Christopher Hacker - The Morels

In September of 1986, he enrolls in Queens College, and two and a half years later, as the fall semester comes to a close, he has earned enough credits to graduate with a bachelor’s degree in humanities. It was here, in his final semester, commuting from class one rainy morning, that he met a lovely young woman with a snake tattoo down the left side of her arm.

“Even now,” Arthur said, “after everything, I’d still board that bus. Take that seat, introduce myself.”

In writing The Morels , Arthur set out to research the mysteries of his own heart. Its central question: Did he truly love his wife and son? His conclusion, which he was only able to draw once the book had done its work in the world, was yes! He did love Penelope and Will, more than he could ever have imagined.

“You’re just saying that because they’re lost to you,” I said.

“Does that invalidate my conclusion? Isn’t this sometimes how we learn what we feel about things? From the day I left this place, I have never once missed it or anyone in it. I feel no connection with my mother or her common-law husband.”

“Your father,” I said.

“If you wish. He has never been that to me.”

Cynthia and Doc stare straight ahead into the camera as Arthur speaks. Their faces register no particular reaction to what seem to me to be deeply cutting words.

“What about Annan,” I said. “The one from Afghanistan. The violinist.”

“Annan was different. I kept in touch with him after he left, after I left.”

“So he was more like a father to you.”

“He was a mentor.”

“And when did he leave?”

Arthur thought about it for a moment and then, sensing where I was headed with my questions, said, “You’re oversimplifying.”

“It was spring of ’85. Let me guess, a week before the concert? Two weeks?”

“About that, yes.”

“And you were angry.”

“Hell, yes I was angry! These two had driven everything that was good from my life. They didn’t know what they had there in that house, even when they lost it. Nothing had changed as far as they could tell. They were perfectly happy to be pounding away in those idiotic drum circles. Of course, they were high all the time, so what did they care?”

“And so you thought you’d, what — teach them a lesson? Get them in trouble? What were you trying to purge?”

“I thought you were smarter than that.”

“I’m looking for the truth.”

“The truth is more complicated.”

“Well, then explain it to me.”

But that was all he would say.

LAST FOOTAGE OF THE NIGHT. I wasn’t aware Suriyaarachchi had been filming until he played it back the next day. We are squatting in the basement, charging batteries, labeling cassettes. Dave says, “Aren’t you a little creeped out by all this? Basically, we’re palling around with a child molester.”

I say, “You think he’s guilty?”

Dave says, “His son claims he’s guilty. His wife thinks he’s guilty. The New York Department of Justice is betting that twelve jurors will think he’s guilty. Who am I to disagree? What do you think?”

I say, “He’s innocent.” Then, voicing a fear that has been brewing, one that Dave has just encouraged, I say, “Well, he’s convinced he’s innocent.”

Dave says, “He’s also a little nuts, isn’t he?”

We asked Cynthia the next day. “Do you think he’s guilty?”

She said, “I know men. I can look into a man’s eyes and see what he wants, what he desires. And what he doesn’t desire. Men are transparent that way. I look into Arthur’s eyes and see he just doesn’t have it in him.”

We asked Doc and he said, “What if he did? I don’t see the big deal here. Fathers jack off. Sons jack off. They jack off together, and everybody wants to make a federal case about it. And to the follow-up question that I know is coming — no. I never did, with Arthur. We took baths together occasionally. Did I ever get a hard-on? I mean, little boys aren’t my thing, but if you’re asking if I ever had a hard-on in this situation, my answer would have to be, I always had a hard-on, so maybe. But not for Artie. I mean, come on!”

When Benji came over, we asked him. Brushing off his jacket and stamping the snow off the bottoms of his shoes, he said, “It’s the most natural fear in the world, when your wife’s pregnant, when you hear you’re going to be a father, when your mind gets down into the deep dark thousands of ways there are to fuck — to mess — things up. That was certainly the way with me. I’m not an obstetrician, I’m not a nanny. I’m not used to being around naked children. What will it be like spending part of your day touching, washing, powdering a little vagina, a little penis? There are people who are turned on by such things. Could I be one? Or okay, you’re fairly sure you’re not in that rarefied category of weirdo, but what about when your child gets older? At what age will that natural attraction, that natural appetite for youth, at what age will I begin to feel that kind of desire for my child? But then of course your child is born, and then you’re a father, and it’s the farthest thing from your mind! You can’t believe you even thought such a thing.”

I said, “But Arthur didn’t write this book before Will was born. He wrote it when Will was what, nine? Ten? So what’s the book about? Is it a what-if scenario? What if that natural fear you describe never left? What if that fear came to pass? Or did he really feel these things?”

Benji said, “I thought you were on my brother’s side.”

“I’m just trying to understand.”

“Understanding isn’t going to keep him out of prison. Now get that thing out of my face.”

“Benji!” Cynthia cried. “Here to save the day!”

He offered her a disdainful squint.

Doc took Benji’s hand. “Good boy,” he said. “How’s your mother?”

Benji was burly, fat even, the same height as Arthur. All the Morel men shared a similar hairiness. Although Benji was clean shaved, his cheeks were dark with bristles just below the surface. He was balding and kept his hair shorn in a crew-cut ring around his head. He wore a solid blue tie with a matching blue shirt. When he sat down and shed his jacket, he rolled his sleeves up to reveal his furry arms.

The news he brought was not good. A grand jury had chosen to indict. He had to represent himself as Arthur’s attorney to dig up what was he able to find.

“But you are my attorney,” Arthur said.

“I’m not a trial lawyer, Arthur. I can help you, but I can’t try this case for you. You would be in better hands with a public defender.”

“I’ll represent myself then.”

“That’s ludicrous. You’re not representing yourself. Do you want to go to prison?”

“A public defender’s going to want me to compromise, to plead to a lesser charge.”

“Says who? Have you spoken to one?”

“I’ve spent the past ten years of my life watching Law & Order twice a week. I know how these things go.”

“From what I’ve heard they have a pretty good case. Will’s statement to the investigating officers. A psychologist if they need one. I’ll file a motion to see the rest. They haven’t decided if they’ll put Will on the stand yet. The guy I talked to said they were considering his welfare, but my guess is that if they’re saying that, he’s not as solid as they’d like him to be. In which case they may enter your book into evidence and spin it as an indirect confession. Their expert will be able to make that sound plausible.”

“What about our expert?”

“You mean like a literary critic?”