Derailed

by Siegel, James

“The one you used to tell me when I was little. You made it up. About the bee.”

  “Yes.” A story I’d put together on the spot, after Anna had been stung and I’d told her the bad bee was dead to make her feel better. Only it hadn’t made her feel better; she was horrified that bees die when they sting, even the bee who’d stung her.

  “Tell it,” Anna said.

  “I don’t remember it,” I lied. “What about the one about the horses? You know, the old man who goes looking for adventure?”

  “No,” she said. “I want the bee story.”

  “Gee, Anna, I don’t even remember how it starts.”

  But she did. “There was a little bee,” she began. “Who wondered why he had a stinger.”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right.”

  “Tell it.”

  Why that story, Anna?

  “He wondered why he had a stinger,” I said.

  “Because . . . ,” Anna said impatiently.

  “Because he saw that every time the other bees used their stingers, they died.”

  “His best friend” — she nudged me — “and — ”

  “His best bee friend,” I corrected her, “his aunt Bee, his uncle Bumble, all of them used their stingers and then died.”

  “He was very sad about this,” Anna said softly.

  “Yes, he was sad about this. Because he wondered what was the point, then. Of having a stinger, of being a bee.”

  “So then . . .”

  “So then. He asked everyone this question. All the other animals in the forest.”

  “In the garden, ” Anna corrected me.

  “In the garden. But no one could help him.”

  “Except the owl.”

  “Thewise owl. The owl said, ‘When you use it, you’ll know.’ ”

  “And . . .”

  “One day, the bee was in the forest — the garden — and he saw a peacock. Of course he didn’t know it was a peacock. He didn’t know what a peacock was, exactly. Just an ordinary-looking bird, apparently.”

  “You didn’t say apparently when I was little,” Anna said.

  “Well, you’re not little anymore. Apparently.”

  “No.”

  “Just an ordinary-looking bird. So he thought. Until he landed on it and asked it the same question he’d asked all the other animals. Why do I have a stinger?”

  “Why?” Anna said, as if she really wanted to know the answer to the question, as if she’d forgotten and needed to hear it again.

  “And the peacock said to the bee, ‘Buzz off.’ Whereupon the bee got angry.”

  “And stung the peacock,” Anna said, finishing for me. “And the peacock went ouch, and all its feathers stood out. All of them. All the colors of the rainbow. And the little bee thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And died.”

  When we turned into Yale Road, Vasquez was there. Standing like a sentinel under a street lamp.

  I drove right past him and almost up onto the facing sidewalk.

  “Daddy!” Anna was suddenly not snuggling anymore, but up and alert and maybe even alarmed.

  Somehow I managed to steer the car back into the street, then up the driveway to 1823 Yale.

  “What’s wrong?” Anna said.

  “Nothing.” As insincere a “nothing” as ever left a person’s mouth. Certainly mine. But Anna was too polite to question me any further, even when I grabbed her by the arm and nearly yanked her into the house.

  Where Deanna was up and waiting. Coffee brewed, lights on, kitchen TV set to the Food Channel as she waited for the loves of her life to return home safely.

  Anyway, we’d returned.

  It’s possible she mistook my expression of dread for the night’s events — waking up to find our daughter unconscious and in shock. What else would she think caused me to turn white and pace up and down the kitchen floor?

  “Is she all right?” Deanna asked. She’d already directed this question to Anna herself, who with her teenage sullenness back in full working order had simply tramped by her and up the stairs to her room.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Fine. Her blood sugar was down to one twenty-two.”

  “How is she? Scared?”

  “No,” I said. I'm scared.

  Anna was a trouper, and Anna was going to be a-okay. But Charley here — that was a different matter. I was trying to deflect my wife’s attention from the door, where any minute now the man who was blackmailing me might ring the bell.

  Vasquez was no more than forty yards away from my wife and child.

  I walked to the window and stared out into the dark.

  “What are you looking at?” Deanna asked me.

  “Nothing. I thought I heard something . . .”

  She was behind me now. She laid her head against my neck and stood there half leaning on me, one of us thinking the danger had passed, the other one knowing it hadn’t.

  “Is she really okay?” Deanna asked me.

  “What?” I felt momentarily calmed by the warmth of her body.

  “Maybe I should sleep with her tonight.”

  “She wouldn’t let you.”

  “I can slip in after she falls asleep.”

  “I think it’s okay, Deanna. She’ll be fine tonight.” The operative word being tonight, of course. Couldn’t vouch for tomorrow night or the night after that. Of course, it was possible we wouldn’t be fine tonight.

  Why had Vasquez come here? What did he want?

  “Why do you look so worried, Charles? I thought that was my department.”

  “Well, you know . . . the hospital and all.”

  “I’m going to sleep,” she said. “I’m going to try.”

  “I’ll be up later,” I said.

  But after Deanna walked up the stairs, I counted to ten, then went over to the fireplace and picked up a poker. I swung it back and forth a few times.

  I opened the front door and went outside.

  It was approximately twenty-five steps from my front door to the beginning of the driveway. I knew this because I counted every one. As something to do—anything to do—instead of panic. Of course, it was possible I was already panicking. After all, I was walking down the driveway with a fireplace poker in my hands.

