Theo and Me

Theo and Me

By Paul Crehan

Theo smiled at the butterfly that had landed on the back of his hand.

“Look how beautifully the burnt orange of sunset is recapitulated in its wings,” he said to me. “And these borders—black as the abyss.”

He gave me one of those patented Theo looks, like there was some goddamned metaphor he was aiming at, and that I was supposed to understand it.

In the past, I would have picked it up and run with it—joyfully, even. But now, I couldn’t give a shit. And I hated the word ‘recapitulate.’ He used it too much; used it too much because he loved pointing out the ‘One in the Many.’ Such nonsense. According to the Book of Theo, all things were One but recapitulated or re-presented (another favorite) in many ways, so that you couldn’t miss the point about Oneness. Oneness was everywhere and everything. There wasn’t Many; only One.

Truth to tell? Theo’s thinking and that of the stoned surfer who used to live next to me were the same, just expressed in different words—making Theo’s point, as it occurs to me now.

“Sure thing. The abyss,” I said, hoping to piss him off. I didn’t succeed. His aspect remained even; almost benign.

Theo turned his wrist this way and that, admiring the re-presentations of light that were color; and I had to admit to myself that that was a beautiful thing to think about—light as one thing and yet mugging for you in a million different masks that everything you glanced at donned in an instant. Butterfly wing—burnt orange! Grass—green! Sky—blue! Rock—gray! Colors revealing and paradoxically masking the Oneness of light. It was all pretty busy out there in the world. It was all so reflective it inspired reflection.

We’d had such philosophical talks in the past, Theo and I. I remembered them, which means that I couldn’t let them go, which means that I carried them around in an ark so they were present, not past, and told of our once-upon-a-time covenant, his and mine.

Theo was the one who broke it.

True to form, Theo slapped the butterfly on his hand, squashing it, its legs and wings in cellular reaction un-crumpling, and then he swept it away with the back of his hand. He smiled at me. A gentle smile.

“Go fuck yourself, Theo,” I said.

“I can do that,” he said.

He did have a sense of humor. I had to give him that.

“So, why am I here?” I asked. “Why did you call for me?”

“Would you like more tea?” he asked. “A scone?”

“No,” I said, and as I felt an inflation of absolute nothing in my head, I swept the tea service off the table—the white teapot, cups, saucers, all flying away like mother bird and her fledglings, but tumble-landing on the flagstone patio, and shattering—like bones—because this was bone china. How macabre; how Theo. “We’re not going to do this,” I said. “No bullshit pleasantries. ‘A spot of tea?’ ‘A scone?’ Just talk.”

“My,” he said, gently, presenting as a person who cares.

“Talk!” I said, now regretting my action, because I did want one of those scones. I could, of course, get up from the table and retrieve one from the lawn, wipe it off a little, if I had to. But that would be humiliating, so, fuck that.

“I can get you a fresh one,” Theo said, reading my mind.

“Fuck off,” I said. “Just talk. Say what you have to say.”

“All right,” he said, settling back in his chair, “I want you to forgive me.”

“What?”

“I want you to forgive me.”

“What?”

“For what I did.”

What in hell? I thought.

“Glen,” he said, leaning in, forearms to the edge of the table, and hands clasped together as if in prayer, “please forgive me.” He looked earnest; no, needy.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“I’m asking for your forgiveness,” he said.

I felt my brow furrow. “I’m trying to figure out what’s in this for you,” I said. “My forgiveness? My forgiveness?”

Theo waited as I worked things through. “Ohhh,” I continued, the light, as I thought of it, dawning, “is this a Step Whatever thing, and your making amends? Are you in AA? Is that what this is?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve done you harm. Made you suffer. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Glen.”

“Okay,” I said, working this through, “there’s an angle here.”

“There’s no angle.”

“There’s an angle here,” I continued, “And here’s how I know that. You’re not a blissful dude, Theo. You’re not one with the wave, brah. You love thinking that you’re all pono, and filled with the aloha spirit. But I know for a goddamned fact that if I say, ‘I’m sorry, Theo, but I won’t and I can’t forgive you,’ there will be hell to pay. In other words, this tea has to go your way—or else. This isn’t genuine, Theo. Whatever this is, it isn’t genuine. Because you know that I can’t forgive you. So, cut to the chase. What do you want from me—or—no, it’s this: what do you want to do to me?”

“Do to you?” Theo said.

“Do you have someone hidden on the grounds with a rifle aimed at me? Are you going to give some prearranged signal—like a lift of the napkin—and the last thing I’ll see is the red laser dot appearing on my chest, and—blam!—that will be that? We both know you’d do that—and love the theater of it.”

Theo’s face presented as calm, patient, and like he was waiting for more.

But he wasn’t denying what I’d said.

