Darkling, I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rime
To take into the air my quiet breath?
(Keats)
Twenty seasons have come and gone since Janet's death; within the last year both of her parents have passed on. Today, I, the only person who has ever had an intimate knowledge of the truth regarding her death, am past 60. This winter I notice the chill more pronounced, the wind more biting than greeting; these things are personal truths, of which the thermostat knows naught. It thus appears to me that the greater part of my life is now exhausted, and, by and by, will find myself obliged to pay my natural debt. So be it; I believe I have done what was within my strength to accomplish. There is, however, this final work, this obligation of revelation, which I now undertake.
My first knowledge of Janet's death, like much news around the college, great or trivial, reached me via the undertone buzz of the secretaries in the outer office. At that time, my office was located first in the hall; this allowed me the dubious privilege of being a constant ear-witness to the secs ceaseless gossip. I soon found, to my inexpressible annoyance, that mere wood and glass were but little barrier to the hushed reverberation, the unique "carrying" quality, inherent in the continual petty rumor, the occasional nasty scandal, and the rare true disaster.
It was mid-winter, and, as New England winters go, it was a dark one. It had snowed several times, with each fall being followed hard upon by a numbing frost. The cumulative result being that the entire grounds of Wordsmith college were naught but a bizarre patchwork of chopped-out sidewalks and plowed parking lots amid a crystalline, ever-encroaching, lake of frozen snow. The sky was a dull, leaden gray; there was no sun to speak of.
I was reworking my notes for a lecture on William James when I heard several people stamp into the outer office. As opposed to the pedestrian rush of greetings, questions, and miscellaneous babble which customarily follows upon such an entrance, here a singular, indeed unsettling, hush ensued. Now, as a psychologist it is my job to observe and, hopefully, to occasionally understand human behavior; with the wisdom of age, however, I have come to learn that the majority of human activity is wholly unworthy of any attention, let alone serious. One can be wrong, however; in fact, it is one of the key ploys of Life to attempt to lull us into overlooking the rare by deadening our senses with seemingly interminable stretches of philistine mediocrity.
I do not believe I actually heard anyone utter the word "suicide"; I am sure I heard no mention of Janet's name. Perhaps, then, it was the foul nature of that quiet, with its interspersed dark whisperings, that finally made me get up.
On stepping into the front office I was confronted by three students, all still fully winter-coated, standing stock-still and staring blankly at our secretary, Betty, who was gaping back at them, evidently clueless as ever. One of the girls, rendered nearly sexless by her snowsuit, had tears on her wind-red cheeks. Snow and ice were being dripped all over the carpet.
I wanted to ask what was going on, but had the impression I had just intruded into some kind of bizarre still-life where any form of comprehensible speech was impermissible. I affected a pause of decent length, then raised my eyebrows at a dark-haired boy whom I vaguely recalled from my intro class.
He looked at me in that superficially shocked, enigmatic way that comes over a person when tragedy, near yet remote, strikes.
"A student killed herself?" he mumbled.
Now, Wordsmith is a small college; quiet, semi-rural. Events such as suicides, murders, and rapes, as we all know, tend to shun the relative obscurity of the countryside for the greater notoriety of the city ; in the economy of human affairs this can be simply understood as getting the most out of one's effort. Life, however, being infinite in resources as well as kindness, is careful that we all should have occasional, if not constant, reminders of her essential nature. This can be a nasty surprise.
At this juncture, never-ready Betty chimed in official-wise, "Jumped from the Main Building." I am glad to report, however, that the fragmental character of her exclamation was suitably solemnized by tonality. Wonderful what time-in-position can do.
Involuntarily, I winced: the Main is a full 15 stories high. Add one.
A moment of eerie silence, punctuated by the automatic ticking of the wall clock and the irregular dripping of the snow-laden coats, passed. I quietly asked, "Do they know who she was?"
"Somebody in the crowd said her name was Janet. She -", began the dry-eyed girl.
"Janet? Janet who?", I fiercely snapped. This sudden transformation from Jekyll to Hyde, with all intervening stages skipped, was, under the circumstances, more than the shaken little group could take. She-of-the-dry-lids burst into sobbing, while the rest were shocked into numbed stupor.
