt down and rubbed behind her ears. Straightening up, she said, “Filly’s the only thing that’s been keeping me together these days. We rescued her last fall.”

  “Right around the time Elvis died,” I said, unable to help myself.

  Cass looked away, focused on petting her pup. “I’m sorry, Duck. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there too.”

  I leaned down next to her, gave Filly a scratch, didn’t reply. After a good guilty silence I said, “So you gonna give me the tour?”

  We stood and Filly bounded off and Cass began turning on lamps. Each gave off little, the wattage barely enough to read under. She lit half a dozen and the space still seemed to exist in eerie half-light. I looked around a cluttered living room that felt transported from the nineteenth century. Dark stained wainscoting covered the walls and ceiling. Further taxidermy (deer, boar, owl) shared pride of place with landscape paintings in old ornate frames. The furniture looked made more for admiring than sitting, and was arranged around a large stone fireplace. Taking it in, I felt a cool chill to the air. Shivered, my body seizing in on itself. It had been a warm spring day in the city, might have even cracked eighty; but up here in this strange mountain lair of a dead stranger, it felt like winter hadn’t released its grip. Cass felt it too. She knelt by the hearth and removed the screen and began crumbling newspaper and tossing it onto a bed of ash.

  “It’s always freezing in here,” she said over her shoulder. “Victor liked it that way. Have you ever heard the term ‘hygge’?” she asked.

  I shrugged, felt like I should be helping. Took a seat in an uncomfortable cracked leather chair.

  “It’s Danish, pronounced hooga,” she said. “Means something like coziness, but more so. Soft light, sitting by a fire, sipping wine in winter—that’s hygge.” She glanced around the room. “Guess you could say it was one of Victor’s philosophies. One of many.”

  What I thought: How the fuck did this pretentious clown seduce Cass? What I said: “Sounds like an interesting dude.”

  She nodded, kept her back to me, built the fire with expertise. When the logs were positioned to her satisfaction, she lit a long match and began touching the flame to each corner of newspaper. The fire leapt at once. She replaced the screen and admired her work.

  “That’ll warm things up,” she said. “Can I get you a drink? No whiskey, I’m afraid, but we have plenty of wine. Red okay?”

  “Guess so.”

  She left me alone in the shadowed living room and went to fetch the glasses and the bottle. I sat back and gazed into the flames. A memory of Cass bleeding on the floor of my apartment, shot through the stomach. Beside her, two dead Ukrainians, one killed by each of us. Pools of blood intermingled; sirens came closer. Bad times, and it got worse from there. And now here was Cass, cured by hygge, before her lover plunged to his death. I wondered when I should mention the warning I received from Oliver and his mysterious boss before I boarded the bus.

  She returned with a bottle of Pinot, uncorked it, and poured us two full glasses. We toasted, our eyes met. She looked away.

  “Good to see you again,” I said.

  She settled into a tattered love seat across from me and curled her legs beneath her. We turned our attention to the fire. Didn’t speak until we each needed a refill. I topped our glasses, wondered how to begin.

  “He didn’t kill himself,” she said, finally.

  I didn’t reply. Took a gulp, eyed the almost-empty bottle.

  “They’ve already decided he did. He tried it once before, years ago, so they think that’s all there is to it. One attempt and you’re forever a suicide waiting for success.”

  “What happened before?” I asked.

  “It was before I knew him, like six years ago. His marriage was a mess, his career too. He said he was depressed and swallowed down a dozen Ambien one night. Chased them with a bottle of gin and went outside to die in the snow. His ex, the bitch, heard him stumble outside and didn’t even get out of bed. She said she thought he was just drunk again, going out to get more wood. Victor said he wanted to go die alone like a resigned dog in the woods. But he didn’t make it that far. He collapsed in the road, and got lucky. A neighbor, one of the few who keeps his house open through winter, had a lost beagle and was out looking. He found Victor and called 911 and they managed to revive him in time.”

