Choke on Your Lies Read online

I said, “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Like fuck we will. You want my help or not?”

  I shrugged. Her anger ebbed away, and the glassy confidence of the demon’s mask…you know, poetry just can’t capture it. Let’s say that even the devil was afraid of Octavia’s little grin.

  *

  “On first glance, you wouldn’t see it. Maybe not the second or third either, because it really is your signature. But it wasn’t your arm signing it, even if it was your brain.”

  I stood beside her as she lounged in her high-backed black leather executive chair, leaning over the deed, enlarged by a square magnifier with a built in light. What she had pointed out was that even though the signature was nearly perfectly straight, it wasn’t exactly following the line.

  She went on. “A barely noticeable angle, just a few degrees. Meaning that this wasn’t a human being signing a contract. But a machine with the paper not quite in alignment with whatever was doing the writing.”

  “Like a printer when the paper doesn’t go through precisely?”

  “Kind of. But how would they pass it off as real to the clerk? Even if it was a tracing job, it would have a hint of human error, or someone would notice the mistake and adjust to keep it on the line. This one is mechanically perfect.”

  “Then…how?”

  Octavia grinned again.

  “Well?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want any coffee?”

  I paced back around to the other side of her desk, arms crossed.

  She moved the mouse around, activating her screen, then typed in a few search terms, clicked around here and there, finally rotating the screen so I could see.

  On the screen was a contraption that looked something like a document camera, but with a thick pen strapped to an axis. The pen was moving of its own volition, writing as if human.

  “The Long Pen,” Octavia said. “I’d heard about it because an author who hated touring for her books still wanted to sign them, so she found a way to sit at home and sign copies with her real signature, even though the books were hundreds or thousands of miles away.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No, see, it’s real. I had even looked into buying one so I could sign paperwork faster without having to leave home. But I decided against it.”

  “Why?”

  “One, it feels safer to hold the paper I’m signing in my hand first, you know? And two, the possibility of exactly what happened to you.”

  I sat on the edge of one of the guest chairs, expensive German antiques meant to put her visitors at unease—old, fragile, but immensely scary, like something one expects in a vampire film. For me, it was old hat. “What exactly has happened to me? Because I know I didn’t sign it with a robot pen, either.”

  “Which means, probably, that someone has figured out how to scan a signature, tell the computer how it was written, stroke by stroke, and then let the pen have at it.”

  The flesh on my arms chilled as if the breath of Big Brother exhaled in my ear. “That’s…my god…that’s terrifying.”

  “You bet. We’re all fucked eventually if that’s true.”

  “Then why stop at the deed? Why not fake a pre-nup, too?”

  Octavia swung the screen towards her, typed some more, clicked some more. “Come on. One’s enough. The whore thought she could fool you with one, but if she tried that on several things, you’d know damn well it was all a fraud. Too much of a paper trail, too. So she chose wisely. Out of everything the two of you shared in your fucked up union, the house means the most to her. And you, judging from how that’s what got you off your pansy ass and ready to fight. ”

  I shook my head. “It’s just…not like her. I’m the one without a Plan B. Why would she take even that away from me when she’s the one who left? I hoped it wouldn’t turn nasty. She made the first move, not me. All I want is for her to know that I know.”

  Octavia picked up the phone. “Want me to tell her?”

  She’d dialed a couple of numbers before I took the handset away and set it in the cradle. “Hold on. Not yet. It was a lot of other stuff, too. Not just her cheating. We were growing apart, but I thought we’d overcome—”

  “Were you fucking that girl in your wallet? The Indian?”

  So she had seen Nuha. One of my best poetry students from a few years ago. Just nineteen when she started in my class, but we seemed to connect so easily, perfectly. A careless beauty and sensuality you couldn’t ignore. I remember how she giggled when I read her Keats:

  Where be ye going, you Devon maid?

  And what have ye there i' the basket?

  Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,

  Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?

  Had to clear my throat. “No. I didn’t. We didn’t.”

  Dropped her chin. “No?”

  “Never. I swear.” When she didn’t respond, of course I kept going. “Almost. I almost…we had talked about it, and…god…kissed, yes. Spent a lot of time in each others’ arms, I admit. But I never slept with her. It never got that far.”

