Drew looked at Mace. “What was with that beard, man?”
“Hell if I know.” Mace shrugged. He looked at the door. “Go get a paper. And get that fucker’s keys.”
Drew stepped out into the wintry night. He looked up and down snowy Second Avenue.
John McConnell was already gone.
Marissa Flynn sat in her mother’s silent kitchen, surrounded by leftover funereal food and dirty dishes.
It had gone as well as those things go. She had held her head fiercely high, gracious to wave after wave of condolence that gushed from the appropriately lugubrious. Then pretended not to hear the grievers, as they loaded their plates, spoke in hushed tones about the abstruse nature of her older sister’s death, spinning speculative canards over coffee beneath gentle murmurs of truth sung by Simon & Garfunkel and the Beatles.
Her mother had been cordial enough. She had even been decent to John McConnell, her abrasive admonishment a few days before for failing to come to them about Anj’s rape right after it happened having exhausted itself. Not a woman overly fond of emotion, when sentiment was spent it was time to do what came next, not dwell on what had come before. If her mother had a motto, it was simply this: Move on.
John had finally told them, his eyes on the floor, head hung low, voice even lower. Marissa had clung to every word like much-needed nourishment in an Angela-deprived diet but his revelations were lacking. Maybe they satisfied his male need to unburden itself but if she had him on the stand, he might not have been considered a hostile witness but certainly a reticent one. She had so many questions left unanswered.
Her mother was less satisfied with her eldest daughter’s decisions than John’s withholding of them. Whatever flaw Anj had initially made in judgment regarding her rapist, her utter lack of acceptance that life was unfair, replete with disappointment and, without equivocation, the inequitable soberness of justice never leaving a woman satisfied, Anj should’ve had the wherewithal to have called them. And the gumption to move on.
In the most existential sense, Anj had. It was a difficult motto to reconcile. But there it was again. Move on.
The District Attorney in Portland was. Two days prior he had said over the speakerphone the case was regrettably lost without Angela’s living testimony. To his credit the D.A. sounded as sick about it as they were. “Maybe if more evidence comes to light, or, as bad as this sounds, if he assaults someone else, but for now, the Odom’s can claim anything, that Angela was beat by someone else after Odom left the apartment. Or after consensual sex she hurt herself to make him look bad because he had spurned her. And with their resources— “
“She was raped!” Mrs. Flynn shouted with all the venom of a virago, slamming the phone on the table. Marissa was still finding little pieces of it around the kitchen.
As a future lawyer of America, Marissa found none of this shocking. The Odom patriarch had pulled ropes more than strings to quash the story, nothing to be found in the mainstream media regarding the rape or his grandson’s consequent arrest. Nothing shocking there, either. Her mother said it was a mixed blessing; the murmurings by people who knew them were bad enough, but the public scorn and speculation imposed upon rape victims and the weight of defense would become an awful encumbrance for them to bear.
“One life’s been destroyed by this madness. I will not allow another to succumb to it, as well,” she had replied to Marissa’s earlier suggestion they pursue a civil suit. She had then confessed she was tired, her affected welcoming demeanor all but exhausted, and Marissa had helped her up the stairs.
“In an hour, kick them all out. You have studying to do. Tell them to take their plates with them for all I care,” her mom had added.
John was the last to stay. Or the last to go. He was a humble mess in a disheveled suit in the corner. She still couldn’t decide what all she felt about him. He had nothing of substance to offer. They sat in a tense silence until she could no longer stand it. “Dites quelque chose que vous connard,” she muttered not meaning for him to hear her.
He looked up, confused.
Great. “It’s just French nonsense. Anj and I planned this trip to France when I graduated high school but never went. I kept practicing though. That’s what I do. Practice and prepare. Kinda stupid.”
He just nodded. Was it a nod that yep, that’s pretty stupid or? It had been a long day and his being here was making it longer.
“How’s your brother?” she asked trying to contain her irritation. It took him by surprise.
“He’s…extended again. Hopefully coming home in May.”
“Well that’s good news.” She let out a deep sigh and was about to ask one of her many questions about her sister when he abruptly stood. “I should go.”
She wanted to fight him. Demand he stay and answer her.
Instead she showed him to the door.
Christmas flickered upon the snowy windshield. No, not Christmas. There was no green. Just blaring, accusatory red. Was this a dream? No. His hollowed insides felt all too real.
He blinked away the blur. He was sitting in his truck beneath the winking red stoplights at the intersection of Howard and Spokane Falls. It was still night, still snowing, and if his addled senses could be believed, he was still very drunk. He must have passed out; lucky his foot had kept weight on the brake. There was no traffic, not at this hour, not in this snow. How long had he been sitting there?
He powered down the window and inhaled deep drafts of winter air. The falling snow felt good against his face. It cleared his head enough to drive before a cop pulled alongside and put him in the pokey.
He made it home in one piece. Not like he hadn’t driven drunk before. He stumbled through the door but not before checking the mousetraps and finding yet another dead mouse. It angered him, that small-snouted, dead rodent. Dead like that. He gathered up all the traps and threw them in the trashcan. Kicked it a couple times for good measure.
