Survivor's Guilt and Other Stories

by Greg Herren

  “Your mother home?” I asked.

  “In the den.” She gestured with her head toward a door off the hallway. “Come on.”

  I followed her into the den, where she said, “Someone’s here to see you, Mom,” and disappeared down the hallway before I could say anything.

  Becky Harlan Cassidy was sitting on the sofa wearing a loose-fitting University of Texas T-shirt and a pair of black yoga pants. Her feet were bare, and from the state of her toenails I’d say she was about a week overdue for a pedicure. She was holding a glass of what looked like bourbon and melting ice in her right hand. Her hair was pulled back from her face into a tight ponytail, and I doubted the blond color was the same shade her genetics had given her. She didn’t stand up, nor did she invite me to sit down.

  I sat down anyway. “How you holdin’ up, Becky?”

  It looked like it took a great effort for her to turn her head and look at me. She took a drink from the glass. “Chanse. I wondered if you’d come.” She took another drink, finishing the glass, and held it out to me. “Will you be a dear and pour me another? The Wild Turkey’s out on the bar. Just a couple of ice cubes. Help yourself to whatever you want.” Her words were slightly slurred, barely noticeable unless you were listening for it.

  I was tempted to tell her I wasn’t her servant, but I wanted her to talk. I got her a fresh drink and poured myself a glass of sparkling water.

  She didn’t thank me when I handed it to her. “You saw Ash?”

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “You’re not a good brother.”

  “You weren’t a good wife.”

  That got her attention. She looked at me, blinked a few times, and put her glass down on the table, ignoring the stack of coasters. “You’re not going to post bail?”

  “I’m not putting up a half million when there’s no guarantee Ash won’t run,” I replied. “And from what I know of Ash, I don’t trust him not to. He certainly won’t appear in court because he owes me anything. In fact, I think he’d get a good laugh out of leaving me on the hook for half a million bucks.”

  She started to say something, then just nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “You could bail him out, but that would look funny, wouldn’t it? The grieving widow bailing out her husband’s killer?”

  “I love Ash.” She picked up her glass again but didn’t drink. “I loved my husband. He was good to me and the kids. But I always loved Ash more. Maybe I shouldn’t have married Bobby.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have all this.” I waved around the room. “And what’s a husband you don’t love in exchange for all this?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “How’d you get him to take the fall, Becky?”

  “He killed Bobby.”

  “No, he didn’t.” I got up and walked back over to the bar, put my empty glass into the little sink there. “Ash is…Ash is a lot of things. He may not be the smartest guy, he may bend the rules here and there, skirt the law, but I don’t believe for one minute he stabbed your husband to death. I don’t believe for one minute that your husband caught the two of you in bed and Ash stabbed him with a butcher knife. From your kitchen. From the set of knives on your kitchen counter.”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “And his were the only fingerprints on the knife.”

  I waited to see if she’d make the connection that any decent lawyer, any decent cop worth his salt would have, but she didn’t. Becky was sly, but she wasn’t smart. “So, no one ever used that knife before? It sat there in your kitchen unused until Ash grabbed it and used it? No one touched it?”

  “It got washed.”

  “So, if I have the handle tested for DNA only Ash’s will be found?”

  “I—”

  “I don’t suppose any of your daughter’s DNA will show up, will it?”

  “There isn’t any need to test for DNA!” she burst out.

  “Jade is Ash’s daughter, isn’t she?” I said softly. I sat back down on the couch and leaned forward, looking into her panicked face. “I recognized her when she answered the door. She doesn’t look much like Ash did, but she looks a lot like my sister did when she was that age. Is that what happened, Becky? Does Ash know?”

  She nodded, her lips pinched together and sucked in between her teeth. “Bobby never knew.”

  “You never wanted Bobby to know, did you? But you wanted Bobby gone, didn’t you? But you didn’t want to let go of all this, and you didn’t want Jade to know. So, you killed Bobby, didn’t you, and you called Ash and got him to take the blame?”

