by Wally Lamb
I nodded. “I could take him in if I had to, though,” I said. “I know it wouldn’t be easy, but I could do it. I’ve taken care of him his whole life, one way or another.”
She just kept looking at me. Studying me. “How was your visit?” she finally said.
I looked over at the window. Looked back at Sheffer’s face. I tried to read what she meant. “You . . . did you set that up? My seeing him out there?”
“It was the closest I could get to letting you visit him. And I figured you might want to be alone. How’d he look to you?”
I told her he looked terrible. Told her about the harassment I’d seen—about how that cowboy psych aide had made my brother invisible.
“That’s Duane,” she said. “Not one of my favorites, either. I’ll look into it. But he’s safe here, Dominick. I promise you. He’s okay.”
26
Beep!
“This is Dr. Batteson’s office calling for Joy Hanks. Please call our office at your earliest convenience. Thanks.”
Beep!
“Dominick? It’s Leo. Hey, guess what? You know that part I auditioned for? The slasher flick? I got it! They start filming middle of next month down in Jersey. That’s film, Birdseed. I’m going to be in a goddamned movie!”
As he babbled, I made a list in my head: go to the dump; get paint thinner; get Halloween candy; 11:00 A.M. meeting with Sheffer. Joy had been promising for days to get trick-or-treat stuff. She’d pulled the same thing last Halloween. Then, when the doorbell started ringing, I’d had to make a mad dash—pay double at the convenience store.
Over on the kitchen counter, Leo’s voice was asking about racquetball. “Thursday or Friday, if either of them’s good. You got that hearing thing for your brother tomorrow, right? Give me a ring.”
Beep!
“Hello? Hello? . . . Yes, this is Ruth Rood calling for . . . Hello? Mr. Birdsey? . . . Oh. I thought I heard you pick up.” She was talking in slo-mo, slurring her words. God, I’d hate to see what her liver looked like. “Henry and I were wondering why you weren’t at the house today. You said you’d be here, so we were expecting you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Henry’s very discouraged. He says the scaffolding in his office window is starting to make him feel like a prisoner in his own house. He can’t even work, he’s so despondent. Please call. Please.”
I picked up the phone, flipped through the Rolodex. Too bad, Morticia. I’ve had one or two other things on my mind—like trying to get my brother out of goddamned actual prison, not scaffolding prison. Henry ought to check in down at Hatch if he really wanted to feel “despondent.”
She picked up on the first ring, her voice as sober as 7:00 A.M. “Oh,” she said. “Yes. I was expecting a call back from Henry’s doctor.”
I skipped the apology for the no-show the day before and told her I’d try to make it over to their place that afternoon. “They’re saying rain later today. What I’ll do is, I’ll pull the shutters off and bring ’em back after they’re scraped and painted. That way I can work no matter what the weather’s doing. Make up a little lost time. Tell Henry I should be ready to prime by the end of the week, Monday at the latest. He feeling okay?”
Pause. “Why do you ask?”
“You, uh, you just said you were waiting for the doctor to call back.” She gave me that line again about Henry being despondent. Too much booze and too much time on his hands, that was his problem. “I’ll try and give you half a day tomorrow,” I said. “Best I can do. There’s this thing I have to get to tomorrow afternoon. I’ll probably work all day Saturday at your place, though. I’ll let you go now in case his doctor’s trying to call.”
Shit. If I ever finished that job—ever kissed this painting season goodbye—then maybe there was a god after all.
What was the call for Joy? I’d forgotten already. I hit the “save” button. Hit “messages.” Jotted, “JOY: Call Dr. Batteson.” Who was Dr. Batteson? Not another one of those holistic guys, I hoped. The last one of those quacks she and her buddy Thad had gone to had soaked her for three hundred bucks’ worth of “herbal” medicines. . . . Thad. The Duchess. There was another one with too much time on his hands. Why couldn’t she have girlfriends like every other woman?
I dialed Leo’s number. Whether I had time to play racquetball or not, the idea of smashing something against four walls was starting to appeal to me. I drummed my fingers on the countertop and waited out the kids’ cutesy singing message. God, I hate that: the way some people’s machines hold you hostage.
