The Bleeding Season

by Greg F. Gifune

  “Me either.” Donald threw the napkin aside. “I should’ve called him back sooner, I—”

  “Don’t do that to yourself, man.” Rick cracked his knuckles with a loud pop; a nervous habit he’d possessed since childhood. “This ain’t our fault. Bernard had some hard times—just like the rest of us—and he made a decision. That’s it.”

  I sipped my coffee. “Why would he do it? Jesus, why would he—”

  “Fucking cowardly if you ask me.”

  Donald glared at him. “No one asked.”

  “He didn’t even have the balls to leave a note.”

  Donald crushed his cigarette in a small glass ashtray and slid it away with disgust. “Sometimes you are such an asshole. Do you think maybe we could mourn for a while before you start passing your usual lofty judgements? Don’t we owe him that much?”

  “We were his friends. We’re like brothers. He should’ve come to us if it got that bad. He should’ve—”

  “Did he call you in the two weeks since you saw him last? Did he? He called me. I know he called Alan, did he call you too, Rick? Did he?”

  “I never called him back either,” I admitted. “I kept meaning to but…”

  Rick took a gulp of coffee and returned the mug to the table with a violent slam. “Fuck this. Things got tough and Bernard checked out. He took the easy way out, man, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “The easy way,” Donald said through a mock chuckle. “Is there such a thing?”

  I reached across the table, grabbed Donald’s pack of cigarettes and shook one free. I’d quit a few months prior, but now, recognizing a stressful and sorrowful time, the addiction was beckoning, calling to me once again. I rolled the cigarette between my fingers. “If we’re going to do this let’s get it the hell over with.”

  “You don’t need that.” Rick reached across the table, snatched the cigarette and crushed it in his hand. “Took you months to quit, why blow it now?”

  Donald’s jaw dropped. “Yeah, crush the whole pack, it’s not like I have to pay for them or anything.”

  “Like I give a shit. Those things are killing us.” Rick opened his hand, emptied the torn paper and loose tobacco onto the table then scrambled out of the booth. “Come on.” He dug a wad of bills from his pocket, peeled off a few singles and tossed them over the mess he’d made. “We’ll take my Jeep.”

  * * *

  Rain drummed the roof, struggled with the squealing cadence of windshield wipers for attention. The interior of Rick’s Jeep Cherokee was neurotically immaculate, and since he didn’t allow smoking, Donald, who was already fidgeting about in back, leaned forward and poked his head between the bucket seats. “What the hell is he doing in there?”

  I squinted through the blurred window. “Looks like he’s talking with the attendant.”

  “Christ, pay for the gas and get on with it.” Donald sat back and crossed his legs, jeans squeaking against leather. “Sometimes, Alan, I could strangle the bastard.”

  “It’s just Rick’s way. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Well I’m getting tired of Rick’s way. God forbid he shows any emotion other than happiness or anger. Wouldn’t be sufficiently butch, apparently.”

  I adjusted my position so I could look into the back. “That’s Rick, always has been, always will be. He’s as torn up over this as we are, he’ll just never show it.”

  “Just like when Tommy died. The sonofabitch never shed a tear,” Donald said in an almost absent tone. “It doesn’t surprise me two of us ended up dead before we hit forty, only which two. I never thought I’d outlive any of you. Makes you wonder if life isn’t arbitrary after all.”

  “Maybe you’re just indestructible, you miserable prick.”

  Our eyes met, and somewhere behind the bloodshot roadmaps and dark circles I caught a glimpse of the past in Donald’s expression, one of impish humor and biting exuberance, his trademark in years past, before the booze, before the darkness.

  It seemed an inappropriate time for laughter, but we laughed anyway.

  It faded quickly; absorbed by the din of a relentless rain.

  * * *

  The grating voice of a local sportscaster droned from the car stereo. The Bruins were struggling for a playoff spot and had lost the night before. Normally I would have been interested, but I focused instead on the hiss of tires against wet pavement and the fast-approaching cityscape of New Bedford.