  “No!”

  “Ash wouldn’t take the blame for you, would he, but he would for Jade.” I stood up. “You told him Jade did it, didn’t you? You got him to wipe the blade down and put his own fingerprints on there. To protect his daughter.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’ll never prove it.”

  “Daddy wasn’t my father?”

  We hadn’t heard her walk back into the doorway. She was barefoot and the floor was carpeted. She was holding her cell phone in one hand, and her face was drained of color. “You said I killed Daddy?”

  “You two have a lot to talk about,” I said, getting to my feet. On my way out of the room, I stopped and looked down at my niece. “I’m sorry, Jade. You deserved better.”

  I got back into my car.

  I couldn’t put Cottonwood Wells in my rearview mirror fast enough.

  I dialed Siobhan’s number. “About my brother’s defense…”

  Don’t Look Down

  Jase shifted the Fiat’s engine into a lower gear as he started up the steep hill. He hadn’t driven a standard transmission since college, but he did remember hills required downshifting. As the Fiat started climbing he passed two handsome, tanned men on mountain bikes, sturdy thighs straining against their brightly colored Lycra casing. According to the directions, he would be in Panzano when he reached the top of the hill. There was a parking lot off to the left, and just beyond that he could see a stone wall. The hill—or mountain, he wasn’t sure which—dropped off into a valley to the right, vineyards and olive trees spreading out to the next sloping hill. A low stone wall hugged the right side of the road nearer the crest of the hill, with barely enough space for pedestrians or mountain bikes. All the roads had been incredibly narrow since he’d left the highway, with many sharp blind curves as the road weaved in and out and around and along mountains. At one point an enormous bus coming the other way had almost forced him onto the shoulder, missing the black rental car by inches. He glanced up at the directions tucked into the sun visor. At the crest of the hill there would be another sharp, almost ninety-degree turn to the left, and to his right would be the triangular town center of Panzano-in-Chianti. Because of the narrow one-way streets, he’d have to circle around the town center to get to the little hotel.

  The sunlight breaking through the clouds in the valley was beautiful.

  Philip would have loved this, Jase thought. He always wanted us to see Italy.

  He felt a twinge of sadness, which was an improvement. Just a month ago he would have broken down into tears. He was healing.

  And getting away from the apartment, the neighborhood, seeing Philip everywhere he turned, everywhere he looked was the best thing for him.

  And what could be better than two weeks in Italy?

  The trip wasn’t about forgetting Philip, anyway. He’d never forget Philip but needed to get on with his life. Taking this trip was the first step. It was doing something instead of just moping around feeling sorry for himself, being lonely, missing him. Sure, he’d kept working—the bills didn’t stop coming due because your partner dies—but he couldn’t work all the time, and when he was home the apartment loomed so quiet, so empty. The trip to Italy they’d talked about but never gotten to take together was a positive step forward, getting past the grief, a way to finally say goodbye and maybe move on at last. He’d thrown himself into plans for the trip, scouring websites and guid
ebooks and looking at flight and train schedules, deciding finally on Florence and Venice, with side trips to Padua and Pisa and Siena and Lucca.

  The Fiat continued climbing. He saw the sharp turn ahead and slowed. He was tired. He hadn’t slept much on the overnight flight from JFK to Pisa. He could never sleep on planes, and even the lorazepam, which always helped at home, hadn’t worked. He’d dozed a bit, waking up whenever someone walked past in the aisle or when the person sitting next to him shifted in her seat. He’d felt a rush of adrenaline when he’d gotten off the plane that carried him through getting his suitcase and going through customs. That adrenaline kept up as he picked up the Fiat from Hertz, dropped his suitcase in the back, and caught a bus into the city. It was drizzling a little, the sun hidden behind clouds as he went inside the cathedral, climbed the worn marble steps winding around the leaning tower, slick and slippery with water. Now that he was almost to Panzano, he was starting to crash, the adrenal thrill of actually being in Italy wearing off.

