Soon I would learn how wrong I was.
21
Morning was painful. My head throbbed. My stomach tangled itself in knots and each time I rose I battled the surge of bile in my belly threatening to fill my throat. Somewhere in the middle of the day, I mustered the courage to get out of bed.
Tug perched on the living room couch, running a whetstone across an overly large knife. "Morning, sunshine," he said between screams of stone and steel.
After a big cup of black coffee and slow-eaten cold buttered toast, I could talk.
"The others?" I asked.
"Both of them awake. Jay showering and Lipshit walking around outside."
The sky glowed, almost as if were we caught in a perpetual twilight. The rain had been reduced to a thick mist.
"About last night..." I began. "Shit, man, that was a blur."
"That woman was not someone you really wanted to bring home anyway. What the hell were you thinking?"
"Thanks for standing up for me. For a minute there I thought we were done for."
He shrugged.
"I'm sorry," I continued. "I let you down. All these years when you were gone. I should have written when you were over there. I should have been a better friend. I just wasn't. Still not sure how great a friend I am to anyone even now. It's nothing against you. It's me. It's as if I can't get out of my own head or my own rut. God, it's probably why Liz wants to divorce me and Bridget is slipping away. You know she's like a stranger to me know. It's like I know I'm doing the wrong thing, not living the life that I am supposed to live, but it's easier to just keep doing that thing, that big nothing. It's like I'm just drifting toward my own death, content with nothing happening. Things happen but nothing makes me feel as if I am living the life I was supposed to live. All this, I'm weak. Always have been despite the money and the career. I should've written. I should have been there for you. I'm sorry."
Tug lifted the knife to his eye and turned it in the light. "Get yourself ready. Rain's finally let up enough. Time to return Dave to the lake. Let's do that together, brother. Let's do that."
Half an hour later, I shivered at the edge of the lake, boots on a slick stone that jutted over the water, balance made more uncertain from the aftereffects of the night before. The rain had become a cold mist. At first it clung to my jacket like a fine coat of mail, but then the tiny drops coalesced until what covered me was a wet sheen like that of an animal pulled out of a well.
I dug my hands in my pockets. Tug wore skin-tight gloves, and I could see the bulge of the gun beneath his camouflage jacket. Lipsky carried the urn with his bare hands, and his knuckles and joints reddened with the exposure to rain and cold.
I stared out over the waters of the lake. Despite the mist, the surface was calm, as smooth as a piece of glass, and in the waters, the line of trees curved, the windows of the lake houses glared darkly, and the distant mountains blurred.
I turned to the cracking of twigs. Jay limped up the trail, stopped to rest one hand on the trunk of a pine, and then with a gathering wince hobbled up the rest of the trail.
"You hurt yourself last night?" I asked.
He scowled, all friendliness and camaraderie faded. "My knees. They're shot. The cold and wet are not helping. This where we're going to do this?"
"Good a place as any," said Tug.
Lipsky held the urn out towards the rest of us.
We all stood there, no one stepping forward. I wondered if one of us was supposed to prepare some kind of speech. I half-remembered the eulogies that were spoken at the funeral service, and honestly it had seemed to me that they were talking about someone that I did not know. I felt now that if I talked about the Dave that I knew and remembered that it would seem insincere, as if I were talking about someone else completely different.
I wondered about that. Was he a different Dave to different people? In my eyes, he was not the loving father, the favorite baseball team coach, or the faithful lamb of God. He was the jokester, the one who finagled the beer when we were all under age, the one who drove when the world spun for the rest of us. I wondered if that was still who he had been despite the passage of the years and the distance. Could he be both things, two so very different things?
But then I thought about how none of it really mattered. He was dead. He had drunk himself to death. He was a fading memory, and now we four faithless friends stood with a few pounds of ashes, hungover, in the rain, by a lake that we had not visited in decades, thinking that scattering his remains, polluting the mountains waters, was somehow honoring him or even bringing closure, as if this simple gesture could make up for all the lost years, time that would never roll itself back.
"Nobody?" asked Lipsky. "Nobody else wants to do this?"
"I was never the one for words," said Tug.
I turned my gaze from Lipsky's.
"Jesus, just give it to me," said Jay. He tottered forward and clutching the ashes eased to the edge of the rock. "Ashes to ashes."
He handed the lid to Lipsky and then turned the urn over. I expected a wind to pick up and the ashes to blow back over us, but instead, the ashes fell like a clump into the water, plopping loudly. Tug shook the urn and the last of the ashes cascaded spreading around the sinking clump. What remained on the surface darkened quickly.
It didn't seem real. It felt like something more should have happened, that a life should have had more substance, or been acknowledged more than by the dumping of trash into a lake.
I felt like words hid beneath the surface, but I struggled to get a full breath and the sourness of the persistent bile filled my mouth. I ran a tongue over my teeth but my mouth remained, dry, cottony, my teeth coated with a rough carpet.
I had no words. I had nothing to say.
Jay grasped his knees in both hands, bent to the waters, and whispered something I could not hear. Then, urn in both hands, he started back down the trail.
