Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

Ryder? —

— son?—

SON!

You brush his penis with your arm, it’s larger than you thought—

The mind metal-machines: Hmmm, when was the last time I saw it?

My son’s penis—

— probably a few months ago when he was sick.

… right? Holding his head with a cold rag. He puked into the trash.

But he was a shy kid. Always modest about his body, at least more than his parents.

Ry? Why aren’t you wearing clothes?

Ryder?

What is it you’ve done?

What’s happened here —

In the unfathomable midst of it all, your monkey mind noshes on its usual bullshit buffet. But whose thoughts and emotions are these? They don’t feel like yours… you’re a thousand miles away, in the middle of a dream.

A daydream.

You even feel— I felt — silly.

… tongue herniating from mouth — impossible to untie Kelly’s blocks, he used the rope from Kelly’s yoga blocks — why did I think that would be an easy thing? To noodle a finger between rope and skin, like a steel wire under the jaw…

So I had to let him hang again — third hanging! — and run to the kitchen for a knife. Easier to let go the second time. Serial killers say that with each victim, the killing gets easier—

I cut him down.

Carried the birthday suit bag to a phone (no phone in Kelly’s meditation room) — carried! As if to break the vigil of human contact would endanger him — endanger me —and dialed 911. I told them what happened and they said, you know, they were sending someone out, and to stay on the line. Please stay on the line, sir. I’ve heard enough 911 calls on the news to know that’s what they do, that’s protocol, they ask you to stay on the line and be calm. I dropped the receiver on the carpet and just held him, pretending he was asleep. It half-looked like that…

… from a certain angle.

Angle of repose.

What exactly is an angle of repose?

The sky is falling.

I really do have blocks against certain phrases. Words too — like “abide.” “The Dude abides.” I can never remember what it means. And right after I find out, I forget. It’s a biblical word but people use it in songs all the time…

Later I learned that the firemen broke down the door. I didn’t hear them till they wrenched Ryder from my arms. One of them asked, Did you take off his clothes? Uh, no, he was like that when I found him. Metal machine mind said, That probably sounds strange to them. Hell, it sounded strange to me. I knew the police would want to explore further. Protocol. Cop work 101. In death of spouse, rule out spouse. In death of child, rule out parent. In hanging death of naked child, rule out creepy gay dad.

My head told me it was going to be a bit of a hassle but would ultimately resolve. I just hoped it didn’t turn lurid, that the truth would out itself — quickly.

But should I use my church-suit lawyers to defend? (Said monkey mind.)

I rode in the ambulance. They made me sit in front while they worked on him in back. No real memory of it. They tried to start an IV at the house but I don’t think that works when someone’s dead. The veins collapse, no blood’s flowing. Far as I know. But everyone played their part, they were all great. No professional likes to give up on a kid. I think they probably ham it up with kids, it’s instinct, you know, you’re trying to resuscitate a person who hasn’t had a chance to fuck it up, someone who hasn’t had the chance to break any hearts (until now). So they put in that extra effort, apart from the fact that a lot of ’em have kids themselves. If you work on a child who dies, grief counselors and an extended leave with full pay is a slam-dunk. Earth to monkey mind! Now I remember, the chief paramedic, head honcho, was an old pro. Very seasoned. Some of those guys are even D.O.s. You know, osteopaths. There was a woman trainee too, doing her best to not be distraught. Her very first call as an EMT, someone told me later. That had to be rough.

I kept redialing Kelly’s cell, secretly grateful each time she didn’t answer. I finally left a message. Something’s happened to Ryder, call back right away. From the front seat, senses acute, I smelled the pet shop we’d visited the week before, bad, sawdusty, wire terrier puppy smells wafting up— why? His shit was on my pants.

They “pronounced” him at the ER. I now pronounce you boy and Death. Death and wife… They let me in the room, the room with the clickety drapes and someone always moaning on the other side, they let me in to see him, a cop was there, he looked me up and down then hardly looked away, stayed there the whole time, probably protocol again, because of the weirdness of Ryder’s initially undressed body, now covered by two flimsy hospital gowns. God knows what ghoulish things they thought the suspect might have done and was still capable of… They never took the tubes out, not even the one down his throat. Machine mind wondered why. It would have been so easy. Maybe it was someone else’s first shift too, a new hire, an LVN who was supposed to do it but fucked up out of nerves. Everybody too distraught ——

Or maybe just a bad RN.

I always obey my nurse.

[the next day] Thanks for your patience — that was very, very tough. I know it took me a while, I’m sorry. I’ve probably taken too much of your time. I think just sort of plunging in wouldn’t have — I don’t know, all the stuff leading up to it was the only way it would have worked. I’m pretty sure I’ll never talk about any of this again. I mean, in such detail. There’s still a bit more — can you listen? Have I made you late for any appointments? I know you wanted to leave today…

I was thinking some more about all this before I went to sleep, and this morning too, when I sat with the monks for prayers. For some reason there doesn’t seem to be a charge to the next few “items.” I think I can recount them in an almost clinical way. Maybe that’s just a defense mechanism. Probably I numbed myself up by going through it, you know, telling you about it, I haven’t really thought about any of that for years. In passing, yes, of course, images come to me every day, but not with that kind of… narrative detail. Not even close. I hope the anesthetic doesn’t wear off in the middle of this next little procedure!

Around five days after the event , a short article appeared in the paper. Not on the front page, somewhere toward the back. See, I’d had a few nagging concerns that Ryder would be taken up as the poster child for tween suicides, some sort of talking point for the usual bogus discussions on radio or television. I didn’t want our son to become, you know, the lead-in for a 60 Minutes segment either. I definitely stayed away from the Internet, which I considered — still do — to be nothing more than a Dantesque filing system for one’s worst fears. But nothing happened. Now I see those small worries for what they were, a distraction from the cruel reality of his absence.

I won’t bother to describe the details of my wife’s collapse when she learned what happened. Nothing I could possibly tell you could come close to delineating her sorrow. I wouldn’t even try, wouldn’t want to, some things aren’t ours to convey. A mother’s sorrows… that anguish is forever hers and hers alone. Do you know the Fourth Book of Esdras ? There I go, the pedant again, with his GED in pedagogy. (One of the youngsters I met in my travels had one and called it the “Good Enough Diploma.”) In the Fourth Book of Esdras , it is written, “And it happened that my son went to his room, fell down, and died: and my neighbors came”—no, hold it — hold on — I think it’s “and my neighbors came and rose up to comfort me. Then took I my rest. It was the second night and all the neighbors rested so they could wake up and comfort me some more, and I rose up by night and fled and am come to this field — hither to this field— as you see —and will not go back , but will remain here… and neither eat nor drink, but rather to continually mourn and fast till I die.” Not bad for an old guy, huh? My memory’s always been good in terms of recitation. I’m just rusty. But I still get the Mensa gold star for today. I assume you carry them in your trunk.