by Mel Gough
“We’re still at AA, far as I’m concerned. You’re not talking to Officer Griers right now.”
Donnie reluctantly returned Ben’s smile. “I wouldn’t do nothing like that now, anyway. Me and Floyd, we got picked up driving around with them guns. Floyd was outta his head, and I wasn’t sober, neither. They said if I got clean and did community hours, I’d get away without jail time. Arthur, he always takes in people like that. I got working in the kitchens and cleaning and went to meetings… and I stayed after my service hours were up. Arthur had me help with the kids sometimes. I love being with the little ones, so I ended up in daycare.”
Donnie stopped again, nervously turning his cup around and around in his hands. Ben waited. He could tell Donnie was psyching himself up for something difficult.
Eventually, the other man took a deep breath. “When me an’ Floyd got busted, we wasn’t jus’ drinkin’.” Suddenly, Donnie’s dropped endings became very noticeable, and his voice was rushed and breathless as the memories caught up with him. “I’d take anythin’ that’d make me feel good. An’ later anythin’ that’d make me not feel bad.” He glanced at Ben again, eyes fearful now. “Arthur says I oughta talk about it more, and ‘bout beatin’ it…and that I should be proud of that…” The expression in his eyes, which were suddenly wide and even darker than before, reminded Ben of a frightened, cornered dog, and his heart went out to Donnie.
“Arthur’s right,” Ben said gently. He had nothing but admiration for the other man. Donnie had clawed his way back from something so bleak and destructive, with very little support, that his own struggle suddenly seemed very small. He was honored that Donnie had decided to talk about his past with him. When Donnie relaxed visibly under his gaze, Ben asked, “Did Arthur help Floyd, too?”
Ben knew right away that that had been the wrong thing to say. It was like a shutter coming down behind Donnie’s eyes, and Ben was sure the other man would not speak again. But he was wrong.
“Floyd…don’t like being helped…” Donnie closed his eyes and rubbed them hard with both hands, giving a little shudder.
“Donnie, you alright?” Ben was surprised by the level of concern in his own voice.
“Just tired, day’s been real long,” Donnie said. “Gettin’ a headache, too… Listen, I’ll see ya again soon, okay?” He got up. “Thanks for the coffee.”
And with that, he walked away before Ben had time to say anything. Donnie disappeared through the door, holding himself oddly stiff, as if his whole body was hurting, not just his head.
Ben sat for another few minutes, finishing his cappuccino and letting the conversation replay in his mind. He was intrigued by Donnie, he couldn’t deny it. And as sad and difficult as his story had sounded, Ben was keen to hear Donnie tell him more about himself. He really wanted to get to know this man better, and he couldn’t wait to hear that dark, quiet voice again.
THAT WAS REAL nice. Ben’s a good guy, Donnie knew it back at Corinth police station. But on his drive home, the happy memories are pushed aside by an increasingly miserable feeling.
Donnie’s head’s really sore, he wasn’t lying about that. And that coppery taste on the back of his tongue is back, and his stomach starts to hurt. This sucks. Wincing, he shifts around in the cracked leather seat of his pickup.
Ben, though. Just thinking about him makes Donnie feel better. The guy really listened when Donnie told him about himself. That doesn’t happen much. Usually people get impatient with him before he’s found the words to express his thoughts. Sure, Arthur listens and urges him to talk more, so he’ll get used to it. But the old man’s pretty much the only one who cares. Strangers, they see the beat-up truck, and Floyd, and Donnie’s shabby, worn-out clothes, and they’re scared, and make up their mind about him before Donnie even opens his mouth.
Ben’s different. Maybe it’s cuz he’s a cop. Floyd goes on and on about them pigs, and how they’re all shit. And Donnie’s never met a decent one either, until now. If he’s honest with himself, it was his own fault that he got dragged in for that hit-and-run. He had a real go at that Sergeant Browne for getting in his space and grabbing him without reason. It was all instinct; he’s so used to thinking all police are scum. Pa used to rant about police all the time, made Floyd and Donnie repeat it, believe it. He beat it into Donnie with his belt. But he was wrong, like with all the other shit he spouted.