Inside he tore off his rumpled suit and fell into the cool leather of the La-Z-Boy. The room spun in far-reaching ellipses that tightened on erratic whim. Closing his eyes only made it worse. He did it anyway.
For some reason he remembered Marissa’s watery, sea-green eyes that hadn’t wanted him to go. He’d gone anyway. He had glanced over his shoulder and she had been there on the stoop, her arms wrapped about herself in her simple black dress, a warm halo of her breath shimmering in the light as he crunched in the snow, nowhere to go really, knowing only that he needed to get very drunk very fast.
A task in which he had succeeded swimmingly.
As was his wont when drinking he pushed up to his feet and weaved upstairs. He had to pause to catch his breath at the top. He hated being so damn fat. He peered into the empty bedrooms where Katie and her siblings were supposed to be sleeping in their beds, then on to the vast and vacant unfinished master bedroom where his wife was supposed to be. Neither children nor wife nor even beds were to be found. Just boxes and emptiness, in one room a dusty weight bench, its neglected weights lying around in uneven stacks like forlorn ruins. How he had made God laugh.
He came back downstairs, swished some Listerine and went to bed.
The accusatory blue numerals of the clock on the nightstand read 4:15 AM. He had to be at work in four hours. He closed his eyes, the silence damning. He found himself thinking about Marissa again. Beautiful and vulnerable in her funereal black. He thought of Anj, who would now only look beautiful in memories and dreams.
Wretched sleep finally overtook him but it seemed just a couple winks before his alarm pealed. He glared out the window—it was still snowing. Once more the world crystallized in virginal white, pristine and clean before the sullying onslaught of man. He thought about his daughter. There were Odoms out there aplenty.
Slightly sober he alternated hot and cold in the shower to clear his head, screaming with the icy interval, or his regrets, he couldn’t be sure, but it felt good and he kept at it for a while.
At the office Rich was his usu
al prick self and John ignored the morning roundtable’s bullshit and banter, barely muttering a hello. Grateful when released to the field he ran on autopilot. Installed some new Cisco gear, resolved some routing irregularities and at his final stop for the day, hunkered down in the chill of the server racks and let the harmonious white noise lull him to sleep until quitting time.
He stopped at a bar that wasn’t The Whore (where everybody knew his name) and was daring in his drinking, even more so on the drive to his big, empty fucking pink house.
For the next week that was his routine. He worked and drank and slept. Guilt and grief were replaced with labor during the day, drowned in whiskey in the evening, ignored with difficult sleep at night, sleep that never left him feeling rested.
The only aberration was his brother’s call. They had talked for a good fifteen minutes one early morning.
“We should do Hells Canyon, like we did with dad,” Sean had said, his voice taut. “Tackle some sturgeon, maybe fly-fish for steels up Orofino way. Make a real trip of it. Whattaya think?”
John had said cold beers and fishing sounded just this side of heaven.
“Got a hell of a surprise for you and mom,” Sean’s voice cracked. “Yeah, I’m rethinking the whole re-enlisting thing. I’ll tell you about it later. I should. Love ya man.”
He hung up before John could even think how to respond. They never said “I love you” to each other.
He hadn’t mentioned Anj’s suicide. It wasn’t something a man at war needed to hear.
CHAPTER 5
APRIL
Portland, Oregon
It was becoming a mantra.
Traffic sucked.
It was raining in the City of Roses, and no roses today, just the wet, dead asphalt between bumpers. The morning chill had given up as the afternoon brought a sluggish warmth that made the air thick and fogged the windshield. He could feel a trickle of sweat making its way down his spine despite the stir of breeze through the open window.
Mrs. Flynn had called: Would he mind driving down and bringing back Angela’s belongings? Marissa was planning to go down to Portland after school ended, however her mother had other ideas, wanted John to handle it while her daughter remained immersed in finals. He had agreed, of course, not only out of obligation but because he was on the same page as Mrs. Flynn. For Marissa, down here, there were no roses either. Only plaguing questions with unhealthy answers.
Despite the uncomfortable clamminess he had sat in his truck awhile before knocking on the apartment manager’s door. When he did he was greeted by Waldo or Wally, the goofy-looking guy who had first shown him the apartment.
“Here to see the two-bedroom?”
“I’m here about Angela Flynn’s belongings.” It was no cakewalk for him either. He wanted to be done and gone, the grill of his truck pointed back north.
“Oh. Yes.” Waldo shook his head sadly. “I remember you now. Let me just get my keys.”
He led John up the stairs to 306, unlocking and swinging the door wide. John entered tentatively, sniffing at the air as though it might be tainted. By death? By her dying, here, alone and scared and goddamn it you should’ve known, should’ve known she was—
But there was only the smell of fresh paint beneath the faint odor of carpet cleaner.
“As you can see, we packed everything as her mother requested.”
Furniture was pushed against the walls, moving boxes stacked neatly in each room. He did a quick walk-through, excepting the bathroom.
“I want you to sell her car.”
“Well, um…” Waldo pursed his lips. “I don’t think—”
“Just do it. Sell it and send the money to her mom. It’s what she wants. Do we owe you anything?”
