I stood in the doorway, not believing that he was flushing my medicine. He tossed the containers into the wastebasket and leaned against the sink.
“Give yourself a chance,” he said.
He shuffled me out of the doorway and retrieved his easel from the living room, stopping at the front door to call, “Let’s hit the beach. And no dropping out today.”
Give myself a chance. I tied my shoes and grabbed my bag and walked after him, tasting panic on the back of my tongue, scared at the prospect of functioning without drugs.
* * *
In the afternoons, I would lie under the umbrella, watching as Marshall whistled and sketched tourists. Some of them looked at us oddly, wondering, I suppose what the relationship was.
I would sit watching him while his eyes went back and forth quickly between his subject and the sheet on his easel, his hand so large that the pencils looked miniature in them. But no matter how much he seemed to concentrate on his drawing, I had the feeling that he was intensely aware of everything around us, and would know in an instant if something wasn’t right, if there was some kind of danger approaching.
I was still uneasy when I took off at his side each morning heading down the beach toward the surf shack, but I’d stayed with him the morning he’d dumped the pills, gutted it out until I thought my lungs would explode, and then suddenly I was breathing easy, able to do the full four miles.
I began to feel safe in his custody.
* * *
I was trying to fall asleep when he came loping across the beach, a paper bag in one hand, a newspaper in the other. I got close, actually managed to doze on some of those afternoons. The shushing of the Gulf’s small waves and the noises of children shouting across the sand made it almost easy for me to close my eyes.
He sat down in his canvas chair and dropped the paper next to my towel, pointing to a small article near the bottom of the page. Dick Foxwell was in custody in Austin. They had him for bond jumping, and he’d been caught with a Walther PPK under the front seat of his Caddy. He was being held without bail. It looked like he would be indicted for murdering a federal judge.
I sat up and dug my feet in the glorious warmth of the sand. There were teenage couples scattered about, eating popcorn and rubbing each other with oil. The water was full of would-be surfers, paddling desperately for position when something more than a meager wave rolled across the water. Gulls walked awkwardly across the beach, pecking at bits of shell until they realized it wasn’t food and took to the air.
“I told you not to worry,” Marshall said. “Roland doesn’t put up with much nonsense.”
* * *
Sometime during the months I spent with Marshall, I began to realize that I was still alive. My body was stronger, that was part of it, but more than that it was a certain sense of unease, a feeling that I was a total stranger to the thing beating inside my chest. I felt like I was on hold, and wasn’t sure how long I could endure the discomfort. But I was scared to death of the alternatives. It was easier, under Marshall’s care, to believe that one day I might feel whole again. There was no risk involved. For the longest time, he demanded nothing from me except that I run with him each morning, and serve as an audience while he drew portraits.
* * *
I’d made spaghetti, Marshall’s recipe, with loads of pepper. The dishes sat scattered across the table. I’d told him, over dinner, that I was thinking about going back to school.
“I’m all for it,” he said. “But it costs money.”
“I managed before,” I said. “Student loans and waitress tips.”
“What about your family?”
“I don’t see them often. Hardly ever.” I began clearing the table.
“Leave that for now. I think we should talk.”
“I don’t want them hurt, that’s all. I get concerned that somebody might decide to get even while I’m visiting.” I tested the dishwater with my fingertips, found it too hot and ran more cold into the suds.
His chair scraped against the floor and then I felt his hands on my back. He turned me to face him and covered my wet hands with his.
“You can’t live the rest of your life thinking this way,” he said. “Foxwell’s locked up. No one is after you.”
I was almost ready to believe it.
“I could leave any time now, “ I said. “You’ve done a lot and I’m grateful.”
“I’m not asking you to leave,” he said. “Roland told me to take care of you; that’s what I’m trying to do. Truth is I’d do it now anyway, whether he wanted me to or not.”
“I’m checking on schools.”
“That’s great, but you shouldn’t be so isolated. You’re young, for God’s sake. You should be going on dates, enjoying yourself.”
“Marshall,” I said. “I’m still married.”
“I haven’t seen any husbands around here lately,” he said. “You think you owe him the rest of your life or something? Go out. Have some fun. If you won’t go alone, I’ll take you out. You know how to two-step?”
I pulled my hands from his and turned to the sink. I couldn’t explain why I felt no attraction. Not for him, not for anybody. And I could no longer blame it on the prescriptions. It had been almost two months since Marshall had poured them into the toilet. Maybe Jim was part of it. But I think it came down to Gaines. I felt as though he had robbed me of my emotions, my ability to feel, as surely as if he’d murdered me that night.
“I’m not trying to push you,” Marshall said quietly. “I just think you ought to socialize a little. You really should go see your family. It’s summertime. Maybe you could join them on vacation or something.”
“The last time we had a family vacation I was in sixth grade,” I said. “We went to San Antonio.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Every good Texan must see the Alamo.”
