“I was hoping you’d see it my way. One more thing. Have you heard from Murph lately?”
“As in THE Murph? Isn’t he halfway out the door now?”
“He’s back with Maggie, last I heard. They worked it out. It’s a package deal. If he’s in, you’re in.”
“No I haven’t heard from him, but I’m interested to hear his answer.”
“Excellent.”
We finished dinner and I gave our estranged brother-in-law a most urgent phone call.
FIVE
It rang three times before I heard Murph’s voice.
“Yellow,” he said.
“Hey, brother, plans tonight? Think I may have a proposal for you that may be of interest,” I said.
“Tonight? It’s after ten thir…it’s almost eleven o’clock, Barry.” He sounded half asleep.
“I know, believe me, I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important. Vinny is here and he and I have a colossally brilliant idea.” I hadn’t actually told Vinny the plan, but he was catching on.
Before I could speak, he pulled the phone away from my mouth and shouted into the microphone, “Get your ass off the couch and meet us at the Green Mill in forty-five minutes, ya prick!”
Murph sighed. “But I just started the last episode of The Sopranos.”
“You’ve seen it ten times,” I said. “You already know how it ends.”
“We ALL know how it ends. Except for you, Bear. You can’t accept the fact that your fat friend Tony gets his brains…”
I cut him off. “Forty-five minutes.”
Click.
**********************
Vinny and I jumped in a cab and headed towards the Mill. We both sat in the backseat. There was, surprisingly, ample legroom for men of our girth. We didn’t make chit chat with our driver. Most folks nowadays use one of the ridesharing services, and while we do too, my brother and I are still a little old school, and haven’t turned our backs completely on the cab industry. They seem to at least know where in the fuck they’re going without blindly following some real time map on their phone. Vinny pulled out his “secret” phone and began texting god knows who. I sat behind the driver and leaned my head against the window and rested my eyes. My brain, though, that never shut off. But I didn’t think about Bella Bella or A.W., I didn’t think about my wife and kids. Instead I found myself going back to the conversation with Murph and what exactly did happen to Tony Soprano in the series finale. If you talk to Murph or Vinny, they will undoubtedly tell you that while you didn’t actually see Tony get whacked by the guy in the “Members Only” jacket in the diner, that’s precisely what happened.
I, however, go back and forth. Similar to my relationship with the church or Cuban food. While it’s entirely plausible that it is in fact what occurred, I still think there’s a chance that “Members Only” guy was merely a decoy or a red herring that was placed in the show to remind the viewers that Tony was always looking over his shoulder. Even at an informal dinner with his family. Maybe the man was a figment of his imagination? In the same episode, there was talk about one of Tony’s crew, Carlo, testifying against him. Could this be another way to wrap up the show? Of course! A common theme throughout the show was that “this thing of ours” ended in one of two ways—either behind bars or on the business end of a hit.
Look, did Tony deserve to die? Probably. Did he die in the show? Who knows. The genius of that ending—the sudden cut to black with no audio or credits for what felt like an eternity—is that guys like Vinny, Murph, and myself are still debating it ten years later. Much to our wives’ chagrin.
We made it to the Mill at ten after eleven. Vinny went right to the bar for a cold pop. I went to the washroom to relieve myself and get a closer look at the band on stage. On my way there, I overheard that Snarky Puppy was in town on a tour stop at the Vic and the official after-party was at the Mill. The band was supposed to show up in the next hour or so. Until then, local legend Robert Dixon was warming up the crowd on tenor sax with his smoking quartet.
I met back up with Vinny at the end of the bar and he had a club soda lime waiting for me. We didn’t talk and just enjoyed the moment. The music. The scenery. I glanced at my watch for the sixth time in five minutes. Murph finally sauntered in at 11:37. He grabbed a house bourbon neat and we chatted up Frank the GM about getting us a table since our normal one was occupied by a couple of the 2016 World Series champion Chicago Cubs. As far as we were concerned, it was their table, bar and town from that moment forward.
SIX
“Ok,” Murph asked while looking down over his glasses, “what is so fucking important that you had to get me out of bed tonight?”
