by Joe Ide
“If you hurt Stella,” he said, “I’ll break your back and put you in a ventilator for the rest of your fucked-up life. Are you hearing me, Angus? You say you don’t bluff? Well neither do I, motherfucker. Neither do I.”
Angus moved back a bit. Apparently, he wasn’t used to being threatened. In business, maybe, but not like this. Not with someone so smart and capable and determined. He said quickly, “Go about your business.” He brushed past Isaiah and walked away.
Isaiah tried never to threaten people with bodily harm. You were only daring yourself to do it and he avoided violence whenever possible. As his fury receded, he knew he couldn’t break Angus’s back or anything like it. Revenge. Retaliation. It came up again and again. Was it human nature? It was definitely universal. From powerful politicians to kids on a schoolyard to primitive tribes in the wilds of the rain forest—you hurt me, I hurt you back. But revenge is emotional, like Isaiah was now. You might feel justified but that’s not justice. Justice is for everybody. Revenge is all about you. It’s not justice to act the same way as your victimizer. The same way as Angus. Justice isn’t personal—it’s about principles. Do we obey the law? Do we adhere to a moral code? High minded, Isaiah thought. A hard thing to be in this world. Nearly impossible.
He drove home, wrung out and wasted. Angus was right about Christiana. If by reason of insanity was a tough defense, multiple personalities would be even more perilous. There were plenty of doctors and researchers who thought the condition didn’t exist and saw it as an excuse for criminal behavior. Juries were rarely persuaded. Let’s see if I get this straight. You’re saying that Mr. Smith isn’t guilty of killing Grandma because he was Mr. Jones when he swung the hatchet? Oh, please. That’s like punching a guy in the face and blaming your fist.
The great IQ, the neighborhood icon, wanted to pull over to the side of the road and cry. He knew that one or all of the alters had hired the killers. There were no more suspects, no more motives. The ending was predictable. Christiana would get arrested. Then Angus would send the Starks to break Stella’s hands and she’d have to leave town and the Long Beach Symphony Orchestra behind. Then Isaiah would hunt down Angus, clash with the Starks, more people would be killed or wounded and Grace would no doubt leave him for good. All he wanted to do was be with her and the pale green eyes and the beguiling face and sit on the back stoop, drink a beer and watch Ruffin sleeping under the lemon tree.
Beaumont lay unconscious under his hospital covers. He was still and ghostly. Most of the lights were off, the beeps muted, the lines barely moving, distant voices in the hall. Merrill was asleep in a hard plastic chair, his head skewed to one side, arms folded in an X across his chest.
“Merrill?” Dodson said.
Merrill opened his eyes, took a deep breath and blinked a few times. Surprised, he said, “Dodson?”
“Thought you’d be here.” Dodson put a paper bag down on the food tray. He took out some plastic containers, a plastic fork and some napkins. “Cherise’s mother, Gloria. She sent some food over. She’s a scary old bitch but she can cook.”
“Thanks,” Merrill said, “I appreciate that. There’s only so much nutrition you can get from a vending machine.” Dodson took the other chair. Merrill opened the containers. There was a deep, rich chili and warm corn bread.
“Oh, my,” Merrill said. He ate with gusto, making mmm sounds and shaking his head.
Dodson was self-conscious and imagined Merrill was too; two people sitting in a room with a dying man, one of them eating chili and corn bread, the other one watching him. It was quiet for a time. Dodson said, “I’m sorry, for all the things I did back then. To you. To Beaumont.”
Again, Merrill was surprised. He stopped eating. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “It’s all forgotten.”
Dodson shook his head. “Not by me.” He had no idea why he was saying these things and he didn’t know if he really meant them. “I did a lot of stupid shit,” he continued. “Stupid and wrong. I can apologize to you but not your father. Not anymore.”
“Everybody does things they wish they could take back,” Merrill said. “The bad thing is to let yourself be defined by them. You’re not the person who did those wrong and stupid things anymore. You can lay that burden down, Dodson.”
