by John Rector
I called Veronica on my way out of the building. I told her something had come up and that I’d meet them at the restaurant.
She wasn’t happy.
“If you didn’t want to come, all you had to do—”
“It’s not that,” I said. “I’ll be there, I just have to take care of a couple of things at the office first.”
Veronica was quiet.
“It came out of nowhere. I’m sorry. I’ll get there as soon as I can, I promise.”
“It can’t wait until Monday?”
“Not this time.”
I made sure not to mention Peter. If she knew I was going to be late because of him, things would turn bad in a hurry. As much as I hated lying to her, this time, I didn’t see any other way.
“I guess we can wait for you in the bar,” she said. “Maybe we can push our reservation back.”
I told her again that I was sorry.
“Just hurry,” she said.
“I’ll be there before you know it.”
I hung up and crossed the parking lot to my car. When I got in, I tossed my bag on the passenger seat and started the engine. I sat there for a moment, staring down at my hands. They were shaking, and I squeezed them into fists.
It didn’t help.
Peter wouldn’t tell me what this was about over the phone, but I knew him well enough to know it wasn’t going to be that important. Most likely, he probably needed to vent, to go over some paranoid thought or theory that had popped into his head and wouldn’t leave him alone.
Whatever it was, I was sure it could’ve waited.
The more I thought about Peter, the more the muscles in my shoulders tightened. There was a dull ache building in the center of my head, and I sat forward and stretched my neck, hoping to loosen the tension.
After a few deep breaths, I was ready to go.
I put the car in gear and pulled out into the street.
Peter’s studio was in the back of an old boathouse on the banks of the Platte River. He found the place during our sophomore year, and he’d been there ever since. The woman who owned the building rented most of it out for storage, and she let Peter have one of the back rooms for almost nothing.
There wasn’t much to the space: one large room where Peter worked, and a smaller rinse room with a hose hookup and a floor drain that he used for storage. The air inside the studio was always cold and damp and smelled like rotted wood, but a thin line of painted windows running along the top opened to the north, letting sunlight slant in, clean and warm.
Peter loved the place.
When I arrived, I turned up the dirt road and drove through an arch of cottonwood trees on the way to the boathouse. There was a grated parking area and a long slope leading down to the river where boaters could back their trucks right up to the water.
I parked at the top and got out.
The wind passing through the cottonwoods felt cool on my skin, and I could hear the slow roll of the river just beyond the boathouse. I stood for a moment, listening, while the evening light slipped into the gloam.
I heard the door to the boathouse open, and then Peter stepped out. He was carrying a hammer in one hand and several nails in the other.
He nodded to me and said, “I was starting to think you were blowing me off.”
“I should have.”
Peter knelt down and hammered one of the nails into the doorframe. “All this wood is warping,” he said. “I’ve got to find a place away from the water.”
“You’ll never leave here.”
“You’re probably right.” He checked the rest of the doorframe, then got up and went back inside.
I followed him.
It’d been a while since I’d been inside Peter’s studio, and I was amazed at how little had changed. There was a long, paint-stained wooden table at the far end of the room, and several paintings stacked along the walls, four or five deep in places, all gathering dust.
“Come on in,” Peter said. “I’m glad you came.”
“We need to talk about that. You can’t just call and expect me to come running over here like this.”
“Special circumstances.” He pointed to a mini-fridge in the corner. “Want a beer?”
“No, I want to know why I’m here. You said it was important.”
“That’s right, I did.” He took a beer from the fridge and opened it on the side of the wood table. “It is important, and it’s good, I think.”
“You think?”
Peter laughed. “Jesus, I don’t know anymore.”
I looked at my watch and frowned. “I think good news can keep a day, don’t you?”
I started for the door, but he stopped me.
“Hold on,” he said. “You need to hear this.”
“If you have something to tell me, then tell me. But make it quick.”
Peter pointed at me with the open end of his beer bottle. “OK, but you can’t freak out. I want you to listen and think about what I have to say first.”
I didn’t like the sound of this.
“Just promise me you won’t lose it,” he said. “I’m serious.”
“Fine.” I held up my hands. “Just tell me this good news so I can go.”
Peter took a drink, never taking his eyes off me. Then said, “We’re free and clear.”
“What are you talking about?”
“All the shit from the other night,” he said. “It’s over. We don’t have anything to worry about anymore.”
I shook my head.
Peter laughed. “Come on, Evan. The guy who ran off? The one whose arm you broke?”
I felt my breath catch in my throat.
I couldn’t speak.
“I was worried he’d go to the cops,” Pete said. “But that’s over now. I took care of it.”
“You took care of it?”
“That’s right.” Peter smiled and held his arms out to the sides, beaming, as if welcoming me home. “I found the son of a bitch.”