“Leo: racquetball: yes,” I told the machine. “The hearing’s at four o’clock tomorrow. How about early Friday morning? I can have Joy reserve us a court.” I started to hang up, then stopped. “Hey, good news about your movie. I knew you when, Hollywood. Later.”
I grabbed my keys. The dump, paint thinner, Halloween candy . . . what else? what else? Oh, yeah. Pick up my suit at the dry cleaner’s. Had to look my best for those dipsticks on the Security Review Board the next day—had to look as sane and conservative as possible. God, I’d be glad when that thing was over. Which reminded me: I needed to bring my notes to that meeting with Sheffer. She wanted us to review our arguments one more time. Jesus Christ, man. This was starting to feel like L.A. Law. But I was going to make those honchos on the Review Board listen to me. I was getting him the hell out of there. . . .
Yeah, and then what? If they sprung him from Hatch and wouldn’t readmit him to Settle, what were we going to do then?
I locked the door behind me. Frost again last night, damn it. These cold nights were no good for outside painting.
The truck started on the third try. Better let it run a few minutes, I figured. Painting Plus had wrapped up their outside season two weeks ago. Of course, Danny Labanara didn’t have a crazy brother complicating his life every two seconds. Labanara’s brother pinch-hit for him during July and August.
My eyes scanned the courtyard. The frost had browned the lawn, killed off those scraggly plants that passed for landscaping here at Condo Heaven. It was a joke the way we had to shell out to the association for groundskeeping. If I had more time or energy, I’d be all over them about that. Of course, if Dessa and I were still together, I’d still be over at our old place, doing my own goddamned yard work. Doing it right.
Joy had overstuffed the garbage cans again, I noticed. Why didn’t she just issue invitations to the goddamned raccoons? Come and get it, guys! That was the thing about Joy: you’d tell her to do something, and she’d say okay, yeah, she’d do it, and then she wouldn’t. She had zilch for follow-through. . . . I hadn’t said anything yet to Joy about what Sheffer and I had talked about: the possibility that Thomas might land back here with us. Cross that bridge when I came to it, I figured. . . . Ah, screw it. I had to go to the dump, anyway. Might as well just throw the damn garbage bags in back and take ’em with me. Better than waking up at 2:00 A.M. and listening to those goddamned scavenging raccoons.
I swung bags one and two into the truck bed. Bag three busted open at the seam, midflight. Motherfucking cheap bags! I needed this? Scooping up the junk mail and dead salad, my eye caught something else: a blue pamphlet.
Directions for a home pregnancy test? In our garbage?
I sifted around a little more in the wreckage. Found a plastic tray, cardboard pieces from the ripped-up box. Pregnancy test?
I got in the truck. Drove toward the hardware store. Did I have those notes for the meeting with Sheffer? Had I remembered my dry-cleaning receipt? . . . How could she think she was pregnant? False alarm, maybe—missed period or something? Miraculous vasectomy reversal? I’d had myself “fixed” back when I was still with Dessa—had been shooting blanks the whole time I’d been with Joy. Not that she knew. I’d never told her. It was partly a not-wanting-to-get-into-it thing: the baby’s death, the divorce. Partly a male ego thing, too, I guess. When we started going out, she was twenty-three and I was thirty-eight. What was I supposed to say to her? I’m fifteen years older than you, an
d, oh yeah, I’m sterile, too. . . .
By the time I came out of my stupor—looked around to see where I was—I’d overshot the hardware store by half a mile. I was way the hell over past the cinemas and Bedding Barn. Hey, wake up, man. Earth to Birdsey.
I sat in Sheffer’s office, twiddling my thumbs and waiting as usual.
Lisa Sheffer: psychiatric social worker and queen of the unexpected emergency. I liked Sheffer—I was grateful and everything—but this whole routine was getting pretty old. Check in at the gate, get your parking pass, check in with security, go through the metal detector, get escorted down to her office by some stone-faced guard, and then just sit there and wait for her. I was going to say something this time—soon as she started up with some excuse.
