Thirteen Confessions

by David Corbett

  She did not fight or even cry out. Call it what remained of their marriage, he supposed, that silence. The blame was hers, after all. Except, of course, it wasn’t. Not hers alone. She’d made sure of that.

  She clutched his arm as she fell, no strength in the grip, dropping raggedly to the floor. She bled out—legs tangled, breaths quick and shallow, mouth open, eyes like glass. His rage dissolved, leaving behind a regret he felt in his body like a need to lie down. And from somewhere in the back of his mind, a flicker of dread, like lightning spotted through trees.

  After a moment he sensed it, someone there, and glanced up. Coughlin stood in the coved entrance to the room, staring. At her. His protégé, his accomplice, his squeeze. He too held a knife, had come back as part of the plan, finish it, except he’d come too late—cowardice or second thoughts or who knew what? Finally his gaze rose, their eyes met and he dropped the knife, got halfway to the door. Bernardo would feel a little embarrassed by how hard and deep he ripped the blade across the man’s throat, damn near severing his head. And as Bernardo crouched against the wall, eyeing what he’d done, his mind clicked like a machine, trying to remember what fire would destroy and what it wouldn’t.

  “Glendon, fetch me some ice from the walk-in, will ya?”

  The larger man belched, glanced at the welter of glassware atop the bar, and slid off his stool. “Make me something normal while I’m gone, Eduardo. Early Times, rocks, with a splash. See if that’s artistic enough for your newfound sensibilities.”

  Once Glendon was gone Eddie leaned forward, rested his elbows on the bar. “Don’t make nothing out of all his guff about real estate,” Eddie said quietly. “He’s just kinda bitter.”

  Bernardo, from manners as much as thirst, sipped his drink. The flavor was evolving. “About what?”

  Eddie had gone off somewhere in his mind. He looked like he was struggling with a calculation—carry the seven, divide by five. Snapping back: “Excuse me?”

  “Bitter about what?”

  “Oh him and me, we used to work at the shipyard over in Richmond. Pipefitters, the both of us. Good work, union wage, but that’s all gone. This country ain’t got use for the workingman no more. Not less he’s Mexican. Anyhoot, we been scraping by, doing a little this, a little that, and we stumbled on this thing called Cash for Keys—you heard about this?”

  Now it was Bernardo’s turn to wander off. He was back up the hill, outside the house, following through on the plan, figuring even with two bodies to incinerate the surest path to a big mistake would be to change things up. Reaching into a bag of M-80s and cherry bombs, he waded into the knee-high grass, dry as straw, covering the hills rising up behind the property and rippling in the westerly wind keening through the ravine, blasting hot and dry against his skin. He glanced around, here and there a scrub oak but mostly eucalyptus, God’s gift to fire.

  “It’s this program through the banks,” Eddie said, “Cash for Keys, all these empty houses, the foreclosure mess. Well, you leave them untended, you’re just asking for trouble. Damn gangs move in, set up grow houses or meth labs, jerry rig the electric—I seen jumper cables trailing down from a high tension wire and hooked up to a junction box, I’m not making that up. Juice for all the lights you need, grow marijuana.” He pronounced it merry wanna. “But there’s some folks, they just need a place to stay, you know? Glendon and me, we had some rough luck lately, we’re just looking for a roof over our heads as we settle up accounts, you know, ride out this damn economy. And once we got good and comfortable in this one place—”

  “Squatters,” Bernardo said, regretting it instantly.

  Eddie shot him an acid look. “That’s a damn unpleasant word.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I just …” He shrugged, lifted his cocktail, Dirty Rotten Secret, rattled the ice in appreciation. “I’m sorry.”

  He knew the problem too well. You bought a house on spec, property underwater, previous owners walked away, and you’re hoping for an easy rehab and then a quick flip. But you head on over to the address and find there’s someone living there, people no one’s ever talked to or heard of. Whole clans—kids, cousins, grandparents, goats.

  “We weren’t taking advantage. We kept the place up—repaired the plumbing in the kitchen, the brass pipes were all corroded. Rewired the living room, there was an outlet that’d shorted out, faceplate all black. Picked the apples off the ground so they don’t attract rats, put out poison for the snails, must’ve killed a zillion spiders. Bagged up the garbage, touch of paint here and there. Bank saw what we were doing, they were grateful. Woman comes over, V-P of something, got her card in my wallet, introduces herself, says we keep the place up the way we’re doing, we’ll get a thousand crisp ones a month.”

