Empire of Lies

The Universal

When I was sure Serena was unconscious, I left her there and went back through the garage into the kitchen. Now I needed a drink myself. I'd bought some groceries that afternoon, including a couple of bottles of chardonnay. I poured myself a glass of wine and downed a good-sized portion of it in a single swig. I came gasping out of it and set the glass on the counter, holding on to the base as if it would keep me steady.

I didn't know they were going to kill him.

I was going to have a long night, wondering what the hell she meant by that. In my heart, I was afraid I already knew. The terror in Serena's eyes when I first approached her. Her fear of the police. Her reluctance to go home where "they" might find her. It all made sense if she had witnessed a murder. If she had witnessed someone being killed or knew about it somehow. If she was running from someone or if, more likely, in her clumsy, drunken, stupid, teenaged way, she was wandering around the city waiting for whatever catastrophic thing was going to happen next, hiding sometimes and sometimes haunting the very places where the axe might fall, because she couldn't stand the waiting, the suspense.

Well, the suspense was mine now, too. Until morning, at least, when I could talk to her again and find out more. There was no point even thinking about it until then. Good luck trying not to.

I let the wineglass go and walked over to the security keypad by the door to the garage. I pressed in the code to arm the house alarm and watched the light over the pad go from green to red. That made me feel a little safer. It was all I could do for now.

I went back to the counter. I took another long gulp of the wine, then refilled the glass. I looked at the window, at my reflection there on the surface of the night. I could feel the dark house hunkering silently around me. I could feel my mother's ghost moving in the upstairs hall. I could hear her whispering up there, pathetic, lost: What happened to me? Where did I go? I could feel the graveyard chill of her breath on the back of my neck. Where did I go?

Her disease had progressed through stages so subtle no one knew. So many of the things I loved about her stayed the same. Her slow, soft, gentle manner, her wistful wondering at things, her seemingly bottomless fascination with my own childish concerns-these all remained as her amygdala began to misfire more and more often, as it began to sing its mad song of coincidence and meaning, continually unearthing some new connection between one idea and another, one event or fact and another, until she'd filled the Spiral Notebooks, working out her whole grand historical scheme.

How much of this deterioration was apparent to my father earlier on, I just don't know. He was always distant, internal, burdened, impossible to read. Even when the great tragic love of his life was playing itself out behind the scenes-a story, really, so swept by tidal emotions it could've been an opera-he went about the business of a suburban bankruptcy attorney with impenetrable blandness. The line of his thin lips never altered; the eyes behind his square glasses never betrayed more than an empty blink or stare. He comes back to me in his white shirt always, with his tie always knotted, his long face pasty, never a slick black hair out of place.

So I don't really know what he knew. But for the longest time, I know I knew nothing. In fact, I always sort of liked those dreamy little trances of hers, her secret seizures. They seemed so typical of her somehow, so much of a piece with her sweet, wondering nature. If I had known, if anyone had known, what they really were, she could've gotten medicine for them. The damage to her brain could've been slowed, even stopped.

I refilled my glass, standing there, listening to my mother's ghost pottering around upstairs, her little sighing plaints: What happened to me? I had a life, a husband, my children. How I loved my children. Where did I go? I went into a reverie and when I came back, I was gone.

I knocked down another shot of wine, feeling the heat of it spreading through me now like a stain marking the paths and byways of my bloodstream.

I didn't know, I told her. I was just a kid. I didn't know.

I didn't know they were going to kill him.

I collared the wine bottle and lifted my glass and carried them both out to the television room.

She was just a little slip of a being, Serena was. Curled up under her blanket like that, she still left room for me to sit at the end of the sofa. I pushed at her feet and wedged myself between them and the sofa arm. I picked up the remote and turned on the enormous TV. I cranked the sound way down low, but there wasn't a chance in hell it would wake her.

"After my husband died, I was listless," said a cherubic old woman, blown up to the size of a Volkswagen on the wall-sized screen. "I couldn't eat. I'd lie awake worrying all night long. Finally, my best friend said to me, 'This just isn't like you. Why don't you talk to your doctor about Cruxor?'"

And I'll be damned if that woman wasn't transformed right before my wondering eyes into her old happy, gregarious self.

"Man, I gotta get me some of that shit," I said, knocking back another slug of wine.

I settled in, bouncing from channel to channel.

A schoolful of Buddhist teachers murdered by "rebels" in Thailand, facedown in the yellow dust, the backs of their white shirts savaged with red.

A Christian village in Nigeria destroyed by "militia," clay huts gutted, orange flames snickering against the pale blue sky.

Jews blown up by "Palestinians," in Israel. Muslims castrated and beheaded by "insurgents" in Iraq.

I snorted to myself. Who did they think they were fooling? I wondered… a little drunkenly now, I must confess. These highborn Lords of the News, spoon-feeding us their carefully selected diet of euphemisms. Rebels, militia, Palestinians, insurgents, French youths. Did they think we were sitting here, thinking, Hm, I guess those dark-skinned, angry-looking killers named Muhammed all over the world aren't radical Muslims after all. Now I will not be prejudiced against their religion. Didn't they understand that we were bouncing on the sofa, screaming all the louder for our frustration, Hey, News-clowns! Tell the truth for once in your useless lives! Say the word! Say some word. Islamo-fascists! Jihadis! Something. Ya dumb fucks. Ya dumb, useless, lying, elitist fucks.

Ah, well. I suppose that's neither here nor there. I mean, it just makes me angry now, you know, because maybe it would've been a little easier for me to figure out what the truth was if the people who were supposed to be bringing me information hadn't felt duty-bound to guide me instead into right-thinking with their lies, lies, lies. But really-really-it's neither here nor there. The important thing-the jarring, weird, and, yes, ultimately relevant thing-was what happened next.

I changed the channel. And "Hey!" I murmured aloud in my surprise.

Because-what do you think?-there he was again! Patrick Piersall. Weird, no? Well, it seemed weird to me. I mean, I hadn't thought of the guy more than five times since I was twelve years old, and here he was suddenly appearing on my TV twice in one day.

It was a rerun of The Universal. Now he was Augustus Kane in his prime, standing sleek in his silvery unitard in front of one of those papier-mache boulders they seemed to have on other planets back then. Beside him was his archenemy, Smoldar of the Borgons, aka some poor bastard who dreamed of being Brando and wound up wearing a grotesque full-face mask with stringy black hair sprouting all over it.

"You Mindlings command us to. Live in Peace lest we destroy ourselves," said the admiral with his signature delivery, looking up at the painted sky in which his invisible captors hid. "But we would rather be free-free to choose our paths without the interference of a controlling hand no matter how benevolent. For without freedom-without choice-there can be no virtue-even in doing good. Without freedom-without a chance to choose virtue for ourselves-we can never find our destiny."

Now here's the thing. There was some channel-the Sci-Fi Channel-that played these reruns every night. So stumbling on Piersall again like this wasn't really that much of a coincidence at all. But I didn't know that. To me, the synchronicity seemed startling. More than that, it seemed downright scary. It made me start to worry again about the whole family-madness idea, the old amygdala going haywire. That was the last thing I needed on my mind right now.

So I had this brainstorm: I called up the TiVo, the digital-recording system. I programmed it to record anything that Piersall was in. That way, there would be no more coincidences, you see? The next time Patrick Piersall showed up on my television, it would be because I had chosen to record him, not because I was turning into my mother, seeing some secret network of connections governing the unseen world.

What can I say? I'd had too much to drink, all right? It made sense to me at the time.

And, of course, in the end, it made all the difference in the world.