A Better Place to Be

by David Wind

  He reached for the gin, took a deep pull, and set the bottle down. Just as he released the bottle, his stomach wrenched.

  Pushing himself from the chair, he rushed to the bathroom, fell to his knees, and spewed up the remnants of his stomach. Not much came out except for some disgusting smelling fluids mixed with gin. Then he stood, flushed the toilet, and turned on the light. He blinked until the afterimages of orange and red faded. He looked in the mirror but could not recognize the man staring back at him, although he did recognize Claire floating just over his right shoulder.

  He shrugged, turned on the water, and splashed his face. The moment he did, the doorbell rang.

  “Shit.” Wiping his hands on his stained shirt, he went to the front door and looked through the peephole. “Shit!” he said again and wiped his arm across his lips before he opened the door.

  “What?”

  “Very nice,” remarked Christopher Edghes, John’s younger brother.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Seeing if you’re still alive. I’ve had three calls from your bank, two from American Express and another from some debt chasing company.”

  “Screw them.”

  “Let me in.” When John didn’t move, his brother, three inches taller and thirty pounds heavier put a hand to John’s chest and pushed.

  Stumbling back, John grabbed the wall to stay upright as Christopher stepped inside. He closed the door, and turned the hall light on. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “It won’t be yours much longer... Another week if you’re lucky.”

  He grabbed John by the arm and marched him into the kitchen, sat him in a chair, and looked around. “What the hell have you been doing since I saw you in December?”

  “What difference does it make? Who asked you to check up on me?”

  “No one asked. I’m your brother.”

  “Go back to your wife and children. Leave, now!” he screamed, his voice breaking on the last word. “Go, please go.”

  “I will, when I’m done.” He turned to the sink and shook his head.

  Over his right shoulder, Claire whispered, “Stop, listen to your brother.”

  John turned to Claire’s face. “Don’t tell me what to do, you left me!” Then he stood, slammed his fist on the table, and stared at his brother. “You’re done. Go!”

  Christopher whirled toward his brother. “Who were you just talking to?” He took two steps forward, but before he could speak, John’s eyes rolled back and he crashed to the floor.

  <><><><>

  John opened his eyes slowly. His body was stiff and sore, but he had no headache. Turning, he looked around and realized he was in his bed. He closed his eyes and took several breaths. It took a full minute for the memory to rise. Christopher.

  “About time you woke,” came his brother’s voice from behind him.

  Turning, he found Chris in the chair he’d set up for the hospice nurse. “Why are you here?”

  His brother stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, his eyes reflecting a sadness verging on pity. “Because I’m all you have! Because you’re my brother. Because I love you. Because I was worried.”

  “I’m fine. Go back to California.”

  “I just spent the last seven hours cleaning your house, and going through the six weeks of mail you let pile up.”

  “No one asked you to do that.”

  “No one had to ask. You do know they’re foreclosing on the house next week. You’re five months behind. American Express has sent papers via their debt collection attorney. You owe them a half-million dollars and the interest piles higher every day. How the hell did it get that bad?”

  Darkness reached into his mind. A black all-pervasive darkness that pushed everything he cared about away. There was no point in anything any longer. “Get out of my house.”

  “No. And you’re talking to Claire. Did you know that?”

  “Because she talks to me. Am I supposed to ignore her too?” He thought about how he and Claire had put his brother through school after his parents had died. He stood and, without a word, went into the living room, and to the chair where he’d fallen asleep last night. The bottle of gin was still on the table. He picked it up, took a long swallow, then a second. When the gin hit the back of his throat, he gave a satisfied grunt.

  “Well, now that the cocktail hour is over, come eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “John, please, just come sit with me and talk. Then, if you want, I’ll go.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “It is if that’s what you want.”

  “Okay then...Fine,” he relented without releasing the bottle.

  Christopher led him to the kitchen, and pointed to one of the chairs. When John sat, his brother opened the oven and pulled out two plates, which he set on the table.

  John stared at the omelet. His stomach roiled.

  “Eat if you want, don’t if that suits your mood better, but listen to me.”

  John picked up a fork and pushed at the folded eggs.

  “Why didn’t you call me, ask me to help?”

  “Help with what? Did you have an extra million laying around?”

  “I would have found a way to help.”

  “I know you would have, which is why I didn’t ask.”

  “John—”

  “No! Go, stay...do whatever you want, just leave me the hell alone.”

  “Do you think Claire would like you like this?”

  John glared at his brother, the darkness sliding over him deepened. His eyes narrowed and his hand went around the gin bottle. “Claire can’t see me like this because she’s dead and gone and I’m still here! Don’t you tell me what Claire would like or not like. She abandoned me!”

  From some strange corner of his mind, he watched how his words affected his brother. And when Christopher finally spoke, his voice was low and far away. “You’re better than this... Better than what you just said.”

  “Then you don’t know me, because this is exactly who I am. Now, get out.”

  “John—”

  “Either you go or I go.”

  “Not until we get this straightened out.”

