The Little Sleep

by Paul Tremblay

  “Jesus, Ellen. Thanks a lot. Did you tell him I don’t like pickles or ketchup, I pick my nose, and I wet the bed as a kid?”

  She says, “What’s wrong with you? He was just concerned, that’s all. Did you want me to lie or make something up?”

  “No. Telling him I was fine would’ve been enough. He doesn’t need to hear my sob story.”

  “I don’t understand why this upsets you.”

  “If I ever need him for a case, he’ll never take me seriously now.”

  “Of course he will. No one holds narcolepsy against you.”

  “Come on, Ellen. Everyone does. No one really believes I have anything medically wrong with me. They think I’m lazy or just odd, like the DA said.” I stop talking but I could go on: most people think I really could keep from falling asleep if I wanted to, if I just focused, like narcolepsy is some algebraic equation I could solve if I worked at it hard enough, did all the homework. I’m a bad joke. A punch line. I’m Beetle Bailey, a cartoon character falling asleep at the switch for laughs. I might as well be wearing her goddamn clown pants.

  “I don’t think that about you, Mark.” She’s mad at me and my pity party. I don’t blame her.

  I inhale the cigarette down to the filter, more ash in my lap than in the ashtray. Yeah, I’m nervous about my meeting with Sullivan, and I’m taking it out on Ellen and myself.

  I say, “You’re right. I know you don’t, Clowny. I’m your American Star.”

  ELEVEN

  Ellen drops me at the Osterville Free Library. It’s a one-level brick building with white molding, trim, and columns. The Parthenon it’s not. Ellen has a couple of family-portrait photo shoots and a meeting with a prospective wedding client, so I have three hours to myself.

  I make an appearance inside the small library, wander the stacks for a bit, avoid story time and the children’s wing, and check out a slim history of Osterville written and self-published by some local schmoe who probably has more cats than rooms in his house, not that I’m judging anyone. If Ellen comes back to the library before me, I can tell her I went for a read and a stroll. She might believe it or she might not.

  The Sullivan house is two miles away from the library according to my Mapquest printout. The old Genevich homestead is on the other side of town, right off Route 28 and closer to downtown, so I’m not very familiar with this section of Osterville. This part of town has larger and pricier homes. No bungalows. No clapboard. These are summer homes for the well-well-to-do, mixed in with slightly more modest houses for folks who live here year-round. According to the map, most of my walk is down Wianno Avenue, left onto Crystal Lake Road, and then a quick right onto Rambler Road. Easy as A, B, and then C.

  It’s an overcast day with gusty ocean winds. The fedora quivers on my head, thinking about making a break for it. It’s a quiet day otherwise. Only a handful of cars pass me on Wianno. None of them are red.

  The exercise is good for my head, but the rest of my body thinks it’s torture. Cranky knees and ankles carry the scars of the accident too. I walk as slowly as I talk.

  While on my little hike, I try to focus on the case. On what it is I’m supposed to find. And it is a what, not a who. On the phone, Sullivan asked if I had found it yet.

  Thoughts of the DA and Jennifer Times nag at me. I guess I should call the DA and apologize for the confusion, for thinking he was involved with sending me the photos. Apologize for my mistake. But it hasn’t felt exactly like a mistake.

  Sullivan’s ringing question, You didn’t show the pictures to anyone, did you?, was the same thing the DA asked me when he first saw the pictures. He didn’t come right out with It’s not Jennifer. He asked if anyone else had seen the pictures. I didn’t think anything of it earlier because I’d assumed he didn’t want his nude daughter subject to roving packs of prying eyes. Now, I’m not so sure.

  Something’s not right there. It’s why he called Ellen too.

  I turn onto Crystal Lake Road, and there are blue and red lights filtering through the trees ahead, and right there is Rambler Road. It’s blocked to traffic by a police car. There are more flashing lights and the occasional chirp of a siren. Sullivan’s house. I think the worst. It’s easy to think the worst when it always happens. Crystal Lake Road loops around to the other end of Rambler via Barnard Road, but I bet that end is blocked off too.