  “Did he ever find his hound?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Duck.”

  She reached for the bottle, drained the rest in her glass. Didn’t make a move to open another.

  “So,” I said. I set down my glass on the coffee table with a hard hint. “Why are you sure he didn’t try it again? Was he saved by the tender whippings of Cassandra Kimball?”

  My cruelty hit harder than expected. She recoiled into the cushions, clutched her glass tight in her hand. For a moment I thought she would douse my face with wine. The weary sadness in her eyes was replaced in a rush by rage. I remembered the way she once made her living.

  “I’m sorry I called you,” she said, her voice all cold control.

  She stood, threatening above me. She turned toward the fire and flung her glass into the flames. It exploded against the stone, the red splashed down over the logs like a burst of blood. Glass fragments showered the hearth. Her arm was shaking, her face flushed and mottled.

  “Get out,” she said. “Get the fuck out, Duck.”

  I considered my options. I could go off, sulking, say farewell forever to my wounded former partner. Or I could weather her storm, apologize, and take whatever she needed to deliver. No choice at all.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Cass. I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”

  “‘Shitty’?” she asked. “You have no idea. You’re a stunted drunk, how would you know? You never loved anyone but yourself.”

  Keep quiet, I told myself, just take it.

  “What the hell was I thinking, calling you of all people, thinking you could help me? What a joke. You’ll just bring more pain and violence. More death and darkness, your fucking specialties.”

  All hurricanes pass. Don’t fight it.

  “Duck, get out. I’m serious.”

  “So am I, Cass. I’m not leaving. I’m sorry, can we please start over?”

  Her fists pulsed by her sides like a fighter before the bell. She extended her fingers, the ends sharp and red. Another memory: Cass slashing a drug dealer across the face with those nails, lacerating his face with five streaks of blood. I met her eyes, braced for the attack. Wanted it.

  She turned to Filly. The dog was cowering by the door with concern. Cass went to her, grabbed a leash from a coatrack. “C’mon, girl,” she said, hooking it to collar. “Let’s get some air.”

  The door slammed shut behind lab and mistress. I looked back at the fire, and the empty bottle of wine. I seemed to be making a habit of bringing out the fury in women I cared for. Must be me. The thoughtless comments, the snide smirks, they seemed so innocuous at the time. A bit disrespectful perhaps, but nothing to explode over. One more lesson I’d never learn. Maybe something I should work on, or maybe I needed to stop wasting my energy on damaged, attractive women.


  Christ, I was an asshole. A friend in need gets back in touch, and what did I do? Callous taunting and selfish sulking—nice strategy. That would get me back into her graces. How many times had she been there for me, sitting and smoking and listening to my shit? Never judging while I spilled my demons and worked through my scarred past. For ages I’d wished for Cass to return that vulnerability. To confess something, any form of weakness. Let me be there for her. Now she had, and what had I done? “The tender whippings of Cassandra Kimball . . .” I didn’t deserve her friendship.

  I went in search of another bottle. Found a rack of reds next to an old saloon piano in the dining room. A ghostly black-and-white portrait was propped on the thin ledge above the keys where the sheet music should go. A woman in 1920s flapper garb sat at a piano in the background of a bar. Two well-dressed gentlemen in black suits and bowler hats sat at a table in the foreground, whiskeys at their elbows. All three looked out at the camera with unsmiling expressions. I pulled a bottle from the rack, found an opener on top of the piano. Took in the rest of the artifacts around the room as I peeled and uncorked it. There were framed boxing prints from a century past; dull rusted knives hung on a hook by French doors. An old musket was mounted above. Victor Wingate appeared to be a man determined to live in a bygone era. I remembered his single book, the story of that 1920s boxer, Eddie Finn. I glanced over at the eponymous ram’s head.

  This, it seemed, was where Cass had found some peace, where she healed herself from the horrors I put her through. I could see it. There was comfort in the fantasy of living a century ago. Nothing could be as complicated as the present.

