Halfway Home

by Paul Monette

  "So where is it?" Jerry crooned with near-lascivious delight, producing from my brother a desiccated laugh like an old man coughing. They'd reached the wall. If Brian was telling the truth and he had no seven mill to trade, then this was the deal right here. Nothing further to bargain with, and the gun just aching.

  "What's happening?"

  I was the only one who didn't turn, my back to the stairs and my heart stopped. Jerry spun about, more agile than he looked, and bawled at the figure on the landing: "And who the fuck are you?"

  There was the faintest clearing of the throat, as if to censure the ill-mannered tone of the question. Then Gray announced: "This is my house."

  "Izzatso?" mocked the fat man. I was staring straight at his belt buckle, a twenty-dollar gold piece. The gun swung lightly from his left hand at about hip level. "Well, I'm havin' a private talk here with a couple my old buddies. So why don't you go crawl back into bed, and maybe tomorrow morning you'll still be a fuckin' homeowner. "

  Gray sniffed, a blip of defiance worthy of his aunt. "Are you the one who blew up Brian's house?"

  Jerry lurched to face him direct. "I said move," he barked, the pistol swinging up to punctuate the rabid threat.

  A blinding rush in my head seethed like the sea in a shell. That instant of the gun pointing at my lover, I saw into the whitest fire of outrage. How I spoke at all I'll never know, except that acting was my only commando training. "Gray, it's all right," I tossed back over my shoulder, a truly ridiculous lie, and all the while staring at Jerry's hip, a foot from my ravenous fury.

  A shuffle behind me on the stairs, as Gray reluctantly followed my command, too polite to disagree. Then Jerry's hand with the gun fell to his side again—and I lunged and clamped like a bulldog.

  Right through the swell of flesh between his thumb and fingers. Blood gushed into my mouth, metallic, as if I'd bitten the gun instead. His shout was a horror of being infected, rather than rage, so he panicked and flailed when he should have gone for the kill. I don't know why the gun didn't go off, except my teeth were hooked on tendons, paralyzing the finger that kissed the trigger.

  When he couldn't shake me he pounded my head with his other fist, but now Brian was on him from behind, wrenching his arm away. So that all I had to do was heave my shoulder like a tackle, jamming the barrel into his bulging gut. My hand squeezed over his, and then we were dancing.

  An ocean of blood poured through the shreds of his banker's shirt. Somehow it seemed more terrible that he never cried out after that first shout. He gulped in a great heave of air, standing rigid in stunned surprise, holding his breath like he was swimming underwater. The gun clattered to the hearth, a sound as hollow as plastic, a toy after all.

  Doused in red I rose upright, just in time to see him teeter. His hands were pressed to the sieve of his belly, the look in his bugged eyes already far at sea. Then he keeled and went down hard, with a sickening whump of his head against the base of one of the andirons. The blood pooled around him on the hearthstone, the stone drinking it in like a pig's altar. Then the breath came guttering out, a queer inhuman whine of incalculable regret.

  I looked up into Brian's eyes, staring at me in blank astonishment. I think I tried to shrug, except I was so bone-weary I could hardly move. No triumph in that first moment, not even relief. If anything, a pang of protective guilt for my brother's sake, that he should've had to witness the letting of the monster's blood. If I'd had a hand not slick with death, I would've reached out to shield his eyes. He wasn't nearly godless enough for this.

  Then Gray's arms were around me, gathering me to his chest. I gratefully collapsed against him, but struggled to keep my bloodied hands from touching the faded blue cotton of his robe. They flailed the air above him like a pair of clipped wings, the drying blood beginning to stiffen. "Thank God," he breathed in my ear. Thank me, I thought with stubborn pride, never flinching from a credit dispute with the infinite. Already I was only half there, racing ahead to the cops' arrival. Determined that I would bear the full responsibility, leaving these two out of it. I braced for the shriek of sirens.

  "I better go call Nigrelli," Brian declared uncertainly.

  "Wait." I struggled out of Gray's embrace, my arms still raised as if I was being robbed. "We have to get our story straight. You guys shouldn't even be here."

  "What story? You saved my ass."

