by Jeff Zentner
“Me too.” I start to rise. “I’ll be back soon to mow.”
“You don’t need to do that. Fresh air’s healthy for me.”
“I know, but…” I stand, the food settling in my stomach. “This all still hurts. Not as bad as it did, though.”
“No,” she says distantly. Some timbre in her voice sounds new. Jittery. On edge. She’s fidgeting in her chair as though she wants to say something. She won’t look at me.
“Nana Betsy?”
She meets my eyes and there’s fear on her face.
“Carver, I have one more thing to ask.”
“Sure.” She called me Carver, not Blade. I’m now infected with her apprehension. I sit.
She exhales hard and reaches into her pocket. She pulls out another folded piece of paper. She almost drops it, her hands are shaking so badly. She unfolds it and I see a phone number. “I hired a private investigator to find Mitzi. He tracked her down a few days ago and got me this number. I haven’t called her yet to tell her. I thought today would give me the strength and I could do it alone, but I’m coming up short. Will you come inside and stay a few more minutes to hold my hand while I call her?”
I push down the shadowy dread scaling the ladder of my ribs. “Yes.”
Her face twists. She sobs. “She’ll say, ‘You took Blake from me and now he’s dead because of it.’ And I don’t know how to respond, because she’s right.”
“No. But…No…that’s wrong. That’s ridiculous. It’s because of me. Like I told you.”
Nana Betsy laughs bitterly through her tears. “Oh, Blade. He would have never been in that car if I hadn’t moved him here first. I’m just not ready to hear it from her. But I’ll never be ready, so I guess this is it.”
“It’s not your fault.” I meet her eyes and hope mine speak my conviction.
She finally nods. “Okay.” She says it like she doesn’t want to argue; not like I’ve convinced her. We walk inside and sit next to each other at the kitchen table, in the dark. I figure if she wanted the light on, she’d have turned it on.
She takes a deep breath. “Lord give me strength.” She picks up her phone and dials. I reach over and hold her hand. She grips it like the drowning person she spoke of earlier.
I hear the phone ringing on the other end. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Nana Betsy looks skyward. I see her murmur something. Six. Seven. Each ring is a crow pecking me in the ear. Eight. Nine. She grips my hand tighter.
And then somebody answers as Nana Betsy is lowering the phone from her ear.
She snaps the phone back up. “Mitzi? Mitzi? Is this Mitzi? Mitzi, this is Mama. Mama. Mitzi can you—can you turn the music down, please? Turn the music down, please. It’s not important how I got it; I need to talk to you. I know. I know, but you— Sweetie, please, you need to listen to— Because it’s about Blake. It’s about Blake.”
She’s crumbling in my hand. It’s like trying to grasp a handful of sand from the ocean while the waves come in.
She tries to say something else, but the words dam up in her throat. Tears course glistening down her cheeks. “I can’t,” she mouths. “I can’t.” She drops her phone hand to her lap, illuminating us in the screen’s ethereal white glow. Mitzi screeches something. Nana Betsy covers her eyes and shakes her head.
I feel it impending. Something sliding off a shelf. But it doesn’t fall. It sits tottering at the edge, waiting to fall. But it doesn’t fall.
This. You can do this for her if nothing else. I let go of Nana Betsy’s hand and slowly reach for the phone. I still hear Mitzi yelling. It would almost be comical if it weren’t so very uncomical. Nana Betsy barely resists before letting me take the phone.
I raise it to my ear. “Hello, Mitzi?” I swallow hard. My legs start bouncing. My heart is laboring.
“Who the fuck is this?” Mitzi speaks with a chemical croak. I feel roaches crawling under my skin and sores on my face and my teeth decaying just listening to it. She has gangrene at the jagged edges of her voice. In the background I hear a TV or loud music and a man’s voice saying something.
“This is…I’m Blake’s friend. Carver. Blake’s best friend.”
“What’s going on? Why’s my mama calling me about Blake? How’d she get my number?”
