The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  “Just what, Mom?”

  “I didn’t trust men.”

  “What about Viveca? Does she know?”

  “No, not yet. But maybe now that I’ve told you, I’ll be able to risk it. I don’t know. I have a lot to think about.”

  “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Me, too.”

  “Oh, honey. I always thought I’d carry this stuff to the grave. Protect the people I love from all this ugly, dirty . . . And now, of all people, I’ve told you. Burdened you.”

  He says it’s okay. He can handle it. “I just can’t believe what a stupid shit I was to bring him here today,” he says. “Thinking you’d be glad to see him.”

  I assure him he’s not to blame—that it was just a horrible coincidence.

  “But he just shows up out of the blue? Puts on my suit and rides over here with me? What the fuck? Did he think you were going to have forgotten that any of it ever happened? And now, thanks to me and my stupid idea to bring him here, here we are. Your wedding’s going on downstairs, and you’re up here with me playing true confessions.”

  Playing? No. Whatever these last few minutes have been—and whatever happens next—it’s not play. . . . I think back to the beginning of this weekend: the ride up here with Minnie and the others, the joy I felt when I heard my kids come in and ran up the basement stairs to see them. And my conversation with Andrew last night, the tenderness I felt for him. Why can’t I rewind this whole weekend and start over again?

  “Last night?” I say. “When we were watching that movie you like, and you said that my work was violent? I think that was the only way I could get some of it out was through my art. The fear, the anger . . .”

  When he turns back and looks at me, his face is flushed. “No it wasn’t, Mom. That wasn’t the only way you got it out.”

  “I don’t . . . Honey, what do you mean?”

  “You just said you didn’t trust men. Males. Don’t you remember the way you used to go off on me?”

  I nod. Force myself to face his red face, the way he’s glaring at me. “Andrew, I didn’t . . . I would never—”

  “Yes you would, Mom. You did.”

  Why is he doing this now? Haven’t we been through enough? I look away from him. Look over at the doorway where Marissa has just appeared. She’s looking from one of us to the other. “Hey?” she says. “What’s going on?

  He pushes past her, bumping her shoulder and spilling the drink she’s holding out to him. “Jesus Christ, knock me over, why don’t you?” she says. She looks out into the hallway, then turns back to me. “Where’s he going?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Andrew Oh

  I start the car. Back out, almost hitting a Porsche with New York plates. To tell you the truth, Donny and I never got along too much. But Annie and me? We were close. She used to hang all over me. There’s a fire in my head, and I know just exactly how to put it out. I pull onto the road and gun it. He said he came in on the downtown bus, so that must be where he’s . . . Can I kiss the bride? Jesus Christ, no wonder she freaked. Where are you, motherfucker? You think you got away with it? Guess again.

  I pass the golf course. I was up there with her for what? Fifteen minutes? He can’t have gotten much farther. He told me to touch it, kiss it. . . . You think you can just show up, you sick fuck? Ruin her big day and then crawl back into whatever sewer you crawled out of? Well, you can’t, scumbag. And when I find you, payback’s gonna be a bitch. . . .

  I can feel her hands on my back at the top of the stairs that day. . . . See her in the kitchen, coming at me with that mallet. The blood’s pounding in my head. Slow down, asshole! You get pulled over and that piece of crap’s going to get an even bigger jump on you. Get away again. I relax my grip on the wheel, flex my fingers. Swivel my head back and forth to loosen the muscles in my neck. I’m past the wooded area now, heading into the more residential stretch. How the hell could he have gotten this far? Did I miss him? Did he see me coming and—No! He didn’t head back toward the bus station. He went the other way.

  I hit the brakes, pull hard to the left. Just miss a tree making the U-turn. Drive off in the opposite direction.

  I shoot past the golf course again, then Bella Linda. They must be eating lunch now. And she’s up there missing her own . . . I can’t stop seeing her face. She wouldn’t stop screaming. I was watching them try to pull my mother onto the roof and then . . . And that sick fuck uses it against her. Makes it their little secret so that he can—Deer!

  I slam the brake and the seat belt holds back my forward thrust. In the state I’m in, I’m lucky I remembered to put it on. I catch my breath. Stare after the goddamned deer as it disappears into the woods on the other side of the road. Jesus, it bolted out so fast I didn’t—okay, refocus. Find the fucker.

