Unreliable

by Lee Irby

  “As soon as I know something, I’ll tell you. I’ll call him right now and clear this all up.”

  “You can tell me, Eddie! If you need help, we’ll get you the best lawyer!”

  I hate upsetting my mother. Her approval was something I always sought growing up, and whenever she expressed even mild disappointment, I’d feel horrible shame, which is the psychological motive for murdering Bev if in fact she’s dead, which she isn’t. Still, my mommy issues do sound plausible and could explain away most of my transgressions. Maybe I’ll drop by a local police precinct and confess, thereby saving Detective Voss the trouble of having to find me and employing CIA-approved interrogation techniques to coax the truth out of me. As I’ve stated many times already, no one wants to come clean more than I do, even though I doubt someone named Burt Voss possesses a nimble-enough mind to fathom all to which I’ll confess.

  “Mom, I don’t need a lawyer. If I ever thought you could help me, you know I wouldn’t hesitate to ask.”

  “You’re in trouble now and this is the first I’ve heard of it. Why would Leigh Rose Wardell call the police on you?”

  “It was probably her brother, Jeb, who hates me because he doesn’t think I’m good enough for his sister or her money.”

  “That isn’t a crime. Eddie, you’re not telling me something. The police just don’t show up in the middle of the night because of a family squabble.”

  “He’s setting me up! He’s out to ruin me. John Graziano is his henchman and he keeps calling me and threatening me.”

  “John Graziano?”

  “The one and the same.”

  “But you two are friends and have been your whole life.”

  “I know, but it’s all true and I can prove it.” Actually, I can’t, because the Graz called me from Leigh Rose’s cell phone. Foiled again! Detective Voss won’t believe one word I tell him without some corroboration.

  “Prove what? What’s this all about anyway?”

  “Let me call the detective and I promise I’ll tell you everything he says. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding of some sort, just another ploy to keep me away from Leigh Rose. But it won’t work, because we’re in love.”

  My mother sighs and not from joy, but because perhaps for the first time in her life, she’s given up on me. Never having been a parent, I can only guess at the emotional devastation that comes with seeing your child with eyes wide open, the rose-colored glasses having been shattered by reality. The police have come looking for me and I profess my love for a woman she’s never met; I haven’t been home in two years, and months have gone by without us speaking; she’s sent me texts I’ve ignored, birthday cards I’ve barely glanced at; the only semblance of a relationship I’ve maintained with her is the flowers I send to her on Mother’s Day, which I’ve done without fail. And no one was more upset with me than Lola—she’s the one who shamed me into repairing things, into reaching out, and finally into coming home. She’s the one who told me that I was being a selfish brat and to get over myself. She’s the one who insisted my mother has the right to fall in love with whomever she wants, just as Lola herself did. Lola’s mantra was simple: stop judging other people and start judging yourself.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I promise again, the little boy who vows to make his bed each and every morning. “Nothing makes sense now but it will once I figure out what’s going on.”

  “Please do. I’ll be here waiting for your call.”

  “Thanks, Mom. And I’m sorry about all of this. The last thing I ever intended was to ruin your wedding.”

  “It’s not ruined yet. But call me as soon as you know something.”

  We hang up just in time for me to take the exit for Chippenham Parkway, which will ferry me back toward the river at Stony Point and finally home. But if I stay on Chippenham and cross the river, Route 150 becomes Parham Road in Henrico County, and I won’t be far from the austere McMansion of Leigh Rose Wardell, where I might finally extract answers to intractable questions. The Honda cruises along the smoothly paved highway, blowing past a pickup truck with a Confederate flag bumper sticker. When will the reprisals begin? When will Robert E. Lee be avenged, even though the man himself sought peace and reconciliation following the war? This city will be tested like it hasn’t been since it burned to the ground in 1865. It very well might reignite. I can feel dark forces alive in the air.