  “Oral?”

  I was out of my chair pacing again. “Goddamnit, Octavia!”

  She rocked herself up and out of the chair, blocked my path. Her robe fully open by then, and she couldn’t care less. Ticked them off on her fingers. “First, it doesn’t matter what I feel. I didn’t get this rich being sensitive. Man up! I’m fat, people treat me like shit, and I call them on it and make them pay. It’s what the fuckers do that matters, not how they feel. Second, did she suck your cock?”

  I flinched. “No. She didn’t.”

  “That’s pathetic. She’s gorgeous, like a fucking model or something, and you didn’t do anything? What’s wrong with you?”

  Well, I loved my wife. But that was a lame thing to say to Octavia. She truly believed most love is a mental illness. If it wasn’t the passionate, soul-purging variety she so admired in her gothic fantasy land—and had experienced that one time in real life— then it was all a lie covering up our base sexual instincts.

  Also, I was ashamed of exactly when I realized I loved Frances too much to sleep with Nuha. I said, “I went down on her.”

  Octavia’s face brightened, and she reached out, cupped my cheek. “Yes, there, let it out. Freedom.”

  “I went down on her at home one morning after Frances had left. It had been building up, and she came over, said she couldn’t stay away…and just as she was about to come, I stopped. I couldn’t do it.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Even though you already suspected Frances, you felt like if you went any further with your Indian conquest, then no matter what happened to your marriage, you’d at least know you never sank to her level.”

  “But I loved Frannie. I couldn’t imagine hurting her—”

  “You didn’t want to get caught because it would look much worse for you to be fucking a student when your wife was having a nice respectable affair with someone her own age, this time anyway. This was before you knew about her boy-toy, too. So who’s the stereotype now?”

  “Okay, I deserved that.”

  “And you were stupid enough to do it in your own house. So you stopped, broke down, and had this long talk with Miss Bombay about—”

  “Her name is Nuha.”

  “—I don’t care. You had an emotional talk with her about how you couldn’t go through with this, and how it was tearing you apart, and how any man would be stupid to turn down a chance with her, but that’s how love was at times.”

  Nearly word for word. Except I’m sure I went on a lot longer about her beauty and the unwinnable spot I was in.

  “Jesus.” I stepped back from Octavia’s touch. “You just don’t know.”

  “I know people. I know you a lot more than you realize, looks like. Don’t take this the wrong way, but we’re close and I’m the only one who can say this to you. You’re weak, mister. Your moral code consists of whate
ver makes you look good to your colleagues and students. Whatever helps you sleep at night. You think you have to play the saintly sinner role—one who knows because he’s done it, and although sorely tempted, now sacrifices because he knows better. Like those fucking vegans. Worse, like all of you academic liberals. I swear most of you carry around a little checklist.” She mimed holding a clipboard and pen. “Veggie? Check. Organic? Check. Bleeding heart? Check. No TV? Check. Scolding everyone who doesn’t agree with you? Check.”

  I laughed, but I wasn’t amused. “That’s not fair. I eat meat.”

  “Yeah, but you pretend to feel bad about it.”

  We heard Jennings clear his throat. He was standing just inside the entry arch. “How much longer will you be with Mick? Remember, Harriet is coming by at noon.”

  Octavia screwed up her face. “Who?”

  Jennings rolled his eyes. “The chef?”

  “Right. Why couldn’t you say ‘the chef’ instead of some name I haven’t learned yet? Is that too fucking difficult?”

  I got out of the way, pretended to scan the titles on her floor-to-ceiling shelves, all dark cherry, with an ornate wood fireplace as the centerpiece. Lots of rare books—law stretching back to the middle ages, through the 18th and 19th centuries, European and American, although she prized her Russian collection most of all. Medical texts, a couple from the 1600’s. Religious books of all stripes plus the fringes, like Zoroastrianism, Satanism, Paganism, Snake Handlers, and various cult writings from UFO worshippers to free sex believers. Not to mention a ridiculous amount of modern true crime books and horror fiction. I picked up her first edition Clive Barker Books of Blood, Volume 1, and flipped through while waiting for them to finish. Not that I cared about the words on the page, mind you.