  I drive on, pick up speed again. There’s a curve up ahead. Slow down. Breathe. You wrap this car around a tree and—wait! There’s someone. Up ahead, walking along the side of the road. Is it . . . ? Yeah, that’s him! I stomp on the gas pedal and aim for him, closing the distance between us. But when he looks back and sees it’s me, he takes off into the woods. Yeah, you’d better run, you fucking coward. Because when I catch you . . . I bump onto the side of the road and slam it in park. Jump out and take off after him.

  Where is he? Which way did he go? I stop. Look around. Then I hear leaves crunching, up ahead on the right. “Hey!”

  He’s fast for his age, but I’m faster, younger. He zigzags around rocks and tree stumps. Runs up a hill. When he reaches the top, he looks back and shouts over his shoulder, “Stay away from me!” He’s scared. I can hear it in his voice. Good. He should be scared, because once I . . .

  I take the hill, spot him again, running down the other side. The undergrowth is getting thicker, the ground’s more mucky. Brambles keep pulling at my pant legs. But he’s slowing down, too. Must be getting winded by now. Not me. I’m pumped on pure adrenaline.

  I’m maybe fifty feet behind him when my shoe gets hooked on a rock and I flop face-first against the wet ground. But I’m up a second or two later and after him again. He looks back and starts shouting some bullshit about how he didn’t even know what he was doing. “I was just a mixed-up kid!” He was a kid? He was? It pisses me off even more. Turbocharges me. Thirty feet behind him, twenty, ten. When I’m within reach, I fly at him. Grab him by the shoulders. Take him down and fall on top of him.

  Motherfucker fights back. Pushes me off of him, gets back on his feet and lunges. When he head-bumps me, I try for a headlock but can’t get the right grip. He goes for my face. Jams a finger inside my mouth, between my cheek and my teeth, and yanks hard. Hurts like a motherfucker! I try to bite his finger but I can’t. His thumb comes at my eye, but I bat it away. Grab him by the wrist. He yanks it back, gets off of me. Tries to take off, but I grab on to his ankle and take him down again. Pin him with an old wrestling move and flip him onto his back. Get on top of him and grab him by the sides of his head. That one eye’s looking up at me, crazy scared. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll press charges, and don’t think I won’t.” Yeah? You think that’s going to stop me? “It was her who started it! Crawling up on my lap and—”

  “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

  “No, listen to me! You think these little kids are innocent? They’re not. They want it just as much as—”

  That’s what throws me over the edge: him saying that. His head’s in my hands and the jagged rock sticking out of the ground next to him seems like a gift from God. I slam his head against it. Once, twice. How does that feel, motherfucker? Not sure? Here. Have some more. And what I’m doing feels right and good. Feels fucking euphoric. . . .

  The next several seconds are a blur, but he’s finally stopped resisting. The fight’s gone out of him. I stumble onto my feet, coughing, trying to catch my breath. When I look down, his head’s flopped to the side of the rock. There’s blood and hair on it. That eye patch is riding up on his forehead. He’s staring up at me with his one bugged-out eye and
there’s a hole where the other one’s supposed to be. I look away. Start walking deeper into the woods—slowly at first, then faster. Then I’m running away from him. From what I’ve done.

  I don’t know how much time passes. Time enough for my breathing to slow down and the blood to stop pounding in my head. My body’s soaked in sweat. The inside of my mouth where he clawed at it hurts like a son of a bitch. His blood’s on the palms of my hands, my shirt cuffs, the sleeves of my jacket. He wasn’t moving when I got up. He’s probably concussed. Or maybe he was just playing possum. I start back there because I’d better find out.

  Except I can’t find him. Did I miss him? Veer too far to the left? Or did he get up? Get away? . . . No, there he is. And there’s the rock. He hasn’t moved. I stand there, about ten feet away from him still, afraid to approach. Afraid that I’ve . . . But I have to. I stare down at my feet, watch them walk toward him.