  There was a coffee shop near the hotel, he remembered. An-official-made-in-Italy cappuccino to boost his energy before checking into the hotel was probably just what he needed. He made the sharp left and saw his right turn just ahead. The town square was actually slightly triangular, just as it looked on Google Earth. There was a parking place in front of the small restaurant. He zipped into it easily and got out of the car, stretching, his spine crackling and popping. The sun came out from behind the clouds, bright and strong, drenching the village in light. He locked the car. There were benches and trees and an enormous pond in the little park, inside a small stone wall. Caffe Terzani was on the other side of the little park. Some old men were sitting on benches in the shade of one of the trees, smoking cigarettes. They nodded at him as he walked by. He smiled and said ciao. The little pond was murky green, choked with water lilies and plants. An enormous golden koi fish swam to the surface, blinking at him. He crossed the street quickly—that blind curve was nerve wracking. He went inside under the gelateria awning and smiled at the older man behind the counter.

  “Cappuccino, grazie,” Jase said, and pointed it at a sort of pastry sandwich with whipped cream and strawberries as the filling, the top of the pastry sprinkled with powdered sugar.

  The man nodded. “American?” he asked in a heavy accent. “Have seat, we bring to you.”

  “Thank you—grazie.”

  Jase sat down at one of the black wire tables and rubbed his eyes. There was a soccer game playing on the television, and the only other person in the café was an old woman, dressed all in black, reading the Florence newspaper, La Nazione. He suppressed a yawn. Hopefully the cappuccino would give him a jolt of energy.

  He didn’t want to—couldn’t—make a bad first impression.

  He heard the grinding of beans, the hiss of the steamer for the milk. He wasn’t able to suppress another yawn, and when he opened his eyes the old woman was looking at him. Her brown eyes were intense and bloodshot, the whites yellowish. She pushed her chair back and stood by his table. “American?” Her voice was deep and throaty. Her long iron-gray hair was braided and coiled around her head like a crown. The lines on her face were deep, and her right eye was a little milky. She was a little bent from age, and slender. She pointed a slender, crooked finger at him, the bones of her wrist poking through the papery skin.

  A little repulsed, not knowing what to do, he smiled and nodded. “Good afternoon.”

  “Panzano not good for you,” she said, bowing her head as she made the sign of the cross. “You need to go. Go on to Florence, Venice, Padua, anywhere but here. Panzano not good for you.”

  Jase gaped at her. “I—”

  “He is with you.” She closed her eyes and crossed herself. “He is with you now.”

  He felt the hairs on his arms and neck standing up. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  She crossed herself again, gathered her fingers together and kissed the tips. “He watches over you in death as he did in life.”

  “Philip?”

  She nodded slowly, closing your eyes. “You need to leave Panzano. He wants you to go, insists. He worries.” She made the sign of the cross again. “Is not good for you. There is danger here.”

  “I’m only here for two days—”

  “Billy Starr.” She spat the words at him. “He’s a curse. He will be your death.” She pointed her finger at him. “You go, or you will be sorry.”

  She turned and shuffled out of the café, her flat black shoes scuffing along the tiled floor. Jase stared after her, his mouth open. As she passed a middle-aged man coming in the door, he made the sign against the evil eye behind her back.

  The counter man placed his coffee cup, resting in a saucer, and a small plate holding the pastry on the little wire table, the receipt tucked under the plate. The man gave a helpless little shrug. “Signora Agretti,” he said, apologetically. He tapped the side of his temple with a forefinger. “They say she has second sight. I say she not right in head. Ignore her.” He went over to her table, crossing himself before picking up her dirty dishes and newspaper.

  Jase stirred a packet of brown sugar crystals into his cappuccino. His phone chimed in his pants pocket. He took a sip of the cappuccino and moaned a little. It was the best he’d ever had. He checked the message. It was from Billy.

  How close are you?

