PAINTED BLIND

Copyright © 2021 Jeffrey Kwitny

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

—William Shakespeare

Painted Blind 2

PAINTED BLIND

A novel by

Jeffrey Kwitny

Chapter 1

In the beginning was murder.

The night of Friday, January 13th, is when the nightmare began. I laid in bed wide awake as usual. Insomnia is my Nemesis, goddess of retribution. Payback, no doubt, for my innumerable shortcomings and mistakes. Sweating, tremors, shortness of breath—I get these full- fledged panic attacks. I’ve had them on a nightly basis ever since William died. But the day before the murder, things actually got worse. I’d come down with some kind of virus. That’s all I need, I figured: another addition to my growing inventory of miseries.

Feeling a mess and getting nowhere with sleep, I decided to crawl out of bed and maybe read a book in my favorite reupholstered chair. I have a newly purchased copy of Virgil’s

Aeneid, in the original Latin, which I was anxious to read. I was in no frame of mind, however, to take on Virgil, not that night. Not the way I was feeling. I need a clear mind for that undertaking. Painted Blind 3

.It was pitch dark in my room. Even with the light on, without my glasses I can’t see worth a damn—I’m legally blind. My vision is 20/200. That means, if something is 200 feet away, I have to slink up to it like a mole in order to see it half-way decent. But a person with normal vision can stand 200 feet away and see that object perfectly.

I was diagnosed with degenerative myopia, and I have enough cataracts in my eyes to fill the L.A. Basin in a draught. I’ve already had retinal tears in both my eyes in the last year. Even with my glasses I can’t pass a driver’s test. It’s bad. Really bad. I’ve got to be careful. Take anything, dear God, but please, not my eyes.

So, blind as a mole or a bat (both aren’t actually blind, they just see poorly), I slipped out from under the covers and headed to the bathroom (using my sonic sound waves to guide me) and flicked on the light, which was so agonizingly bright it felt like my retinas were turning to ash. Opening the medicine cabinet door, I reached for the thermometer, one of those old-style glass tubes, and slid it under my tongue. An agonizingly long minute later, I exhumed it. Shit.

Double shit. 102.3 degrees. Despite the high temperature, for some reason I was shivering. My teeth chattered so badly, I actually chipped a tooth! Not that anybody cares how I’d look with a gap in my face. I’m no beauty, I’m fully aware, so what’s another flaw? I’ve got a hundred of them. Two hundred.

I’d looked up my symptoms on my phone. Fever, headache, vomiting, muscle and joint pains and this weird skin rash, little red spots up both sides of my back and across my shoulders and under my boobs. Didn’t sound quite like Covid. I thought it might be dengue fever. Maybe the bubonic plague. Something awful, anyway, the sort of illness you might pick up in a jungle, maybe Thailand, except I’ve never been anywhere outside the U.S.A. In fact, I’ve never left Los

Angeles County and I never leave my apartment except when I went to work. I would take the Painted Blind 4 bus back then, since I don’t have a car; I can’t pass the driver’s test, being legally blind. Anyway,

I haven’t gone anywhere since I was fired. According to WebMD, I might have this thing for a week, if it’s dengue. If it’s Ebola, I’ll be dead tomorrow, bleeding from every orifice—and that will be that.

You might ask why I don’t go see a doctor, which is a reasonable question. Simply, I don’t trust them. Why would you trust anyone who uses forceps, , , and — barbaric medieval instruments—to assault the human body? Why should I trust them when they failed to save my husband, didn’t do a damn thing to help him? In fact, they killed him, during surgery, with the anesthesia—"malignant hyperthermia,” they told me. Neglect, I say. Voodoo witch doctors, every damn one of them. I don’t trust doctors as far as I can toss a dissecting .

Back when I was still teaching, I asked a lawyer in our HR department at the college if I should sue the hospital, get some kind of restitution for their stealing my husband away from me—for murdering William. I learned an earful. “The healthcare provider bears no burden of proof in a medical malpractice claim,” he told me rather coldly, shaking his head with a look of resignation. I was wasting my—and his—time. Then he explained that these cases are prohibitively expensive. “It’s difficult to demonstrate to a jury that a healthcare provider acted unreasonably. And don’t forget,” he went on dismissively, turning back to the papers on his desk, “you signed a medical liability form when you brought your husband into the hospital.”

Basically, he said it’s a dead end—literally. In any case, I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to make a reasonable decision at the time.

I was forced to deal with it myself—without funds, without anyone’s help. I’d been living alone (who would want to live with a sickly, solipsistic mess like me?), never found anyone after Painted Blind 5

William. I promise you, I’m never getting married. I can’t risk having my heart broken again.