  I returned with the bottle to my seat by the fire. Filled up, sat back, looked into the flames. The wine was a Malbec and not too bad. As someone often more interested in alcohol content than taste, I was less than discerning, but after a few months with Juliette Cohen, my palate had grown accustomed to quality. I wondered if there was some weed around to complement it, or better, some nice fat white Vicodin. I considered a recon sweep for substances, but the fire and the wine were making me drowsy. I placed the bottle between my legs, drank deeply, and stared half-lidded at the burning logs.

  The flames swallowed up the wood and turned all to ash. When the bottle was gone and the fire was no more than a bed of coals, I got up and tossed on a few more logs and sat back and watched it leap again. I moved rather unsteadily back to the piano and the wine, uncorked another and took a slug from the bottle, then topped off my stained glass. Didn’t check what kind, didn’t care. I was feeling surly and slurry and knew things would get ugly if Cass decided to return before I had the decency to pass out. Elvis died by my side in bed while she was off rescuing that bounding Lab with her lover, leaving me to grieve in isolation. And I was the bad guy? I was cataloging her wrongs against me when the door opened with a gust and she and Filly were back.

  “Should have known,” she said, nodding to the empty bottles before me.

  “You can take me to the bus in the morning,” I said. “I’ll crash right here, if that’s okay with Her Highness.”

  “Whatever, Duck.” As she poked at the fire, she added, “By the way, Victor was working on something that was going to upset some people. Not that you give a shit.”

  It was enough to fire up a blast of curious clarity, but I pretended not to feel it. I grunted and took a gulp at an empty glass. Then I closed my eyes and did not dream.

  Chapter 5

  I was being led through the woods in a hungover guilty haze. Every drinker is accustomed to morning-after shame. Usually I brushed it off after my first coffee, but my behavior last night was weighing heavy. I’d been waiting for her call, rushed off to answer it, torpedoing a relationship in the process, and then I’d reverted to my jaded, cynical settings. Reached for the bottle and spoken words of hurt. It didn’t help that she seemed so able to forgive and move past it when we woke.

  Cass was sharing more about Victor’s project and the powerful folks it may implicate. The rulers of the world of sports, it seemed. Cass was incurious when it came to the games boys played on TV, but even she knew the boldfaces being named.

  A cathedral of high trees offered a green canopy above us. Late-morning light filtered through in rays like signs to believers. A couple hundred yards later we emerged from the woods onto rocks and a steep death drop over the face of the mountain. The view unfurled under a hard blue sky, with farms and specks of towns and winding country roads spread across the valley. The Hudson River cut a slate-gray swath through the sightline. Beyond it a faint outline of another mountain range against the horizon.

  I gulped at bottled water, leaned over, tried to slow my breathing with hands on my knees. Sweat dripped from my face onto smooth rocks. I tasted last night’s stale red on my tongue. “Nice view,” I said. “How much farther?”

  “Few minutes,” said Cass. “Think you can manage?”

  “Doubtful.”

  She grabbed my water, took a swig, and bent backward, hands on her slim hips. Gave a glimpse of midriff, belly button pierced with a silver hoop. She wore black jeans and a black scoop-necked t-shirt and a loose black hoodie, unzipped. Cass caught me staring and pulled at her shirt. Then she strode off down the trail with Filly at her heels and picked up her story.

  I straightened up, cursed them both, and tried to keep the pace.

  Upon waking in that cracked leather chair, I was informed that I’d be granted a second chance. A lot of unprocessed emotion flowing between us last night, perhaps she’d been too quick to anger. I offered apologies of my own. She brewed us coffee, brought me Advil. Showed she was the bigger person. She told me she’d explain on our walk.

