So, anyway, things went well for awhile…
Until the rainy Sunday midnight the police called and told Mom and Dad they needed to come down to Fallston General right away. Billy had been driven to the Emergency Room by one of his roommates; just an hour earlier he’d been dumped in the street in front of his apartment—a bloody mess. Both hands broken. A couple of ribs. Nose mashed. Left ear shredded. He was lucky to be alive.
We found out the whole story then: it seemed that my baby brother had a problem with gambling. The main problem being that he wasn’t very good at it. He owed some very dangerous people some very significant amounts of money. The beating had been a friendly reminder that his last installment payment had been twelve hours late.
Billy came home from the hospital ten days later. Moved into his old room at home. This time, Mom and Dad got their way without much of an argument. A month or so later, when Billy was feeling up to it, Dad got him a job counting boxes over at the plant. Soon after, he started dating Cindy Lester, a girl from the other side of town. A very sweet girl. And pretty, too. She was just a senior over at the high school—barely eighteen years old—but she seemed to be good for Billy. She wanted to be a lawyer one day, and she spent most of her weeknights studying at the library, her weekends at the movies or the shopping mall with Billy.
One evening, sometime late October, the leaves just beginning to change their colors, Billy stopped by my apartment with a pepperoni pizza and a six-pack of Coors. We popped in an old Clint Eastwood movie and stayed up most of the night talking and laughing. There was no mention of gambling or drugs or Emergency Room visits. Instead, Billy talked about settling down, making a future with Cindy. He talked about finding a better job, maybe taking some classes over at the junior college. Accounting and business courses, just like his big brother. Jesus, it was like a dream come true. I could hardly wait until morning to call the folks and tell them all about it.
To this very day, I can remember saying my prayers that night, thanking God for giving my baby brother another chance.
That night was more than eight years ago.
I haven’t seen him since.
FOUR
I drove slowly across the narrow wooden bridge. Clicked on my high-beams.
There were no other cars in sight.
Just empty road. Dense forest. And a cold December wind.
My foot tapped the brake pedal, and I thought to myself: Hank Foster, you’ve lost your mind. This is crazy. Absolutely crazy.
I reached the far side of the bridge and pulled over to the dirt shoulder. I sat there shivering for a long couple of minutes. Looking up at the rearview mirror. Staring out at the frozen darkness.
I turned the heater up a notch.
Turned off the headlights.
It was 6:17.
I looked at my watch for the tenth time. 6:21.
Jesus, this really was crazy. Waiting in the middle of nowhere for God knows what to happen. Hell, it was more than crazy; it was dangerous. Billy had sounded scared on the phone, maybe even desperate, and he’d said he was in trouble. Those had been his exact words: I’m in some trouble. Even after all this time, I knew the kind of trouble my brother was capable of. So, what in the hell was I doing out here? I had Sarah and the girls to think about now, a business to consider…
Or maybe, just maybe, he had changed. Maybe he had left the old Billy behind those iron bars and a better man had emerged. Maybe he had actually learned a thing or two—
—yeah, and maybe Elvis was still alive and catching rays down on some Mexican beach and the Cubs were gonna win the goddamn World Series.
Nice to imagine, one and all, but not real likely, huh?
I was starting to sweat now. Really sweat. I felt it on my neck. My face. My hands. And I felt it snaking down from my armpits, dribbling across my ribcage. Sticky. Cold and hot at the same time.
I leaned down and turned off the heat. Cracked the window. Inhaled long and deep. The sharp sting of fresh air caught me by surprise, made me dizzy for a moment, and I realized right then and there what was going on: I was scared. Probably more scared than I had ever been in my entire life.
With the window open, I could hear the wind rattling the trees and the creek moving swiftly in the darkness behind me. In the dry months of summer, Hanson Creek was slow-moving and relatively shallow, maybe eight feet at its deepest point. But in the winter, with all the snow run-off, the creek turned fast and mean and unforgiving. Sometimes, after a storm, the water rose so quickly, the police were forced to close down the bridge and detour traffic up north to Route 24. One winter, years ago, it stayed closed for the entire month of January.
The old house where we grew up—where Mom and Dad still live today—was just a short distance north from here. No more than a five minute drive. Back when we were kids, Billy and I walked down here most every morning during the summer. All the neighborhood kids came here. We brought bag lunches and bottles of pop and hid them in the bushes so no one would steal them. Then we swam all day long and held diving contests down at the rope swing. When the weather was too cool to swim, we played war in the woods and built forts made out of rocks and mud and tree branches. Other times, we fished for catfish and carp and the occasional bass or yellow perch. On real lucky days, when it rained hard enough to wear away the soil, we searched for (and usually found) Indian arrowheads wedged in with the tree roots that grew along the creek’s steep banks. We called those rainy days treasure hunts, and took turns acting as “expedition leader.” The creek was a pretty wonderful place.
I thought about all this and wondered if that was the reason Billy had chosen the bridge as a meeting place. Was he feeling sentimental? A little nostalgic, maybe? Probably not; as usual, I was probably giving the bastard too much credit.
