The Open Curtain Read online

  COPYRIGHT © 2006 Brian Evenson

  COVER & BOOK DESIGN Linda S. Koutsky

  AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH © Denny Moers

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  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Evenson, Brian, 1966–

  The open curtain : a novel / by Brian Evenson; afterword by the author.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-56689-188-2 (alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 1-56689-188-4 (alk. paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-56689-266-7 (ebook)

  1. Teenage boys—Fiction. 2. Problem youth—Fiction.

  3. Mormon Church—History—20th century—Fiction.

  4. Blood accusation—Fiction.

  5. Mormons—Fiction. 6. Murder—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3555.V326064 2006

  813’ .54DC22

  2006012060

  Beside myself, separated, I tried to annihilate myself, but I remained, and felt myself to be immortal.

  —BONAVENTURE

  These perfect and private things, walling us in, have imperfect and public endings—

  Water and wind and flight, remembered words and the act of love

  Are but interruptions. And the world, like a beast, impatient and quick,

  Waits only for those that are dead. No death for you. You are involved.

  —WELDON KEES

  PART I

  RUDD, PARSED

  1

  Rudd found the letters early one Saturday morning among his dead father’s dead things, kept in five collapsing boxes his mother had been meaning to throw out. He had gone down to the basement for some other reason, but by the time he had trailed his hand down the pocked concrete wall and reached the bottom of the stairs he had forgotten what it was. As he held himself still, gaze flicking about, he noticed, beside the water heater, the boxes. He opened one.

  It was filled with clothing packed in thin dry-cleaner’s plastic—things he never remembered his father wearing. He removed three carefully pressed and flattened white shirts, a cardigan, a tie folded once and smoothed along the box’s diagonal, two pairs of creased slacks, a thick woolen sweater, and a tightly rolled black belt.

  At the bottom was a 1954 Western States road map, attached to the bottom of the box with yellowed, brittle tape. A route was traced on it in red pencil, from Utah south into Mexico. Removing the tape, he lifted it out.

  He had been looking at the map for some time before he noticed the envelopes the map had been hiding. There were three of them: two addressed to his father from an A. Korth, their tops slit open, the other addressed by his father to Miss Anne Korth—posted but marked Return to Sender, unopened.

  He blew one of the slit envelopes open, removed the single-page letter. It was brittle along the creases; he opened it slowly, smoothing each crease flat with his thumb.

  The handwriting was looped and difficult to make out, leaning off-plumb and slightly forward, the ink faded into near illegibility.

  Dear Gyle, it began—his father’s name—

  Why have you not [then a word he couldn’t read. A question mark. An entire line in the middle of the first crease, absolutely illegible] Lael grows, is heavy [or perhaps healthy] and has asked after his father. Will you acknowledge him? I [two words scratched out then three illegible words written above them] tell him. [The second crease, illegible again] duty to your flesh, [illegible]

  All my Love,

  Anne

  He took up Anne Korth’s second letter, opened the envelope, but found it empty save for a single photograph of a child, four or five years old, awkwardly seated on a photo studio’s blue shag before a mottled screen. He held the image up to the light, tried to see his own face in the photo, but could not.

  Setting the photograph aside, he opened the returned letter. Inside was a single three-by-five card, a short typewritten message on it:

  Miss Korth:

  I reluctantly acknowledge the receipt of your recent letters. I am convinced I am not the father of this boy. I believe you are mistaken in the man, and know enough of your true character to argue convincingly as much in a legal setting.

  I shall not reply to any more of your letters. Do not write again.

  His mother had begun to pile the counter’s dishes into the sink. He looked at her back, watched the knitting-needle twitch of her shoulder blades as she turned off the water, began to scrub.

  “Mother,” he asked, “who was Anne Korth?”

  “When did you come in?” she asked, turning about, her hands dripping and held away from her body. She dried them on a corner of her apron. “Anne who?” she asked.

  “Korth.”

  “I don’t know any Anne Korth, do I?”

  He shrugged.

  “What do you have?” she asked. “What are you holding?”

  “These?” he said. “Nothing. Old letters.”

  “Of your father’s?”

  “Yes.”

  She held out one chapped hand. “Come on,” she said when he hesitated. “They’re not yours to begin with, are they?”

  “I don’t think you should look at them,” he said.

  She kept her hand out until he surrendered them. He watched her take the photograph out from one envelope, look at it, put it back. She unfolded the letter from Anne Korth, puzzled through it without comment or response save for a tightening of the lips.

  “Well,” she said, after reading the three-by-five card, her voice still strong. “There it is, just as your father said. She was mistaken in the man.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” she said. “It’s simple truth.” Putting the letters together, she set them beside the sink. “We know the truth. There’s no reason to speak of this again.”