  I need to call Detective Voss. One solution would be to take the Stony Point exit and pull into the parking lot of the mall so that I could dial the number, provided I can read my own handwriting. But for the sake of argument, let’s assume that I can decipher the chicken scratch and I reach Burt Voss, wizened investigator with a failed marriage and a drinking problem—a past that haunts him still—to be played by Christopher Walken in the film version—add any cop cliché here for dramatic effect—anyway, let’s say I talk to him. I already know what he wants to talk about, meaning I don’t need to talk to Burt Voss in the same sense that you can’t step in the same river twice. In other words, life is boring and we must not say so. You shouldn’t talk about people behind their back. I’m no tattletale. Or turncoat.

  So I zip right past the Stony Point off-ramp, experiencing another out-of-body moment wherein I become an observer of myself. It seems as if I’m headed for Leigh Rose’s house, not knowing who or what I’ll find there. Something tells me, though, that all the principals are hunkered down on Cragmont Drive, keeping an eye on her. John Graziano warned me not to get involved and then accused me of butting in when I didn’t. Since he already thinks I’m meddling, why not meddle? See, people need to know one thing about me: I can’t be pushed around. If they want to get rough, well, in the backseat, there is a gun, a very famous pistol, that once belonged to General Giap of the North Vietnamese Army.

  20

  Here’s a true-false quiz. Try your best and no cheating.

  1. I took the gun for protection.

  2. I took the gun because of the perverse pleasure one derives from transgressing established norms.

  3. I took the gun knowing all along that I’d be forced to kill someone, possibly myself, or others, or all of us.

  4. I took the gun because I liked how it felt in my hand, the power it conferred, its long and rigid barrel a fine replacement for my deflated phallus.

  5. I took the gun because I haven’t been thinking clearly of late.

  6. I took the gun without knowing whether it had bullets loaded in its chambers.

  7. I took the gun thinking I could pawn it if I ever needed quick cash.

  8. I didn’t take the gun.

  One or more of the above statements is true. But wait! Wasn’t the gun already missing when I went to check the garage after arriving home and suspecting we’d been burgled? I said it was missing, but I didn’t confess to pilfering it at that moment because I couldn’t own up to the simulacrum that I’ve become. Or I was conveying the truth then and am lying now purely for the joy of it, because I’m on the way to Leigh Rose’s house for a possible showdown-hoedown with my antagonists.

  As I cross the Harry F. Byrd Segregationist Bridge yet again, my mother calls me, frantic for an update.

  “Did you speak to the detective?” she gasps.

  “I just got off the phone with him.”

  “What did he say?”

  Here I need to be convincing and believable, two qualities that Bev claimed the characters in my novels often lacked. Had I known then how talented a liar she was, maybe I would’ve taken her critique more to heart. If what she claimed is true, then I have a daunting task before me. But I feel bold and inspired, and inside my head bursts a chorus of bugles to urge me on.

  “Well, not much. It’s basically what I thought. Jeb Wardell is accusing me of trying to steal Leigh Rose’s money.”

  “Really? You mean like fraud? But that detective said he worked homicides.”

  Something she failed to mention the first time! How quickly the ground shifts beneath the feet of a fabulist, w
ho by dint of sheer imagination attempts to conjure a universe out of whole cloth. It’s not easy to populate a dreamscape, and those authors who can seem to have direct access to the Hindu concept of svatantrya, a darkly creative force I grope for but mostly miss. I can almost hear one of Bev’s disapproving grunts as she marked up a manuscript, because here again my efforts appear to have come up short. I can’t lie my way out of a paper bag. Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach; and those who can’t teach, teach composition classes (and sleep with their students).

  “No, he just asked me questions about Leigh Rose, like when was the last time I’d seen her, that kind of thing.”

  “How do you know she’s not dead?”

  “What’s that?”

  “How do you know she hasn’t been murdered? That detective works homicides, and so maybe he’s working a homicide. Did he say anything about that? You aren’t a suspect, right?”

