The Blue Hour

Six

Matamoros Colesceau drove his pickup through the narrowing streets of Irvine until he reached the Quail Creek Apartment Homes. The buildings were tan stucco and wood slat, built around grassy knolls. The knolls had large decorative rocks arranged on them to suggest nature’s balance and harmony. The units were not built in straight back-to-back rows, but arranged in wandering molecular-looking clusters that were supposed to promote a feeling of privacy. They were called apartment homes, not apartments. The place was like a gigantic beehive.

During his first two months here, some three years ago, Colesceau had gotten lost in his own complex four times. The many small streets all looked infuriatingly the same. There were four swimming pools designed exactly alike. The knolls were even similar, with like numbers and arrangements of stones. Now he could walk the grounds blindfolded and know exactly where he was. He lived in 12 Meadowlark, a two-level unit in the B building on the west side of the north quadrant of Quail Creek Apartment Homes.

His parole agent had already parked in the driveway, so Colesceau pulled his truck into a guest space. Now he would have to walk to his front door in broad daylight. In Colesceau’s opinion Parole Agent Al Holtz was an inconsiderate pig, but he was generally amiable and unthreatening. He didn’t carry a gun, although Colesceau knew he kept one in the glove compartment of his car.

He sat for a moment with the engine running. His truck was old and small, but the air conditioner worked well. He knew that what was about to happen was important to him and it made him sweat. He wanted to do well for himself. He closed his eyes and aimed the vent straight into his face.

Without any real choice in the matter, Colesceau had assented to meeting his PA, his psychologist, and maybe even a cop in his own home during his lunch hour from work. This was unnerving. But as a convicted felon and parolee he had no right to privacy, and the bureaucrats in charge of his life wanted to see him in what the psychologist called his “domestic environment” and the PA called his “pad.” The ostensible reason for this meeting was his completion — in exactly eight days — of his parole. Two years at Pelican Bay State Prison, two in the Atascadero State Hospital, and then three on parole, ending at noon next Wednesday. But there was more to this meeting than just that.

He cut the engine, pulled hard on the parking brake and got out. The early August sun was bright and Colesceau shaded his eyes and leaned forward as he trotted toward the front door of 12 Meadowlark. He could feel the duct tape around his body, but he didn’t think anyone else could see it through his Pratt Automotive shirt that said “Moros” over the pocket. The terms of his parole said nothing about duct tape.

He read the newspapers, however, and with the new applications of Megan’s Law, cops were now telling people when “high risk” offenders were living in their neighborhoods. Here in Orange County they called it the SONAR program, for Sexual Offenders Notification and Registration. What it did was get you run out of your home if you had a history of sexual offenses and were considered “high risk” as opposed to “serious.” He understood that this interview would help determine whether his neighbors were informed about his past.

Colesceau could think of no fate more humiliating than to be driven out of his apartment by squeaky clean blond people who did nothing more daring in life than cheat on their taxes.

Holtz was standing in his kitchen, drinking one of Colesceau’s root beers. Holtz was fat with quick eyes and the habit of smiling when he gave you bad news. Colesceau had never once seen the lenses of his glasses clean. Holtz acted like a friend at times, but he wasn’t.

“Moros! How are you?”

“Fine, Al.”

“Hot one today.”

“It is drastic.”

“Carla should be here any minute.”

Colesceau always saw himself from the outside when he was with other people. He always had, even as a boy. It was like watching a play he was in. The characters spoke, and he was one of them. He was a spectator and a participant. He had always assumed it had something to do with not being comfortable with the people around him. But you don’t really choose your own company, he knew: especially in a family, a prison or a hospital.

So for a brief moment Colesceau saw himself standing there, talking to the fat man in his kitchen. Yes, that’s me, he thought — short and pudgy, wearing a blue short-sleeve shirt with a patch and his name over the pocket. Mid-twenties. Hair medium length, black and wavy, complexion pale, lips pink and thick. Colesceau noted his own slightly enlarged breasts, courtesy of the hormone-altering drug Depo-Provera, which was part of his punishment. Treatment, he corrected himself: chemical castration is part of my treatment. And I’ll be done with that treatment in eight days.

“Al, I have a new egg.”

“Lay it on me.”

Colesceau left the kitchen and walked into his darkened living room. He kept the blinds drawn tightly against daylight, especially in the infernal Southern California summer. The far side of the living room had three lawyers’ bookcases against the wall — the kind with the glassed-in shelves and the interior lights so you could see your books.

