C. Lawrence - Silent Screams

The phone rang, jolting him out of his reverie. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Can I-uh-see you?" Nelson's voice was ragged, shaky.

"What's the matter?"

"It's Karen. I need-"

It was as though he were straining his words out through a sieve, trying to hold back the emotion behind them. Lee knew that it was barely three months since his wife's tragic death. He also knew all about grief. Just when you thought the worst was over, it could come back at you like the kick of a shotgun.

He looked outside at the gathering snow and sighed.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Lee pulled on his waterproof hiking boots and walked to the liquor store on Third Avenue. He picked out a bottle of Glenlivet single malt, then found a brave cabbie with snow tires. Traffic was light on Park Avenue, and the cabbie crossed Central Park through the 68th Street transverse right behind a snowplow, pulling up in front of Nelson's building on 73rd Street.

John Paul Nelson lived in a penthouse apartment of the Ansonia Hotel, a splendid, ornate Rococo building on the southwest corner of 73rd and Broadway. Rising proudly over the confluence of Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue, the Ansonia stands at one of the great crossroads of the city. The Seventh Avenue line spits out its passengers at the subway stop in the traffic island that bifurcates Broadway as it splits in two before reuniting and continuing on its northwesterly journey, while Tenth Avenue, reborn as Amsterdam-its name a reminder of the city's Dutch heritage-shoots straight uptown, slicing through the Upper West Side, neatly bisecting the neighborhood, equidistant from its two great parks, Riverside and Central Park.

Nelson opened the door when Lee knocked. He looked exhausted and lost. His auburn hair was uncombed. He was unshaven and wore an old blue flannel shirt over rumpled chinos. He waved Lee to a seat on a couch strewn with books and magazines.

"Sorry about this. Just, uh, make a place for yourself."

He plucked a few books off the end of the sofa and put them on the floor. Nelson's apartment, like his office, was a place of controlled chaos, comfortable clutter. When she was alive, Karen had managed the mess, keeping it under control, but since her death, things had deteriorated. There were books and periodicals all over the room-Lee wondered how it was possible for anyone to read as much as that. The books were on everything from archaeology to philosophy, physics to natural history.

Nelson stood in the middle of the room, running a hand through his untidy hair. After one look at him, Lee decided not to mention the incidents of two nights ago. Nelson would find out about the mad car chase soon enough.

"What can I get you?" Nelson asked.

It was only then Lee remembered the bottle of scotch in his hand.

"I didn't remember if it's your brand or not," he said, handing it to Nelson.

"If it's alcohol, it's my brand," he replied, and Lee regretted buying an expensive single malt.

But when his friend returned with two cut-crystal glasses and handed one to Lee, he was glad. The scotch had a piney, musty flavor, like open woodland and fireplaces in the fall.

"Really nice of you to spring for the good stuff," Nelson said, settling down in a tattered blue armchair. His Irish setter, Rex, emerged from the kitchen, padded over to him, and sat at his feet, sniffing the air. Nelson reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears.

"Thanks for coming over," he said, taking a swallow of scotch. "I guess I didn't want to be alone. Funny, it kind of caught me off guard…" He stared at his glass for some time before speaking. "I just can't help thinking that if I loved her better, she wouldn't have died."

"She was very sick, you know."

Nelson looked down at Rex's silky head. "I know. My logical mind tells me that, but I feel that if I had loved her better, she wouldn't have been able to leave me."

"It wasn't like she had a choice-"

"I know! I've told myself that a thousand times over, but what I fear more than anything is that Karen really didn't want to live enough. That she just…gave up."

"My God," Lee said. "You've got to stop punishing yourself over her death. Take it from someone who knows."

Nelson looked at his glass, and then at Lee. "How did you do it?"

"I don't think we ever get over missing the people we lose. We just learn how to live with the loss."

"I still can't accept that I had no control over it."

"It isn't uncommon to feel guilty in a situation like this."

"Yes, yes, I know," Nelson answered, some of the old impatience creeping into his voice. "It's just that-well, when it comes right down to it, I guess we don't think of ourselves as 'other people,' do we?"

"No, I guess not."

Nelson slumped in his chair and stroked Rex's shiny golden fur. They matched almost exactly, master and dog-Nelson's curly rust-colored hair was just a shade or two darker than the dog's burnished red-gold coat. Rex leaned into his master's leg, a blissful expression on his big, friendly face. The dog was Nelson's perfect mirror image, a kind of reverse alter ego, as sweet and outgoing as Nelson was sour and mistrustful. Lee knew his friend's behavior was a mask for an almost unbearable sensitivity, but few people saw through the mask. Lee had been allowed a glimpse of this, and over time Nelson had opened up to him-but he was one of the few. Karen was another, of course, but now she was gone.

Nelson broke the silence with a cough-the deep, rattling hacking of a lifetime smoker. Lee looked at him sternly. The whole apartment smelled of clove cigarettes.

"When is it you're going to quit smoking?"

"For God's sake, Lee, one thing at a time! I never smoked around her, you know," he added. "Not even before she-"

"I know," Lee answered. "I know you didn't."

"It was pretty funny, leaving my own apartment to smoke out on the street like some furtive teenager. We used to laugh about it," Nelson said, smiling, and then his smile slid away. His face fell, and a sob raked his vocal cords, making a harsh sound. He regained control after a moment, though, and took a deep breath.

"It's funny how so many other fears seem to spring from the basic fear of abandonment, isn't it?" he said.

Lee looked into his glass of scotch, the tawny liquid catching the light refracted by the cut-crystal glass. "Yeah. You know, that's even true for…" He broke off without finishing the thought, and looked away.

"What? True for who?"

"I was thinking about the case."

Nelson sat back in his chair. "I'm listening."

"I just didn't think it was right, under the circumstances-"

"For God's sake, man, you've piqued my curiosity now!" Nelson roared. "And do you think I want to spend all night moaning about Karen's death? Please-distract me!"

"Okay. It's not that big a deal, really. I was going to say that for him it's also about abandonment."

"For the Slasher?"

"Yes. Control, yes-but the roots are fear of abandonment."

"But what does it get us-or where does it get us, I should say, that we haven't already been?"

"He can't even allow himself to experience normal sexual impulses toward women. I think they may be irretrievably locked for him now-sex, religion, and death-to the point where, in his mind, they represent the same thing."

"And there's the sadomasochistic aspect of Catholicism: the suffering Jesus, bound and bloody on the cross."

"And Mary-always depicted as young and beautiful-looking up at him with adoration in her tear-swelled eyes."

"You know, you're right," Nelson said. "I never thought about it. If Jesus really is thirty-three when he dies, then Mary has to be at least in her fifties, right?"

"Right. And this is in a sun-drenched climate before Botox and face-lifts, or even decent dental care. She's going to look her age."