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Charmian:
Chapter XXXIII – Judgment

As we, the jury, filed out, the whole courtroom rose to their collective feet – everyone except the judge – who looked at us as if he had never seen us before.

With the door closing behind us Roccam rubbed his hands with the infernal busybody’s pleasure. “Shall we order dinner?” he asked, reveling in his appointment as foreman. “Let’s get right to it. We can get a couple of hours in anyway.”

He wasn’t fooling me. He just wanted to see that video. They all did. The judge’s clerk wheeled in the audiovisual cart, but we weren’t going to play it with her around.

They insisted on watching it twice; Howling Woodchuck had the nerve to slow it down and follow it frame by frame. The jerky stop-motion didn’t do the participants any favors. I rolled my eyes.

My husband considered himself as a “serious” collector of pornography. Art, he sometimes had the nerve to call it. Did you know that all women’s bodies are considered Art? He was a silly, silly man. Of course it had to be a great big secret – one of many of Papa’s nasty little secrets I was deputized to keep. Secrets of the diaper, secrets of the catheter. The precious daughters weren’t to know. Porn served as his instructional and physical therapy textbook, unfortunately, and since he was so disabled it was up to me to do all the work.

After he died, mouth open, hands coiled around the pillow, I tossed out most of his collection with a sense of considerable satisfaction. All but a few choice pieces I positioned for Whitney to find. Time she was apprised of the extent of Daddy’s distinctly unwholesome breast fixation.

In the jury room, at last the TV was turned off and the binders of evidence handed round. We each received our own. At that point the sandwiches and Snapples arrived; just in time for an “amuse bouche”; making such a nice counterpoint with the apparently endless crime scene photos and the autopsy report. The rest of them picnicked carelessly atop their evidence binders. Luna and Bea squabbled, in an intense yet polite way, over the sour cream versus the onion potato chips. Bea won. Age before Obesity, my dear.

I couldn’t eat. These people were savages. I know I had to go through this for you, but whatever compromise I must invent to keep me from up and murdering the lot of them, I will just have to pursue. I have the self-control. I have the power. Eyes on the prize. The prize, of course, being you.
“I’ll take notes,” I offered. Now they won’t question your presence in our midst. If they ask me what any one of them actually said, I’ll make up any old damn thing I please. Our notes are ours alone – nothing else could be so private. I’ve been told we take them home. No one else will read them, except for you. They’ll just have to trust me. Har, har.

“Guilt and innocence,” said the crone, whose name was Bea. “It’s a big responsibility.”

The guilty and the innocent? I wrote. Or the detected and undetected? How many of the innocent wish they were guilty, would be, if they could only summon up the nerve. The worms. Yawn.

“Fortunately we don’t have to deal with such unfathomable concepts,” said C.D. in a superior way. “We only have to decide if the state has proved its case.”

I was rifling the fashion magazines for the Bond girl – Selina Kavanaugh’s address. Just in case. Oh! Found it!. 14-B, Pierce Point Acres. I secreted it gracefully in my bag.

“Maybe we should take an anonymous vote,” said Roccam. “Just to see which way everyone is leaning. It would be more democratic.”

“I don’t know what’s so democratic about anonymity,” I contributed, unable to resist. “Surely people should stand up for what they believe.” So I know what I’m up against. My husband was not much of a democrat. He prided himself on being an “elitist.” He used the word “Kantian” pejoratively, trying to force me to agree that if Kant’s theorem came true and we actually behaved the way we wanted other people to act the world would be simply unbearable; a miserable place where everyone was the same. That’s “democracy” for you. Fortunately, the thing’s impossible.

“I don’t think we should vote yet,” said one of the clone-men. “We gave an oath to pass judgment after due deliberation, not off the top of our heads.”

I could tell he was really just annoyed at Roccam for winning foreman.

“I think she’s guilty,” said Luna boldly. “That girl’s the manipulative type. You can see her twining herself around the whole defense table like some sort of Virginia creeper. That poor old Haymaker was in enough hot water already, why would he borrow trouble? I understand he was all coked out, but really. If she really had nothing to do with it, why did she act so guilty? Why run away? Why not turn him in immediately after the crime?”

