“Okay,” Veronica would say.
“Nice night,” Vasco would offer.
“If you say so,” Veronica would whisper back. “Listen, can’t you stay a few minutes? Help me.”
“Help you what,” he said.
“Plan,” Lowell thought he heard her say.
•
Veronica dropped two Alka-Seltzer tablets in a big plastic St. Louis Cardinals cup and handed them to Lowell, who was already on the bed fully dressed, including shoes. She pulled off the shoes.
Then Veronica went to the kitchen and Lowell heard her start a pot of coffee, even though Vasco was never known to drink the stuff. Lowell could picture her rubbing her eyes and running her fingers through her hair. “He owns a gun,” he heard her say. She spoke quietly, as if she knew Lowell was listening. “I’m afraid he’ll use it,” she said in a rushed whisper.
“On himself?”
“Who knows. It’s all random around here right now.”
“Is Misty here?“Lowell pictured Vasco on the front edge of the kitchen chair. Lowell, still drunk, was struggling to focus on the conversation.
“Yes. She’s in her room.”
Misty was a senior now but preferred her childhood bedroom to her dorm.
“Where’s the gun?”
“In our bedroom closet in a shoebox.”
“What kind?”
“Nike.”
He laughed. “What kind of gun?”
“Fuck if I know, Vasco—Jesus!” Veronica barked. She coughed. “Sorry. I don’t know what kind of motherfucking gun. It’s a pistol. Rifles don’t fit in shoeboxes.”
“Neither do a lot of pistols,” Vasco said. “Sorry. But do you know, is it loaded? Is the ammunition in the box with it?”
“I don’t know. He likes thinking it’s keeping us safe. I’ve never liked having it in the house.”
“Let’s wait until he’s asleep and you can bring me the box.”
Lowell was looking out the bedroom window, waiting for Vasco to leave. He knew the gun was on borrowed time.
Lowell heard Veronica stand up and pour herself more coffee. “Good. Thank you. I really want it out of here.” It was quiet in the kitchen for a moment. “He’s probably asleep now.”
Lowell hopped into bed, and Veronica padded her way to the bedroom in bare feet. Lowell pretended to sleep, feigning a couple snorts when he sensed Veronica in the doorway. He could smell her coffee, which helped keep him from actually falling asleep.
He heard her say, “He’s still half awake. We’ll have to give it a few minutes.” She set her coffee cup on the kitchen table. Lowell could smell it. “Sorry. You didn’t really intend to stay for hours, am I right?”
“It’s fine,” Vasco said. “I’d like to help you make a plan.”
Veronica’s voice faded as she headed back to the kitchen: “How’re the girls? Do you see them much?”
Vasco replied, “I assume they’re okay. I don’t like the thought of them in the Mattoon schools, but I’m not in charge anymore. Someday, maybe they’ll come stay with me again.”
“I thought things might have improved.”
“Takes time.”
Lowell imagined Vasco smiling and staring at her. In Lowell’s mind, Veronica stared back.
“Well, there’s been plenty of time, don’t you think?” Veronica took a big breath and dove into how the day went for her and Misty. “Anyway, it was shitty around here today. Misty’s furious with Lowell. He showed up drunk at her softball game this afternoon, and then he never came home this evening. Loud and stumbling around out at the park, she said. She wanted him to come and see her pitch. Embarrassed her in front of the whole college, is what she said. She came home angrier than I’ve ever seen her. Went in her room and slammed the door. Didn’t come out for dinner. Not that there was much of one.”
“Can’t he get himself through this?”
“We’ve been here before. Can’t dig himself out of it. We think it’s genetic. This was a problem his father had.”
They sat quiet under the fluorescents. Before long they were talking about other stuff. It was close to eleven-thirty when Veronica assumed Lowell was asleep. She would get the gun, and Vasco could take it away. She quietly walked down the hall again.
In a moment she was back, and what she said was garbled. “Oh my God, the gun’s not in there.”
Lowell heard Vasco say, “Maybe he hid it.”
