by Mark Dawson
Milton looked at him. He had a slight smile on his lips, but there was steel in his eyes that would be impossible to misinterpret. “That was back then. You asked me to help you. That means that the rules have changed. You’re going to be helped, whether you like it or not.”
He cut the engine and stepped outside. Isadora pushed away from her Taurus and walked across to the Buick. She glanced at Milton, swept by him, and went around to the other side. Milton walked a few paces away from the car, turning just once to see that everything was all right, saw that brother and sister were embracing, and turned away from them so that they could have a moment of privacy.
#
MILTON AND ISADORA accompanied Alexander into the facility. Bridge House was a long-term residential recovery centre. It was a wide, modern, four-storey building that had, judging from a plaque in the lobby, been constructed thanks to the generosity of a benefactor and a city grant. There were a series of bedrooms and, on the ground floor, meeting spaces where the patients could have their group therapy sessions.
Isadora led the way to the front desk. Alexander followed and Milton brought up the rear, close enough to him that he would know there would be little chance of getting far if he chose to bolt. A large crucifix had been hung on the wall behind the desk. Next to that was framed scripture, “Humble yourself before the Lord, and He will lift you up.” It was from the Book of James, and Milton remembered it from his own study of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous when he had started his own recovery.
Isadora spoke to the receptionist, explaining that there was a room ready for Alexander Bartholomew and that he was here and ready to check in. The woman took down his details and, with a gentle smile, invited them to sit in the waiting area.
“I ain’t religious,” Alexander protested, loud enough for a patient who was loitering near the desk to overhear. “You see the things I seen, you wouldn’t believe in nothing like a merciful God, either.”
“Shut up, Alex,” Isadora said.
“It’s all fairy tales, meant to keep us down. It’s—”
“I’m not religious, either,” Milton interrupted. “It’s not about religion.”
Alexander jerked his head in the direction of the desk. “What about that shit up there, the scripture, the cross?”
“AA, NA—all the recovery programmes that work say you need a Higher Power.”
“There, you see! You lying to me, man! It’s all about God.”
“A Higher Power. I didn’t say what that meant. Some people use God. Others say G-O-D means Group Of Drunks. It means you get your strength from somewhere outside of yourself. It means you can’t do it by yourself.” Milton frowned a little as he said it, knowing that he had failed to listen to his own advice for much too long. He felt the sting of his own hypocrisy.
“Say what you want,” Alexander said. “I can smell the Bible in here.” His surliness was returning, and Milton knew that if they didn’t admit him quickly, the chances were good that he would lose his nerve and make a run for it. And, despite what he had said, Milton didn’t much feel like chasing him down.
A doctor dressed in a white coat stepped through a pair of double doors. He looked down at a clipboard. “Mr. Bartholomew?”
“Come on,” Izzy said.
Alexander stood. He turned to his sister, an uncertain expression on his face. Then he took a step in the wrong direction, to the door. But Milton was in the way. He put out his hand and rested it gently on Alexander’s elbow. His instinct was to place his thumb and forefinger over the pressure points and squeeze, to impel Alexander around and across to the doctor, but he didn’t do that. Instead, he gave a short shallow nod, never taking his eyes from Alexander’s.
He looked back at him, then looked down, turned, and walked to the doctor. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s me.”
They waited until the doctor had spoken to Alexander, and then watched as he turned to the doors. The doctor held them open and indicated that he should go inside. He did. The doctor gave them a nod and followed Alexander out of sight.
Izzy turned for the exit, her eyes wet.
Milton followed her. There was a stand of flyers on the desk. Milton recognised the blue AA symbol on the leaflet and withdrew one from the stand, folding it neatly and putting it in his pocket. That’s right, hypocrisy. He had been white knuckling his recovery, ignoring others, trying to do it on his own. That was stupid, and it would only end up in one place. He would start to put that right.
Chapter Twenty-Two
IZZY SAID that she wanted to buy him breakfast as a way of saying thanks. Milton was hungry and, since the prospect of an hour alone with her was not unpleasant, he didn’t demur. She led the way to Panola Street and Riccobono’s, a café that Milton would never have found on his own. She parked, leaving enough space for Milton to slot the Buick in behind her.
They went inside, took a booth and ordered. Izzy said the place was known for its egg breakfasts. She ordered huevos rancheros, and Milton took the One, Two, Three Plate: one egg, two strips of applewood-smoked bacon, and three silver-dollar pancakes.
Once the waitress had departed, Izzy reached across the table and placed her hand atop Milton’s.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I told you, I’m happy to help.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Raceland, the place you said.”
“And, what? He just came with you?”
Milton shrugged. “Not exactly.”
“How did you get him to come, then?”
“I can be persuasive.”
“That bruise on his chin?”
He shuffled a little. “Shall we just leave it at that?”
She looked at him, a new curiosity on her face. “I don’t really care how you did it,” she said eventually. “He’s in there, where he needs to be, that’s enough for me.”