Ben’s definitely not your average cop. It’s real easy to talk to him. And it’s easy to be around him. He’s kind and smart, and he cares. And he’s real sad. Donnie felt it, right back when they first met.
And yeah, shit, he’s handsome. Those green eyes, that black curly hair, and the slender athletic body have already made it into Donnie’s fantasy. When he was watching the news with Floyd the other night, it came to him. Ben looks like that new Canadian Prime Minister. Trudeau, or whatever his name is.
When the man appeared on the screen, Floyd cuffed Donnie hard on the arm. “Ya fancy that nancy boy, dontcha?” he leered. Donnie ignored him, but in his bed last night, a handsome dark-haired man was his fantasy of choice.
Donnie shakes his head to dispel the thoughts. No use lusting after a good-looking dude just cuz he smiles at you and lets you finish a sentence. Ben mentioned trouble at home, so he’s got a wife, probably kids. And even if Ben wasn’t straight as an arrow, he’d run a mile soon as he found out half of Donnie’s secrets.
“Oww!” The car swerves a little as a sudden, sharp cramp rends through Donnie’s gut, and puts an end to his daydreaming. He presses a hand on his lower belly, scanning the side of the highway frantically for an exit sign. “Not again,” he moans, as another cramp hits and his insides give a loud rumble.
There—a gas station! Donnie pushes the indicator and hurriedly switches lanes, praying the evening won’t end in disaster.
Chapter Five
ATLANTA WAS TOO far away for Ben to attend an AA meeting every day. His shifts over the next couple of days were long and punishing, and it was the sensible thing not to make the hour-long drive into the city afterward. But he was restless and often thought longingly of the meetings. Sometimes he also found himself remembering Donnie’s indigo eyes and the man’s smile.
When Ben came downstairs on the next Sunday morning, Helen was waiting for him in the kitchen. “We need a plan,” she said, her voice forcedly calm. “I need help with Laura. I won’t ask you what you do on your own time, but we need to have a schedule, for her sake, and my sanity.”
Helen was right. She had shouldered all responsibilities for their daughter that week, and she looked exhausted. Previously they had always discussed arrangements day to day, but now they hardly talked. It suddenly dawned on Ben that he had hardly seen Laura all week. He really hadn’t been doing his duty.
“Of course. What have you got in mind?”
For a moment, Ben thought Helen might get angry, simply because he was being agreeable. But she controlled her emotions. “I’ll take her to school and baseball practice and pick her up, just like before. You stay home with her two nights a week, and one of your days off. We’ll fit it around your shifts. That way I can still have a life, too. Deal?”
Ben nodded. “Sounds fair. I definitely want to pull my weight, Helen. She’s my daughter too. I’m sorry I didn’t think of this sooner.”
Helen looked surprised but grateful. “Thank you. You’re not working today?”
“I’m not, no.”
“Then can you spend the day with her?”
So Ben took Laura to play baseball in the park and for ice cream afterward. It was nice to be with the girl after a week of hardly seeing her, but Laura had already realized that something had changed with her parents. She was subdued, and it saddened Ben to see his own unhappiness affecting her.
His daughter was no longer a child. She understood much more than he and Helen probably would have wished. Ben briefly toyed with the idea of telling her about the separation, but hesitated. Helen wouldn’t like not being consulted first.
When they got home, Laura thanked him for the day out but then made an excuse to go to her room. Ben watched her climb the stairs slowly. He would have to think of something to make this situation less traumatic for his daughter, but for the moment, nothing came to mind.
“I’M FUCKIN’ DONE!”
Donnie stands by the sofa, watching as his brother tears through the house.
“Fuck this shit!”
A full ashtray goes flying, crashes down near the coffee table. An almost full bottle of beer follows, its contents spraying everywhere, then gushing, slower and slower, making a dark stain on the floor.
Donnie’s anger builds. He hates scrubbing booze from the carpet. Since he gave it up, the smell makes his stomach turn. And he’s starting to feel queasy again anyway. “Shit, did ya hafta, Floyd?”