Suddenly, Beaumont inhaled sharply and then he went still again. It happened too fast for Dodson to be startled by it. He wondered if the old man was dreaming about the bullets that tore holes through his chest. Dodson felt worse than when he arrived. He was supposed to be consoling Merrill and was being consoled himself.
“Did you know my dad at all?” Merrill asked. “I mean, outside of the store?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Except for the family, he kept to himself. He was a very kind man despite what people thought. Everybody complained that his prices were high. They were, but he couldn’t buy in quantity like the supermarkets and his margins were piddling.” Merrill smiled and tapped his plastic spoon in the air. He seemed to relax some. “Dad gave away a lot of stuff,” he said. “More than he should have, if you ask me. Food, water, toilet paper, aspirin, all kinds of things, mostly to shut-ins and people who couldn’t feed their kids. Delivered it to their doors and nobody ever knew. I didn’t know until Mom told me.”
Dodson had no idea either. The grouchy old man had a soft side? A nice thing but for some reason it didn’t make him feel nice.
“Remember Dancy Walgreen?” Merrill said. “The wino who used to hang around with Mo? A few months ago, he got sick, liver cancer. He didn’t tell anybody, not even his wino friends. He said they’d fuss over him and try and cure him, especially Mo. Mo had a remedy for everything and most of them involved chicken parts, hot water and chewing tobacco.” Merrill laughed. “Dancy said he wouldn’t go to the hospital, they couldn’t do anything for him anyway. He wanted to go home to Texas to see his kin before he died but he had no way to get there.”
“What did he do?” Dodson asked.
“Dad drove him.”
“Beaumont drove Dancy all the way to Texas?”
“Yeah. He did.” Merrill was beaming. “That’s the way he was.” Dodson was feeling worse and worse. He had to get out of there but Merrill still had the spoon in the air and had only eaten half the chili.
“Dad was in Vietnam,” Merrill went on. “Drang Valley, Khe Sanh. Saw a lot of bloodshed. A lot.” Dodson knew what was coming. Beaumont was a hero. Right on cue, Merrill said, “He was awarded a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. He never said anything about it. I only found out when I was cleaning the garage and found the medals in a toolbox.” Merrill huffed in admiration. “Everybody in the family asked him what happened. He said it was too terrible to talk about and that whatever he’d done it wasn’t enough.”
Dodson was starting to resent Beaumont. The old geezer who wore the same green apron every day and called Dodson a hooligan and kept a .45 Colt Commander under the register was a hero who fed poor people and reunited winos with their families. Who the fuck knew? With growing irritation, Dodson listened as Merrill kept talking about Beaumont’s love of history, especially the Civil War and how he’d taken the family on a road trip to Gettysburg, Antietam and Shiloh and that their house was too small to have a dog but Beaumont loved animals and helped Harry Haldeman at the animal shelter early in the mornings and how Beaumont and TK were the only old-timers left who’d built successful businesses from scratch and how proud Merrill was of both of them. Dodson felt like his lungs had shrunk and he couldn’t get enough air.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said.
“Thank Gloria for me,” Merrill said. “The food was really delicious.” Dodson got up and went to the door. “And Dodson?” Merrill said. “Thanks for letting me talk. I guess I needed to do that.”
Dodson left the hospital as fast as he could without running and went next door to the parking garage. He walked down the deserted aisle to his car. He felt strange. Off. His irritation had turned into something else but he didn’t know
what. It had started earlier in the evening. He’d come home from work, taken a shower and put on clean clothes. Then he sat on the sofa with Micah and read him a story about a pig named Andy Bacon. Dodson felt good reading to his kid. He felt fatherly, he felt like a man. Cherise walked past and gave him a big smile. He was getting to the part where Andy comes home from the supermarket crying when he noticed Micah was asleep.
Dodson put the boy to bed. Then he asked Gloria if she’d make something for Merrill. He was probably at the hospital. She was happy to do it, she’d known Beaumont for years and years. She was going to take the food to Merrill herself but Dodson said it was late and he’d get it over there. He didn’t know why he’d done any of that.