  Victor Wingate had been hard at work on his overdue follow-up to Walk Through Fire. A decade removed from publication, it seemed the muse was smiling on him once more. Or to be less poetic and more accurate, he was freed from a bad marriage and was now with a better woman than he had any right to. It was enough to inspire a man. I guessed the movie and the mailbox money from book sales was also running dry. Time to get back to work, and Victor was convinced he had a winner.

  He was calling it The Athlete, another sports-based book of narrative nonfiction. He told Cass it would elevate him to the ranks of Laura Hillenbrand and Buzz Bissinger, his self-proclaimed competitors, writers who took their time between blockbusters and wrote stories that were translated into A-list films. Walk Through Fire had been a classic of the form, so said the critics, and so Victor agreed. Ask me, it was the superior adaptation that extended its relevance and made it a bit more than another dusted-off story of back-in-the-day triumph. Bale was great in the film, or maybe it was Gyllenhaal, or Wahlberg? I couldn’t remember, one of those guys.

  The comeback book would be the story of Carl Kruger, formerly Hilde Kruger, Olympic javelin thrower—a doped victim of the East German experiment, when a generation of female athletes was treated as guinea pigs in a program that sacrificed thousands of German girls for the greater glory of Olympic success. According to Victor’s research the focus was on the young women, not their male counterparts. These were the early days of doping, a frontier far removed from the perfected science of modern-day cheating. Doctors and coaches went in search of big, strong, developing girls, and with their forced drug regime, they transformed them into sci-fi re-creations, performance-enhanced machines of preposterous size and strength. The long-term effects were never contemplated. For Hilde, who already dealt with gender dysphoria before the drugs, it hastened a transition that would have been forbidden in that time and place. When Hilde’s body broke down from extensive injections and was forced into retirement, he was one of the lucky ones. He managed to defect, made it to New York City with a fellow East German, a female swimmer named Uli Max. Hilde chose gender-reassignment surgery and emerged a trans man named Carl. The couple wed and settled in lower Manhattan, where they opened a bar called Kruger’s.

  When Cass shared all this with me, my first thought had been: How had I nev
er heard of that place? I fancied myself a connoisseur of Downtown bars; could there be a spot where I’d never lifted a glass, never even walked by and registered? She said Kruger’s was way down, off East Broadway, between the Williamsburg and Manhattan Bridges, in a rare pocket of city still resisting gentrification. I looked forward to stopping by upon my return to town.

  Cass told me that Victor learned of Carl’s story through a childhood friend, now a hotshot restaurateur named Mickey Knight. Wingate and Knight were buddies from the old neighborhood; in their case Soho in the seventies, when the place was still a dangerous cobblestoned community of artists and junkies and cavernous lofts rented for cheap. The writer’s interest was piqued. He made a rare visit back to the city and introduced himself to the Krugers. Turned out there was more to the story, with scandal not long buried but still infecting the highest echelons of world sport. Icons implicated, quarterbacks and basketball stars and Wheaties-box champions, wholesome household names beyond suspicion. Victor started to dig, and to write. Cass said she had never seen a man more inspired. It was an attractive quality.

  However, in the weeks before his death, Victor began to behave strangely. He insisted he could no longer work from home; instead he drove off in the morning and set up his laptop in local coffee shops or libraries in nearby mountain towns. He blamed it on difficulty focusing among the familiar, in a place so long an idle of little work. He said he needed fresh settings to get the words flowing. But when he came home, there were signs of paranoia. Now the door was being locked at night, the car keys removed from the ignition. This was a part of the country so safe that neighbors seldom did either. He’d been on antidepressants since his attempt six years ago and Cass asked if he was still taking them. He showed her a recently refilled bottle and insisted he was. She figured this was what it was like to live with a writer consumed. She had to admit, she rather liked the eccentricities. But then Victor never returned from that walk and he was found splattered and lifeless at the bottom of those falls. Despite his recent behavior Cass never considered suicide for a moment. There had to be another explanation for the locked doors and new patterns. Someone must have learned of his reporting, someone with a world to lose. Someone must have hunted him down and pushed him.