Confession, p.1
Confession, page 1
Confession
A Novel
PHILIP SHULMAN, MD
Confession: A Novel TM & © 2022 Philip Shulman, MD & Markosia Enterprises, Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction of any part of this work by any means without the written permission of the publisher is expressly forbidden. All names, characters and events in this publication are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Published by Markosia Enterprises, PO BOX 3477, Barnet, Hertfordshire, EN5 9HN.
FIRST PRINTING, March 2022.
Harry Markos, Director.
Paperback: ISBN 978-1-914926-76-1
eBook: ISBN 978-1-914926-77-8
Book design by: Ian Sharman
www.markosia.com
First Edition
Dedicated to my loving wife, Sherry, who has always supported me and provided invaluable editorial assistance for this work, and to my wonderful children, who are my joy and reason for being.
PROLOGUE
She walked the dark streets of Greenwich Village alone as she had done so often but tonight was different. It seemed hauntingly darker and more ominous. Thunder and lightning added to the eeriness. She had an especially hard day and wanted desperately to get home and see her daughter who was turning eleven today. The party that she had planned was going to be special. She had ordered her daughter’s favorite meal from the Japanese restaurant in SOHO and a white cake with pink buttercream flowers and strawberry mouse filling. Her husband would be home shortly; everything was ready and waiting for the celebration. She turned onto Perry Street from Greenwich and continued forward toward their apartment on Perry Street. Lightning and thunder struck again, which sent a shiver through her spine. She thought why am I so unnerved tonight? I’ve completed this walk hundreds of times. As she approached her building, he watched her as the tension built in his being. Placing her fingers around the doorknob, she felt a violent shove. A hand reached out for her and was followed by a blow to her head. He turned her around and she could see his face. She was startled to see a young man no more than sixteen or seventeen staring at her, with a malicious, callous almost sadistic look in his eyes. She struggled but he hit her again and she momentarily was stunned. He then dragged her into an alley way. She screamed and struggled, but knew it was to no avail in these empty dark streets. Fear, anxiety and an inevitable foreboding grew as he hit her again. She felt him raping her and felt her resistance ebb when the blade slashed across her neck. That was the last thing she remembered.
Hearing the screams and the struggle, a neighborhood passerby ran toward its genesis, but all he saw was a woman lying in the alleyway appearing dead with blood everywhere. He ran to an open convenience store and asked the owner to call the police.
“A woman was just killed on Perry Street. Call an ambulance and the cops, hurry.”
He returned to the woman, inspected her for any signs of life, but there were none and stood there facing the alleyway while waiting for help to arrive.
Two policemen arrived on Perry Street, saw the witness, who was still waiting, getting more and more soaked in the persistent rainfall and walked over to him.
“Yes, my name is Detective Captree from the 6th precinct,” said the cop.
“Ssshe’s over there!” said the witness pointing to the alleyway with a wet shaking index digit.
Captree moved toward the body, lying face down. He turned her around, looked at her face and slumped to the ground next to her, his face growing pale, his eyes opening wide with a look of shock. Seeing Captree slump to the ground, his partner rushed over and asked, “Are you OK? What is it, what’s the matter?”
Bending down, facing the victim, he realized what had caused Captree’s distress. He stared again at the woman to confirm what he perceived at first glance. He realized that what he first saw was veritable and began sobbing, holding Captree in a tight embrace.
“I’m so, so sorry. My God. No.”
Captree looked at his partner, cried and shouted a guttural, very loud, “My wife. My wife. Veronica, Veronica, No. No. What am I going to do?”
Captree slumped on top of his wife and cried in load, deep sobs. The witness stared at the woman, the detective and the blood and started retreating this mess. He began walking toward Greenwich Street.
“Hey, partner, Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“Ah, Um. I called it in, I did my civic duty. I have to leave now.”
“Oh yeah, just like that, huh? I guess you don’t think we need to ask you anything and you’re free to go,” said the partner furiously.
“Guess again, buddy. I think you’ll be coming with us to the precinct. I believe we have a few questions for you, seemingly the only eyewitness,” he continued.
“Come on, guys. I don’t know anything.”
“Just wait here!” The partner picked Captree up and, said. “Ron, your apartment is right here. Go home and take care of Claudia. I’ll take care of this shit.”
Captree arose walked to the apartment building in a slow deliberate gait as if in a fog, looked again in the alleyway, screamed again, “No! No!” turned back and unlocked the front door and walked in.
PART ONE
BEAUMONT TO NEW YORK
Throw your dreams into space like a kite and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.
-Anais Nin
Chapter 1
Lying awake, tossing and turning, I kept thinking of the day to come. I had been having difficulty sleeping for the past week in anticipation of what was to transpire over the next few hours. I felt bewildered, apprehensive and anticipatory about my intent, but the force of the urge was insurmountable and could not be curtailed. I had to do this. Not gaining any benefit from just lying there, I bolted out of bed to prepare for the day. I showered, shaved my few bristles of beard and brushed my teeth. I stared at the mirror at my non-descript face and noted the blemishes, the longish hooked nose, the square chin and the shock of curly hair; the entire picture presenting an awkwardly handsome face. The eighteen plus years I had lived thus far had not yet positively impacted my skin, my physique or my senses but my mind and psyche had been formed and immersed in an uncontrollable urge. I only wished I could calculate and understand its derivation and genesis so that maybe I could stop it, but I couldn’t understand it, nor could I control it, and, thus, I didn’t think I could derail its eventuality. I continued to dress: white shirt, gray slacks, black shoes and finally the cap and gown.