“WHAT did you do?”
Pete set the bottle on the table, absently picking at the label with his thumbnail, ignoring the question.
I asked him again, louder.
He looked up.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about him,” Peter said. “Just knowing he was out there and that he knew.”
He paused, and I waited for him to go on.
“I tried going back to the way things were before, but I couldn’t shake it. I started going downtown to the library. I’d sit across the street from where they all gather, and I’d just watch and wait for him to show.” Peter smiled to himself. “Then one day he did.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He wasn’t alone, so I didn’t get close, but I knew it was him.” Peter held up his arm. “He had a big cast all the way up to his elbow.”
I leaned back against the bench and rubbed the sides of my head with my fingertips. “What did you do?”
“What was I going to do? There were people everywhere.” He picked up the bottle, shook what was left around the bottom, and took a drink. “I went around the corner by the fountains where I could watch him, and I waited. Nobody saw me, don’t worry.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“You should’ve seen him out there harassing people as they walked by, drunk out of his head. I watched him for an hour before he staggered off.” Peter paused. “Then I followed him.”
“Why?”
“I had to see where he went.”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
Peter kept talking. “I thought he’d stop somewhere and pass out, but he walked all the way down to the train yard.” Pete lifted his beer, finished it, and set the bottle on the bench. “He ducked through a hole in the fence, and I went in after him.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was just following him. I didn’t have a plan. I barely knew how I got there.” Peter drifted. When he spoke again, his
voice was soft, barely a whisper. “He stopped between two boxcars to piss, and that’s when I saw the ballast rock by my feet, and I picked it up.”
I stared at him, couldn’t speak.
Peter held out his hand, palm up and cupped, as if holding an invisible softball. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, but I could tell he was seeing everything.
“I thought it would be easy, you know? Quick, like in the movies.” He lowered his hand and looked at me. “It wasn’t anything like the movies.”
“You killed him?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” he said. “He could’ve ruined everything for us.”
There was a metal stool under the table. I pulled it out and sat down, silent.
“Now you see why I had to talk to you?” Peter said. “I needed to let you know what happened.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“You’re mad at me? I just saved our asses.” He pointed at me. “Your ass, and you’re mad at me?”
“Saved me?” I shook my head. “You just killed someone in cold blood. You murdered someone.”
“So did you.”
I felt all the air rush out of my lungs, and it took me a while to find my voice. When I did, I said, “That was self-defense. If you hadn’t lost it, we could’ve gone to the police and none of this would’ve happened.” I stood, pointed at him. “You’re the reason I’m in this at all.”
“It was your idea.”
I waved him off, started for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to meet Veronica,” I said. “I’m late, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this.”
“Wait, have a drink with me.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Just one. We’ll talk this out and—”
I turned and swung, hard, connecting with Peter’s face, feeling his teeth cut into my knuckles. He didn’t fall, but his legs wobbled under him, and he grabbed the bench for support.
It took all I had to stop.
“I’m leaving,” I said. “There’s nothing to talk about with you. I’m done, do you understand?”
“I did the right thing,” he said. “There was a time when you would’ve agreed.”
“I never would’ve thought this was the right thing.”
Peter reached up and touched his lip where I’d hit him. He pulled his fingers away bloody. “You’ve changed.” He stared at me, and the faraway look was back in his eyes. “This job, Veronica. It’s not who you are.”
“It’s exactly who I am.” I pointed at him. “This is not who you are.”
“It’s always been who I am,” he said. “You of all people should know that.”
I turned and walked out of the studio and crossed the gravel lot to my car. Peter stood in the doorway watching me. When I got to my car, he said something, but it was lost beneath the sound of the river.
I looked back. “What?”
“I said, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
I stared at him standing in the doorway and listened to the rush of water passing just beyond the trees. This wasn’t the first time in our lives Peter had threatened me, but it was the first time I thought he meant it.
We stood there for a moment longer, neither of us saying a word, and then he turned and walked back into the studio.
I got in my car and drove away.
“Scotch, neat.”
The bartender nodded, walked away.
Veronica smiled at me, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “Are you OK?”
I told her I was fine.
Wendy and David stood next to us. They had a menu open, discussing the options.
“We’re next on the list,” Veronica said. “So this worked out perfectly. Did you get your work done?”
The bartender set my drink in front of me. I lifted it and downed it in two swallows, then held up my glass for another.
“Whoa.” David slapped my back, laughed. “Looks like someone wants to catch up.” He grinned at me, and his teeth looked pink and soft in the back bar light.
I didn’t even try to smile.
Veronica stared at me, didn’t speak.
I could feel the whiskey burn through me, and I tried my best to focus, but all I could think about was Peter and the man he’d left by the train.