I wasn't to be put off, however. "Well?" I demanded, looking accusingly from face to face, as if somehow they were responsible (woe to the messenger).
Incredibly, it was the original crying girl who suddenly summoned up the wherewithal to stammer, "Somebody said? Somebody said? A grad student?"
Indeed, she had been. Mine.
No note was found; the week-long police investigation which followed deserves no note. The possibility of an accident, however, was all but absurd: to reach the ledge from which Janet fell you had to access the 15th floor via a hatch door on the roof of the 14th (now locked), and then walk across the graveled roof out onto it. Excepting suicide, no conceivable reason could be thought of to explain her presence there.
Someone walking towards the Main had chanced to look up and see here there. "She was stone-still and leaning forward? I thought, what?? Then, almost like a diver, she just fell forward."
Despite this eye-witness account, and perhaps in view of the utter lack of motive for suicide, which was coupled, no doubt, with pressure from the parents, ably abetted by the administration, the coroner saw fit to inscribe "death by misadventure" on the final document.
The college authorities and the town police were now, quite understandably, willing to see the entire matter dropped and forgotten; relegated to that minor form of local legend remembered and repeated by no one save janitors, spinsters, and the worst species of undergrads.
The parents, however, solid, middle-class Massachusetts Protestants, were unwillingly to accept the idea that their daughter had killed herself. Frankly, so was I.
It was this strong sense of doubt - indeed, downright uneasiness - about the circumstances of Janet's death that led me, immediately following the funeral, to speak to her parents. I was not surprised, considering the attitude they had already displayed, when they readily agreed to allow me to make further inquiries.
Janet had graduated with a bachelor of science in psychology from the state university; her record, in all respects (I had interviewed her when she applied to our small graduate dept.), was solid, if somewhat unadorned. This, however, was but facade.
A mild brunette, with vague, slightly shy, blue eyes, 5'5, perhaps 110 pounds. Her beauty was of the quiet type: that small wild rose bush off to the edge of the glen, that only the most discerning, or lucky, bee finds. If you were one of the fortunate ones, the impression was highly attractive; you found yourself drawn to her, thinking of her when she was not there. Yes, indeed, if I had been a younger man. But, no matter.
Janet knew that she had this effect on people; had learned it as a child, I believe. If she needed or wanted to she could be very engaging. With just a smile and a few words from Janet, the normally Captain Bligh-like librarian would find herself lending a "non-lendable" book or the insufferably lazy janitor happily helping to locate extra chairs for unforeseen conference guests.
This gift, if I may call it that, was never something that I saw Janet abuse; in truth, not only was she wont not to use it, but tended to a distinct reserve. I believe, in fine, that she recognized her own value, her own quality, and had long ago decided that it was far more preferable to keep her own company than to lose herself in the meaningless fritter that is the common coin of standard social intercourse.
This being so, she had cultivated the "art of anonymity" , as she wryly phrased it, to an exquisite level. At the back of the room, or on the edge of the crowd, all but unnoticed, she would take note, watch how things developed. I found her powers of observation and insight in such situations acute. For example, that this one was married to that one, or that the man in the dark shirt had just hurried there from work, or that the blond was obviously gay, were but trifles to her discernment.
Being one of the few who was close to Janet (or, perhaps I should say, as close as she allowed anyone to get), I was privy to a couple of these Holmes-like demonstrations; if she did this to impress me or simply because she liked me, I do not know. When I expressed my frank amazement at her ability and asked how she did it I found her explanation of the obscurum per obscurius variety. For a moment I felt as if she were putting me on, having a little joke with me. It was pulled off in such an elfish way, however, I couldn't help but smile.
"She proves by algebra," I said, " that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that she is the ghost of her own mother."
I recall she was thoroughly delighted with my sudden production of this bright little trifle, and sputtered with young female laughter.
"Yeah, yeah!" she cried, "And like the man in the brown Macintosh I only show up when needed!"
