The Last Good Day

by Peter Blauner

  “LYNN, CALL NINE-ONE-ONE!” Barry hollered.

  “I DID!” she screamed, standing in the doorway with the phone to her ear. “BUT I CAN’T FIND THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER! IT’S NOT UNDER THE SINK! SOMEBODY MOVED IT!”

  The dog started to follow the sound of her voice, thinking he was still welcome in the house.

  “NO, STIEGLITZ. BAD BOY! COME BACK HERE!” Barry clapped his hands, realizing the dog would set the living room on fire if he got inside. “Go find the ball! Where is it? Where is it?”

  The dog came tearing back at him in a blazing blue stink, squealing in pain with his tongue hanging out, ready for the nightly routine of jumping up and humping Barry’s leg.

  “No baby! No kiss!” He backpedaled again, waving his arms. “Daddy doesn’t want a kiss!”

  “Over here!” Hannah called from a far corner of the yard, trying to distract Stieglitz.

  “No, over here!” Clay cried out from closer to the pool.

  The fire had grown into a hairy red mammoth, goring the side of the garage and spewing black smoke at the moon.

  “WILL SOMEBODY HELP ME FIND THE GODDAMN HOSE AGAIN?” Barry shouted, feeling around for it in the dark even as the dog kept after him. “THE HOUSE IS GOING TO GO UP!”

  A lone siren sounded in the far distance, trying to rouse the local volunteer firemen from their family dinners. He wondered if the response would be just a bit slower once they realized whose place was burning.

  “LYNN, GET AWAY FROM THE HOUSE!” he called back toward the front door.

  The dog followed the sound of his voice to the apple tree. Now the two of them stood facing each other, with only a few feet between them, no longer master and pet. Blue-orange flakes peeled off the dog, and the stench of burning fur cut through the fog. Stieglitz gazed at Barry with glistening dark eyes, making anguished squeaks deep in his throat. A single fire engine wailed from the bottom of the hill, offering a remote promise of help on the way.

  “Easy there, boy.” Barry peeled off his bathrobe, as he saw the dog about to rear back on his hind legs. “SIT! SIT!”

  The dog just stared at him, baring its teeth, the high whimpering giving way to a vicious growl. Barry edged forward slowly, holding the robe out before him like a matador’s cape, not entirely certain his reflexes would be fast enough to smother the flames.

  “Just take it easy, baby. No one else is gonna hurt you.”

  But then the slap of chubby hands and a high boyish whistle cut him off.

  “Hey, Stieglitz, come here! Come on, boy. I’ll play with you.”

  Somehow Clay had pulled back a third of the pool covering and was standing on the far side of it.

  “Come for a swim, buddy. Here we go. The water’s fine.”

  With its remaining instinct, the dog turned and scampered toward the sound of unconditional love. And with one last leap, he dove straight into the pool where Clay had coaxed him to go swimming over Lynn’s protests at least twice this past summer. There was a loud splash, a rain of drops, a hoarse despairing cry from Clay, and then a crisp sizzle of scorched hair and chlorine.

  58

  “IT’S ALL A PACK of lies, ya know.”

  “What is?”

  “All of it. Every last goddamn word. The Old Testament. The New Testament. The Code of Hammurabi. The Magna Carta. Book of Mormon. The Geneva Convention. The Boy Scout Handbook. Das Kapital. Mein Kampf. The I Ching. Even the so-called Bill of Rights. They’re all just meant to keep you in your place.”

  Mike was spending the night at his father’s trailer in the RV park just past the abandoned map factory at the far end of River Road. The place smelled like an old rabbit cage because Dad never threw anything out. Everywhere you looked there were yellowing copies of Reader’s Digest, rusty door hinges, insecticides made by companies that no longer existed, and jars of peanut butter three years past the expiration date. Just to add to the clutter effect, Dad always left his radio and television on at the same time, a call-in show playing softly in the background while he sat in his easy chair watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? On his lap were two library books about his latest obsession: debunking all major world religions.