“It’s time. We’ve all been out of the game long enough to miss it and we still have our health and our faculties, so we should put them to use before our tremendous President starts World War III,” I said. I didn’t care to admit it, but like Vinny, and a million other people in the world, my home life was stale, too. I longed for the rush I used to experience in my past life of being a knight errant riding in on a white stallion.
Vinny took a deep slug from his Rogue 10 Hop IPA and without hesitation said, “I’m in. A thousand percent. Bella Bella, right?”
“Yes, a family affair. Something is not sitting right with me.”
“Do you think it was the mussels at Rosebud?” he asked, deadpan.
“You’re a funny guy. This whole thing with Grandma Bella Bella’s last will and testament. First off, who the fuck is this A.W.? Secondly, what does Bella Bella have in her possession that he’s after? Works of art from the Age of Enlightenment? Joe Maddon’s managerial secrets?” I responded. “I’m still trying to figure that out, but I got some inside scoop today down at Sunrise.”
Murph took a slug of his drink and chimed in, “I may not be a Whitman by name, but I married one and this had me up all last night trying to crack it. I’m stumped.”
Robert Dixon and his group had just wrapped their set and were exiting the stage while Snarky Puppy was trying to hurriedly set up their gear. I kept a close eye on them and thought how cool it must have been to be a jazz cat. I snapped back into the present moment and looked at Murph.
“I suppose anything is possible, Murph. I’m close to getting Jen’s blessing on this and trying to figure it out for myself. I figured I’d ask you two clowns to join me since I can’t imagine you have anything better to do.”
“You got that fucking right,” said Vinny as he scratched his left forearm with a nearby cocktail straw. “I’m fucking down. It’ll keep me out of the titty bars for a while, right?”
“Sign me up, too, Bear,” said Murph. “Too bad Rosa is working for the feds now—she could’ve been a valuable addition.”
“Well, first things first. Like I learned in college, if you’re going to take the test while drunk, you have to study in the same frame of mind.” I turned and ordered up three shots of Jameson from the bartender.
I laid down a fifty. I knew I was pissing away 902 days of sobriety, but my juices were flowing and, frankly, I didn’t give a shit. I was as big a recidivist as there ever was and I was selfish and thirsty. Fuck it, I thought. At least I was honest with myself. Did I have a death wish? Yeah, maybe. It’s all going to end someday anyway. I was ready to get back in the saddle. I could keep the boozing from Jen and the kids, I was sure of it. It was all under control. For a little while, anyway. Besides, I told myself, the vast majority of people preferred drunk Bear.
Snarky Puppy was on twenty-five minutes later and then things started getting blurry. When you’re out of the game for that long, your buzz comes back with a headlong quickness. Your tolerance is next to nothing. I found that out after six shots of Jameson. I started dry heaving and Vinny had the wherewithal to cut me off and coax me into getting in a cab. I didn’t put up a fight in the slightest.
Upon arriving at the quiet house on Fullerton, I somehow had the foresight to throw back four extra strength ibuprofens with a liter of Evian�
��s finest H2O and a couple snack-sized Almond Joys. I prayed for no hangover as I lay sprawled out on the sectional couch downstairs. I kicked off my shoes. Removed my belt. It was 1:39 in the morning.
It was then that I heard the wood steps creaking. A light body was making the sound and I knew it had to be Hannah Jane or Brock.
“Daddy, I had a bad dream,” my firstborn said, rubbing her eyes. There was an era in which I thought she’d be the only child I’d ever have. Now I had another one of masculine descent with another one— gender unknown—on the way. What had happened to the raucous and rowdy Bear Whitman? He was still there. A bit less raucous and a tad less rowdy, but there nonetheless. I don’t know if it’s because I’m selfish by nature that I constantly yo-yo between the mature, down-to-earth family man and the wild and crazy guy or what exactly is going on in my brain. I didn’t want to think too much about it. All I knew was after tonight, with the skeleton of a plan to get the business back in place, I felt more like myself than I had in a few years.
HJ slowly walked over to the couch. My head was intermittently spinning.
“What was your dream about, peanut?” I asked.
“You and mommy died. It was only me and Brock left. I was sad.”
