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Chapter One
I guess it’s kind of traditional in this sort of thing for me to relate to you an incident from my past–to let you know the sort of person I am. So, as much as I loathe tradition, here it is:
The beginning of my senior year in high school, so I was just seventeen. Mom off at one of her monthly Fine Arts Club meetings, so that made it a Friday night. If I thought about it, I could probably even remember the date.
Anyhow, with Mom gone, I had the house to myself until at least midnight–quite possibly all night–if Mom got picked up by some visiting literati stud, or maybe a construction worker, in whatever bar she stopped at for a nightcap. In either case, she’d stumble home the next morning with a long, well-conceived story to cover her “sexcapades,” and I’d suffer through her telling it to me, just to make her happy. I think she knew I knew she was lying (whew!), but since it eased her guilt to keep up a charade, I let her go.
Now I don’t want you to get the impression my mother was a nymphomaniac or anything. Just a lonely divorcée who was hoping to have an experience like so many of the characters she read about. So she was an easy target for any pipe-smoking, bearded, intellectual with tweed patches on the elbows of his sweater, reciting dissident poetry in an Eastern-European accent. So she was also an easy lay for any broad-shouldered, callused, grease-monkey with a beer in one hand and a dirty limerick on his lips. So what? That just meant she loved sex almost as much as she loved literature.
But to continue . . . I had the house to myself, which included the TV, VCR and stereo. I could either put on some classical music and continue my struggle through the wasteland of early twentieth-century poets, or I could watch a movie. I chose the latter, since I felt a need to unwind. In preparation, eight bottles of root beer were placed within the cooling confines of the refrigerator and a large bag of potato chips was opened and dumped into a bowl. For later, two frozen bagels were placed on the cutting board to thaw. Then, after a scrutiny of the TV Guide revealed that nothing worthwhile was being aired that night, I selected a pre-recorded movie to re-watch. Feeling the need to be manipulated, my choice fell to Vertigo.
Just at one of my favorite scenes (among the redwoods!) the phone rang. I ignored it as best I could, but its persistence convinced me it had to be my mother. Picking up the receiver as I leaned forward to pause the movie, I spoke: “Senator Joseph McCarthy Center for the Liberal Arts may I help you?” (One breath!).
“Pardon me, I must have the wrong number,” replied a too exact voice. I didn’t argue, so he apologized again, then hung up–but not before I’d noticed the hiss of a long-distance line. I knew I shouldn’t have bothered, but I went ahead and unpaused the VCR. I actually got to watch about five more minutes of movie before the phone rang again. “Hieronymous Bosch’s Auto Body Painting. May I assist you?” I ventured as I hit the OFF button on the VCR. The long pause before he replied showed I had him confused.
“Ah . . . (ahem) . . . is this the Phelps’ residence?” he finally began.
“Yes it is.”
“May I speak with Mrs. Adelaide Phelps?”
“Yes,” I consented, but I of course made no effort to go and get her.
“Could you put her on?” he attempted to clarify.
“Probably,” I allowed. “I have before, so I could probably do so again, but I try not to tease her too often–especially if she’s had a rough day.”
“Ah . . . ” he mumbled, searching for a way around me. “Can she come to the phone so that I might speak with her?”
“Yes,” I stated frugally and decidedly, and he did not say anything further, so I think he thought I’d gone to get her. Finally, after a minute or so, he uttered a questioning “Hello?”
“Hi,” I cheered him on.
“Is she coming?” he demanded, beginning to be annoyed.
“No one can tell when she’s coming,” I admitted in a confidential tone. There was another extended pause as the poor man digested this and tried to think of a way to get someone else on the phone. I swear I could hear the wheels grinding in his head until they locked, with a screeching crash, onto something.
“She’s not home, then?” he decided.
“Then or now,” I admitted, ending the first engagement as the obvious winner.
“Is there a number where I can reach her?” he offered lamely, almost fading out by the end, as he realized exactly what this would get him.
“Yes,” I almost laughed, really enjoying his discomfiture.
“Would you let me have it?” he almost moaned.
“Yes,” I promised, pausing just long enough to let him build a little hope, then: “I would if I had it, but I don’t, so I won’t, and I can’t.” Then, to avoid another neural collision in his brain, and because I became suddenly bored, I gave him his chance. “Couldn’t I just take a message?”
“I don’t know if I should . . . ” the fool hesitated, “but I do have an important meeting to attend.”
“Blonde or brunette?” I stabbed in the dark, and his quick intake of breath told me I had struck home. He cleared his throat to begin again and asked: “To whom am I speaking?”
“The one and only–and legally recognized–son, of Mrs. Adelaide Phelps,” I replied precognitively.
“Then you must be Forrest?” he jumped.
“Don’t have to be,” I observed sagely. “My father’s a lawyer, so I could easily–and at little expense–have it changed. How does Meadow or Glade grab you?”
“The reason I called concerns your father,” he answered testily, and I think it was then that he realized that the only way to have a conversation with me was to ignore everything I said; I always have been a good listener. “My name is Richard Davies,” he continued, “An associate of your father’s.” He paused dramatically, so I burped loudly. “F-Forrest–your father was killed in an accident just a few hours ago,” he spat at me, disgusted by this time.
“Let me get a paper and pencil to write this down, Dick.” I answered without blinking an eye, but I really didn’t need to write anything down. I put my hand over the mouthpiece and hummed the opening to the ‘Italian’ symphony by old Felix M., then came back on the line. “OK,” I mumbled, “Let’s see if I have everything . . . “Dad dead” . . . is that all?” God, what must have been going through that poor man’s mind . . . but if I ever became famous, he’d have something to sell to the scandal sheets: The Callous Way Forrest Phelps Reacted to News of his Father’s Death!
“Would you like to know how he died?” he fumbled badly, but then, it is hard to observe the rules of decorum when I’m involved.
“Sure,” I allowed, “I’ve still got a little room on the matchbook cover. Say, did you know you could learn computer programming in your spare time?”
“Another victim of a drunk driver. He was standing in a phone booth when a driver jumped the curb and ran over the booth.”
“OK, I’ll add “closed casket”, I interpreted. “Anything else? Like a phone number where my mother can reach you sometime tomorrow so she can obtain the details concerning the funeral arrangements?” Mechanically, he supplied the number, then he started in on the usual platitudes used to console someone who’s just lost a loved one, but I cut him short and basically hung up on him. Then I turned off the TV and VCR and turned on the stereo to listen to a bit of Brahms.
That’s the kind of person I am.
Chapter Two
Matté . . . I will wait.
The beat of my heart will count out the time.
(Matté)
The pain in my eyes (Matté) will be the only sign (Matté)
Mothers of madness (Matté) maker of dreams
(Matté) of desire (Matté)
But the pain (Matté) and the loss (Matté)
My eyes! (Matté) The pain
My heart! (Matté)
My Matté?
not . . . mine . . .
not Matté
# # #
Now–and always–I need to hold and caress and taste and feast upon you. How long shall I have to wait? My mind rages and races and rants–and still there can be no relief! But this I know . . . there are no gods in heaven nor demons in hell who dare move me from the altar of your worship. You are my saint . . . with the sins of the world nesting nestled in the tangles of your heart–still I lay my head at your feet. (Reach down!) Touch me . . . and I will rise to my knees before your glory! Tap me . . . and I will stand, your champion, and take from you the benighted sword.
Take it and rear to my hind legs to assault the world. For you–let me rip the babe that is humanity from the womb of the earth! Rip it free, to slit its screaming throat–then bash the useless corpse against the nearest wall! For you Matté. All for you.
If my sword were long enough–and sharp–I would silence the screams of the universe.
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