Heat and sparks race up and down my limbs. My Frankie. You’ve found me.
Face in my hands, I nod and whisper, “Yes.”
“He is all love and he is so filled with joy. He says that you gave him joy. You made him laugh. He’s showing me peanut butter. Do you understand, please?”
The sparks ease and a tender wash of love comes over me, up my legs, into my belly and I feel him. It’s Frankie. It’s you, baby. This is what I want. This is all I want. He’s in my lap again, the weight of him. The weight of his memory, me and Ben and Frankie. He’s almost two. A jar of peanut butter on the table, a bag of bread. Frankie dips my finger into the jar and then puts it into his own mouth. He doesn’t want it on bread, doesn’t want it off the spoon; he wants it off my finger. “What are you doing, weirdo?” Ben laughing. Like Frankie, but deeper. “You are such a little weirdo,” Ben says. My Ben. The real Ben, the Ben I can see, the one who can see me. “You’re my favorite weirdo in the world,” he says. “You and your weirdo mother.” Frankie giggles and giggles and pushes my hand into the jar again, takes it out and sticks my finger into Ben’s mouth, brown paste smearing down his chin. Giggles and giggles. We are savages. We are goons and we are in love.
Tears stream now, washing down my face.
“He says that sometimes he comes in dreams and he likes to be in your lap. He thinks you can feel him. He says, ‘Don’t be afraid.’ It’s just him watching over you. He wants you to know that he chose you, that he knew he wouldn’t be here on this earth a long time, but he chose you and he learned to love through you. He is proud that you are his mother. He says that you are a mother to many, that people turn to you for help and that you are very kind, but that you also need to be kind to yourself. He says that you need a mother too—Yes, thank you—Is your mother in spirit, please?”
The smell of Frankie’s fine hair, the way his small perfect head knocks against my clavicle, bone on bone, I feel him.
Melting into the chair. I’m not here, I’m slipping through, into the blue, into forever. Please take me with you. Please, Frankie.
He feels like beauty. He feels like everyone I ever lost, all the need and the want and the failing in my lap. Just to put my arms around him, but I can’t move, can’t speak.
“I think so,” Lucy whispers.
“He says that he is glad you have Lucy in your life. You can mother each other. Do you understand, please? He—ha-ha—he is so cute. So happy and he says—again, he’s holding up the jar of peanut butter. In two hands! He’s pointing to Lucy and saying that you and Lucy should have peanut butter together, like a mom and kid, and he would be here with you. Don’t be sad, he says, because he’s always here with you. Always present. He is watching over you. He says that you should never feel sad or guilty because there was nothing you could have done. He chose to come to you and he chose to move into spirit—Yes, thank you—He has a friend, a big yellow dog and—ha-ha—he’s introducing you to the dog. I’m hearing the name, Luna. It’s like a yellow Lab and there’s a man—this man is a fatherly type. I am hearing Father. Is the child’s father in spirit, please?”
Drifting, swimming with my laughing boy, we’re underwater, under dreams, under the covers, and I can hear the words at the surface but I can’t make a sound. Don’t break the spell—please, don’t leave. Take me with you.
“Yes,” murmurs Lucy. “His father’s in spirit. Suicide.”
“He’s come from deep sadness. Did he die after the child, please? Yes, the child says he was there to greet his daddy, to show him the way. Yes. So much pain, he’s saying—Yes, thank you—ha-ha—but this man, he’s got a great sense of humor. He’s playing with the boy. He’s happy now. I love his energy and his humor. The name, does it start with an N? Or an M, a B?”
Trying to say no. Like a dream, I don’t know if the sound is coming. No. I can’t breathe. Stop it. I’m sorry, Frankie. I’m sorry, baby. I love you. Your daddy loves you. He’s lost, that’s all. Help me find him.
“I’m getting a short name. Is it Tim or Matt? Or . . .”
“No!”
Lucy jumps. Monique blinks at the room as if she’s coming out of a stupor.
“Ben is not dead. He is not!” Out of the chair, fingers raking my scalp, my heart booms and sparks. “My husband is—he’s alive. My brother is with him right now. He is. He was.”
“I thought you—” Lucy’s hand covers her mouth; her eyes blink and tear up. “I thought you said—”
“You fed this woman information about me?” I look from Lucy to Monique.
