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chapter 12


									Chapter 12

       James Devereaux unlocked the door to his two bedroom apartment and stepped inside,

hugging a full paper bag carrying his week’s groceries. Next to the door, at eye level, hung a

mirror with a shelf above some small hooks. James hung his keys on the first hook on the left,

then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he turned. It created a curious illusion; instead

of seeing himself, he saw the apartment as he walked to the kitchen with the groceries, the sparse

decorations and his own framed head among them.

       The furniture was a rough collection of Ikea, Fred Meyer’s, and Target purchases made

on an ad hoc basis as he realized what he needed. He’d come from New York with only two

bags, with a few trunks of knick-knacks and hard copies of files mailed along afterward. He

hadn’t even had a car when he arrived. Hadn’t needed one in New York. And his furniture hadn’t

been worth shipping. Not even his TV. Barely worth the trouble of the Craig’s List ads.

       But the apartment wasn’t empty. He’d bought a blocky, dark brown coffee table which

didn’t quite match the black entertainment center that held up his new TV, a modest 32 inch flat

screen. The coffee table did match the end tables on either side of the white denim-covered Ikea

couch, because he’d bought the end tables at Target with the coffee table. The Target tables held

twin Ikea reading lamps with white shades covered in an appliqué like the skirts of tiny wedding

dresses. There, among that furniture, James saw his own face. Almost tasteful. Yes, that was true

of both, but there was more.

       Betraying the twenty-something bachelor-pad stereotypes, James had neither bare walls,

nor a framed movie poster or black and white nude or a supermodel in a bikini or one of those

giant Fathead sticky posters of some athlete dunking a basketball or straight arming a defender
while fighting for a few more yards of his living room. James knew enough about bachelor-pad

chic to avoid things like ninja stars on the walls. He did have a few touristy trinkets. A ceramic

sculpture of some Dia de Los Muertos masks hung on his wall in the dinette above the table and

chairs he’d picked up at Fred Meyer’s. But on either side of that he’d positioned two framed

photos, one of the four college friends who’d accompanied him on the trip to Mexico, and one a

shot of a Mayan temple he was particularly proud of, just to make sure visitors wouldn’t think

the skulls were part of some angst-y teenage death worship. The wall behind his TV held four

framed pictures; his parents, his brother, sister-in-law and their baby, a larger shot of his infant

niece, and a picture of his childhood home in New Orleans with the pre-Katrina roof. He

accepted the new roof, and hardly had anything to complain about since the house had weathered

the storm so well (and wasn’t in the ninth ward so it hadn’t flooded at all) but the old roof, with

the mossy dark brown wooden shingles, felt more like his childhood; happier and more alive and

less utilitarian and safe.

        Balled up on one side of James’ couch was the Afghan blanket his mother had given him.

On his coffee table, he’d put out classy coaster, even though he preferred the kind he stole from

bars. And as he stepped into his kitchen and set his groceries on the marble countertop, he

noticed the dusting of flour he’d missed when cleaning up from the batch of cookies he’d made

himself the other day. All in all, it was not the house of a swinging bachelor, but of a lonely man

in need of a wife, or at least a gay roommate who would appreciate his décor, gently suggest

ways of improving it, and help him eat the excessive amount of cookies in the Tupperware

container next to the fridge.

        Ixtab saw all this, too. She stood in the living room, next to his TV, leaning her head

against the wall because her headdress was frickin’ heavy. She’d once been the Mayan goddess
of suicide, but as that empire had waned she’d been demoted down to the goddess of writers and

journalists. Still, she liked a good suicide, if she could manage it. To her mind, a good suicide

wasn’t the act of some middle aged accountant suffering from depression and buried in gambling

debts, or the impulsive act of a pimply teenager who fully expected to attend his own funeral and

enjoy watching the pretty girls cry over his corpse. No, she wanted artistry, and since she was

basically limited to writers and journalists, when she wasn’t persuading some famous and

successful investigative reporter to commit obvious plagiarism, ruin his career, and send himself

into a highly documented tailspin of blame and apologies on the blogosphere before offing

himself, she was working on duping some truly promising novelist into hitting the big time and

then putting the final punctuation on the book with a really dramatic bit of terminal self-harm.