Undoubtedly, it was this similarity in sense of humor, which the vulgarian, could he find the proper words, would label "love of abstrusiosities", as well as the fact that she had not yet submitted any formal thesis proposal (as the more standard-brained grad students had), that led me to choose Janet as research assistant for the new course I was prepping at the time (Paranormal States of Consciousness, Psy 200). Her work was thorough and efficient; and, indeed, she did display a knack for showing up when needed. As the majority of her work had been on the medieval mystics (Bruno, et al), and in conversation with me was lucid on the topic, I had her deliver those two lectures herself. Her straight-forward, matter-of-fact presentation, garnished with occasional bits of dry wit, gave the impression of seasoned consideration.
It was some several weeks prior to her death that I mentioned to her that the formal deadline for her thesis proposal was drawing precariously near. She looked at me in that abstract way she sometimes had, and I knew that some damn graduation paper had been the farthest thing from her searching mind. But, as to what treasures she had actually been contemplating, I would have been as lost to tell you as if I had been on Pluto. And yet, to convey some idea of the enigma Janet presented to me, I would not have been surprised had she pulled a fully completed thesis, replete with some 20 pages of obscure references, from her handbag. Wrote it during lunch, sort of thing.
All she said, however, was that she was "working toward something which might prove useful". This remark was colored in her usual understated tone (the same tone, for example, used when noting, during one of her lectures, that "Leibniz was mathematically precise in his deductions, even when he knew they were wholly false"). There was, however, something of a glint, or the shadow of a concealed spark, when she said this. I wondered what she was on to, but I knew it was pointless to press her. If it developed into something definite, and if she wanted to, she'd let me in on it.
Although Janet's apartment had already been searched by police and parents, I decided, despite the inquisitive force, no doubt, displayed by this alliterative pair, to start my investigations there. It is a curious psychological fact that in times of stress the official will follow "procedure" so dogmatically as to often overlook the obvious, while those intimately involved in the event will very likely lose even the semblance of order they display in their everyday lives. Via steering the middle course I hoped to see where others had merely looked.
The two large rooms were on the first floor, rear-side, of an old New England style house; the backyard which the apartment let onto consisted of a small snow-encrusted garden which gradually melded into the blackness of an expansive woods. I briefly spoke with the landlady, an elderly widow of that particular New England breed that gives the initial impression of but two steps from non compo mentis; a light tapping of the beams, however, proves her as sound as the house she dwells in. Unfortunately, Janet had not seen fit to confide in this wise old soul.
I sat down at the small writing desk which faced the two large windows looking out on the straggling, frosty garden; it was a dark, cloudy day, and iron cold. Although the heater quietly hissed at my feet, I felt a chill run through my frame. Up to this point, although I had felt a distinct uneasiness regarding the entire affair, I believe my conduct can in no way be termed irrational; from the moment I sat at that desk, however, I felt the urgings of an impulse I can only describe as inexplicable.
For several moments I had the weird, vertigo-like sensation that the apartment around me had suddenly dropped its fa?ade of commonality and presented itself to me for what it was: naught but a nasty little puzzle, the surface of which was but a mocking patina, covering only Janet knew what.
As with all the truly important things in life, this revelation had not been left to the impish whim of my own abilities - it was rather more like I had suddenly found a telegram in my hand: undated, unstamped, unsigned. The message, however, was in deadly clear black and white. And then, in a little twist of wind, the paper vanished?
I had the definite impression, as I began to search through the desk, that I was being watched, from behind. To my own great annoyance, I actually turned around once or twice, only to have the empty walls ironically stare back at me.
As the minutes passed I began to feel as if a task had been placed upon me, and I was being scrutinized with a kind of irritated insistence. I felt pushed, as if I were working against an unknown deadline. I didn't even want to consider the consequences of failure.
The rooms, although not what one would term Spartan, were far from cluttered; this simple fact served to vaguely encourage me as the Dupin-ish thought that it had been the mere simplicity of the thing that had led the police astray still sheepishly hovered about my agitated consciousness
After the desk proved fruitless, I looked through all the CDs, I searched the kitchenette top to bottom, the bathroom inside out, I peered under the bed, shook out all the bedding, I examined the floor under the rug (which, incidentally, I also frisked). Other than the fact that Janet had been an excellent housekeeper, I found nothing.
