Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  They stood in the driveway, not knowing what to say. He thought about asking her why she had to go, but if she’d wanted him to know she’d have told him. He didn’t want to kiss her or hug her or even say anything. There were only the pale green eyes and the almost-pretty face gone slack, her small hands shredding a Kleenex. Finally, she stepped in close and put her forehead against his chest. He wondered if she could hear his heart, which he thought at any moment might stop beating.

  “Take Ruffin,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Take the dog. Take him with you.”

  “I can’t. He’s yours.”

  “I want you to take him,” he insisted. “You have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I’ll know you’re safe.” Her eyes were wet and so were his. She opened the car door.

  “Come on, Ruff.” Without a moment’s hesitation the dog jumped in. She got in herself, then she backed out of the driveway and drove off, not looking at him as she went past, the dog with his head out of the window, tongue flapping, happy as could be.

  Isaiah didn’t move, hoping if he stayed there long enough he’d see her coming back. He went inside, sat in the easy chair, and thought of nothing until dark, the house so empty it might have been abandoned. He put some kibble into Ruffin’s food bowl and left it there. He stayed in the house for the next several days, hardly eating or drinking but checking his emails and texts every fifteen minutes. Sarah had given him fifty thousand dollars and the same amount to Dodson, but he didn’t care. He knew Grace had gone to New Mexico to be with her mother but ruled out going after her. That was understood, but why Grace had to end the relationship was a total mystery.

  After a week, he knew he wouldn’t hear from her and he tried to go about his business. He went to visit Dodson.

  “I’m still upset with you, Isaiah,” Cherise said. “You almost got my husband killed.”

  “I’m very upset with myself. I’m sorry, Cherise.”

  “Tell me it won’t happen again.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  Gloria came in. “Is this him? Well, you don’t look that smart to me.”

  “I’m not,” Isaiah said.

  “Well,” she huffed. “Anybody who takes Juanell on for a partner must have something wrong with him.”

  Dodson was lying in bed, shoulder bound up, his arm in a sling.

  “Cherise is upset,” Isaiah said.

  “Yeah,” Dodson said. “She was ready to kill both of us ’til I showed her Sarah’s money. She wanted to give it back but I said we could make a big donation to the church and send Gloria on a cruise to the Bahamas or outer space.” An awkward moment passed while the eight-hundred-pound gorilla came in and sat down. “The partnership,” Dodson said. “It ain’t working out, is it?”

  “It is for me,” Isaiah said sincerely. “I wouldn’t have made it through if it wasn’t for you.”

  “True enough. But I can’t put Cherise through that again and you can do your own books.” Dodson shook his head. “I can’t bring in big cases any more than you can. I’m sorry I told you that.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “But the main thing is, I gotta be my own boss and so do you.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Isaiah said.

  “I’ll be around,” Dodson said. “If you need me, pick up the phone.”

  He heard about Seb’s death but felt nothing. Not victorious or relieved or glad. Nothing. And none of it mattered anyway. Marcus was still gone. Isaiah’s hate had gained him exactly nothing. He divvied up his share of Sarah’s money. He gave some to Harry Haldeman at the animal shelter. He gave some to TK and the senior center at McClarin Park and he bought Louella Barnes a new pair of glasses and he gave some to Beaumont for remodeling his store. He put a big chunk into Flaco’s college fund and he bought the Carver Middle School Science Club new laptops. He bought himself a new pair of Nikes and another Harvard cap and he installed better speakers in the Audi. He went to a physical therapist and an acupuncturist to help heal his injuries. He worked his cases. Someone stole all the tools out of Néstor’s plumbing truck. Mrs. Wheeler’s niece had run away from home. Chaco was into drugs and failing all his classes. Maynard White got scammed out of three thousand dollars by a man who claimed he was his grandson. Isaiah didn’t find the man but he said he did and gave Maynard his money back.

  He had terrible nightmares that left him gasping, his sheets tangled and drenched with sweat. He was screaming, his mouth full of dirt. His arms were cut off and flopping around on the ground. His eyes were missing. And despite all his professional caution and watchfulness, he didn’t feel safe anymore. He couldn’t imagine what full-on PTSD was like. Living hell must be an understatement. His loneliness was paralyzing. He hadn’t felt this isolated since the days after Marcus had died. It was the same thing, really. Something inside you killed by a hit-and-run.

  The house was regressing. The lawn hadn’t been cut in weeks. He went into the garage to get the lawn mower and stopped in disbelief. The Mustang was there. He stared at it for a long time. Then he got in the car and thought about Grace and her dad, racing joyfully through the streets of San Francisco. There was no note. Only empty quiet. Only loss and grief and yearning. Isaiah put his hands over his face and cried until he couldn’t cry anymore; for Grace, for himself, for a world so full of pain and sorrow and wickedness.