  John gazed at his younger brother through the increasing incomprehensibility taking over his mind. He shook his head, his hand still wrapped around the gin bottle, and stood. “All right, you win. I’ll leave.”

  He walked into the hallway, took down the old Pea coat from its hook, opened the front and went out into the cold. Behind him, he heard Christopher calling his name. Eventually, his brother’s voice faded away.

  <><><>

  Sitting on a bag of mulch, ignoring the smell which the heat of his body had stirred within the mulch, John watched the house through the warped slats of wood siding of the shed. He sighed, wondering if his brother had left. It had been a long night, and his only companion had been the bottle of gin, which he’d drained slowly and efficiently.

  As the sun rose, a light came on in the kitchen, and his brother walked past the window. When a taxi pulled into the driveway, a few minutes later, and the kitchen light went out, John stood, grabbing on to an old shovel to hold himself steady. His head swam, his eyes were unfocused, but he stayed still until the taxi drove off with his brother in the rear seat.

  “Well done, John. You make me so proud...”

  “Stop it! Stop the sarcasm!” he shouted at Claire, her face wobbling before him. “You’re dead, don’t you get that, dead!”

  “Like you, right?”

  “I’m drunk not dead. I’m still here breathing and walking and alone.”

  “You definitely made certain of that.”

  “Yes, I did,” he agreed as he shook Claire away. His fogged thoughts were dark, angry, and directed inward. He hated being around anyone. Hated sleeping alone in his bed, hated sitting at his kitchen table, and seeing images of Claire dancing everywhere he looked. The only thing
that took it away was his gin.

  Oh, he’d drink anything to reach the point of nirvana—to get relief from the visions in his mind, safety from the knowledge that his Claire had left him alone, left him to survive without her—he just preferred gin.

  “Quitter!” he screamed, walking in from the rear door. He went into his bedroom, where he stared directly into her beautiful blue eyes, and again said, “Quitter!”

  “Chris is gone now, come to bed,” Claire called from the center of the bed. She was naked, her arms extended in a plea for him to join her, to slip into her arms to slide between her legs and make love to her. He missed making love to Claire.

  “No. You’re dead.”

  “How can I talk to you if I’m dead? Come to bed. Please, John, come hold me.”

  He couldn’t stop himself, he could never stop himself from being with Claire. He undressed, slipped into bed, and pulled her close to him. A moment later, he fell into the black emptiness he so desperately sought.

  <><><>

  He woke disoriented and looked around. He was in his own bed. He remembered Chris leaving. Then he remembered coming inside and seeing Claire in their bed. He sat, then bent over, his head whirling. When the dizziness passed, he struggled to his feet, and went into the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, but refused to meet the eyes of the stranger in the mirror.

  “No more,” he whispered. Then he sensed Claire behind him. “Leave me alone. Just...go.”

  “I’ll never leave you, John,” Claire whispered. “I can’t... Not the way you are now.”

  “Then I’ll leave you.”

  “Like you did Christopher? You going to hide in the shed and sit on a pile of manure again? You can’t hide from me, John. Christopher: yes, me: no!”

  “You’re not real!” he screamed, swiping at her, trying to swat her away like an annoying fly circling about his head. “Go!”

  Her eyes turned to ice. Her mouth was a gash of bloodless lips. “Never!”

  He shook his head hard, as if doing so would make her go away. He left the bathroom, and as he crossed the bedroom, stumbled on the corner of the bed but steadied himself on the dresser. He stared at the tears splattering the dresser’s top, wondering who was crying. It took a few seconds to realize the tears were his.

  Shaking himself free, he stood and looked around. Why was he here? What purpose did it serve? He took off his clothes, pulled out one of the few changes of clothing he had left, and dressed. Then he rummaged through the middle drawer, where he found an old hundred and a few twenties. The money from Claire’s insurance policy was long gone on electricity, drink, and a few basic food groups.

  He went through his wallet, taking out two fives, a single, a ten, and put them with the rest of his money. He dropped the wallet on the floor. When the cash was stuffed in his pocket, he went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet over the sink, and took down the last bottle of gin.

  “Time to go, we won’t be back,” he said to the bottle. Then he looked at Claire’s face. “You really should stay here, it’ll be for the best.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  April, homeless

  Three weeks after he’d left his house, he sat in the sand and stared at the Long Island Sound. The pea coat barely kept him warm, but the gin took care of what the coat couldn’t. Spring had arrived, and the temperature was almost bearable; however, the sun was gone, and with the oncoming night, the temperature was dropping.

  As drunk as he was, he knew he couldn’t stay here any longer, yet he had no energy to move. He stared at the lights of the houses nearby. He tried to stand, but didn’t make it. He shook his head at the first failure. His legs were like rubber.

  “Get up!” Claire ordered.

  John shook his head. “Go away!” he retorted.

  “I’m not fooling around. John, get up. Don’t you hear them?”

  “Hear who?” He looked around but saw nothing. Then he heard a voice over his left shoulder, faint and distant. He squinted into the approaching darkness, trying to use the last bands of light to see. He made out several shapes moving toward him.

  “Get up, John!”

