(Skullduggery)
"Where do we all go when we commit suicide?" he asked his Christian Professor, at the Christian University, in Alabama, "is it the unpardonable sin?" he added, making it his second question.
Then the old professor, pushed his papers aside laying on his desk, stood up, erect and left his desk area, looked out the window, up into the stars, or so it seemed to the Professor's student, Gene, but it was really more toward the upper part of a huge tree outside his window.
There the professor gazed, stoned faced almost, concentrating on the shapes and the shadows that seemed to drift about. It was only a first floor office, a window you could jump out of, and if you fell, you'd only get a headache-if even that, I mean it was but four-feet down, a short fall at best, safe to leave open for the suicide student, had anyone been there but those two, and there was nobody but those two.
Then the old man, the professor brought his Alabama-eyes down from up high, as if he was following a bird down the torso of the big tree, he was actually staring at the solid, huge oak, outside the window, with its snake like, thick anaconda branches, and its trunk, outwardly as big as the pillars at the Lincoln Monument, in Washington D.C.
At the same time, from the corner of his eye, the long part of his eye, he watched the wrapping on the student's wrist, soak up with blood, saw it drip on down Gene's pants legs.
It was dusk, and he had worked late, and like out of the blue, Gene had just stopped in, Gene Furbelow; just like that he showed up at the professor's office on campus, and had asked those two questions. Perhaps thinking after slicing his writs, where he was headed for, possibly had second thoughts, I don't know but maybe he wanted the good professor to talk him out of his sudden suicide attempt, to save him mentally and then physically, whatever the long course of action was, he was there and waiting for his questions to be answered.
The old professor pointed up into the thick branches of the tree, full of green life, dark green life with black charcoal branches, lit up by the street lights nearby, as if the tree itself was hooked-electrically plugged into some nearby socket, and the leaves were liken to lit up Christmas bulbs; it was as if the tree was alive, had some kind of human like existence circling around it, an existence the professor personified or perchance the professor gave his living substance to, so it would enhance the tree to give such an impression, it would seem he was almost part of the tree himself.
Then after another moment, it was all darkened with the blackish-blue evening of the atmosphere, another transition had taken place-or so it appeared, a transition more on the order of, a sudden deadly virus was creeping in, with this at hand, something else was mysterious, or brought to light:
"What do you think it is?" asked the old man, pointing at the tree, the shadows in the tree, their shapes.
"Is this a trick question, are you trying to imply something?" Gene asked the professor.
"I shall go further than a man should go in his trade," said the professor of theology, Professor Backer, then noticing blood dripping from Gene's writs profusely, said, "Well, well, well, what have we here...?" As if he didn't notice, notice to its full extent, but he really did.
Gene's bandages were completely soaked with blood, as was his right side of his pants, from his hip to his knee, he had laid his wrist and hand against that leg.
Gene had tied a white hanky around his wrist before he came in to see the professor, as the dialogue went on, Gene never moved from his chair, just moved his hand about now and then.
"I'll give you $100-dollars worth of advice," said the professor, it was what he got for an hours worth of work (in 1991). Gene just stood listening, it was why he came, for advice to get his questions answered. The professor then called his wife, told her he'd not be home for dinner, and left it short, with no details.
The professor had sat down for a moment now, then he stood back up, neatly dressed he paced the floor, looking at Gene, deliberating (so Gene thought) waiting for his two questions, unanswered questions to be answered, thinking at any minute they would be, and therefore gave his wrist no attention, no thought, actually forgot about his suicide attempt for the moment, and forgot about his pants being soaked with blood, even forgot about the blood now dripping down from his pants to his socks- the textiles sucking up the blood like a sponge; from there underneath the cloth, it dribbled down onto his feet, and in-between his toes, but he felt nothing just anticipation for the good professor to answer his questions, all the time the professor looking at the blood oozing out, almost mesmerizing the boy, almost putting him into a spell, not sympathizing with the student one iota.
The professor stood by the window again, breathed in the cool evening air,
"Heaven has fallen upon you, but Hell wants you, both are seeping up out of your veins like blood..." he said, Gene just kept staring at the professor, staring at the shadows he was staring at, the tree with the shadows therein, he had pointed to before, those same shadows.