  The bugles in my head have given way to a dirge, the strumming of a Portuguese guitar, with a sad woman wailing. Is Leigh Rose dead? I never considered the possibility, showing again the limits of my creative talent. Criticism, correction, emendation—these are my dubious gifts to the world. I find fault with immature writing, which is like shooting fish in a barrel.

  Did Leigh Rose become one such fish?

  But how? When? What motive did I have? Settle down, I didn’t kill her. But someone else might have, which makes my trip to her house even more poignant. “No, he didn’t say anything about that.” A logical inference leaps to mind, one so unexpectedly powerful that my shoulders arch back against the seat. “Maybe she’s the suspect. Oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “What? Do you think she killed somebody?”

  “I don’t know.” I take the exit for River Road, suddenly remembering how John Graziano had told me that Leigh Rose wasn’t mentally stable, an assertion I dismissed as ludicrous. Is it possible that she lashed out and killed her brother or Norris Mumford? Is that why Graz called me on her phone and told me to watch out, that she could get me killed? Now I actually feel like contacting this Detective Voss, except for the fact that it’s entirely possible that Voss was looking for me on an unrelated matter. But how much longer can I avoid him?

  “Eddie, I don’t have a good feeling about this. You should never have gotten mixed up with these people.”

  “I’m not mixed up in anything. I don’t know what’s happening, but you shouldn’t worry about me.” I don’t know that I come across as totally convincing, since I’m very worried myself. I need some guidance, a piece of good advice, a sign—yes, a sign from above to lead me in the right direction! But River Road seems devoid of any manifestation of the divine, unless the godhead resides in a big sterile mansion set a hundred yards off the street.

  “Are you coming home? Mead is very worried and wants everyone to get off the streets. There have been reports of looting and vandalism downtown. Graves won’t answer the phone, and neither will Gibson. The cops have been by already, looking for you of all people! Not Graves, not Gibson, but you! This is not the night I’d planned on, believe me.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Gibson’s band played tonight? You saw her?”

  “Yeah, she was great. Then she went out with people to celebrate and she promised me she could get a ride home.”

  My mother inhales sharply and then blurts out a question. “Do you think I should cancel the wedding?”

  “No! You need to soldier on, pardon the pun. Normal life must continue.”

  “They might impose a curfew or even send out a riot squad if things get too bad.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions. We don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  Her voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t think Mead can do it. He’s very upset. I’ve never seen him this way. He’s down in the basement now on the phone with someone. Are you coming home, Eddie? This has been one of the worst nights of my life and I feel so alone. I didn’t think I’d ever be alone again by marrying a man with two children, but I am.”

  “Yeah, it won’t be long. You should relax, though.”

  “I can’t relax! I’m getting married tomorrow and someone blew up Robert E. Lee! How am I supposed to relax?”

  Have a glass of wine? She’s already imbibed too much. No, she needs the sleep of a blushing bride, carried off to slumber with a pill if possible. “Do you have an Ambien?”

  “No, I don’t. I wish I did. Maybe Gibson has some in her drug stash.”

  I’m about a minute away from Leigh Rose’s house, still unsure what I’ll do once I get there. “I’ll be home soon, Mom. You should get to bed and just turn out the lights.”

  “Where are you?”

  Can I keep lying to my mother? For the past fifteen minutes I’ve done nothing but spew total garbage, which she’s unconditionally soaked up because she trusts me or at least wants to. Whereas Faulkner could tell people he was in the Royal Canadian Air Force and Salinger could claim he was a goalie for the Montreal Canadiens, lying doesn’t come easily to me—and neither does book writing, as it did for those two. So why bother trying to invent? Haven’t I proven I’m incapable of conjuring? Fooling people takes a devious talent I lack. “I’m stopping by Leigh Rose’s house,” I assert. She gasps in horror.

  “Why on earth are you there? Get away from her, Eddie! Are you crazy?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Eddie, please come home right now. You’re scaring me again.”

  “I just want to check something first.”

