dedicated to Savannah Silver

 

“What do you say we sneak into Monroe Park tonight for a midnight hike?”

          “Nah.”

          I was surprised and disappointed. Scott and I had become closest friends in a handful of weeks through our mutual love of chess, philosophy, and hiking. I thought for sure this would grab his interest. For the first time I felt a space between us. I pretended it wasn’t such a great idea after all, and we went on to other subjects.

          After hanging up the phone, I weighed whether to go to the park by myself. It would be more fun with Scott, but it would still be a thrill.

          At eleven-thirty I drove up a winding road on the outskirts of the city. Houses gradually gave way to fields and then to woods. An old wooden sign, unlit, announced the entrance to the park. No gates or chains obstructed the driveway; just a notice that read: “Park Closed After Dark.” I nosed my Honda under some low branches in a secluded corner of the parking lot so it wouldn’t be seen by a passing patrol car.

          As I got out of my car and approached the trailhead, crickets sawed through the darkness. I looked up at the stars and was surprised at how much darker the trees were than the indigo sky. The forest ahead consumed light like a black hole.

          Monroe Park wasn’t a grassy area for softball and picnics; it was a forest preserve. Crisscrossed with miles of trails, it featured hills and ridges, a stream, a pond, three bridges, and thick woods everywhere. Over the course of the spring and early summer I had trekked the pathways until I knew every turn and fork by heart. Hiking it in the darkness would be a new experience, but not a problem.

          I felt elated as I plunged into the darkness. It immediately brought back memories of night hikes when I was a counselor at Camp Wilderness, leading half a dozen kids from the ever-glowing city into the blind beauty of a forest. Sight is replaced with the feel of the rough ground, the sound of the snapping twigs, and the smell of the vegetation. The woods come alive with creeping creatures who watch us while we stumble. In the forest at night we’re all children.

          I ascended a hill, and as I crossed its ridge the trees thinned out sufficiently for me to see some house lights in the distance. But soon I fell back into the pitch of a valley and crossed a small wooden bridge, my steps echoing over invisible water. In my mind I could see a maze of meandering lines; each curve and crossing was exactly where I had anticipated it would be. The hike became a game, testing the perfection of my memory.

          And then a feeling of uneasiness settled on me. I knew what it was. I could have predicted it: the inevitable fear of the bogey man. No, not the bogey man; any man. What if, in my wandering, I came across a stranger walking toward me? What should I do? Say, “Hello”? Hide? If he hears me, what will he do?

          I suddenly realized I had never thought through this scenario. I had been on many night hikes before, but always with others—friends or kids from summer camp. A group makes noise, swooshing and crunching through the woods; and usually there is talking going on as well. Noise pushes away surprises, and there is security in numbers. If we had ever come across someone else hiking at night (we never did), there would’ve been nothing to fear. But now, alone, the situation was completely different. An encounter could happen at any moment without warning. Someone else may have decided to do exactly what I was doing—and maybe with a different purpose. What kind of stranger might be standing on the trail? Or what kind of stranger would he think I was?

          As I turned down a narrow path and the walls of trees leaned in on me, as the rustle of a possum stirred the leaves and a bird’s wings flapped quickly overhead, my rational brain retreated and an older, deeper brain advanced—a reptile responding only to survival. No thinking now; only reacting. Flight or fight; either one, equal chance. I was afraid—not of what lurked in the night, but of what was lurking in me.

          I turned to my right, taking the quickest path back to the parking lot. Panic, caged, paced back and forth within me. How stupid could I be, I asked myself, not to consider the possible consequences of meeting a stranger in the woods—a stranger I could not see or know or predict; a stranger who may hide or run or attack; a stranger I must defend myself against.

          If I heard someone coming, I determined I would back into the trees. If the person continued toward me, I would be still. If the person stopped in front of me, perceiving my presence, smelling me, hearing my breathing—I would pounce, I would attack until the threat was immobilized. Then I would run—run the trails by heart, run to my car, race home, go to bed, go to sleep, and pretend it never happened.

