Ellen emerges with a carrying case. “This was Tim’s projector. If you break it, you’re a dead man.” The little robot disappears into the case. I hope it won’t be lonely, separated from its friends.
Tim’s projector for Tim’s film that was in Tim’s shed. I’ve opened one of those sets of nested Russian dolls, and I don’t know when the dolls will stop coming out or how to stop them. I grab the case by the handle and let the projector hang by my hip. It’s heavy. It’s all heavy.
“How come you don’t sell these projectors, or the cameras on the wall?”
“What? We don’t have time for this.”
“You’re right, we don’t, but I want to know. Maybe the answer is important. Give me your gut-shot answer. Quick. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what I’d want to hear or don’t want to hear. Just tell me.”
She says, “Because no one else should be using Tim’s stuff.”
I want to take the question back because she can’t answer it. It wasn’t fair to try and distill something as complex as her twenty-five-plus years of being a widow into a reaction. She gave it an honest try. Don’t know what I was expecting, maybe something that would make Tim seem like a real person, not a collection of secrets, clues, and consequences. Something that helps me to get through tonight.
I say, “Fair enough. There will be no breaking of the projector. I’m a gentle soul.”
Ellen puts her hands in her hair. “You’ve got me all frazzled. I need to go back. There’s a stand-alone screen in that closet over there. Take it with you.”
I scoot down to the end of the display cabinet, boxing her in while I root through the closet for the screen. I hold up a long heavy cardboard box. “Is it in the box?”
“Yes! Now get out of the way. Shoo!”
I hustle after Ellen, my arms full of film equipment. Let’s all go to the lobby. I follow her into the reception area, to the studio. Ellen stops at the door.
“Where are you going?”
I say, “I’m going out the way I came in. Brill is going to meet me out back. He went to get a coffee and a pack of smokes and a Playboy. I’m telling you, he’s a sick old man.”
Ellen ignores me and walks into the studio. “Okay, so sorry for the interruption. He’s leaving, finally.”
It’s true.
Ellen breaks into a fake-cheery voice. She’s a pro at it, which makes me wonder how many years she used that voice on the kid me: everything is great and happy and there’s nothing wrong here, nothing can hurt you.
She says, “How’s Danny doing? Is he ready? You’re going to look so cool in the pictures, Danny. Picture time!”
The movie-show equipment is cumbersome. I flip the screen up onto my left shoulder, lugging it like a log. Balancing and carrying it is not easy.
Glamour Mom couldn’t care less about the goings-on and continues to talk on the phone. Danny is still crying, and is now dressed like a duck; yellow feathers and orange bill split wide open over his face, the suit swallows him. His wings flap around as Ellen changes the desert scene to a sunset lake.
I’m no duck. I am the guy waddling out, away from the sunset lake and into a back alley.
THIRTY-THREE
The sun is setting but there’s no lake back here. I buckle the projector into the passenger seat. It could be a bumpy ride and I don’t want it rolling around the trunk or backseat. It needs to survive the trip.
Before I climb behind the wheel, I take out the cell phone. No messages. I consider calling Brill, but I won’t. There’s no way he’d give me a ride to Southie, even if I did have enough cash, which I don’t. I turn off the cell phone. I’m sure Ellen will be calling me as soon as she gets home.
Yeah, Southie. I’ve made a decision. Don’t know if I’m going to call Jennifer, but I’m going back to Southie and my apartment. This is the only way to finish the case. My case. I don’t think I have the cash or credit card balance left to hole up in a local motel, or any motel on the way to Southie, and watch the film. Besides, this isn’t about hiding anymore. That skulking-around shit I went through today is not for me. It makes me irritable and fatigued. This is about doing it my way. I’m going to go back to my office and my apartment, where I will watch this film and solve this case. It’s going to end there, one way or the other, because I say so.
Okay, the drive. The downtown traffic has decreased considerably. The townies are all home, eating dinner, watching the local news. I wonder what Janice Sullivan is doing tonight. I don’t remember if Brendan’s wake was today or not. I wonder how long her twin aunts are staying at the house. I think about Janice’s first day alone, and then the next one, and the next one. Will I be able to tell her, when all this is over, about the death of her husband?