  Jennings said, “Fine. The Chef is coming at noon, and you’re not ready.”

  “I’m plenty ready.”

  “Please. You want her to see you like this?”

  “She’ll see me a lot worse, so why not?”

  I snuck a peek. Jennings stroked his chin, pursed his lips. “Darling, even if you don’t believe this, I think that the way you look at this interview will tell her a lot about the food she’s expected to cook. Show her this right now, and I swear it’ll be deep-fried walleye and burritos.”

  I expected a torrent from Octavia, a tongue-lashing of such withering proportions that Jennings would need to flagellate himself like Luther to ease the sting. But I was surprised. She flashed her Hollywood smile. Very unexpected. Maybe her dissection of me had taken the fight out of her.

  “Okay, I can see that. Give me a few more minutes with Mick, but go ahead and start the shower and lay out an outfit. Not all black. Do I have a yellow scarf?”

  After he left, I replaced the book on the shelf and shoved my hand in my pockets. I said, “What should I do?”

  “I’d pray that she doesn’t know about that Asian strange of yours. After that, you’ve got to find the pen. The pen will lead you to the signer, and if he confesses, you might have a chance.”

  “Are we sure it’s a he?”

  “Probably, and I doubt she paid him in money.” She shrugged. “You know, I’m surprised she just didn’t fuck them right in front of you. Like you would have done anything about it. Just sit in the corner and cry.”

  The air rushed out of me like a leaky balloon. “Look, I’ve had a rough week.”

  “Just go home for now and start thinking of where we can find the pen. I’ll show the deed to Pamela. Maybe she’ll have a different strategy, just in case.” She reached out for a hug. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let her cut your balls off or anything. You’re safe with me.”

  We hugged, and I made my way out of the house. Safe in Octavia’s care. What a concept. If that was so, then why did I still feel, as I stepped out into a sunny and warm morning in Minneapolis, so very very cold?

  FIVE

  At home, still mine for the time being, I polished off the Scotch and opened another bottle of wine, this one an Oregonian Pinot Noir. Poured a glass and sank into my couch staring at the front window, waiting for the shadows to stretch, and for darkness to seep in like unconsciousness. This time of year, that wouldn’t be until after nine that night. As long as I had enough wine and five melancholy CD’s in the stereo, starting with Lucinda Williams, merging into live Bob Dylan, and from there we would just see what happened.

  I had convinced myself that I wasn’t up to what Octavia was asking of me. Digging into Frannie’s personal life, uncovering her scam like some sort of narcissistic Phillip Marlowe, yeah. Imagining myself in a powder-blue suit like he wore in The Big Sleep, catching a teenage girl as she swooned and pretended to faint. No, the suit didn’t fit—too big in the shoulders for me.

  Besides, if I started digging, Frances would surely get wind of it and make this whole mess worse. She might end up dragging this into court, involving all our friends and colleagues, making the next year of work a living hell of office politics, taking sides, rumors and secrets. I would end up with daily stomach aches, hardly able to pull myself into the office, a nervous wreck peeking around corners to make sure I wouldn’t run into Frances.

  Just something about me—when I fell in love, I fell deeply, and I wasn’t good with turning break-ups into friendships, or even into that awkward tolerance, as if nothing bad had happened between us. Work was work, and love was love. But how could I believe that horseshit when, every time I would have to sit through yet another speech by the Provost, I would be reminded? Or when I saw her just being herself with the people we’d entertained at home—fed them, shared intimate details with them, because that’s what artists and writers tended to do, embarrassingly so.

  Octavia’s fighting spirit had taken the spunk out of me, I thought. There was no way to keep the anger at such high tide when I was really drowning in sadness. See? I’ve even fallen into cliché talking about it.