He flipped on the lights in the middle case.

Colesceau: “Another emu egg. The blue one.”

He pointed and Holtz leaned forward, his nose up close to the glass.

“Nice.”

“She’s producing more and more these days.”

The egg producer was Colesceau’s mother, Helena. Painting eggs was an old Romanian folk art and Helena had done hundreds in her life. Most of them ended up here, in the lawyer’s bookcases. They were painted in every color imaginable, and in many designs and patterns. The older ones were simple. The later ones featured lace, frill, bric-a-brac, bits of yarn and various textiles, and lately even plastic eyes with pupils that rolled around inside.

“Very nice.”

“It’s one of my favorites.”

Colesceau always tried to endear himself to Holtz, who was a big proponent of what he called “family values.” So Colesceau talked well of his mother whenever he could. In fact, Colesceau didn’t care much for the hollow eggs his mother decorated. They were morbid and trite. If she hadn’t paid for the three bookshelves he would have boxed them up and left them in the spare bedroom upstairs. But the display of eggs and his flattering words were a small price to pay for mollifying two of the most important people in his life. As one of his keepers at Atascadero always said, you catch more flies with honey, though Colesceau had wondered then — and still wondered now — why anybody would want to catch flies in the first place. The doorbell rang.

“Ah, that must be Carla!”

Colesceau went down the hallway and opened the door. Carla it was, tanned and blond and beaming as usual, with her prematurely wrinkled face and luminous teeth. Colesceau had never understood why California women so eagerly courted the damage of the sun.

“Hello, Moros.”

“Hello, Dr. Fontana. You are free to come in.”

She nodded, stepped inside and followed him back toward the living room. He could feel her behind him like a shadow. He watched her shake hands with Holtz, the PA eyeing her greedily through the dusty lenses of his glasses.

And then, like watching a play again, he found himself approaching the sofa, Dr. Fontana and Holtz settling into chairs equidistant from him. He watched himself curl into place on the couch. Colesceau considered himself catlike. He took off his shoes and pulled his feet under his legs as he sat.

Holtz held open a notebook that Colesceau had never once seen him write one letter in. Pen in fat right hand.

Dr. Fontana pulled a tape recorder from her purse and set it on the coffee table. She smiled at him with her halogen teeth. Holtz looked at him.

Careful. Colesceau thought of the fog along the river Olt and the way it hid your thoughts.

It was Dr. Fontana who began. “I think we should start with your general outlook about things, Mr. Colesceau — Moros. Can you tell us how your job and family life are progressing, for instance?”

And it was Colesceau who answered as he watched and listened. “Yes. Very satisfactory to me. My job is retail, automotive parts and supplies. I spend many hours on the computer, to order and check availability. It’s not difficult work, but it spends the hours rapidly.”

Holtz: “He pretty much runs the place, Carla.”

Carla Fontana listened to Colesceau’s faint accent. His diction and syntax were a little off. Romanian, she knew. Colesceau came to the United States as a political refugee with his mother when he eight. By age ten he’d killed six dogs in his Anaheim neighborhood, more suspected. He used Liva-Snaps to get them looking up, then an ice pick to lance their hearts. His mother caught him with the tails saved in a box taped to the frame of his bicycle.

Carla listened and questioned and listened and tried to do her job.

Her instinct was to pity him, but her job was to protect the citizens of Orange County from pathetic little monsters like Moros. Her heart told her he was harmless now, ready to begin a new life. But her brain buzzed with a high-pitched warning that said he might be dangerous... we’ve got to tell his neighbors...

Holtz tried to show no emotion as the interview went on, but all he could really feel for this guy was pity. God knew, he’d met the mother, Helena, and the woman was a hellish crone. No surprise that Matamoros was misshapen as a tumor. But what got to Holtz most was the fact that Helena’s husband had been machine-gunned by Ceausescu’s government police while she and six-year-old Matamoros were forced to watch. When the boy rushed to his father’s body, the police dogs mauled him. Thus political asylum in the United States for Helena and her traumatized son.

Holtz listened and questioned and listened and tried to do his job.

His guts told him that Colesceau was harmless as a toadstool, so long as you left it in the forest. His head told him that this fungus had indeed done his time and paid his price. He would be a free man in a week and he ought to be treated that way. Maybe in Romania they let the dogs chew you, but here in America once you did your time, you walked.

Colesceau read their thoughts like skywriting — Fontana to convict, Holtz to acquit.