  I stuff my map into a pocket and walk toward the roadblock. There’s one cop, leaning on the hood of the car, arms crossed over his chest. He’s skinny, a straw that isn’t stirring any drink. He wears sunglasses despite the overcast day. I tip my hat. Surprise, surprise, I get to pass without answering his questions three.

  Fifty yards or so beyond the roadblock are two more police cars parked on the side of the road. The homes on Rambler don’t crowd each other; groves of trees help everyone keep their distance.

  The Rambler Road locals must all be at work. There are no rubbernecking neighbors on lawns, dressed in robes and slippers and sipping their home-brewed coffee. There’s just me.

  My left ankle is swelling up, rebelling against the sock, but I make it to the other cop cars. They’re parked next to a black mailbox with Sullivan stenciled in golden cursive. The Sullivan home is set back from the road. If it were summer, the place would be difficult to see from the street because of the trees that surround it and flank its L-shaped gravel driveway, but it’s March and there are no leaves or blooms. I see everything through the empty branches. The house is big and white, with a two-car garage. The exterior shows signs of wear, missing shingles and peeling paint.

  There’s a clearing and a small grassy patch at the end of the gravel driveway. Two more cop cars are parked on the grass. An ambulance cozies up to Sullivan’s front door with its back doors open. A blue SUV sits in the driveway, the only civilian car on or around the property.

  “Can I help you?” Another cop. He suddenly appears next to the mailbox and me. Neat trick. This one is my size and build, but no beard and no mangled face. Nobody’s perfect.

  I say, “Depends. Can you tell me if Brendan is okay?”

  He says, “Sorry, I don’t know anything. Move along.” He’s not wearing sunglasses. He doesn’t look at me but past me. I’ve been dismissed, if considered at all.

  He doesn’t like me. I can tell. It’s okay because the feeling is mutual. I say, “I guess you can’t help me, then. I don’t suppose you’re going to let me walk up there and find someone who will actually, you know, help me?”

  He sways on his feet, an impatient boxer listening to the referee’s instructions, waiting for me to crawl out of my corner. He lets me get through my slow I’m-running-out-of-batteries spiel. He doesn’t interrupt. I guess he deserves an iota of credit for that.

  He says, “Why are you still here? Move along.”

  I hold up my hands. “Just a concerned acquaintance of the Sullivans out for a walk. I saw the lights and figured I’d check in and be neighborly.”

  Nothing from angry cop.

  I say, “Well, you just keep on protecting the people, officer.” I consider showing my PI ID and pushing back some more, but it would produce nothing but a migraine headache for me. Whatever happened at the Sullivan house isn’t good, and I probably don’t want to be connected to it. At least not right now. The last thing I need is to have to answer a bunch of Barney Fife questions downtown, and calling Mommy to pick me up at the police station would ruin the whole vibe for everyone involved. I’m more afraid of having to answer Ellen’s questions than theirs. She’s tougher.

  My craven need for information will have to wait. I tell myself that patience will work best here and I’ll find out what happened eventually. It’s the only play I have right now.

  I slowly walk away, exaggerate my limp, maybe give the cop some Keyser Söze thoughts. I’m aimed at the other end of Rambler, figuring to loop around to Wianno Avenue and back to the library. I have the time now, and not having to walk past the same set of cops is a good idea.

  Then, throu
gh the trees, I see a stretcher brought out of the Sullivan house. It’s holding a body with a white sheet over it. The stretcher’s metallic legs are like the barren tree branches. They look dead, unfit to carry life and too flimsy to carry any weight.

  TWELVE

  Back on Wianno and getting physically fatigued fast. Joints tighten and demand that I stop moving. I don’t walk this kind of distance regularly—or at all. This is my marathon.

  Been waiting and listening for the ambulance and cop cars to pass. Nothing yet. They must’ve taken a different route.

