Stories From Camp Kitsch (cont.)

In the summer of 1991, a blistering hot season, Nicole Merryweather and Ward Stakel happened to be flying to Los Angeles on the same plane. They were neither friends, nor had they ever met, and so they had nothing to say to each other. They were, however, seated together, and while the 757 passed over the western prairies, over small heartland towns and bone dry red-dust fields, they sat in leather recliners, where the velvet headrests and temperature controlled seats made them oblivious to the choking drought below them.

It was that intensely un-seasonal heat that caused the downdraft that spilled Ward's martini on Nicole's lap. This spill in turn led to a discussion of who they were and where they had come from. They talked about growing up in Detroit, living in the shadow of monolithic steel and auto factories, experiencing the harsh winters and scorching summers of the upper mid-west: frigid, fierce winters when the world takes on an icy slick glare, when one is heavily swaddled in gortex and fur under iron gray skies, in the damp cold of southeast Michigan, in the brittle starkness of sub-zero sunlit days; stifling summers with occasional rain, when the grasses turn from green to orange and the pollinated particulate poisons the air. They agreed that a person who had not lived in the city could never understand the experience. In short, they felt a kind of geographical solidarity; they found that they lived close to one another. Out of this idle chit-chat Nicole learned that Stakel was a private investigator for Northwest Airlines, and was sometimes away from his office for weeks on end.

But this might never have occurred. Had Stakel's wife been with them, as she usually was on these trips, they would never have talked at length. Nicole would not have liked Stakel's wife. True, she was attractive, ambitious, and self assertive; but she was also gullible and remarkably lacking in enthusiasm--at least when it came to Stakel. Stakel's modest demeanor bothered his wife. Although she jealously tracked him in his work, she also found it worthwhile to entertain certain illusions about her artistic skills, financial status, and cultural sophistication. She played the patroness to questionable "artistes" of unlimited aspiration and mediocre ability. Thanks to a portfolio of stable utilities, Millicent, a name she insisted on in every situation, was financially self sufficient enough to keep her own apartment. It was on paper only that she retained the title of Mrs. Ward Stakel.

Fortunately, Stakel had a knack for remaining oblivious to factors beyond his control; a man who treated disappointment as one would a cold or a rash, as something viral and objective rather than as something experienced personally. His unflagging optimism and belief in moral rectitude suited him well for the role he would play in Nicole's story. Stakel's romantic character, tempered by his shrewd sense of humor made him uncannily successful in most of his endeavors. His abiding passion for justice was a moral compass that seemed to drive, as much as govern, his actions. An ironclad faith in the possibility of "Good" and "Right" shaped his identity in terms of character and action. He was a throwback of sorts. His singular gift was his ability to romanticize the experience of others while refusing to mythologize his own existence.

As the hours passed they opened up to one another in that wistful, blue stratosphere, Nicole turned to a lonely memory of her father’s death; a subject that touched upon issues that concerned Stakel most: matters of moral consequence and retribution, and of what happened to Nicole's father twenty long years before.

For a time, years in fact, Nicole had forgotten how to think about her father as a living breathing person; but in pouring out her story, in reconstructing his image in her memory, she exposed a filial bond, a blood covenant that had always been there. For whatever reasons, her mind was on him that cloudless day, in the air, above the earth. She resurrected her father's sense of care, and in doing so made Stakel see him as she saw him, which only further revived her deep affection for him. "I have kept a journal of what I remember about my father, and what I might attribute to him, things that might have been. The praise and blame I attach to my state in life lies heavy on ghostly shoulders; for better or for worse," she told him. "This diary is my strongest bower in my darkest hours." When Stakel expressed an interest in seeing the log, Nicole agreed that someday he should read it--if it were ever finished.

Upon landing, Stakel found the nearest concourse, ordered a double Glen Livet and decided it was best to leave the past alone. But he couldn't get Nicole's story out of his head. Three months later, after much soul searching, and constant pressure from his wife to forget about it, Stakel left a message on Merryweather's answering machine asking if he could help her discover the truth about what happened, if that was indeed possible.

