* * *
—
Crispin sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the massive aquarium. Gaudy fish glided through a coral forest, pecking and browsing and nose-jabbing one another. Bubbles carbonated and broke the surface of the water, setting off glints of light.
Haley Moman cleared her throat.
Crispin waved his hand dismissively. “Go.”
She flinched. Took her shame out on me with a kill-the-messenger glare.
“Go, Haley!”
Fighting back tears, mother fled son.
I walked toward Crispin, evoking no reaction. He wore the same green, old-guy poly jumpsuit and the out-of-place black wingtips. His pageboy was a mess, beige hairs spiking in odd directions. His skin had broken out, what looked like a crop of miniature pomegranate seeds on the cramped pallid face.
“Hello again, Crispin.”
“Sit or stand.”
I got down beside him.
“Just as I thought.”
“Pardon?”
“You want to establish rapport so you sat. I knew you would. I gave you a fictitious choice.” He continued to stare at the aquarium. But not at the fish; no eye movement. “Alexander Dumas Delaware. Writers are professional liars. Apparently so are psychologists. You’re named after a professional liar. Was your mother dishonest?”
I laughed.
He said, “Do you think I’m funny or are you still trying to establish rapport?”
“That was pretty funny.”
“That your mother was a liar?”
“That you see the world in an interesting way.”
“That sounds like rapport-building. I have a supposed therapist. She’s always pretending to be nice.”
I knew his therapist. Genuinely nice.
A few seconds passed. He said, “Don’t bother with what I think of you. I could think you were dog excrement and I’d tell you what I brought you here for.”
“Okay.”
“Aren’t you going to ask what that is?”
“You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
He half turned toward me. Regarding me with purplish eyes, narrowed and impermeable. Returning to the aquarium, he set about picking a zit. Drew blood and transferred the activity to a ring finger cuticle and raised a crimson thread that traced the bottom of his nail.
“I lied,” he said.
“About…”
“Complete the sentence. Add an object. About…?”
“You lied about what?”
“Good,” he said. “You’re being cooperative. People don’t like to cooperate with me. People don’t like me.”
I said nothing.
“Good,” he repeated. “You didn’t argue.” He uncrossed his legs, extended his feet straight out, wiggled the tips of the black shoes. “When you were here with Milo Bernard, I lied about what I saw. Ask me why.”
“Why did you lie?”
“I don’t know. That applies to much of what I do and think. I have trouble coming up with easy explanations. It makes me more interesting to me.”
I said, “You prefer questions that can’t be answered.”
“Are you ridiculing me?”
“Nope.”
He got to work on an index finger cuticle. Thicker blood trail. He licked it. “I sometimes drink myself. Recycling.”
I said, “Was your lie false information or incomplete information?”
Pick, pick, lick. He rubbed his eyes for a long time. “Tell me what I told you the first time.”
“You went over to the party house Saturday morning close to three a.m., heard two adults talking, heard them drive away.”
“I went over intending…”
“To shit on the property.”
“Ha. Hahaha. Haha. Ha.” Nasal, barking laughter continued to burst from his skimpy mouth. Impersonal, like rounds from an automatic weapon. “Hahaha. Haha. Hahahah. Did I tell you I shit?”
“You said you didn’t.”
“Ha. I did. Not on the property. On the road. I found leaves for wiping.”
His smile was unsettling. Dealt a tough hand but he’d chosen to be mean.
I stayed silent.
He said, “You’re disgusted with me.”
“I didn’t see it or smell it, Crispin, so not really.”
His head whipped toward me. “Are you ridiculing me?”
“Same answer as the first time you asked.”
He pouted. “Alexander Dumas paid other writers to write for him.”
“Is that so?”
“You’re his namesake and you didn’t bother to learn about him?”
“Nope.”
“That is inappropriate,” he said. “When you have a name, you need to learn about it. ‘Crispin’ means ‘curly-haired.’ Haley didn’t know that, she just liked the sound of it, like you, she’s not curious. Saint Crispin is the patron of shoemakers. Saint Bernard is the patron of mountaineers. ‘Bernard’ means ‘bear-like.’ Haley didn’t know that. She named me after her grandfather. Milo Bernard is bear-like. Bernard fits him but not me. That makes me feel inauthentic. I’m more fox-like. I should be named Reynard. I looked up the origin of Milo. There are two opinions. It could be derived from a German word meaning ‘to pulverize’ or it could be Slavonic for ‘merciful.’ Milo Bernard looks more like a pulverizer than a merciful person. I didn’t know anything about Slavonic. I looked it up. It’s an Orthodox Christian church language. That’s esoteric. I felt better about not knowing, I can’t know everything though I try. At this moment, I’m satisfied with myself that I had the authority to summon you and you arrived. Are you intensely interested in what I’m going to tell you?”
“I’m here.”
“That is inferential not a direct answer.”
“I’m extremely interested.”
He stared at the aquarium and bloodied another cuticle. Suddenly he sprang up and tapped the glass hard. The fish scattered.
He sat back down. “The clown trigger was about to bite the dorsal fin of the heniochus. I can tell from the look in the clown trigger’s eyes and the way his body orients when he’s preparing to attack. When I see that, I scare him. That’s why I’m here watching. I plan to be here until the behavior is eliminated.”