His brother wheels around, the blood—the cause of this entire scene—still running in rivulets down from his nose. It’s slowly dripping from Floyd’s chin and makes him look even madder, more deranged. Donnie is suddenly afraid.
Floyd wipes at his nose angrily. “Ya talkin’ ta me, poof?”
Donnie cowers. Floyd only calls him names when he’s scared or off his head on drugs. Today, he’s both.
Donnie takes a step back and regrets it instantly. Never show your fear. Almost the first lesson he ever learned, but it’s a hard one to remember at the moment. There’s too much to be scared of.
He tries to cover it up the best he can. “Lemme take ya ta clinic. I’m sure Sara—”
Floyd looks at him, eyes full of hatred. “Yer even denser’n ya look. Said m’done with that shit. No more fuckin’ doctors.” He turns toward the door. Donnie’s gut clenches in foreboding. He can’t let Floyd go, not the state he’s in.
“C’mon, man. I didn’t mean it. I’ll clean up, jus’…jus’ sit yer ass down, awright?”
He gets to Floyd just when his brother reaches the door. The moment he touches Floyd’s arm, he knows he’s made a terrible mistake, but now it’s much too late.
The first blow hits him on the mouth. He staggers, tasting blood. The next one follows quickly, sending a sharp pain through his left eye. Donnie stumbles, suddenly dizzy. Trying to move back, shielding his face, he trips and crashes down hard.
Or maybe Floyd shoves him. He doesn’t know. He has no time to contemplate it. A metal boot tip into his ribs, once, twice. He groans, tries to curl up. He can’t breathe, and suddenly rough hands are yanking him off the floor.
“Ya faggot,” Floyd snarls.
Another right hook to his jaw, and then he drops down again, the impact making his teeth rattle. Footsteps, confused sounds, the roar of Floyd’s motorbike as it stutters to life, colors dancing before his eyes. Then silence.
Donnie lies motionless, trying to breathe, trying to understand what just happened.
Chapter Six
BEN HAD THE next day off as well, but he still got up early. He would head to Atlanta and attend the nine a.m. meeting. On the interstate, he tried hard not to speed. He was slightly embarrassed by how much he was looking forward to something as ordinary as an AA meeting.
Arthur was leading the meeting as usual, but Donnie wasn’t there, and hadn’t shown up by the time they finished the prayer. When the first person stepped up to the podium to speak, Ben began to grow uneasy. He stayed, but the sense of calm he usually experienced during meetings wouldn’t come today. As soon as Arthur concluded with the prayer, Ben walked to the front of the room, weaving in and out of the people filing out.
“Hi, err…” Ben hadn’t actually talked to the old man before. “You’re Arthur, right?”
Arthur looked up and appraised him curiously. “I am, yes.”
“I’m Ben.”
Arthur smiled. “Yes, I know. Donnie mentioned you. A few times, actually.”
Unsure what to make of that information, Ben fidgeted for a moment, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. “Is he not here today?” he managed finally. “Donnie, I mean.”
Arthur frowned. “No. He called in sick this morning. He doesn’t usually… But I’m sure it’s nothing. He’ll probably be back tomorrow. Shall I tell him you asked about him?”
“No, that’s fine,” Ben said quickly. “I…I’ll see him soon.” He nodded at the old man and left. By the time he reached his car, Ben had made up his mind on what to do next.
SINCE BEN WASN’T due at the station that day, he got a few funny looks when he walked in and sat down at his desk. Fortunately, it was Jason’s day off too, so at least Ben wouldn’t have to deal with the one person who would definitely grill him over his unscheduled appearance at work.
In case someone else should ask any questions, Ben quickly rehearsed a vague story about checking up on a pending investigation and switched on his computer. Once in the department’s system, he brought up the statement Jason had drawn up about Donnie’s arrest and was relieved to see that his partner had recorded Donnie’s license plate.
Ben rarely used his work privileges for private purposes, but he didn’t feel particularly guilty when he logged into the DMV’s system and checked Donnie’s address.
Sure, it was probably nothing, just like Arthur had said. Donnie might just have a cold, but Ben had a bad feeling about the man’s absence, and his instincts were usually good. And Donnie hadn’t looked all that well as he’d left the café Friday night. Ben would just drop by his house quickly and check that everything was okay.