  I laughed. "Who's gonna believe that? I'm just this frail little AIDS victim. I'm telling you, they'll think you did it."

  "Look, I don't give a shit—"

  "Well, I do," I retorted impatiently. "'Cause I don't want anyone stopping you from getting out of here. Or else you'll never make it back to the kid." Why was it I had to remind him what his goal was? His eyes wouldn't leave the body, wincing in disbelief, unready to go anywhere. I turned to Gray, his robe smeared with Jerry's blood despite my excruciating care. "Listen, you take him down to the Chevron. Call the Gucci lawyer. The feds can pick up Brian there."

  "And leave you with him?" protested Gray, pointing at the ritual slaughter on the hearth.

  "So what? He's gonna bite me?" I made a rude Italian gesture toward the dead man, feeling the caked blood crack along my wrist. But I also realized why they were acting so confused and indecisive. Neither of them really liked my attitude—not enough hush in the face of death. It only made me feel ever more drunkenly cavalier, for death was the very last thing that awed me anymore. As to having killed the torturer of my youth, I felt nothing—no, less than nothing. Lady Macbeth in a gym towel.

  "When you get back," I declared with some belligerence, "we can plant him in the yard somewhere. Up by the fishpond, maybe—"

  "That's okay. We'll take care of it."

  No sirens at all. Agent Evans stepped down from the dining room, sharp in a charcoal suit and rep tie. If it had been Potato-face I might've turned and bolted, but the black man had struck me as a fount of empathy by comparison. I could feel Gray and Brian stiffen on either side, turning over the wheel to me to navigate the whirlpool. Evans's smile was as tailored as his suit, not the flicker of a glance at the problematic object on the hearth. No bulge of a gun was visible either, though he surely had one.

  It was some small comfort to know he'd decided to keep it holstered, that he felt no threat from any of us. Because it was dead obvious that he'd witnessed the whole of what had happened. I just couldn't tell whose side he was on. "This is Jerry Curran," I explained, not pointing or nodding. "I killed him."

  Evans frowned, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Ah, let's just say he doesn't exist anymore."

  Our side, one to nothing.

  "Brian, you'd better get ready," he continued. "Agent Dana will follow us in Curran's car. We'll be going to Reno first, to ah..." He finally looked at the corpse. "...drop him off." He made an elaborate show of checking his watch. "It's three-eighteen now. We'll be leaving in five, as soon as we get him packed." Another curt nod at the walrus body on the hearth.

  "Wait a minute," my brother demanded, bridling now. "What's Reno got to do with it? Yesterday you said Tulsa. Look, I have to talk to Nigrelli."

  Evans smiled, enjoying himself. "Nigrelli doesn't work for you anymore, Brian. You just got blown away. In Reno." The three of us must've drawn the identical blank, like a row of dullards on "Jeopardy." Evans chuckled at our perplexity. "See, we got a fresh kill up there. Some local punk. And we're going to put your wallet in his pocket, and the tag on his toe's going to read Shaheen."

  His padded shoulders gave a brief shrug, casual as Nat Cole. A piece of cake, as Daniel would say. "So then you can disappear for real," he went on, "without all that looking over your shoulder. Our little present to you."

  Honestly, I could've saluted the flag. At last, my tax dollars at work. I grinned at Evans, eager to pump his hand in gratitude—but careful to make no sudden move, because he was a tricky fucker. I turned to share the moment with my brother, and the grin curdled on my face. For Brian was still bristling with suspicion. He jutt
ed his chin defiantly.

  "So my wife's gonna think I'm dead?"

  "Don't worry, she knows it's a setup. She'll act like you're dead."

  There was a rustle behind him as his partner came in from the kitchen, dragging what looked like a black tarp. Agent Dana was as underdressed as before, another bilious Hawaiian shirt, and the lack of sleep hadn't made his tuberous face any prettier. As he came abreast of Evans I saw that the tarp had a long zipper: a body bag. I guess they kept one in the trunk beside the spare. Preparedness to the max, I thought, even as I recalled Mike Manihan and Teddy Burr being hauled away, the rattlesnake finality of that zipper. It was the last sound I would never hear, the day they came for me.