Tug knelt down touched the ashen waters with two fingers and muttered, "Safe journeys, brother."
He quickly followed Jay.
Lipsky bobbled his head at me. "Karmerak, man, Karmerak."
I was left alone on the edge of the lake. The ashes had become a haze in the water, a ghost dissipating, its form vanishing. How much longer until we all returned to nothing? What were we waiting for?
I stood there, stupid, longer than I realized, and I did not catch up to the others before they were back in the house.
Tug and Jay sat across the dining room table from each other, a whiskey bottle between them. Lipsky was in the kitchen, digging out cheese and crackers. They were all settling in for the night. I was ready to leave. I wanted to get back in the car and drive. Leave them here. I wanted to be alone more than anything else.
But instead I sat with my friends, sipped the first shot of whiskey, and gulped the next several. We ate to fill ourselves, and to stave off the alcohol consuming our insides.
Soon the wind picked up, and the mist transformed into steady drops and then sheets of rain. Probably better that I did not get back on the roads in this weather.
We were settling, watching the light of the skies fade to darkness, ready for the increasing comfort of the booze, when a sudden knocking at the door made me jump up from my seat.
For some reason I was the only one to go to the door. I glanced over my shoulder at the others right before opening the door. They stared at me, gaping.
I opened the door. A woman screamed, blood-covered and naked, howling against the storm.
22
"What the fuck?" Jay was at my side, staring at the girl.
"Jesus, what's happening?" Lipsky stood back in the kitchen a piece of cheese held inches from his mouth, a cracker in the other hand.
Tug's eyes were wide, jumpy. "Anyone else out there? Back away from the door."
But I could not move. A young woman stood shivering in front of me. She was completely naked, and despite the rain I could see that she was drenched in blood from an open pulsing gash at he
r hairline. Blood caked around her cracked lips. The blood from the head wound thinned in faded streaks down her body, over her bare breasts, the shaved area between her legs.
I shuddered. She could not have been much older than my daughter, a girl just out of high school, maybe a little older. It was too hard to tell.
With her screaming it was too hard to think.
Jay furrowed his hands through his hair. "What the hell, man? What the hell?"
Suddenly, Tug shoved his way between us, past the girl, and out into the rain. I half-expected him to grab her and drag her into the safety of the house. Instead, he ducked into a crouch and ran out of the light from the doorway into the darkness of the night, my last glimpse of him revealing that he clutched his knife.
He was gone. He would be no help.
I looked at Jay. He shook his head and his lips fumbled but no intelligible words came out. I stared at him as if he spoke a language I simply did not understand.
I made to grab the girl but she jerked her arm away. "Come in the house. Please. We'll help you."
She stumbled a step or two away, her knees buckling so that one hand slapped against the ground to catch her balance.
"What's going on? Skip?" Jay's words finally made sense.
I dashed into the rain. The drops hit me hard and cold across the face. The girl turned back towards the darkness but I caught her, slipping my hands beneath her arms, sliding over her rain and blood-slick skin. I pulled her in tight against my chest, and she squirmed, making me feel uncomfortable, holding a naked woman, a strange mix of arousal and horror.
I back stepped into the house and Jay slammed the door shut.
"What about Tug?" Lipsky asked.
"Get me a blanket. Something to wrap her in. Come on."
I could not keep my grip on her and she turned in my arms until she was facing me. Her screams had transformed into a beast-like lowing. She shoved her arms between us and she pushed hard against my chest. Her nails dug into my shirt and the skin of my chest burned beneath the tearing scratches.
I stared into her eyes, blue like Bridget's. "Please. Calm down. I'm trying to help. I'm trying to help you."
She shook her head. The lowing faded to a whimper, saliva stringing between her lips. "Run, keeping running," she said.
Lipsky placed a blanket across her shoulders and I released my grip on her long enough to pull the blanket over her body. She collapsed to the ground, wrapped up, her whimpers becoming sobs.
"Jay, get a towel from the kitchen or see if you can find Tug's first aid kit. We need to stop the bleeding from her head."
I touched the inflamed flesh below her pale hair. A gash from a blow.
But then, through the opening in the blanket, I saw cuts marking her skin. Dozens of cuts. Cuts made by a knife or some kind of blade. Intentional cuts. The skin around her wrists were chafed red, raw, as if she had been manacled. I noticed the same rawness around her neck and ankles.
I swallowed hard and stepped back but she grabbed my leg, her grip a vice, and her head trembled.
Jay offered her the towel but she shrunk from him, wrapping her arms around my leg. I took the towel and was trying to figure out how to press it against her head without causing her any pain when the front door flew open.
Tug, breath heaving, jumped inside and slammed the door behind him. "All clear. Thought I saw something, someone, but I could not catch up and too dark to see if there were footprints. Lipsky, go around and make sure all the doors and windows are locked. Jay, get someone on the phone."
Tug stopped to stare at the girl. "Barely more than a child," he said. I could see that he noticed the cuts on her as well. She shrunk from him, grabbing me more tightly. "What kind of monster did that to you?"