There was a pause, a silence that felt friendly and companionable and not awkward. The waitress returned with their breakfasts. Milton started into it with gusto. The food was excellent, and they were both quiet as they ate.
Milton paused to take a long drink from the tall glass of orange juice. “So,” he said. “What needs doing today?”
“What do you mean?”
“The houses.”
“You don’t have to help,” she said. “It was good of you to help yesterday, but come on…you’ve done more than enough already.”
“I want to help, Izzy. Yesterday was good. It feels good to be doing something positive. And clearing those lots, or building something…you can see your progress. It’s tangible. And it feels therapeutic.”
“Never heard it described like that before,” she said as she smiled a little, but not enough to mask the flicker of discomfort that had passed across her face.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a problem.”
“What kind?”
She looked hesitant. Milton encouraged her to go on.
“Last night. Two men came to the house.”
“Who?”
“Thugs. They’d never say, they probably don’t even know, but it’s obvious they were from Babineaux.”
“Guy who wants to build the mall?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“They told us that we had to accept the offer to buy the houses or they’ll make us leave. And they said it wasn’t ‘safe’ for me to be in court. They threatened us. My father got involved, and one of them punched him. He’s all right, a nasty bruise, pride hurt, you know, but they say they’re coming back again tonight.”
“Call the police?”
“They won’t do anything,” she said dismissively. “You couldn’t pay them to come down to the Lower Nine.” She shook her head with certainty. “My papa is a proud man. He won’t stand down, especially if he thinks me or my momma are being threatened. And if something ha
ppens to him, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“And you think they’ll come back?”
“Maybe Babineaux will win in court. Probably he will. But I can drag it out and that’ll cost him money, lost revenue and lawyers’ fees, maybe a lot of money. People like him don’t get to where they are by letting the little people tell them what to do. So, yes, I think they’re coming back. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
Milton laid down his knife and fork. He knew that he was on the precipice of a decision. The things he had done so far were nothing. Small acts of kindness, inconsequential when laid against the grand scheme of things. Bringing Alexander to rehab, even if that meant knocking out a gangbanger to do it, that was nothing. If he helped Izzy with this, he would be standing alongside her against something more momentous. Making enemies, most likely.
Didn’t matter.
His decision was never in question.
“I’ll help, Izzy.”
“I don’t see how you can.”
“Can you persuade your parents to go out? I bet they haven’t been into town for months, right?”
“No—”
“Look, here.” He reached for his roll of notes and peeled off four fifties. He laid them on the table. “Take them out and get them dinner. Somewhere nice.”
She shook her head and slid the notes back to him. “No, John. Out of the question.”
“Take it.” He pushed the money back to her. “Tell them about your brother. That’s a reason to celebrate, right?”
She shook her head, anger on her face. “What’s that going to achieve?”
“I want to have a quiet word with these men. No one else around.”
“So they go after you, instead.”
“I can look after myself.”
Her eyes flashed at him. “There are two of them, John.”
“Really, Izzy. Trust me. It’ll be fine.”
“They’ll just come back tomorrow, or the day after that.”
“No,” Milton said. “They won’t.”
#
MILTON AND IZZY drove back to Salvation Row. The crew had already made good progress with the lot that they were going to clear today. This one was particularly overgrown, with a stand of sturdy-looking saplings and scrub that reached up past the waist. Milton changed into his work clothes and went over to greet the men.
Hector tossed over a bottle of water. “You doing okay, Esé?”
“Doing fine.”
“Gonna be a hot one again. You ready?”
“Sure.”
He took a slug of water, left the bottle in the shade, and took one of the weed whackers. He fired it up, the engine chugging and fumes spewing out. He started into the worst of what was left, taking out the height again so that it would be easier later to come back and dig the growth out by the roots. The sun slowly climbed above them, baking the ground, the heat radiating in dizzying, woozy waves. Milton finished the water and started another, the sweat dripping off him, the chewed-up fragments of vegetation sticking to his skin.
It was just past ten when Solomon Bartholomew turned the corner onto Salvation Row and walked over to them. The old man moved a little gingerly, favouring one side over the other. He stopped at the lot, saw Milton, and raised his hand in greeting. Milton killed the weed whacker’s engine, propped it against a stubborn dogbush, and stepped through the remains of the vegetation.
“Morning,” Solomon said. His nose and right eye socket were badly bruised, the eye partially closed by the puffy inflammation.
Milton wiped his dirty, sweaty hand against his T-shirt and held it out. The old man took it in the same strong grip.
Milton pointed to his face. “How are you doing?”
“This? Ain’t nothing, John. You heard about what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Took my eye off ’em for a moment and got cold cocked. My own stupid fault.”
“You need to be careful, Solomon.”
He waved the admonition off. “Would’ve been different ten years ago. Shit, would’ve been different five years ago. Izzy ever tell you I used to box?”
“She didn’t.”