“It was kind of fun. We pulled up into the parking lot and there it was. My sister Michelle wasn’t impressed, said it looked like it might fall to pieces just any minute. My father launched into this tale about the war with Mexico, and Valerie, who was about five then, was soaking up every word. Her eyes were getting bigger and bigger while my father talked on, Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, the thousands of Mexican troops, and as she’s listening to him she’s getting lower and lower in the back seat. So he finishes up with the Texans all getting killed and Santa Anna on a rampage and says, “Okay, let’s go have a look.” By this time Valerie was all the way down on the floorboards. She came up very slowly, peeking over the seat, and then she looked over at the Alamo suspiciously and said, ‘If they’re having a war, I’ll just wait in the car.’”
Marshall chuckled quietly. “Sounds to me like you miss them. I’d wager they’d really like to see you.”
“I don’t know. I think my sisters feel like I ran out on them.” I tossed him a dish towel. “So, are you going to help or do I have to dry them, too?”
He was stacking the last plate when the phone rang. He said yes and listened a minute and a change came over his face. He stiffened and began snapping the dish towel against his thigh.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell her.” He swelled his massive chest out and held it that way, nearly popping the buttons from his denim shirt, staring at the receiver for a long moment before replacing it.
“That was Roland,” he said. “Your partner will be down tomorrow morning to pick you up.” He propped a foot on a chair and leaned on his knee. “The FBI wants to interview you.”
My head felt suddenly as though it were full of termites. Buzzing. Chewing. Swarming.
“About what? What for?”
“The drug bust,” he said, sitting down. “Don’t panic,” he added, “they pull stunts like this all the time.”
* * *
I sat on the seawall, my overnight bag at my feet, watching the gulls coast on wind currents. Waiting for Jim.
He pulled up at the appointed hour and leaned across the seat to pop the door lock. I’d forgotten, o
r at least hadn’t remembered, how fierce his eyes could look, how cold blue-gray.
“You look good,” he said. “You got tan and all.”
“Thanks,” I said. “How’s your leg?”
“Okay. I’ve been riding a bicycle to strengthen it. Still hurts a lot.”
“Sorry to hear.”
He pulled onto the road and flipped on the radio, began tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, nervously, not bothering to keep time with the music. We drove in silence until we hit 37 North. I tried for a while to quiet the droning in my head, but my effort was wasted.
“We need a lawyer,” Jim said finally. “I talked to Nettle about it.”
“What on earth for?”
“He’s in this thing as deep as we are, deeper I’m sure. Said the city would provide one for us. No charge.”
“Maybe we should call Somer.”
“Chuckie won’t come near us. Conflict of interest. The one they got for us is supposed to be the best in San Antonio.”
“Why San Antonio?”
“Hell, it’s the feds, baby, why do they do anything.”
“I’m serious.”
“They want to keep everything on the QT, well outside of Beaumont, for awhile at least.”
“I’m lost. What exactly is going on? What are we looking at?”
“Dodd called me Friday, told me the FBI would be getting in touch. Said they knew everything. No sooner did I finish talking to him than the phone rang again. It was the feds, wanting to set up an interview. Then Nettle called and gave me this lawyer’s name.”
“What did he mean by everything? Did he say what they know?”
“He said Gaines’s lawyers had managed to get a habeas corpus hearing. They put Dodd on the stand and he ran off at the mouth for a good hour and a half. Told about how you came to him, tried to stop the investigation, about how strung out I was. Everything. He told them everything. Put it on the public record.”
“What,” I said, “he suddenly got a case of Christian conscience? I mean, where was this attitude when I went to him in the first place?”
“In his back pocket, baby, right next to his paycheck and badge.”
I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t. Three years later and here came the feds. I was trying, at long last to go back to school. I didn’t smoke dope. I barely drank beer. The first time in my life that I’d started to get any kind of grip on things and here came the feds. Investigating the investigation. Gaines hadn’t gone down for cocaine, he’d gone down for trying to murder us. That part was simple.
And so was the rest of it, if I’d been willing to allow myself to think about it. I don’t know how many times I had seen Jim cock his head back and assume the lanky stance of a cowboy philosopher, staring off at the sky. It had been his favorite phrase from the start: What goes around comes around.
“They’re saying the shooting case was wrong?” I took one of his cigarettes and punched the lighter. “Is that what they’re saying?”
He let his hand slide around to the bottom of the steering wheel and rolled his head sideways until he was looking straight at me, slowly shaking his head no.
“Dodd admitted that you tried to stop the investigation, told them I was strung out, that Nettle stonewalled you. That’s all I know.”
“And now Nettle’s providing us with a lawyer.”
“Technically it’s the city. But you can bet he’s behind it. Hell, he’s got no choice but to either tell the truth or cover his ass. What do you think it’ll be?”
“So what’s the drill?”
“Like always, baby. Deny, deny, deny.”
I stared out over the big yellow hood of the Blazer while the scenery crawled past in a blue-and green blur.
We were about an hour out of Corpus when Jim asked me to drive.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s cramping real bad.”