“Theo!” I exclaimed. “Why. Am. I. Here?” Each word in that question was a punch in his face. “You don’t need forgiveness—it’s not in you to need it; and certainly you don’t need mine.”

I sat back. I wanted a goddamned scone.

“My,” Theo said. “That was a lot.”

“Fuck off.”

He studied my eyes. “It doesn’t occur to you that this is about giving something to you—this asking of mine?”

I laughed. It was one-note and bitter. “Theo!”

In this recollection here, I see myself exclaiming Theo! to the sky above, and I might have done just that; but it doesn’t feel quite ‘me’ to have done that. Generally speaking, I’m not given to dramatic gestures. But this fucker brings them out of me.

I sat up straight. “I mean, Theo, look, my god, we’re past all that nonsense—you and I. All that back-in-the-day stuff, like ‘asking is giving and giving is asking.’ All that stimulating dinnertime bullshit. Like, ‘Whoa, dude, asking is giving! Dude, my mind is blown!’”

“So,” Theo said, “you’re not going to forgive me?”

I saw two of his servants appear and start cleaning up the patio and the part of the lawn where all my anger re-presented itself. So efficient, these dudes, and a million years old but still able to bend and reach and swipe up things, like children after Easter eggs.

Two more servants appeared, carrying candelabras and trays and tableside glacettes for wine. Dinner? I thought. Theo’s serving dinner? I looked about. When had late afternoon turned into night? But here it was. But no, I thought, fuck this—good old manipulative Theo; predictably manipulative Theo. I’m not staying for any goddamned dinner. On the other hand—shit—I was hungry.

Theo’s chef was the best money could buy, and just as importantly to Theo, he catered to Theo’s every whim. Sashimi for a mid-morning snack? Done. Mahi-mahi for twelve in an hour? Done. A simple PB&J for dinner, but make the PB and make the J yourself? Done.

The chef, Lars, had Tourette’s. It had always been a guilty pleasure to watch him whoop around in the kitchen as he cooked. But making myself feel better about myself, I always noted that Lars personified my very soul. However free he might be, he wasn’t free at all from the brain and body that controlled him. Same here. However free Glen might be to move around, he wasn’t free of Glen. Couldn’t escape him. The cells that made him contained him. Like cells.

In my old days, in sentimental moments, I thought of Lars as a miracle of will and creativity. However constrained he might be because of his disability, he slipped out through his art. In watching him put perfection out there in the world, in that pissed-off ape’s way of his, one’s thoughts might turn to the invisible persistence of beauty—and the instruments it chooses.

Engrossed in the deep pleasure of Lars’ Hawaiian style bouillabaisse, Theo and I didn’t speak. My god, I thought, if there were a culinary equivalent of, say, The David, or Beethoven’s 9th—that is, perfectly sensual and sensuous things—it was this, Lars’ bouillabaisse. He could put things with things that didn’t look as if they’d go together, and yet create magic.

I now re-presented my rash action at teatime and swept everything off the table with one mighty swipe of my arm. Dear god, but this was so much more satisfying than the demonstration of rage at teatime, especially because even Theo wouldn’t have bet that I do the same thing twice. Of course, gone was a superb meal.

It was worth it, though; worth it to see all that perfect food, and shattered glass, and china making a picture—a wave—of anti-happiness straightaway up the patio and aproning out onto the lawn, and worth it, too, on the other hand, to see the silverware catching starlight as it flew, some of it disappearing, its silver disappearing, as the darkness of the underworld of Theo’s hedge consumed it, putting it out in a wink. Even the disappearance had a beauty to it.

Making me laugh, Theo still had his soup spoon in his hand and raised to about the midpoint of his bib. He didn’t look shocked. He didn’t look angry. He put the spoon down on the table. The only thing now on it.

“Glen,” he said, “Listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve been thinking about how incredible you’ll feel in forgiving me. Me. Do you see? And—and—how incredible it will be for you to see how joyously I shall receive that forgiveness from you. Think about it: To know that you have given me something? How powerful, how strong, you’ll know yourself to be! How deeply and resolutely loving you must be!” Theo tilted his head, studying my eyes. “Somewhere in you,” he said, a rogue’s smile on his face, “is the chord this is striking.”

He wasn’t wrong, but I said, “I want to kill you, Theo. Not forgive you—especially as I know this whole ‘forgiveness’ thing is just one more game of yours, a way of seeing how gullible I am; how manipulable. I know this, because I’ve been 25 years your puppet. But look. Okay, you’re not going to tell me why I have to put up with whatever this is. Fine. Maybe you’ve just been bored. I mean, you’re the capo now. You’re idle. There are only games now. Or the settling of scores. Am I one of them, Theo—a score to settle?”

“No,” he said. “In fact, you’ve missed the mark by a lot.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. I’m sick, Glen. Dying, in fact.”

The words landed heavy. Resoundingly. Usually, you could hear the waves pound the shore below the hill here. They must have stopped. The natural order of things must have stopped. I heard nothing.