“She talked to this guy nonstop about her problems,” objected Howling Woodchuck, “And suddenly the problem’s removed. She goes rushing off to Europe? The way I see it, she’s afraid to dump him, she’s afraid to turn him in, but she’s also afraid to be with him. Maybe he was going to have her offed, for all she knew! I mean, he knew where to find hitmen and she obviously didn’t. I have to say her behavior looks like innocence to me.”

“She did turn him in,” said, Bea, and Luna joined in, “Because the FBI made her. They said to her, like, it’s either him or you.”

Honestly these people don’t have a pair of working brain cells to rub together. I began to think maybe it was my best gambit to let them talk and talk until they all got sick of each other. When they were ready to go home they would be ready to listen to reason. But can I stand it?

“I believe Haymaker,” said one of the alternates. “People tell the truth when they’ve nothing left to lose.”

“Heck no, that’s nonsense” said a white haired trucker leaving most of his meatball grinder in his beard. “People act the way they’ve always acted. Selfish people continue to act selfish. People who like throwing a wrench into the works – what do they call them – saboteurs – continue to throw wrenches. Sociopath, that’s what the doctor called him. He doesn’t want to see anybody win. Spread the grief around. Misery loves company.”

“Are you sure you’re not feeling favorable towards the defendant just because she’s so good looking?” Bea asked acidly.

The schoolmarm said, “You can’t believe Haymaker because the defense got him to admit he’s a perjurer! How can we possibly believe a guy like that?”

I looked daggers at her. What a jackass! If they were going to continue being so stupid I wouldn’t be able to stay out of it.

And then the old black woman, who had never said a word, spoke up.

“Well, you know what I think,” she said, “ I think that little girl doesn’t have the personality of a killer.”

“How can you possibly know what a killer’s personality is like?” demanded Luna.

“Well, you see,” the retired housecleaner – or whoever she was – offered shyly, “I read lots of true crime. It’s my favorite. And murderers can’t help bragging. They always brag. They think they’re the center of the universe and everything revolves around them! They want people knowing just how smart they’ve been. They’re so sharp they cut themselves! But she didn’t tell anyone. She refused to even talk about it with Haymaker. Don’t you think they would have caught her on tape if they could?”

Now we had an authority on murderers! My pen jabbed right through the paper.
“You know what I hate,” said Lacey, speaking up haltingly for the first time. I think she’s one of those agoraphobes. The more people present, the more trouble they have participating. “If we acquit her then she’s getting away with it. Then she’s committed the perfect murder!”

Really, I had to speak up. You would have been proud of me. “Having someone commit your murder for you is hardly the perfect murder,” I objected. “If she’s guilty she involved no less than three people to get the job done! Not to mention Tobin’s girlfriend and God knows who else. It’s the mark of an idiot.”

They all turned and stared at me, chewing with their mouths open.

“I just didn’t believe that shrink,” said Luna, changing the subject in order to push her weight around. “All I know is, they’ll say anything to keep the paying customers coming. You don’t ever get well with one of those guys. They always keep changing their diagnoses. First it’s manic depression and then its bipolar and then it’s not bipolar and then it’s type one or type two. They’re the ones that should be on trial.”

“So you’re saying that he’s not a sociopath,” said Woodchuck, folding his arms across his belly like it was going to be a long night. “So what is he? Just a mean, evil guy?”

“He’s sick,” said Bea. “There must be something wrong with him, to do all the things he did.”
I imagined tying them to their chairs and setting the room on fire, their piteous eyes and hysterical wails. Denial! Bargaining! Bribery! The exits barred. Should we let them go? Never! The two of us, laughing together. A good time had by all. Sick!

The pleasure of being rich is that your voice, you will counts for so much more than anybody else’s. You get what you want, they stand in line. You don’t have to waste your precious time arguing with the little people. It was gong to be a long night.