“I am truly sorry,” Monique says. “All I could hear was ‘father.’ I did not know whose father. Is your father in spirit?”
“Please, shut up. No disrespect. Or—maybe yes, disrespect. I feel disrespect. I didn’t ask for this. This was for—”
Lucy folds her hands in her lap and swallows. “Maggie, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I did not feed—”
“No more.” Palm up, like a stop sign, I go to the kitchen and find my purse. “I think you two should just—”
Behind me, Monique says, “No, no. I’ll go.”
“No! Please don’t go. Either of you,” Lucy pleads. “This is my fault. I get overexcited. I should have let you speak for yourself.”
When I come back into the living room, Monique and Lucy are on their feet. Monique’s face is gentle, and she says to Lucy, “It’s absolutely my fault. I don’t normally do individual readings with two people. In such a small room the energies are too strong and lines get crossed. It’s your birthday and I should have known better.”
I’m out of breath. I want Ben. I want to fall into Ben and sob and cry and heave and scream and rock him back to life. Where have we been? In tar, we’ve been wading through tar.
“Please don’t go. We’ll do our sessions one at a time. I’ll wait in the bedroom,” Lucy says. Tears slide down her cheeks. She holds fast to Monique, crumpled like a little girl. “Please?”
“Lucy . . .” Monique says in a soothing voice. “Don’t be upset.”
“It’s Lucy’s birthday,” I say. “She wants to hear from Lloyd.” I pull my purse over my shoulder, open the front door, and then listen to it click behind me.
ELEVEN
Ben
Poor Gwen, she got so filled up on pie in the sky, she had no room for lunch. Deliver your servant Gwen from every sorrow, the man said. Now she’s gone back to her room to sleep it off. Sleep away the sorrow and pretend that God gives a flying fuck.
Francis rests his hands on the table, sets his priestly eyes on the husk formerly known as Ben, and says, “I know that Maggie is hurting. I can only imagine how much you must be.”
What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Until it does.
“Has your brother been in to see you?”
Cola, Cola, where is Cola? Running scared. Running his mouth. Kid runs around like a blue-arsed fly, the old man used to say.
“Does he know you’re here? Maggie hasn’t heard from him. She wondered if he might be in trouble.”
Trouble shared is trouble doubled.
“If you want to talk about anything . . . Ben, I’m here as your friend. But I’m also a priest.” Maggie’s brother lowers his voice. “Whatever you say, I hold in confidence.”
Confidence? Is that code for confession? You want a confession, Father WhatsItLike? You’re going to hold it all in confidence? So you can hold all the cards? Don’t hold your breath. Confession is good for the hole. Let the black hole confess: If Ben took a bullet, gave a bullet, bit the bullet, he got his, didn’t he?
What are you squinting at? What, are you deaf ?
Maggie’s brother keeps on looking and waiting. “Do you want to talk? Talk to me, Ben. What are you thinking?”
Talk talk talk, fuck you! Did you hear that, Father? Talk is shit. This is shit.
“Okay. Okay.” Father’s hands come up, his calming palms, and he says, “I hear you, brother. Loud and clear.”
Loud and clea
r, too loud for here.
Lookit, Father, the room’s clearing out. It’s one thing to be in the madhouse but nobody likes a mad man, do they?
“It’s okay,” Francis calls to somebody, nobody. “We’re fine,” he says. “We’re just talking.”
Who’s that? Who’re you talking to? Orderlies coming? Hospital bouncers. Bring ’em on! Cuz we’re not fine. Nobody’s fine.
“Listen to me, Ben—”
No Ben! Not Ben. There is no Ben!
“You’re running. You think I don’t know about running? Come on, Ben. You know who you are. Stop running. Stand still long enough to take a breath—long enough to ask for help.”
Help! Where? Our Father? Father—What a farce. No such thing. The old man in the sky, the old man in the living room. Sons of bitches can make it all disappear, can’t they? Here’s a confession for you: Fuck the father. Ben’s old man is dead. Should be dead. Wish he was dead. If Ben had balls, he’d have pulled the plug and let the blood spray. Is he dead yet? Can’t be, no angels singing.
Fuck the father.
Now we’re talking. How’s that? More where that came from. Come on, Padre, you want the hole world in your hand?
