He could hear the old man moving things around in his bedroom groaning all the while. There was a loud thud and a jingling of metal, followed by cursing. Something fell, hopefully not the old man.
Alex darted over to Lester’s room and saw the old man crouched on the floor, picking up coins. The drawers to his dresser were laid out on his bed. Alex knocked on the open door and said, “What happened?”
Lester looked up. “Goddamn jar of change fell when I tried to move this dresser.”
“Why do you want to move it?” The thing was pretty well centered against the back wall. To the left was a window and a burgundy recliner, to the right stood a wicker hamper.
“Some idiot put the thing too close to my chair,” Lester said. “It’s too cramped when I sit.”
“That idiot would be my mother.”
Lester said, “Hmm,” then scooped up some more coins.
“I can help if you want.”
“Hope you’re not a thief.”
Alex got down on his knees. “If I was, I’d pick something better than your pocket change.” The pristine Cadillac would have been his choice or maybe the old man’s laptop. Beyond these, there didn’t seem to be anything Lester had of value.
“You don’t think this is much. Add it up and I’ll bet there’s two hundred bucks if there’s a dime.”
“Why don’t you get it exchanged? They’ve got machines, you know.”
“I would, kid, but the problem is I can’t carry the son of a bitch anymore. Maybe I could get your help, give you a cut.”
Alex nodded and raked up a cluster of coins. “Don’t worry about it. On the house.”
Lester pointed a crooked finger toward the dresser. “I want it two feet that way.” His hand was a gnarly mess, like something Picasso would’ve sketched then probably sold for a fortune.
“No problem,” Alex said. He got up and started pushing the dresser across the wall-to-wall carpet. It was light without the drawers. He stopped and looked down at Lester.
“A little more.”
Alex gave another push.
“That’s good, kid. Thanks.”
“You want the drawers back in?”
Lester looked up and said, “What do you think?”
Alex smiled. “Yeah, that was pretty stupid.”
The route between bed and dresser was blocked by Lester and an array of coins still scattered about the floor. Alex helped gather them up and then helped Lester to his chair. The old man was breathing pretty heavily, and from what? He hadn’t moved more than ten feet. Alex picked up the jar of coins, set it on the dresser and began putting the drawers back in.
Lester’s breathing slowed. “Thanks again, kid. You’re not so bad after all.”
Alex nodded and walked to the door. He paused, one foot in the room, one in the hall. He was studying Lester’s face, how weather-beaten it looked. And his eyes. Alex had probably never looked into a black man’s eyes before, at least not consciously. They were really black—not in a bad way, like your soul is black, but in a mysterious way. “The map,” Alex finally said. “You were asking about the map.”
Lester placed his hands on his lap and said, “Go on.”
“Well, that’s where my father lives, Fort Lauderdale.”
“Figured it was something like that,” Lester said. “He’s pretty far away. Guess you don’t see him much.”
“Try never. Not since I was a year old.”
Lester nodded slowly. “Well, that’s a shame…a shame for both of you.”
“It’s no big deal,” Alex said. “It’s nothing.”
Lester stopped nodding. “There you go again, lying.”
Alex could hear the front door opening. “Alex!” his mother yelled.
He didn’t answer.
“Alex!” she yelled louder. “Get down here and pick up your book! It’s blocking the door. You know better than that.”
Lester waved a disfigured hand. “See ya, kid.”
FOR BETTER or worse, Alex was back to speaking with his mother who had just come to the kitchen after visiting with Lester in his bedroom and inviting him down for the birthday celebration. Something seemed to be bothering her. She was standing at the sink, cleaning lettuce like she was trying to pulverize it.
“What did he say?” Alex wanted to know.
“Oh, he’ll be down,” his mother said without looking away.
“Yeah, but what did he say?”
“Mr. Bray wants to drive his car. That’s all. And the doctors say he shouldn’t, at least not yet.”
“And you’re playing hardball with him?”
“Hush,” she said. “He’ll be down soon.”
Alex set the table for four, and he moved his stack of presents and the three helium balloons to the far couch where they wouldn’t be such a spectacle.
In a little while, Lester ambled his way to the dining room table and leaned against the back of the farthest chair from the kitchen. He appeared to be trying to catch his breath while staring at the ruby-colored placemats and matching cloth napkins. “Who’s the fourth?” he asked.
Alex didn’t want to answer. He looked over at his mother who had moved on to chopping veggies.
“Oh, that would be my boyfriend, Bill,” she said. “He should be here any minute.”
Alex poured glasses of water. “Horny bastard,” he muttered.
“Alex, hush,” his mother said. “There’ll be none of that tonight.”
“You don’t like him?” Lester asked Alex.
“I call him Bill Blue Balls. He only comes over for one reason—”
“Alex!” his mother yelled. “Not another word.”
Lester chuckled and lowered himself into the chair while Alex brought over the glasses of water.
“Sorry there’s nothing from me,” Lester said, motioning toward the couch. The old man’s eyesight was sharp enough to make out the stack of presents on the other side of the unlit great room. It certainly wasn’t poor vision that kept him from driving.