“Oh no. We’re just so sorry for what happened.” He looked around the room. “I suppose I could sell it. Might not get best price.” He shrugged apologetically.
“Didn’t say anything about price. But don’t disappoint me and make me come back down here. Now give me a moment.”
When he was alone he nudged open the door to where Angela had ended her life.
The white walls had been repainted, the green tile regrouted. It was fastidiously clean. The monstrosity of a tub was starkly white and sullen and empty and shameless against the wall.
So this was it.
He waited for her answer.
This is where you said goodbye.
She didn’t have one.
I messed up. I should’ve stayed, Anj.
He pictured her in that tub, naked, the water steaming (were there bubbles? Would you bother with bubbles if you were going to kill yourself? Probably not. Then again, Anj might have, she was fond of bubbles.) The inside of each arm facing heaven, gashes leaking out her life’s claret. Desperate to leave this world, her face calm, serene even, eyes dimming, sublime in the moment, no longer frightened, life and death vague horizons, one embracing the other, no longer welcoming.
A life had taken its own here and you expected more; this is where you expected her spirit to speak, to convey something, some virtue to the deed, some explanation that made it all okay, some meaning, damn it. He willed something to happen, see her ghost flutter the new, white shower liner, a flicker of light in the corner near the ceiling, the faucet to turn on, the door to swing shut with resound. Her lost voice to call out his name.
Nothing.
No miracle, no voice from the grave granting insight or absolution.
Not here. Not today. Not ever.
Only the guilt and regret, loud waves of the stuff that wanted to drown him in that tub.
He found solace in loading boxes into the back of his truck. He huffed and puffed his way up and down the three flights of stairs, Waldo just watching. When the movers arrived he stopped and let the pros take over, caught his breath and confronted Waldo.
“You’re sure this is everything? You didn’t go and raid her panty drawer? I find out something’s missing I’m coming back down here. You don’t want me to come back down here.”
It was evident that Waldo did not.
“No, no, no, everything’s packed. Oh!” He clapped his hands together. “There is something else.” He gestured for McConnell to follow him to his apartment. It was clean but the furniture all looked like an old lady had picked it out at a rummage sale. It smelled kind of like old lady, too.
“Here you go,” the manager said with a flourish.
There, lying on an orange ottoman were Angela’s black and white cats. He had forgotten all about them.
“I didn’t want to see them go to the pound and be destroyed or anything,” Waldo said. “I’m sure her mother would want them.”
McConnell scratched at his jaw through his beard. He wasn’t so sure. Mrs. Flynn hated cats. She hated dogs. Didn’t much like most people either, come to think of it. Had she known about the cats?
He looked the felines over. They regarded him back.
He verified they had the correct address in Spokane and watched the movers drive away. Then he loaded the cats in their carriers and into the back seat of the Titan. They looked dolefully up at him but didn’t say anything.
“So sorry for your loss. Anytime you’re back in Portland, feel free to stop by,” Waldo said.
McConnell frowned at him. “Not likely.”
Thirty minutes into the drive the cats began mewling like the sky was falling. He tried to coax them quiet but they weren’t having any of it. Vedder growls, Morello riffs, Peart polyrhythms, even some old school Halford screams were to no avail. Slipping in one of Katie’s Avril Lavigne CDs only harmonized the angry caterwauling. Talk radio, still no luck. As a last resort he bought a tallboy, mixed some of the beer with their food. They lapped it up and minutes later fell into a heavy snooze.
He drove in silence. And finished off the tallboy.
Portland was a bitter atmosphere of doom and failure and fire. Alan Odom was there, living free. That sat like an angry, hot stone in the back of his throat, one he c
ould not choke down. He thought dark thoughts, the kind best left behind. None of them would bring Angela back.
He was glad to see the city disappear in the fading afternoon light.
Some hours later he pulled up to the old blue Vic that sat off Corbin Park. Mrs. Flynn was as helpful as Waldo had been as he unloaded the boxes from his truck into the living room. His back ached, his legs ached, his stomach felt like he had pulled something. He knew tomorrow when the movers got there he would feel worse. He broached the subject of the cats. Mrs. Flynn was more than prepared.
“You’re keeping them,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You want me to find them a home?” he inferred.
“Is that what I said? You been sticking those computer cables in your ears?”
“No ma’am, I wasn’t sure exactly what you meant.”
“I meant what I said.” The stout woman lifted a box and set it down before her old chair and began to open it. “You’re keeping the cats.”
“I don’t want to keep any cats.”
“What have we learned about what we want and what we get?”
“Maybe Marissa—”
“No. Marissa’s got the bar exam; she can’t be bothered about no cats. They’re yours now.”
He nodded, his wheels turning. Her look said they could turn all night, it wasn’t going to change things.
“And don’t you be thinking about giving ’em away behind my back, neither,” she snapped slyly.
He sighed. He asked after Marissa, and the old shrew cocked her head and said that she was studying, and it was tough going and he shouldn’t disturb her, and wasn’t she a bit young for him, anyway?
“Yes ma’am. Have a good night.”
He climbed back into his rig, glaring at his two new passed-out housemates.
CHAPTER 6
MAY
Chula Vista, California
Jackboot Page 4