Something strange is happening with Frida. It could be a mistake, but if it’s a real emergency, am I the one to deal with it? What should I do?
A. Go home, shower, shave and call again.
B. Go home, drop off your bags and drive to Frida’s house.
C. Go home, drop off your bags, and drive to Frida’s house. (Bring her souvenir blanket.)
D. Tell the taxi driver to take you directly to Frida’s house.
* * *
Pit of Despair
Stage 4
After giving the new directions, I
noticed for the first time how much it had snowed. The pine trees and
guardrails had a thick, white blanket over them. The highway had been cleared,
but traffic stayed below the speed limit. I stared longingly at the green sign,
as we drove past my exit. I sighed. The driver stole a glance in the rearview
mirror, but had the good sense not to ask questions. My clothes were sticky on
my inner thighs and shoulders, while the smell of dinner rolls clung to my
jacket and the stink of sweat rose from beneath. It felt like ages since I’d
last trimmed my beard, but I probably couldn’t have kept my hand steady enough
to do it. Being back in a familiar place had only made me more eager for rest.
It wasn’t like me to worry this way,
and I imagined paranoia or a sleep-deprived delirium was taking hold of me.
Maybe it was the stress of being away, the anxiety that expects your empty
house to burn down, your children to be kidnapped or your neglected lover to
seek someone new. The more I thought on it, the more I was convinced it was all
a mistake and I was on a fool’s mission. Neither of the voices sounded like
Frida and they didn’t call me by name, which she would have assuredly done. I
hoped she wouldn’t be home, yet. I could drop a note through her mail slot,
turn off my phone, go home and catch up with her the next day.
Frida had a brick two-bedroom house
in a quiet suburb. The roof was steeply angled; the front lawn was spacious,
and a walkway curved through it, connecting the driveway and front door. At the
end of the drive, there was a carport and a side door that led into the
kitchen. The taxi shrieked to a stop in the blackened slush along the curb, and
I wiped the fogged window to see Frida’s red hatchback parked under the
carport; the door still open, which meant she’d probably just arrived. I paid the
driver and he popped the trunk, so I could get my bags. Expectedly, the evening
was frigid and I could see my breath. As he left, I stood my bag upright on the
driveway and looked at the scene, expecting Frida to emerge from the house’s
side door any second. The curtains were drawn on the large, living room window,
but only the further kitchen light was on. The driveway had been shoveled
clean, while a thick layer of unbroken snow still lay on the walkway, the roof
and even the mailbox in front of the house; I thought she probably called ahead
to have a neighbor kid clean it. I walked to the carport, dropped my suitcase
again and leaned against the rear of her car, waiting to surprise her as she
came out. The screen door was shut, but the house door was open just a crack.
I shook my head and limbs to recover
my senses, and rid myself of exhaustion; I wanted to rub snow in my eyes, but I
was afraid I’d be caught. A half-minute passed without an appearance or a
sound. I told myself she was probably in the bathroom, and stood there a while
longer. Slowly, the initial fear that brought me there began to speak; the
tremble in my hands quickened with my breath; a cold, sober voice pierced the
night air and said, run now. My knee bent unconsciously and my shoulders
turned, but I caught myself, nearly tripping over my own feet. I took a single,
slow breath and rapped on the metal frame of the screen door. As before, there
wasn’t an answer or a noise. I looked into her two-door hatchback, and saw her
suitcases were still lying in the back seat, while the driver’s seat was
collapsed forward. I pushed the seat back into place, put my own bags on top of
it and closed the car door. If the second message was hers, she would be in the
bedroom, I reminded myself. The screen door rattled, as I opened it, but the
inner door glided open silently.
A single step through the door, and
I locked eyes with the beast. The Medusa locked in my memory had escaped. My
feet were cemented to the floor; I couldn’t walk or turn away. The eyes were
brown, black and unflinching; they had the resignation of a wrongfully
condemned, the heartbreak of fraternal betrayal. The stare was accusing, though
lifeless. Its…no, her wrists and ankles were bound with white cord, tied to the
four corners of a square, metal grill that hung from the ceiling, swaying
inches above the kitchen table. The bald, fleshy face was anguished, sunken
cheeks and fangs protruding. The chestnut-colored fur on her back was clean,
but the pale fur of her stomach and legs had been reddened, clotted with blood.
There was a diagonal slice across her narrow chest and stomach where the
cascade of blood poured out, streaming down the leg, dribbling off of her toes
and staining the tablecloth beneath it.
Firm hands tugged at my arm, wrenching me from the
demon; even as we rushed to the bedroom, I couldn’t turn away from it. Frida
slammed the bedroom door behind us and pushed me against it, pressing down on
my shoulders. I slid to the floor without protest and she sat over my outstretched
legs; she pressed her face into my shoulder, as I cradled her. Though she’d
been home for over an hour, Frida was still dressed in her white coat and
gloves; she began shivering in my arms, anyhow. I was only useful as a body.