  It was three months later when he got the letter, postmarked Santa Fe, New Mexico. He almost ripped it open but took it inside, afraid people might see his reactions. It was written in a firm, artful hand on nice stationery. In the top right corner, there was a tiny drawing of a beach, a smile of foam breakers around the bay.

  Dear Isaiah,

  I hope you are well. I’m with Mom and we’re getting to know each other again. It is wonderful but strange to say the least, saying things we’ve held in for ten years. She’s incredibly strong and courageous. How she survived is a miracle. She was traumatized by what happened with Walczak. Arthur too. Not so much physically as emotionally. Arthur goes for long walks in the desert, smokes a lot of weed, and watches TV, which he never did before. Cameron quit the bookstore and went to live with his parents. All Mom can talk about was how she had no choice but to fire the flamethrower. “You were there, Grace, you saw what happened,” she tells me over and over again. “I had to. I had to,” and then she’ll break down and weep. They haven’t touched the money. I’m sorry to say your dog doesn’t seem to miss you. Ruff loves romping around in the desert. He met a kangaroo rat the other day and promptly ran back into the house. He ignores Arthur’s Lab, Gusto. I think it’s beneath him.

  I’m stalling, of course. I know you’ve figured it out by now. Mom didn’t shoot Kyle Munson, I did. After the home invasion, he was the main suspect and I couldn’t stand that he was alive and my dad was dead. I got one of my dad’s guns and went over to Munson’s. He was in his garage doing something with his car. It was a little after eleven. He knew me so he smiled and asked what I was doing out so late. I said you killed my dad and I shot him. I remember the sound was deafening and the gun nearly jumped out of my hand. After that, everything was a blur. Cops, sirens, people asking me where Mom was. She knew instantly that I had done it and fled to make herself seem guilty. There’s more to the story, but that doesn’t matter now, except to say, some illusions are better left alone.

  I’ve carried around a burden of guilt since I was fifteen years old. Not only had I killed an innocent man, but I’d let my mother take the blame. I retreated into my art, afraid my shameful secrets would be exposed. And afraid of myself. I had killed. I was dangerous. It’s not rational, I know. It seems like something you could talk yourself out of, but it’s like trying to talk yourself out of your nationality or that you’re a woman. The violence defines you, changes who you are, and I am a killer. I’ve said that to myself a million times. That’s why I’ve never let anyone get close, and that’s why I had to leave.

&n
bsp; I’m seeing a therapist. She is wise and very smart. I’ve learned it doesn’t matter which end of the violence you’re on. Whether you’ve hurt someone or someone’s hurt you, it’s both of you who suffer. The therapist says I’m making progress, but I’ve still got a lot of work to do. It’s hard to change who you are when you’ve been that way for so long. I don’t have any plans really, except to paint and get better. I hope to come back someday. I realize you can’t wait for me but know that the memories of us are safely tucked away, and you—kind and wonderful Isaiah—are always in my heart.

  Your

  Grace

  Isaiah folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. He hadn’t realized Grace had killed Kyle Munson until that night when they first made love. He was in the bedroom, packing things in a duffel bag. He could see the painting even though the lights were off. The black stump of the fatal gunshot, its malignant tendrils infecting the blue-sky life she would never have, the tormented swirls of grays and browns and the terrible fracture where she’d split in two, the artist on one side, the killer on the other. His interpretation might have been a flight of fancy, or maybe she intended something else or nothing at all, but that was how he would always see it. Whether she knew it or not, Grace had painted her sadness. He went out in the backyard, sat on the stoop, and read the letter again.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

  Acknowledgments

  MY THANKS TO:

  Abby Fairbrother for her enthusiastic and much needed assistance with my books, social media, scheduling, and pretty much everything else. Stasha Fassbender for her keen insights into many aspects of the story. Elyse Dinh-McCrillis for her kindness, advice, and unique knowledge of the book world. Hap Tivey—artist, life doctor, and Buddhist raconteur. The sales staff at Little, Brown: I am here because they are there. Production editor Ben Allen and copyeditor Barbara Perris, the most exacting, patient people in America. Craig Young for his musical expertise, pink socks, and all-around good-guyness. Esther Newberg and Zoe Sandler—my protectors, advocates, and educators. They are the absolute best at what they do. Reagan Arthur for her breathtaking faith in me. I am in awe of her except for the alarming lack of pork in her diet.

  I am especially grateful to Pamela Brown, Sabrina Callahan, Nicky Guerreiro, and Alyssa Persons. It’s almost impossible to put a new writer before the public in any meaningful way, and yet here I am, writing acknowledgments for my third book. They are consummate professionals and the best kind of people and I am better for having known them. And to my wife, Diane. Her love is everything.

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  About the Author

  Joe Ide grew up in South Central Los Angeles. His favorite books were the Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes stories. He held a variety of different jobs—including Hollywood screenwriter—before writing IQ, which went on to win the Anthony, Macavity, and Shamus awards for best debut novel. Ide lives in Santa Monica, California. Visit his website at joeide.com, or follow him on Twitter @joeidetweets.

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