DEDICATION
To Chase
and
in memory, Kili (2000–2013)
CONTENTS
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Former Marine
A Permanent Member of the Family
Christmas Party
Transplant
Snowbirds
Big Dog
Blue
The Invisible Parrot
The Outer Banks
Lost and Found
Searching for Veronica
The Green Door
About the Author
Also by Russell Banks
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some of these stories were first published in the following periodicals: Conjunctions (“A Permanent Member of the Family”); Esquire (“The Outer Banks”); Harper’s (“Christmas Party”); Libération (“Lost and Found,” translated by Pierre Furlan); Narrative (“Lost and Found”); Salmagundi (“Big Dog”); Yale Review (“Blue,” “Transplant”).
“The Invisible Parrot” was first published in Fighting Words (Dublin, 2012), a limited-edition anthology edited by Roddy Doyle.
FORMER MARINE
After lying in bed awake for an hour, Connie finally pushes back the blankets and gets up. It’s still dark. He’s barefoot and shivering in his boxers and T-shirt and a little hungover from one beer too many at 20 Main last night. He snaps the bedside lamp on and resets the thermostat from fifty-five to sixty-five. The burner makes a huffing sound and the fan kicks in, and the smell of kerosene drifts through the trailer. He pats his new hearing aids into place and peers out the bedroom window. Snow is falling across a pale splash of lamplight on the lawn. It’s a week into April and it ought to be rain, but Connie is glad it’s snow. He removes his .45-caliber Colt service pistol from the drawer of the bedside table, checks to be sure it’s loaded and lays it on the dresser.
By the time he has shaved and dressed and driven to town in his pickup, three and a half inches of heavy wet snow have accumulated. The town plows and salt trucks are already out. The plate glass windows of the M & M Diner are fogged over, and from the street you can’t see the half-dozen men and two women inside eating breakfast and making low-voiced, sporadic conversation with one another.
By choice, Connie sits alone at the back of the room, reading the sports section of the Plattsburgh Press-Republican. He has known everyone in the place personally for most of their lives. They are all on their way to work. He, however, is not. He calls himself the Retiree, even though he never officially retired from anything and nobody else calls him the Retiree. Eight months ago he was let go by Ray Piaggi at Ray’s Auction House. Let go. Like he was a helium-filled balloon on a string, he tells people. He sometimes adds that you know the economy is in trouble when even auctioneers start cutting back, indicating that it’s not his fault he’s unemployed, using food stamps, on Medicaid, scraping by on social security and unemployment benefits that are about to run out. It’s the economy’s fault. And the fault of whoever the hell’s in charge of it.
Connie has already ordered his usual breakfast—scrambled eggs, sausage patty, toasted English muffin and coffee—when his eldest son, Jack, comes through the door. Jack nods and smiles hello to the other diners like a man running for office and pats the waitress, Vivian, on the shoulder. He shucks his heavy gray bomber jacket and pulls off his winter trooper hat, hangs them on a wall hook next to his dad’s Carhartt and forest green fleece balaclava, and takes the seat facing the door, opposite his dad.
“I was starting to think it was time to pack that stuff away,” Jack says.
Connie says, “One of my goddam hearing aids just told me, ‘Battery low.’ Like I can’t tell when it’s dead and that’s why I’m getting no reception. Man my age, his batteries are always low, for chrissake. I don’t need no hearing aid to tell me.”
“Your hearing aids talk to you?”
“It’s a way to get me to buy new batteries before I really need them. I’ll probably buy fifty extra batteries a year, one a week, just to get my goddam hearing aids to stop telling me my battery’s low.”
“Seriously, Dad, your hearing aids talk to you? You hearing voices?”