“No problem.” Alex sat down to Lester’s right. “I don’t need anything.”
The front door opened. “Hello everybody.” It was Bill’s jovial voice.
“Just in time,” Alex’s mother said. She dried off her hands and went out to the living room. The two exchanged a couple of kisses, and then she said, “Come meet Mr. Bray.”
Bill walked in carrying a pizza box. He had a bag in each hand. One was greasy, probably wings. The other had a wrapped gift partially sticking out. He set the items on the counter and said, “Hello, Mr. Bray, Bill Baler.” He walked toward Lester. “I’ve heard great things about you.”
“Same here,” Lester said, shaking Bill’s hand.
Alex’s mother placed a wooden bowl with two wooden utensils at the center of the table. She said, “Salad first everybody” in a kind of playful way. But Alex knew she’d been burned by Lester about the driving. So beneath her playfulness, she was exerting her don’t-mess-with-my-authority stance, which Alex knew all too well. He wondered how much of a pushover Lester might prove to be.
As she began doling out salad, Lester cleared his throat and said, “So, ma’am, what other rules do you have?”
She offered a tight smile.
“This ought to be good,” Alex said.
“Well,” she said, “there really aren’t any.”
Alex coughed out the word bullshit.
Bill pointed and said, “Be respectful, Alex.”
“He lives here now,” Alex said. “He should know mom’s ground rules.”
“There aren’t any ground rules,” his mother said. “Not for him.”
“So you’re not going to make him go to church?”
“No, but he can come along he’d like. We could even visit his church, if he’ll have us.”
Lester smiled. “No offense, ma’am, but I haven’t seen the inside of a church in years. Never had any use for it. Way I see it, no minister or priest ever came back from the dead. They don’t kn
ow any better than you or I about what’s on the other side. It’s all a bunch of man-made hocus-pocus.”
Alex flipped an elbow toward his mother and said, “Take that!” Then he glanced at Lester, impressed.
“Well, Mr. Bray,” she said, “that’s what makes this country great. We’re all entitled to our opinion.”
“Yes we are,” Lester said. “As long as your opinion doesn’t encroach on my freedom.”
“Slam,” Alex said. “Score two for Mr. Bray.” He looked at his mother who was now seated directly across, red cheeks glistening under the chandelier.
“Sorry,” Lester said, “I get a little carried away.” Then he looked at Alex with raised eyebrows as if to say, You got your hands full with this broad.
The conversation was pretty mellow while everyone ate pizza, but then Bill made the mistake of asking Lester who he liked in the upcoming primary.
Lester wiped his fingers with a napkin and took a sip of water. He put the glass down and said, “Don’t care much for any of ’em.”
Alex’s mother jumped right in. “Have you looked at their platforms?”
“Platforms,” Lester said, as if mocking the very idea. “Now there’s a real good word, Mrs. Riley. You been around as long as I have, you’d know that every politician lies. Every one of them has his price. Today’s platform is tomorrow’s pimp list.”
It started again. Her cheeks went Macintosh red.
Bill reached for her hand. “Honey, I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“I’ll bet you’re sorry,” Alex said. “Sorry you won’t be getting any tonight.”
“That’s enough!” His mother pounded the butt end of her knife into her placemat. She gave Alex a fierce look. “You don’t talk to him that way. Ever!”
“All right, mom, chill.”
“And, Mr. Bray,” she said. “I’d appreciate a bit more civility from you with regard to religion and politics. My son is quite impressionable. He’s too young to turn into a cynic.”
Lester put his napkin on his plate. “It’s the only way I know, ma’am. I’m too old to change. You want me to leave, just say the word.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she said. “I would just like…a little…civility.” Her nose registered a sniffle. “That’s all.”
Lester turned to Alex. “Sorry I ruined your birthday, kid.”
“You didn’t,” Alex said, thinking of Jimmy Reece, the fat bastard. “It was ruined before I left school.”
CHAPTER FIVE
By far the single worst moment of the month was the fifteen minutes Alex had to spend with Dr. Kruger. It might not have been so bad if the shrink had stuck with his job description of simply checking out how the drugs were working. But the guy was an old school shrink, prying into Alex’s business and then sharing those details with his mother. So he had to be careful, especially when it came to discussing the medications, which he was supposed to be taking everyday.
They turned north onto Delaware Avenue. “Maybe I should’ve asked you before I agreed to it,” his mother said.
“Agreed to what?”
“Having Mr. Bray live with us. Maybe I should have cleared it with you first.”
“When do you ever clear things with me?” Alex wore a red baseball cap. His body was slanted toward the door, face turned to the world outside the car. His mood was buffeted only by the fact that, after the shrink, Alex would get to take the driver’s license permit exam. One more little notch toward independence. “Lester’s here anyway. So that’s that.”
“Perhaps we should cancel the arrangement. Have Mr. Bray live in a more appropriate place. Those stairs, for one, are a real challenge for him. I can’t imagine how horrifying it would be if he fell.”
“That’s your reason?” Alex said. “The stairs?”
“Well, yes, that’s the main one.”
“What if I said he should stay? You never gave me a vote before. My vote is he stays.”