Eventually anybody will vote anything, just to get out of this room. These are the wolves, sniffing at each other’s behinds. Almost idly, I announced, “Not all murderers are sociopaths.”
“Oh, that can’t be true,” the schoolmarm lectured me. “There has to be something wrong with a person who thinks they have the right to take another’s life.”

Let them talk. In my mind I pulled a card. The Judgment card of course. Cosmic forces have been set in motion. My card displays a robed dignitary weighing a “blood payment” in his golden scales. Balance. Ancient justice was based on compensation, not punishment. What’s past is past. The Sivarros give the Zanellis a couple of cows, they throw a big party, and everybody’s happy. When bloodshed is necessary, it’s a balm for our rage, a force for change, the milk that nourishes our future.

I looked at my watch. After eight already! Outside there was a commotion in the corridor and a series of knocks at our door. Rescue! I rose expectantly. Have you noticed how often when I desire something, it automatically appears? See how the universe continually confirms my royalty?

Whitney
Chapter XXX – The Lovers

I left the courthouse at the break. Eight’s text told me to drive out to the country, so I had a lot of time to think. Charmian hadn’t reacted to my presence in any particular way, so I was feeling a little encouraged. But I knew her well enough to know she was mostly annoyed by my presence. She didn’t look like the plain old Disney lady who had tricked them into seating her on the jury, but she did look like she was “blending in”. As if she was determined to stay where she was. I played the Mountain Goats’ Up the Wolves to help me concentrate.

The prosecutor’s closing argument really affected me. You would think as a psychology student I would know all about “antisocial personality disorder”” but I didn’t. It was as if I was hearing about it for the first time.

Everything he said applied to Charmian! Adolescent crime? Like, does murder count? She had some excuse, but still. It was obviously premeditated so you couldn’t really call it self-defense. Even if it got reduced to manslaughter, anybody would have to count it as a crime. And, grandiose enough? Is Charmian-Pearleen-Purdy-Carr-Quantreau grandiose enough for you? How about, blames others? Doesn’t care about people? No kidding! Even her passion for poor Eight is really the same kind of “ownership” my wretched father in his fear and empty loneliness felt for her! She only wanted an audience to her own magnificent, because how can be the Queen be a Queen without a courtier? A body-slave. You can’t call that love.

Eight told me she was a demon, and that sounded about right to me. Anti-social personality disorder, sociopath, psychopath – isn’t it all the same thing?

Since I knew for certain now that my stepmother was the monster I had always feared, why was my spirit so light? Was it only because Eight had magically come into my life with all his intelligence and wisdom, with the beauty of his scars? No, it was because for the first time I was sure my stepmother and I were nothing alike, and that if we feared to study monsters because of the threat of becoming too much like then, monsters would rule the world.

I turned on a dirt road marked “Church”. Eight’s text told me: “Drive to end” but I had to slow down to a crawl because the ruts were pretty deep.

At the end of the road was a long low ranch house and a garden where people in sun hats worked patiently among the rows of flowers and vegetables. They didn’t look up, but I recognized some immature sunflowers. Didn’t Charmian say the sunflower is my flower? That’s all right by me.
I parked with the other cars at a sign that said, Native American Church. Eight came running down the steps of the house.

I searched his face for signs of disgust. “Did you read it?”

“I read it,” he said. “She’s a demon, all right.”

He guided me away from the house.

“So is this your church?” I asked.

He nodded. “My Mom’s Arapaho.”

Behind the house was a little shack that I have to say, looked like an outhouse. It was painted a fading read, but it had no other markers on it at all. Once again I felt a ripple of fear. The trees are not afraid. The mountains aren’t afraid. We, the sunflowers, are not afraid. My new mantra.
“So,” he asked me, “How did it go for you?”

“I saw her. And she saw me. I listened to the prosecution’s whole closing argument. But she didn’t do anything. She’ll probably like it that I left.”

“See?” he said. “She doesn’t recognize your power. You have the element of surprise.” He opened the door to the shack and fragrant steam jumped out.