Fuck the brother too. Baby brother, Cola: That sonuvabitch was into a loan shark for ten grand. Shoulda told him where to find the little prick. But no, Ben told Cola to call the cops. Cop a plea. Not Cola, he’s going to cop it sweet, he figures. He’ll figure it out.
He was hiding with his honey bear. Until he burned the lair. So much for honor among thieves. Cola, the fly, he doesn’t need you till he needs you.
Now you see him, now you don’t. He had a plan all right. The best-laid plan. Got a fucked-up plan to share? Call Ben.
He called Ben to meet him at the old diner off the highway. Cola and his diners.
Ben pulls up in a pink superstretch. “What the hell’s going on?”
Cola can’t take his eyes off the limo. Jittery, laughing like a tommy gun. “Ha-ha. Pepto-Bismol on wheels. Ha-ha. Barbie’s Dream Car.”
No ride of his own, of course. Just Vera’s.
“They trashed my place,” he says. “My pillows, my mattress was all hacked open with a butcher knife. Knife was stuck in the floor!” Cola’s freaked, scared shitless. He opens the trunk of Vera’s car: two big boxes. The shipping bills say, “Creature Care Veterinary.”
It’s all coming together now. Vera’s a big deal down there. Vera’s in charge of ordering for all four clinics.
Cola pulls out a vial of powder that says Telazol. “It’s a painkiller,” he says. “And a sedative. It’s sweet. You talk to God with this shit. You dream and wake up feeling like truth. Me and Vera did a couple caps of it each. We fell asleep and I woke up first. That’s when it hit me. Who needs OxyContin?”
His phone goes off. It’s Vera.
“She is pissed, man.” Cola checks his voice mail and holds the phone to Ben’s ear.
Screaming blue murder. “You stole my fucking keys? You stole my fucking car?” Vera is being investigated. They don’t believe her keys were stolen. Vera is going to cut off Cola’s balls with a rusty knife.
“Why’s she have to make it sound all shitty,” he says. “I gotta get her car back. Can you keep the boxes for me?”
“No.”
Cola grabs Ben’s arm. “There’s twenty grand here, easy. I’ll split it with you.”
“Put it in your closet.”
“I can’t go home.” Cola’s tearing up. His hair is flopping in his face. “What if those dudes are there? What if cops are watching? Ben. Please. You’re my brother.”
ELEVEN
Maggie
Sonuvabitch! What am I doing? I’ve got Lucy’s car again. I went tearing out of there, got into her car, and took off. I should have stuck her keys back in her hand and said, “That’s it, lady. I’m done.”
I’m halfway home now. Tomorrow. First thing in the morning, I’ll go back there and nip this whole thing in the bud. I don’t think I’m up to the task, I’ll tell her. Not right for the job. Maybe I need to work in a basement where there’s no interaction with people.
At every red light, I check and recheck my cell phone. Nothing. Nothing from Francis. Nothing from anybody.
Four blocks from the apartment. I can’t face my place right now. Don’t want to look at those walls. There’s nothing in the fridge, but I can’t bear a restaurant, making nice-face at someone who’s also struggling to make nice-face. Can’t be with people and I can’t be alone.
Did Francis call yet? Nope. Nothing. The ringer is on. It’s definitely on.
Supermarket. That’s what I should do. Go and buy a few groceries. Francis and I could cook tonight, while he tells me what happened. How Ben is. Who Ben is.
My brother’s black clerical shirt shimmers across my brain. His dog collar. Is he going to tell me that he can’t tell me anything? Seal of the Confessional? Priest-penitent privilege?
He has to tell me. He has to! He’s not going to pick them over me again, is he? He would too. He’d tell me nothing and say he took a vow. Fucker.
Shoving through the front door of Myer’s Market, I find his cell number on my phone, and then change my mind.
It’s not up to Francis to do your bidding, Maggie. It’s up to you to cowboy up and go talk to Ben for yourself. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck me!
Yanking a shopping cart out from the tangled row, I start down the dairy aisle, agitated and full of craving. Goddamn Francis. Goddamn Ben. Goddamn me. Goddamn me all to hell!
I drop a carton of milk into the buggy and keep going. Nose around for cheese, and then toss in a block of cheddar. Basics, just get the basics. I don’t want basics. I want a steak. I want to tear into something bloody, and I can’t afford it. Why did I go and rent that damn woman a psychic for her birthday? Stupid. Stupid-stupid-stupid!