Of course, I had no idea what it was I was even looking for. If it had not been for the grim determination that indeed there was something to be found, I too would have thought myself ridiculous.
But, you see, there was nothing funny about it: Janet was dead; had been found splattered all over the pavement in front of the Main. And here I was, poking around in her apartment like some third-rate Holmes.
The inside window-ledge was a shelf, perhaps six feet long by one foot wide; arranged along it, in some type of vague pattern, were numerous glass and ceramic knickknacks, the center of which was adorned with a bust of Minerva. The play of the fading, dull light caused these little objects to throw off a myriad of tiny sparks; cold, bluish-green glints.
I took some time in examining these objects; picking each up, turning it over. And then, with that superstitious dread with which we handle the fond belongings of the departed, exactly replacing each small figurine in the place I had removed it from. There were a total of 21 of these ceramics; the pattern, moving from left to right, was a vertical line of four followed by another vertical line of three, two box-like arrangements of four objects each was next , with Minerva placed between them, the penultimate group being three vertical, last, and very close to the three, were two placed horizontally.
Pointless. I was no Bellerophon, and the swords of my mind were slashing at empty air.
I abandoned the rapidly darkening windows with their forlorn little occupants and returned to the writing desk. Mind elsewhere, I randomly leafed through the books and papers strewn about the desk; it seemed they all concerned the course Janet had helped me prep two semesters ago. Why did she still have this stuff lying around? Was Janet considering a thesis on paranormal phenomenon?
This stray, vagabond thought managed to hold the court of my mind but several moments, before being dismissed to oblivion: although possessed of slightly Jungian mysticism, Janet had always expressed to me a concern with the practical application of psychology, particularly to individual experience. Self-bending spoons and bouncing spooks were merely grist for Janet's derisive mill. And, as I had informed her, paranormal research, no matter how sober, commanded but little respect in the ivory tower, and nothing but raised eyebrows outside it.
Still, the collection of works perilously piled about the desk seemed to doubtfully point in some general direction. The majority of the works were traditional, pre-scientific treatises such as the Malleus Maleficarum, the Book of the Nine Gates, Ani's Papyrus, and the Bardo Thodol; there were also, however, several works by the 18th century German physician Von Kemp, in original Latin and translated English (the former containing many notes in Janet's hand), and a well-worn copy of the (rightly) little read or respected "From the Edge and Back: Reports of Near-Death Experiences".
What the hell had Janet been doing with this grab-bag of harum-scarum? It seemed more a crank's gleanings from a second-hand occult bookshop than any form of serious psychological research.
It was nearly 4 o'clock; I had spent all day pulling on the magic rings and far from managing to separate them had only succeeded in further entangling myself in a dark confusion. The crowning jewel for these masterful investigations, firmly set in my third eye, was a throbbing headache.
I wandered back to the campus in something of a daze, arriving at the proper lecture room through the sheer force of habit (Pavlov would have been proud). If I had stopped to consider the matter, I would have cancelled the class, but seeing as the entire matter is so little considered by all involved, I figured, what the hell? My undergrads displayed a lovely degree of Skinnerian conditioning (Our Ford in Heaven bless their former teachers!), and dutifully copied down, without so much as a blink or a question, a series of relatively incoherent comments on the very cognitive processes that were, allegedly, even at that very moment, coursing through our huge, many-neuroned brains.
I sleep-walked back to my office and found that the police had sent Janet's PC over; immediately after the event, in their small-town idea of "police efficiency" (one of the more annoying of the numerous oxymora of modernity) had confiscated the machine. I thought the cops' claim that they had "thoroughly examined the contents and found nothing of relevance" to be worth checking myself: the police "expert" (ditto) had been forced to enlist the aid of a weasel-eyed grad student nicknamed "Termite" in order to ferret out sly Janet's password (avernim). Clam dever.
Though exhausted, I drove home as rapidly as possible, now and then casting a nervous, worried glance at the stolid little black box beside me. On arrival, I flung open the door, and, still winter-wrapped, PC firmly in grasp, fumbled at the phone (large pizza). Sans only gloves, I began setting up my little black beauty on the living room coffee table.
