Christopher Hacker - The Morels

Once the man’s mind was empty of all thought, he was free to feel the warm afternoon breeze with its scent of earth and lilac bloom; he was free to feel the rough bark of the tree through his robes, the tickle of branches on his arm, the leaves whispering at his ear; he was free to see the dance of shadows that the sunlight made as it shone through the trees, the shapes that played across his eyelids so like a living thing .

The shadows were so like a living thing that the man was tempted to open his eyes, if just to convince himself that it was indeed only the play of sunlight on the leaves .

But he was just being foolish, he thought — for what else could it be? What living thing could cast such a shadow? Such a large shadow, too. He had traversed these woods by foot — the tree stood alone in a wide clearing and, as of moments ago, there wasn’t a soul around .

He tried to clear his mind once more, to feel the warm afternoon breeze with its scent of earth and lilac bloom, the rough bark of the tree at his back, the tickle of branches on his arm, the whisper of leaves at his ear .

What could it be, he wondered .

What could appear out of the sky from nowhere and cast such a large shadow as was playing on his eyelids?

A dragon?

He laughed off the notion — tried to, at least — as childish, as pure fantasy, and returned to the breeze, the bark, the branches, the leaves. But once conjured, the image of the dragon was difficult to dismiss. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more the breeze felt on his face like the creature’s hot breath, the bark like its scales, the branches claws, the leaves its terrible voice whispering its beastly, ancient language in his ear. The man was gripped with fear. He opened his eyes .

And was promptly devoured .

Arthur puts down the pen. Soon after, Ramirez returns, this time without the other detective. How did it go? He asks, picking up the pad. He reads it, then tosses it back on the table, looking disappointed. You’re not doing yourself any favors, he says.

So am I done here?

What you are, Ramirez says, is under arrest.

ARTHUR IS LED OUT OFthe room and down a hall, then handed off to a uniformed officer who cites the Miranda warning to him.

I already signed a waiver when I came in, Arthur says.

Better safe than sorry.

At a bench, Arthur works on catching his breath. Next to him is a handcuffed man with his eyes closed, fingers laced on his lap. This is a main thoroughfare. Uniformed officers escorting handcuffed men and women in suits speaking in a code of cop jargon. Someone in an orange jumpsuit swabbing down the floor with a mop at the far end of a hall. This, he learns later, is what the police call processing. He is being processed. It’s a peculiar combination of terror and boredom. The dangerous beyond that waits for him makes it hard to walk, hard to understand the most basic phrases people say to him.

Your name.

My name, Arthur repeats dumbly.

State your name !

Yet the bureaucratic formality through which he is guided has all the familiarity of a trip to the DMV and makes him, instinctively, impatient. Impatient for what? To sit in a jail cell for the next forty-eight hours?

After fingerprinting, he is invited to clean his hands with a hand-pump sanitizer that smells like Will’s favorite orange soda. He is handed a white board with his name and some numbers on it and made to stand against a wall. A woman snaps a picture, asks him to turn, snaps another.

An officer hustles Arthur down a flight of steps to another room to wait at the end of a short line. Before long, he is in front of a booth where he is made to hand over his briefcase and empty the contents of his pockets, to take off his watch and his wedding ring. He is given, of all things, a receipt, presumably for all that he has surrendered, though the handwriting on it is illegible. When he is given an opportunity to use the pay phone, he dials Penelope’s cell. To his surprise, she answers.

I’m in jail, he says.

I know, she says. I’ve spoken with the woman who is going to prosecute you.

Arthur’s face grows suddenly hot, his throat closes, and he cannot speak.

Penelope says, When they release you, if they release you — the prosecutor said that depending on who the judge turns out to be they might or might not — you can’t see me. Or Will. We’re moving back into the apartment. You’ll need to find another place to stay. They’re going to petition for an order of protection.

Arthur says, I don’t know what to do. I need help. I don’t know what’s happening, how to fix it.

You do need help, Penelope says evenly but not meanly, only I’m not the one to help you. Good-bye, Arthur. We won’t be — and here her voice broke — we won’t be speaking again. Oh God, Arthur! Okay? We can’t speak anymore.

No, Arthur weeps. It’s not okay. Please! But she has already hung up.

His jail cell, when he is finally escorted to it, is already occupied by two other men, both Hispanic. They do not speak to him, nor to each other, which comes as a small relief to Arthur. They seem as ashamed to be here as he is.

The cell is quite large and flooded with even fluorescent light. Two long white plastic benches attached to opposite walls serve for seating and sleeping. There is a stainless-steel contraption in the corner that appears to be one part water fountain, one part toilet. The men each have a bench.

Arthur sits on the floor.

There are no clocks. Terror and boredom. He waits for something to happen, anything to happen. He grows attuned to the noises. People in other cells, one man in particular, talking, it seems, to himself, a monologue of menace and threats. Drainpipes whoosh overhead, and every few minutes far in the distance the solid clink-clunk of a heavy door opening and closing. Time grows wildly out of control — hours and minutes exchange places. A moment is an eternity — and then the lights dim. Night, apparently.

But he does not sleep. There is shouting nearby — a scuffle, the nauseating wet slap of a body hitting concrete. Arthur’s heartbeat goes wild. One of his cell mates gets up to use the toilet, and the space fills with an eggy garlic stink. He drifts, dreams that the lights have come back on and an officer has come to release him.

Then he wakes — the lights have come back on, and an officer has come to their cell, but instead of releasing him, he hands them sandwiches through a slot in the bars with a latex-gloved hand. Arthur finds he is starving and devours his in a few bites. Tuna or perhaps chicken salad. It doesn’t matter, nor does it do much for his hunger. He looks on gloomily while his two cell mates savor each bite.

He goes to the fountain toilet for a drink, but pressing the button merely brings about a weak drool from the spigot.

Returning to his spot on the floor — both his cell mates are up and about, pacing the perimeter, but it’s understood that the bench beds still belong to them — he draws his knees up and rests his head on the shelf they form and in this position drifts off into a deep sleep.

When he opens his eyes, an officer is nudging him awake with his boot.

There is a kind of exit interview. It is here that he learns what charges he is being held on: sexual abuse in the first, second, and third degrees, as well as course of sexual conduct against a child in the first and second degrees. The man is from the Criminal Justice Agency. He says he is here to help the judge decide whether to set bail, to release him on his own recognizance, or to remand him. He asks Arthur how he intends to plead to these charges and Arthur says, Not guilty, although it felt, just hearing the charges read to him here, as though a sentence has already been declared. He encourages Arthur to obtain a lawyer as soon as possible. He asks questions about his employment, about his living situation. The man is in a hurry. Though, like all those Arthur has so far encountered in this long nightmare, polite, professionally poised. The questions seem designed to get at whether he is going to — if released on bail — kill his wife, his kid, himself, or flee the country.