by Lee Thompson
Now what?
Seeing them brought the anger back.
“Did you hear me, sir? 911?”
“I heard you.” I felt Rusty’s pulse. It pounded against my index and middle fingers.
If I take him straight to Our Lady of Mercy then I’m not going to get to ask him any questions.
“He’s just banged up, I think. Help me get him in the cruiser. I’ll run him to the hospital. It’s only a mile east of here.”
We had Rusty in the back seat of the cruiser in under a minute and I told the man to wait in his RV. I searched the cruiser’s glove box for any type of paperwork. There had to be an accident form. Nothing. I looked in the mirror. Rusty leaned against the back window. I got out and walked over to the Corolla and grabbed Rusty’s insurance info, glad he had some, and knocked on the RV’s door. Eric Dunn had slipped on a dry shirt. He sat in the captain’s chair and ran his hand through his hair. I gave him Rusty’s info and walked back out into the rain. I called Dan, an old friend from school, to save Rusty a little money. Dan said he’d tow the car back to his little garage and store it for a bit.
“Rusty, can you hear me?”
“My neck is killing me.”
“You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“No. Not just that.”
“What then?”
“I need to get to the hospital. I think something’s wrong with me.”
Shit.
I wiped rain off my face. “I’ll take you to Our Lady, but I need you to tell me the truth.”
“What truth?”
“Whatever it is you guys are trying to hide.”
“I wish I could tell you everything, John. I can’t. But trust me, it’s for the best. You don’t want to know what slime crawls around unseen. Will you take me to the hospital now?”
“You really messed up, man. I used to look up to you.” In the mirror I watched Rusty rub the back of his head and flinch as he ran his fingers over the place where Eric Dunn’s knuckles had left their mark.
“You looked up to the wrong person.”
“I guess so.”
* * *
Pat peeked around the tree and looked across his back yard. Rain smeared the bedroom window. His wife hopped out of bed and he watched her head and shoulders go out the door, then all of her walk into the kitchen. He clenched his fist and a tear burnt his cheek, an odd feeling, a trail of heat cutting through the rain running down his face.
“You think I’m stupid, you dumb bitch. But I’ve smelled another man’s deodorant in our bed. His sweat.” And that pissed him off as much as the asshole being in there now, his wife’s boldness, refusing to wash the sheets, knowing he’d sleep in their mess until he went mad and pressed the pistol to her head and put her out of her misery.
The man got up. Another smear behind the window. He walked over toward the dresser while Tiffany was in the kitchen, on the phone. Pat waited for him to come back into view, hop back in the sack. Tiffany slammed the phone down and grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge. She’s going to hide it later and pretend her problems don’t exist when I’m home.
“Your weakness makes me sick.” Drips of water fell from the branches over his head. The man defiling his house crossed the room and hopped back in the bed. What were you doing in her dresser? You stealing panties? Leaving her something?
The phone rang again, soft through the closed window and drizzle. Pat shivered and pulled his pistol. He thought about stepping out into the back yard and letting her see him. Give her quite a fright, the man too, probably, and that’d serve ‘em both right.
His phone rang. He almost dropped his gun. He clawed the cell from his pocket, saw it was McDonnell and shut it down. Tiffany crossed the kitchen and made her way back down the hall. No questions, no illusions. She took her top off and threw it out of sight.
Pat’s hand tightened over the pistol. He lit a cigar and thought about the best way to knock these two birds down with one stone.
Chapter 6
Tell me about all of it, Rusty. What the hell is going on?
We sat in the cruiser outside the emergency room doors. Rusty coughed into his shoulder and looked out the window. I watched him in the mirror.
“My car is wrecked?”
“I called Dan to come and pick it up. He’ll keep it at the shop until you get it out.”
“He might as well junk it. Not going to do me much good now, is it?” Rusty rubbed his nose and dropped his hand. “I’m sorry about that guy’s RV.”
“You should be.”
Rusty nodded. “Did you tell Pat about this already?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I miss your dad sometimes, I ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“He’s the only real friend I ever had. He never judged me either. I had some crazy ideas when I was younger.”
“We all do.”
Rusty grimaced. Weird how a broken nose can make someone look so different. Rusty grabbed the back of my seat and pulled himself up. “I’m going to pay for this for a while. Not just financially. Pat…” He rolled down the back window and groaned. Drops of rain dappled the nape of my neck.
“Pat what?”
“Nothing. I appreciate you getting me over here. I expected you to do something foolish. Take me out in the woods where the girls are, or, shit, something.” Rusty met my eyes in the mirror. “Why didn’t you?”
“You might have something wrong with you, more than just a messed up mug. We better get you in and have them check you out.” I took a deep breath. “I have a lot of questions, but I don’t think you’re willing to answer them anyway.”
“I just… can’t.”
I got out and opened the back door. I put an arm under Rusty’s shoulder and pulled him up. “Don’t tell Pat I mentioned it.”
Rusty’s mostly dead weight made him hard to move. He stank of whiskey. “I don’t talk to Andrews if I don’t have to. I’ve never liked him.”
The double doors pulled back as we stepped on the pad. “Why not?”
