Left for Alive

by Tom Hogan

  “My limit was a bit smaller than yours.”

  “That last one you took, that was a solid six feet.”

  “And I almost took a dump in my wetsuit when I looked down. That was my cue to come in.”

  Josh shrugged and kept his eyes on the surf.

  Josh woke up from his nap and looked over at Paul, who was lying on his back, his face covered by a towel and a high-numbered sunblock. A tan was one thing in his profession, he explained, but too much and he started to get leathery, a look which only worked for the over-50 set.

  He had been up at Moetown for almost three weeks, the longest period of time he’d spent up there since his release. It had been five months since his last visit, but, with all the commotion surrounding Donna, his absence had gone largely unnoticed. As had the fact that there had been no offers to join him on location.

  Josh sat up, his hands wrapped around his knees. He stared out at the ocean, at the heavy lines of advancing surf, now turned by the wind and incoming tide into long walls of collapsing water.

  “Would you go out in that? If we just got here and that’s what we found?” Paul was propped up on his elbow, looking past Josh to the surf.

  “No. It’s lost its form. There’s no line to take.”

  “But if it were clean. The size doesn’t scare you?”

  “A bit. Why?”

  “That last wave you took. I’ve been lying here trying to visualize myself doing that—taking that last stroke. And I can’t. And that bothers me.”

  “Why? I’ve got a lot more experience at this than you, after all.”

  “That last wave, it bounced me good, knocked the air out of me. And then it held me down. I tried to remember your advice about going limp in those situations, letting the wave work me over and then move on. But I panicked. All I could do was claw at the water and hope I was heading towards the surface. So when I made it to the surface, I couldn’t get to shore fast enough.”

  “That’s just common sense.”

  “That’s why I felt good when you got crunched on that huge wave. I knew you were going through the same thing that I’d just gone through—that you’d be coming in and joining me on the beach. Instead you swim back out to the point and take off on the biggest goddamn wave of the day.” He shook his head and looked down at the sand.

  Josh looked over, his eyes soft. “What’s going on, Paulie?”

  “You make me feel like a coward sometimes, Josh. It’s tough to love you at times like that.” He clenched his teeth and looked away. “You’re braver than me. You’re a better person than me. It bothers me.”

  “I’m not saying I agree with you, but even if I do, William’s a better person than me. That doesn’t bother me.”

  “William’s not your little brother,” Paul said, his voice a knife. “When you look at Will, you’re not reminded that you protected him when the two of you were growing up, and now it’s the other way around. And you’re not reminded how William had to put a knife into someone for you.”

  Josh reached into the cooler and brought out two more beers, but Paul shook his head. Josh put one of the beers back. “How did we get from this nice beach to prison?”

  “Because prison’s always just under the surface. You should know that. Look, I love you for everything you’ve done for me. But I resent you at the same time. You understand?”

  “A little. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it, though.”

  “Nothing. I just wanted you to know.” He reached across Josh and grabbed the beer that Josh had put back. “Let’s change the subject.” He nodded at the ocean. “Let’s go back to the waves. I don’t know if I can learn it or not, but I want to know how you can take off on something that can kill you.” He looked back at Josh. “I’m serious.”

  Josh considered the question, his brow tensing. “It’s all about experience and instinct. The experience is what you’re getting now—you start with two and three-footers, graduate to five-six feet, like you did today. And you go from there.”

  “But a three-footer can’t kill you. Or snap your back and leave you in a wheelchair. At some point you’re crossing a line with waves that big. What do you do then?”

  “That’s where the experience ends and instinct kicks in. The experience is in reading the wave and whether it’s ridable. And if it is, which line to take. The next thing is instinct—you have to let it take over, let your mind relax. Because if you think of all the negative things that could happen, you’d never take off. Then you stroke like hell and let them both take over.”

  Paul’s eyes were on the sand, where he was drawing patterns with his finger. “Okay, so transfer all that back to prison. Experience, instinct.” He looked up. “I’m serious. I want to learn how to be like you.”

  Josh put his fingers together and rested his chin atop them. “It’s the same thing. When we ran with the gang back in Baltimore, we learned a few things about taking care of ourselves. Call that the two-foot waves. Then when I went inside to the youth camp, I learned some more things. Three-footers. Then, when I turned eighteen and they transferred me to the prison, all of a sudden I was in heavy surf and had to learn a new set of skills. Fast.”

  He took a sip of beer. “But eventually you’ve got enough experience and it’s time to rely on instinct. Inside, when someone was coming at me, I taught myself to stay calm. To relax. I’d hold the knife behind my back and think how much easier the time was going to be once I’d finished with him—about all the books I’d be able to read without having to wonder who’s going to come to my cell after lights out.” He looked over. “Then, as they got closer, I let instinct take over.”

  Paul nodded, as if he were taking notes. “And if someone’s got a knife to your throat, what’s your experience tell you?”

  Josh looked over and considered his brother for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Here’s the first lesson about being brave: You can’t be brave if you’re dead. So you do whatever it takes to stay alive. Whatever it takes.”

