All the Old Bargains

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  She continued to look at me.

  “Well, what do you say? Is it a deal or not?”

  “Let me think about it.”

  More silent staring, eyes roving over me, a smirk sneaking across her mouth.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “You catch on quick. Good. What do I get? I get a chance to feel good about myself. That maybe I helped you get a chance to enjoy your life. It’s the only one you get; make the best of it.”

  “Why bother?”

  “Because I hate to see people hurt like that. I can’t stand not being able to do anything about it.” This was getting harder by the minute. “Because I know what it’s like to feel like that. Shit. I don’t know. I just do.” I thought, You could say thank you, you little shit. I stared back at her. I continued trying to answer her question to myself and got nowhere. For thanks you live a long and happy life or I’ll feel cheated. You owe me. Look at what I did for you. You owe me nothing. I did it for me. All of the above. None of the above. Get it straight, stupid, or get out. If I wanted thanks I’d better tell her now or forever hold my peace. “If you do it, do it for yourself. It’s the only engine that’ll pull that load.

  I slapped my palm on the table. “How about some food?”

  She nodded.

  I returned to the meat and potatoes, lumped them together wrapped them in Saran and put them back in the refrigerator. She had gone off to the living room and had looked at my albums. She held up a particularly grim piece of vinyl. Broken English by Marianne Faithfull. A thirty-three and a third rpm howl into the dark—riveting but not fun. I didn’t think that Marie Osmond spoke to this kid. “Sure.”

  I looked around and regrouped. Spaghetti and meat sauce. I cleaned the skillet and put in some sliced sausage. On the other burner I diced and dumped onion and tomatoes in butter, garlic, salt, pepper and a pinch of sugar.

  She was sitting cross-legged in front of the stereo with my headphones on. A pot of water was set to boil. Any minute I’d deliver a one pound baby fettuccini. I set to stirring the sauce and trying to coordinate the timing of this.

  Sausage, sauce and pasta began to converge. I turned back to Randi and semaphored S-E-T T-H-E T-A-B-L-E. She looked at me as if I were more than fashionably nuts, took off the headset and we completed the conversation on audio.

  “Come here. Test the pasta. Okay?”

  She stood next to me. I held out a strand of pasta to her. “Bite it. If it’s a little chewy but not doughy, it’s done.” She bit it, chewed it pensively and then sucked the remainder from my grasp. Smiling, she announced it was done.

  I got the grated Parmesan, poured some milk for her and got a Guinness for myself. We ate steadily, silently like two big cats at a common carcass, eyeing each other between bites, poised for flight or fight.

  She put down her fork, dabbed at her mouth and looked at me with that unnerving calm she had surveyed me with before. “I want to live here with you.”

  I almost purpled on my pasta. “What!”

  “Well, why not?” she pleaded. “I’ll go to school like you said and therapy. Why can’t I stay here, huh? I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be good. I’m smart and I can help around here.”

  “No way, kid. Out of the question. Totally impossible.”

  “Why? You like me, I know you do. Why are you doing all this for me?”

  “Whoa, whoa, you’ve got it all wrong, kid. It just won’t work.”

  “Why? You said you wanted to help me be normal. Well, normal is having a family. I don’t have one. My father can’t keep his hands off me. My mother hates me. Why can’t you be my father? I don’t want to live in some boarding school like, like—” she threw her hands up in dismay—“some I-don’t-know what.”

  It was out, all of it. Sitting there between us, an ugly knot of need and desire and fear as compelling and comforting as a tumor. Shit, shit, shit. You get into people’s lives and they just don’t behave. They just don’t accept what you want to give. It’s never enough. They always want more.

  I was spinning my fork on the plate like I was digging for core samples. Down it went with a deep sigh. I looked at her, the devastating reasonableness of her need: someone to love her and care for her. Everybody’s birthright and nobody wants her. She was as inviting as a fumble but no one was on the field. I reached out for her hand.