Her body shook against me.
"You got that gun?" I asked.
"I wasn't so crazy to bring it now, was I?"
Jay stomped up to us. "Phone doesn't work. Totally dead."
Lipsky returned from his bedroom. "The phone was out since we got here."
"Has anyone been able to get cell service?" asked Tug.
We stared at each other as we all shook our heads.
"We can't just sit here," said Tug. "Don't know what the hell's going on. I'll grab my gun, we'll get in the car, and head back to town for help."
"And bring her with us?" asked Jay.
"We're not going to leave her behind, you idiot. We stay together. We get help."
23
Ten years before the Sandman, I met a real world hero. Or at least as real as one can be in this messed up world.
I knew him through his son Michael.
Michael was a fuck up. Dread-locked, tattooed, pierced. He came out to California looking for surf, blondes, and ganja. He ended up in San Francisco, foggy, cold, the opposite of the myth of the Golden State.
Michael got himself into trouble. Repeatedly. Vagrancy. Shoplifting. Public drunkenness. Then the drug charges and the assault. It all added up, and he was facing his third strike. Mandatory sentencing. Mandatory prison.
Normally a vermin like this would have just passed through the system, underrepresented by a public defender. I mean the kid could barely rub two coins together. Dumpster diver. He stank.
But he had a dad who wanted to drag him out of the mire and knew if he was found guilty that the kid was lost to him. No chance to shape him. Prison would do that.
Michael should not have been that way. Not with his dad.
Joe was an ex-fireman. FDNY. Late forties at the time like me. He was a little guy, twinkle in his eye, hair shorn close to his head and what little of it remained was more white than black. He reminded me of a grandfather more than a brother.
Joe called me from New York, wired me my retainer, and then came out for the hearing.
Night before the first hearing, Joe had me meet him in a downtown hotel bar. He had bought the draft beers, and crumpled napkins in his hands while I explained my strategy and warned him that it did not look good for his boy.
"The system's good," said Joe. "I mean I believe in it. I bled for this country. But I just want a fair shake about this. I deserve a break. After all I been through."
Then he told me about that day. "The towers came down. It sounded like a train crashed, and then there was the dust, so much dust. I went in there searching for people, not bodies, but people. I had hope. All I found was twisted metal, dust, and papers. They were beasts, monsters. Who could ever be so heartless?
"We did what we were supposed to? More than just a job. We were there to save people. So many brothers and sisters lost their lives that day. Fucking building collapsed on them. It shouldn't have been like that. Nobody should have done something like that. All that dust. It was hell on earth. How do you describe it to someone who wasn't there."
I bought the next round of drinks but Joe barely drank from his glass. His attention faded away from me, as he became lost in his memories, that twinkle in his eye receding until I felt as if he stared out of a dark vortex. I shook his hand hard, even called him a hero, and then the next day pleaded for his son, pulling out all my tricks, but it made no difference. The case against him was too air tight. His son went to prison. I never heard from Joe again though I later learned that he had cancer and died while his son was serving time.
Seemed to me like he should have gotten a fair shake, some kind of break for the horror that he had to love through, but life's not like that. No one cares if you once were a hero.
In the end, it's all ashes and dust.
24
The girl would not leave the house.
She hugged one of the posts in the house and screamed when we gently tried to pry her from it. "He's out there! I'm not leaving! No!"
The four of us returned to the kitchen. "What the hell are we going to do?" asked Jay.
"We can't split up," said Lipsky. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and visibly trembled. "Worst idea ever to split up."
Tug let out a long sigh. "Yo
u watch too many movies, little buddy. Nothing going to happen."
"Seriously it is a bad idea to split up."
Tug pulled his gun from his waistband. "Whoever's out there is going to eat this." He laughed suddenly. "You think I'll hesitate? You think I'm afraid to shoot someone right in the fucking head? I'll shove the gun right down his throat and pull the trigger."
"There's only one gun," said Lipsky. "If we split up, there's only one gun."
"We can't just stay here," said Jay. "Knock the girl out. Put her in the car. We all go together."
The girl heard him and scurried off to the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind her.
"I'll drive into town," I said. "Tug, you can stay here with the gun and the girl. Lipsky, you stay with him."
Jay looked at if he were unable to swallow.
"Up to you," I said.
Jay chewed his lower lip before speaking. "I'll go with you. I will." He nodded too many times.
We grabbed kitchen knives and the hatchet by the fireplace and dashed out through the rain to the SUV. We slammed the doors and locked them. Once I got the car started, the headlights shone on the front door where Tug stood with two hands on his pistol. He moved to the left so that a shadow covered his eyes.
I cranked the wipers up to full but they barely seemed to pull much rain from the glass. It was as if we were driving underwater.
"This is just fucked up," said Jay. "I mean, what the hell? Where did she come from? We're in the middle of nowhere and a naked, blood-soaked woman shows up at our door. This is not right. This is not good."
"Let's get to town. Go to the bar or gas station. Call the sheriff. You don't remember where we lost cell signal, do you? We only need to get back there."
The Cellar Page 6