Today was my high school graduation. To my surprise, I was picked to deliver the salutatorian address for the class of 2018 of Beaumont High School. It was still only 6a.m. so I had a few hours to review the speech, make last minute changes and “relax”. Could I really be calm, placid and tranquil today? I thought most likely not. I went to the bedroom window and stared outside at the bucolic setting. The Massachusetts sunlight shone through the window as the green trees swayed in a gentle breeze. I appreciated this area and Beaumont specifically, the school and town. I had accomplished much here but graduation was to be my farewell. I was going to college in New York and would spend the summer there as an intern at “New”, a literary magazine, with an emphasis on technology intended for young, impressionable readers, yet, sophisticated enough to understand the deeper meanings and themes of its content while at the same time illuminating advances in AI. This was truly a dream appointment for a loner with writing aspirations. I sat at my desk and reviewed my remarks:
My fellow graduates: Today marks a beginning, a new day to follow our dreams. We are no longer tied to our homes, our parents or to Beaumont. We are now free to pursue our goals. Many of us will be off to college and to other homes, towns and cities, but let us not forget Beaumont or what we have accomplished here and how this school facilitated our successes. We entered as wide-eyed freshman with little experience or accomplishments, and we leave as older teenagers gaining a modicum of experience, but with aspirations and hopefully, a bright future. I sincerely wish you all congratulations and future success. I hope you choose the right road when you are facing the inevitable fork. I sincerely hope your choice brings you happiness, and comfort. As I look out at you, I am struck, though, by the dichotomy of our class, surely a reflection of the variability and diversity of our town, with its many personalities, strengths and weaknesses. We are all unique with our quirks, personalities, ambitions and goals. To my surprise, I am standing in front of you in spite of my lack of social graces or camaraderie. My reticent and insular personality may have alienated you. You may even deem me the Holden Caulfield of Beaumont. If you do, I understand but I also want to tell you that I feel closer to you guys than ever before and believe me I think highly of you and appreciate your energy, work ethic and intelligence. You have all led the way for me. It is not that I don’t aspire to more friends, it is somehow not in my personality or my singularity, but I can safely say that our class has inspired me to strive mature and grow. I hope you all understand and empathize.
As easily perceived, the world is very divided and threatened and we must be the leaders for our future to be secure. So, in spite of my introversion, I say please make the commitment to walk with me and prove that this generation is the great one.
Thank you.
I realized that this was inimitable for a salutatorian address, which is usually more generic and less personal and intimate. I stared at the pape r and thought, were these private and personal thoughts going to elicit laughter, mocking and ridicule because no one seemed to understand me or like me? But then again, did I understand myself or better yet did I truly appreciate my own psyche and mental state? I wanted to make the speech real and personal but added the proverbial last paragraph about saving the world and being the next Great Generation to comply with the norm.
I walked out the door of my smallish bedroom, closing the door of the blue painted room, neatly appointed with a bed frame without a headboard, a desk strewn with papers and built-in bookshelves with copies of my favorite books: “Catcher in the Rye”, “Catch 22”, and “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, my still to be returned text books, my journals and my collection of pens. I slowly walked to the kitchen and found my mother excitedly preparing breakfast while anticipating the day ahead. Her son was the salutatorian of Beaumont High, probably the quintessential small town high school with a national reputation for placing students in the best colleges and boasting national rankings at the top in standardized test score and high school rankings. As I approached her, I thought that her pride and love were genuine and real and yet I felt a deep regret and ambivalence about our relationship. She never attempted to stop her husband’s incessant belligerence toward me, and she had displayed an inappropriate relationship with me, as well. She didn’t know, nor would I ever tell her of the totality of his abuse. I kept it to myself and suffered through it. The anger against him and his malicious treatment of me was always a theme and focus of my daily life.
“Morning mom,” I commented strolling into the room.
“Morning, dear Evan. How are you? Did you sleep well?”
“Sure mom,” I replied lying again to her about my sleep habits.
My mother, Sandra Dicks was a petite woman of forty-one years. She was attentive to her two sons, my brother James and me but and a very affectionate, solicitous wife. She carefully minded her home, family and her uncaring abusive husband, Thomas Dicks, a tall handsome man of fifty-seven years. He had an athletic, muscular build that was now showing signs of losing its tone. His rugged mustachioed face displayed a smallish jaw, slightly down turned slanted eyes and graying curly hair. Thomas Dicks, an electrical engineer, provided well for his family, but somehow his quick temper and irrepressible anger negated all that was good about him. He mostly abused his sons, especially me but he also abused his loving devoted and neglected wife. Yet she remained dutiful, loyal and presumably faithful to him. She continuously turned a blind eye to his mistreatment of her sons as if hypnotized by her love and rapture. Both James and I remained taciturn and reticent. Although I usually received the brunt of his abuse, we both refused to unveil his true personality filled with acrimony.