  I might be a half mile from the library now. A car approaches from behind. Its wheels grind salt and sand left over from the winter. The salt and sand have nowhere to go, I suppose. The car slows down and pulls onto the sidewalk ahead of me. It’s in my path. It’s a red car, something American and muscular, not at all practical, and that tells you all you need to know about the driver of such a thing. Whoever it is has to wait until I drag my limping-for-real ass up to them. Drama and tension happen naturally sometimes.

  I mosey up to the car. The front windows are rolled down, engine still on, its idling is somewhere between a growl and a clearing throat. There’s a thick arm hanging out the window, tapping the door, tapping to someone’s favorite song. Not mine.

  The driver says, “Hey there, Genevich. What’s that you’re carrying around?” The driver is the redheaded goon from the DA’s office. The passenger is his bald buddy. It’s sweet how they stick together, even this far from their natural habitat.

  I say, “A book. Ever seen one before? Truth be known, I just look at the pictures.” I hold it up. I don’t have any secrets.

  The passenger goon, Baldy, says, “Oh, he’s a funny guy. I love funny guys. They make everything more fun.”

  I say, “That’s quite the expressive vocabulary you got there. I can see why your buddy lets you talk.” They both have their cell phones in their ears. Maybe they’re surgical implants. I point and add, “Those phones will give you cancer. Be careful.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” the redhead says. “What are you doing down on the Cape? For a retard who can’t drive, you sure do get around.” He laughs. It’s forced and goofy.

  I don’t say anything. The goons go all sit-and-stare on me, dogs pointing at some dead animal floating in the water.

  The library is in the visible distance. The clouds part a bit, a tear in the overcast fabric, and the sun shines on the library’s white flagpole. I’m on a main road, middle of the day. I convince myself that I’m safe, so I decide to keep up the chatter.

  I say, “I like the Cape this time of year. Think I’ll play a little mini-golf later. Take advantage of the off-season touristy stuff. Want to play? Five bucks a hole until the windmill. Then it’s ten.”

  Baldy says, “We’ll pass, Mushface.” He’s breathing heavy, practically frothing. His chin juts out, a thick slab of granite, a section of the Great Wall of China. It seems to be growing bigger with each breath.

  I say, “Now, now. No need to get personal, boys. This has been fun, but I think I’ll continue on my afternoon constitutional, if you don’t mind.”

  I resume my walk. I have goons from the DA’s office tailing me in a red car, Sullivan’s surveying red car. Nothing is coincidence. Everything is connected.

  They follow me. The engine revs, mechanical authority, a thousand angry voices. Clouds of exhaust punctuate the vehicular threats. The roars fill me, then pool in the back of my head. I want to turn to see how close they are, but I won’t.

  They pull up next to me again, but we all keep moving. Nobody is the leader. The car creeps farther onto the sidewalk, cutting into my path. There’s a chest-high stone wall to my left. I might run out of space soon, sandwiched between metal and rock, that proverbial hard place.

  Redhead says, “We weren’t done talking yet. Leaving us like that was kind of rude, Genevich.”

  “Yeah, well, Miss Manners I ain’t.”

  Their car edges closer. Heat from the engine block turns loose my sweat. I’m going to keep walking. I won’t be the one to flinch in this game of chicken. No way. Not after that retard crack.

  Redhead says, “I hope you didn’t come all the way down here to talk to Brendan Sullivan.”

  Baldy finishes the thought. “Yeah, wasted trip, Genevich. He’s got nothing to say. Never did.”

  I’m not safe. I never was. Safety is the big disguise. I keep walking. Straight line. That’s what courage is: dumbass perseverance. The library flagpole is my bearing, my shining beacon. I’m done talking. Just walking.

  Redhead says, “I can make this simple for you, Genevich. You can make us go away by giving us those photos.”

  My eyes stay on the flagpole. It’s covered in white vines and white roses.

  “Yeah, give us the photos, and then you can have a little nap.”

  “Or a big one.”

  “It’s time to be smart, here.”

  “We don’t play games.”

  “Ask Brendan.”

  Baldy says, “Oh, wait a minute, he can’t ask Brendan.”