It was well past the witching hour when I finally gave up; after looking through every file on the main drive my sole discovery was that Janet had been an excellent solitaire poker player. Multum in parvo.
The buzz-click of the closing machine, the empty, splayed pizza box, the icy, endless blackness just outside my window, it all seemed to have taken on a sneering, almost mocking, tone. As if in reproof, I felt a knife-blade chill coldly caress the nape of my neck. I knew damn well the doors and windows were sealed tight. I tried to dismiss these Paraclesusian wanderings and weird physical sensations as the result of exhaustion and frustration. Pathetic fallacy in operation.
It was thus with a calm rationality of action, designed to mask the irrationality of the action itself, that I unplugged the PC and replaced it securely back within its carrying case, zipped. The idea of it sitting out alone all night, "alive", its square green eye aglow in the solid black of the living room, whilst I slept but one room away, gave me the creeps.
I retreated to the questionable security of the bedroom, where, with door closed, I fell into an abysmal, unrestful sleep.
My next morning's class was only slightly less disorganized that the previous day's; but, then again, it's difficult to totally botch a lecture you've given for years. Mechanically, I went through the paces, and then, just as mechanically, asked if there were any questions. Perhaps it was my distant, vague manner that put them off (I seemed to notice, here and there, an odd look on a familiar face), perhaps they just didn't care what Jung had to say about synchronicity. The questions, in any case, were brief, with the answers even more so.
I recall the students were oddly quiet as they exited; the usual "rambling scramble", so characteristic of the high school student and undergrad alike, had been replaced by a kind of desultory shuffle. A few of the more conventionally-minded attempted a pretense at normality (i.e., pseudo-paper rustling, desk-banging, light-hearted chatter, etc.). The tone, however, rang false, and the final result of these machinations only highlighted the anxiety everyone felt.
Alone, in the wake of these rapidly departed echoes, I wearily sat on the sturdy, though sorely battered, old wooden chair which faithfully attended my lectern. Last support.
I looked over the empty classroom, the vacant seats. The shrill winter wind was rattling the door in its frame; outside, it kept up a steady, insistent moan.
An utter weariness, born of frustration, was beginning to settle on me. I had become convinced, I know not why, that Janet's death had been no simple suicide - and yet, beyond this intuition, for that is all that it truly was, I had nothing. And, more to the point, I had no idea how to proceed further. I was close to giving up.
Accepting defeat has never been easy for me; I have always been possessed of a kind of tenacity (which more than once has degraded into a stupid, dogged persistence) since my birth. The maddening aspect of the thing was that, somehow, while I had an absolute faith that there was an answer to this thing, I neither had any hint as to what that might be nor in what direction to look.
I felt obligated, as if bound in some unexplainable way, to follow this thing through. No matter what.
Further, by this point, I had come to realize that my time was not unlimited: somewhere, I knew, some unseen celestial clock was inexorably clicking off the irretrievable allotment of seconds. The Tibetan Book of the Dead gives you 49 days; Jesus had but 72 hours. How much time did Janet have? That Time is a dirty, bald cheat, as Ben Jonson remarked, was obvious in the way this game was rigged; I here only add that he is also a merciless bastard.
There are situations, however, in our deepest moments of need, perhaps as a gift of grace, or perhaps through some subtle form of perception all but lost to us today, whereby the soul can find its way. True, those moments of inspiration are rare; but it may be that we have to no one to blame but our own small selves - on whom we attempt to solely rely. And thus we go astray, are lost.
You see, the situation was one of absolute impasse; other options were not possible. The choice was as simple as it was frightening: give up, or ask for help.
(Thou art a scholar. Speak to it, Horatio.)
So I did.
"Janet," I said slowly, "I can't solve this alone?If you want me to know something?..Please help me."
A moment passed, and the room lapsed into a stony silence; the wind just died away. Then, with the force of a gunshot, one of the retractable seats in the back row slammed up. I jumped. The door rattled in renewed agitation as the wind suddenly rose again; it wickedly pushed in at the windows and breathed its force in through every crack and crevice. For a moment, the room itself seemed alive.