And I don’t have that “best girlfriend” you’re supposed to keep in touch with after high school.

In case you were wondering, before life’s ceiling crashed down on my head I taught

Classics courses at a local community college. An adjunct professor, I was making a pitiful annual salary of $24,000—barely a living wage, one could reasonably argue. When William was alive, our combined incomes—he made a little more as a full-time English teacher at a public high school—got us through. I taught a course entitled CLAS 202: Greek Tragedy—Conflict &

Desire. Sounds inviting, doesn’t it? In Homer’s Iliad, Paris’s desire for the famously beautiful

Helen leading to the Trojan War—that sort of thing. You’d think they’d be storming the gates to get into my class, but alas ... I had seven kids enrolled in my last session, fewer than needed to make the course viable. I was fired.

So there I was: sick as a feral dog, suffering from insomnia and anxiety attacks, fever through the roof, laid up with some godawful virus whose name I’m still not sure how to pronounce—den-gay? Deng-wee? Is it a French word? Sounds like a brand of skin ointment— holed up in my house, feeling like the most isolated woman on the planet, like a woman living in a leafy palm-thatched roof in the Brazilian Amazon, the last survivor of an uncontacted tribe.

* * *

Am I dreaming? I remember thinking that. But then I decided I must have been awake because as

I limped to the bathroom—legs feeling wobbly like the raspberry Jell-O I had for dessert—to throw cold water on my burning face, to bring me back from the brink, events began unfurling in a relatively logical fashion, unlike dreams which are usually chaotic and nonsensical. The next thing, I spotted my toothbrush, balanced and teetering up and down on the edge of the sink like a Painted Blind 6 kid’s teeter-totter. I must have just bumped it with my hand. Cause and effect—see? Thinking logically. I’m sane, right?

Then I looked at myself in the mirror. Big mistake. I hate the way I look, but because I was sick and was not wearing my glasses at that moment, I looked like an ugly smear on the glass, like a person trying to be erased. To be frank, I looked a horror. As it is, I’m not even what some might call “presentable.” A fleshy red face, from eating too much junk food. That night I’d had a whole carton of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream after the Jell-O, and too much

Bombay Sapphire gin, my favorite poison). Then there’s the rat’s nest of long, curly red hair, like a grotesque version of Annie on a drunk; and the charcoal sockets for eyes, shadowed, skull-like, gouged-out Oedipus eyes set in a face only a mother could love, as they say, although both my parents are dead. (My husband loved it once, but that’s a story for another day). I have Wacko

Jane’s face. As far as my body goes, I’m, well, I guess I’m not too bad, considering all that crap I eat. (High metabolism? Good genes? Good luck? A miracle?) As I cupped my breasts in my hands and turned sideways, stepping back and posing like some ridiculous bullfighter before the mirror, I decided plenty of women would envy what I have—my body that is, not my life. I’m a tad on the plump side, okay, but that means there’s more of me to love, right? But I ask you: what good does my body do me without anyone around to love it?

I turned and walked across the room to my only window, small, about three-by-three, with its glorious view of another apartment building’s stucco wall. Not exactly Versailles. Since my husband had died, I’d been living in that prisoner’s cell like the Count of Monte Cristo for two years, in a place known as the Edenic Grove Apartments, $1,500 per month rent. In L.A., that’s considered cheap. It’s a complex of 27 units, on both sides of the alley. Barely 500 square feet of square footage, they call it a “studio” apartment, as if I were an artist, like I’m the Painted Blind 7

Leonardo Da Vinci of East Hollywood. And there is no “grove,” just endless asphalt, cement, and stucco. The buildings are built insufferably close together, with only a narrow alley separating them. Just enough room for the trash truck and the occasional homeless dumpster- diver. Under these claustrophobic conditions, it’s easy to spy on my neighbors if you have working eyes. Cram the largest number of units into the smallest amount of space to maximize the greatest profit—I know how it works.

The view looked out on a narrow alley and I detected some blurry movement in the bedroom across the way. Everything was a muddle, though, with my poor eyes, so I—call me

Miss Four Eyes—headed back to the bedside table to retrieve my glasses. Even with the latest

“ultra-thin, scratch-free, polarizing lens technology,” they are still Coke-bottle glasses, thick and heavy monstrosities. So heavy, in fact, when I take them off I always have two indentations on the bridge of my nose as deep as Lake Tanganyika.