Now Holtz again, blathering on: “You still see your mother once a week or so, Moros?”

And Colesceau heard himself answer, “Yes. Invariably. She wants to live here, with me, but I’m not sure that would be healthful.”

Now Fontana: “How do you feel about her living with you?”

Colesceau shrugged and sighed. Then he shrugged again. He wiped a dark curl from his forehead. “One must honor one’s parents.”

Holtz: “What you have to honor is yourself, Moros. You can’t take care of everybody. Now, we’ve talked about this before. Your mother doesn’t set your agenda.”

Colesceau settled deeper into the sofa, feeling like a cat. Soft and flexible. Boneless.

Fontana: “What we’re saying is you don’t need added stressors just when you’re concluding your parole term.”

“No shit,” Colesceau said quietly. Sometimes you had to be what Holtz called “candid.”

He looked over at Fontana, and knew she’d have him roasted in an American electric chair if she could. No, he corrected himself — she’d want lethal injection — it was neater and more modern and saved energy, which saved endangered species. And that was after she’d tried to ruin his manhood with her barbaric medications.

Fontana: “How is your libido, Moros?”

Colesceau saw the color rise in his own pale face. There would be no dignity in the coming minutes.

“It is still very removed by the medication—”

“—Removed or reduced?” she asked.

Colesceau looked at her again. “Reduced drastically.”

Holtz: “Carla, we know that the Depo-Provera has been tested effective in 92 percent of subjects, with a 90 percent reduction in sexual drive. Removal isn’t possible. Even with a full-on surgical castration the sex drive—”

“—I know,” Fontana interrupted again. “Even with physical castration sexual drive can’t be eliminated. Castrated men have raped.”

Holtz: “Right.”

Fontana: “Because rape isn’t about sex, it’s about anger.”

Colesceau: “This is hard to imagine.”

There was an odd silence, as if Colesceau had just shed unwanted light on their discussion of him.

“Why?” asked Dr. Fontana.

“Because of the reduction.”

“Mr. Colesceau, just how big is the reduction in your libido?”

He imagined holding his hands about six inches apart, then shrinking the distance to about a centimeter. But this wasn’t the kind of humor that went over with government people, even in a democracy.

“Reduced more than you can understand.”

Fontana: “How often do you experience physical sexual arousal, Moros?”

Colesceau looked down again. “Once at night I had dreams and it happened.”

“Erection and ejaculation?”

He nodded. He felt his face turn redder.

Holtz: “When was that?”

“Last year. February.”

Fontana: “And that’s the only time, in three years of the medication?”

“Correct.”

“That tracks with the better statistics,” said Holtz.

Fontana: “I know the statistics.”

Colesceau thought their rivalry was worse torture than their hormone treatment. Well, not exactly. You didn’t have to tape down your breasts because of their rivalry.

Then Fontana, of course: “But when’s the last time you saw an old lady and wanted to sexually assault her with a Coke bottle or your fist?”

He looked across at her. “I have no interest in that whatsoever.”

The silence was thorough and artificially long. Like if it went on long enough he’d change his mind. These people were blunt as tongue depressors.

“And your neighbors are supposed to be comforted by that?”

“I’ve never hurt them. I haven’t broken any law in seven years. I’m a good neighbor. A man with tits. Just like you wanted me to be.”

He saw his face again. It was red and heated and looked like shame and anger put together. Sometimes he just couldn’t fake it.

Holtz: “Does that piss you off, Moros? The breast enlargement?”

“Of course it does, Al.”

“Thank you for the brutal honesty.”

“How do you know how honest it is?” asked Fontana.

Hole shook his head sadly. “More pop, Moros?”

Colesceau unfurled from the chair, accepted Holtz’s glass and left the room. The sound of their lowered voices followed him into the kitchen. He thought of the fog along the Olt and how it hid your own thoughts and kept other voices from getting in. He poured Holtz some more root beer and went back to the living room. With an almost courtly movement he handed the PA the glass, then sat down again.

He could tell it was over.

Holtz: “That’s really all I have for Moros.”

Fontana: “I’m finished, too. Just one question, however. Mr. Colesceau, can you give me one good reason why the people who live around here shouldn’t know that you’re a twice-convicted sexual predator?”

He looked at her and brushed the curl of hair off his forehead. “I can give you two. Number one, I am sorry for the things of my past. And number two, I will never do anything wrong again. I am a different man now.”