2004-09-01 - 9:43 a.m.
I have been in a funk, the most direct cause of which has been my reading of Capote’s classic and true crime novel In Cold Blood. I had read the book many years ago when I was still in school. But reading it then had nowhere near the effect on me that reading it now has had.
Perhaps it’s because as a brash teenager you think nothing like that can ever happen to you, that, in the words of one of the minor characters in the book, “Life is just one long basketball game.” Therefore, because at such a tender age the evil contained in the book seems somehow too distant to matter, it’s possible to read the story and dismiss it as a terrible aberration. I honestly don’t recall losing a moment’s sleep after reading the book all those many years ago. I had an untroubled mind then. And I slept like a baby.
In contrast, my last few nights have been fitful. I even, one night, got up after midnight, realizing I had not locked the doors, and went to each one and did so. But truth be told, it’s not myself that I keep thinking of but sixteen-year-old Nancy Clutter, who lay tied in her bed, listening, while one of the killers blasted her father and brother with a shotgun in the basement before coming up the stairs for her.
Earlier, she had talked individually with the men, first asking Dick, the one who had intended to rape her, “why he did things like this, rob people.” He proceeded to tell her a sob story about being raised in an orphanage, how nobody ever loved him, blah blah blah… all the while trying to worm his way into her pants. The other one caught him at it and, knowing Dick’s game, sent him downstairs to go look for the non-existent safe. At that point, before tying her up, Perry rested. He talked with the girl, asked if she had a boyfriend: “She said yes, she did. She was trying hard to act casual and friendly. I really liked her. She was really nice. A very pretty girl, and not spoiled or anything. She told me quite a lot about herself. About school, and how she was going to go to a university to study music and art. Horses. Said next to dancing what she liked best was to gallop a horse, so I mentioned my mother had been a champion rodeo rider.”
People who study such things tell us confidently that a hostage can greatly increase his or her chance of survival by developing an interpersonal bond with the captor, the idea being, I suppose, that it is harder to kill someone you relate to. Perry Smith said of Nancy, “I really liked her.” He felt a connection with her through his mother and a mutual interest in music and art. It made no difference.
Perry also said that he “liked Mr. Clutter, right up to the time I slit his throat.” Perry then blasted a hole in Mr. Clutter’s head, did the same to Nancy’s brother, Kenyon, and climbed the stairs for Nancy and her mother.
*******
So I have been in a funk. All I can think about is that little girl lying tied in her bed and knowing she was about to die.
(A couple days ago it rained; the air was misty all day. The house was so cool I wanted to build a fire. I read, watched the rain on the windows, and listened to my footsteps as I rose after reading and walked about an otherwise empty house. I felt alone, and almost empty myself. All from thinking about that little girl lying in her bed, waiting to die.)
She turned her head away to the wall just before the gun went off. I close my eyes and try to imagine…
*******
But life goes on. Doesn’t it? And surely, after all these years, I am a stupid fool to take her dying so hard. Not to mention I’d read the book before, watched the movie. It’s not exactly like I didn’t know what was coming.
So life goes on, and I lock my doors at night now, hating the fact, considering it a kind of cowardice.
I realize my present funk is a kind of cowardice too. Regardless, I know the story will affect me yet for some time. I have a harder time now dealing with the inexplicable than I once did. That is one effect I’ve noticed about getting older: I no longer feel contained within a youthful aura of seeming invincibility. I feel instead quite vulnerable. Anything can happen. Anything. And I know I, and all of my loved ones, will die.
But funks pass, eventually. Life is too short to spend on a bad mood.
******
This morning the sun, rising bright and white, shined through the picture window on the far wall opposite my bed, its light flashing and flickering across my face as Beau stood over me flagging his tail and licking my hand, telling me it was time to get up.
Such moments I live for.