“Oh,” I said. “A sauna.” My father loved the sauna. We had one in our old house.

“It’s a sweat lodge. You have to take off your clothes,” Eight directed.

“You first.”

“Done and done.” We both started to strip.

“I usually don’t do this on the first date,” I joked nervously.

“You have to be serious,” said Eight. “You have to tell the truth from now on.”

So I was silenced. Did that mean he thought I did do this on the first date? Let’s hope not!
The fragrant steam turned out to be a pile of wet grasses on the hot rocks.

“Sage,” said Eight. He picked up a branch off the floor and began stroking me with it. “You do the same as me.”

So we stroked each other with the fragrant branches. The tattoo Charmian couldn’t recognize was a pair of wolves. Eight saw me looking.

“It’s the twin Wolf spirit,” said Eight. “A powerful spirit animal. What’s yours?”

“Tattoo or spirit?”
He laughed. “Either or both.”

I thought. Tattoo was easy, I have a stupid hummingbird on my ankle Penn encouraged me to get. Spirit animal’s a lot more difficult. What animal hates its stepmother? The cuckoo?

He helped me out. “Have you ever had another creature look at you as if it recognized you?”

Brainstorm. “Sure,” I said. “A marmot. It stole all my food while I was camping. It hung around until I woke up. I think it was thanking me.”

“Perfect,” said Eight. ”Spirit of the Great Marmot, Spirit of the Powerful Water Bird, we who are your children have much need of you. We summon you in all your majesty.” He took me by the elbow. “Now you sit down.”

I sat on the wooden seat and hunched forward, trying to suck my belly in.

“You’re beautiful,” said Eight, who really was. “Forget about yourself. You’re a marmot now.”
“That’s me,” I echoed. A thieving marmot.

“This is the hard part,” said Eight. “But it will be over fast.” He opened a box and took out some rabbity little vegetables and held them out in his palm. “You only get two,” he said, “Because you’re a beginner.”

“What are they?” I asked, trying not to be scared.

“Peyote buttons. Do you trust me?”

“Is this all right with your church?”

“It’s a sacred ceremony. As soon as I told them we were up against demons, they were first to suggest it. Don’t you trust me?” he repeated.

I do. “I do,” I said, taking two strange little vegetables. Like smaller brussels sprouts. He extended a jar of water.

“It might made you feel kind of sick,” he warned.

I got them down. I’m a good pill taker. My vitamins are like horse capsules. I used to take diet pills before I got smart.

“Wow,” I agreed, “I do feel sick. I’m afraid I’m going to throw them up.”

He poured out the rest of the water on the floor and it steamed up at us. He handed me another jar.
“It’s tea,” he said. “Drink it.”

It wasn’t as good as his tea, but it was better than the peyote. At least I didn’t feel like throwing up any more, but I had to drink it all to stop from coughing.

“Now tell the spirits of your problems,” said Eight. “Tell them everything.”

I hesitated. It was so hot in here, I felt a little faint. Would I pass out disgracefully, like a drunken date? The only light came from the glowing rocks. I tried to focus on his face.

“It helps to close your eyes,” said Eight, but he took my hand. I felt better immediately. “So we don’t lose each other,” he said. “Like the otters. You know they hold paws while they float sleeping, so they don’t drift apart.”

I didn’t know. Don’t let us drift apart, I prayed.

“Mother Spirit, Father Spirit,” said Eight, “Spirits of all the mothers, all the fathers, all the spirits gone before; Great Spirit who guides the universe in its right path, we come before you to defeat the machinations of a demon. She possesses the power of rage, the power of hate, the willingness to murder. We will need all your courage, all your cleverness to bring her down.”

The “Father Spirit” part made me think immediately about my father. Eight said his spirit was safe and I wanted to believe that. I thought of him back when I was eight and realized, that’s the way I wanted to remember him. Teaching me how to fish, baiting a line with baloney. We had to sit all afternoon, because that’s what you do when you fish. But I was so proud of being with my dad. That was all right for me. I could have sat there, happy, forever.