“He’s a lot of trouble. You get the time, ask his cousin about him.”
“Which cousin?”
“Jim.”
Two men in purple smocks came rushing over. The hospital wasn’t big, only had twenty double-rooms. I let the men take Rusty and looked down the long hall, at ceiling lights reflecting off polished floors. I hoped I’d see Cat making her rounds.
Rusty looked asleep as they put him in a wheel chair and rolled him to a desk where a girl in her early twenties chewed gum and scribbled on a form. I left, making a mental note to ask Jim White about Pat. The older I got, the more I realized that we never know people as well as we think we do. Everyone had done things, thought things, things they bore like crosses slicked in their own blood and that of those they loved.
When I went back out to the cruiser and pulled away from the curb, I called my uncle. Red didn’t answer. My stomach sank. My father’s sermons slipped through my head like an eel. I never agreed with everything he preached, but some of the core philosophies still stuck with me. You reap what you’ve sown.
I sometimes felt out of touch, empty, like anyone else I guess. The problem only compounded by a hunger for spiritual truth and answers. But sometimes I was a coward.
If Mark stopped in to visit Red, then it is happening. A dark second coming. Revenge.
* * *
The hot air in Red’s Hardware hit a man like a fist. I pulled my shirt away from my chest and took in the jumble of merchandise mixed together on shelves which ran to the ceiling. When I’d been little, I’d always loved coming in here and playing hide and seek. Now, the place seemed smaller, the mystery gone. I knew what all the various parts were and it hurt to know that people can lose their imagination—a tractor’s axle no longer part of a spaceship.
You lose your innocence and yo
ur imagination goes with it.
“Uncle Red?”
He cussed from the back of the store. I followed the sound, my hand trailing along a dusty bin that held lawn mower blades. I rounded the corner. Red’s office sat in the back. The old man bent over his desk, his black-gloved hands rifling through a drawer. He’d worn the same black velvet pair, or so it seemed, for my whole life. Most people in town thought you could go a bit too far with certain things, like being a germaphobe. When I was younger I hated when the other kid’s teased me about Red being off. I never thought that the little hang up made him a bad person. Mark had knocked a kid’s tooth out once for talking shit, all of them hanging out on the sidewalk, Red with his gloves, sweeping off the stoop in front of his store. I smiled at the memory. That little shit, Dusty Lang, had never mentioned Red’s gloves again.
“Uncle Red.”
He kept looking for something. I took a few steps closer, put my hand on the open door, rapped it with my knuckles. Red looked up, his face white, even whiter hair sticking up in all directions. He looked a lot like my mom had before she keeled over of a heart attack five years ago. Stress kills; our every day worries adding up until we feel like we can’t take another step forward, that it’s all for nothing, all hopeless. I wanted to hug him, just to see him smile a little, but I was still lost in my own troubles, chased by my own demons.
Red said, “I didn’t think you were coming.”
He looked thinner, a flannel shirt hanging from his bony shoulders. The lines on his face ran deep and a bluish tint stained his lips as he tried to smile. Red ran a hand through the wisps of white and smoothed his bushy eyebrows. He sat down and pointed to the seat across the desk. I sat as well. Red poked his hand at a silver popcorn bowl with a metal lid on it that reminded me of the lids on 55-gallon drums with a hard lip ringing the perimeter. “That’s yours.”
“It’s not mine. Catherine loan it to you?”
“No,” Red said. “I mean. It’s what your brother left.”
“Mark’s dead, Red.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
I don’t know. He’s dead. The dead don’t bring gifts for those they left behind. And I don’t believe this is happening. None of it. Only the girls in the woods. They need help. They need someone to give them the dignity of a proper burial. These hallucinations will pass.
Red nodded at the bowl. “It’s just as disturbing to me as it is to you. But there are things you don’t know about our family. Things I hope you never have to find out, but I think you’re going to.” He shook his head and wiped his eyes. “I know you’re going to.”
“So, tell me.”
Red sighed, slid his gloves back tight over his hands, and pulled a pipe from the drawer to his right. He packed it with tobacco and struck a match. His hand shook as he puffed on the pipe. “This thing means a lot to me. It was my father’s.”
I twisted in my seat. I twitched, a muscle in my arm jumping as Red leaned back and his chair squealed. Far off, I thought I heard a gunshot. Red looked at the door. When he met my gaze, he spoke, soft, “We’re here for a reason. Always have been. Your friends, too.”
“What reason?”
“That’s your own dark road. You’ve got to find it for yourself. But it’s there if you’re not afraid to look at it, see it for what it is.”
The past kept trying to pull at me. The edges of my vision darkened as I stared at the silver bowl, tempted to grab it and throw it against the wall. “What did Mark have to say?”
“Take a guess.”
I wiped my eyes. “Did he tell you I killed him?”
Red set the pipe on a brass plaque. “No. Did you kill him? That what you think happened on the Loyal Sock? What you used to love, you fear now? Why?”
It felt like my insides buckled, and if I wasn’t already sitting, I knew I’d have fallen. I gripped the arms of the chair tighter. “I don’t remember exactly what happened.”