  Hidden in a stand of eucalyptus, he began lighting cherry bomb fuses—major cause of wildfires, fireworks set off in tinder-dry conditions. Sure enough—boom—and a patch of grass caught, the flames licked up the nearest tree, the ratty bark glowing into ember then a pop, a spark, ignition. He tossed the remaining firecrackers around and headed back, hearing the staccato explosions behind him like gunfire as he ran.

  “And okay,” Eddie continued, “so we saw an opportunity, put down roots in more than one house. What’s the crime in that? We was looking after each place, we deserved every goddamn check. Oh but the neighbors, they start bitching about property values. They start moaning about strangers with no investment in the community and how we’re, like, scamming the system. And they get this local real estate agent, Mister Plumpfuck from Pussyville, got several houses up for sale in that neighborhood, and he decides he’s gonna ride to the rescue—gathers signatures on a petition, goes on TV, identifies the houses and the banks, figuring, ‘Hey, this here’s cheap publicity for me, I’ll score big with the locals, get me a dozen new clients.’ Next thing you know, me and Glendon, we get the heave. Sheriff telling us we got thirty minutes to quit the premises, camera crews on hand, details at eleven. So there we are, on the street, no roof over our heads, nothing.”

  Back inside the house, he tried not to look at Leeanne or Coughlin as he peeled off the coveralls and set them beside the stack of rags, soaked in linseed oil. The rags were already beginning to smolder, a thin acrid plume of smoke rising from the pile. Looking out the patio door, he saw the hillside flames gaining ground, the fire creating its own weather—fire whirls, hairpin vortices, forward bursts—gathering speed, moving close, windswept cinders or whole tree branches blazing away, exploding, rocketing into the parched yard, onto the roof, hurled by the fire’s own force. Given the contour of the hillside, the strength and direction of the wind channeling through the arroyo, its dryness and heat, the pressure differential between inland hills and coastal plain, the tonnage of fuel load provided by the eucalyptus and scrub oak, the sawgrass and wooly sage, the ratio of surface area to volume for every desiccated twig, the flash point of all that withered vegetation—flashy fuel—in conjunction with the blistering heat, the severity of the drought conditions and the rate of acceleration for the downhill flames, the topography of the rags, the chemistry of the oil and nitrocellulose, its auto-ignition temperature, the abundance of interior wood, the precise moment of the first 9-1-1 call, the response time required for an engine crew to make it up the switchback parkways from a firehouse thirty-five miles away, the tactical on-scene decisions made, primacy of evacuation, containment versus combat, what structures if any to save, which to surrender. It wasn’t luck, it wasn’t random. It was the inscrutable calculus of complexity, a world beyond our knowing. It was the wind.

  “So that’s why Glendon’s got a hair up his hind parts about real estate agents. Me too, truth be told. But like he said, don’t take it personal. We’re not on some kinda rampage.”

  Good for you, Bernardo thought, remembering the arrangement of the bodies as he’d placed one knife near Leeanne, the other near Coughlin, making it look like they’d gone a
t each other. He stepped toward the entrance and opened the door, creating a cross-draft of oven-like air. The rags ignited, a sudden bright flash filling the room like a vengeful djinn. And he’d felt tired. A weariness like poison in his blood. It hadn’t lifted.

  “Hey Eddie, Jason!” It was Glendon, bellowing from the walk-in. “Come on back here, will ya? You’re not gonna believe this.”

  Eddie shot Bernardo a glance and a shrug, then the two of them filed back through the storage room, past shelving piled high with glassware, napkins, swizzle sticks, olives and cherries, sour mix, Snappy Tom, heading toward the open door of the cavernous fridge.

  Glendon stood inside, near the back. The overhead light was off, burned out maybe. On second glance, though, Bernardo realized the bulb was shattered. Glass shards littered two lumpy forms heaped beneath a tarp on the cold damp floor. Amid the frigid mildewy odor of the space, a faint scent like firecrackers—or was he imagining that?