Stop. I can’t lose myself in runaway trains of thought. Those are nonstop bullets to Sleep Town.
Motoring through the outskirts of Osterville and I need to make a pit stop before the big ride. I pull into a convenience store. Mine is the only car in the lot. If this was Southie, the townie kids would be hanging out here, driving around and buzzing the lot because there’s no other place to go. They’d spike their slurpies and drink hidden beers. But this isn’t Southie. I’m not there yet, not even close.
Inside, a quick supply run: supersized black coffee, a box of powdered donuts, and a pack of smokes. Dinner of champions. Let’s hope it brings on a spell of insomnia.
Back behind the wheel with my supplies, I check the seat belt rig on my copilot. I apologize for not getting it a Danish. I’m so inconsiderate.
I turn on the space car. The dashboard is a touch-screen computer with settings for the radio, CD player, climate control, fuel efficiency ratings for the trip, and a screen that displays an animated diagram of the hybrid engine and when the power shifts from gas to electric. Have to hand it to the rental agent, I wanted distracting and the kid gave it to me.
Next is the GPS. I plug in the convenience store’s address, then the destination, my apartment. I choose avoid highways instead of fastest trip. Driving on the highway, especially the expressway when I get closer to Boston, would be too dangerous for everyone. I know the drive, normally ninety minutes, will take twice, maybe even three times as long by sticking to back roads, but there’s always congestion on the highways and the likelihood of me killing myself and someone else with my car at highway speeds is too great. I’ll take it slow and steady and win the race on the back roads.
The GPS estimates driving time to be three hours and twenty-two minutes. I pat the projector, say, “Road trip,” and pull out of the lot. The GPS has a female voice. She tells me to turn left.
“You’re the boss.”
I drive. Osterville becomes Centerville becomes Barnstable becomes Sandwich. My coffee is hot enough to burn enamel, the way I like it. The combination of excitement, fear, and caffeine has me wired. I feel awake. I know it’s the calm before the storm. I still could go out at any minute, but I feel good. That’s until I remember there’s only two ways off the Cape. Both include a spot of highway driving and a huge bridge.
It’s past dusk and there’s no turning back. The sun is gone-daddy-gone and might never come up again if I’m not careful, as if careful ever has anything to do with narcolepsy. I’m in Sandwich when the GPS tells me to get on Route 6. She’s too calm. She doesn’t realize what she’s telling me to do.
The on-ramp to the highway winds around itself and spits me onto a too-small runway to merge into the two-lane traffic. I jump on with both feet and all four tires, eyes forward, afraid to check my mirror. A hulking SUV comes right up my behind and beeps. The horn is loud enough to be an air raid siren. I jerk and swerve right but keep space car on the road. Goddamn highway, got to get off sooner than soon.
The Sagamore Bridge is ahead, a behemoth, seventy-plus years old. That can’t be safe for anyone. It spans the Cape Cod Canal and is at least 150 feet above the water. Its slope is too steep, the two northbound lanes too narrow. No cement dividers, just double yellow l
ines keep northbound and southbound separated. They need more than lines. North and south don’t like each other and don’t play well together. Doesn’t anyone know their history anymore?
There are too many cars and trucks squeezing over the towering Cape entrance and exit. I stay in the right lane. I’m so scared I’m literally shaking. White powder from a donut I stuff in my mouth sprinkles all over my pants. I probably shouldn’t be eating now, but I’m trying for some sort of harmless everyday action while driving, just like the other slob motorists on the death bridge.
The steel girders whisper at my car doors. I’m on an old rickety roller coaster. The car is ticking its way up the big hill, still going up, and I’m anticipating the drop. My hands are empty of donut and back on the wheel, still shaking. This is a mistake. I can’t manage my narcolepsy and I can’t manage who or what I’ll hit with the space car when I go to sleep. No if. When. I don’t know when an attack will happen. There’s no pattern. There’s no reason.