“You didn’t have to come all the way down,” I said. “I could have taken the bus.”
“I wanted to,” he said.
He pulled over and walked around in the bar ditch, stopping every few steps to bend and massage his thigh. I climbed over the gearshift and adjusted the seat, settling in. Trucks roared past, the wind gusts in their wakes slamming against the Blazer, rocking it on its wheels. I tried not to watch Jim, tried not to feel too responsible.
He went to sleep almost as soon as we were back on the road.
When we reached San Antonio, he said he could drive again. There seemed to be construction everywhere, detours abounded. We moved slowly in heavy traffic, past dozens of bright orange signs printed with black-lettered commands. As we approached an underpass, I saw a heavy rope with six or eight black-and-white striped cans hanging from it, strung blatantly across the roadway about twelve feet up. A sign between the dangling cans read low clearance: if you hit this, you will hit the bridge. The concrete underside of the bridge itself was cracked and scarred where more than a few truck drivers had ignored the warning and peeled the tops from their rigs.
“Look to your right just after we pass this hill,” Jim said.
There in the middle of several acres of pastureland was a large, square brick building, attached to it a giant chain-link cage, almost as large as the building itself, filled with baboons. The sign in front said southwest foundation for biomedical research.
They sat hunch-shouldered on tree limbs, metal railings, the ground, some in small groups, others alone. Several swung on metal rings suspended from the top of the cage, looping easily, gracefully, through the air.
“We should visit sometime, if it’s even open to the public,” Jim said. “You read about that thing where experimenters strapped a bunch of monkeys into cages and and ran IVs into their arms?”
“When was this?”
“I don’t know, some time ago. The monkeys could press one button and get banana chips, or a different one and get a hit of cocaine, straight into the vein.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Only one survived. The others pressed that magic button until they had heart attacks or starved.”
“We’re supposed to be a higher life form.”
“Says who.”
“So what do you do, keep pressing the button?”
“I haven’t. Not since you left. Not once.”
“Works every time,” I said. “I leave, or threaten to leave, and suddenly you’re okay. Seems to be the best for both of us.”
“Except that I love you.”
I think, by that time, he actually did. I like to believe it, that at some point he really loved me. I try to pin down the moment, the instant when he might have realized that what I had asked of him all along was something so extraordinarily plain that it was hidden, buried beneath ornamentation, like the pine tree at Christmastime that is wrenched from its place in the earth and stuck in a window, draped with things plastic and shiny. Always, when I look for the moment, it comes back to the shooting. I think that was the first time in his life that he’d ever needed anybody, and I happened to be the one who was there. I’d stopped the blood, the life flowing out of his body, and finally, finally, he’d realized that I loved him. But he’d fought against it for such a long time, and even after it had happened, that neither one of us were sure how to overcome it.
I couldn’t answer, and he said nothing else until we pulled into the lot in front of a large glass-and-brass office tower at the address Nettle had given him, where he shut off the engine and sat staring out the windshield.
“I’ve got it together now,” he said finally. “Once and for all. And the one thing I know in the world is that I love you.”
I sat looking at the gleaming front door of the tower. The door handle was cold against my palm.
“It’s a nice building,” I said. “So new and all.”
“Let’s go then.”
I felt an incredible lethargy pressing my body into the seat, as though gravity had suddenly doubled. I ached. I simply ached. I thought about drinki
ng gasoline and swallowing a lighted match. That might feel good.
There was a rush of cool air as Jim opened his door and put his foot to the pavement. Halfway out, he turned to me.
“Well?”
“I think if they’re having a war, I’ll just wait in the car.”
23
San Antonio’s best, Manny Gonzales, was a tall, husky Mexican-American with striking Aztec features. The high cheekbones and arrow-straight nose of that tribe, had, in this man, survived through the centuries. He was truly beautiful, with wavy dark brown hair, deep brown almond-shaped eyes, and golden, almost whiskerless skin.
Beautiful, he was. Involved in our case, he was not. When he introduced himself, he covered my icy hand gently with his own warm, soft palms and said, “Don’t be nervous. Just go in there and tell them your side of the story.”
“What, specifically, are we being investigated for?” Jim asked.
“The charge they’re considering is Violation of the United States Code, Section 241.”
“Could you translate?”
“Civil rights.”
Jim sank into a leather chair next to our new lawyer’s desk.
“They’re saying you might have put someone in jail without due process.”
“How much time?” I asked, not believing my own question.
“Up to ten years and a ten-thousand dollar fine.”
“Same as for kicking ass,” Jim said.
“Or stuffing a ballot box,” Gonzales replied. “It’s a very broad statute.”
“Everything they do is broad,” Jim said, shaking his head. “So why exactly are we here?”
“You’ve done nothing wrong, am I correct?” Gonzales folded his hands on the desk before him.
Jim gave him a short nod.
“Then just go in and talk to them. You have nothing to hide.”
“Supposing,” Jim said, “speaking hypothetically of course, that we had committed an indiscretion here and there? What then?”
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