  When I made it all the way down to the sidewalk, I took three deep breaths and saw that Vasquez wasn’t there.

  The streetlight illuminated a starkly empty corner.

  Was it possible I’d imagined it? Was I starting to see Vasquez even when Vasquez wasn’t there — my very own personal spook?

  I was honestly willing to believe it—in fact, desperately wanted to believe it. But it wasn’t until I dutifully walked all the way to the corner and even called out his name—not loudly, no, but loud enough for the neighborhood setter to start barking—then reversed field and walked back past my driveway to the opposite corner and still saw no Vasquez, that I was willing to embrace it as gospel.

  Maybe I was seeing things. I’d had a near death experience tonight—my daughter’s, maybe, but still. You have one bad fright, you’re due for another. Chalk one up for my old pal fear. Or my new pal — we were spending so much time together these days.

  But when I passed the oak tree that established the borders of my property, I noticed a wet stain running down its gnarled trunk. And I smelled something.

  Acrid, tart — the smell of Giants Stadium at halftime. So many beers consumed and so many beers given back, the stadium like one enormous urinal. That’s what it smelled like here.

  Courtesy of a passing canine? Fine, except for a simple law of physics. A dog just couldn’t reach that high on the trunk — not Curry, not the neighborhood setter, not even a Great Dane. Dogs pissing on trees is a very solemn ritual, or so I’d read — a way of marking their territory.

  That’s why Vasquez had done it.

  I hadn’t been imagining things. No.

  Vasquez had come calling and had left a calling card. See, he said, this is my territory — your home, your life,
your family.

  It’s mine now.

  EIGHTEEN

  Hello, Charles.”

  It was 10:15 Wednesday night. I was sitting in the den, where I’d been standing guard over the telephone. It was unnerving — every time it rang I’d pick it up and wait to see who’d say hello. The fastest answering machine in the West — one ring and it was sitting in my hand. I knew he’d be calling; I didn’t want Deanna picking it up first.

  “Why were you outside my house? ” I said.

  “Was that me?”

  “I’m asking you what you were doing here.”

  “Must have been taking a walk.”

  “What do you want? What?”

  “What do you want?”

  Okay, I was a little taken aback — this answering a question with a question.

  “What do I want?”

  “That’s right. You tell me.”

  Well. For one thing, I wanted Vasquez to stop coming by my house. For another thing, I wanted him to stop calling my house. That would be nice.

  “I want you to leave me alone,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not clear what you mean. . . .”

  “Something about okay you don’t understand? You said you want me to leave you alone, I said okay.”

  “Great,” I said, stupidly letting some vague tenor of hope enter my voice, even though I knew, I knew—

  “Just give me some more money.”

  More money.

  “I gave you money,” I said. “I told you — ”

  “That was then. This is now.”

  “No.” The till was empty, the cupboard bare. I’d taken once from Anna’s Fund. No more.

  “You fucking stupid?”

  Yes. Probably.

  “I don’t have any more money for you,” I said.

  “Look,Charles. Pay attention. We both know you got the money. We both know you’re gonna give it to me, ’cause we both know what’s gonna happen if you don’t.”

  No, I didn’t know. But I could guess.

  So I asked him how much he was talking about. Even though I didn’t really care how much he was talking about, because it was already too much.

  And Vasquez said: “Hundred thou.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.

  That was inflation for you—ten thousand to a hundred thousand in the blink of an eye. But then—how much is a life worth, exactly? Are three lives worth? What is the going rate for a wife and daughter these days? For being able to look them in the eye without seeing disgust staring back? Maybe a hundred thousand was cheap. Maybe I was getting a bargain here.

  “I’m waiting,” Vasquez said.

  He would have to keep on waiting. It was a bargain I simply couldn’t afford.

  Besides, it was never going to stop here anyway. Wasn’t that the point of blackmail? Wasn’t it governed by its own immutable laws, like the universe itself, and, just like the universe, never ending? Vasquez might say it would stop, but Vasquez was lying. It would stop only when I stopped Vasquez. A simple truth even an idiot could understand—even someone fucking stupid could grasp that. Only I couldn’t stop Vasquez — I didn’t know how. Other than to say no and take my chances.

  “I don’t have it,” I said.

  And hung up the phone.

  When Winston delivered my mail the next morning, he found me slumped over the desk.

  “Are you dead,” Winston asked me, “or just pretending?”

  “I don’t know. It feels like I’m dead. Could be.”

  “Can I have your computer, then?”

  I looked up, and Winston put up his hands and said: “Just kidding.” Since the night in the office, Winston had been exactly like the Winston before the night in the office. No tiptoeing around, no bowing and scraping, no false humility. If I’d scared Winston straight, you wouldn’t have exactly known it. On the other hand, I hadn’t heard about any missing computers lately, so maybe Winston had reformed.

  “Seriously,” Winston said, “something wrong?”

  Where to begin? Then again, much as I might want to, I couldn’t tell Winston a thing.

  “What was it like?” I asked him instead.