Like I told you, I haven’t seen him in more than eight years. Not since that long ago autumn night we spent together talking at my apartment. One week later, Billy just up and disappeared. No note, no message…nothing. Just an empty closet, a missing suitcase, and eighty dollars gone from Mom’s purse.
And to make matters worse, Mr. Lester called the house later that evening and told us that Cindy hadn’t been to school that day—was she with Billy by any chance?
The next morning, Dad called Billy’s probation officer. He wasn’t much help. He told us to sit tight, that maybe Billy would come to his senses. Other than that, there was really nothing we could do but wait.
And so for two weeks, we waited and heard nothing.
Then, on a Sunday afternoon, Mom and Dad sitting out on the front porch reading the newspaper, still dressed in their church clothes, there was a phone call: I know I know it was a stupid thing to do but you see Cindy’s pregnant and scared to death of her father he’s a mean sonofabitch real mean and California is the place to be these days heck we already have jobs and a place to stay and there’s lots of great people out here we’ve got some really nice friends already c’mon please don’t cry Mom please don’t yell Dad we’re doing just fine really we are we’re so much in love and we’re doing just fine…
Six months later, Cindy Lester came home. Alone. While walking back from work one night, she had been raped and beaten in a Los Angeles alley. She’d spent three days in the hospital with severe cuts and bruises. She’d lost her baby during the first night. Cindy told us that she’d begged him over and over again, but Billy had refused to come home with her. So, she’d left him.
Over the next three years, there were exactly seven more phone calls (two begging for money) and three short handwritten letters. The envelopes were postmarked from California, Arizona, and Oregon.
Then, early in the fourth year, the police called. Billy had been arrested in California for drug trafficking. This time, the heavy stuff: cocaine and heroin. Dad hired Billy a decent lawyer, and both he and Mom flew out to the trial and watched as the judge gave Billy seven years in the state penitentiary.
I never went to see him. Not even once. Not at the trial. No
t when Mom and Dad went for their twice-a-year visits. And not when Billy sent the letter asking me to come. I just couldn’t do it.
I didn’t hate him the way Mom and Dad thought I did. Jesus, he was still my baby brother. But he was locked up back there where he belonged, and I was right here where I belonged. We each had our own lives to live.
So no I didn’t hate him. But I couldn’t forgive him, either. Not for what he had done to this family—the heartbreak of two wonderful, loving parents; the complete waste of their hard-earned retirement savings; the shame and embarrassment he brought to all of us—
—bare knuckles rapped against the windshield, and I jumped so hard I hit my head. I also screamed.
I could hear laughing from outside the car, faint in the howling wind, but clear enough to instantly recognize.
It was him, all right.
My baby brother.
Suddenly, a face bent down into view. Smiled.
And I couldn’t help it—I smiled right back.
FIVE
We hugged for a long time. Car door open, engine still running. Both of us standing outside in the cold and the wind. Neither of us saying a word.
We hugged until I could no longer stand the smell of him.
Then, we stopped and sort of stood back and looked at each other.
“Jesus, Billy, I can’t believe it,” I said.
“I know, I know.” He shook his head and smiled. “Neither can I.”
“Now, talk to me. What’s this all about? What kind of trouble are—”
He held up his hand. “In a minute, okay? Lemme just look at you a while longer.”
For the next couple of minutes, we stood there facing each other, shivering in the cold. The Foster boys, together once again.
He was heavier than the last time I’d seen him; maybe fifteen, twenty pounds. And he was shaved bald, a faint shadow of dark stubble showing through. Other than that, he was still the Billy I remembered. Bright blue eyes. Big stupid smile. That rosy-cheeked baby face of his.
“Hey, you like my hair,” he asked, reading my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I said, “who’s your barber?”
“Big black sonofabitch from Texas. Doing life for first-degree murder. Helluva nice guy, though.”
He waited for my response and when I didn’t say anything, he laughed. This time, it sounded harsh and a little mean.
“How’s the folks?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “You know, pretty much the same. They’re doing okay.”
“And Sarah and the girls?”
My heart skipped a beat. An invisible hand reached up from the ground and squeezed my balls.
“Mom and Dad told me all about ’em. Sent me pictures in the mail,” he said.
I opened my mouth, but couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
“They’re twins, right? Let’s see…four years old…Kacy and Katie, if I remember right.”
I sucked in a deep breath. Let it out.
“I bet you didn’t know I carry their picture around in my wallet. The one where they’re sitting on the swings in those fancy little blue dresses—”
“Five,” I said, finally finding my voice.
“Huh?”
“The girls,” I said. “They just turned five. Back in October.”
“Halloween babies, huh? That’s kinda neat. Hey, remember how much fun we used to have trick-or-treatin’? ’Member that time we spent the night out back the old Myer’s House? Camped out in Dad’s old tent. Man, that was a blast.”
I nodded my head. I remembered everything. The costumes we used to make. The scary movies we used to watch, huddled together on the sofa, sharing a glass of soda and a bowl of Mom’s buttered popcorn. All the creepy stories we used to tell each other before bedtime.