  He typed back, Stopped for a cappuccino. Need to check into the hotel. Be there shortly.

  Great. I’ll wait by the pool. I was starting to worry.

  Billy Starr.

  I’ll text you once I’m on my way. Shouldn’t be much longer.

  How could the old woman have known he was here to see Billy Starr?

  Get a grip. Jase took another sip of the cappuccino. It was a very small town and he had a reservation at the hotel. Billy probably mentioned to some locals that a journalist was coming to visit, to interview him. They probably didn’t get many Americans in Panzano, and she’d heard him talking to the counterman.

  It didn’t take second sight to figure out who he was and what he was doing in Panzano.

  Still—it was a little unsettling.

  And the Philip stuff was just creepy. How could she—

  I don’t believe in second sight. There’s no such thing.

  But…she knew.

  Nonsense. She didn’t know anything. Fortune tellers read body language, how people react to what they say.

  All she said was “he.” She didn’t say his name. She was just trying to maybe shake you down for a couple of euros.

  He drank the cappuccino and took a bite of the pastry. It was delicious. The whipped cream was fresh, and so were the strawberries. Forget the old woman, you’re on vacation. You’re finally, at long last, in Italy. Enjoy it.

  And he was starting his trip by doing Billy Starr’s first interview in almost twenty years.

  The mention of Billy Starr got a blank look from most people these days. Billy Starr’s short stardom had coincided with Jase’s puberty, when his body began to change, feeling urges and desires he didn’t quite understand, his body doing things it hadn’t done before. Those images of Billy Starr, pants drooping down to show his underwear, his flat, defined stomach and thick round pecs and bulging biceps, and arms road-mapped with swollen veins, brought him to terms with his own sexuality; he knew, unequivocally, he was gay at age twelve. He’d wanted Billy Starr, worshipped him; wasted as much time as he could examining Billy’s pictures, recording his music videos and every television appearance to watch over and over until the videotapes wore out. He dreamed about Billy, erotic dreams where the jeans came all the way down, the white underwear barely encasing Billy’s excitement, waking up with a start and a shudder with his own underwear sticky and wet.

  Jase knew Billy Starr’s actual talent for singing and dancing was fairly limited. Having an older brother in the boy band currently hot with young teenage girls had gotten him his first exposure in one of their videos, dancing shirtless in baggy jeans with his
tighty-whities showing, baseball cap turned backward on his head. He stole the video right out from under his brother’s boy band and began developing a following of his own. MTV played him up, having him guest-host video countdown shows without a shirt and wearing his trademark drooping jeans. He started turning up on the covers of Tiger Beat and 16 and other fan magazines targeted at teenage girls and their baby-sitting money. It was inevitable he’d get a recording contract, with the same manager as his brother’s band. The record company rushed out a single and a video, with nonsensical, almost juvenile lyrics, designed to make the girls squeal: “Be My Girl.” He had a limited, at best, vocal range, but the song hit number one and stayed there for a couple of weeks. The video displayed his body, the camera lovingly lingering over his muscles, as he sang and danced, some of the shots with him in the rain, the white underwear becoming more revealing the wetter it got, the water dripping off his muscles, running in streams down his definition, playing up his odd combination of boyishness with adult male sexuality. He was a bad boy, the kind your father didn’t want you to date or be alone with, the one who might talk you into going further than you planned, his pouty lips and slashing blue eyes. Then came the moment that catapulted him into the stratosphere, even if it was only for a short while: doing a live performance on MTV, he was dancing, and while doing some highly choreographed pelvic thrusts with his backup dancers, the baggy pants slid off his hips and past his knees into a puddle of denim around his ankles. He didn’t stop dancing or miss a beat. He was wearing tighty-whities and sporting the kind of bulge that made screaming girls’ parents uncomfortable. He fluidly kicked the pants off completely and kept performing, his muscular legs and a hard, round butt flexing as he moved, the girls in the audience screaming louder with every pelvic thrust, every shake of his ass.