Edgar
Allen Poe had favored the idea of poetry as appealing only to the sense
of beauty. Curtis agreed. Curtis also believed that life itself should be
beauty, and today his feelings were close to being blissful. The park showed
as a haze of enchantment around him, but there wasn't really any exaltation
or great sense of poetic discernment in his mood. The foliage, flowers and
the colors of the dashing children were wonderful if ill-defined, like one
explosion or splash of expressionist paint.
It was a
pity the illusion wouldn't last. A minute or a moment here and there and
things would fall flat before him. He wasn’t a poet and currents of
emotional splendor didn’t run in his mind. As it was, the good of his life
was the odd lucky flash, always left unexpressed.
This time it
was sunlight mirrored by windows that put his feet flat back in reality. He
was approaching the old stone building at the end of the park walk, which
was his place of employment. It was a grim place in his thoughts, and many
cobwebbed things were in it. He thought of it as the prison of his life. His
wife was a fixture there, although she didn't work there. She had a special
lack of beauty. Mainly she was a mistake of youth; being a fool he'd married
a plain girl his parents approved of . . . and if the flower of beauty
fades, the weed of plainness mutates. Even the thought of Ann was a blow to
decency, and he would always try to think of her as just a word to spare
himself the picture.
Now the word
tumbled in his mind and with it came the second stage of sobriety, appearing
as grayness at the end of the grim tunnel. Yes, today he was getting rid of
Ann. Down the road there would be pretty women and a part of his soul would
be saved. Not that he was doing it for lust. Just being with a refined lady
would be enough, and he didn't mind the idea of paying for it.
Good old
Amtac, and good old Jake, he thought as the
security guard let him pass through the turnstile to the elevators. Yes,
good old Jake and his love of reminiscing and the past. In fact it was
because he was such a bore that he'd earned the name good old Jake. There
wasn't anything that didn't remind Jake of the way it was in 1966. But all
the suffering Jake had put him through had a payoff. Jake was a little on
the dishonest side; he'd used Amtac equipment to
invent a new drug. He'd even tested it on Amtac
lab animals. If Jake was found out he'd be shuffled out in a hush-hush
affair. They'd never let it get out that he was testing a sort of designer
strychnine on animals, killing them horribly.
Why did Jake
do it? Well, it was because a pal of his from '66 was a two bit actor that
wanted a drug that'd make his face twitch like he'd been dosed with
strychnine, only without harming him. Jake failed of course. Jake always
failed. His new drug killed rabbits faster than bullets could.
Now, it has
to be the perfect crime, Curtis thought as he unlocked a heavy metal
cabinet. Edgar Allen Poe, the clever fellow, had favored thinking things
through before going ahead with them. And Curtis pictured the upcoming
events all while fancying he was Poe thinking through a plot. It was beauty
of a sort. He would pop home at lunch, slip the colorless, odorless liquid
in Ann's drink and she'd die. She'd convulse like she'd taken strychnine,
and the homicide fellows would check for that. But there'd be nothing. It
was a new drug of unusual composition. Ann's death would be listed as
natural, and for sure Jake wouldn't open his mouth about it.
Sunshine
broke through; ice cracked in his mind. He watched people pass on the
street. It was the little things that made them happy. That he knew. Only a
fool would think happiness was within. Surround yourself with those
beautiful little things, and you'll be happy. Yes, he knew the secret of
life, and his joy would be real. The reality of beauty would be his, and in
a way he pitied those poor deluded idiots out on the street. They were
probably happy about going to work or something equally ridiculous.
Ann served
him some tuna salad. Ann was such a dear, and he ate with relish, knowing
she would never suspect the truth. She looked at him with motherly eyes; in
her pasty-faced kind of way she adored her husband. Then she took a sip of
lemonade and the situation exploded. The table went over and china shattered
as she began to twitch and dance like a marionette. Curtis ducked back,
feeling satisfaction mingle with surprise. He could see her face twisting
like a demonic mask. It was the only hideous sight that'd ever made him
smile. Ann was still shaking, bent double on the floor when he dashed out
and returned to work.
Curtis
wasn't at all surprised when a policewoman arrived at
Amtac, but the color quickly drained from his face when the news
wasn't of a death. His hands shook, yet he took what pleasure he could from
the policewoman's pretty face as she drove him to the hospital. On the way
he learned that a repairman had found her as he'd planned. But why hadn't
she died?
"The doctor
thought you should be at her side," the policewoman said as they entered the
emergency wing, then what light he had left in his mind turned to gloom as
they approached the end of the hall. A doctor beckoned and they went in to
find Ann surrounded by the usual intensive care equipment. Her face was
covered by a mask and he thought he could hear her mumbling feebly, "Curtis,
Curtis."
"Why is she
wearing a mask?" he said with genuine surprise in his tone.
Rather than
answer, the doctor gently removed the mask. "We're not sure what she
ingested, but it has destroyed her facial muscles. They won't relax and
resume their natural state. You're lucky to still have her. She'll recover
of course, but I doubt her looks can be saved."
"She's a
dedicated woman," the policewoman said. "She's been calling your name all
afternoon."
Curtis
turned to stone and remained silent as Ann's hideous face rose up, killing
his dreams. He knew his future was hell. "Curtis, Curtis," she mumbled and
at first he choked, then he shook all over like he'd taken some of the drug
himself. Falling to his knees he wept.