  “Shut up, Claire!”

  The shapes turned into four people, their voices were unclear, but growing louder. When they reached him, they circled him. “Watcher doing here, old man?”

  John looked at the speaker. He was tall and slim, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with dark, mean eyes and a mouth twisted in a scowl. The beginnings of a straggly beard spotted his lean face.

  “Sitting.”

  He leaned closer. “You being a wise-ass, old man?”

  John shook his head.

  “He stinks,” complained a shadow to his left.

  “He stinks bad,” came another voice from behind him, sounding younger than the first and John realized they were all kids, teenagers out for a night of mischief.

  The first speaker straightened and gazed at the other three. “What should we do with him?”

  The fourth, to John’s right, sneered at John. He bent closer, his stick in the air spiked hair added a mean ferocity to his sudden smile. “He needs a bath.”

  “Yeah,” the first agreed. “Shall we give him one?”

  “Run,” Claire whispered.

  John pushed himself to his feet and, before they could react, started away. Behind him, one of the four threw a diving tackle around his ankles.

  John fell hard, the bottle in his hand hit a rock and smashed. The gin exploded out, while the glass bit deep into the flesh of his right hand. He didn’t feel it.

  Then they were on him, ripping his clothing off, pushing him. He struggled back, but was no match. He managed to kick one between the legs.

  The teen screamed, then groaned. His friends looked at him and then turned back to John. The biggest one grabbed John by the hair, held him close and then punched him in the face. His body spun; another one hit him in the stomach. He doubled over, everything in his gut spewed out, pouring vomit over the teen’s feet.

  “Son of a bitch!” spike hair shouted. lifted John’s head, and punched him in the jaw. John went down like a felled ox. A molar slid out of his mouth.

  “Throw him in the water,” ordered the one with the vomit-covered shoes.

  “He’ll freeze and drown,” warned one.

  “He’s a waste. A drunk, a bum. Throw him in!”

  Two of the four grabbed his arms and dragged him to the edge of the water. Then, while the third tried to wipe away the vomit from his shoes with John’s clothing, the others pushed John into the water.

  The four teenagers turned and walked away.

  Ten minutes later, a police car pulled to a stop and two officers got out. The call about a body in the sand had come from a man walking his dog. The cops went over to the good Samaritan who had called them; the dog, a golden retriever, sat patiently next to him.

  “Mr. Dilbert?” asked the first cop.

  “Yes, sir.” He turned and pointed. The cops followed his finger and saw the naked body on the sand.

  “Officers Morgan and Green. I’m Morgan. Thank you, do you mind waiting another few minutes?” the second cop asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Thanks,” the cop named Morgan replied and started toward the body. The second cop, Green, followed. They passed the pile of clothes, and Morgan’s nose wrinkled at the smell of gin and vomit. When they reached John’s body, Morgan knelt near his head and pressed two fingers to his carotid. “He’s alive.” An instant later, he pulled his radio and called for an ambulance.

  While they waited, Green returned to the patrol car, removed a blanket from the trunk and returned to John, where the two cops wrapped him. “Smell it?” Morgan asked.

  “Yeah, drunk.” Green knelt closer and freed his flashlight. When he turned it on, and saw John’s face, he shook his head. “What the hell...that’s John Edghes.”

  “Who?” Morgan asked.

  “Edghes. He did my taxes a few years back. Nice guy. I wonder what
happened to him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  20 Months homeless

  It was almost eighty degrees on this unusually hot late October day, but John couldn’t get warm. He wrapped his arms around his chest. His ribs pushed against his palms. His skin itched, but experience had taught him that scratching wouldn’t do anything. There was only one thing that would help.

  “I need a drink,” he mumbled as he walked away from the homeless shelter where he’d spent the night. He hadn’t had any choice. The cops had picked him up near ten last night and brought him to the Church of All Saints shelter.

  He’d needed a drink then and he needed one even more now, which is why his skin itched. But there was no one around, no one he knew. “Go to the tracks,” Claire reminded him. “You’ll find someone there.”

  He nodded to her and started off.

  “No, the other way.”

  “Leave me alone,” he pleaded.

  The young couple heading toward him side-stepped as they passed him, their eyes averted.

  He turned to watch them. Sadness washed through him, almost making him forget his need for a drink. He felt sorry for them because he knew that no matter how happy they might be, it would change. “You’re doomed! You’re fucked! You’ll be alone soon too!”

  The woman looked back at him, her green eyes flowing with pity.

  He whirled, stumbled, caught himself, and moved on. He needed to get to the Long Island Railroad tracks, where others like himself gathered for safety in numbers. The homeless were victims in a lot of different ways. Being targeted and beaten by local thugs was just one. He knew there would be drink there and hoped they would share some with him. He needed some day work. He’d try a few places after he got that drink.

  “No one will hire you. You smell, your clothes are caked with filth. You disgust me!”

  John shook his head at Claire. He’d heard the same thing every day, day in and day out since he’d left their house. He spotted another couple standing in front of a Starbucks and went toward them. “Can you spare some money, please?”