Devereaux served as a work in progress toward this end. She felt she could squeeze a truly great

book out of him and make his life unbearable at the same time. So far, her most successful move

had been his newfound position at Western Oregon University. Any big move takes a

psychological toll, but for a Cajun boy who struggled to make a home for himself in New York

City, the transition to a small town in the Northwest was particularly difficult. The isolation

brought on by the lure of a tenure track job in the midst of a particularly bleak economy had

pushed Devereaux further inside himself and deeper into the novel he was writing. She thought

she could get a good book out of him just before he’d had enough.

       And it was going to be a good book. Perhaps even a great one. It had the scope of

Tolstoy, covering a family that spanned from the Civil War, through segregation and Civil

Rights, to 9/11 in New York and Katrina in New Orleans. Because Devereaux was a product of

both worlds, he could capture the places in a way some hack from the young, peaceful, and

drama-free Northwest never could. But despite the book’s pastoral cast of characters and lush
historical backdrop, Devereaux managed to play with the form, dancing and tiptoeing through

time, shifting not only between pitch-perfect voices, but also between styles, sometimes writing

about the Civil War like a blogger or even a series of twitter posts, sometimes writing about 9/11

like an African-American Southern Baptist civil rights crusader railing against injustice. It was a

bit American-centric for her taste, but she couldn’t fault a Roman for writing about Rome, and

wouldn’t have criticized a Mayan for writing a Mayan-centric novel, if they’d had novels.

       Ixtab straightened her headdress. It was a simple cap, not large enough to balance the

weight of the large arc of feathers that sat on a spindle in the middle and curved in either

direction wider than her shoulders. She carefully twisted her wide nose piercing into its proper

place. The carved bone was pointy at both ends, for easy insertion, but the central point was a bit

curved, and tended to make the piercing arc away from her face, rather than toward her cheeks as

it was supposed to. She was amazingly attractive, by Mayan standards, thin but with wide hips

and a heaving bosom, a wide, large nose, and a brilliant smile she could flash like a Cheshire

cat’s in the darkness of her smooth skin. Her eyebrows were a bit too pronounced for Mayan

physical perfection, but then they made her look serious, and it would have been unseemly for a

goddess of suicide to look too cheerful.

       She’d chosen to remain invisible to Devereaux, at least for now. There might come a time

when she could safely reveal herself, perhaps even be physically intimate with her pet project,

but she’d have to wait until he’d sunk deep enough into madness that he could safely write about

her without revealing her to the other writers and journalists she’d be working on in the future.

Those kinds of people tended to do research, and the last thing she wanted was to finally reveal

herself to some reporter only to be instantly identified and then interviewed.
       She stepped into the kitchen and stood so close to Devereaux that the feathers of her

headdress brushed his face while he moved around, putting away his groceries. He couldn’t feel

the feathers, but each tickle made him want to go into his study and hammer out a few more

words on his laptop. Somewhere in his brain, images of nooses and pills, pistols and long falls

lodged themselves in crevasses that would only be plumbed in dark dreams.

       Devereaux followed his implanted impulses back into the study where he opened his

computer and ran a finger over the touch mouse, waking the machine. The screen glowed on, a

Word document open with a taskbar full of them lining the bottom of the image.

       He scrolled down to the bottom of the current chapter, remembering his place in the

narrative. This particular chapter was about a white high school teacher in New York who had

survived 9/11 but was now grappling with the zeitgeist that seemed, to him, to be saying that all

the problems of public education were the fault of bad teachers who couldn’t get standardized

test scores to rise. Since the teacher lived and breathed in a world of education, this felt like the

country was blaming all the problems of the world at large on him. This mirrored the previous

chapter about a man who was, unbeknownst to the teacher, his second cousin. This man, an

African American cop in New Orleans, lived in a world of criminals, and so when he watched

the criminals losing all respect for law enforcement, he too felt that the center could not hold, the

falcon could not find the falconer, and everything was turning and turning in the widening gyre.