Dodson always wondered how people in the movies ended up in a deserted parking garage in the middle of the night but here he was, in a deserted parking garage in the middle of the night. Something was creeping up on him but there were no footsteps and no need to look back. It was sadness, heavy and dark with outstretched hands and curled fingers. He could sense it getting closer and almost started to run when it overtook him and wrapped him in its smothering arms. He didn’t know why Merrill had affected him so. He wasn’t a personal friend and neither was Beaumont. There was no reason to feel this way.
Dodson got in his car and drove but he couldn’t shake it. He drove faster but it wouldn’t go away.
Chapter Fifteen
Who’s Cliff?
The Ladies of Color Turning Pages book club met in the church library once a month. Twelve women sat around the table; most of them TK had seen at the picnic. He was the only man. The women were surprised when he came in, expressing some suspicion about his motives but nothing outright negative.
Louella Barnes said her husband didn’t read because it took time away from the TV. Marcie said her fiancé wouldn’t read anything but the instructions on a power drill. After much discussion, they decided to see what Gloria thinks. TK was already sweating. The windows didn’t open and his suit was made of heavy wool.
Gloria entered and the chatting ceased.
“Good evening, ladies. I’m glad you could all make it tonight.” She looked around, her eyes skipping over TK like he was a shadow or oxygen before quickly coming back to him. “I see we have a guest. What brings you here tonight, Thomas?”
“My friends call me TK,” he said with a feeble smile.
“I’m aware of that, Thomas. Are you waiting for someone? Is someone picking you up?”
“No, I’m just here like everybody else.”
“I see.” Gloria gave him the same querying, dissatisfied look she’d given him at the picnic. “Let me ask you, Thomas, when you were deciding to attend tonight, did the name of the club suggest anything to you?”
“Yes. It suggested the club was just women.”
“But you decided to show up anyway?”
He’d rehearsed the answer with Grace. “I wouldn’t have done it but there’s no book club for men, or none I know about anyway.” The other women muttered and nodded their agreement.
“Although we’ve never made it a rule,” Gloria said with forced patience, “I believe the intention of this club was to allow women to express their opinions without the distraction of men.”
“Oh, let him stay, Gloria,” Cecile said. “If the man wants to talk about books, that’s a good thing. I’ve never seen it before, have you?”
“Besides,” Delores added, “he’s cute.”
“You think everybody’s cute, Delores,” Gloria said. She sighed. “Here’s how it works, Thomas. You can say anything you want as long as you’re civil.”
“You don’t need to keep bringing that up,” Simone grumbled. She glared at Cecile. “I didn’t actually run over you, did I?”
“Moving on,” Gloria said. “This week’s selection is Toni Morrison’s God Help the Child. Are you acquainted with her work, Thomas?”
“No, I’m not.”
“I see,” Gloria said, like he was wearing a Speedo and a top hat. The women discussed the book in terms TK wasn’t familiar with: character development, plots and subplots, themes, pacing, whether something was a symbol or metaphor for this or that. It wasn’t like men talking, he thought. They weren’t trying to top each other or argue their points. It was like they were trying to add something, fill in the picture, point out something the others might have missed. Helping one another to understand. TK was as impressed as he was surprised. He’d known these women only in passing. Cecile was a bus driver, Delores was a checkout clerk at Vons, Simone a crossing guard for the school district, but here they were, talking about all these complicated things. He shook his head with wonder. The consensus was that it was an impressive book, not Morrison’s best but certainly worth the read.
When the discussion was over, Gloria said, “Our book selections are done by committee, Thomas. Three members take a book home and read it. If they all agree the book is worthwhile, then everybody reads it and we talk about it like we did tonight.”
“I gotcha,” TK said, putting his hand up like he was way ahead of her.
“The book under consideration is Colson Whitehead’s new one, Underground Railroad. It’s Louella’s and Simone’s turn to be on the selection committee but Consuelo is home sick. Would you like to take her place, Thomas?”
“Me?” he said looking over his shoulder.
“Is there some other Thomas sitting behind you?” Gloria said. “I’m asking if you would read the book and tell us your opinion.” This was going too fast for TK. He didn’t know what to say. “Of course,” she added, “if you think that’s too much for you—”
“No, no, I’ll read it,” he blurted out cheerfully. “I love to read. I read all the time.”