  I don't know what Gray saw in my face, but he glided up next to my elbow, ready to prop me. "I don't understand any of this," he protested, just short of a huff. "Why is that one going?" Meaning Jerry, as if the fat man had been so rude and vulgar as to have forfeited all free rides.

  Evans watched as Dana laid out the bag on the floor next to the fireplace. "Listen, for months he's been saying the Mob's out to hit him. Well"—he held up the rosy palms of his hands—"they just caught up with him in Reno. Two hits for the price of one. Brian, you better be getting your stuff."

  At last my brother roused himself, tearing his gaze from his dead partner. He moved past us without another word and headed upstairs. Meanwhile Dana had straddled the body and was rocking

  Jerry's shoulder, getting ready to roll him, taking care not to step in the blood.

  "You got it?" asked Evans, who made no move to assist, lest he sully the spit-shine on his own wingtips.

  The body came away from the stone with a sucking sound, heeling over onto the bag. I tottered and bumped against Gray, who caught my elbow firmly. Dana dragged at the zipper. I hated to look so seasick all of a sudden, for the corpse was nothing, a hunk of meat. It was all in the memory, the sound of the zipper like nails on a blackboard.

  "Go on up," murmured Gray, pushing me toward the stairs. "See if he needs any help."

  Any excuse to get out of there, as Evans stepped gingerly forward to help with the actual stuffing of arms and legs in the bag, the loose ends. I bounded up to the first landing, Gray calling after me: "Easy—easy!"

  Oh of course, that twenty-four hours without any excitement. I slowed for his sake, a step at a time, but laughing inside at the rules of convalescence. And avoid all stress, as Robison would always advise with a straight-faced flourish, patting my shoulder and sending me out to do a little more dying. I turned at the top of the stairs and smiled at Gray below. With a hula bump I flipped the corner of the towel, flashing the family jewels. His face flushed crimson, turning automatically to check if the agents had seen. My hopeless unreconstructed WASP.

  I headed for Cora's room. The body bag notwithstanding, at the moment I was feeling pretty irrepressible. Had anyone done a study, I wondered, on radical convalescence. Instead of the blinds drawn and a cold cloth over the eyes, you evened an old score. The revenge cure. This was bravado mostly, a pagan taunt to the pieties of Chester. But I was also acutely aware, stepping into my brother's room, that something had changed because of the swoop of death in the parlor below. I wasn't afraid to say good-bye.

  "Sorry about those pancakes," I said.

  He hunkered at the foot of the bed, stuffing his sweat pants into a backpack, blue with white piping like Daniel's. He'd changed into jeans and his Fordham sweat shirt, no more chances to catch him naked. As he stood and turned to face me, slinging the pack to his shoulder, he looked remarkably unencumbered, nothing more complicated in the offing than a day's hike up the beach. And an unmistakable air of impatience, as if he couldn't wait to be on his way. I think it had finally sunk in, how free he would be once the bodies were found.

  "You all right?" he asked tentatively. He was in the lamplight, I in the shadow of the door.

  "Oh, very," I assured him, stepping forward with open arms. "I just need to give you a hug."

  He laughed. "Time out," he said, and for an instant I felt the slap of rejection, a clang of disbelief, that all our coming together had been just another mirage. What if the past didn't die after all? Even when you killed it.

  But now he was reaching to grab my hand and tugging me into the bathroom, laughing still as he flipped on the light. Side by side we blinked in the mirror. The blood was everywhere: matted in my hair and splashed in rusty gouts across my torso and arms, an expressionist fantasia. The white towel at my waist was livid, a serial killer's dropcloth. Not exactly dressed to kiss.

  "Get over here," said Brian, slipping off the backpack and propping it on the sink. He nodded for me to stand in the tub, and as soon as I stepped in he tugged the towel free. I felt about six years old—not a bad feeling at all. Then he bent to open the ancient moss-green faucets, flipping the porcelain crank to engage the hand shower.

  He lifted hose and nozzle off the curlicue hook and swept it toward me, spraying my belly. I looked down to see the blood flash red again as it washed away. The white hull of the tub swirled like the drain in Psycho. Brian widened the field of the spray to my chest, cold as well water. He slapped a hand across my breastbone, smearing me clean, while I shook like a seal.