“Hey, Mom, how are you. Is dad up yet? I suppose he will be joining us at the graduation,” I queried her facetiously.
“Are you kidding? Of course, he’s coming. He’s your father or did that small fact skip your mind?” she replied assertively.
“Of course. Sorry, I was only kidding,” I acknowledged with the faintest smile of indignation.
As I sat at the breakfast nook table, Mom served scrambled eggs, toast and fruit. I wasn’t exactly hungry or in the mood for food but ate it nonetheless to please her. As I was finishing.my eggs, my younger brother strolled in as did my father not too far behind. We sat at the table silently as we had done during so many of our meals together over the years. We were a quiet family without much mealtime conversation. I excused myself and walked back to my room to continue the review of my speech. I sat at my desk looked at the speech but all I could think about was the coming event. I kept thinking about Emily O’Connell, the valedictorian. She was a pleasant pretty girl, eighteen years old and obviously very intelligent. We usually exchanged salutations at church and, of course, in class, but didn’t otherwise, have a relationship. We had pleasant conversations about school, the class or other local events and issues, but never dated or met socially. I did understand that she was one of the most popular girls in school with a large social circle. I had even heard that she was a bit “loose,” which bothered me and my religious sensibilities. But did I really have anything against her? I wasn’t jealous, perturbed by her success or specifically angry with her. But the negative thoughts about her never ceased or stopped. Those feelings were constantly there. They probably were there for some time but now I had to act on them. I pictured Emily. She had a round pretty face framed by long wavy blonde hair. Her round blue eyes commanded attention and their sparkle defined her intelligence. Whenever we spoke, she always seemed pleasant, receptive and responsive. Yet, I kept thinking about my deep feelings. Her effervescent, outgoing personality was obviously diametrically opposed to my own introversion. Maybe that defined my psyche and my animosity. I could no longer tolerate these thoughts or their ramifications. Trying to dismiss them, I put my head on my desk and closed my eyes. I rested and tried to empty my brain.
At 11am, we left for the Beaumont High School campus. It was set up with rows of seats, and flowers lining the main aisle for the graduation procession. The dais housed seats for the administration, the district heads, the valedictorian and the salutatorian. The graduation had all the pomp and circumstance of an Ivy League university. The class slowly strolled down the central aisle to the recorded music of the “Graduation Processional March” by Chris V. Sibayar. When they reached their rows, each graduate chose their own seat and waited as Emily and I climbed the stage to the dais. We all stood and waited for the march to end, and we sat in unison. The program was of moderate length highlighted by the speeches of the principal, the district head and an assortment of teachers. This was followed by the announcement of the awards, which were dominated by Emily O’Connor. She won most of the major awards including the English and literature awards along with a number of scholarships. I won a physics and creative writing award, which pleased my dad for one of the few times I could remember. After I completed my speech to mild applause while noting some hesitancy and ambiguity of the audience and the suspected snickering at my comments, I returned to my seat to listen to Emily. She spoke eloquently of her times at Beaumont High, her friends and of the class she was leading. She also spoke of her aspirations, goals and wishes for the class, and herself and the future. Emily clearly had stage presence and commanded attention. But I was in my own world, nearly completely immersed in my own feelings and thoughts. She continued for approximately twenty minutes and then retook her seat. The ceremonial dispensing of the diplomas completed the program and as the class stood to flip their hats, I sat and watched not moving or standing. I sat and sat and waited for the completion of the ceremony. It was getting close to the time. I waited. A small shutter of excitement traversed my bones. My palms were moist, and my hands trembled. The excitement rose in my being as I felt I would soon realize my release.
That night I was invited to the post-graduation party at Emily’s house. All hundred and three graduates were invited so I wasn’t surprised that I was included. Her house, a majestic five thousand square foot home on two acres backing a green preserve, was clearly the archetypal house in Beaumont. Her father was a cardio-thoracic surgeon at Massachusetts General Hospital, the famous MGH of Boston, which was approximately thirty miles southeast of Beaumont. They obviously were the wealthiest or one of the wealthiest families in Beaumont. Beaumont was a diverse town of fifty thousand people or so. The population was composed of mostly Christians but did include a sizable Jewish population. The median income was considered one of the highest in the state. Nonetheless, there was also a sizable population of people of color. The non-white population did associate with the white population, in a friendly congenial manner but without real social interaction. This was obviously evident at Emily’s party where the twenty graduates of color did not attend. The party was the usual teen get together with loud music, animated conversations and clandestine liquor and drug use. However, I mostly sat alone in my dreams and feelings. I was about ready to leave when Emily approached me.
“Hi, Ev. Are you enjoying my party?”
“Yeah. It’s fun.”
“I hear you’re going to New York next week?” she politely asked trying to make conversation.