Suddenly, I felt sorry for him—standing there in his tattered old clothes, that dumb smile refusing to leave his face, smelling for all the world like a dumpster full of food gone to spoil. I suddenly felt very sorry for him and very guilty for me.
“I didn’t break out, you know,” he said. “They released me two weeks ago. Early parole.”
“Jesus, Billy. That’s great news.”
“I spent a week back in L.A. seeing some friends. Then I hitched a ride back here. Made it all the way to the state line. I walked in from there.”
“I still can’t goddamn believe it. Wait until Mom and Dad see you.”
“That’s one of the things I need to talk to you about, Hank. Why don’t we take a walk and talk for awhile, okay?”
“Sure, Billy,” I said. “Let’s do that.”
So, that’s exactly what we did.
SIX
I still miss him.
It’s been four months now since that morning at the bridge—and not a word.
I read the newspaper every day. Watch the news every night.
And still there’s been nothing.
I think about him all the time now. Much more often than I ever used to. Once or twice a week, I take a drive down to the old bridge. I stand outside the car and watch the creek rushing by, and I think back to the time when we were kids. Back to a time when things were simple and happy.
God, I miss him.
He wanted money. Plain and simple, as always.
First, he tried to lie to me. Said it was for his new “family.” Said he had gotten married two days after he got out of prison. Needed my help getting back on his feet.
But I didn’t fall for it.
So, then he told me the truth. Or something close to it, anyway. There was this guy, an old friend from up around San Francisco. And Billy owed him some big bucks for an old drug deal gone bad. Right around thirty grand. If he didn’t come up with the cash, this old friend was gonna track him down and slit his throat.
So, how about a little help, big brother?
Sorry, I told him. No can do. I’d like to help out, but I’ve got a family now. A mortgage. My own business barely keeping its head above water. Really sorry. Can’t help you.
So, then he started crying—and begging me.
And when that didn’t work, he got pissed off.
His eyes went cold and distant; his voice got louder.
He said: “Okay that’s fine. I’ll just hit up the old man and the old lady. They’ll help me out. Damn right they will. And if they don’t have enough cash, well, there are always other ways I can persuade you to help me, big brother. Yes, sir, I can be mighty persuasive when I put my mind to it…
“Let’s start by talking about that store of yours, Hank—you’re paid up on all your insurance, aren’t you? I mean, you got fire coverage and all that stuff, right? Jeez, I’d hate to see something bad happen when you’re just starting out. And how about Sarah? She still working over at that bank Mom and Dad told me about? That’s a pretty dangerous job, ain’t it? Working with all that money. Especially for a woman. And, oh yeah, by the way, what school do the girls go to? Evansville? Or are you busing them over to that private school, what’s it called again?”
I stabbed him then.
We were standing near the middle of the bridge. Leaning against the thick wooden railing, looking down at the water.
And when he said those things, I took out the steak knife—which had been sitting on the kitchen counter right next to where I’d found my car keys—I took it out from my coat pocket, and I held it in both of my hands and brought it down hard in the back of his neck.
He cried out once—not very loud—and dropped to his knees.
And then there was only the flash of the blade as I stabbed him over and over again…
Last night, it finally happened. Sarah confronted me.
We were alone in the house. The girls were spending the night at their grandparents’—they do this once a month and absolutely love it.
After dinner, she took me downstairs to the den and closed the door. Sat me down on the sofa and stood right in front of me. She told me I looked a mess. I wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating
. Either I tell her right now what was going on or she was leaving.
She was serious, too. I think she was convinced I was having an affair.
So, I told her.
Everything—starting with the phone call and ending with me dumping Billy’s body into the creek.
When I was finished, she ran from the room crying. She made it upstairs to the bathroom, where she dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and got sick. When she was done, she asked me very calmly to go back downstairs and leave her alone for awhile. I agreed. What else could I do?
An hour or so later, she came down and found me out in the backyard looking up at the moon and the stars. She ran to me and hugged me so tight I could barely breathe and then she started crying again. We hugged for a long time, until the tears finally stopped, and then she held my face in her hands and told me that she understood how difficult it had been for me, how horrible it must have felt, but that it was all over now and that I had done the right thing. No matter what, that was the important thing to remember, she kept saying—I had done the right thing.
Then we were hugging again and both of us were crying.
When we finally went inside, we called the girls and took turns saying goodnight. Then we went to bed and made love until we both fell asleep.
Later that night, the moon shining silver and bright through the bedroom window, Sarah woke from a nightmare, her skin glistening with sweat, her voice soft and frightened. She played with my hair and asked: “What if someone finds him, Hank? A fisherman? Some kids? What if someone finds him and recognizes him?”
I put a finger to her lips and ssshed her. Put my arms around her and held her close to me. I told her everything was going to be okay. No one would find him. And even if they did, they would never be able to identify him.
“Are you sure they won’t recognize him?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely positive,” I said, stroking her neck. “Not after all this time. Not after he’s been in the water for this long.”
A Long December Page 2