“You’re just being oppositional.”
“Well you’re a flip-flopper.” He turned and looked at her. “Two weeks ago you were saying how great it would be for our family. Now you want to kick him out on his ass.”
“It’s just not an appropriate place for him. If you thought about it, you’d agree. And I find his views a little,” she gripped the steering wheel with both hands, “well…crude.”
“He says what he means. What’s wrong with that?”
They pulled up to the familiar gray office building with tinted windows that were permanently shut. Even though Alex had no idea what he wanted to do career-wise, he knew he never wanted to work in a place where you couldn’t open the damn windows. Everything else was negotiable. Second nameplate down: Seth Kruger, MD, Psychiatry.
His mother went up to the receptionist and gave Alex’s name while he grabbed a copy of The New Yorker and sat down. He started thumbing through the magazine, stopping only to check out the cartoons.
Dr. Kruger stuck his head through the doorway. “Alex, come on back.”
He got up with the magazine and followed to the office. He sat in the overstuffed chair farthest away from the doctor’s desk.
Kruger sat behind his desk. “So, Alex,” he said, “how are you?” He opened the thickening file.
“Fine.” Alex’s baseball cap provided a barricade against eye contact. His index finger held his place in the magazine. He flipped it open.
“I’d like you to put that aside.”
“Why? You get paid either way.” He looked at a joke with two cats sitting at a dining room table. What was it about intellectuals and cat humor?
“I’m here to help you,” Dr. Kruger said, “not waste your time.” He scribbled something in the chart.
“Help me with what?”
“Well, to make better choices, for one, and to help you develop positive social connections. Those are my priorities.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need any of your help.”
“Let’s face it; we could all use a little guidance these days.” He leaned back, clasping his hands below his bearded chin. “How are the medications working?”
There were three of them: Concerta for attention deficit disorder, Zyprexa for oppositional defiant disorder and Lexapro for depression. Despite the sexy names, all three were total crap. Alex had started flushing them ten months ago, when his mother took the bold step of putting him in charge of their disbursement. “Fine,” he said, “no problems.”
“How’s your sleep?”
“Fine, no problem.”
“Your appetite?”
“Fine, no problem.”
“How about your focus on schoolwork?”
“Fine, no problem. School’s out.”
“How’d you do?” Kruger asked. “How were your grades?”
“Fine.”
“I can check with your mother.”
“Fine, go check.” He found another joke featuring a parrot in a cage next to a busty old lady.
“How about your friends? Have you made any new friends?”
“I’ve got plenty.” True answer: zero. “Thanks for your concern.” His thoughts shifted to Jimmy Reece and the violence he would love to wreak on that bloated, stinking excuse for a human being.
“Too much isolation is a dangerous thing.”
“No reason to worry, doc.” Alex finished the magazine but kept it on his lap in case things got really intolerable. His restless eyes scanned the array of books shelved behind the doctor. These were meant solely for show, Alex figured, because there was one book he had inverted nearly a year ago, flipping it in the brief moment Kruger left him alone in the office to talk privately with his mother. It was a beefy textbook entitled Psychopathology of Childhood and Adolescence, and it was still upside-down staring at him.
Then Dr. Kruger did something unexpected. He reached down below his desk and pulled out a newspaper. The front page featured a photo of a playground. In the center a girl was crying, hugging a woman. The headline said that two were
dead and seven injured in a Dallas school shooting. “Do you know about this story?” Kruger asked, pointing to the body of text.
“Nope.”
“Won’t be as much press coverage as Virginia Tech or Columbine, but that doesn’t lessen the pain felt by these families.” He shook his head as if personally affected. “To me, as a family man, this is the worst thing imaginable.”
“What’s your point?”
The doctor kicked back in his chair and placed his hands together, professor style. “In some ways the shooters are always the same. They’re always male, always loners and always filled with rage. They’ve been bullied in school. And if there’s a father in the house, he’s either too busy or too out of touch to make a positive impact.”
“Sounds like you’ve got the case pretty well nailed,” Alex said. “You should write a letter to the editor.”
“And smart too,” Kruger added, now staring at Alex. “These killers are smart enough to go undetected by their teachers, their parents.” He intensified his tone. “Maybe even their psychiatrists.”
Alex looked once more at the picture. There was a figure he hadn’t noticed initially. It was a cop standing in the background, crew-cut and a menacing stare. That stare seemed to accuse the photographer of the worst kind of exploitation. But now, mixed with Kruger’s words, the cop’s stare made Alex feel like the accused one.
“I think you know what I’m getting at.” Kruger folded the paper. “You fit the profile…and it concerns me deeply.”
Alex remained silent. His chest was pounding.
“I’ve been thinking about increasing the Zyprexa,” Kruger said. “Just enough to give you a little more behavioral control. The current dose may not be enough.”
Alex tried to shake off the implications of being a mass murderer. “Do what you gotta do, doc!” He stood up, tossed the magazine aside and marched out of the office. He walked past the reception desk, past his mother. He went outside and sat on the trunk of the Lexus, trying to rid himself of the doctor’s words.
Cadillac Chronicles Page 3