“Yeah, I’m a regular schizo. No, it’s these new computerized units Medicaid won’t subsidize. Over six grand! I shouldn’t have listened to that goddam audiologist and bought the subsidized cheapos instead. With these, there’s a little lady inside whispers that your battery’s low. Also tells you what channel you’re on. I got five channels with these units—for listening to music, for quiet time, reverse focus and what they call master. Master’s the human conversational channel. And there’s also one for phone. I can’t tell the difference between any of ’em, except phone, which when you’re not actually talking on the phone is like a goddam echo chamber. It does help me hear with a cell phone, though.”
Vivian sets Connie’s platter of food and coffee in front of him. “That gonna be it, Conrad?”
“Please, Viv, for chrissake, don’t call me Conrad. Only my ex-wife called me Conrad, and thankfully I haven’t heard it from her in nearly thirty years.”
“I’m kidding,” she says without looking at him. “Connie,” she adds. She takes Jack’s order, oatmeal with milk and a cup of coffee, and heads back to the kitchen. For a few seconds, while his father digs into his breakfast, Jack studies the man. Jack’s been a state trooper for twelve years and studies people’s behavior, even his seventy-year-old father’s, with a learned, calm detachment. “You seem sort of agitated this morning, Dad. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I was just teasing Viv about that Conrad business. But it is true, y’know, only your mother called me that. She used it to give me orders or criticize me. Like she was afraid I’d take advantage of her somehow if she got friendly enough to call me Connie.”
“You probably would’ve.”
“Yeah, well, your mother took off before I really had a chance to take advantage of her. Smart gal. She quit before I could fire her.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“You have to let it go, Jack. She didn’t want the job, and I did. In the end, everybody, including you boys, got what they needed.”
“You’re right, Dad. You’re right.” They’ve had this exchange a hundred times.
Vivian sets Jack’s coffee and oatmeal in front of him and scoots away as if a little scared of Connie, mocking him. Jack smiles agreeably after her and shakes out the front section of the newspaper and scans the headlines while he eats. Connie goes back to the sports page.
Jack says, “Looks like we got through March without another bank robbery. Maybe our boy has headed south, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” He flips the front page over and goes on to national news.
After a few minutes, without looking up, Connie says, “You talk to Buzz and Chip recently?”
Jack looks over at his father as if expecting more, then says, “No, not in the last few days.”
“Everything the same with them these days?”
“More or less. Far as I know.”
“Wives and kids?”
“Yep, the same, far as I know. All is well. No news is good news, Dad.”
“I wouldn’t mind any kind of news, actually.”
“They’re busy, Dad. It’s easier for me, I don’t have a wife and kids. Plus Buzz has that long drive every day up to Dannemora and back, and Chip’s taking criminal justice courses nights at North Country Community College down in Ticonderoga. And they both live way the hell over in Keeseville. Don’t take it personally, Dad.”
“I don’t,
” Connie says and goes back to reading the sports page.
Jack finishes his oatmeal, shoves his bowl to one side and cups his mug of coffee in his large red hands, warming them. He’s thinking. He suddenly asks, “You ever consider it a little weird that all three of us went into law enforcement? I sometimes wonder about it. I mean, it isn’t like you were a police officer. Like me and Chip. Or a prison guard like Buzz. I mean, you ran auctions.”
“Yeah, but don’t forget, I’m a former Marine. And you’re never an ex-Marine, Jack. So that was the standard you boys were raised by, the United States Marine Corps standard, especially after your mother took off. If my father had been a former Marine, I probably would have gone into law enforcement too. I always kind of regretted none of you boys were Marines.”
“Dad, you can’t regret something someone else did or didn’t do. Only what you yourself did or didn’t do.”
Connie smiles and says, “See, that’s exactly the sort of thing a former Marine would say!”
Jack smiles back. The old man amuses him. But he worries him too. The old man’s in denial about his finances, Jack thinks. He’s got to be worse than broke. Jack gets up from the table, walks to the counter and tries to pay Vivian for both their breakfasts, but Connie sees what he’s up to. He jumps from his seat and slides between his son and the waitress, waving a twenty-dollar bill in her face, insisting on paying for both his and Jack’s meals.