Jesus. The death talk at nearly two in the morning after I’d fallen off the wagon. All of the subplot was there. I was beginning to wonder what she would say next.
“It was just a dream, peanut, nothing to worry about,” I assured her. “Mommy and I are right here for you and we always will be.”
“Not always.” She started to whimper. “Phoebe at school said everyone dies. Is that true?”
Damn you, Phoebe and Phoebe’s parents. It’s not your call to tell my kid that everyone dies. Even if it’s true. Fuck. Fuckitty Fuck. I decided to try and talk to my daughter like a grown up. Or at least like someone who’s not a six-year-old. She’s mature for her age anyway. She has a stellar vocabulary and picks up on everything.
I sat up on the couch. “Ok, peanut, I’ll level with you. You know how sometimes the batteries stop working in your toys? Well that happens to people too. And animals. Sometimes the batteries just stop working. There’s not always a reason for it or a good explanation.”
She seemed to understand. I was so far from organized religion I couldn’t bring myself to add that all dogs and mommies and daddies go to heaven, although I was sure that would have assuaged some of her fears at the moment.
She perked up. “Oh, so then we just put in new batteries and everything is fine?”
Everything was not fine. And it is not fine. I knew it. I was navigating murky, choppy waters with no dry land in sight.
“Well, not exactly. Sometimes there are no extra batteries to make them work again so we have to donate the toys to Goodwill. Sometimes you just have to say goodbye to your favorite toy.”
“You do? Oh, but then you can get a new toy?”
“Well, yes, I suppose you can.” I don’t know if I wanted to lie my way out of this or just let her get tired or confused enough where it would end.
She leaned into my side. “Well, Daddy, I love you. You’re my favorite toy. Can we have root beer floats?”
My heart melted into mush. “If we don’t have root beer floats now, we might regret it later, peanut. Let’s do it.” I swung my legs off of the couch and walked into the kitchen and got the A&W from the fridge and the vanilla ice cream from the freezer and was as relieved as a person ever could be. I made her a double. The ibuprofen appeared to be doing its job. We’d live to fight another day.
SEVEN
I was awakened about five hours later by my son Brock sitting on my chest and yelling “Daddy! Daddy! It’s Christmas! Santa is here!” I opened one eye to soften the blow of his shrieking.
“Son, he won’t be here for a few more days, but I love your enthusiasm,” I said. I could still taste the stale root beer and Jameson on my tongue. And teeth for that matter. I sat up and stretched, settling into my role of functioning dad/alcoholic detective like an old sweater. This was nice. From my vantage point on the couch, and with extra squinting, I could see the digital clock on the stove. It read 7:08. Hangover wasn’t too bad. I knew the girls would be coming down to join us at any moment. I gently placed Brock on the floor and turned on PBS Kids for him so I could make some breakfast for the brood. He was immediately enthralled with his friend Daniel Tiger. Yes, there was too much technology at the ready for this generation, but it sure helped the parents of my generation get some shit done around the house. I’d invite him into the kitchen soon to help me crack some eggs. He always enjoyed that.
I took a second to think about how close we were to actually losing him. Ten days ago I had turned the bath on for him—the girls were out running errands—and left the room for literally four seconds to grab something out of my own bathroom. I heard a thump and ran right back to the kids’ bathroom to see him dangling over the end of the tub with his face submerged in the water. I leapt into action but was terrified of what I might find. He seemed to be dazed and scared beyond measure, but I got to him just in time. I took him over to the immediate care joint off of Saint James Place and Clark just to be sure. Luckily, he had put his right hand down in the tub to brace himself and no water had gotten in his lungs. Things could have gone so much more terribly. I never did tell Jen about it. Probably because I didn’t want to look like a horrible father even though it could’ve happened to anyone.
I took out the milk, butter, cheese, and eggs, as well as some pre-sliced mushrooms and Italian sausage from Big Apple Finer Foods. It was a family-owned, friendly little shop around the corner at 2345 North Clark Street. Aside from the fact I could walk there expediently, they had the best meat market in town. I had picked up the sausage the day before yesterday.