Shoving the buggy, I jerk to a stop when I see the junk food aisle, wheel it back, and slam into someone else’s cart.
“Excuse me.” Not a cart, it’s a walker. “I’m sorry! I’m—” I just hit some old lady’s walker! Christ!
“I’m fine. It’s fine.” Her head is ducked.
“Cecily?”
The woman sucks air off her lip, tries to turn her walker around, and knocks into a shelf of beans. Cans drop. A little cry escapes. She sputters and gasps as though she is about to hyperventilate. She puts both hands up against her face, holds them there like a child who wants to disappear.
I kneel to pick up two rolling cans of navy beans and put them back on the shelf. “Cecily, it’s me, Maggie.”
She nods but her hands stay where they are, like bars on a cell. No entry. Her head tilts toward the floor and little whimpers slip through her fingers.
Back on my feet, I drape my arm across her back. “Are you hurt? I’m sorry.” I hold her walker steady and lock the wheels. “Here, do you want to sit for a second? Sit on your walker, okay?”
She takes one hand from her face and grabs the handle. I keep hold of her arm as she sits.
“It’s Maggie, honey. Do you remember me?”
She spreads the hand that remains on her face, trying to cover as much as she can, trying to make one of us go away. Her back shudders.
“I’m sorry,” she says through panting tears.
TWELVE
Ben
What do you think, Father? Think Ben told his dumbshit brother to go fuck himself?
No way. Where we at? Confession number three? Aiding and abetting.
Yeah, sure, there’s Ben on the couch, staring at the TV, his closet full of dog dope. He surfs channel to channel and sips a bottle of Bud. Midnight and it’s nothing but infomercials. Girls in bikinis: Call me! He turns the TV off.
Silence. You gotta know what that’s like, Father. Alone with yourself? Quiet crawls into your ears, slithers down your back.
If he could just sleep. Sweet, luscious sleep. He turns the TV back on.
He thinks of Maggie. Fucking Maggie. She walked right out the goddamn d
oor. Until death do us part? Whose death? Ben was still breathing.
Fuck her! He should call her. Tell her what he thinks. He picks up his cell phone. Don’t do it. She doesn’t want to talk to you. What’s it going to fix? He opens the photo stream: Maggie with Frankie on her lap. Frankie. He never hurt anyone. Look at his little damp hands on her face. Ben stares so long, he can feel hands on his own face.
Then the phone buzzes. Cola.
“Where are you?”
“Listen, don’t be pissed with me. I meant to take it with me. I don’t even know how to shoot it.”
Shoot it? Shoot what? The boxes. What the fuck else is in those boxes? “Cola! You better get this shit out of my place.”
“I will. Listen, if you can’t sleep, I made some capsules. I’ll call you.” And he’s gone.
Ben looks inside one box and then the other: vials and vials, a bag full of capsules lying on top. And then, wedged down the side, he sees the black butt.
Ever held a gun, Father? It’s a revolver, SMITH & WESSON down one side of the barrel, .22 LONG RIFLE down the other. Stainless steel. Shiny as hell. He sits on the edge of the coffee table and cradles it like a baby. He opens the cylinder. Brass bullets in all six chambers.
You think he didn’t think about it? Can you go to hell just for thinking about it?
He put it back. Just go to sleep, right? That’s all he wanted. He wanted his life back and his son back, but he’d settle for sleep: A long, dreamless sleep, years and years of sleep.
Every time he closes his eyes, he hears Cola. “It’s a painkiller. And a sedative. You talk to God with this shit.”
Twenty minutes go by. Thirty.
He goes into the closet, grabs the sandwich bag.
Takes one capsule, lets it roll down his palm.
Yes or no, yes or no?
He sucks it into his mouth and follows with a swig of beer.
Half an hour later, his eyes snap open. Cola said they took a couple each. He opens the bag and takes two more, has another slug of beer.
Then he hears it hunched under the couch, like a toad waiting to be licked. He puts his hand under, feels the old man’s vial. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Take as needed, the label says. Fuck it. He pops the top, pours in the blue pill. Tastes like mint. He bites into it, grinds it to powder, and waits.
The Crooked Heart of Mercy Page 15