The scene had stunned me to silence, so I couldn’t comfort her with words. We
just rocked gently on the floor, while she summoned courage and shook
vulnerability. But I felt nothing in that timeless hour. Though I knew a
distant force was charging forward, I couldn’t accept what I’d seen; it was
like reuniting with a relative long believed to be dead, shock precedes
emotion.
The shaking finally stopped and our bodies went
limp. When I was very close to unconsciousness, Frida brought her mouth to my
ear and grumbled, “Tell me about the Pit of Despair.”
It was as if she’d given me the rusty, old key to a
disused door of my mind. Pit of Despair, three words I hadn’t heard or
thought of in over two decades. It was a dark realization, and sapped me of my
strength.
I whispered back, “Fifteen minutes of sleep, please.
If I could move, I’d get on my knees. Can I have just fifteen minutes?”
She nodded and gradually our bodies slipped
downwards, until we lay side-by-side on the floor. Asleep, my body was
vibrating, zipping past lights, experiencing euphoria, then vertigo. In the
space of a nap, I lost my sense of place, sense of time and sense of self; by
the time I was nudged back to consciousness, I regained all but the third.
The light was on, and it took a long moment to
remember where I was. Frida had changed out of her winter clothes and wore a
red, wool sweater with black trousers. Seated over me and seeing I was awake,
she narrated, “When I got home and saw that thing hanging over my table, I
fainted dead on the floor. Maybe I screamed silently or hyperventilated. I’m
not sure. But I woke up a few minutes later and looked at the dead animal
again. It seemed like a sick threat from the pro-life group and I took my phone
out to call the police, but at the moment I pressed ‘9’, a crumpled ball of
paper fell from its paw. This was it.”
She held out the severely wrinkled piece of paper
for me. I took the typed note, picked up my body, leaned against the door again
and read quietly, Did you and the Dr. have a good trip? I looked at her
quickly and saw her watch disapprovingly, as if it held evidence against me.
She took it away and replaced it with another paper, equally wrinkled, saying,
“This was in the other paw.” The note read, What did he tell you about the
Pit of Despair? Or am I the first to mention it?
Frida gave me a moment to speak, but I merely handed
the paper back and waited for her. Her jaw and shoulders wanted to be firm with
me, but her eyes began sobbing. She asked, “Derrick, why is there a crucified
monkey dangling over my kitchen table?”
I replied automatically, “It’s a rape rack, not a
crucifix.”
Her shock renewed, Frida lurched backwards and
cried, “What?”
“I mean, they’re my enemies, not yours. It’s my life
they want to fuck with. I’m afraid you’re just an innocent bystander this
time.” I began choking on my own tears, but stopped it and added, “I’m sorry,
Frida.”
Growing frantic, she asked, “What? What’s a rape…?
What is the Pit of Despair? Tell me about the Pit of Despair!”
I folded my hands, put them on my lap and answered,
“It’s an experiment I assisted on for the University of Wisconsin, when I
working on my doctorate. We took several rhesus monkeys, like the one hanging
in your kitchen, and put them in narrow, metal cages for a prolonged period of
time. We were testing the psychological consequences for long periods of
isolation. The Pit of Despair was our name for the vertical cages.”
“That’s it.”
“I believe so.”
“You’re lying!” she yelled.
“I’m afraid not,” I continued calmly. “This must be
an animal rights group that did some research into my past. Actually, it’s too
crazy. It must be the work of a single fanatic.”
Frida pulled herself onto the bed, and leered at me
as she sat down. She said, “If this were just an activist group or some
lunatic, I could deal with it. I have to put up with it all the time, but
either you’re lying to me, or keeping a lot of information from me, or both. I
put off calling the police because they mentioned your name, and I don’t know
what I’m up against.”
“Don’t call. If this gets out, life will get a lot
more complicated for me. More groups will follow.”
She sneered, “Go home, Derrick. I can’t see you
right now.”
“I don’t have my car and I’m out of strength, Frida.
Please let me sleep. I came by taxi as soon as I got your call.”
The lines of her mouth softened and her eyes
glimmered with fresh tears. “You can sleep on the couch for a few hours, but go
before I wake up.”
I nodded and, as I stood to leave, Frida said, “By
the way, it’s not a ‘rape rack.’ It’s an oven rack. It came from my oven.” My
hand was on the doorknob, but I stopped turning at these words. Speechlessly, I
stared at the woman, but she mouthed the word, go.
Given the gravity of the conversation, it was
relatively simple to fall asleep with a dead monkey in the next room. I switched
off the kitchen light and lay on the sofa, pulling the quilted covering over
me. Despite my excessively troubled thoughts, I couldn’t stay awake for even a
few seconds. Crossing half the world and spending the night on a plane, doesn’t
prepare one for these kinds of problems.
I slept soundly for several hours and when I woke,
the world was still dark. The glowing, white face of the clock on the opposite
wall read, 4:30, and my body felt rested enough to act.