  “Fucking Bruins,” Rick moaned. “You ask me, they need to goon it up, drop the gloves and throw some fists. All these fucking do-gooders are ruining the game.”

  I turned from the window long enough to glance at him and offer a quick nod, hopeful he would take my cue and be quiet before Donald let loose on him.

  “It’s even changed at the high school level,” Rick said. “Shit, when we played we got the job done—and we played like fucking men. Remember the game against—”

  “If I give you a dollar,” Donald said from the back, “will you stop talking?”

  Rick grinned. “You’re just jealous because you never played.”

  “Yes, positively green with envy.”

  “Sure, make jokes, you know it’s true.”

  “Can we talk about something else?” I said quickly.

  Donald scoffed. “How about nothing at all?”

  Rick tightened his grip on the wheel and decreased speed as we left the highway and veered along the Downtown New Bedford Exit. “Same thing with football,” he said. “I was one of the best players our school ever had, but you always made it out like it was no big deal. Guys like you always do, because you got no talent for it.”

  “Guys like me. Interesting.”

  “You know what I mean, don’t go getting all politically correct on me.”

  Donald poked his head between the seats. “I’m glad you found such satisfaction in playing your games, Rick, really I am. But you’re pushing forty, maybe it’s time to focus on something a tad more adult.”

  “You’re just bitter. All that fancy bullshit—books and classical music and all that poof-poof crap—none of it mattered in the long run. You can recite a poem some guy wrote a hundred fucking years ago, and you know all about plays and paintings and all that crap. So what? You ended up ditching college and living in Potter’s Cove working a regular job just like the rest of us. At least I got—”

  “Both of you just shut the fuck up, all right?”

  Donald disappeared into the back and Rick looked at me with genuine surprise. I turned away but heard him mutter something unintelligible, and from the corner of my eye saw him shake his head.

  We headed into the south end of the city, one of the rougher areas of New Bedford. Even in such weather, the streets seemed unusually empty, the city unnaturally quiet, as if in anticipation of our arrival.

  “Nice neighborhood,” I mumbled.

  “Fucking shit-bin.”

  “As Melville said, ‘Such dreary streets’,” Donald offered quietly. “Such a historically significant city, such decent, diverse, hard-working people, yet still so dreary in some parts. I wonder what Herman would think of her now.”

  “Drugs, that’s the goddamn problem,” Rick said, turning onto a side street. “Drugs are ruining this country, and let me tell you—”

  “Is there anything you don’t have an opinion on?” Donald asked. “The city’s been on the rise for quite some time now.”

  “I got your rise right here, swinging.” The Jeep slowed and Rick pulled over into the only vacant space, a spot near the top of the block. The narrow street consisted of two-story tenements with tiny fenced-in yards and side driveways. Most were dilapidated and in various stages of disrepair, and even bathed in steady rain, strewn garbage and assorted filth defiantly clogged gutters and stained sidewalks. It seemed darker here; as if night had not yet fully released the city like it had the outskirts and beyond, as if the dreary streets Melville had written about in Moby Dick could still be conjured more than 150 years lat
er. Rick pointed over my shoulder. “That’s it.”

  The building stood on the corner; the front yard cordoned off by a rusted chain-link fence, the tiny section of grass beyond unkempt, cluttered with toys and other debris. I felt my stomach clench as I noticed a small window along the base of the tenement. Somewhere on the other side of that grimy pane of glass one of my best friends had lived out the final days of his life and eventually killed himself. My eyes shifted to the windows on the first floor. One facing the street was filled with light.

  How could anyone continue to live there after what Bernard had done?

  I tried to picture him walking this block, moving through the rickety gate and going inside. I tried to picture him alive here, but all I could see, all I could sense, was death.

  “Let’s go.”

  Rick’s gruff tone snapped me back, and I was out of the Jeep and standing in the rain before I’d even thought about it. Donald, looking nauseous and pale, stepped out just as Rick rounded the front of the vehicle and set the alarm with a push of a button on his key chain. We all stood there a moment, watching the building like children staring down the local haunted house.

