Through richly detailed reveries into the past, the reader is introduced to the anti-hero of the story, Daniel Beasy. As Daniel explores both his surroundings and his memories, he walks in the shadows of his life. His obsession with a charming woman, his battlefield injuries, and a series of gripping tragedies lead Daniel to escape from his home in search of clarity. The enigmatic characters that affect his life push him toward an apocalyptic climax that is both memorable and morose.
An Agent of Pathos
A novel By Michael StuartAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 Michael Stuart
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4520-1787-7 Chapter One
"Nothing so much prevents our being natural as the desire of appearing so." -Francois de la Rouchefoucauld
Daniel's fingers stuck to the doorknob longer than he intended. The thick, leftover sap of sleeping pine trees kept the separation from being as clean and surgical as he wanted. The earth was under his fingernails.
Belle was lying on her side in a ball. The green satin sheet decapitated her below the neck. Her dark hair fell inanimately upon the pillowcase and slid beneath her twisted shoulders. Daniel stopped for a moment to look at her, watching each rise and fall of her chest as she respired. Had he never lost the feeling, that ineffable heat that struck him when he first saw her walking across the yellow, wilted August grass, things may have felt different. Daniel loved her instantly; he knew that he should and never questioned why. But this was not that distant past. In the gap between being nave enough to surrender to someone without a premeditated defense and the salve of middle age, adulthood had built edifices to their mutual sins that obstructed his recollection of pleasant memories. This night, he saw Belle as she was.
The moonlight was floating through the open window, gently bathing her tan summer skin in a juxtaposition of pale blue light. Her face released a sort of midnight glow, ethereal but dull. The curtains flapped gently as they moved under the force of a humid breeze. Through the rectangular panes of glass, Daniel could see the valley and the shimmering highlights of the lake, the jagged silhouette of rocky peaks in the distance, and the panoply of stars in the sky. There was ambiance all around.
It was quite a wonderful night.
He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and slid it onto the chair in front of her vanity, being as careful as possible not to make any unnecessary noise, trying to be adroit in the darkness. He did the same with his pants then slowly stabbed his feet into the bed. The mattress creaked beneath his body.
In a voice that was much more breath than sound, he heard the words, "Daniel, what's going on? What time is it? You're really late."
"I know," he replied, "I'm sorry."
"Will you tell me now?"
"When you're more awake."
"Daniel, I really just want to know." Her eyes were still closed. She had fought this battle before and knew the forthcoming outcome, yet she still felt compelled to try.
"Tomorrow morning."
She sighed. "Then hold onto me for a minute so I can go back to sleep."
He wrapped his forty-two year-old arms around her waist and pulled her body backwards into his stomach.
The night was quite wonderful.
When the morning light broke through the darkness, Daniel had not closed his eyes. His pillow was wet. He would turn it over to hide the evidence. His arms were still around Belle. She still slept soundly. He had no intention of waking her. Let her dream, let her rest; let her be free of everything. He wished he could be.
The fan chattered over his head and cast oblong streaks of shadow across the ceiling. The red tint of sunrise smothered the room. Refracted light from the early dawn made the darkness retreat into a fuzzy state where things were approaching visibility in the authenticity of full color. He tried to follow a single blade of the fan through its rotation, keeping it in clear focus. When he locked his vision on a dark wooden board, it would speed away and blur with the motion of the others, twirling at a pace too quick for his gaze to separate it from other movement.
Daniel glanced around at the humble country furnishings that decorated the room. There was her dark oak armoire and mirror, his nightstand, the wooden floor, the picture of her mother and father on the wall, his closet door, her closet door, and the large window with lacy drapes that had settled along with the wind. Belle loved the curtains. She said it made the room look feminine, like something pretty lived inside.
He leaned over as far as his position would permit, withdrew his arms from their connection to Belle's body, and escaped the sheets.
In the shower, he found no comfort. The hot water seemed to momentarily thaw his mind but his thoughts ran together like melted snow. His whole life, he thought; it was his whole life. Now was his whole life already. What should he feel? Angry? Frightened? Melancholy? Lonely? Confused? Morose? Weak? Disposable? Alive? Dead? He did. He felt it all, alone in the shower.
It was Saturday. Every Saturday morning Daniel walked down the steep valley behind the log cabin that he and Belle called home, hiked for several miles, sat down on the hillside, and breathed the mountain air. That was all he wanted to do, he just breathed. It made him seem so far away from everything, from the honking horns, from the bills, from the sickness, from the war, from the world. The diversion was never more necessary than this morning.
He was hoping that he could sneak out of the house before Belle woke. He couldn't. Twenty years of cohabitation had programmed her with the prescience necessary to intercept him. She sat at the kitchen table in her pink bathrobe with frizzy hair waiting for his entrance into the room.
"Will you tell me yet?" she asked without looking at him. "Just tell me."
He said nothing immediately. Belle raised her head. She had aged gracefully. Her eyes were a cavernously dark shade of brown, still capable of swallowing him entirely. Her features were holding their advantage over the years. Her auburn hair had not a strand of gray amongst its fibers. Her head was resting on her folded hands where French manicured nails peeked through between opposing fingers. Her elbows were propped on the surface of the table allowing the sleeves of her robe to slide down her thin wrists toward the floor. Her skin was richly colored but not dark enough to lose definition. She was beautiful.
She had been almost everything he wanted.
Belle peered into him. All he could think was that he had loved her.
"Why don't you walk with me?"
His request came as quite a surprise. His words were simple and free of the obfuscation that tended to color his speech. She had never been invited to accompany him on his weekend ramble. His declination of her usual request had become implicit. The introduction of acceptance to their routine was an unplanned variable. Daniel knew it was never easy for Belle to face the alternatives of a broken routine, even those she strived to disrupt. She was caught off guard. Her eyes opened with an expression of bewilderment.
"I haven't put on my clothes yet. What if someone sees me?"
Daniel returned her question with a glance that Belle recognized as her only opportunity to acquiesce. She nodded without further protest, rushed up the stairs, returned with a long tan overcoat, and met him on the deck.
Daniel was sitting in the porch swing, gliding easily back and forth, surveying the distance with his mind and eyes. His blonde hair danced like wavering stalks of wheat as the wind massaged the morning. He was dressed in a pair of overworked blue jeans and a dusty brown Carhart coat with too many stains to count. He was oblivious to her appearance and failed to notice her until she had obstructed his line of sight. His irises were the color of jade dust as they captured the morning light. His vision shifted to her...