  The negatives are still in my desk but the manila envelope and photos are inside my jacket. I wanted to make Sullivan look at them again. I wanted to see his eyes seeing the photos. I can’t explain what information it would’ve given me, but it would’ve been something. Maybe everything.

  Redhead says, “Be a smart retard, Genevich. Give us the photos.”

  I can pretend the photos are inside my library book and, when Redhead reaches for it, smack him in the face with it, knock him silly. Maybe it’ll buy me enough time to get to the library. Maybe it won’t. I wouldn’t mind paying the missing book fee if it worked.

  I don’t give them anything, feet on pavement, playing it cool when everything is too hot. Their engine revs loud enough to crack the sidewalk under me but I just keep on going. My eyes are locked on the library and its flagpole, the flagpole with vines made of white roses, and those roses are now blooming and growing bigger, just like the smoking and growling threat next to me.

  THIRTEEN

  I’m falling but not falling. I’m not falling because I am sitting, but I am falling because I am leaning and sliding, sliding down. My right hand shoots out and slaps against wood. It wasn’t expecting wood and I wasn’t expecting any of this. Adrenaline. Fear. My heart is a trapped rabbit and it frantically kicks the walls with oversized hind legs. Disoriented is a brain comparing short-term memories to what the senses currently report and believing neither.

  Goons, the DA’s goons. Sitting on a bench. Surgical implants. A bench. Red car. Feet planted in grass. Walking. Falling, sliding. A stone wall. White flagpole on my direct left, and there are no vines or blooming roses. . . .

  I blink and stare and look. If I was an owl I’d spin my head like a top and cover all 360 degrees, make sure there’re no holes in what I see. Okay. I’m sitting on a bench, the lone bench in front of the library.

  My legs hurt. They won’t bend at the knee without complaining. I did the walk. Pain is my proof. My next thought is about time. How much I hate it, and how desperate I am to know how much of it has passed.

  Here comes Ellen. Her little green car pulls into the library lot. I’ll stay here, wait for her, and reboot from my latest system crash, but there’ll be files missing. There always are.

  I feel inside my jacket. The manila envelope. I peek inside and the photos are still there.

  Ellen has mercifully changed out of her clown pants and into old carpenter jeans, faded, like my memories. She also has on a gray sweatshirt, part of her bingo attire. It makes her look older and tired, tired from all the extra years of hands-on mothering. I won’t tell her that maybe the clown pants are the way to go.

  Ellen says, “Have you been out here long?”

  I wonder if she knows how awful a question that is to ask. I could say not long and be correct; it’s relative. I haven’t been out here asleep on this bench for long when you compare it to the amount of time I’ve exist
ed with narcolepsy, if you compare it to the life span of a galaxy. Or I could say not long, not long at all, just got here.

  I say, “I don’t know.”

  Ellen ignores my response and its implications. She adjusts her monstrous bag on her right shoulder. She usually complains about that shoulder killing her, but she won’t switch the bag over to her left. I don’t know anyone else who exclusively uses her right shoulder for load bearing.

  She says, “Did you get some work done? Get everything you need?”

  I say, “Some work done. Still more to do.” Still groggy. Speaking only in phrases is the ointment. For now, my words are too heavy for complex construction.

  “That’s good. Though you look a little empty-handed.”

  I had taken out the little Osterville history book. I check and pat the bench and my coat. It’s gone.

  Ellen says, “What’s the matter?”

  Maybe I hit the redheaded goon with the book after all, assuming there were real goons in the first place. I could verify some of my previous extracurricular activities. Go inside and ask if I had checked out that book, but I won’t. An answer of no would do too much damage to me. I’d rather just believe what I want to believe. It’s always easier that way.

  I say, “Nothing. I think I left a book inside.” I stand up and try not to wince. I’m going to have a hard time walking to the car.

  She says, “What’s wrong now, Mark?”

  Everything. I need to go back to Southie, try to put distance between me, the maybe goons, and whatever happened at the Sullivan house. I also need to give Ellen an answer, an excuse, something that won’t lead to a trip full of follow-up questions. “Nothing. My body is protesting another drive in your torture chamber.”