Vivian shrugs and takes Connie’s twenty, just to get it out of her face.
She hands him his change, and father and son walk back to the table, where both men pull their coats and hats on. “You take care of the tip,” Connie says. “Make it big enough so you and I come out even and Vivian ends up forgiving me for being an asshole.”
“Dad, you sure you’re okay? I mean, financially? It’s got to be a little rough these days.”
Connie doesn’t answer, except to make a pulled-down face designed to tell his son he sounds ridiculous. Absurd. Of course he’s okay financially. He’s the father. Still the man of the house. A former Marine.
IT’S A THIRTY-MILE DRIVE from Au Sable Forks to Lake Placid, forty-five minutes in good weather, twice that today. The roads are plowed and passable but slick all the way over—slowing to a creep through Wilmington Notch, where the altitude is more than two thousand feet and the falling snow is nearing whiteout.
It’s a quarter to ten when Connie pulls his white, two-wheel-drive Ford Ranger into Cold Brook Plaza. He’s filled the bed of the truck with a quarter ton of bagged gravel to give the vehicle traction in weather like this. The truck is seven years old with a rust belt under the doors and along the seams of the bed. He parks it off to the windowless side of the Lake Placid branch of the Adirondack Bank, a low pop-up building not much larger than a double-wide. There are no other vehicles in the parking area. Nobody’s using the drive-through or the ATM. He notices in the employees’ lot behind the building a new Subaru Outback and one of those humpbacked Pontiac SUVs he hates looking at because they’re so ugly.
The windshield wipers bump across runnels of ice forming on the glass, and he knows he should get out there with a scraper and clear the ice, but decides to let the defroster heat the glass from inside and melt it. He can’t linger. Too easy to run into someone he knows, even this far from home. He sets the emergency brake, grabs the green gym bag off the floor beside him and steps from the truck, leaving the motor running and the defroster and heater on high. He walks around the truck, making sure that both license plates are covered in hardened road-slush. When he gets to the bank entrance, he turns away for a second and yanks down his fleece balaclava, transforming it into a ski mask, a not unusual sight on a snowy day in a ski town like Lake Placid. Then he pulls open the heavy glass door and enters the bank.
There are two slender young tellers behind the chest-high counter, girls in their early twenties who appear to be counting money back there, and a middle-aged bank officer standing at the open door of her glassed-in cubicle. All three offer him a welcoming gaze when he comes through the door—the first customer of the day. The bank officer holds a notary stamp press in her hands as if it’s a precious gift. She’s a redheaded, round-faced woman wearing a two-piece green wool suit and tangerine-colored blouse. To Connie she looks like a social worker, the kind who interviewed him for Medicaid and food stamps. That humpbacked Pontiac is probably hers. The tellers are dressed more casually, in matching gray pleated skirts, black tights, long-sleeved button-down shirts and fleece vests. They both have mud-colored shoulder-length hair and rosy cheeks. Connie thinks they must be twins and dress alike on purpose. Buzz and Chip, who are twins, used to do that in high school. Just to confuse people, he remembers. These girls are a little old for that.
He leans back against the counter and says to the bank officer, “Would you look at this, please?” He puts his left hand deep into his jacket pocket and holds out the gym bag with his right. She comes up to him, and he hands her the open bag.
She furrows her brow, puzzled, wary, but places the notary stamp press on the counter anyhow, takes the bag and peers into it. It’s empty, except for five words hand-printed in capital letters with a black Magic Marker on a white sheet of paper: FILL WITH CASH. OWNER ARMED.
“Oh, dear,” she says. She takes the gym bag and, avoiding his eyes, passes through the low gate and goes behind the counter where the confused tellers stand and watch.
Connie says to the tellers, “You girls just step back a few feet from the counter there and don’t touch anything. Keep your hands where I can see them. This’ll all be over in a minute.” To the white-faced bank officer he says, “Less than a minute, actually. Thirty seconds. I’m counting,” he says and commences to count backward from thirty. By the time he reaches twelve, she has emptied the contents of the cash drawers into the gym bag. She zips the bag closed and passes it to him.
