a villain for the hero? What was wrong with my judgment?
And so, I learned as much as one can learn about the way judgments are made. What is good and bad, and what is right and wrong, and how are villains punished? I looked outside myself for answers I could never find within.
While I was on my journey, Luca was endeavoring one of his own. While I became a lawyer, he became…the opposite. So much the opposite that everyone who saw him at my after-party on the night I was elected was aghast that he would dare to come.
I think of my quandary as I drive to downtown Saranac Lake. How, for years, I’ve classed him as “bad.” I’ve locked him into that colorless two-dimensional role—until today, when he broke free, reminding me that humans are too complex to fit into the confines of a right-wrong binary, that he especially is just…so much more. My judgment of him—as a bad guy—is no more suitable than his judgment of himself so long ago as “mostly bad.”
The world is shades of gray. I always knew. But I thrash in those murky waters now—as I stop by the bakery, the pizza place, the mom and pop electronics store, and finally, a tiny women’s clothing boutique. Every second I spend on my errands makes my heart pound harder.
Finally, I’m back at the cabin. I’m cleaning up, I’m showering. I’m opening the thing I bought, setting it up, slipping it into the soft, insulated fabric cooler. I dress in the new clothes I washed and dried while I was showering and tidying up. Then I step into the bathroom with the one item of makeup I brought along: my lipstick.
Luca
In the dream, I’m walking toward the yacht. Lamberto’s. It’s a dark night—really dark, I notice—but the stars are bright. They look like diamonds shining in the sky. I’m walking down the dock, my eyes fixed on the too-bright stars, and I feel really damn good.
I don’t know if she’s beside me, but she’s around. Elise is somewhere near here, and we’re going somewhere.
We’re going somewhere—it’s a long trip—but I can’t find her. Everything is dark inside the yacht. The only thing I can see is the gun, because there’s moonlight shining on it. As soon as I see it shining, I feel sick. It’s creepy how it’s lit up, like a signal to me.
Grab it, that light says. And I don’t want to. It’s funny—people think I like guns. I don’t, so I start walking away, back toward the stairs that lead up onto the deck. And then the fucking thing is right in front of me.
This shit is weird. It’s like a video game. Pick up the gun, Luca. Pick me up. It’s floating. I don’t want to touch it—I don’t want to hear a gun’s BOOM, ever again—but I can’t move without it blocking my view. It even blocks my path, so I can’t move without bumping into it. So I pick it up. It’s a grab right out of thin air. As my hand closes around its cool handle, I feel a jolting sense of déjà vu.
Then I’m looking at my dad. He’s taped to the chair. I don’t understand why. What the fuck did he do? I don’t like this. I think how it’s ironic that I’m always worried he’ll come home with a gun. For once, our roles are reversed. But who put him in that chair? I look around, but everything is dark. I look back at him, and my hand jerks.
BOOM!
Time freezes. I don’t understand what’s going on, so I step closer, and that’s when I see his head. I’m screaming. There’s blood on my shoes. I’m running. I can hear it splat against the floor and then I’m outside and everyone is screaming. My dad is dead. My dad’s head is all over the floor.
I run through the house—it’s Max’s house—and I can’t find her. I can’t find her.
I wake screaming.
Where am I?
“Oh fuck!”
I don’t even have a chance to crawl to the side of the bed before I start dry heaving. Turns out it’s a good thing I’ve had nothing since that coffee this morning.
I change the bedding, pull a long-sleeved shirt over my head since I’m sweating bullets and it’s fucking cold. There’s a wood stove in the living room. I keep a stack of firewood just outside the back door, on a chair in the screened porch. Better get that started.
My head’s fuzzy. I