The question why he would even care loomed large at the back of Ben’s mind, but right then, he couldn’t summon the courage to examine his feelings.
Once he had memorized Donnie’s address, Ben turned off the computer and left the station.
He knew Donnie’s neighborhood only from occasionally passing it on the main road that went past the cluster of half a dozen small cheap clapboard buildings right on the outskirts of town. Ben had never given the place a second thought. There were dozens of neighborhoods just like it dotted around the county. He had never had a reason to drive down the unpaved road that led to the houses, neither as a cop and certainly not on private business.
He parked outside a shabby white house with peeling paint and looked around. The neighboring buildings were all similarly run-down and untidily scattered along the road that petered out into a narrow dirt path, which snaked away into scrubby-looking grassland. The other yards were all cluttered with old furniture, car parts, and trash, but the Saunders’s yard was clear, the dead-looking grass interspersed with large patches of dusty red earth.
Before he could change his mind, Ben went up to the door and knocked. Nothing happened for almost a minute. Ben waited nervously, then knocked again. Finally, there came the shuffling of feet, and then the door opened slowly.
When Donnie came into view, Ben’s eyes widened. “What happened to you?!”
Donnie’s left eye was nearly swollen shut, and there was a bloody gash right below his eyebrow. His cheekbone was bruised as well, and he had a small tear on his upper lip. He was cradling his rib cage with one arm, and looked very pale.
“Ben? Wha’re ya doin’ here?” Donnie’s voice was slurred and thick; talking was clearly hard around the swelling.
“I went to meeting, and you weren’t there…”
“So ya looked me up?” Donnie interrupted him sharply. For a moment, the mistrustful, removed look from their very first encounter was back in his eyes. It hurt Ben that Donnie’s gut reaction would be so aggressive. But looking at the other man’s face, it dawned on him what his turning up must seem like to Donnie. He had clearly received a brutal beating, and now a virtual stranger, and a cop no less, showed up uninvited at his door.
“I was worried about you,” Ben said softly. And with good reason, apparently, he added silently.
At those words, Donnie’s expression changed. He looked miserable for a moment, and then his indigo eyes became gentle and terribly sad.
His shoulders slumped, and he motioned to Ben. “C’mon in.”
Ben looked around curiously as he followed Donnie into the house. The front door opened directly into the living room, and Donnie made straight for the threadbare sofa on shaky legs, limping a little. He dropped down with a wince, going from pale to paper white.
He pointed at the space next to him. “Come sit. ‘S nowhere else.” He wrapped his arm around his ribs again. Just breathing and talking obviously hurt. “If ya want a coffee or summat…”
But Ben waved that away and came over to the sofa. He pushed the blankets and pillows that were heaped next to Donnie out of the way and sat down. Donnie must have been lying here on the sofa when Ben had knocked, forcing him to get up.
Donnie had sunk in on himself and now closed his eyes, leaning on the sofa’s armrest and trying to breathe past the pain in his chest. Ben glanced around. There was very little furniture in the room. A cheap TV stand held an old tube television, and there were a few shelves along the walls. Surprisingly, some of them were full of books. The scuffed coffee table in front of the sofa held the typical effects of the sick room—Advil, crumpled tissues, a coffee cup, and a glass of water.
Other than this little island of clutter, the room was surprisingly neat, but Ben caught a whiff of beer. Looking around, he couldn’t locate the source. Then he spotted two large black trash bags by the archway into the kitchen. One was half open and looked to be stuffed full of sodden rags.
Ben turned to Donnie. “What happened?”
At first, Donnie said nothing, his shoulders tensing miserably. Ben felt certain Donnie was considering how much to tell him. Finally, Donnie exhaled shakily. “Floyd, my brother, he…he gets mad. It’s bad to be near him then. Usually, I’m quick enough to get away, but…he got me good, last night…”
“You can say that again,” Ben said, frowning. The cut above Donnie’s eye had started to bleed again. “Did he trash the place? I can smell beer.”