“We’re—we’re calling to tell you that Blake died in a car accident a little more than a month ago.” My throat throbs from restraining the deluge.
“What? No he didn’t. This a joke?” Her words are defiant, but her voice is small. Like that of a child who’s been told that a beloved toy is past repair. Or maybe like someone who’s been slapped. I hear that experience in her voice too.
I shake my head and then I remember Mitzi can’t see me. “Blake is gone. We had his funeral. We buried him. Nana—your mom tried to find you but she couldn’t in time. I’m—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. She wanted to tell you sooner.”
“No.” Mitzi’s voice is smaller still. “I don’t even know who you are.” I hear the man’s voice again, closer.
“I’m sorry.” My voice quavers.
“Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesuuuuuuuuuuus nooooooooooo.” Her lament collapses quickly into incoherent, unshapen shrieking.
I have to hold the phone away from my ear. Nana Betsy covers her ears and rests her elbows on the table. She’s sobbing and drawing ragged breaths.
When I put the phone back to my ear, Mitzi is keening a litany of “Put her back on. Put her back on. It’s her fault for taking him. I want to tell her. Put her back on. Put her back on. It’s her fault. It’s her fault he’s dead. Oh, Jesus Lord. Oh. Oh, I can’t. I can’t. Oh.”
“No,” I say, with as much steel as I can muster. “I won’t put her back on. You’ll yell at her.”
Nana Betsy lifts her head and reaches for the phone. But it’s a halfhearted attempt and I stand and pull away. Mitzi is choking on sobs. So I fill the space. “It’s not her fault. It’s nobody— It’s my fault. It’s my fault. You can yell at me. Do it. Yell at me. It’s my fault.”
She wails, “You let him get hurt. You didn’t take care of him.”
“I know,” I say, tears welling hot and dropping. “I’m sorry.” But something is turning in me. Something is combusting and turning to anger. I can tell I’m about to say something I’ll regret, and I’ve become acquainted with regret. “But neither did you. You weren’t there for him. You weren’t even there at the funeral. Your son had a good life because of your mom. He had friends and people who loved him. You should be so grateful to her. I’m—”
The line goes dead, and the only sound in my ears is Nana Betsy’s subdued weeping. I slowly lower the phone and set it on the table. I feel like I’ve been hung from a tree branch in a sack and beaten with a stick.
“I was going to give you back the phone. I didn’t want her blaming you. I didn’t expect her to hang up.”
She shakes her head. “Thank you for telling her.”
I suddenly realize that I more or less confessed to Mitzi in the process. I should probably not do that anymore. At this moment, though, I don’t really care. Let them try to find Mitzi. From the sound of things, she won’t even live another twenty-four hours. Better yet, let them crucify me. It would be a relief.
Nana Betsy looks hollow and vacant. She seems to struggle to hold up her head. “I’m wore out. I don’t have anything left.”
“I’ll go.” I start for the door.
“Blade?” she calls. “Will you playact one more thing with me?”
“Yes.”
“Let me really say goodbye to Blake.”
“Okay.” I steel myself.
She stands and faces me. “Blake. I love you and I loved the days I had with you. I have numbered every one of them in my heart. Someday, when that trumpet sounds, I’ll hold you again in my arms.” And she hugs me.
Words abandon me.
After a long while, she says, “This was a worthy goodbye day. I hope you agree.”
“I do.”
“B
lake was a beautiful boy and I’ll miss him.”
“I will too.” With that I leave.
My parents are watching TV in their bedroom. I hadn’t told them much about what I was doing today. Only that Nana Betsy and I were spending the day together to remember Blake.
I go in and hug them longer than usual and tell them I love them. They ask about my day and I tell them I don’t want to talk; I’m too tired. We’ll talk about it later.
I flop down on my bed, text Jesmyn, and ask if she can talk.
While I wait for her to respond, my memories fold and replace themselves in the trunks I’ve removed them from. Today was cathartic in the way of a vigorous puking session. You don’t feel good, exactly. Just purged of something.