  I’d call her back later and ask if Pamela could take care of it all and make sure I came out okay financially. Then I would look for another apartment, move myself in, and probably leave for the rest of the summer. A vacation, somewhere on my own to start over. Maybe call Nuha and see if it was possible to patch things up, ask her to meet me in South Carolina, where a friend had offered me use of his beach house while he was spending the year in Germany. But I doubted she’d be interested. Of course Octavia was right about that, and stopping when I did right before Nuha came, plus the outpouring of emotion that followed, hadn’t left me in a particularly attractive light.

  The last time I’d tried to contact her, we had a painfully brief and silence-pocked phone call—me stepping on eggshells, making sure she was all right, her ignoring my apologies to mechanically thank me for all the help getting into grad school, where she’d begun working for her university’s literary magazine as an Assistant Editor. Plus, she’d had three poems accepted for publication, and had even won a contest. I understood she wasn’t saying this to make me proud, but rather to let me know she didn’t need me anymore. What happened between us had been a mistake, she saw that now, and stopping before we went any further, in hindsight it was a huge relief. A silly coed crush, the reality unable to match the fantasy.

  She didn’t have to say any of it. It was all in the tone of her voice.

  Of course, after our “close call”, I was guilty enough to still champion her work and help with grad school—glowing reference letters, putting in a good word at places she applied where I knew people, mailing her work to some editors with high praise. So much of the success she was having, and which gave her cause to shun me, happened because of me. Mick Thooft, major dumbass.

  My decision was made. I lifted my glass of wine to the universe and said, “To resurrection.” Hoarse, sore, and creepy.

  The beach, the sun, peace and solitude, time to write again. Poems about the death of love, always a creative goldmine. Over a thousand miles from my problems at home, and that distance would heal wounds, steel my soul for the Fall s
emester, the forced small talk and smiles, and the story of my retreat and all the new work it helped foster. Better than showing up drunk and mournful.

  By mid-afternoon, the CD’s repeating after additional woe from The Decemberists, Jenny Lewis, and Steve Earle, I found the strength and clearheadedness to stand, take in a few deep breaths, and go looking for the phone.

  I found it recharging on the base, the message light blinking on the machine. I’d missed quite a few messages, not even bothering to turn on the ringer. Two sales robots, one live salesman, and a few “Anything I can do?” calls from friends and grad students. Shit, word was spreading more than I had realized.

  Then Jennings: “Mick, if you’d like, Octavia has invited you to dinner here at home. I think she really likes Harriet’s cooking.” Lowering his voice into a grit-teeth song-song. “But a little bitch-y, if you know what I mean. Like two queens fighting over the spice rack. Anyway, eight o’clock if you’re interested. We’ll see you.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. Sure, I could do that. After the meal would be a nice time to let her know what I’d decided. Since she smoked her after-dinner drink, basically, she’d be in the perfect mood.

  Then one more call. Hoping it was Frances. Hoping, hoping. Apologizing for the day before. Saying it was all a mistake. And then I could invite her to South Carolina with me, and, and, the blood was rushing to my penis in anticipation—

  “Hi, Mick? It’s Barry.”

  Barry Straton, head of the department. His specialty was Composition and Rhetoric, but he also wrote screenplays in his spare time. None had sold yet, but he’d come close a few times, so he said. And these were some really cheesy stories, too—a historical romance set against the backdrop of the War of 1812, kind of like Gone with the Wind meets Guiding Light; then there was Capone Meets Earp, some sort of time travel yarn about Chicago gangsters going back in time to the Old West. Yikes.

  Barry said, “Look, give me a call as soon as you get this. I’ve already tried emailing you several times. It looks as if I’ll need to rearrange your schedule for the fall. We have to take back one of the poetry workshops. Plus, the Provost isn’t happy with the enrollment numbers of the upper-level classes, so the Beat Poet lit class has been cut. And because a couple of other people in the department are involved in those big grant projects, you know, like Frannie, and I’m sorry about this—sounds so shitty having to do this now—um, we…goddamn it. You’re losing your class release so the department can spread the wealth. Yeah, yeah, it sucks. I’m afraid that leaves you with, um, a comp, an Intro to Creative Writing, all freshmen, and a lit survey. I fought for you, though. It was looking like you would teach two comps, but I didn’t let that happen. Not as long as I’m chair. Call me, even at home. Chin up.”