Faye Kellerman - Justice

A poem for Teresa

With special gratitude to Our Lord Jesus Christ, thanking Him for giving me a true spiritual love. May God forever protect her and keep her from harm’s way.

In the left-hand corner was a small drawing that could have been lifted from a fourteenth-century wood-panel painting. A young girl in a red dress, the crown of her head illuminated in gold pen by the spirit of God. Long chestnut hair, eyes closed, her hands folded in prayer, head bent modestly toward her breast.

The face was mine.

My eyes went moist as I scanned the pages. Six sheets of musical notation with lots of cross-outs. Chris took the music from me. “It’s done but it isn’t refined yet. But with the mood you’re in … I figured I’d better bring out the heavy artillery.”

I laughed through my tears. He lifted my chin until my eyes met his. “Let me play what I have so far, okay?”

I nodded. His smile was brilliant. “Okay, sit down.” He led me to his couch. “Okay. Sit. Wait.”

He went to his bedroom and came out carting his cello and stool. “Okay.” He sat down directly across from me and placed the instrument between his knees, burying the spike in his white carpet. “You never heard my Rowland Ross. It is one bitchen instrument. Okay. Okay. Now you gotta remember that it isn’t polished yet, all right?”

I smiled. “All right?”

“And I may make a few mistakes. I don’t have it all down yet. So cut me slack, all right.”

“No, I’m going to critique you,” I said, wiping my tears.

“So you’re happy now?”

“Yes. I’m happy now.”

“Good. ’Cause I’ll do better if you’re happy.”

“I’m delirious with joy. Play it already.”

His smile was edible. Then he closed his eyes a moment, started to breathe slowly. When his bow made contact with the strings, I closed my eyes.

The room filled with a sound so pure and sacred, it brought an ache to my heart, chills. Because he wasn’t playing music. He was praying. Soft, plaintive pleas of repentance answered by the all-encompassing embrace of God’s mercy. When he had finished, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t move. Emotion had paralyzed me.

“Do you like it?” he asked me.

I opened my eyes and swallowed dryly. “It’s …” Tears had been running down my cheeks. “It’s positively … sublime.”

“Like you.”

“Hardly.”

“Look at me, Terry.”

I did.

He said, “What Beethoven did for Elise, that’s what I want to do for you. I want to immortalize you.”

My heart stood still. I couldn’t answer him.

“That’s why I wrote this for you; that’s why I draw you.” He placed his cello on its side rib and came over to me. His lips brushed my forehead, his touch as gentle and spiritual as baptismal waters. “You are holy to me. Our relationship is holy to me. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

He handed me the title page. “Keep it. And whenever you doubt me, look at this. Because it’s the way I really feel. I love you, Teresa. More than you ever could know.” He paused. “Will you let me draw you tonight? Completely?”

I dried my eyes and nodded yes.

He whispered, “Go into my bedroom, take off your clothes, and put on one of my robes. I’ll be there in a minute, all right?”

I got up and did what he asked of me. He came back in, set up for around five minutes, then turned to look at me. I regarded his eyes. I was looking for a window to his soul. All I got was leaded glass. I cleared my throat. “You want me to take the robe off now?”

He nodded yes.

Slowly I untied the belt and let the garment fall from my shoulders. “Should I sit the same as last time?”

He shook his head no. “I want something different tonight.”

“Different?”

“I want to tie you up.”

Involuntarily, my fingers wrapped around my throat. “What?”

“I want to tie you up.”

The room went silent. I started shivering. “Why?”

He extended his arms out from his shoulders and slumped his head to the side. “You are my artistic vision of Our Lord Jesus on the cross. I can’t crucify you. So this is the next best thing.”

I was too stunned to talk.

“Say no if you’re squeamish.”

“Chris, I’m not squeamish—”

“So do it.” He came over to the bed and draped his robe around my shoulders. “Please, please, Terry. It’s very important to me.”

I looked at the ceiling. “You are absolutely the most wonderful, but weirdest boy I have ever met in my entire life.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Call it artistic temperament.” His eyes met mine. He lowered his head and kissed my feet. “I’m begging you. Please?”

I fell backward onto his mattress. “I must be crazy—”

“You’ll do it?”

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

Without ceremony, Chris got up from the bed, went to his closet, and pulled out a dozen neckties. I felt my heart beating wildly. I stuttered out, “You’ve done this before?”

He didn’t answer.

“Just swear to me that you’re not a serial killer.”

“I’m not a serial killer. Lie down.” He waited, I waited. Gently, he pushed down on my shoulders. “Please.”

As I lay on his bed, he pulled off the robe, took my right arm, and secured it to his headboard with one of his ties. Then he did the left. I felt as powerless as a deboned chicken. I wiggled my fingers.

“Too tight?” he asked.

“No … I have circulation … barely.”

“Your limbs start to tingle, let me know. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

His face became flat. “Terry, I could snap your neck as easily as taking a breath. I don’t want to do nasty things to you. I draw you as an expression of my love for you. Do you believe me?”

“Of course, but—”

“Good. Then cross your ankles.”

“You’re tying my feet, too?”

“Jesus was bound and constrained when he died. Cross your ankles.”

I crossed my ankles. He tied them together, then took another tie and bound me to his footboard. Completely immobilized, I started to shiver. He threw the blanket over my body and started arranging my hair.

“You want to paste a false beard on me?”

He didn’t answer, smoothing out loose strands of hair. He moved my head to one side, then to the other. He told me to look up, look down, close my eyes, open my eyes, smile, frown, then look beatific. Finally, he stood and removed the blanket from my body. Chris studied me for a long time.

He went to his easel and drew for twenty minutes, then stopped. “The angle’s not right. It’s too much an aerial view.”

“Perhaps you’d like to construct a cross and we can try it again next week.”

His voice turned harsh. “Don’t make fun of me.”

I was quiet, felt tears in my eyes. He stared at me for a moment, then threw his chalk across the room. “Fuck it!”

He stomped over and began untying my arms, angry and frustrated. I felt as if I’d failed him. Worse yet, I felt as if I’d failed art.

Freed of the binds, I shook out my limbs as he sat dejected on the edge of his bed. I blanketed myself with his comforter, sat next to him, and reached for his hand. He tensed at my touch. I withdrew my fingers.

I said, “It’s early, Christopher. Let’s try it again.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s almost nine. How much time do you have?”

“As much as you need.”

He ran his hand over his face. “God, I’m being a selfish pig. You’re pale. You must be hungry. Let me take you out to eat.”

“No, it’s okay. Let’s just keep going.”

“Not until I get some nutrition into you.” He stood and began to pace. “Put on one of my robes and I’ll make you something. While you’re eating, I want to look at some religious art books. That sound okay?”