“Good for you. Now, several members are going on vacation and would like to take some books along so we’re meeting again on Thursday.” She gave him a look that was part challenge, part low expectations. “Do you think you’ll be ready by then?”
He tried to look confident. “Oh, I’ll be ready. No doubt about it.”
He left the library before everyone else, ripping off the tie before he choked, his shirt sticking to his back. He knew what Gloria was up to. She didn’t want him in the club so she was setting him up to fail. Evidently she didn’t know who she was messing with. He’d never backed down from anything in his life. His body was frail but what was left was all gristle. He hadn’t read a novel in decades but he’d read this railroad book and show Gloria and the whole damn club he was as smart and sophisticated as any of them.
They were sitting at the back of the Coffee Cup where there was less noise. “Have you read it?” Grace said.
“I tried. I just can’t settle my mind to it,” TK said. “I’m not used to reading so much at one time.”
“What do you know so far?” Grace asked.
“Not much. Book happens in slavery times. A girl named Ajarry gets kidnapped and brought to America. Poor thing. Makes your blood boil just reading about it. Then she dies and Cora takes over. It was hard to follow; too many people start showing up. The Randalls, Blake—a real SOB, that one. Then there’s Mabel, Jockey, Caesar, a boy named Chester and some others—I can’t remember ’em all. Then it gets too far-fetched for me. In the book, the underground railroad is a real goddamn train and it runs underground! Now I know that ain’t true. The underground railroad was just some folks who helped slaves escape to the north. Gave ’em shelter and such.
“And then the damn book jumps around in time. All of a sudden, Cora is living on a farm somewhere in Indiana! I didn’t get close to finishing. You know that book goes on for three hundred pages? The installation manual for a dual clutch six-speed transmission ain’t half that long. Who in the hell’s got that much to say? This Colson fella needs to get himself a hobby.” He sighed and sat back in his chair. “I’m not going on Thursday. No sense making a fool out of myself.”
Grace nearly agreed, but the book club was her stupid idea in the first place. She couldn’t
let him down. “You know what?” she said excitedly. “I’m gonna get you some Cliff Notes!”
“Who’s Cliff?” TK said. “Did he read the book too?”
After leaving TK, Grace went back to Cherokee’s place and downloaded the CliffsNotes online. She went through them but couldn’t concentrate, preoccupied with Isaiah. Since her return, they’d chatted and bantered and made innuendos about living together but beyond that, everything had been about his case. She felt neglected. Was she being petty? Yes. The case was about life, death and broken hands. When she was painting in Isaiah’s backyard, he assumed it was okay to interrupt her. He didn’t ask for her permission or say he was sorry. He just started talking. Is that the way it would be? Because the case would always be about life, death and broken hands, and it would always be more important than a painting about a dog. She wondered if her life would be subsumed in his.
The doorbell rang. It was Noah, holding his helmet under his arm and looking sheepish. “I forgot the duffel bag. Sorry.” This time Grace wasn’t alarmed. She didn’t know how she felt. She wondered if he’d forgotten the bag on purpose. But she’d forgotten it too.
“Want some coffee?” she said.
“That would be great.” She made him instant. She only drank brewed coffee if Isaiah made it or they were outside somewhere.
Noah sipped his mug and grimaced. “I didn’t want to say anything before but this is the same crap you drank in New Mexico.”
“I happen to like it,” she said, amused.
“I remember you making it. You were like a mad scientist, measuring the stuff like that would make it taste better.” She laughed. “I went to MOCA yesterday,” he said. He talked about Rosenquist, Rauschenberg, Joe Goode and Arshile Gorky. Noah was animated, wondrous, inquisitive, his love of art gleaming in his blue eyes, in his entire self. His devotion was one of the things she’d admired about him. He said he was staying in LA for a few days but that was a lie. He smelled like paint and turpentine. He’d set up shop somewhere. And Noah didn’t like the city. He’d come for her. She was suddenly curious. She wanted to see his paintings, see if he’d progressed and made use of his tremendous talent.