  Without looking at his face, I squat down next to him. Grab his wrist and check for a pulse. It’s faint, but I feel one. At least I think I do. He’s got vitals, needs medical attention. I’m a nurse, aren’t I? Whatever this is going to cost me, I’ve got to get him some help. I grab him under the arms and sit him up. Hoist him over my shoulder and, heaving, teetering, manage to stand up. I wait a couple of seconds and then start lugging him back toward the car.

  He feels light at first. Probably doesn’t weigh more than 150. That’s nothing compared to what I lift at the gym. But he gets heavier with every step, and the ground’s uneven and pitchy. I have to keep my knees from buckling. I can feel his head bumping against the small of my back. His blood must be staining my uniform. The woods are quiet. No breeze, no birds. Just my footsteps crunching the dead leaves.

  I hear my car before I see it. The engine, the radio. I stand at the clearing when the car comes into view. Can’t just march out there. Someone could see me and stop. Or call the cops. The driver’s side door’s gaping open, and the radio’s playing that Fine Young Cannibals song. She drives me crazy, and I can’t help myself. . . . My mind ricochets back to when I was driving him over to the wedding—when I put on the radio because our conversation had died and the silence was making me uncomfortable. If I hadn’t gone back for those rings, none of this would have ever happened. He would have rung the bell, waited a while, and then left. We wouldn’t have even known he’d been there. But I did go back, and now the bottom’s dropped out of everything. No cars coming either way. It’s just me and him. I step out of the woods and lug him toward the car.

  Get the back door open. Slide him off my shoulder and lay him facedown across the seat. God, that gash on the back of his head is ugly. Blunt force trauma. Brain damage, maybe. Jesus.

  I get in the front. Close my door, click my seat belt and pull back onto the road. Got to get him to the hospital. I felt a pulse. I’m going to be in big trouble if he dies on me. . . . Rage-fueled temporary insanity. But there were extenuating circumstances. Look what I had just found out. And so what if he ends up with a TBI? After what he did to her? Then he lays low all these years? Shows up out of the blue? He’s lucky he’s got a pulse, for Christ’s sake. . . . For Christ’s sake. I hear Casey-Lee’s voice. Pray, Andrew. Pray to Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I nod. That’s what I’ll do. Driving along, I speak the words out loud. “Have mercy on him, Jesus. Let him survive. And if it’s Your will, have mercy on me, too. Please, Jesus? Forgive me my anger, my trespasses.”

  But there must be a part of me that knows he’s dead back there—that that pulse I felt was wishful thinking—because when I see where I am, I realize that I haven’t driven to the hospital after all. I’ve driven home. I take the turn and start up Jailhouse Hill.

  When I reach our house, I pull into the driveway. But instead of stopping at the end, I keep going. Drive across the backyard and start down the rutted path out back. Approaching a deep pothole, I brake too hard, too late, and hear the clunk in the back. He’s fallen off the seat and onto the floor. Forgive me, Jesus. Please forgive me.

  When I get to the brook on this side of the old cottage, I cut the motor. Get out. Hoist him off the floor and back onto the seat. The blood on the back of his head has clotted. Caked up in his hair. I shift the body. His face is gray. His hand is cold to the touch. Thou shalt not kill. . . .

  I leave him there, hop the brook, and walk over to the well. Stare at the granite slab that covers it. What’s my alternative? Turn myself in? Spend the rest of my life stuck in a prison cell when I could be at the hospital helping people? And what about my parents? My sisters? I wouldn’t be the only one suffering if they put me away. Hasn’t Mom been through enough? And hasn’t Dad? A wife who left him, a son in prison. Should I do this? Can I live with myself if I do?

  The slab’s even heavier than I figured, but on the second try I manage to lift one end of it enough to jockey it away from the opening. I stare down into the darkness, unable to see the bottom. It’s like those black holes I read about: those regions of space-time with a gravitational pull so intense that nothing that gets sucked in ever escapes. I can’t escape the fact that I killed him—it’s a done deal that I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life—but why would anyone think to look out here? And who would be looking for him? Does he have a wife or a girlfriend? Kids? A buddy who would miss him? Maybe, maybe not. If he had to take a bus here, he doesn’t even own a car. And he looked down-and-out. Maybe he was just a drifter, a loner. The only thing I really know about him is what he did to Mom all those years ago. . . .