  “Did you ever have a knife against your throat?” When Josh nodded, Paul continued. “What did he want from you?”

  “What you’d expect.”

  A pause. “And did he get it?”

  “To a degree. He kept the knife at my throat while he told me what he wanted from me—what I was going to let him do and what I was going to do to him. My experience told me he knew how to use the knife—and had probably used it before—so resisting would probably prove fatal. So I had a choice: either to submit—and remember, that’s always an option—or try to take him by surprise. So I started whimpering, asking him what I could do for him. He told me to suck him off.”

  He shrugged. “I’d have done it, if I had to. But I told him I wanted to stroke him first, get him nice and big. And I did. He starts moaning and talking trash, and I felt the knife relax. I grabbed his wrist and turned the knife back on him. Sliced his sack almost in half.”

  Paul shook his head. “I’m trying to put myself in that position,” he said, then he stopped. “Hell, we both know I’ve been in that position. I couldn’t have done what you did. Not in a million years. Just before I made my move I’d think of everything he could do if I fucked up. Cut up my face. Stab me in the gut over and over. I’d freeze.”

  Josh reached over and touched his arm. “I’m not trying to sound like Socrates here, but you’ve got to know who you are and what you’re capable of. And I mean know. Then accept it and adjust. I’m not good with people—not the way you are—and I accept that. You’re not as vicious as I am. And that’s a good thing. Most of the time.”

  “You’re not vicious.”

  “I think Baltimore settled that, don’t you think? And if it didn’t, being inside did.”

  Paul hesitated. “We need to talk about Baltimore, Josh. There are things…”

  “No.”

  “It was
one night. And you’ve been punishing yourself for…”

  “I said no. Look, I’ve learned to live with what I did. But I won’t relive it. Got it?”

  Paul looked at the set of his brother’s face. “Got it.”

  CHAPTER 41

  The unseasonable heat lasted another ten days, then broke with four days of solid rain, ending the work on the firebreaks and driving everyone inside. Paul spent most of that time in his trailer, coming out only for meals, sometimes not even for that.

  Finally William took it upon himself to talk to Josh. “I’m not trying to get clinical here, Josh, but we’ve got all the symptoms of a depressive episode here.” He motioned out his cabin towards the trailer. “Have you ever seen him like this?”

  Josh shook his head. “But that’s not saying much. Since I went inside—and that was seventeen years ago–this is the most time we’ve spent together.”

  “That’s another thing. This is the longest he’s ever been up here. Anything up with that?”

  “Just time off between shoots. Or at least that’s what he told me.”

  “Well, we need to keep an eye on him. That’s all I’m saying.”

  The Gimp called up to the camp at the next day. When Josh came to the phone, The Gimp started in without a hello. “Look, what’s up with your brother?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s turning into one morose sonofabitch, don’t you think? He depressed the hell out of me today.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “He was down here this afternoon, asking me what it was like when I lost my legs. How’d I feel, what’d it do to me.”

  Josh rested the receiver against his forehead and was quiet. Finally, “Okay. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “That’s not all, Josh. He asked me if it had ever gotten so bad that I just wanted to end it all. And it didn’t sound like he was talking about me.”

  Josh knocked on the door. When there was no response, he opened the door and walked in. Paul was sitting in an old worn velvet armchair, his feet on an ottoman that didn’t match the chair. A clothing catalogue was open on his lap.

  Josh shook his jacket out onto the porch, then hung it up on a hook and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’ve been moping around here for the better part of a month. And you depressed the hell out of The Gimp today.”

  Paul took a response card out of the magazine, bent it in half and worked on his fingernails. “It’ll pass.”

  “I’m going to need more than that. What’s going on, Paulie?”

  Paul flipped the catalogue at his brother. “Flip through it. I’m on sixty percent of the pages. No one’s ever gone past fifty.”

  Josh leafed through the pages, then looked up. “And…?”

  “That’s last year’s catalogue. The Nova Scotia shoot, remember? They’re shooting the winter catalogues right now.”

  “And you’re sitting up here with us.”

  “I’ll get some spring and summer work because of my abs and waist, but they’re not the prestigious issues.”

  “So they’re trying out some new faces. You’ve been through that before. Can’t you do some alternative work in the meanwhile?”

  “My agent called me with offers from Sears and Macy’s. We call them ‘Sundays’, because they’re not books, they’re newspapers. Your face in the Sunday papers, across from the comics. Once you do second-tier work like that, you never make it back to the top-tier books.”

  “So what do you think? Is this a fad, something you just ride out?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that right now I’m out.” He smiled bitterly. “I’m what they call a classic type. And they want character, homely even. William’d make out like a bandit.”

  “Take a year off, then. I’ve seen your bank account. You don’t need to work another day in your life. Especially if you’re up here.”

  “And do what? Hammer nails with you and Clark? Clip coupons with Lucky? And at night go down to The Gimp’s and wait for strangers to recognize me?” He gestured at his face. “This is what I am. It’s what I do. It may seem silly and vain to you, but it matters to me. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some advertising guy tell me I’m not attractive anymore.” He went back to digging at his nails.