  Glendon raised his voice to be heard over the condenser’s rattle and hum. “Guess me and Eddie here got a confession to make, Jason.” All things considered, he sounded contrite. His breath formed a misty cloud. He gestured to the motionless forms on the floor.

  “This here’s Henry. And the woman we told you about, Ol’ Tits and Turmoil, never did get her name. But Henry, he owns this bar, owns a couple others in Oakley and Clayton, even a strip mall, if you can call it that, out on Bethel Island. But given your professional inclinations, you may also know him as Henry Ireton, Ireton Realty, LLC.”

  So that’s what this is about, Bernardo thought. “I lied,” he said, realizing it was too late for the truth. “I should’ve told you earlier. You were right, I’m no realtor. I’m a firefighter.”

  Glendon and Eddie looked at each other, like that was just the damnedest thing.

  “Don’t quite know what to make of that information, Jason.”

  “If you’re a fireman,” Eddie said, “how come …”

  The rest of the question drifted off, which apparently was answer enough. Bernardo couldn’t take his eyes off the bodies. The biting cold of the walk-in created a burning sensation on his skin, a kind of hallucinatory recompense for the scalding, charring heat inflicted on the other two bodies he’d left behind, one of them his bride. He felt an eerie sense of dévà vu, as though the bodies had somehow followed him here.

  “All we was after,” Eddie said, “was a place to stay. This damn economy. But Henry here, he couldn’t have that. He had to play hero, kick us out.”

  “Some have, some don’t,” Glendon said. “And those that have, more times than not, they got more than their honest share. No logic to it. Just luck.”

  “Like you walking in here when you did,” Eddie said. “Lousy god damn luck. Sorry.”

  Bernardo felt the tip of the gun barrel pressed against the base of his skull, Eddie behind him with the weapon. I don’t believe in luck, he wanted to say, wondering if he’d already mentioned that.

  A Boy and a Girl

  What Jimmy wanted? Be just a little bit smarter. But smart’s a lot like tall. Comes a point, it just stops.

  She’s working swing at the Peppermill when he first lays eyes on her. Name tag reads: Renda Rader—Tonopah NV.

  He comes in every night for two weeks, orders 7-and7s and works them slow, making them last, just for the opportunity, looking at her. Kind of body you don’t really see much anymore. Women, Jesus, they’re hippos or piccolos these days, nothing in between.

  The uniform: black tux jacket with a burgundy leotard underneath, all bunched in the bosom like an invisible hand’s grabbing hold. Great legs, seamed stockings. Gotta love that. Jimmy sure does.

  Mostly, though, it’s the face. Light makeup, dusty freckles. Reminds him of a young Donna Reed, vintage It’s a Wonderful Life, that sheen in her hair, the wavy bounce. The innocence.

  But Christ, what to say? Lousy at small talk, dipshit smiles and moron nods, pretending to watch TV or playing video poker at the bar. Loses his fucking shirt. Not like he’s got one to lose. But that’s love, right?

  Every time she passes by, he catches a whiff of her perfume, his dick like an antenna for the stuff. One night he overhears her tell another waitress the name—The Malignant Dreams of Choo-Choo in Love, something like that, “It has accents of chocolate and seaweed.” she says, adding, “Smells better than I’m making it sound” —and he writes the name down on a napkin, tells himself, I’ll buy her a bottle.

  Try that for an ice breaker. Hey, from me. Happy malignant dreams.

  Then comes one night, end of shift, she high-heels over, drops off one last drink. On the house, meaning her.

  “You come here a lot,” she says.

  He’s tongue-tied. Flustered. Busted. “Yeah?”

  “You’re a good tipper.”

  “Thank you.”

  She looks at his eyes like she’s reading tiny print. His instructions.

  “You look like you can handle yourself.”

  This one really throws him, but before he can get his head around an answer, she adds, “My ex wants to meet you.”

  That right there, you know?

  But Jimmy, it’s like pussy’s a zombie and it’s eaten his brain. He hears: Ex? He’s thinking: Hey, she’s available.

  He follows her out to the edge of Sparks, the house not much to look at. Coupe de Ville in the driveway, mid-nineties model, not old enough to be vintage. Besides, there was rust, little scallops of it bubbling up beneath the chrome.

  Turns out the guy’s not at all what Jimmy expects.

  Edwin, the guy’s name. Picture a bow tie, then take it away, leave the rest. That’s him. First impression, anyway.

