Russell Banks - Lost Memory of Skin

Yes, yes, of course. They wouldn’t go anywhere in this storm.

Maybe I oughta leave. If there’s kids in the house.

No! You have to stay! Wait out the storm, and I’ll cover for you.

Too late now anyhow.

They pass through the dining room into the kitchen, a large open space with stainless steel restaurant-size appliances and copper-colored tile countertops and floor to match. The Professor heads straight for the refrigerator and then abruptly stops. A sheet of white paper with a long typed paragraph on it has been taped to the door.

The Professor peels the paper off the refrigerator door, reads it quickly, and passes it to the Kid. He opens the refrigerator door and caresses its brightly lit interior with his gaze. At least she left us plenty of food, the Professor says and starts carrying bowls and plastic containers to the table. He sets out two plates and forks, sits down at the table and opens several of the plastic containers.

Soaked and chilled to the bone the Kid stands by the refrigerator reading:

I have taken the twins and gone to my mother’s in Port Vitalie. It may be temporary, it may be permanent. I don’t know. I need time to think this through without you present. I need to decide how seriously to take all your secrets and lies. I realize that I’ll never know the truth about you and that you will probably always keep secrets and will continue to lie to me. I have to decide if in spite of that I can go on living with you. Right now I don’t think I can. Please don’t call or e-mail me. Please don’t try to speak with me at the library when I’m working or at my mother’s. I need to listen to my own voice and the kids’ voices, not yours. If you want to speak to the kids, call my mother’s number, not mine, and ask for them. If they want to speak to you, I will let them call you. Please don’t try to contact them when they’re at school as my mother will be driving them in and picking them up afterward, and as you know, her view of you has always been negative and will likely be even more so now. When I have made up my mind about what to do with this marriage, I will let you know. — Gloria

The Kid lays the sheet of paper next to the Professor’s loaded plate. So I guess no kids. But, dude, that’s cold.

The Professor glances at the letter and goes back to eating. Between mouth-filling bites of cold macaroni salad he says, Yes… but appropriate… and in some sense… useful.

Useful? To who?

To her. To our children. And to me.

I don’t get it, man.

You will, you will. He stops eating and looks at the Kid. You’re really wet. Go down the hallway on the far side of the dining room. There’s a guest bedroom and bath at the far end. Take a shower and get dried off, and then we’ll feed you and look after this poor dog and parrot. I think like you they’ll be fine once they’ve gotten dry and are fed.

The Kid points out that his duffel and backpack are soaked through and he doesn’t have any dry clothes. The Professor says there’s a laundry located next to the guest room, he can run his clothes through the dryer while he’s showering, and he better do it now while they still have electric power. If the storm knocks out the power, they’ll have to get by with candlelight. The Professor estimates the hurricane will last the rest of the day and abate during the night. We’re lucky it’s only a Category Three. Now that we’re safely sheltered here the eye of the storm can move on. By tomorrow everything will be back to normal. Damage should be minimal, except out at the Barriers.

Yeah. And under the Causeway. That’s totally trashed, man. I’m never going back there.

We’ll discuss that later. Meanwhile, go on and dry your clothes and shower and come back to the kitchen for something to eat. I’ll still be here.

Yeah, I can see that. At the door the Kid stops and turns back. How come you’re so jumpy and nervous, man? I mean, your wife just took your kids and left you. Shouldn’t you be all sad and fucked-up? Or at least all pissed off?

You’ll understand soon enough. Go on, go on. We’ve got work to do.

Whaddaya mean, work?

We need to film another interview.

No fucking way, man! No more interviews. I’m done with that.

This time you’re going to interview me, Kid.

That’s stupid. Why would I want to interview you?

I need you to interview me. For me, for my wife and children. Don’t worry about it, just do as I say.

The Kid shrugs and heads off down the hallway dragging his duffel and backpack behind him. Annie has collapsed in a puddle on the kitchen floor. From his cage next to her Einstein says, Do as I say! Do as I say!

P: You sit there, Kid, off camera. I’ll sit here on the sofa in front of it.

K: Whaddaya want me to ask? I mean, I never done this before, interviewed somebody.

P: No, but you’ve been interviewed. You start by asking a question that you want answered, and then I decide if and how I’m willing to answer it. Then you ask a follow-up question that’s generated by my previous answer. Simple. Especially for the one asking the questions.

K: Okay. How about what’s the fucking reason for making this interview in the first place?

P: Excellent first question! The simple answer is that in the coming weeks or possibly months my body will be found, and it will look like a suicide. This interview will provide evidence that it was not a suicide.

K: No way, man! Why would you commit suicide? I mean, you’re kind of jolly. You don’t seem the type to kill yourself.

P: I’m not.

K: So how come your body’s going to be found? A heart attack maybe, I can sure see you having a heart attack. On account of being so overweight. But how come it’ll look like a suicide?

P: That’s two questions. Which one do you want answered?

K: Okay. How come it’ll look like a suicide?

P: There will be a scandal, a public exposé. I know who I am, a man with a publicly certified, locally celebrated, genius IQ, a respected university professor with a wife and family, a deacon of the church, et cetera, and what I look like, morbidly obese, bearded, eccentric, et cetera. A popular parody of an intellectual. Given that profile, the scandal will be of an embarrassing, probably criminal, sexual nature. That’s how they do these things. I know the script. I practically wrote it myself. First a complaint is made to the local police by someone claiming to have been raped by the targeted party or sexually molested by him in the distant past when the accuser was a child. The police quietly begin an investigation. Then the targeted party mysteriously disappears. The accusation of rape or sexual molestation is surreptitiously leaked to the news media. Weeks pass, sometimes months. Eventually the body of the targeted party is “discovered” under circumstances and in a condition that indicates suicide. By now the accuser has disappeared. The investigation ends. Case closed.

K: You’re just making this shit up, right?

P: No, I’m not making it up. I wish I were, believe me.

K: Okay, now I got a hundred questions! If you’re not just shittin’ me.

P: (chuckles) Pick one, and we’ll go from there. I’ll answer them all eventually.

K: You are one really weird dude, Professor. So okay, who’s the “targeted party” you’re talking about?

P: In this case, me.