  The next street over emptied into an enormous vacant and weed-infested lot, beyond which loomed one of the more infamous housing projects the city had to offer. I vaguely remembered cruising that project nearly two decades before while still in high school, searching for a quick pot buy before heading off to a party in nearby Westport.

  This seemed like another life entirely, and maybe it was.

  “OK,” I heard Donald say through a lengthy sigh. “Let me do the talking.”

  With Donald in the lead we moved through the gate and huddled near the front door. I could sense the ocean nearby, its smells and sounds and physical presence always evident, watching and whispering reminders that it was still the pulse of the city, and like an audacious child, it would not be ignored. Despite having lived my entire life within walking distance of the Atlantic Ocean, I was reminded how oddly uncomfortable it made me. Like the living thing it is, the sea had always seemed ominous and threatening to me, a malevolent sentry eager to swallow me whole if only given the chance. The idea of drowning, of dying at sea was terrifying, and unlike most residents of southeastern Massachusetts, I was not an avid swimmer, only set foot on a boat if I absolutely had to, and wouldn’t eat seafood with a gun to my head. The ocean had always been something I found fascinating but beautiful only in a fatalistic sense—much the way a tornado or a particularly violent storm could be beautiful—that by its very nature and power its magnificence was inherent. But it was also something I wanted to experience only from a comfortable and presumably safe distance. Living here meant that the ocean was always with you—always close—and even when you couldn’t see or hear or smell it, you could feel it.

  Why I was so focused on the ocean at that point I don’t know, but death was on my mind, sharing space with the first sensations of fear. Beyond the door, somewhere in the bowels of this slowly decaying building, Bernard had died—had been dead—and no matter what was or wasn’t said or done, we were too late.

  Donald rapped on the door and the sound brought me back around. When no one answered, Rick gave it a try and seconds later we heard locks disengaging. I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as the door swung partially open to reveal a tired-looking, slightly overweight woman. Her dark eyes narrowed a bit at the sight of us. From deep within the apartment behind her I heard a child’s voice interspersed with sounds of a television. She stared at us questioningly.

  “Hi there.” Donald forced a smile. “Is Sammy in, by any chance?”

  The woman nodded, held up a finger then closed the door.

  “The bitch even speak English?” Rick mumbled.

  Before Donald could argue with him or I could tell them both to knock it off the door opened a second time, this time fully, and a large man in a tank top and a pair of Dickeys stood before us. With thick and well-muscled arms covered in tattoos, a shock of dark bushy hair and more than a day’s growth of beard, he was imposing and seemed anything but pleased with our presence on his steps. “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry to bother—”

  “What do you want? I know you?”

  From his expression I knew Rick felt challenged and planned to respond. He opened his mouth but Donald spoke before he had the chance. “I’m Donald LaCroix, I spoke with you late last night on the phone.”

  The man relaxed a bit. “Oh, you Bernard’s friend?”

  “Yes, we spoke last night.”

  “Right, right, OK.”

  Donald motioned to Rick and me. “Rick Brisco and Alan Chance.”

  He gave a quick nod, a genuine smile, and shook our hands in turn. “Bernard talked about you guys all the time, come on in out of the rain. Sorry, we don’t get a whole lot of people coming to the door this time of morning, especially on a Saturday. Never know today, right?”

  As he stepped back and let us pass, we all moved into a cramped and dim foyer. An adjacent hallway emptied into a well-lit kitchen near the rear of the building. To our immediate right was a modestly furnished den where two young girls sat in front of a console television eating cereal, and to the left was a closed door I knew without being told led to the basement.

  Sammy closed the door, turned the deadbolt. “So what can I do for you guys?”

  “I apologize for hanging up so abruptly last night,” Donald said, “I was just—well—at any rate, we thought we’d stop by and see if there was anything we could do.”