He stepped out now, out through the window and beyond it-the professor, it seemed so easy for him to do, like he almost floated out of it, no pain in them old legs; Gene just looked, surely he was thinking: now is the time he was going to let him know the answers to his questions, perhaps an analogy, something cleaver, tricky, philosophical, for the professor was known to be a poet, philosopher of sorts: hence, perhaps a comparison, a simile he'd give to Gene, but Gene did not move from the chair, by the professor's desk, just looked from there out through the window, over the window sill, where the professor had stood and climbed out of, hands now laying by his side as if he had lost weight, from all the blood dripping out of his body from his wrists, head leaning backward, beyond the support of the chair, awkward, looking at the professor, by the tree, he was just a shadow now, as he continued bleeding, almost traumatized from the absence of blood.
A voice said, "Heaven or Hell," Gene looked for the whereabouts of the voice, he could not see the professor anymore, but it was talking to him, the voice of the professor, addressing him.
There were now shadows and shapes all around the professor, but he paid little heed to them, he moved around the tree, as if he was searching for someone, in particular, or something.
He spotted Mr. Thomas John Little, "...say Mr. Little, when that man took your wife and you committed suicide, did that ease your mind, diminish your pain?"
"Yessum" said the Negro then added "but not fer very long, now I is in-between heaven and hell, like all us ghouls here at this ole tree."
And he looked at Gene, smiling at the professor, as if he could read his mind, as if to say, 'I'm dying....'
"Stay here, I will not be long," the professor told the ghoul, and walked over to the window, grabbed Gene by the wrist, the one that was still dripping out blood, to the point he had weakened himself to a half dead cockroach: pulling him over to the tree as if to show the ghouls a prize, he said with enthusiasm:
"Here, you have a guest; he will be joining you in a few minutes," then looking at Gene, his wrist, said with a smile,
"...they'll answer your questions in a moment, they know better than I..." and shoved him down against the tree. Immediately, a swarm of shadows and shapes bound Gene with as much wind and residue as they could to keep him in place.
"I want to go to the hospital," cried Gene, "I have had second thoughts on this matter that is why I came to you, professor, but you are not my salvation, rather you are my doom."
"It is so true," said he professor, "you either take charge of your life, or someone else will, it is so simple, it is called, self-interest, which is more powerful than the devil himself."
The boy just looked stunned, as if to say: now what!
Said the professor, "Sometimes my son, we ask for things we shouldn't, and when we get them, we regret we ever asked for them; my advice to you is this: count the cost before you act."
The professor now cheerfully walked away, was now climbing back through his window, he never turned around again, but he did say something that echoed back to Gene, "It won't be long now, just hang in there kid, and you'll have your answers to your questions...!" and the kid died, and he got his questions answered, but it wasn't by the professor.
Written 11/12/2006, at the bookstore, café in Roseville, Minnesota; revised 7-2008 (the author lived down in Alabama twice, in the 1970s)
In Spanish
Translated by Nancy Penaloza
Cielo del Suicidio
¿"A donde vamos todos cuando cometemos suicidio"? El pregunto a su profesor cristiano en la universidad, ¿"es este un pecado imperdonable"? fue su segunda pregunta.
El viejo profesor, empujo sus papeles a un lado, dejo el área de su escritorio, miro fuera de la ventana, arriba en las escaleras, o eso le pareció a Gene; fuera de la ventana abierta el miro de reojo, encarado casi endurecido, concentrado en las formas y las sombras, eso parecía vagar alrededor. Era solo una oficina en el primer piso, una ventana por la que tú podías saltar afuera, y si caías, solamente podrías conseguir un dolor de cabeza, estaba solo a pocos pies para descolgarse. Luego el viejo hombre concentro su mirada desde lo alto, como si el estuviera siguiendo a un pájaro abajo hacia un árbol grande, y ahora el estaba mirando fijamente el sólido, y enorme roble, fuera de la ventana, con sus ramas gruesas como la serpiente anaconda, y su tronco tan grande como los pilares del monumento a Lincoln, en Washington D.C.
Al mismo tiempo, desde el rabillo de su ojo, la gran parte de su ojo, el vio la venda, absorbiendo con sangre comenzando a gotear sobre el pantalón corto de Gene, atados alrededor de la muñeca del estudiante.
Era el atardecer, y el había trabajado hasta tarde, y como por arte de magia, Gene se había detenido allí, Gene alterado, justo así el apareció en la oficina del profesor en el campus.
El viejo profesor señalo dentro de las ramas gruesas del árbol, lleno de vida verde; verde oscura vida con ramas negras como el carbón, enganchados a esto como bombas navideñas; era como si el árbol estuviera vivo, mas allá de su normal existencia: todo esto estaba oscurecido con la ennegrecida -tarde azul de la atmósfera. Pero algo más estaba allí.
¿"Que piensas tu que es?" pregunto el viejo hombre, todavía apuntando hacia el árbol, las sombras en el árbol, sus formas.