And I was afraid.
(Art thou there, truepenny?)
Smoothly, as if in mocking parody of the fairy tale invitation, the door swung wide open.
Though trembling slightly, I stood and followed.
Janet's apartment confronted me with its usual fa?ade of innocence, but now I knew better. If there was something to find (and if not, why would I have been led there?), discovery would be a matter of "seeing the world aright", of looking with Zen-eyes. I rolled the desk-chair to the far end of the room and sat.
The day was closing and the light that filtered through the window was opaque, hazy. Slowly, very gradually, but with a definite appreciation of degree, I began to sense my awareness of "reality" (that most subjective of allegedly objective words) altering, shifting its frame of reference. Prosaically, or pseudo-scientifically, it would be easy to assume that as a result of sleep deprivation and tension I here entered into some sort of semi-hallucinatory state. I most assuredly inform you, however, that I did not - in truth, never in my life have I been so aware as I was at that moment. Or, perhaps better expressed, I have never been so fully of awareness.
As to what did actually cause, or permit, that altered state of consciousness, although I believe myself to be in full possession of that singular knowledge, I have no desire to attempt to express it.
Precisely how long I sat in that condition I do not know; when, however, I came to myself (an apt phrase!) it was pitch black outside. Within, however, all was light, and my eyes were resting on Minerva. I smiled at Janet's little signpost. Trivia expressing trivium. How simple it really was.
I walked to the front door and gently ran my gaze over it from top to bottom. Where? It was of a strong wooden construction, the exterior being divided into three panels of equal length. Quietly, as if intoning the magic words before Aladdin's cave, I tapped at the center panel. Hollow.
Instinctively, my fingers sought the top corners and gave an easy, upward pressure. Up it slid, and the small notebook Janet had placed there slyly peered out at me.
Carefully, almost tenderly, I removed the dark little secret sharer from its resting place, then slid the panel closed. Click. I sat down at the desk, laying the little treasure before me.
Pocket-sized, bound in imitation leather, reverse-side bottom edge imprinted: Blank Blank Co., Blankton., Mass. Indeed. Did not Freud himself destroy a great deal of his most personal correspondence? In fine, there are some things which we neither need, nor should want, to know. Thus, the dozens of missing pages were not true gaps, but rather caesura of discretion.
Sept. 30
Oct. 2
Initial search-elim: (a list of some 30 volumes follows, some with checks beside them, most, however, crossed out; Von Kemp's Mors Studia is graced with a little black star).
Oct. 7
VK most interesting. Experimental idea very unique. Comparison with original Latin however shows considerable omission. Why did the translator cut passages??
Oct. 14
Success! I saw it! Third time was the trick. Was frightened as hell at first. Still trembling all over. But it's true. I saw it.
Oct. 16
Again! VK terms it "entering the sun" and he's right - all bright, golden warmth. I was almost lost in it. I feel like I've been born again. But this is just the brink, the edge of something. It's deeper yet, a swirl of colors way down below. I felt an agonizing pull forward and backward, like I was being torn apart. I pulled myself back somehow. I'm still [ the writing is hopelessly illegible for the last several words].
Oct. 23
VK openly admits -how could he deny?- that his "experimental procedure" is dangerous. I don't quite know how to judge him: a genius or a functioning psychopath? In any case, he was right. He found it! Continually however he seems to be dropping dark hints - referring to some other danger - that he either can't or won't directly mention. Amongst other indirect phrases "mors addico" keeps coming up. If this means "fatal addiction" I damned well understand him. But what about "addicted to death"?? I e-mailed the Latin dept. at Umass - some jackass up there informs me that the phrase is "intentionally ambiguous and employs multiple-choice allusiveness"! He hasn't a clue. Said he could judge better if he had the source. Pons asinorum. Not a chance.
Oct. 30
I've decided to risk it: Fortes fortuna juvat. Tomorrow morning, sunrise, the Main.
If these remnants of my notes should be found, tell my parents that I loved them, and that my death was accidental. When they have entered the sun, let others know the path I walked. However, ars est celare artem.
God bless you. Amor fati.