It’s nice and heavy, about three pounds of money, he guesses. He thanks her with a nod and, still counting out loud, backs quickly away from the counter toward the door, right hand holding the gym bag, left hand deep in his jacket pocket clasping the grip of his reliable old Colt M1911 service pistol. At five he is outside the bank, and at one he’s in his truck, then releasing the hand brake, and he has backed the truck up and turned, unseen, and headed west out of town on Old Military Road.
In the falling snow traffic is light and slow moving. A mile beyond the city limits, where the road enters the hamlet of Ray Brook, a pair of state police cruisers, their lights flashing, speeds toward him, and he pulls slightly off to the right to let them zoom past. A minute later he passes the Ray Brook state police headquarters, where until a year ago his son Jack was stationed. If Jack were headquartered there today, he’d likely be driving one of those cruisers that just blew by, and he might have recognized his dad’s white, rusted-out Ford Ranger and wondered what he was doing way over here. But Jack’s stationed in Au Sable Forks now, not Ray Brook, and that’s why, after robbing four branches of three different banks in Essex and Franklin Counties in the last seven months, Connie has waited until now to rob the Lake Placid branch of the Adirondack Bank and why afterward he drove west, away from Au Sable Forks and home. He doesn’t want his sons to ask him any questions that he can’t answer truthfully.
HE DRIVES THROUGH THE TOWN of Saranac Lake, looping via Route 3 gradually north toward Plattsburgh, where he spends the rest of the morning into the afternoon hanging out at the Champlain Centre mall like a bored teenager. With the gym bag locked in the pickup in the parking lot and the money uncounted, unexamined—for all he knows it could be three pounds of one-dollar bills, although more likely it’s tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds, like the others—he roams through the tool department at Sears and drifts on to the food court, where he eats Chinese food, and then goes to a 2:00 P.M. screening of Lincoln, which he likes in spite of being surprised that Abraham Lincoln had such a high, squeaky voice. While he’s watching the movie, the temperature outside rises into the mid-thirties
and the falling snow dwindles and finally stops. It’s almost 5:00 P.M. when he comes blinking out of the multiplex and decides it’s safe now to drive back to Au Sable Forks.
The six-lane Northway is puddled with salted snowmelt and slush. In Keeseville, still ten miles from home, he exits from the turnpike on the wide, sweeping off-ramp to Route 9N. Keeseville is where his two younger sons and their families live and is not so damned far from Au Sable Forks that they couldn’t drop by to visit once a month if they wanted to, he thinks, and in order to power the truck through the curve, Connie guns it. The quarter ton of bagged gravel in the truck bed has shifted the weight of the vehicle from the front tires to the rear, and the centrifugal pull of the turn causes the rear tires to lose their grip on the pavement and slip sideways to the left. Connie automatically flips the steering wheel to the left, the direction of the slide, but the rear end whipsaws back to the right, putting the truck into a slow 180-degree spin, back to front, until he’s facing the way he’s come and the truck is sliding sideways and downhill toward the off-ramp guardrail at about forty miles an hour.
IT’S ONLY A CONCUSSION and a busted collarbone, Jack explains to his father. But the collarbone broke in two places and as a result is in three separate pieces. “They called in one of the sports docs from Lake Placid, guy who works on ski accidents all the time. He operated and put pins in it, but given your age and bone loss, he doesn’t think the pins’ll hold if you get hit in that area again. He said you’ll have to protect your right side like it’s made of glass.”
“How long was I out?” Connie asks. He’s just realized that Chip and Buzz are in the room, standing somewhere behind Jack. He’s woozy and confused about where he is exactly, although he can tell it’s a hospital room. He’s in a bed with an IV stuck in his arm and an empty bed next to his and a chair in the corner and a window with the curtain pulled back. It’s dark outside.
A Permanent Member of the Family Page 1