  “What was what like?”

  “Prison?”

  Winston’s face darkened — yes, a definite change from sunny to cloudy, with possible thunderstorms lurking in the area. “Why are you asking?”

  “I don’t know. Just curious.”

  “It’s hard to describe unless you’ve been there,” he said flatly, maybe hoping I’d just say okay and leave it at that.

  But I didn’t say okay. And though Winston was under no obligation to answer me, maybe he saw himself as having an obligation to me now. Because he did answer me.

  “You really want to know what prison was like?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it like? It was like . . . walking a tightrope,” he said, letting that simple statement lie there for a while. “Walking a tightrope, but you can’t get off. All that concentrating on not falling and getting yourself killed. Constantly—twenty-four hours a day, understand? You tried to not get involved in things—that was your mantra, because if you did get involved in things, it was almost always trouble. So you tried to ignore everyone, to walk around with your head up your ass. But that takes enormous concentration. To act like you’re blind. Because all kinds of shit is going on around you—the worst kind of shit. Rapes, beatings, stabbings—all this gang warfare. You try to be invisible. You know how hard it is to be invisible?”

  “I can imagine,” I said.

  “No, man, you can't imagine. It is the hardest possible thing to do. It’s not doable. Sooner or later, you’re going to get involved, because someone is going to make you get involved.”

  “And someone made you?”

  “Oh yeah. I was prime meat in there. I was unaffiliated, and so I was prime meat.”

  “You were . . . ?”

  “Bitched up? No. But only because I fought someone who tried, and did two months in lockup. You can’t go out of your cell. Except for showers. No rec. Nothing. Which was kind of okay, since I knew when I did get out of my cell, I was in trouble, since the guy I fought was affiliated.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I got affiliated.”

  “With who?”

  “A gang. Who do you think runs things in there?”

  “Just like that?”

  “No. I had to earn it — you don’t get anything for nothing there, Charles. There’s always a price.”

  “What was the price?”

  “The price? The price was I had to stick a shank in someone. Like a blood initiation, only the blood was someone else’s. That’s how you get into a gang. You make someone else bleed.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Who was who?”

  “The gang?”

  “Oh, just a bunch of guys. Nice guys, really, you’d like them. They had some very pronounced beliefs, though. Like for instance, they believe all blacks are subhuman. And all Hispanics — them, too. They don’t like Jews much, either. Other than that — they’re terrific.”

  And now I noticed something again. Winston’s tattoo. AB. Maybe not Amanda Barnes after all.

  “You got that tattoo in prison, didn’t you?”

  Winston smiled. “Can’t put anything over on you. Proud member of the Aryan Brotherhood. We have a handshake and everything.”

  You had to admire Winston, I thought. He found himself in a terrible situation, and he did what he had to. Maybe there was a lesson in that.

  “See you this afternoon,” Winston said. “But no more questions about prison, okay? It kind of ruins my day.”

  NINETEEN

  When I disembarked at Merrick station I called Deanna to pick me up. I thought about walking, but a steady wind was whipping in from the ocean and I was nearly blown back into the train when I stepped off onto the platform.

  But when Deanna answered the pho
ne, she asked me if I could wait ten minutes. The chimney guy I’d hired was there, and she didn’t want to leave him alone in the house with Anna.

  So I told her I’d walk after all.

  Christmastime had turned what was generally a quiet and reserved residential street into something akin to the Vegas strip. All those flashing lights. All those plastic reindeer pulling plastic Santas on their plastic sleighs. A plastic manger or two. Several stars of Bethlehem precariously perched on once stately arborvitaes.

  I pulled in gulps of air that felt strangely heavy and saturated with moisture as I walked past and took in the show.

  And then, suddenly, rescue.

  A car horn beeped, then beeped again.

  I turned and saw my neighbor’s Lexus purring by the side of the curb.

  I walked up to the passenger door as my neighbor Joe cracked open the window.

  “Hop in,” he said.

  You didn’t have to ask me twice. I opened the door and slid into a kind of primal warmth — what the first cavemen must have felt when they created those first licks of flame and finally, miraculously, stopped shivering.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Cold out there, huh?” said Joe, who was nothing if not observant.

  “Yes.”

  Joe was a chiropractor, which either was or wasn’t a legitimate profession. No one had ever been able to explain it to my satisfaction.

  “How’s the kid?” Joe asked.

  “Okay,” I answered, thinking I sounded like Anna now. One-word answers to any question. “And yours?” Joe had three children spaced a year apart, including a girl around Anna’s age who was academically oriented, athletically gifted, and disgustingly healthy.

  Joe said they were fine.

  “How’s things at the office?” he asked me.

  “Fine.” People politely asked you things that they didn’t actually want answers to, I thought—but what if I did answer him? What if I said, Glad you asked, Joe, then gave him an earful about Eliot and Ellen Weischler.I was fired off the account I worked on for ten years, and now they have me working on a shit account that no one cares about. And while I was at it, I could fill him in on Vasquez and Lucinda, too. What would he say then?

  But instead I said: “How are things with you?”

  “People always have bad backs,” Joe said.