Artimañas
"esta es una pregunta con segundas, ¿estas tratando de insinuar algo?" pregunto Gene, al profesor.
"Iré mas lejos de lo que un hombre iría en su tratado", dijo el profesor de teología (profesor Backer). "Bien, bien, bien", dijo el profesor mirando la sangre goteando de la muñeca de Gene, ahora su vendaje completamente empapado, como estaba también el lado derecho de sus pantalones por su rodilla. Gene había atado un pañuelo blanco alrededor de su muñeca antes de venir para ver al profesor. Gene no se movió de la silla.
"Te cobraré el precio de $100 dólares por el consejo" dijo el profesor, esto era el precio que él conseguía por una hora de trabajo en (1991). Gene solo permaneció escuchando, para esto era por lo que el había ido allí, para conseguir respuesta a sus dos preguntas. El profesor luego llamó a su esposa, le dijo que el no iría a casa para la cena, y dejo esto, sin mayor detalle.
El profesor se había sentado por un momento, ahora se apoyó atrás, cuidadosamente vestido, dio pasos por el piso, mirando a Gene, deliberadamente (entonces Gene pensó) acerca de sus dos preguntas aun no contestadas, pensando en todo momento lo que podrían ser; y así, no dando a su muñeca ninguna atención, ni a sus pantalones remojados: la sangre ahora goteando abajo a sus medias y mojándolas; y ahogando sus pies, mientras estaba siendo absorbida dentro de su zapato.
El profesor permaneció por la ventana nuevamente, respirando el aire fresco del atardecer, "el cielo ha caído sobre nosotros, y el infierno esta absorbiéndonos" dijo él, Gene solo retraído mirando fijamente al profesor, a las sombras el estaba mirando fijamente, al árbol que el había apuntado antes. El dio un paso hacia fuera ahora, afuera a través de la ventana y mas allá de esto- el profesor, parecía tan fácil para él hacerlo, como si casi flotara fuera de esto, sin dolor en sus viejas piernas; Gene solo miraba, seguramente el estaba pensando: ahora es el tiempo en que él le dejaría conocer las respuestas a sus preguntas, talvez una analogía. El profesor era como un poeta, filosofo: de ahí, talvez una comparación, similitud. Gene no se movió desde el marco de la ventana, el permaneció allí, sus manos reposadas sobre el marco su peso sobre sus muñecas, su cabeza dirigida hacia fuera, mirando al profesor, sus muñecas sangrantes siendo traumatizadas.
Una voz dijo, "Cielo o infierno", Gene miro de donde salía la voz, el no podía ver, pero estaba hablando al profesor, dirigiéndose a él.
Hubo ahora sombras y formas todo alrededor del profesor, pero el presto poca atención a estos, el se movió alrededor del árbol, como si el estuviera buscando a alguien, o cosa.
El pudo ver al Sr. Johnlittle, "diga señor Little, cuando este hombre se llevó a tu esposa y tu cometiste suicidio, ¿Eso facilita tus sentimientos, tu dolor?
"Si, totalmente", dijo él, luego agregó "Pero no por mucho, ahora yo estoy entre el cielo y el infierno, como todos nuestras fantasmas. Y el miro a Gene, sonrió al profesor, como si el podría leer su mente, como diciendo: otro suicidio.
"Quédate allí, yo no estaré mucho", el profesor dijo al fantasma, y camino por la ventana, agarró a Gene por la muñeca, la que no estaba sangrando tanto. el había debilitado a una cucaracha medio muerta: jalándolo a el sobre el árbol como si mostrara al fantasma un premio.
Allí, tu tienes una pregunta; el estará reuniéndose contigo en pocos minutos. Luego miro a Gene, dijo con una sonrisa, ellos contestaran a tus preguntas en un momento, y lo empujo abajo contra el árbol. Inmediatamente, el enjambre de sombras y formas rodearon a Gene con mucho viento y residuo como ellos pudieron para mantenerlo a él en el lugar.
Yo quiero ir al hospital grito Gene, yo tengo otros pensamientos sobre esta materia es por eso por lo que vine hacia Ud. profesor,
El profesor ahora estaba de regreso trepando a través de su ventana, el jamás regreso nuevamente, pero dijo algo que los ecos regresaron Gene, ¡esto no será muy largo ahora, solo cuélgate allí muchacho" y el muchacho murió, y el consiguió la respuesta a sus preguntas, pero no fueron del profesor.
Escrito 11/12/2006, en la biblioteca, café en Roseville, MN.
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