“You got new glasses,” I say. Dr. Mendez is wearing circular black frames.
“Yes and no,” he says. “No, in that I’ve had this pair for a while; yes, in that generally I’m always buying new glasses I don’t need. I buy glasses the way some women buy purses and shoes.”
“My friend Jesmyn would say that’s sexist.”
Dr. Mendez smiles with a concessionary nod. “And she would be right. I need to do better.”
“I won’t tell.”
He takes off his glasses and holds them to the light, inspecting for smudges. “The funny thing is that I never see the world any differently through new glasses. I only ever see things differently when I look in the mirror.”
I tap the pad of my index finger on the tip of my nose.
He laughs. “On the nose. Fair enough. If I promised you that I did not intend to sound like such a psychiatrist right then, would you believe me?”
“I mean, it’s probably hard not to. It’s what you do all day.”
“This is true. You’re easing my worry about my shortcomings while not allowing me to escape accountability. Perhaps we should switch chairs.”
I half smile.
Dr. Mendez slumps into his seat and crosses one leg over the other. “So. I’m sorry I missed you a couple of weeks ago; we were on vacation. How are you?”
I draw in a deep breath and give myself until I can’t hold it anymore to collect my thoughts. “Last week I did the thing I told you about. The goodbye day with my friend Blake’s grandma.”
“Oh? How did it go?”
“Pretty well. I guess maybe I got a little closure? I had to tell Blake’s mom that he died when his grandma couldn’t go through with it.”
“Sounds difficult.”
“It was. I almost had another panic attack when I was telling her, but I didn’t.”
“Good.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I got to know Blake better. Told his grandma some stuff about his life she didn’t know. Maybe told her more than I should’ve.”
“Do you feel guilty about that?”
“Not that as much as other stuff.”
“Other stuff?”
I look at the floor and rub my face. I want to tell him and also I don’t. It’s not that I’m worried about his judging me. I’m worried about his not judging me. And then I wonder if my panic-attack near miss just before the call to Mitzi means I’m doing better or if it means I’ll backslide on any progress I’m making if I don’t tell him.
So I tell him.
Everything. Every detail I can remember. I confess as completely as I did to my lawyer. More, because I add emotion, whereas with Mr. Krantz it was facts only. I tell Dr. Mendez about the DA’s investigation. He takes it all in without a twitch. The occasional slight shake of the head or nod and “Mmm.”
“So,” he says, folding one arm under the other and tapping his lips with his index finger. He holds up three fingers. “It appears there are three components to your present emotional condition. You have grief—you’ve experienced loss and everything that comes with that. You have fear, over this investigation into the accident. And then, on top of that, you have guilt—you believe that you were the cause of your friends’ deaths. Am I hearing you right?”
“Pretty much. I’m also afraid of what this will cost my parents: paying the lawyer.”
“Okay.”
“Also, one of my friends’ sisters is out to get me at school.”
“I see. And I’m guessing that here, the grief, fear, and guilt have a synergistic effect. One plus one plus one equals ten, not three.”
“Pretty much.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He leans back and tents his fingers in front of his mouth. We stare at each other for a few seconds, listening to the clock tick; our breathing. We let the silence bloom.
“Tell me a story,” he says softly.
“Like any story?”
“A story of your friends’ deaths where you remove yourself from the question of causation.”
“We called ourselves Sauce Crew.”
He smiles. “I bet there’s a good story there too.”
“There is. Can I tell you that one instead?”
“Sometime, sure. But just bear with me for now.”
“So you want me to tell you a story where I’m not to blame?”
“Exactly.”
My mind whirls, looking for something to grab onto. Some scrap I can unravel and reweave into something. It’s not happening. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because. That’s not what happened.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “You’re a storyteller. You’re a writer.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Tell me a story. What’s the harm in trying?”
“I like to earn things.”
“You’ve suffered, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’ve earned it. Not that you needed to.”