  It took Mike awhile to understand that the purpose of all the noise was to fill a gap. After thirty-one years working on a cell block, Dad could no longer handle quiet. It unnerved him, made him snappish and prone to trivial arguments. He needed constant distraction of some kind to stay calm.

  “They say Moses wrote the Five Books of Moses, but how can that be?” The old man fidgeted before the old Zenith twelve-inch with one of its antennae wrapped in tinfoil. “Those books say he was the humblest man who ever walked the face of the earth. But how could the humblest man have written that about himself? See what I’m getting at?”

  “I didn’t know you were supposed to take it literally.” Mike stretched on the foldout couch, trying to see the set from behind his father’s chair.

  “And don’t go thinking the Christians are any better. Nobody even mentions the Crucifixion until Mark.”

  “You want a beer?” Mike sighed.

  “There was a cross in every church your mother and I ever set foot in. If it’s just a symbol then the hell with it.” Dad looked over the back of his chair. “Bottles are on the side door in the refrigerator. Get me a glass, will you?”

  Mike lurched to his feet, queasy and bloated. The combination of Vicodin and amoxicillin was turning his stomach into a free-fire zone. Full price he had to pay at CVS Pharmacy, now that his Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association card wouldn’t go through the system anymore. A dollar a pill, and it still felt like he had poison pumping through his bloodstream. The stiffness went all the way from his thumb into his shoulder, and every few hours the fever would start to burn him up and then abruptly fade.

  He was riding the rims, ready to come apart at the joints. Especially after this afternoon. Marie home from work early and meeting him at the front door with the address of the new Y in White Plains. Telling him she’d already packed his bags and stuffed them into the truck because it was better for the kids not to see him stomping around with bulging suitcases. Sure, he could’ve put up a fight and insisted on staying, but what would that prove? That she’d been right all along. That he only took care of himself. He’d show her. At least there was no screaming and yelling. She gave him as much time as he wanted to explain things to the kids. Cheryl and Mike Jr. listened with polite blank expressions, as if there was a TV program they’d rather watch. But Timmy grabbed his good hand and wouldn’t let go.

  But who’s going to take care of us?

  What are you talking about? He’d rested his chin on top of the boy’s head. Your mommy’s not going anywhere.

  But she’s not a police officer.

  Of course, neither was he anymore. He was nothing. A disgrace. His heart had been ripped out. His entire life had been a waste. No, worse than a failure. He’d brought shame to a family that had been here since before the Civil War. Every decent thing he’d ever done would be forgotten, and mistakes he didn’t make would forever be linked with his name. It didn’t matter that Larry Quinn had called last night and said that Harold and Paco were looking seriously at the husband again. Or that Harold himself had left a few messages. He’d still be called a criminal for the rest of his days. His children would deny him; his grandchildren would never hear of him.

  But for some crazy reason, what his mind kept going back to was Sandi Lanier. He’d told himself that he’d never really fallen for her; she didn’t matter, she was just a substitute, a way to get back at Lynn after all these years. She’d hooked him, though, that fucking Sandi. Especially now that she was gone and he knew what was inside her. He remembered the way she’d looked up at him that day she thought Jeff had come home early. How she’d sat bolt upright and looked around, like a deer hearing a hunter’s footsteps in the woods. After a few seconds, realizing it was nothing, she’d sunk down and curled against him again. You’ll watch over me, won’t you? She
might as well have taken a pin and stuck it right through his heart, because he’d never be rid of those words. Thinking about them now comforted him a little. At least once he’d made somebody feel safe.

  “Would you like a Lifeline?” asked a voice from the television.

  He pulled open the refrigerator and stood there, enduring the rotten-egg smell. A milk bottle stamped August 31 quivered under the lightbulb, and something moved inside a cloudy Tupperware container. He grabbed two Buds off the side shelf and shut the door.

  “You know why they tell you all those lies?” his father was saying. “To make you think you’ll get your just reward in the next life. It’s a steaming hot pile of donkey diarrhea. That’s all it is.”

  “I’m gonna look for a clean glass.”