“Oh,” I said, or merely thought. It was a punch in the gut to me.

And it was a punch in the gut that it was a punch in the gut. I still had feelings for Theo? I could be hurt to know Theo was dying—this man who had had my sister poisoned, because he was pissed at me for botching a job?

Theo was Theo because better than anyone else, he knew your pressure points; in other words, how to break you. Putting the hit on me?—eh, my life wasn’t precious; but putting the hit on someone I adored? Annie had died agonizingly over many days. I am a broken man. I wander my days in a daze.

Though his face presented as benign, Theo lanced my eyes with his own, and everything in me poured out of my eyes into his. In other words, I saw myself, my secrets, and needs filling him up. Goddamn Theo.

The pounding surf found its voice again. I chose to say the truth. “I’m very sorry, Theo.”

“I have a year left,” he said. “Maybe. They don’t really know. It will be painful. And Glen, I’ve been thinking about pain. What it is, and why we use that one little word for very different kinds of distress.” Theo waved away his incipient discursion. “No matter,” he said. “The point is, the greatest pain in my life grew out of my decision to disappear Annie.”

“To murder her.”

Theo nodded. “Yes. To murder her. Of course, the pain isn’t about Annie. I barely knew her. It was the pain of seeing that it broke you. And then, when you disappeared, I knew the pain—a great, shocking amount of it—in missing you.”

Theo paused, his eyes searching for the last bits of information in mine. “You know how much I had to pay Sal and Sammy to track you down?” he continued. “Three-million. I guess I trained you well! Anyway; I would have paid them a hundred times more to find you. And in addition to all this pain, I had to take in the pain that I was the one responsible for our rupture. I’m at fault. I can’t carry that pain anymore, Glen. These pains. I can’t. It’s like acid flung anew in my face every day.”

Theo paused to give me a chance to take this all in. “I want, Glen, I need, to have you forgive me,” he continued. “I am so, so sorry. Because. I have always loved you. You’re the only person I could ever speak to; who had a mind like mine; liked what I liked. Our line of work doesn’t attract the kind of people we are.”

Theo sat back. He sat forward. “Glen. So much pain is coming down the pike. It would be a balm; it would be so necessary, to have one less agonizing pain in my body.”

Theo stopped. He rubbed his jaw—an uncharacteristic gesture, because it was a nervous gesture. My, I thought, he really does want this from me. This is not a game. And what’s he done? He’s transferred power to me. I have the power. At least, here and now.

I wanted to live in this moment. Partly because I loved it; partly because what would happen to me if I said no? One was never alone on Theo’s grounds. I couldn’t help my darting eyes, looking for a glint from a rifle scope.

Theo cleared his throat. “Glen. To live until the end, knowing that you, the one person I could actually love, couldn’t open his heart enough to take me down from the cross and at least smile upon me?—that would be a living death. To live out my last bitter, mistake-filled days knowing that there’s not even the thinnest connection between us?—I’d be lost. Unmoored. I’d be…” He stopped, searching for the next word, next thought.

He shouldn’t have done that; shouldn’t have stopped, because it created a space in my mind for a thought to leap into towering bloom, and the thought was, ‘…take me down from the cross and at least smile at me’?! He thinks he’s Jesus Christ?! He murdered my sister!

The spoon. The spoon was the only thing on the table. But it was in reach. I lunged for it, and I grabbed it up, and held it so that the handle shone, and I stabbed him in the neck. I stabbed Theo in the neck over and over, and he tried to speak but only gurgled, and I saw life drain from his eyes, and the last thing that disappeared from them was, I think, gratitude.

Clever, patient Theo. So, this was a game.

I dropped the spoon, and wiping my bloody hand on my pants, I sprinted across the broad lawn for the wall of his estate. I scrabbled for any kind of purchase in the flagstones. I heard the alarms go off and saw the searchlights snap on. I was made incandescent. I heard the dogs.

I managed to make a way to the top of the wall and dropped down on the other side of it. I was in the undeveloped area here, the uncultivated and wild.

It would be a year later before I remembered that in the several seconds I considered the spoon on the table, I did actually think: Poor Theo! All this that’s in store for him now—getting up every day to worse and worse physical pain and ever-increasing debility? All of that will be a steamroller, crushing him. So. I could be doing him the favor of relieving him of it; do him the favor of giving him a quick death—and in that way, show forgiveness. Anyway, to put it more truthfully, that thought wasn’t not there, as I stabbed him. And maybe he knew that, saw that, divined that—and was grateful for it.

If so, I missed an opportunity at that table—something beautiful and theatrical—the kind of thing Theo so appreciated, and that would be to say, as I plunged the spoon into his neck, “Here, I forgive you.”

I regret that missed opportunity. It would have made for a perfectly beautiful murder.