Russell Banks - Lost Memory of Skin

At the same instant the Kid recognizes her too. She’s the fizzy red-haired research lady at the library he was dumb enough to ask for help the afternoon he wanted to see for himself what anybody in the world with a computer and an Internet connection could see. He remembers the afternoon with embarrassment and shame. It’s how he remembers most of his life up till then only sharper because that was the afternoon before the night the cops tore up what passed for his home and killed Iggy. It was the afternoon before the next morning when he was humiliated by the bikini babes on Rollerblades and then got fired from his job at the Mirador on account of his joke about the guy at O. J. Simpson’s table who wanted half a pear. His first and only visit to the library was when everything started going from bad to worse, from simple to complicated, obvious to confusing. It was the day before the night the Professor first came knocking at the door of his tent. And now it’s suddenly all come full circle and feels almost like he’s back at the library again looking at his mug shot on the computer screen with the nice research lady except that it’s much worse this time because not only does she know some of his secrets he knows some of hers.

The Wife’s tired eyes get very large and her mouth opens to speak but nothing gets said. She nods and takes the plastic case from the Kid’s extended hand in silence. For a moment the Wife and the Kid stare at each other as if waiting for an answer to a question that neither of them wishes to ask.

Finally it’s the Writer who speaks. The young man knew your late husband, ma’am. We’re very sorry to intrude at such a time, but your husband instructed my friend here to deliver the DVD to you personally. They filmed an interview together. Your husband, in the event of his untimely death, wanted you to have it. We thought it was important enough to risk intruding on you like this. I hope you don’t mind.

Without answering him, the Wife as if brushing away cobwebs passes one hand over her face and gestures with the other for them to come inside.

She asks the Kid if she should watch the DVD now since he knows what’s on it. Can it wait until I’m a little over the… the shock of it all? I don’t need any more bad news.

The three of them stand awkwardly together in the middle of the living room. The blinds and curtains are drawn, filling the room with thickened shadow and gloom, as if no one has ventured into it in months. The Kid says, I dunno, I think maybe you oughta check it out now. Before you do get any more bad news.

She says, Oh! He’s told her more than she wanted to hear.

I mean, I think the Professor wanted you to look at it right away. Like, as soon as they found his body and said it was a suicide.

Well, it was suicide!

The Writer clears his throat and asks, Was there a note or a letter to that effect, ma’am?

No. But he was despondent. There were things you couldn’t know. He and I… we were recently estranged. I’m afraid to watch it, the DVD. He may say things about me or the children that I don’t want to hear.

The Kid says, No way. He only says nice stuff about you and the kids.

The Wife looks pleadingly into the Kid’s eyes: Will you watch it with me? I’m scared to watch it alone. I don’t know who else to ask. You were there, weren’t you?

Yeah. I was sort of like the cameraman.

She asks the Writer if he knows what’s on the DVD, and he says yes, although he hasn’t watched it himself. The Kid summarized it for him.

She says, All right, then if you don’t mind, we’ll watch it together. Come with me, there’s a computer in my husband’s office, she says and leads the Kid and the Writer down the hallway to the Professor’s office.

The Wife sits down at the desk and opens the computer and turns it on. As the Kid and the Writer take positions behind her, the Kid glances over at the big black safe and feels a twinge of guilt. He wonders if he should have told the Wife about the money and decides no, it would only complicate things even further. Maybe someday.

When the computer screen has opened and the screen has filled with icons, the Wife slips the DVD into the slot. A few seconds later the Professor’s bearded plate-shaped face appears on the screen.

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

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

The Kid interrupts his digital self: I guess I was more than a cameraman. Sorry.

The Professor continues: 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.

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

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. ..

For nearly twenty minutes the Kid, the Writer, and the Wife watch the DVD on the Professor’s desktop computer. Finally the interview comes to an end:

Pretty much everything I wanted Gloria to hear has been said already. Except that I truly love her and the children, and I am not guilty of the heinous acts that I will soon be accused of.

Are you ashamed, though? Like you asked me when you were interviewing me about brandi18.

Ashamed? Of what?

You know, of spying and shit. Being an informant and a mole and a double agent. All that.

No, I’m not ashamed. And I don’t feel guilty for all those years of deceit and betrayal, secrecy and lies. That was the nature of the world then and now, and those are the rules of the game that runs the world. And once you know that, you either play the game or it plays you. I only regret that I stopped playing the game. Now it’s playing me. Except for this one last move. ..

Maybe we should shut off the camera and discuss my fee.

Fair enough.

The screen blanks out. The Kid backs away from the Wife, who sits stunned in front of the computer. The Writer hunches over beside her, still staring at the screen as if wanting more. The Kid moves slowly toward the door thinking: I never should’ve said that shit about my fee because now they’re going to ask me how much he paid me and the Wife’s going to ask for the money back and I’ll have to give her what’s left of it if she does on account of she’ll need it for her kids and it isn’t like I actually earned the money by working for it but then I’ll be broke again and homeless with no job and I won’t be able to feed Annie and Einstein or even myself except by Dumpster diving so now I’m totally fucked again!

But they don’t ask him about his fee. They don’t ask him about anything. For the Wife and the Writer, the Kid’s interview with the Professor has provided nothing but answers. Instead of asking questions, they make statements.

Her pale face soaked with tears, the Wife turns and looks up at the Kid, who’s never seen a woman cry before: Thank you, she says. Then to the Writer: Thank you both. I know the truth now. I finally know who my husband really was. Finally! And I know what to expect. And when it comes, no matter how awful it is I’ll know how to deal with it and how to protect my children from it. I’ll be able to tell them that whatever people say about their father it isn’t true! And someday when they’re old enough to understand such things I’ll play this for them. So thank you! For their sake as much as mine.