SAINT MAYONNAISE

I describe myself as a man on the edge of destruction, a man at the end of his rope buried deep in the scrub oaks of Dennis, Massachusetts. We have lived here for a dozen years under new names solely for the sake of privacy. Surrounded as I am by the folks of this community who are absolutely certain about absolutely everything, I keep myself to myself with the exception of my weekly column in the local rag and the protection of people I love. Thankfully Cape Tales has limited circulation but it reveals the newly named me to be a man admitting the confusion of contemporary morality. Besides, it gives me something else to do as I keep measure of the violence in this world and watch a cherished life ebb away. The pills necessary to do the job have been carefully counted and liquid morphine securely hidden. On reflection, I am not sure when I finally resolved to act. There was that day when I told myself she could endure no more, that I could endure no more, and that all this must end and end now. There is no point in pain. The wife of many years and mounting maladies sadly no longer recalls much of anything. I have been able to handle that for some years as the condition progressed but time has run out. Who can be sure what strange thing set this man to act, a tone, a touch, a taste, an old wish, a new dream? It was July 1, the first day of the long holiday weekend hiding here in the backwater of Olde Cape Cod. The day of our planned finality was set in stone, but there had been other such days, other days set in stone that became sand that became water, that all washed away. Not so today. On this day of planned finality the sun was high and hot. I had not yet cleared the luncheon table, a fallen spoon went unnoticed; the gardener came to the door. Is it a weakness in the species that leaves us ready and willing to scent the supernatural? All play a part in daily life and so I have been left to manage, caught somewhere between cynic and seeker. I am not a halfway person; I want to believe but reality challenges. The details of any moral failure are never lost to me which is the bread and butter of my weekly column but when their litany is so long that all joy has vanished, well then the wise man tells himself, as I did this day, it is time to do act upon our long held resolve to end all this. We do not believe in eternity, no, we definitely do not. Never. We have discussed this so many times for so many years but absolute certainty is dissolving. What is happening to me? I am a practical man and have been successful in life depending on your definition. I currently manage two nonprofit corporations from this refuge in the woods and never take a salary. If life is a board game where one needs to run about and touch most everything, well I have been there and done that from the White House to Beijing; I have tasted prestige and power. I have been entertained in the capitals of Europe and Asia, bought and sold whatever I wanted and travelled and partied long and hard wherever one must; indeed I have lived large and now I think too long. Do not think harshly of me; I have worked in this life from the drudge of law to the harsh reality of refugee relief, the last being my true commitment outside the home in recent years but it is time to let others pick up the burden as I must leave. Some might say depression has the last word. There were those Pennsylvania days which I consciously try to forget. Enough years ago, you might think they would fade but back they come unbidden in the quiet hours of any day or night. There is nothing to be gained by looking back but monkey thoughts jump unwelcome from the past. The recurring nightmare. “Shake the hand that shook the hand of Tom Capano.” So a friend had played me with a laugh, repeating the words with a certain martial cadence as we sat around the table after a dinner party in 1997 or 98. Anne Marie Fahey was the appointment secretary for the Governor of the State of Delaware. She was last seen on June 27, 1996 after a dinner date with Capano. I imagine the food left something to be desired so he chopped her into pieces and fed her to the fish off the coast of New Jersey. Not really; he stuffed her in an ice chest which refused to sink so he blasted away with a shotgun until it sank, well most of it anyway. His death sentence became life in prison. He is graciously dead now. It was a notorious story for the press with daily dialogue followed by books and a made-for-TV movie but they never told me whether he used his right hand, the hand I shook, to cut the flesh and pull the limbs apart, to stuff them in that ice chest and head out to sea. There was not much to her, anorexic at the time, some ninety pounds, but dead she was still longer than the 162 quart Marine Series Igloo with a 42 inch interior that Capano purchased. Did he use his hands to break bones, snap the ankles, crush the knees, maybe sever the neck and fold it forward? Did he arrange the body with respect, push the hair from her forehead one last time and cast a loving glance? I would. He must have used his right hand, the hand I shook. Did he leave a residue of evil on me with his touch? Was I infected long ago by some satanic bacteria that has slowly grown and at last has captured my brain? Can my hand destroy what I love?