“Hell, yeah. In the army. Used to have a right hook like a trip hammer. Had twenty-two fights, dropped the other guy in the first round fifteen times, never got beat once. Young punk like that, yeah, just five years ago, I would’ve stitched him square on his jaw, dropped him right on his ass.”
Milton smiled at him. “I used to box, too.”
“What weight?”
“Middle.”
“Were you any good?”
“Not too shabby. Long time ago, though.”
“You still look like you got a bit to you.”
“I don’t know. I’m too old for all that now.”
“You and me both.”
Solomon took a bottle of water from the crate and handed it to Milton. He unscrewed the top and drank half of it down in one draught.
“Can I speak frankly, John?”
“Of course.”
“It’s not me that I’m worried about. They can have a go at me, knock me about if they have to, but I can take it. It’s Izzy. She’s headstrong, you must’ve seen that.”
Milton nodded.
“She won’t back off. They won’t scare her away, not over something like this. I’m afraid that they’ll up the ante until it gets to be something that could be real dangerous. And if something happened to her…” He let the sentence trail off.
Milton wiped his hand across his brow, palming the sweat out of his eyes. “Nothing’s going to happen to her, Solomon.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, I can see that you’re capable, but how can you say that for sure? These guys, they got money, they got a real motive to get rid of us, too.”
“I’ll say the same thing to you as I said to her. You’ve just got to trust me. Nothing’s going to happen to her. You have my word.”
He nodded. “Good of you, John. But you be careful. These guys, they ain’t fooling around.”
“I know they’re not. And I will.”
“The other thing, what I came down here to say, I heard about what you did for Alexander. I’m grateful, John. Me and Elsie, we’re both very grateful.”
“It’s the least I could do. He saved my friend’s life.”
“That may be, but you didn’t have to get involved.”
No, Milton thought. I did. He shrugged it off. “I’m just glad that I could help.”
“Me and Elsie are going over there tomorrow. Izzy thinks that we should give him a day to settle in, work out what’s what. He don’t need me and his mother hovering over him until he’s started to get himself straightened out.”
“That sounds best.”
“All right, then. I said what I came here to say.” He reached out and took Milton’s hand again. “You’re a good man, John, you know that? Don’t go thinking we’re not appreciative of what you’re doing for us because we are, you hear?”
Milton smiled. Solomon squeezed his hand and looked into his eyes with gratitude and sincerity. It made Milton feel fraudulent. A good man? Hardly. He would never be that. He was trying to atone, one day at a time, but he would never be that.
#
THE END of the day came, and Izzy gave Milton a key to the front door. He went back to his hotel, showered and changed into fresh clothes, and then drove back into the Lower Ninth. He parked at the end of Salvation Row and stayed there until he saw a taxi draw up. Izzy led her parents out of the house and down the path. They were dressed smartly, Sunday best, and, as they got into the taxi, Milton watched as she paused and looked up and down the road.
He opened the door and stepped out of his rental, nodding at her as their eyes locked.
Milton approached the house, surveilling the street in both directions. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. He unlocked the door and went inside. It was as neat and tidy as he remembered. The hall was filled with a delicious aroma. There wa
s a note on the table just inside the front door. ‘Dinner in the oven and the fridge. Thank you.’
Milton went through into the kitchen. The oven was lit, and, inside, there was a warm bowl of Elsie Bartholomew’s jambalaya. He opened the fridge door and saw a slice of Key lime pie covered by a sheet of plastic wrap. Milton put on an oven glove, transferred the bowl to the table, poured himself a glass of water, and set about it.
Milton was washing up the bowl when there was a knock on the door. He carefully laid the bowl on the drying rack, put his clean cutlery back in the drawer, wiped his hands dry, and went into the hall. He looked through the fish-eye peephole and saw two men waiting on the stoop. One black, one white. They were both agitated, swaying to and fro, most likely both high.
Milton opened the door. “Hello.”
The black guy frowned. “Who you?”
“Who are you?”
“Don’t get cute, brother.”
“I’m a friend of the family.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“She’s not here.”
“So where is she?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You think?”
“No, it doesn’t. You two are dealing with me now.”
The man squared up to him, his lip curling in a sneer. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“So who are you?”
“Yes, that is an important question. I’ll tell you, and I want you to remember so you can tell whoever it was who sent you here.”
“This don’t work like that, bro. I be telling you what to do, you don’t be telling me.”
“My name is John Smith, but, as far as you two are concerned, since we’re not on first name terms, I’m Mr. Smith. I want you to tell your boss that he has no interest in these houses any longer. They’re not for sale.”
The man puffed up his chest, but it was bravado. Milton could see that he was confused. “That right?” He reached down to his belt and flicked his jacket aside with the back of his hand. Milton saw the handle of a pistol. He moved his right leg back a half pace. He knew that it would make him look nervous, which was good, but it would also allow him to distribute his weight just as he wanted it.