Devereaux actually considered putting some reference to the Yeats poem into his novel, perhaps

from the mouth of the high school English teacher, but decided that was the kind of lame ploy

that would only come to mind to the worst kind of hack. Though he knew he was disciplined

enough to cut such a thing in the editing phase, he chided himself for even considering it.
       Ixtab, standing over his shoulder, smiled at both his choice to omit something so

cloyingly faux-literary, and his anguish in the process. Yes, she could make this man do himself

in. And it was nice to see that he would go to such lengths to avoid anything cliché or too clever

by half. No, his means of suicide, like his writing, would be meticulously devised and glorious in

its execution. Though she knew it was a ways off, she felt a hum of excitement vibrating in her

lower spine. She decided it was time to kick it into a higher gear.

       Ixtab leaned forward very slowly and cocked her head so that her feathered headdress

wouldn’t brush against Devereaux’s hair. She placed her lips centimeters from his ear. The

whisper breathed out so silently that he couldn’t distinguish it from his own thoughts. “Maybe

the teacher should have an affair with a married woman.”

       Devereaux blinked, then leaned back in his chair so quickly that Ixtab had to jump out of

the way. He made a hard “Poof” sound as he exhaled, then drew a long, slow breath through his

nose. He knew the teacher, like the cop and his father, the judge, and his mother, the civil rights

worker, and her father, the slave, and her mother, the slave nanny who was raped and sired the

line that led to the New York teacher… they were all James Devereaux. Every one of them was

inside of him, a wriggling mass of genetic memory, geographic locations, political persuasions,

personality defects, character flaws, and strange ticks. People would someday ask him which

character he most identified with, or perhaps they would assume that he was most like the

English teacher. After all, he taught writing at the college level. It wasn’t such a leap. But they

were all him. He would say so, if asked, and sound like a pretentious prick, but it was the truth.

Every character in a book is a part of the author, whether she likes to admit it or not. And so, if

his character was considering it, maybe he was too. There was just no way around it.
       Ixtab listened to his thoughts and realized she could have given the same advice about

some character long ago, to the same effect. She’d made the same mistake as his hypothetical

questioner, thinking only the English teacher was a cypher for Devereaux. She hit herself in the

forehead with the heel of her hand, then caught her headdress as it tumbled in front of her face. If

she’d realized that he was all of the characters, he and that woman he’d been eying would

probably be bonking their way toward two ruined lives and his hastened suicide by now.

Dammit! she thought.

       Devereaux thought about Christy. First he pictured her naked. He didn’t like that he did

this, but it always seemed to be the first image that came to mind. He literally shook his head,

clearing the thought. Then he considered Christy, not dressed and carrying a stack of papers or

quickly looking away from his eyes at a department meeting, but in the abstract. She was

married. That should be enough, he thought. It should all end there. She seemed happily married.

That shouldn’t be relevant, but it strengthened the case. She was happily married to a guy

Devereaux had met, a guy who seemed nice, if a bit boring. Some kind of accountant or

insurance salesman or something. What had his name been? Devereaux suddenly found himself

obsessed with the need to remember her husband’s name. He felt that, if only he could remember

Christy’s husband’s name, the man would become more real, a hypothetical victim to the

uncommitted crime he was considering. He knew the name had been something normal,

something forgettable. Dammit, he thought.

       Mr. Miller is enough, though, right? he thought. John Doe Miller? John Doe Miller didn’t

deserve to have his life ruined. And did James really intend to make Mrs. Miller into Mrs.

Devereaux? And she had a kid, too, right? James certainly didn’t want to take Mr. Miller’s son

and make him into Little Mr. Devereaux.
       But, of course, that didn’t have to be the consequence of an affair. Devereaux assured

himself that he could be honest with Christy about his intentions. If she was looking for

something he couldn’t give, the whole issue would be moot, and he wouldn’t have to worry

about it anymore. He wouldn’t have to think about her when he didn’t want to, wouldn’t have to

see visions of her, undressed and beckoning him, when he wanted to be thinking about other

things. Sure, it would make things awkward, but weren’t they already?

       He knew this was an oversimplification. A quick scan of his own book would teach the

most casual reader that life is never so simple or straightforward, even when it was laid out in a

more conveniently linear fashion. Life would get messy. Lies would become ugly revelations.

Simple truths would become insults. But maybe she would just say no, and it could all go away.

       Or maybe she wouldn’t, he thought.

       Ixtab smiled again.

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