“He’s with us,” I said. “My father. I feel him.”
“Talk to the Spirit,” said Eight.

I was sweating so hard I wasn’t even certain whether I was crying or not. I felt definitely light headed. Had I had any breakfast? I couldn’t remember, it seemed so long ago. Didn’t I eat a piece of cold pizza, going out the door to confront my stepmother? I was brave then, wasn’t I? I definitely hadn’t had any lunch, rushing to meet Eight, and his text told me not to eat. That cold pizza lay in my gut like a rock. I began rocking myself, back and forth. “Dad,” I called, out loud, “Daddy? I want you to meet the man I’m going to marry.”

What was I, out of my mind? I was so astonished by myself I fell into a shocked silence. Eight squeezed my hand encouragingly and I began to babble. The words just poured out of me.

“I’m sorry I have to stop Charmian,” I said. “I know you wanted me to leave her alone, but she’s evil. She’s going to destroy and destroy until there’s nothing left. We have to stop her.”
I hesitated.

“He’s here,” said Eight. “I see him. Talk to him.”

I was so thrown that I stood up. Eight stood up too. Suddenly the planks that formed the shack fell away outward, like the petals of a flower. The morning mountain air was cold on my naked skin.
“Daddy!” I shouted.

He was loading his fishing rods into his truck, the old blue Chevy.

His face lit up at the sight of me. “I’m going fishing,” he said. ”Want to come?” He didn’t mind at all that I was standing naked there with some guy.

“His animal’s the rainbow trout,” I said to Eight. “He loved them so much he couldn’t even eat them. He always threw them back.” I sobbed. “He’d kiss them, saying You’re so beautiful. And then he’d throw them back.”

“Pleased to meet you sir,” said Eight.

“Daddy, I need to destroy Charmian,” I said. “She’s a monster. She kills people.”
“She rapes people,” said Eight.

“But she has swords. I’m so scared of her. She’ll cut me.” I dug my fists into my eyes.
“Swords are nothing,” My father said. “Her swords are mirrors.”

Another childhood memory. I used to be afraid of mirrors after my mother died. My father cured that by showing me that the only thing in mirrors is what you put there.

My father held up his fishing knife. It glittered in the sun. “She has fake swords,” he said, “But I have this.” It wasn’t a fishing knife, it was a scalpel. He used to show me his medical case, and tell me about all it contained. What each weapon could do. That was back when we thought medicine could fix everything. “You don’t need me,” he said. “You can do it by yourself with the help of this fine man. I’m going fishing.” He looked right at Eight. With approval. My father could be so charming when he was whole. And when he chose to be.

“You take care of her now,” my father said. He was getting into the truck, whistling. He always whistled “Beautiful Dreamer.” He said it was his and my mother’s song.

“He’s leaving,” I whined at Eight. “I don’t want him to go.”

“He’s happy,” said Eight. “He has to go.”

And if I ran after him, I would have to let go of Eight’s hand. I didn’t let go.
“Sit down,” Eight encouraged. We sat down. “Close your eyes.”
I closed my eyes.

“Now lean your head on my shoulder. Everything’s going to be all right.”
And I could tell that it was.

We came out into the afternoon and my father’s truck was gone. The shack’s planks were back in place. There was an open shower behind the sauna and we washed away the sweat and the tears. Together.

“Solar water,” Eight commented. The soap smelled wonderful. Like mountain thyme. That’s Eight’s deepest, most intimate scent. We soaped each other vigorously.

“My father didn’t believe in an afterlife,” I said.

“Luckily an afterlife believed in him. So how do you feel?”

“I feel powerful,” I told him. “Like I can do anything.”

“You can,” he said. “You know, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You have so much power.”

And I believed it, his eyes shone so. We kissed a long time.
After we dressed, he checked his phone.

“They’ve gone into deliberations,” he said. “They’re good for a couple of hours. Come on into the main house. The elders have a meal prepared specially for us. It’s time for you to meet them.”