I roll my eyes and cast up my hands. “Fine. Um. That day, instead of texting Mars, I wait for them to get to my work so we can hang out. They all live and I’m not sitting here. The end.”
“No, no. Remember the rules? That narrative still turns on your actions. What you didn’t do saved your friends. I want you to tell me a story where you don’t have anything to do with the accident.”
I growl deep in my throat. “Okay. The semi they rammed into wasn’t supposed to be there when it was. The driver was late so…there it was. And if it hadn’t been there, they would have lived.”
Dr. Mendez frowns and nods. “Not bad. But I found myself…uninvested in the characters. What did you say the name of the driver was?”
“I didn’t.”
“Maybe that’s why the story didn’t quite grab me.” His eyes twinkle. “You can do better.”
I roll my eyes again and slouch in my chair, staring at the ceiling. When I speak, it’s at the ceiling. “Fine. The truck driver’s name was…Billy…Scruggs. That’s a good truck driver name, right?” I still don’t look at Dr. Mendez.
“Excellent.”
“Billy’s wife had just made him move out. She said she wanted a divorce because she was tired of his being gone on the road constantly. So he was depressed. He leaves…Macon, Georgia, where he lives. That’s a good place for a truck driver to be from, right?”
“Billy Scruggs from Macon. Good. I want to hear more.”
“So Billy is hauling a load of…” I look to Dr. Mendez.
He lifts his hands in an I-dunno-it’s-your-story gesture.
“…psychiatry manuals and eyeglasses to Denver.” I almost want him to call me on my smartassery.
Instead, Dr. Mendez laughs and points. “Now you’ve hooked me.”
This feels strangely good. “So Billy was never a responsible driver and he’s running a little behind. He’s stopped at a truck stop in Chattanooga for some breakfast. He knows he should hit the road, but he can’t, because of the waitress. Her name is…Tammy Daniels. She’s thirty-nine but doesn’t look a day over fifty.”
Dr. Mendez chuckles. “Fantastic.”
“She’s not as beautiful as she used to be and she’s trying to hide it with too much makeup. But Billy still finds her beautiful. Because she only n
eeds to be beautiful by comparison to endless asphalt and billboards and the backs of other semis.”
Dr. Mendez nods. “Yes,” he says softly. “Good.”
“So Billy keeps trying to work up the courage to ask her for her number. She smiled and winked at him earlier, so he thinks he has a shot. He drinks cup after cup of coffee—more than he wants to—because it brings her to his table. He’s wondering when he’d even see her again if he did work up the courage. Finally, he chickens out and gives up. Billy isn’t only a bad truck driver—he’s also a quitter. He leaves a big tip and writes ‘You’re beautiful’ on the receipt before hitting the road.”
“I was rooting for Billy,” Dr. Mendez says. “Now he’s late and he doesn’t get the girl.”
Somewhere along the way, I’ve moved to the edge of my seat without even realizing. “And plus he has to keep stopping to pee from all the coffee he drank waiting for a chance to talk to Tanya.”
“Tammy.”
“Oh, right. Tammy. So he’s really late by now. When he hits Nashville, he’s supposed to be farther down the road. But he’s not. Instead, he’s where Sauce Crew ran into him. In front of him is a van carrying a load of feather pillows and packing peanuts. If they’d run into that van, they would have lived. But they ran into Billy instead. Screw-up Billy.”
A long silence passes. I rub at a smudge on my pants.
“In that story, you’re not the cause of their deaths,” Dr. Mendez says.
“I guess not. In that story.”
“How do you feel after telling it?”
“Like I’m lying to both of us.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s not what happened.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know.”
“How?”
“Because.”
“How?”
I sigh. “Fine, I don’t.”
Another protracted, pensive moment slips by before Dr. Mendez speaks. “Our minds seek causality because it suggests an order to the universe that may not actually exist, even if you believe in some higher power. Many people would prefer to accept an undue share of blame for a tragic event than concede that there’s no order to things. Chaos is frightening. A capricious existence where bad things happen to good people for no discernible reason is frightening.”