  He set the bottles down on the counter and peeked into his father’s bedroom next to the kitchen, a boxy little compartment noticeably hotter than the rest of the trailer.

  “I used to say the prison chaplain helped me put down more riots than my baton,” his father gassed on. “Made all those shitbirds think their suffering amounted to something. I tried to tell your mother the same thing, but she never listened. Every Sunday she had you boys dressed like little Kennedys and sitting in the front row of Saint Stephen’s, like God himself was looking down.”

  Mike edged into the bedroom, seeing clothes on the floor, a picture of Mom and Johnny on the night table, and the framed citation from the Owenoke warden on the wall, thanking Dad for his thirty-one years of service at the prison.

  “She was a handful, your mother,” Dad kept going. “I never met the likes of her before. Always bowing and scraping to the people she worked for up the hill, but Lord she was a tyrant at home. Sometimes I’m sorry I didn’t do more to protect you boys from her temper, but you know I was so tired …”

  “It’s all right, Pops. What’s done is done.”

  Mike dropped to his knees to look under the bed, seeing massive dust balls, a squeezed-out Fleet enema bottle, and old bound-up volumes of Highlights magazine that Dad tried to peddle off to the grandchildren.

  “She always said I’d go to hell for blasphemy. But now look!” Dad snorted. “Five years in the grave she is, and I’m still here.”

  Mike moved aside a back copy of Juggs and reached for the orange-and-white box of ammo he’d noticed under the bed the last time he’d stopped by here.

  “I used to tell her that she was kidding herself. The only justice you’ll ever get is in this life. And then you better grab it with both hands before somebody else pays for it …”

  Mike lifted the shells carefully, trying not to rattle them in his shaky hands and draw his father’s attention. He set them down on top of the dresser and pulled open the underwear drawer, knowing that old habits die hard. His father’s Smith & Wesson combat masterpiece was wrapped up in a pair of Jockey-style BVDs. The Colt .45 automatic was in the sock drawer.

  “Hey, who played Alfalfa?” Dad shouted from the next room.

  “What?”

  “They’re asking who played Alfalfa on The Little Rascals.” Dad raised his voice. “What the hell are you doing in my bedroom anyway?”

  “Looking for my socks. I thought they might’ve got mixed in with yours.”

  “Shit. You couldn’t fit your foot inside one of mine. I never understood how my son wore size thirteen when I’ve got these skinny little feet. I tell you, I gave the milkman a good look sometimes.”

  Mike came back into the living room and slipped the guns and bullets into the black gym bag while the old man was looking at the set.

  “Where’s that beer?” Dad craned his wizened neck and looked over the back of his chair.

  “Keep your shirt on. They’re not gonna dry up.”

  With two small steps he was over at the kitchen counter, opening the Budweisers.

  “Just come here a minute, will you? Forget about the glasses. I wanna tell you something.”

  “What?”

  He came and stood beside his father’s chair, smoke wafting from the necks of both bottles. The chill stung his bad thumb and went right up his arm into the center of his chest.

  “Look … I know I wasn’t always at my best around you guys …” The old man’s hands pawed the air, trying to conjure a vocabulary he didn’t have. “Shit.”

  His eyes looked out from a sunken face. It was like staring into a barren valley. All the old fury was spent, but nothing had grown in its place. Thirty-one years working in a prison. Forty with a woman who thought she married beneath her station. Three and a half knowing that his favorite son had died before him.

  “Look,” the old man said, deciding to make it easy on himself, “all I want to tell you is, don’t let the bastards get you down.”

  “That’s it?” Mike stared at him. “Those are the great words of wisdom?”

  “Just remember, we built this town.” Dad took the beer, not daring to meet his eye again. “We can take it apart if we have to.”

  “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, Pops.”

  Mike took a long pull and watched the contestant on the screen, a milk-fed dentist from Des Moines with his eyes fixed on some ever-receding point.

  “Jackie Cooper, Robert Blake, George McFarland, or Carl Switzer?” asked the host.