  “What?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  I pull into the semicircular drive. Her car is parked in front, and I see no others. She must be home alone and thus soon enough I’ll know why Detective Voss stopped by. Right? Won’t the truth leap out like a tiger from behind a bush? One look from Leigh Rose will be enough for me to calculate the permutations, unless of course there is no look from Leigh Rose because she’s in the city morgue.

  “Eddie!”

  “I’ll have to call you back.”

  I hang up on my mother and then reach for the pistol. It is damn heavy and cumbersome, and loaded with bullets I found in Mead’s collection. As I get out of the Honda, I shove it into position at the small of my back, where my blazer will hide it and my taut belt will keep it in place. A gun! It still seems very strange to be in possession of one, but I was correct to take it because the situation has grown more complex. Someone has set me up—or not! That’s the maddening part of life, the endless not-knowing, the blindness through which we stagger, the struggle to ascertain basic facts. Who’s dead? Didn’t we begin our journey with this very issue? Somebody dead will die again? Leigh Rose? Bev? Norris Mumford?

  Lola.

  No. It can’t be Lola, because she texted me not long ago. But here’s yet another possibility: Dahlia, the feral roommate. Talk about motive! She knew everything about my twisted relationship with Lola that was actually quite loving and intimate, but Dahlia was unequivocal. I was a creep. A super-creep.

  Ya! Look at me now, creeping up to the front door of Leigh Rose’s house with a gun wedged in my pants because I want to know why a homicide detective has been snooping around—and why she doesn’t love me enough to run away to Paris, tonight.

  I ring the doorbell, and the chime thunders ponderously. My chest puffs out as I stake my ground, unafraid of what will come next. Which is precisely nothing, even after I push the button once more. I step back to examine the house and see that lights are on upstairs. Is she avoiding me? On the phone with Norris Mumford to alert him of my intrusion? If so, then soon enough the posse will arrive to claim my scalp, led by no less than the Graz, John Graziano, childhood chum turned ice-ice-baby slayer.

  Which is what happens, only much faster than I expected.

  There is a curve in the road in front of Leigh Rose’s manse that allows me to see the approach of headlights from the west before anyone in the ca
r can spot me. As soon as I detect the high beams, I dive behind a bushy sedge just in case the car belongs to one of my adversaries. Not that I’m shielded much, and my Honda in the drive is a dead giveaway (pun intended).

  The lights track around the curve, and the engine purrs, a testament to the excellence of German engineering. A big Mercedes swings into the drive and rolls to a stop, almost suggesting a bit of hesitancy on the part of the driver. I can’t see much from my vantage, such as faces, but I can clearly hear voices.

  “Whose car is that?”

  “I dunno.”

  “It’s Edwin Stith’s.”

  “What is he doing here?”

  “Probably banging the crap out of your sister.”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  “She digs his whole bohemian thing.”

  “I said shut up.”

  Three voices, one belonging to the Graz, another to Jeb Wardell, and the third presumably to Norris Mumford, whom I’ve never met. Their shoes scuff along the fresh skim of black asphalt and then quicken up the stairs. The security system is disabled with a series of beeps and squeaks. The front door opens and closes. Then silence.

  Should I leave? Now would be the time, when the coast is clear outside as they look for me inside. Staying would accomplish what? What point am I here to prove again? That’s right: they can’t push me around.

  But she digs me! Didn’t the Graz just confirm my suspicions? Leigh Rose does have feelings for me, but they’re keeping us apart.

  So do I perform a frontal assault? My own version of Pickett’s Charge, that fateful sally across the cornfield on the last day of Gettysburg? Didn’t it end in slaughter, with the South hopelessly outnumbered? Let’s see, three of them, one of me…those odds didn’t seem to bother Robert E. Lee, who ordered the suicide mission, one last-ditch effort to save the Confederacy.

  The gun now rests in my sweaty palm.

  But then the front door swings open. “Eddie!” someone calls out for me. A woman. Leigh Rose. I can see her bare feet and ankles through the thorny branches. So she’s alive…meaning Detective Voss came to question me about another homicide, but whose? Does it even matter?