  Josh sat back and looked at him, his eyes even and flat. “Is that why you were asking The Gimp about losing his legs. And if he ever felt like killing himself?”

  Paul held up a hand, braking the conversation. “That was just talk. I’d just got off the phone with my agent and was feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Well, you sounded serious enough to The Gimp for him to call me. And the way you’ve been recently, I took him seriously enough to come down here.”

  Paul’s bitter smile returned. “Look, Josh, I appreciate the concern. But even if that’s how I’m feeling these days—and I’m not saying it is—aren’t you the same guy who was going to let Donna die, if that was her choice?”

  “Except we’re talking about the difference between losing your husband and son and not making the cover of this month’s GQ.” He held up his hand. “Low blow. Sorry.”

  Josh uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I take suicide seriously. I’ve seen enough of it. Do it right and there’s nothing wrong with it. But do it wrong and it’s as pathetic a thing as you can imagine.”

  Paul’s smile warmed slightly. “Damn, you’re a judgmental SOB. Even critiquing the way people kill themselves.”

  Josh returned the smile but without the warmth. “If you’d seen what I saw inside, you’d know what I’m talking about. I had a guy who, after his sentence was doubled for an attempted breakout, jumped a guard, took his gun, put it to his temple and pulled the trigger. But the guard rushed him at the last minute and the bullet bounced around in his skull. He’s still alive, but a vegetable in the psych ward at Atascadero. Had another guy who drank Drano—he’s in a bed in the hospital for the rest of his life, without a stomach.”

  His eyes wandered from his brother. “And the hangings. Even the successful ones, you’d see their eyes and tongues and you had to think that last moment wasn’t the triumph they’d imagined.”

  “But they got what they wanted.”

  “Maybe. But the looks on their faces made me wonder if they’d changed their minds at the last minute, only to realize it was too late. That’s what I mean by ‘pathetic.’”

  They sat together as the cabin darkened. “Anyone ever do it right?”

  Josh nodded immediately. “Ray the Specs. Doing ten for embezzling, out in six. He’d been stealing the money for his wife, who was sick and needed to pay her doctor bills.” He waved a hand. “I’m painting too nice a picture of Ray—he stole a lot more than he needed for her bills. But he was a good prisoner—no problems, just wanted to do his time and get back to his wife. But one day he gets word that his wife has died. No warning, no decline, just went in her sleep. Ray had about eighteen months left on his sentence—he was a cinch for parole—but he didn’t have anything worth going back to.”

  He shielded his eyes and looked back out at the waves. “So one afternoon he sends a guard to get me. We meet in his cell and he tells me he wants to kill himself and what do I think is the best way.”

  “I thought that if someone talks about it, they never do it.”

  “Not Ray. You could tell he was serious, and the only reason he was talking to me was that he thought I’d be able to get him the means—pills, weapon, whatever.”

  “Did you try to talk him out of it?”

  “No. I was required to put him on a 48-hour watch, so I did. But not in the rubber room or hospital. I just wanted to give him one last chance to think it through. I dropped in on him a couple of times during the holding period and we talk
ed. And he told me that he was looking at another eighteen months of what he called ‘a living death’ and then he was getting out to a life that held nothing for him. Bottom line, he’d made a decision that you had to respect.”

  “How’d he do it?”

  “Methodically. Remember, he was an accountant. So he analyzed his options. Guns were out because he was afraid he’d flinch at the last moment and end up a vegetable. He’d seen what poison had done to Crazy Juan, so that was out. He liked the idea of hanging, but only if it the noose worked.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “You know that, when you use the gallows, you die of a broken neck, right?” Paul nodded. “That’s hanging done right. But a lot of jailhouse hangings don’t have the height or torque to snap the neck, so it’s suffocation.” He grimaced slightly. “Not as clean, and sometimes they use the wrong knot and wind up brain-dead but still ticking.”

  “So, given all that, why did he like hanging?”

  “It was the idea of the clean break…” Josh snapped his fingers loudly, “that’s what made him think of Thick Willie.”

  Before Paul could ask, Josh continued. “Willie was this three hundred-pound black guy who had a black belt in a number of different martial arts. Didn’t run with any crowd, just did his time and split his time in the yard between his form exercises and pumping iron. Everyone gave Willie lots of room.”

  Josh rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Anyway, Willie agreed to help. Maybe he owed Ray something—Ray was always doing taxes for the guys’ families, things like that—or maybe he just wanted to make sure Ray did it right. He said he knew three ways to snap his neck clean, no pain. He showed each of them to Ray and had him pick one. Which he did. Said he wanted to do it that night, which was fine with Willie. Then he called me.”

  “Why you?”

  “Couple of reasons. First, he didn’t want to die in his cell—said he didn’t want that to be the last thing he saw. He wanted to die in the library, and I could make that happen. Second, he wanted company—that simple. So I stayed with him throughout the day—we talked some, played chess. Somehow the word got out and a lot of the guys came by to shake his hand. The guys in the kitchen made him a special dinner. It was nice.”