  “I just can’t do it, Randi. I just can’t. It is just too much.”

  “Tell me why. Maybe I can fix it, make it okay. You told me I’d have to do the hard thing to get myself out. Why can’t you do the hard thing? Why not?”

  How to tell her all the things I feel? To give each the proper weight in this recipe of wish and doubt, fear and longing. “Because it is too much. I don’t want to be a father. That responsibility terrifies me. I won’t do it if I can’t do it right and I sure as hell won’t get it right if I don’t want to. You’ve already had it done wrong once; you don’t need that twice.”

  “Give me a chance. It might not be so bad. You couldn’t be as bad as what I’ve had. I’ll settle for you.”

  “I’m just not big enough for the job. I’m not the man you want or need, Randi. I can maybe clear a space so you can find someone who can be that for you, but it’s not me.”

  She didn’t hear me. Her fingers had slipped from my grasp. She was falling away from me on the oblivion express. Our eyes locked all the way down.

  “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  Anytime you come up against something you just can’t fix, it stays with you forever. It’s a little death, a taste of the big one waiting beyond. Each fragile wish that’s crushed in the brute pestle of one’s own limits yields a bitter sauce for life.

  She pushed herself away from the table and walked away. “I’m not hungry any more. I just want to go lie down. Can I use your bed?”

  “Sure. I’ll be up if you want to talk any more.”

  She ambled off, the wobbly wavering walk of the dazed. I turned away to wash the dishes, then thought better of it. I looked around the house, as adrift as she was. This was one of those times I wished I still smoked. The baroque stylized ritual of shaking out the cigarette, tamping the end, putting it in your mough, flicking the lighter, setting it on fire, taking that first long drag. Everything would be slowed down by that, well in hand, centered. I went over to the living room, fell into a chair, got up and got some whiskey and fell back again, staring out at the lawn, hoping a spaceship would land soon.

  Randi came out of the bedroom door wearing only my T-shirt, her hair pulled up in back, hands on hip. “I can’t sleep. Do you have any Valiums or anything I can take?”

  “No, I don’t. If you aren’t tired stay up, read, listen to music or something.”

  “No, that’s okay.” She turned back into the dark.

  “Good night, Randi.” A rock into a pool.

  I sipped my drink and planned tomorrow’s action. My heart wasn’t in it. I got up and called Samantha. She was in.

  “Hi. I called a while ago.”

  “Oh. I just got in.”

  “We found her—the kid. She’s over here right now.”

  “Have you told her parents?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because dear old dad has been putting it to her since she was god knows how old.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “No, I’ve talked to a lawyer I know. From what he told me that would just be a circus, with this kid being the freak show and damn little done to daddy.”

  “So let me guess—you’re going to rescue this girl.”

  “I’m going to try, anyway.”

  “Jesus, do you think everyone is incompetent? That nobody can do anything right?”

  “No, not incompetent, but the legal system isn’t set up to handle this. You know that. You read the newspapers. So you have to make your own system.”

  “What
are you going to do?”

  I told her. She groaned.

  “Magnificent. Lunatic but magnificent. I hope your horse is off-white.”

  “You got a better idea?” This was getting worse by the minute. I just wanted to tell her about how I felt leaving the kid in the lurch and here I am justifying the bigger fuckin’ hammer school of family therapy.

  “Let me try one more time. We probably can’t do much with the father in terms of punishment or therapy. The kid would be exposed to a real horror show in court and then shunted off to a foster home until the department of social services returned her home, which is whenever the paperwork turns yellow.” She started to speak. “Wait. You know what I mean, ten or twenty workers each with a caseload in the hundreds. They get reinvolved when there’s screaming, blood and flashing lights, otherwise file it under Forgotten. I know it can’t be any other way. You need six social workers to work ’round the clock to undo every family failure. Anyway, this way we can keep the kid’s exposure private, protect her from her father and have some leverage over him to support her and put her in a place where she can sort out her life. I think it’s an improvement over the other alternatives and I know all about Daddy’s civil rights. Fuck ’em. That why I’m not a lawyer. All sides are not equal.”