I try to drink the coffee but my tremors are too violent and I get my lips and chin scalded for the trouble. The swell of traffic moves at a steady 45 miles per hour. There are other vehicles on the front, back, and left of me. I can’t slow down and can’t switch lanes. I won’t look right and down, to the water. I’m not afraid of the bridge or the fall. I’m afraid of me, of that curtain that’ll just go down over my eyes.
I crest the top of the bridge. A blast of wind voices its displeasure and pushes me left a few inches. I correct course, but it’s not a smooth correction. The car jerks. The wind keeps blowing, whistling around the car’s frame. My hands want to cry on the steering wheel. They’re doing their best. They need a drink and a cigarette.
After the crest is down. The down is as steep as the up, and almost worse. The speed of the surrounding traffic increases. We have this incredible group forward momentum and nothing at the bottom of the hill to slow us down. I tap my brakes for no reason. I chance a look in the rearview mirror and the bulk of the bridge is behind me. Thank Christ. I’m over the canal and off the Cape. I breathe for the first time since Sandwich. The breath is too clean. Need a smoke, but that will have to wait until I get off the highway.
I’m finally off the bridge. Ms. GPS says she wants world peace and Route 6 is now Route 3 north, and I need to take the first exit to get with the back-roads plan again. Easy for her to say. I still have some highway to traverse.
I’m putting along Route 3 in the right lane, going fifty while everyone else passes me. The flat two lanes of highway stretch out into darkness, and the red taillights of the passing cars fade out of sight. I think about staying on the highway, taking it slow, pulling over when I get real tired and getting to Southie quicker, but I can’t chance it. I crash here, I’m a dead man, and I’ll probably take someone with me.
I’m already yawning by the time the first Plymouth exit shows up on my radar screen. Maybe I’ll show my movie on Plymouth Rock. I take the exit and pull over in a gully soon after the off-ramp. Need to reset my bearings, take a breather. My hands and fingers are sore from vise-gripping the wheel.
I light a cigarette and turn on my cell phone. It rings and vibrates as soon as it powers up. It’s Ellen. I let it ring out, then I call her back. My timing is good. She’s still leaving a message for me so my call is directly shuffled off to her voice mail.
Talk after the beep. “I’m okay, Ellen. No worries. Just so you know, the DA is crooked, can’t be trusted. You stay put and call the police if you see a couple of mountain-sized goons on your doorstep, or if any red cars pull into the driveway. Or if that doesn’t make you feel safe, go to a motel. I’m being serious. I’d offer to treat but I’m just about out of cash. I’ve almost solved my case. I’ll call you back later, when it’s over.”
It is possible the goons are in the house, have Ellen tied to a chair, gun to her head, the whole mustache-twisting bit, and are making her call me under the threat of pain. Possible but not likely. Sure, it’s getting late and the DA and his squad are desperate to get the film, but they also have to be careful about how many people know what they’re doing. They start harassing too many folks, the cleanup gets too big and messy. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t underestimate their desperation.
I can’t turn back now. If the goons want me, they can call from their own phone.
The cell rings. It’s Ellen and I don’t answer it. She must’ve heard my message. I’ll make it up to her later, if there is a later. I turn on the car, and it’s back on the road again for me.
Plymouth is its own state. The biggest city in Massachusetts by square mileage, and I’m feeling it. Drive, drive, drive. Lefts and rights. Quiet back roads that range from the heart of suburbia to the heart of darkness, country roads with no streetlamps and houses that don’t have any neighbors.
It’s a weeknight and it’s cold, so no one is out walking or riding their bikes. Mostly, it’s just me and the road. When another car approaches in the opposite lane, I tense up, a microwave panic; it’s instant and the same feeling I had on the highway. I think about what would happen if I suddenly veered into that lane, into those headlights, and I’m the Tin Man with no heart and everything starts to rust. Then the car passes me and I relax a little, but the whole process is draining.
I pull over and eat a few donuts. I pull over and take a leak, stretch my legs. I pull over and light another fire in my mouth. I pull over and try to take a quick nap, but as soon as I park the car, shut everything off, I’m awake again. The almost-asleep feeling is gone. I close my eyes, it’s lost, and for once I can’t find it.