Back at my window, I could almost make out a guy standing at his window: his curtains, like mine, were also wide open for all the world. I didn’t know this guy from Saint Nick, but I confess he had a decent body, as far as I could make out. He was completely naked, I could tell that much, built like he lived at L.A. Fitness, and his back was pressed against the windowpane.

(Normally I might be interested, but with this fever, not a chance. I felt only nausea.) His face was blanketed in shadow. No moon, as I said. I could barely make him out, but I know enough about anatomy to get the gist. And I was aware that I could watch all I wanted, binge watch like

Netflix. If he turns around and looks at me staring at him like some peeping Tom, like some pervert, I figured I was fucked. I didn’t have my light on, though, so maybe I was okay. I thought, maybe I’m invisible, like the Holy Spirit. Painted Blind 8

But this was wishful thinking, I know now. I could sort of see him, so why couldn’t he see me?

Next thing I a pair of arms encircling him, the other person hidden by his much larger body. I saw Small Person’s hands on his back—a man’s or woman’s, who knew? I really didn’t care. I mean, who am I to cast aspersions? Just by the way he bent forward, though, I assumed he was kissing her/him/them/it. But I can’t see that well, as I said. It was all pretty blurry.

They both moved back into the dark interior. I witnessed nothing happening for about a minute—me just staring at a black square on a shadowy wall, like a turned-off TV screen in the dark. If I don’t move from my spot, I decided—the reserved box seat in the theater of my mind—

I’m good. Just in case there’s any action.

Then the two of them moved to the kitchen, which I could make out fairly well: they’d just turned on a light. Why the kitchen, you wonder? Did they get the munchies? Don’t ask me.

It turned out it was a woman after all, and naked as Eve. Not that I would be interested; I’m not bisexual, although these days, I suppose, it’s somewhat fashionable to mix it up. Anyway, hers was a body that’d clearly never given birth to a child. Too skinny for health’s sake in my view, like all the women in this town who are forever starving themselves; they, with their long hair hot-ironed straight as a board, sculpted breasts, Botox. My hair’s as curly as my pubic hair, and that’s just fine by me. Moreover, I have all-natural gluten-free parts. Anyway, the skinny woman across the way was either unaware that she was on view in widescreen Cinemascope before all the world, or she didn’t give a fig leaf.

She plopped her ass up on the counter right next to the sink. Being a germaphobe, I thought this can’t be the most sanitary thing to do in a kitchen. What was she up to? This cannot Painted Blind 9 be how she does the dishes or makes late-night snacks, I figured. Next thing, she shimmied her hips to the edge of the counter, and it was quickly explained: the man—I still could not see his face—wedged his hips between her thighs. I couldn’t make out much detail, but I can tell you it did not look like an easy way for any man to gain access, unless he’s built like the Eiffel Tower.

They, the two naked exhibitionists, fooled around like this for about 45 seconds, and then, probably frustrated at trying to manage an untenable position, he backed away. He struggled to bring her with him, though, and she held on valiantly, Skinny Woman riding his hips like some damned rodeo cowgirl. All she needed was a Stetson and a pair of spurs.

I know I should’ve look away. It’s just plain wrong, I know that much. Somewhere buried in the dark recesses of my childhood, my mother or some other authority figure told me that this wasn’t kosher what I was doing. That this was none of my business. I was acting like a pervert. But I didn’t care. Curiosity can overwrite moral sense, like new software downloaded on the hard drive of one’s brain. Anyway, I was sick with Ebola or something, had a high fever and didn’t know what I was doing, right?

They reappeared in the bedroom window, mostly concealed by darkness, still doing their thing. Only, this time, while the guy was holding her in his arms, he turned her forcibly so that she was now facing the window, the poor woman’s face pressed sideways against the glass— scrunched more like it, distorted like the reflection in a funhouse mirror. This may be difficult for you to visualize, but I’d prefer not to get too graphic; I have certain standards of taste, believe it or not. But I can tell you this much, she was not a happy camper. It was not going well. She was clearly in agony, eyes wide and staring at a distant point in the ether, face and body contorted, twisting like Houdini struggling to get out of a straitjacket, probably having an out-of-body experience. Painted Blind 10

Oh god—I think I know her, I realized. Her name’s Collette—or was it Connie? Candice?