  2

  For the moment, he just forgot it. That was the way he had been raised. He had always stood by his mother, obeyed her. He was her only child, she reminded him often, and the man of the house now that his father was gone. She counted on him. His father had become for him no more than a pair of dark shoes, a featureless face, an absence no longer palpable. It did not matter what he had done or been. It made no difference to Rudd’s life.

  He grew older, his glasses thickening and beginning to sit too heavily on his nose. He asked his mother for contacts and she said no, darling, and pressed her hand to her forehead in a way that made it clear he shouldn’t have asked. Everybody has to make sacrifices, she told him.

  He was in junior high and came home two hours before she did. While she was gone, he wasn’t allowed to have friends in the house, not that he had any friends to speak of. He would stay in his room and assemble models and sometimes, out of curiosity, sniff the glue. It made his head ache. Once, some got on his wrist and it burned, his skin quickly blistering as he tried to rub it off first with water then with turpentine. After that, his mother reclaimed the house key. He could either go to the library after school or wait on the porch, but if she found him hoodlumming around, by God he would never hear the end of it.

  On Sundays they went to church, his mother sitting beside him through the sacrament service. When it was over, she walked out and down the hall with him, pretending to be friendly and loving though he knew she
was simply making sure he went to Sunday school and not out into the fields behind the church, as some of the other boys did, to smoke. In the classroom, he sat on one of the folding gray-brown chairs, tipping on two legs and looking at the words Edgemont 3rd Ward stenciled in a hazy orange on the back of the chair before him, waiting for his classmates to arrive and for the teacher to huff in ten minutes late, loaded with pictures and paraphernalia she had amassed from the church library that seemed to have no connection to the lesson. Her favorite lesson taught that if you listened to the Lord and followed the Commandments you would be blessed. It was bolstered by tales of Church leaders and members who had done good and were blessed. There was something about a boy with a crippled foot and a baseball (she spoke rapturously of the crippled foot), something about obeying your mother and later becoming a prophet. He had learned by this time not to raise his hand and ask, “If people who are good are blessed, why was The Prophet Joseph Smith shot to death?” He knew the answer, which was, “He wasn’t shot to death, he was martyred.” When Robert Talbot, who had loaned him two dollars once at school, was killed when his bike was hit by a car, he posed a similar question, and she answered with, “That poor child will have his reward in Heaven.” Loopholes like that made the whole thing fall apart for him. He wasn’t sure what to do about the two dollars, who should get them. If Robert Talbot were still alive, Rudd would probably never have bothered to pay him back. He spent weeks in his bed alternately feeling guilty and thinking of ways to do good with the two dollars, ensuring his own place in Heaven. Then he forgot about them, went on to borrow other people’s money.

  He would spend most of Sunday school tipping his chair back and trying to balance on two legs, clattering down and up, up and down. The other children were nervous and excited, waiting to see if the teacher would tolerate it stoically until the end of class or if she would jerk him out of the chair and pull him by the ear to his mother’s Sunday school class. There, his mother would pinch the skin on the back of his arm and pull him out to the car. “Your father is rolling in his grave,” she would tell him. That was the only time she ever acknowledged his father’s death, and she never did acknowledge it had been suicide. Rudd heard about that from the other children, who had heard their parents whispering about it. A knife was involved, he knew, but little more. “You’re my cross to bear,” his mother would tell him, “A heavy cross.” Likewise, he wanted to answer her, but never did.

  He was not the only troublemaker. There was David Nimblett and Paul Boeglin and Kathleen Dunbar. All of them had their moments and could be as bad as he was or even worse, though they would always stay away from him. He took the brunt of the blame, stood out that way somehow. They were all in seventh grade except for Nan Lutz who had skipped a grade in school and would have been in a higher Sunday school class except that, as the bishop often said, the schools don’t control the Church. No such thing as “gifted” in church. Church stuck to the natural order of things—God went by age, not brains or brownnosing.

  In twelve months they went through six teachers, including Sister Thomas who began to weep one day at the beginning of class and couldn’t stop even though they became saintly the second she began. Eventually Nan led her to the bathroom and left her there. There was Brother Worster, Pamela Worster’s father, who as his last act shouted to them all to hold their tongues and when they literally did told them solemnly and with a shaking voice that he had done his best by them but that they were determined to go to Hell. If he had his way, he said, raising his arm to the square, they’d be in Hell right now. Near the end was Dan Jarman, just back from his mission, young and sleek in a way all the girls in the class admired, who suddenly stopped showing up. For three weeks they had no teacher. When the bishop found out, he took over, though he did not teach them exactly, but just sat with them as they went around one by one reading the scriptures, one verse each, round after round.

  When reading aloud, he found, you couldn’t pay attention to what you were reading; your jaws were too busy moving and slipping around the words and trying to make the archaic sentences sound like they made sense. You felt no substance, but there was a formal satisfaction to the act. When, at home, in his daily scripture study with his mother, he asked if he could be the one to read from then on, she was ecstatic, saw it as a sign that he’d finally taken an interest in the Church. But it wasn’t that, not that at all.