Drive, drive, drive. The GPS says I’m in Kingston, but I don’t remember leaving Plymouth. That’s not good. My stomach fills with acid, but that’s what I get for medicating with black coffee and powdered donuts.
I think about calling someone, just to shoot the shit. Talking can help keep me awake, but there’s no one to call. I try to focus on the GPS, its voice, maps, and beeps. I learn the digital pattern, how soon before a turn she’ll tell me to turn. This isn’t good either. The whole trip is becoming a routine. I’ve been in the car long enough that driving is once again automatic behavior.
I sing. I play with the touch screen, changing the background colors. Kingston becomes Pembroke. Pembroke becomes Hanover.
More than ninety minutes have passed since the start. I’d be in Southie by now if I could’ve driven on the highway. That kind thinking isn’t helping. Stay on the sunny side of the street, Genevich.
The road. The road is in Hanover, for now. I flick the projector’s latches up and down. The projector doesn’t complain. The road. How many roads are there in Massachusetts? Truth is, you can get they-uh from hee-uh. You can even find roads to the past. Everything and everyone is connected. It’s more than a little depressing. I flick the latches harder; apparently I’m sadistic when it comes to inanimate objects. The road. Flick. Then everything is noise. The engine revs and the space car fills a ditch. My teeth knock and jam into each other with the jolt. The car careens left into bushes and woods. Budding branches scratch the windshield and side panels. I cut the wheel hard right and stomp on the brake pedal. The car slows some, but the back end skids out, and it wants to roll. I know the feeling. The car goes up and I’m pitched toward the passenger seat and the projector. The space car is going to go over and just ahead is the trunk of a huge tree.
Then the car stops. Everything is quiet. The GPS beeps, tells me to turn right.
I climb out. The car is beached on a swale, a foot away from the big tree. It’s pitch dark and I can’t see all that much, but the driver’s-side door feels dented and scratched. I crossed over the right lane and into some woods. There’s a house maybe two hundred yards ahead. I walk around to the passenger side and check the projector, and it seems to be in one piece.
“Now that we’ve got that out of the way.”
I climb back in the car and roll off the hill; the frame and wheel wells groan but I make it back to the road and go a half mile bef
ore I pull over again. The space car’s wounds seem superficial. Tires still inflated. No cracked glass, and I have no cracked bones.
The GPS and distracting dashboard aren’t enough to keep me conscious. I need another stay-awake strategy. I dig a notepad and pencil out of my coat and put it in the passenger seat. It’s worth a shot.
Hanover becomes Norwell. I’m keeping a running tally of yellow street signs. Whenever I pass one, I make a slash on the notepad, a little task to keep me focused and awake. Norwell becomes Hingham. I’m driving with more confidence. I know it’s a false confidence, the belief that the disaster has already happened, lightning struck once, and it won’t happen again. I know that isn’t true but after a night spent in a car, by myself, it’s easy to cling to my own lies.
I keep up with the tally marks. I play with the dashboard some more. I still get sleepy. I push on. Hingham becomes Weymouth. I pull over twice and try to sleep. Again, no dice. I walk around, take deep breaths, alternating filling up my lungs with hot smoke and with the cold March air. I pee on someone’s rosebushes.
It’s almost midnight, but as I creep closer to the city there are more lights, a neon and halogen path. Things are getting brighter. Weymouth becomes Quincy. Despite the late hour, there are more cars around. I let them box me in and go where the currents take me. Quincy becomes the outskirts of Dorchester. I pass the JFK library and UMass Boston and BC High School. Dorchester becomes Southie.
I’ve made it. Bumped and bruised, scratched, damaged, more than a little weary, but I’m here.
THIRTY-FOUR
I drive by my building three times, approaching it from different angles and streets. I’m circling, only I’m not the buzzard. I watch the local traffic and eyeball the parked cars. No sign of the goon car. My office and apartment windows are darkened. No one left the light on for me.
The Little Sleep Page 17