I heard voices outside in the rec area. Went over to the window. It was those camouflage guys this morning—the Vietnam burn- outs. Unit Six. Jesus God, I was starting to recognize the different units. . . . Fucking Nam, man. Some of those guys looked like old men. Didn’t recognize the aide. Where’d they get this one from—Big Time Wrestling?
Stay calm, I told myself. Her period was just late or something. Used to happen to Dessa some months, back when we were trying to get pregnant: we’d get our hopes up and then, bam, she’d wake up with it. She’d have just been a little late. . . . Jesus, I had to get focused. Had to think about the hearing. Over at the dump, I’d thrown my empty paint cans in the wrong recycling bin. “You need something in the nature of supplies this morning, Dominick?” Johnny over at Willard’s had said. “Or’d you just come into the store to lean on my counter and meditate?”
Was she cheating on me—was that it? I was no picnic, either, I reminded myself, especially lately. I’d never cheated on her, though. Never cheated on Dessa, either. Never. It was just a false alarm, I assured myself. What’s the matter, Birdsey? You don’t have enough to worry about?
I reached over and grabbed the phone book on Sheffer’s desk. Batteson, Batteson.
Russell A. Batteson, Ob-Gyn. . . .
Outside, the camouflage guys started lining up to come back in. All day long at this sorry place: herd ’em out, herd ’em back in. Some of these Vietnam casualties would have made out better if they’d just stepped on a land mine or something. . . . If that pregnancy test had come out negative, why was an ob-gyn’s office calling her? What was she trying to hide from me?
Yeah, well, you haven’t exactly been Mr. Open Communication, either, I reminded myself. You’ve committed a sin of omission or two. She was already on the pill when we started making love—had told me that first night—and so I’d just shut my mouth about the vasectomy. Kept the status quo instead of getting into any of that past history stuff. Joy didn’t even know I’d been a teacher until almost a year after she’d moved in with me. Someone at work told her—Amy someone. She’d been in my homeroom.
What had Dr. Patel said that time? That my rushing into another relationship after Dessa was like applying a fresh coat over peeling paint. A housepainting metaphor—custom-made for the guy in the hot seat. . . . Hey, Joy never asked about my marriage, either. She could have asked. We’d discussed the possibility of kids a total of one time. We’d both agreed neither of us was interested. Period. End of subject. “No kids” was one of her assets. One of the big reasons why I’d asked her to move in with me.
Sheffer’s entrance into the office made me jump. She was hyper—all nervous energy. Which did I want first, she said—the good news or the bad? The good, I told her.
“Your security clearance came through. You can see him.”
“I can? When?”
“Today. As soon as we finish our meeting. I’ll call security, and we’ll meet him in the visiting room. All right?”
I nodded. Told her thanks. Gave her a jerky little smile. “What’s the bad news?”
“The unit team took our vote this morning. It’s not really ‘bad’ news. It’s not good or bad. It’s neutral.”
I tilted my head. Waited.
Things had gone pretty much along the lines she thought they would, Sheffer said. Dr. Chase and Dr. Diederich had voted to recommend Thomas’s retention at Hatch. She and Janet Coffey—the head nurse—had voted for his release to a nonforensic facility. “But here’s the part I didn’t see coming,” she said. “Dr. Patel abstained.”
“Abstained? Why?”
“I don’t know why. I don’t really get it myself. She said she was professionally obliged not to go into it.”
“But that’s stupid. That’s just throwing her vote away.” I got up. Sat down again. “So it’s a hung jury then? Man, this sucks!”
Sheffer reminded me their team was just advisory, anyway. “Just the lowly medical professionals who have actually worked with the patient.” The Review Board was the real jury, she said. She told me the team had decided to write up the vote as is—explain that they were split, with one abstention. So there’d be no clear recommendation either way.
“Then they’ll go with what the two shrinks want, right? Aren’t the doctors’ opinions going to overrule yours and the nurse’s?” Her finger tapped against her lip. She said if it weren’t a sexist world—if male doctors didn’t still sit up on Mount Olympus—then she’d say no. But, unfortunately, I was probably right.
“I’ll talk to Dr. Patel,” I said. “I’ll get her to un-abstain.”