This one was going to come out.
Someone was going to find the man, and this time it would make the news. One unsolved killing in the warehouse district was one thing; the police could chalk it up as a street fight, or maybe a drifter passing through town, but with two bodies, someone was going to ask questions.
I thought about going to the police. I could tell them what happened, try to explain why we did what we did, and hope for the best. If I found a good attorney—
I shook the thought away.
It was too late.
The only chance I had of keeping my life together was to pretend nothing had happened. Maybe Peter was right, maybe the guy was a loose end and now it would be over and we could both go back to our normal lives.
I tried to believe it.
I really did.
“YOU’RE not going back?” I asked. “Ever?”
Veronica touched my arm. “Leave her alone, Evan.”
I ignored her and stayed focused on Julia sitting across the table, moving her food around her plate with her fork. “What did Mom and Dad say when you told them?”
Julia looked up at me and smiled.
“You didn’t tell them?” I asked.
“Does it matter what they say?” Julia set her fork down and leaned back. “They’ll come around.”
I laughed. “You think so?”
“Honestly,” Julia said. “I don’t really care. Either they will or they won’t. It’s up to them.”
Veronica looked at me, chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Trying to figure out where you two came from,” she said. “Are you sure you’re related?”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“Oh, please.” Julia smiled. “This good-boy image of yours might fool some people, but I know better.” She leaned forward on the table and pointed at me. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Evan. I know you.”
“Is that true?” Veronica’s eyes were wide. She put a hand to her chest, feigning shock. “Am I marrying a bad boy? Oh my.”
“Don’t listen to her,” I said. “Julia is a compulsive liar, and she’s obviously been drinking.”
Julia’s eyes narrowed. “Ask him how he spent his high school graduation night.”
“She knows that story,” I said. “And that was a long time ago. Everyone should be allowed at least one big mistake when they’re young.”
“And your Vegas trip with those two hippie girls who had all those mushrooms?” She touched a finger to her lips. “What were their names again?”
“I don’t even remember.”
Julia laughed. “Bullshit, try again.”
I glanced at Veronica. She was watching me, her eyebrows raised. I thought I saw a hint of a smile.
“Freedom and Lunar,” I said.
“There it is,” Julia said. “How could I forget?” She reached over and put her hand on Veronica’s arm. “We were just so thankful he came home. He’d sent a postcard telling us he’d decided to follow some jam band around the country. He was going to make money selling T-shirts and homemade shell jewelry.”
Veronica looked at me, shook her head. “Oh, Evan.”
“Ancient history,” I said. “There were a lot of drugs involved. I can’t remember all the details.”
“I can,” Julia said. “If you want, I—”
“You can stop,” I said. “Besides, you weren’t exactly an angel growing up.”
Veronica laughed. “You two.” She finished her wine and stood up. “Anyone want coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Julia started to stand. “I’ll help with the dishes.”
“No, you won’t,” Veronica said. “You two go ahea
d and keep talking. It’s nice to have someone around to put him in his place.”
The phone in the kitchen rang.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
Veronica pointed to my chair. “Sit.”
I eased back down, silent.
Once Veronica was gone, Julia leaned forward, elbows on the table, and said, “I didn’t embarrass you, did I?”
I told her she didn’t.
“You sure?”
I nodded. “She doesn’t care about that stuff.”
“I didn’t think so, but you never know.”
The phone kept ringing. I was about to get up and answer it myself, but then it stopped. A minute later, Veronica came out of the kitchen with two cups of coffee.
“Who was on the phone?”
“Guess.”
I nodded.
Veronica set the coffee on the table, looked at Julia. “It was Peter. I saw his name on the caller ID.”
Julia turned to me. “What am I missing?”
I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“They got in a fight,” Veronica said. “They haven’t talked for weeks.”
“A fight about what?”
Veronica shrugged. “He won’t tell me.”
Julia looked back at me. “You’re not talking to Peter? How is that even possible?”
“Let it go.”
“You can’t just stop talking to him,” Julia said. “You two have been friends forever. Work it out.”
“Can we drop this, please?”
“I just don’t think you end a friendship over one fight.” Julia looked at Veronica. “Besides, he’s really cute, don’t you think?”
Veronica nodded. “But he’s weird.”
“Weird is sexy.”
“When you’re nineteen, maybe.”
“I had the biggest crush on him growing up.” Julia looked at me. “Do you remember?”
I told her I did.
“I was just a kid,” she said. “I used to hang around hoping he’d say something to me, but he never did. It was so sad.”
“And obvious.”
“Really?” Julia crinkled her nose. “I was going for mysterious.”
I laughed. “You missed the mark.”
Julia picked up her coffee cup and leaned back in the chair. “Is he still in your old place downtown?”