Something that starts with a C. I’d talked to her maybe once before, when she was taking out her trash. It was last Monday, trash day I remember, the behemoth garbage truck lumbering our way in the alley while we chit-chatted. She was wearing a light sundress, yellow I think, her beauty in stark contrast to the grungy surroundings—I remember this detail, for some reason, like a saved photo. I don’t remember our conversation, though; it was mindless small talk. But she seemed cheery enough. But then, in the midst of her torture, as she stood at the window upright and struggling for her life, the man held her tightly with one arm as if she were a rolled-up carpet, her back to him and her face threatening to crack the window. Maybe they’re consenting adults and both drunk, I considered, groping for a rational explanation for this upsetting behavior. Maybe they were playing some sick game that people play when they think no one’s watching, a silly children’s game like London Bridge, only done butt-naked:

London Bridge is falling down

Falling down, falling down

London Bridge is falling down

My fair lady.

Build it up with iron bars

Iron bars, iron bars

Build it up with iron bars

My fair lady.

Iron bars will bend and break

Bend and break, bend and break Painted Blind 11

Iron bars will bend and break

My fair lady ...

Or maybe “Simple Simon Says.” You never know what we adults will do for kicks.

I could just make out with my broken eyes that his left arm was wrapped vise-like across her chest, like creepy lobster pincers, holding her pinned, immobile. Her tongue protruded goofily from her mouth. (Simon says, “Stick out your tongue.” Simon says, “die!”)

My heart raced. I didn’t know what to do. This is not good what I’m seeing, not good at all. Not even remotely close to good. I should call 911. JANE, CALL 911! Instead, I froze, an insect trapped in amber.

I could make out, more or less, that his free hand was holding some kind of cutlery—not one of those big chef’s they’re always trying to sell us on late-night TV, those infomercials that seemingly drag on and on. Not one of those swords that Wolfgang Puck wields on his cooking show. Best as I could make out, this one looked really small, like a , or a . All handle, short .

Her husband—was it her husband? I wondered. She never mentioned a husband when I talked to her. I’ll give him a name, for the time being: Monster. So Monster, in a quick gesture— it took less than a second—brought the knife up to her neck. It was a silent scream that I imagined I heard, or rather didn’t hear. The sound she never emitted. A sound rudely cut off by the blade. I hate getting graphic, as I said, but I want to report what I thought I saw, given my eyesight, as accurately as possible. I mean, my credibility is a factor, right? You’ve been warned.

As he held her head back, he drew the knife across the neck, right to left, I remember—he was left-handed, I assummed. The wound he inflicted was deep at the beginning but then tailed off at Painted Blind 12 the opposite side of the neck. The blade severed the entire neck architecture—jugular veins, carotid arteries, voice box. Blood flowed down her chest like a spilt can of paint.

I blinked rapidly several times, took off my glasses, rubbed my eyes with my fingertips, re-mounted my glasses on my nose. I felt dizzy, I mean even dizzier than usual, with a sudden urge to vomit. But I looked back at the window, as if some devious imp from within me was seizing control of my body. (We do like looking at car wrecks and train crashes, don’t we?)

The guy in the window—the real monster—still in shadow, released her, and she dropped straight down, dead weight, out of view, below the window frame.

But this was the worst part: I could see him—sort of, anyway, blind as I am, the face still dark and blurry. It may be my imagination, as I couldn’t decipher his face all that well. I confess, normally I’d have found this guy attractive, if he looked the way I think he did, in a worn-down, weathered way, black hair flopping over his forehead, maybe my age, thirties. (Note that when one is blind, the imagination involuntarily fills in the black spaces.) But he was not appealing at that moment. Not after what I’d just seen.

Then he turned his face towards my building, and I thought he looked straight up to my window. His eyes locked on to mine. The universe suddenly split apart.

Then, the smile he shot me blew my brain to bits.

I felt the blood pulsing in my throat. There I was, standing there in the window inert, giving him time to study my face, as I wondered how I could disappear from this terrible tableau, like a deleted photo from my old iPhone 6. But I couldn’t move. Fear paralyzes you, makes you an idiot. Perhaps we become like rabbits when the hawk passes overhead, rendered motionless, instinct telling us that maybe if we don’t move, we can’t be seen. Painted Blind 13

I finally thawed myself from my deep-freeze state and moved. I turned and rushed to the bedside table where I keep my phone, wobbling like a drunk all the way. Hands shaking, fever blazing hot, mind reeling, knees about to buckle, I managed to press the correct button on my phone that took me to my desktop. I tapped the phone icon, brought up the keypad, and dialed

911.

The operator came on—“911. What’s your emergency?”—but I closed my eyes without speaking and fell forward, my front teeth catching the edge of the table, sparks flying, glasses ricocheting off the wall, and crashed to the floor in a most unattractive bloody heap for the emergency responders to find. Instead of my world going black, as I expected it would, everything went white.

Life is full of surprises.

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