  "You think he would've killed us?"

  Brian nodded, gesturing for me to duck so he could do my hair. I bowed toward him, clamping shut mouth and eyes. Brian rubbed my scalp as the water streamed down my face. "I figured if he could just shoot me and get out of there," he declared, shrugging his own death. "Then you come down. And I'm thinking, fuck"—he tilted my chin and ran the water full on my face till I gasped and sputtered—"I can't just die, I gotta save Tommy. But I don't have a clue. Lucky for me, my brother's a wild man."

  Abruptly the drum of the spray left my face, as he bent to hose my legs. I gurgled, water running out of my nostrils, and managed to choke out one word: "Teamwork."

  Brian swung around and wrenched the faucets shut, which produced a grinding shudder in the prewar pipes. He didn't protest the chivalry of my characterization. Indeed we had worked together to overpower the beast, but we both knew who'd been quarterback. I stood unmoving as he grabbed a towel from behind the door. He caped it about my shoulders and started rubbing my torso vigorously, no nonsense, as if he was my trainer. Though I'd never won a game before, I understood that this was the treatment a hero got.

  "I'll write the address, it's simple," I said, ducking once more as he moved to dry my head. "Just care of Baldwin—Route One—Trancas." I stuttered each phrase like a telegraph, my head pummeled by the furious buff of the towel.

  "Sure," said Brian, whipping it off my scalp. Then he girdled it around my waist and tucked in the end at the hipbone. Through all these ablutions he hadn't ever touched my privates or dried me below the navel. And yet, as I stood there squeaky clean, the whole ritual seemed an exquisite balance of intimacy and modesty. It reminded me of the way Gray made love.

  "And how about if you call the phone at the Chevron?" I proposed in a rush of eagerness. "We could plan it like Tuesday nights at ten—I don't know what that is in Tulsa. But I could wait down there, and you could call. Not every Tuesday—"

  "Sounds good to me," he replied softly. "You ready for that hug?"

  Well, yes and no. He opened his arms and made the first move, engulfing me about the shoulders. Because I was still standing in the claw-footed tub I towered two inches above him for once. But the hug itself was no problem—easy, unforced, without any clutch of desperation. Nevertheless, in the middle of it I had to swallow hard, knowing my bid to stay in touch had just been vetoed.

  Not in so many words, and for all I knew with a nod of good faith, meaning to follow through. But he wasn't the type, my brother, to write his letters in longhand, and especially not to stand in the dark by a phone booth. He was only saying yes so he could leave with less good-bye. And I didn't blame him a bit, or even try to prolong the embrace to compensate.

  "Brian!" Evans's voice echoed through th
e stair hall, brooking no further delay.

  We pulled apart, effortlessly, no lingering messy feelings, no

  Camille. Brian turned and scooped his pack, slinging it over one arm as he strode out through Cora's room. I caught a glimpse of me bloodless in the mirror above the sink, and could've sworn I'd put on some muscle through the shoulders. Brian waited in the doorway into the hall, with that crease between his eyes that said there was one more thing. My face lifted expectantly, prepared to give him whatever he needed. No didn't exist.

  "Make sure you write Daniel," he said with a fluster of urgency. "You got that address?" I nodded. "'Cause he'll just be with his mother and he's gonna need..." One hand floundered the air, unable to think of the word.

  "Piece o' cake," I retorted, smiling. What he couldn't quite say was a man.

  "Brian!"

  We were on our way. I walked behind my brother around the stairwell, feeling a new sort of mirror image—as if I were as burly as he, the same unconscious swagger. This was how straight boys learned to be men, mimicking and preening, stimulating the butch gene. As I trotted down in Brian's wake, I thought about Daniel following him and following me. Somewhere there had been a tradeoff, gentling my brother and toughening me. Brian stopped at the bottom of the stairs while I hovered a step above him, four inches taller now. And I prayed to the nothing I didn't believe in: Let the kid have it both ways.

  The body was gone. Gray knelt on the hearth like an Irish housemaid, bucket of water beside him, scrubbing the stone with a stiff brush. The ratchet scrape of the brush filled the parlor. Dog's work, the sort of stain that would never come out.