  “Carl Switzer,” said Mike. “He’s the one who played Alfalfa.”

  “How do you know that?” his father asked.

  “Got himself shot to death in a fight over a fifty-dollar dog. Thing like that sticks in your mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because most of the others just killed themselves. It’s a curse on the whole line.”

  His father touched his arm. “You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid yourself, are you?”

  Mike felt himself pass through three different temperature zones, thinking how to answer. “Come on, Pops. Gimme a break.”

  He glanced over at the bag on the couch, wondering if his father had left any rounds in the magazine of the .45.

  “I’m just saying it doesn’t matter what you do in the next life. There’s only this one that counts.”

  Mike drank half his beer in one gulp, feeling it sluice down into his innards and loosen the stuck gears, the pain ebbing away for just a moment.

  “In the end, all you have is your good name.”

  “Amen to that.” He clicked his half-empty bottle against his father’s in a toast and drank up.

  59

  AS HE TURNED on the shower the next morning, Jeffrey thought that he caught an astringent whiff of gasoline on his hands.

  It couldn’t be, of course. He’d scrubbed with a Brillo pad and Neutrogena soap for about twenty minutes in the shower last night. His arms and legs had pink scaly patches from all the vigorous swabbing he’d been doing lately. Already he was having second thoughts about that number on the Schulman’s garage last night. In the clear light of day, it seemed a stupid risk. But for Chrissakes, Lynn was asking for it. How do you like that bitch? First she tells the police about seeing the bloodstain on the wall and helps them get a warrant to search his house. Then he catches her talking to Dylan about the problems Mommy and Daddy were having. Okay, he was willing to send her the Instant Message and leave it at that. But then she had to give them those old pictures with the wood protector. She’s lucky he just decided to throw that Corona bottle with a flaming oil rag at her garage. Plenty of other places he could’ve put it instead.

  He looked down at the hot water pelting between his toes and puddling around the drain. Just nerves, he told himself. Everything washes away if you scrub long and hard enough. Bloodstains. Bad debts. A bad marriage. Even a bad name. His whole life had been about learning to go with the flow. Dealing with the moment as it comes up. Being who you need to be. Avoiding dead ends. Maximizing potential. Your dad gets shifted to a new army base every three years? You get a new set of friends. Just don’t get that close to any of them. Get thrown out of school for cheating? Go to another one and find a girl to write your
papers for you. Your software business in California tanks in the eighties, and your first wife turns from a beach babe into a demanding sow? Dump her on her flabby ass, change your name from Lane to Lanier, and start over on the Net in the nineties. With the way money was flying around a few years ago, it wasn’t that hard to raise the first five million with a good idea and a cool line of patter. If one venture capital firm didn’t like your history, there was always another one that might forgive a stumble or two. Hey, this was America. People started over all the time.

  Still, that Detective Ortiz had him looking over his shoulder, scrubbing a little harder. He’d thought things were going to be different with Sandi. The house, the kids, the whole nine yards. It was for keeps this time. Play the Man long enough, you become the Man. Only he hadn’t realized how hard it was going to be. The merchandise sitting in the warehouse, refusing to move. The cursor blinking, signaling the world’s indifference to Denny McLain’s glove and Joe Pepitone’s bat. The investors getting pissed off. His father-in-law calling at nine at night, wanting to know when he was going to start to see some decent returns. And worst of all, Sandi grinding away at him every day, with her free-floating anxieties, her constant nagging, her needling dissatisfactions. You aren’t spending enough time with the kids. I can’t stand this house. I’m tired. Nothing was ever good enough for her. Especially compared to her friends’ lives. Somebody else always had a bigger house, a more successful husband, a better figure. Their kids were going to get into better schools. They were going to Antigua for Christmas break, not just Fort Lauderdale. We’re not putting enough away for the future. God, it was almost as if she was trying to make his head explode with all this striving to keep up. He’d awake some mornings and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes before the alarm went off, wondering how he was going to make it through the day. And gradually he’d found himself wishing that he could just chuck the whole deal and start over one more time.