  “Have a seat.” He nods to a spot beside him on the leather sofa. Man cave, high-def TV, surround sound. Movie posters on the wall, nothing with Donna Reed. “Watch the rest of this goddamn train wreck.”

  Game Seven, National League Championship, Giants up on the Cards nine-zip in the eighth. Rain’s coming down so hard it looks like sheets of tinsel but the umps won’t call it, they want the thing over. Crowd too, they’re going nuts. Probably even the Cards just want to pack up their gear, go home. Jimmy gets that. He truly does.

  Edwin sits there with a ball bat between his knees, resting his chin on the knob.

  “St. Louis was three-to-one, win the World series,” he says. “Goddamn Giants, what were they? Eleven-to-fucking-four.”

  Jimmy thinks about it a second, figures there’s no right thing to say. No wrong thing, either. “Yeah, but the books had the Tigers and Yankees even, look what happened. Yankees tank, Detroit takes a four game sweep. No rhyme, no reason. Been a crazy year.”

  “That it has.” Edwin picks his drink up from the coffee table, something dark and herbal from the smell, Benedictine maybe, on the rocks. Sips. Puts his chin back on the bat. “I’m losing twenty large on this game.”

  Jimmy tries to do the math, gets lost. Looks around. They’re alone. “Renda not into baseball?”

  “Not into watching me lose. Did enough of that when we were hooked up.”

  Jimmy feels this faint wave of relief. He’d been worrying she was changing out of her work outfit in the bedroom, which meant she kept clothes here, maybe still lived here, or at least stayed over some nights. That’d make things complicated. As it was, they were just uncomfortable.

  Edwin asks, “How long since you been inside?”

  Jimmy likes to think it’s not obvious. When he came back from the ’Stan, couldn’t find work to save his soul, fucking Obamaconomy. Taking day labor gigs unloading UP freight cars at Parr Yard and living in his Le Mans, taking splash baths in men’s rooms. Half step from homeless.

  Tried to win a little back at the tables but it’s like a smell you can’t get out of your clothes, bad luck.

  One day he indulges a few too many 7&7s, eyeballs a tourist in the
Circus Circus parking tower. Asian guy, blue suit, almost giddy from winning. Jimmy waltzes up, coldcocks him, grabs the cash, walks away like it’s nothing. A conversation. He’d stripped Taliban towelheads of their Pesh kabz daggers, searched their rank, scrawny, leathery torsos for boom girdles. Rolling a flush gook? Party time.

  Didn’t figure on the cameras.

  He gets double charged, assault and robbery, works a plea deal and catches a light one, two years—judge is a vet, semper fi—serves eighteen in Lovelock, early parole.

  Sure he looks rough but not tatted up as bad as some, and he tries to dress nice, sport coat over the yoked shirt, decent jeans. Mostly, it’s the eyes—“Seen more depth in a windshield,” one chick told him—but he blames that on Kandahar, not prison. Lovelock was a nap.

  “Got my release in July,” he says finally.

  Edwin nods. “How’s it feel?”

  Better than losing twenty large, Jimmy wants to say, but bites that one back. Shrugs. “One more jump on the trampoline.”

  Edwin nods like he knows what that means—that makes one of us, Jimmy’s thinking, wondering where the hell it came from—then the guy stands, eyes still lasering the TV screen, like that might reverse the score. “Tell you what. I’ll change my shirt, then we’ll go.”

  On his feet, he seems less of a priss. Lanky build, topping six foot. Still, the glasses, the curly hair. Kinda like a tall Elvis Costello, if he was actually Italian.

  Jimmy says, “We’re heading someplace?”

  Edwin rests the bat against the sofa. “Be right back.”

  This point, Jimmy thinks: Time to log in with Renda. Ask: What the fuck? Politely.

  Checks out the kitchen, the living room, looks for a door to a basement. Nothing. Not so much as a whiff of seaweed or chocolate. No choo-choo in love.

  Pulling back a curtain at the living room picture window, he checks the street. Her Camaro’s still there. Where did she go—the neighbors? There an attic?

  Edwin reappears, buttoning the cuffs of a leather car coat. Black. Same as the silk shirt, the pleated slacks, the natty loafers. Didn’t just change his shirt. He did the whole funeral.