  He was starting to have an odd relation to words. Phrases from the Bible or elsewhere would catch in his head and keep circling round and about, digging a groove in his brain. The oddest little thing, just a phrase or two. “Lo, verily,” it was for a while. He would be eating a sandwich or watching TV all the while thinking, Lo, verily.

  Then it was high school, ninth grade. At school, in physiology, he was assigned a table with Blair Manning and T. J. Hobbs. Blair had long hair that she curled under. She always wore jeans and a T-shirt, a silver choker around her neck. Sometimes she sat on her hands. She had a pair of tortoiseshell combs, one small, the other large, that she would fidget with while Mr. Fresk was lecturing. Rudd tried to make it early to class so he could take the middle seat and be guaranteed a spot next to Blair. They started out dissecting a crawfish and by the end of the semester were all sharing a pig fetus.

  He called her once after the class was over, at the beginning of the following semester, and waited on the phone until her mother found her.

  “Hello?” she finally said.

  “Hi,” he said. “It’s Rudd.”

  There was a long pause. “Rod who?”

  Somehow he ended the conversation and hung up the phone without her quite figuring out who he was.

  His hands seemed too big for his body. Sometimes he sat on them, but not the same way Blair did. He tugged on his fingers and thumbs, trying to make his hands look longer, until at church David Nimblett began calling him fish hand, a name that puzzled him more than wounded him. He felt a little sorry for Nimblett, who was nearly as awkward as he himself was, with even thicker glasses and fallen arches to boot.

  Rudd’s mother told him he was becoming a handsome man, but his body hung awkwardly around him. He began to live furtively, traveling from locker to classroom without looking up. He didn’t want to be noticed, yet he wanted to be noticed. It was either too complicated or too easy. He was sure it was worse for him than for anyone else, though he couldn’t explain why and knew he would be considered an idiot if he ever said this aloud. He was paralyzed. He gritted his teeth and decided to wait life out.

  Blair Manning was walking down the hall and he was coming the other way and she was fiddling with her choker, looking at him. It was too late. There was nothing to do but keep walking forward. He would have to walk right past her. She joggled one finger toward him and said, “Hey, I know you.” He nodded his head, smiling but trying to keep his teeth covered. Her face lit up and then she said, “Pig fetus, right?” and her friends tittered and then he was past, feeling ecstatic and insulted all at once.

  That was the problem. Nothing came unmixed. He felt that it was his curse to realize this fact while not being able to do anything to make it more bearable. Everything was humiliating but desperately needed.

  He decided to try out for a sport, knowing in advance that it would be disastrous. He was a week late for football, so they gave him a helmet that was too tight and inadequately padded and he stood on the sidelines during practice. His mother bought him wraparound sports goggles that, he found on the first day he came to practice, were several years out of style. After a while, the coach allowed him to run sprints. Then he stood on the sidelines some more. Someone, one of the seniors that the coach called Wile E. Coyote, kept sneaking up behind him and hitting the back of his helmet as hard as he could. It made his ears ring, sometimes knocked him down, once knocked him out. He woke up to the face of one of the assistant coaches. The coach was still running drills. The assistant coach suggested that maybe football wasn’t the right sport for him, told him to take the rest of the
day off and think it over. He went home vowing he would work as hard as he could, would prove to all of them he could do it. He would become a key player. They would eat their words. Instead, he shucked his uniform and never went back.

  Serving him breakfast the next day, his mother said she hadn’t thought she was raising a quitter. “How does the quitter like his eggs cooked?” she asked. “Runny?” And later, “The quitter’s actually going to drink all his orange juice for once?” He kept nudging at his plate until it slipped off the table and shattered. She stared at him, her face going white then red. She turned away, steadied herself on the lip of the sink. He left the house.

  He wandered for several hours, down the streets that went through the river bottoms, along the old dirt track beside the creek, watching the water-skeeters flit across the water’s surface, passing from sun to shadow. He tried to hit them with pebbles, then skipped flat rocks upstream. He climbed an oak tree, sat in the crotch of the branch until his leg fell asleep, then jumped down, limped home.

  When he was a sophomore, his English teacher, Mrs. Frohm, praised to the whole class a half-page essay he had written on an Emily Dickinson poem. He was pleased and embarrassed, instantly worried that the others would tease him about it afterwards, which they did. Two days later Mrs. Frohm was dead from an overdose of sleeping pills. He felt vaguely responsible. The principal, a hometown football hero now in his fifties who had a dour, droopy face, decided to have a serious talk with the class about death. Death was wrong, he told them, suicide especially. After closing the door, he brought out the Book of Mormon, telling them that normally school and religion didn’t mix, but that this was a special case. The gist apparently was that Mrs. Frohm was going to Hell. Rudd’s essay had been praised by someone going to Hell. Did that mean he was going to Hell too, or just his essay?