Straining against the straps, Nicole reached out to her father, trying to pull his head out of the bloody water slowly pooling around his half-submerged face. She could almost touch him. Over and over she tried, even knowing that it was too late, he would never live again. Knowing what she could do no longer mattered. Not anymore. One last, futile surge freed her shoulder. Cradling his bloody face in her soft hands she gently sat him upright, allowing his head to roll back onto the headrest. Its crimson ice-mask cracked like an enormous oozing blister. His eyes went from marble to flame, an orange-yellow pus mist, sickly-sweet and hot, sprayed her face. His mouth, its broken teeth and black gums in death-yawn, produced a grayish brown tongue; which slowly protruded into a position to say something; but instead licked her eyes and nose. Blackish red clots of blood clung to her face in the wash of the obscene tongue. Nicole began to cry hysterically as she struggled with the door handle. "You're next, you cunting mother whore," the face in the car window howled. "Except first I'm going to fuck you, everywhere, and you don't want to fuck with me...ever..."

Nicole sat bolt upright, her face buried in the sanctuary of the soaked pillow. Nightmare tears and sweats were familiar to her. "...Daddy, you're drowning", she repeated, the reality trace of her excess dream trailing off in clumsy words. Shaking convulsively, she turned on her safe side in fetal security.

Nicole could feel the sweat cool to a goose chill as she prayed that this time the dream would be forgotten, knowing too that the next would seem as awful in its brand-new-way as the last one. At least she had not puked. This had happened only twice before, but it was something new, and she feared this awful symptom signaled the psychosomatic possibilities of her nightmare.

She stared at the naked 200 watt bulb as if it were a source of rescue from her lifelong torment: trying once again to understand the dream, and trying to forget it, to make it go away forever.

The scratch of the cat on the screen jolted her out of her meditative paranoia into full blown fright. She crept naked across the Pakistani runner to let the cat in--but nothing was there. She tried to go back to sleep, even knowing the dream always forecast a new bout of insomniac nights.

One week after this dream Nicole returned Stakel's call. "Ward Stakel," she said. Millicent answered.
"Is that Ms. Merryweather?" I've got a message here, from Ward Stakel."
"May I speak to him?"
"He's on another line right now, but he said that he's sorry, but he is no longer interested in your case. He’s very busy and has no time right now to take on any new commitments."
"Tell him I have to speak with him, it's urgent."
"I can't, I'm afraid he left explicit instructions that I not interrupt him. He was quite clear on this."
"Don't interrupt him! He called me."
"I'm sorry but those are his instructions."
"Please. I have to talk to him."
"Goodbye."

"Who was that," Stakel asked from his office as Millicent hung up.
"Oh, just another phone solicitor. They're so persistent. You've got to be firm with them. That's the secret. It's the only way to discourage them. They've got to be taught the perils of invading one's privacy," she said, putting down her fingernail file.
"Do they call often when you're here?"
"No, actually it's a recent thing," she said guardedly. The telephone rang again. Stakel waved her off. "It could be another salesman. I'd better answer it."
"I want to speak with private investigator Ward Stakel."
"Mr. Gray, Yes. I am in the process of having your deposition transcribed. Could we set up a time to go over it?"
"Stakel? Can you talk?"
"Of course. I've got all the relevant information at my Queen City office. Let's meet there. I understand. How about on the 22nd at 10 o'clock? Fine. I'll look forward to seeing you then. Goodbye."

"I'm surprised it wasn't another phone solicitor, Ward."
"I'm glad it wasn't. I've been interested in Gray's case for a while. He's being black-mailed by a former boyfriend who is threatening to expose his exotic sexual dalliances to his obsessively jealous wife. Are you enjoying your tea this afternoon, dear? Earl Gray, again."