  “What about the cost to this child of doing what you’ve suggested? That’s a terrible position to put her in.”

  “I know it is. I can’t think of any other way to find out whether or not the situation is salvageable. If it’s not she’s better off finding out at thirteen than wasting years trying to recreate a family she never had.”

  “You’ve put yourself in jeopardy for this kid in half a dozen ways.”

  “I know, I know. If this blows up I’ll get to write my prison memoirs: Pissed Off: In the Bladder of the Beast. That’s the chance you take.”

  “Why do it for this kid? Do you care that much?”

  “Shit, does everybody carry an involve-o-meter on how much do you care?” I was airborne, fully armed. Destroy all life forms.

  “Hey, Leo, what was that all about?”

  I struggled to abort the mission. “That—” teeth unclenching “—was what this kid wanted to know. She asked if she could stay with me, and when I said no she really pushed on it. That spot is real tender right now.”

  “What did you expect her to do? You ride into her life, promising her all these changes in her life but the most important one: a man she can respect and trust to care for her. Why shouldn’t she ask for it? You’re giving her what you want, not what she most needs. Good for her.”

  “No, not just what I want to give her. That may be what you and I are trying to sort out: What I want to give of myself. But I know I’m not up to the task of being what this kid needs. And not misleading her is more important than not disappointing her. And I feel like shit about that right now. I called to ask if you’ll help me. I think this kid is going to need some support when this is over. I need someone she can stay with for a couple of days while we find a school for her and I don’t think I’m the person for that. Will you help me? If the police come looking for Randi, I asked you to take care of my niece for a couple of days. That’s all you know.”

  “Shit. You don’t ask much, do you? Let me think about it. When do you need to know?”

  “It goes down tomorrow.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll call you back later. Listen, just one question: Is this what life is like with you?”

  “No, this is just an unusually smooth period I’m going through.”

  “I thought so. I’ll call back.”

  I put down the phone. Randi was in the doorway. “I couldn’t sleep.” She hugged her shoulders. “I’ll do what you want.” Then slowly, “Will you write to me at school? Can I visit you sometimes, like holidays, maybe?”

  “Yeah. I’d like that Randi. You’d better try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

  “Who was that you were talking to?”

  “A friend of mine, a woman, I think you’d like her. She’s a good person. She’ll be with us, I think. She’s thinking it over now.”

  Randi crossed the room, stood on tiptoe, threw her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek. I flapped my arms like a wounded mallard, gave in and squeezed her back. I disentangled myself.

  “Good night, Randi.”

  “Good night, Leo.”

  Samantha called back in a half hour and said she’d help. I went over the plan with her. I sat up a while and talked with Arnie, finalizing things. Later on I went to the bathroom to get some more aspirin. One of my razor blades was out on the sink. I left it there, a marker on the road.

  I slept well until 3 A.M. I’d had a dream that I was driving across the desert. A pretty girl was hitchhiking on the side. I asked her if I could give her a ride. She kept trying to say thank you but no words came out of her mouth. Only blood.

  Chapter 21

  The phone jerked me awake. “Mr. Haggerty, This is Lieutenant Frank Schaefer of the Fairfax County Police Department. I would like you and that pet gorilla of yours to present yourselves at headquarters today, say 1 P.M., to answer some questions about the deaths of Teresa NMI Johnson and one Leroy Alfonso Dixon. Do you understand me?” When I said nothing Frank repeated himself a bit louder, then said, “Did you hear me?”

  I was getting numb rapidly. “Yeah, I hear you.” Then, “Frank, tell me one thing and don’t lie to me.”

  “What?”

  “Did she die alone?”

  “No, Leo. She didn’t die alone. She died in the ambulance.”

  “Thanks, Frank.”

  “Leo, be there at one. I don’t want to have to put an APB out on you.”