Sheffer shook her head. “It’s a done deal, paisano. I know you’re disappointed, but think about it: it could have been worse. It could have been a 3-to-2 recommendation to retain him here. With the political pressure from the state and a vote like that, Hatch would have been a foregone conclusion. At least we still have one last chance to lobby for his release tomorrow. Let’s go for it.”
I snorted a little at that one. Yea, rah rah. Sheffer as head cheerleader.
She asked me if I’d gotten the letters. “All two of them,” I said, handing them over. Between us, we had approached twelve people about the possibility of writing letters to the Review Board advocating my brother’s release from Hatch. We’d gotten refusals from all but two. “I like this one,” Sheffer said, holding up the letter from Dessa.
“I can’t believe Dr. Ehlers reneged on us,” I said. “First he says he’ll write one. Then I go over to his office to pick it up and his receptionist says he’s changed his mind. You know what I think? I think someone from the state got to him—told him not to write the thing.”
Sheffer smiled. Told me I was starting to sound a little paranoid, like someone else she knew. I stared back at her, not laughing. “Okay, let’s focus on what we’ve got instead of what we didn’t get,” she said. “And we still need to put the finishing touches on your argument. Because I think that if anyone’s going to sway the Board, Domenico, it’s you who has the best shot.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. As long as that Sicilian temper of yours doesn’t flare up.”
I got up. Walked over to the window. “So what’s your gut feeling on this?” I said. “You think he’s going to get out of here?”
She told me we had done everything we could—that a lot of it depended on whether or not the Board was willing to check their baggage at the door and listen without prejudice. “We’ll just go in there and state our case point by point—everything we’ve gone over. Wait and see.”
“I’m worried about Thomas blowing it,” I said. “Does he have to be there?”
She nodded. “We’ve been over this already. Yes, he has to be there, and yes, he has to answer their questions.” She started to say something else, then caught herself.
“What?” I said. “What were you going to say just then?”
She didn’t want to worry me, she said, but Thomas had been acting a little schizy that morning—a little agitated. It was probably nothing, just an off morning.
I sat back down and faced her. “You didn’t answer my question before,” I said.
“What was your question?”
“Do you think they’re going to release hi
m tomorrow?”
She shrugged. Told me not to bet the farm. “But, listen, Dominick. Worst-case scenario is that he stays here a year, his medication stabilizes him, he gets good treatment. By next year’s annual review, not only is he much better, but the media’s off his trail, too—on to ‘sexier’ cases, as they say.”
I asked her if she wanted to know what the worst-case scenario was for me. “For me, it’s that one of the other fun guys you got down here sticks him in the ribs with a homemade knife or strangles him in the shower with someone’s missing shoelace.” I told her I stayed up nights thinking about shit like that.
She said I’d probably seen too many Alfred Hitchcock movies.
“Yeah? Is that right, Sheffer? Tell me something then. If this place is so goddamned safe and therapeutic or whatever—if everyone’s so goddamned on top of things around here—then let me ask you this.” I reached over and snatched her daughter’s picture off her desk, waved it at her. “Would you bring her down here? Let your little girl play down at Hatch for a day? Or a week? Or a whole freakin’ year, until they were on to ‘sexier’ cases?”
She reached over to take the picture back.
“No, really,” I said, holding it away from her still. “Come on, Sheffer. Answer the question. Would you?”
“Stop being a jerk,” she said. She was getting pissed.
“What’s the matter? Your maternal instinct kicking in, is it? Well, let me tell you something.” I was near tears. I was acting like a jerk—I knew that. “Speaking of mothers, I promised mine—his and mine—I told her the day she died that I’d look out for him. Okay? That I’d make sure nothing happened to him. And that’s just a little hard to do in this place. . . . She’s just a little kid. Right? Your daughter? Well, listen, Sheffer. In a weird way—in ways I can’t even explain to you—Thomas is still a little kid, too. To me, anyway. It’s always been that way. I used to have to beat kids up in the schoolyard for messing with him—used to have to make kids pay when they made fun of him so they wouldn’t do it again. We’re . . . we’re identical twins, okay? He’s a part of me, Sheffer. So it hurts, okay? The thought of him being down at this place for another year and me not able to make it safe for him—beat up the bad guys for him—it’s . . . it’s killing me.”