“I doubt you killed him.”
“I keep hearing the paddle strike the back of his skull. It drives me crazy sometimes. I can feel the weight of it in my hands when I sleep. Sometimes when I’m awake.”
Red tapped his fingers against his knees. I remembered how the gloves felt on the back of my neck, when I’d been a young boy, saw a ghost after my grandfather died, and Dad spent three hours preaching at me, telling me to be separate of your body was to be with God or be in hell. And Red had told Dad to take it easy, those big hands, those gloves, tickling the back of my neck for what felt like hours. “Why would you want to do that? Kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
“No?”
“What did he leave me?”
“Take it with you.” Red stood and moved around the desk, sat on the lip of it in front of me. He patted my shoulder. I sobbed. My chest ached from a pain so deep I feared the tear in my soul was growing wider. I wiped my eyes, straightened my shirt, and repositioned the gun at my hip, trying to get a grip. Red might not judge me the way other people did, but I felt like he should. Blood wasn’t an excuse to gloss over a man’s shortcomings.
“I don’t remember a lot of stuff,” I said. And it was the truth. There were so many memories from childhood, hell, from just a few years ago, that had grown murkier with time.
“You’re going to have to, for what’s coming.”
“What?”
“When this is all over and you come out the man you were meant to be, you’ll be all right.”
“And now?”
“You feel lost. It’s okay, though. We all feel that way sometimes. We all feel empty, or worthless, or rotten. But you’re not. You’ve always been special. Why do you think your dad pushed you so hard? It wasn’t because he didn’t love you. He did. And like me, he always saw the massive potential in you. What have you done with it?”
“Nothing. But I never had what you’re talking about.”
“Stop believing the lies you tell yourself. Face what you see in the mirror and overcome it.” Red turned and pulled the bowl across the desk. He held it in his lap. Cradled it like it held something significant. “Remember when you were little and I’d read you Ray Bradbury stories before you went to sleep?”
I nodded. They were one of the few things I remembered from childhood with any kind of joy. “Those were good times.”
“Bradbury was special. So are you. So’re your friends. You’re all going to have to lean on each other. Things are going to get crazy.”
“I wish you’d quit talking in riddles.”
Red laughed. “Me, too. But it’s more fun. I can’t tell you, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.” He held the bowl out. I took it, shocked by its weight. He touched my shoulder, tender, knotted hand kneading sore muscles. “You’re special. And you’re going to have to forgive yourself for what you think happened and look at what really has.” His hand lingered there a moment. “Go to All Saints.”
“Mark’s grave?”
Red nodded.
“I don’t think I can yet.”
Red stood and walked out of the room.
I sat there a moment and ran my fingers over the rough textures of the onyx key. I stood and thanked him and carried the bowl out to the car. Red followed and lingered in the doorway, one leg on either side of the threshold. I beeped the horn and pulled into the street, my eyes on the rearview mirror and the girl in the center of the backseat, opening the door to her heart to show me the emptiness she held inside.
* * *
The rain stopped. Cars threw puddles of water over the sidewalks and old ladies put their umbrellas away, looked at the clouds as if they didn’t trust them. Mike Johnston pulled his Jaguar away from the curb, his stomach empty, his mind wandering over all the times he’d swore he’d never set foot in Division again.
It takes things from you. More than it ever gives.
He headed west, the radio playing Hendrix.
Hey Baby, new rising sun.
Mike wondered where people got a talent for pl
aying the guitar like that. He’d tried, but it was hard, using what his mom called stupid fingers. You just need to find your niche, something other than the bullshit TV shows.
He pulled into the Diner’s rabble-scrabble lot and parked by the door. This town was a shit hole like any other and no matter how much paint you slapped on it, it didn’t fill the ugly gash or pretty it up.
Inside, the place stank of farmers and simpletons. Roots he’d tried so hard to break away from. Mike took a corner booth, put his back to the glass. A fan hummed on the ceiling and a redheaded waitress grinned from behind the counter. His stomach growled. She came over, this thin wraith, swaying her hips like she had some goodies all the boys had to have. Her energy bounced around the room and her smile could have powered the town if a storm knocked the lights out. “What you having, Mr. Johnston?”
“I know you?”
“I wish.”
“Huh. Think it’d be better for me if you just did your job and took my order.”
She slapped his arm like they were in the seventh grade and he was giving her a hard time only to sucker her into a kiss later. “I’m Clara,” she said, tapping a pencil against her thigh. “You must be back to see your momma, right? You planning on staying around a while?”
Mike leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “I plan on eating. That’s all I care about.”
He held her gaze. She grinned. “A man of simple needs. I can appreciate that. You don’t beat around the bush. Shows in your acting. If it wasn’t for you that show would....”
He threw a hard look at her, hoping she’d get the fucking point that he didn’t give a good goddamn what she thought.
“Moody, huh?” she asked.
“No. But I’ve had a long drive, I’m hungry and you’re starting to annoy me.”
Some of the other patrons swiveled in the chairs at the counter up front. Mike shook his head and gave her his order, hoping she’d write it down and walk away.
Clara sat in the seat across from him. “People are excited you’re here.”