  I pick up a stone. Toss it in and listen to the plunk. I thought maybe it had gone dry, but it hasn’t. What is it? Seven feet deep, maybe? Eight? And the opening’s at least two feet wide. That ought to be enough. It’s not like he’s broad-shouldered. But what if they do trace it back to me? Haul me in for questioning? But why would they? Just because he’s gone missing doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it. . . . And maybe you can find out on the Internet how to beat a polygraph. Everything else is on there. Why not that? And anyway, they’re not even admissible. Are they? . . . Vengeance is mine sayeth The Lord. I’m already damned for what I’ve done. I’ll pay for it in the next world if I don’t in this one.

  I go back to the car. Lift the body and carry it in my arms, across the brook and then over to the well. I raise him feet first over the hole and let go. One of his shoulders clears the opening, but the other one doesn’t. He’s hanging there, crooked and stuck. Okay, Andrew, here’s your last chance. You can pull him out again—face up to what you did. Get hauled off to prison. Or not. I stand there, thinking about it, trying to decide. Then I reach down, push on his shoulder. The body drops down with a splash. No going back on my decision now. It’s done.

  It’s a burial, in a way. His mother brought him into the world and I took him out of it. So maybe I should pray for him, pray for his soul. Except what good would that do him, coming from his killer? Having the guy who bashed in his head stand here and ask Jesus for His Heavenly Mercy. Like I said, I’m damned now. Doomed. From water he came, and to water I’ve just returned him: prayer-wise, that’s about all I can come up with.

  My uniform: it’s evidence. And so’s his bag of clothes on the front-seat floor—the ones he took off when he changed into my suit. I’ve got to get rid of this stuff. Buy another uniform at the PX when I get back to Texas. I slip off my shoes, pull off my socks. Get out of my uniform and rip away the identifying rank, ribbons, and badges. Drop my skivvies. There’s no blood on them, but everything I was wearing when I did it is tainted. Everything. I stuff my bloodstained, dirt-caked clothes in there with him. My socks and mud-caked shoes, sopping wet from the brook. His bag of clothes. Then, butt-naked, I struggle the slab back over the well. It takes all the energy I have left. . . .

  I walk back to the car and, instead of getting in, stand there, leaning against it, feeling the rapid beating of my heart. My heart’s revving, but his has stopped because I stopped it. What if they did trace his disappearance back to me? Would t
hey think to look out here? Uncover the well and . . . ? I’ve got to think this through. Cover up my tracks better than this. That’s what murderers do, isn’t it? Commit the crime, then cover it up? But I’m going to need more time. Maybe what I can do is call my CO and tell him I’ve got a family emergency. Get my leave extended. Dad’s up there on the Cape, and Mom and my sisters will have taken off by tomorrow. I’m going to have to hold it together until then. There’s plenty of rocks out here—that broken-down old stone wall some farmer had put up way back when. I can gather up those rocks and drop them down there. Fill up the shaft as best I can, then come back here with some bags of Sakrete. Mix it, pour it in there, and plug up the well—cement in the evidence. . . . Jesus Christ, I’ve murdered a man. I’m a murderer. Out of nowhere, I hear the voice of that guy in group when I was in training at Sam Houston—the young private who was torn up with guilt over what he’d done over there in Kandahar. Kicked in the door of that apartment and fired on what he thought was Al-Qaeda, then realized it was a mother and her kids. Did I kill them or murder them? What would you call it? . . . I hear another voice—that Vietnam vet who’d pickled himself in alcohol. At first, he didn’t want me to work with him, but later on he started trusting me, telling me what it was like back then. There was this chant they had us say when we were in boot camp. “War is murder, and murder is fun!” And you know something? It was fun. I enjoyed wasting those villagers. It was as good as sex. But then after the rush . . . Now I know what he meant. The rush, the discharge. Those sweet few seconds of calm after the rage spilled out of me. And then it’s over, just like he said. You come back down from the high, get up, and deal with the aftermath—clean up the mess you’ve made. . . .

  I’d better go back up to the house. Get showered and dressed before they come back. The last thing I’d need is to drive up from back here and walk into the house naked with his blood on my hands.