Anything Meaning Murder

After last night, Carlos says they no longer need me at the meetings.  Early this morning when he and Maggie convene in my chambers to review the daily agenda, he says, “Malcolm, now that we’re in multimedia we can run things on auto-pilot.”

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

“Great.”

“You should only show up if you feel like it.  From now on, let’s say you make, oh I don’t know, one appearance a week.”

“Fine.”

“At most.”

“Fine.”

“We don’t want to overexpose you.”

“Of course not,” I say, still in my nightshirt.  “Mercy me, anything but!”  I breeze about the room.  “Saints preserve us.  Lord, deliver us.  Anything, anything but overexposure!”

Carlos and Maggie exchange glances as I throw open the balcony doors and lean seductively over the railing.  “Uh, Malcolm?”  Maggie waves to me from six feet away.  “Are you sure you’re all right?” 

“Never better.”  I rub my hands together.  “Now first off, my darlings, let me just say I agree with you totally:  multimedia’s the only way.  Starting, I think, with music:  we’re going to need hymns, carols, requiems, maybe even—” I stare hard at Carlos, then Maggie, “rock videos.”  (Though no one has actually mentioned it to me, I know that Louie and Lyle have cut a CD based on—and named—“The Doctrine.”  And that a music video of the title track features Letitia Wright the famous gospel singer, who as luck would have it, happens to be Lyle’s cousin’s godmother.)

Hanging my butt over the railing, I say, “Every religion has its own music.”  But so coolly, so casually do Carlos and Maggie not react that I decide to throw my head like a movie star and intone, “Music, music. . .”  And shifting my weight—look Ma, no hands—scissor my legs.  “Mu-oo-sic!”  Maggie gasps and Carlos lunges to save me.  His long, hot hands fly to my sides.  Half a heartbeat more and he’d have scooped me forcibly inside.  Instead, rage and embarrassment at falling for my little trick ripple across his face, withering it to a leathery pouch.

He recoups with a meditative hand to his chin.  “Actually,” he says, “we’re investing quite a bit in a CD.”

“Really?”  And mea culpa; I can not, to save my life, resist the stance of Holy Man here.  Feet apart, arms raised to embrace the sky, I adopt an expression of divine inspiration.  It’s as simple as posing for a photograph.  You lift your arms, tilt your head to heaven, and imagine pure white rays of rapture flowing through your glorified body.

“From this time forward,” I hum, I chant, flashing my teeth at the sun, “let there be music at the meetings.” 

And Carlos laughs.  “You really are too much.  Come inside.”

So, we proceed through the balcony doors and I sit at my desk.  Maggie leans over, and fondly slips a lock of my hair behind my ear.  “It’s a great video, Malkie.  You’re going to love it.”

“It’s very respectful and. . .um, uplifting,” Carlos says, circling behind me and resting his hands on my shoulders.  “It’s got Letitia Wright.”  He massages my neck.  “Do you want to watch it?”  He slips his hands down the front of my shirt, “I’ll call it up,” The reference points on my chest coming to life beneath his fingertips. 

And that does it!  I shove him off of me.  “Touch me again, Carlos,” I levitate with outrage, “and I’ll kill you! I know it’s got Letitia Wright! I’m not insensate!” 

Suddenly all subservient, Carlos bends at the waist and backs toward the door.  But, I don’t know, once I let him get to me, there’s no peaceable way out.  Swinging around, I grab him by the neck.  “We own our own thoughts!”  I yell in his face, as if this were a major point of contention.  “We own our own fate!”  My saliva flies at him.  “Ultimately,” I practically spit, dragging him on to the floor, “we are all accountable.”

“Yes, well—” Carlos grunts as I bounce on his chest, my nightshirt riding up.

“Yes, what?”  I demand.

“Yes, well,” Carlos sneers half in pain, half in disdain, “yes and no.”

“Well, yes and no?”  Does he always have to ridicule me?  His life’s in my hands!  A shift of position and I could tear his balls off!  A little pressure to his throat and he’d suffocate.  And still he has to deride me!  I grab his ears, preparing to beat his head against the floor.

“You-hoo!” Maggie calls from a distance. “You-hoo!  Guys!  This isn’t helping!”

And, it seems, just before I can process her voice, a terrifying, wonderful, awful opportunity surfaces, wherein anything could happen—anything meaning murder.  The word doesn’t register, just the cold kernel of evil as I imagine slamming Carlos’s head on the floor, his spine cracking, his neck a rope fraying between my fists.  Except, of course, once Maggie speaks, the moment turns to scalding shame.  I let go—and stand huffing by myself in the corner.  Carlos leans unharmed against the doorframe and Maggie sits clutching a pillow.

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