 

          I murdered someone.

          I had blocked it from my memory; I had hidden it from myself. But now, years later, I remember.

          I murdered someone. I don’t know who. A stranger. At least, I probably murdered him. I sat on his chest and strangled him till he thrashed and gurgled no more. Then I left him. He was probably dead. Then I had forgotten it all and gone on with my life as a productive citizen, getting married, raising kids.

          But now I know what I am—a murderer. I can’t hide it from myself any longer. The memory has come back. There is no escaping it.

          What should I do? Turn myself in? That would be the most ethical thing to do. Take responsibility. Bring the truth to light. Confess. Accept the consequences. Go to prison. Give the victim’s family some closure.

          But why do that if I’m no longer a murderer—if there’s as little chance of me doing that again as there is of me becoming the first man on Mars? Why break up my family, destroy my marriage, bring anguish to my children, waste my talents, throw away all the good I do, suffer public humiliation, and go through decades of deprivation in prison? For what purpose? To punish me for a wrong that already horrifies me and I will never do again?

          But can I keep this secret within me? Will it not destroy me? Is there not a scale inherent in the universe that demands justice from my flesh?

          I am in terror—terror of what I have done, and terror of what I will decide. Every possible turn is terrifying.

          Then I perceive I am dreaming—while still dreaming. So, did I murder someone? That murder was no dream. It was as real as anything I have ever done. My dream is unlocking a truth repressed by my consciousness, a memory stirring in me that will no longer sleep.

          I see light through my eyelids. I open one eye. The clock on the bed stand reads 6:22. I close my eye again.

          If it’s true, when did it happen? And who did I kill? I rummage through the last twenty-five years of my adult life, but I’m coming up empty. When could I have done this? Where? To whom? It doesn’t add up. It’s gotta be a dream.

          A dream I’ve had many times before. The dream varies in its particulars. Sometimes I have killed a man, sometimes a woman. Sometimes I have run them over with a car, and sometimes I have stabbed them or shot them or strangled them. Sometimes it is accidental, and sometimes it’s on purpose. Sometimes I know the person I’ve killed—it’s a real person in my real life, a client of mine I can’t stand. Unfortunately, I know she’s still alive. So that means it has to be a dream. Relief!

          Such wonderful relief. I don’t have to decide whether to turn myself in or not—whether to go through external or internal hell. I can skip hell altogether. How wonderful real life is! Just a bad dream.

          Why do I have this recurring dream? Am I killing a part of myself, and is the dream trying to make me aware so I will stop? Or am I symbolically sorting through an ethical dilemma? Or am I keeping a part of myself hidden from others, and the dream is an encouragement to risk becoming more vulnerable and self-revealing? I asked a therapist once what the dream meant. He made a novel suggestion, but now I can’t remember what he told me. Whatever it means, it’s a dream.

          I get out of bed.

 

          But I could have done it. There in Monroe Park. I was vulnerable to being ruled by that reptilian reflex, triggered by fear, magnified by invisible threats in the dark.

 

          I haven’t seen Scott in years. So many years. We live in different states—ever since I moved. This afternoon I can’t get him out of my head. I call his office number by heart. Someone else answers and tells me I have the wrong number. I’m sure that’s his number, isn’t it? When I get home I rummage through some dresser drawers looking for my old address book. His office number isn’t in there, but his home number is. I call it. Peggy, his wife, answers.

          “Hi, Peggy, this is Jeff. How are you doing? Hey, is Scott around?”

          All I hear is stillness. Then in a flat I-don’t-know-what-you’re-trying-to-pull voice, she says, “Scott is dead.”

          “What? When?”

          Another long pause. “Nineteen years ago.”

          This is a dream, right? I’m back in the dream, right? My next words are automatic, part of the dream: “How did he die?”

          She pauses again, long time. I can hear the anger in her silence. She thinks I’m a jerk. She thinks I’m sick. But I already know the answer. How could I have forgotten? We were best friends. I was at his funeral. I cried and cried at the graveside. I remember.

          “He was murdered. In a park.”