“Want to come help in the kitchen?” I called out to Brock, but he was too zombie-like in front of the boob tube, and so he either didn’t actually hear me or pretended not to. I moved on and cracked eggs into the melting butter in the cast iron skillet. Vinny was the superior overall cook, but I could hold my own when it came to omelets, Kraft Mac & Cheese, and peanut butter and jellies. I fired on the Keurig machine with my one clean pinky as I heard the creaky floor above me begin to brim with life.
I was savoring a cup of Dunkin' dark roast, neat, as my wife and daughter made their way down the stairs singing “Jingle Bells.” Bear Whitman, this is your life. Hannah Jane had moved on from her affinity towards Daniel Tiger and his Neighborhood, but she authentically enjoyed spending time with her little brother, so when Jen plopped her down next to him, she was content. She even put her little arm around him.
“So, what did you boys discuss last night?” Jen asked as she passed through the threshold of the kitchen. I handed her a mug of what I was drinking—although I’d doctored hers up how she liked it with a plentiful amount of peppermint mocha creamer. I guessed she knew I had been drinking last night but decided not to bring it up just yet.
I turned over the omelets. “Those guys both are in. At least that’s how I left them. We’ll see if they feel the same way today. Murph took a little more convincing than Vinny, but they were both eager to get back in the saddle, as it were.”
“Well, you’re a convincing fellow.” She took a sip and looked at me over her mug. “I could see how you could talk them into it. Shit, you’ve talked me into three kids and a suburban life.” Her laugh lines haloed her face in the new daylight.
I offered a toothless grin. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.”
“You know I’m being truthful. Just don’t play me for a fool. I know who I’m married to, Bear. You drank last night. I can see it in your eyes. I know who you are and what you are. You say you can’t be happy if you’re not using your talents. Go ahead and use them. I literally have no problem with you taking this case or going back into business. But remember, I’ve left your ass before and I’ll do it again. This isn’t a threat, it’s the truth. And this time, it’ll
be permanent.”
Gulp. I understood where she was coming from. I just couldn’t turn off the little man inside my brain who leads me into danger and sporadic idiotic life decisions. There was really only one way to turn him off, and I wasn’t going down that road. Not today anyway. I’d contemplated suicide on more than one occasion, yet I had every intention of living out my life for as long as possible and hopefully succumbing to a quick cardiac arrest in another twenty-six years or so. By that phase of my life I should be firmly ensconced in my final career as a Walmart greeter. Maybe I’d go back to my therapist or find a new one. It had been a couple years since I’d been on the couch anyway.
I set down my coffee and turned to Jen. “I get it. I guess my first order of business would be to set up shop in the basement. Are you comfortable with that idea?”
She laughed out loud. “Not in the slightest,” she said as she began to set the table and I pulled the last of the toast out of the toaster. “You already keep weird enough hours. I want our kids to have some normalcy and rigidity when it comes to routine. Find some office space somewhere. And don’t bring your work home with you.” She turned on her heels and called out to the living room, “Kids! It’s time for breakfast.”
Hannah Jane turned the television off immediately and brought Brock with her. Either they were really hungry or they listened better to their mom. I suppose both were true.
EIGHT
After breakfast, I slowly made my way up the creaky staircase and poured myself into the shower. My back hurt. My head, however, was fine. Seems as though I’d slipped right back into my old recovery ways. I firmly believed the early morning root beer float had something to do with it.
I turned on the shower radio to the local oldies station—94.7 FM— and was rewarded with Smokey Robinson’s “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me” from 1962. Don’t ask how I know what year it was released. I was lost in the song for a while. His voice was like butter. I lathered up for a quick shave and thought about who A.W. might be. I couldn’t come up with anything. My thoughts turned to the new baby on the way. Another little mouth to feed. In the past, I used to worry about how we’d handle the financial burden of rearing children, but that’s a non-issue these days thanks to a couple of big cases and Jen’s past earnings and frugality. Now, it’s more about how to raise good kids with good hearts in this fucked up world. How do we offer the right emotional stability and support to this new generation? I wasn’t sure I had what it took in those departments.
Say Goodbye Page 3