  “Appreciate that,” he said. “I wanted to call one of you guys but I didn’t know your numbers or nothing, so I figured you’d get a hold of me eventually. There really ain’t nothing left to be done.” He looked into the den. His wife had joined the girls there, and all three seemed preoccupied with the TV. “Like I told you last night,” he continued, “they buried him across town in one of the plots the state puts aside for people who can’t pay. He ain’t got no stone or nothing, but if you go to the office the cemetery workers can show you where he’s at. I feel bad about it and all, I mean I wish I could’ve done more but you guys know how it is. I work two jobs, my old lady works; we got two kids, rent; the car. Money only goes so far every month and funerals are expensive.”

  “No,” Donald said, “please don’t think you have to explain any of this to us, we understand completely. I’m only sorry we couldn’t have helped.”

  Sammy folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “To be honest, I figured the military would take care of everything. If a guy’s a veteran and dies broke they cover the funeral and burial costs—all of it.”

  “Bernard was in the Marines for a year before he got hurt,” I said.

  “That was bullshit.”

  We all stood there silently, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Bernard lied,” he finally said. “They got no record of him. He was never a Marine.”

  “How could that be?” I looked to the others for some sort of confirmation. “He joined up right after we graduated from high school.”

  “That’s what he told you guys but it never really happened.”

  “So how’d he hurt his knee?” Rick asked. “He said he lost his balance on a training platform, wrecked his knee and that’s why he got the early discharge.”

  “He went somewhere for a year,” I said.

  “Well it wasn’t the Marines.” Sammy shrugged. “It’s nuts, I know. I was confused when they told me too. I mean, Bernard always claimed he’d been a Marine, and hey, I don’t mean to disrespect the dead or nothing, but it just wasn’t true—that simple. To be honest, we weren’t all that close. You guys probably knew him a hell of a lot better than we did. Our family is so small, there ain’t many of us left, and I felt bad for Bernard because he didn’t really have anybody, no wife or girlfriend or nothing. It was kind of sad the way he always lived at home, you know? And when Aunt Linda died he was never the same. Bernard was a strange guy, kind of se
cretive, and lots of times I was never sure if he was telling the truth or not. He had problems, you guys know what I mean.”

  I suddenly wondered if we did.

  “When he lost his job things got bad, and by the time the bank took the house he was a mess. Like I say, we weren’t never that close, but he was family, and he was being put out on the street, what could I do? He asked if I’d put him up until he got back on his feet, so I let him move into the cellar.” His eyes again shifted to the den before returning to us. “If I’d known what he was gonna do I never would’ve…I mean, what if one of my kids had found him, you know what I’m saying? Christ.”

  “Well,” Donald said, “we just wanted to stop by to see if there was anything we could do.”

  “That’s real nice of you guys, but it’s over and done with and I just want to move on, you know? The girls,” he said softly, “they don’t even know he died here. It’s bad enough my old lady knows, still freaks her out. Me too, but what can you do?”

  “Did Bernard leave anything behind?” Rick asked suddenly.

  Sammy looked at him without bothering to mask his suspicion. “How do you mean? He didn’t have no money if that’s what you’re asking. I already told you he was broke.”

  “Yeah, I heard you,” Rick answered. “I didn’t mean money, I was just wondering—”

  “The only thing was his car, that old Buick he had, and a duffel bag he had his stuff in when he moved in. The car I sold to a guy at work. Didn’t get much, it was a piece of shit, but it paid for the suit they buried him in anyway. The duffel bag I went through the day after he died but there wasn’t no cash in it. Had all of two bucks in his wallet. I didn’t charge him no rent or nothing, but we’d have him up for dinner when he was around, which wasn’t that much. Still, he needed money for gas and shit, and toward the end he was totally broke. He hit me up a couple times, twenty here, ten there, but I ain’t exactly a bank, right? I got bills.” Sammy turned back to Donald, the pissing contest with Rick apparently over for the moment. “Why, you guys looking for something?”