  “We’ll be there.” Rest in peace, Terri. Rest in peace. I went into the bedroom and shook Randi awake. “Wake up. We’ve got things to do. We don’t want to be late.”

  She rolled away from me. I went into the bathroom and cleaned myself up. I went back to the bedroom and pulled out a loose, cotton pullover shirt and wrapped it around some other things and went back to the bathroom.

  Randi sat up and said, “What should I wear?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Something easy to get into. That shirt and a pair of my shorts. We’ll get you some clothes later today.” I went into the bathroom and locked the door. I unrolled the shirt and put the Beretta in its ankle holster and pulled my pants leg down over it. I was just going through the motions.

  Randi sat on the bed. I said, “Go in and wash up. We’ll be ready to go soon.”

  She looked up at me. “I’m scared.”

  “I know. It’ll work out. We’ll all be with you. It’ll be over in a flash. There are no easy ways out of hard places.” Reassure yourself, big fellah.

  “I know and I’ll do it. I’m just scared. He’s my father you know.”

  “I know. I don’t believe it but I know. Go get cleaned up.”

  She came out in a couple of minutes. We went into the kitchen and shared some salvaged hash from last night with fried eggs on top, croissants with lemon curd and fresh hot coffee. “One more thing, Randi. It may turn out the police will want to ask you some questions about what happened in the film place. It has nothing to do with you. It’s because I killed that man. I don’t want you to lie for me. You tell them what you want. You can tell them the truth. I’ll take my chances. Do you understand?” She nodded yes. As we finished eating, Arnie pulled into the driveway.

  “Okay, Randi, let’s go.” I locked up and we hustled out to the car. Randi slipped into the back seat. I got in next to Arnie. We backed into the street, the 454 cubic inch engine growling the whole way, barely restrained.

  Arnie asked where to.

  “Those little cabins off Route 1. Plenty of privacy. Nobody would notice if one of the buildings grew wings and took off.”

  “Fine. You got the gear?”

  “Yeah, it’s in the back.”

  We drove in silence down to the motel. Randi lay down in the back seat. A
rnie paid for the room and we rolled down to it. It was the far end unit. We got out. The door was visible from the office. Arnie went back to chat up the owner and I hustled Randi into the room. There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s me, Leo. Let me in.”

  I pulled open the door. Samantha was in the doorway.

  “Nice to see you. Randi, this is Samantha Clayton. Samantha, this is Randi Benson. Randi, when this is over you’re going to stay for a few days at her apartment until we get things squared away for you. Samantha, buy her whatever things she needs to stay with you. I’ll pick up the tab.”

  I left the two of them sitting on the side of the bed to survey the room’s layout. It would do just fine. Arnie came back to the door, knocked and entered. “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “Yeah. You and Samantha sit in your cars. Keep low. Benson’s a big, beefy guy with a handlebar mustache. When he comes in, give it a good ten count then cross to the door and wait, okay?”

  “Fine.” Arnie and Samantha left.

  I looked at Randi. “Hang tough, kid. They’ll be right there for you. We won’t let anything happen. If it goes like I think it will, you’ll see you had to do it. I know you aren’t crazy about it but I don’t think there’s any other way to end it.”

  She just sat there, looking at me with those eyes. Telling me I wouldn’t believe how shitty life could be and wondering whether anything would be any better after this. I squeezed her hand. “Ready?”

  She nodded. I left her there. I walked down to the public phone outside the manager’s office.

  “Hello.”

  “Yes, Mr. Benson, this is Leo Haggerty. I’ve got your daughter Randi. She’s okay but she’s been through a lot. I think you ought to come down here and get her right away.”

  “Where are you?”

  I gave him the address of the motel and the cabin number. “I’m keeping her here; the manager doesn’t know. Listen, hurry. I’ve got to try to put the lid on something so the police aren’t involved. If you’re coming right away, I’ll leave her here for you to pick up. It’s only a five-minute drive. She’s ready to come home.”