“I doubt it.”
“Was the gun gone or the whole box?”
“Box and all.”
“We’ll find it,” he said. “Maybe you should check on Misty.”
“Better to leave her alone right now, I think.” Truth was, and Lowell knew this: Veronica didn’t want to barge in on Misty. She might be asleep, or she might be settling down at least.
“Well, I should go. My girlfriend’s at the house. I hate leaving you like this. We could get Misty and you could stay at my place,” he said. “Plenty of room.”
Lowell jealously listened to the two of them whisper in the kitchen.
“Give your girlfriend a call, why don’t you. Let her know what’s holding you up.”
“What about you coming over. We could make a plan in my kitchen and we wouldn’t even have to whisper.” He laughed.
“You’re the best guy I know,” Veronica said. “You’re our safe house. I’ve got your phone number.” They stood up, and Lowell imagined her hugging Vasco.
“And I’ve got yours,” he said. “I wish we’d have made a plan tonight. I don’t like thinking of the gun floating around somewhere.”
“Well,” Veronica said, “couldn’t we just throw a net over him and haul his ass off somewhere to dry out? Don’t you guys do that sometimes?”
“I’ll work on it. I’ll let you know.” He went out the door into the carport.
Lowell was at the window again, watching Vasco depart.
“Good night,” Vasco said to Veronica. “Please do check on Misty and make sure she’s okay. If she was that upset, no telling what’s going on in that bedroom.” He headed down the sidewalk and back toward Scott Street. Lowell watched him until he disappeared south over the railroad tracks and then he faded out of view because of trees, but he was headed in the direction of Forty Martyrs and home.
Lowell could relax now that Vasco was gone. He lay back in bed and tried to recall bits of the conversation that just occurred, but he couldn’t really keep anything straight. Instead, he listened to the faint sound of Veronica shuffling around the kitchen and, before he knew it, fell into a deep sleep. Veronica never did come to the bedroom that night.
•
She didn’t check on Misty. Instead she stretched out on the couch and tried to sleep. For a while she did. At 1:07 AM according to the TV cable box, there was a spectacular noise in the carport. It was the firing of a gun, repeatedly, ten shots, probably more. Heart pounding, Veronica rushed to the backdoor and looked out. Lights in the neighborhood deaver went on, porch lights lit up, and people hovered near their windows to see what was going on. Misty was in the carport with the gun. Gun powder was in the damp night air, the tires on the Corolla were all flat, and there were two dramatic holes in the windshield. On the hood of the car, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s was destroyed and booze dripped down the bullet-riddled fender. Oil and antifreeze dripped into the gravel.
“I found his stash under the driver’s seat,” Misty said.
“Honey,” her mother said. “Gently put the gun on the ground.”
Misty did that.
“Leave it there so you don’t hurt yourself,” Veronica said.
Middle of the night, she dialed Vasco to tell him she found the gun. Sirens rose up, and in moments Orson Morrell, Chief of Police, arrived. Orson, uniformed in impeccable black and silver, climbed out of the car and put on his policeman’s cap, and for the first time in probably ten years he might have drawn his revolver, but Veronica met him halfway on the front sidewalk. She walked him around to the carport. Misty was taken in on a c
harge of firing a weapon within the city limits and being stoned, and the police collected the gun from the gravel using rubber gloves, removed the clip, cleared it, and impounded it for evidence. Misty spent the rest of the night in jail, so far as Veronica knew. Orson insisted and Veronica went along with it. Lowell slept through it all, and Veronica as usual handled everything, then didn’t sleep until dawn. Lowell would find all this out the hard way, or the easy way depending on how you thought about it.
When Lowell was up in the morning, limping, hair wild, whiskery, bags under his eyes, Veronica let him discover their shot-up Corolla on his own. Even hours later, the carport still smelled like the O.K. Corral.
Lowell was very upset. “Where’d she learn to shoot?”
“She’s a woman now. Angry and resourceful. Besides it doesn’t take a fucking genius.”
“Well, she could have shot herself. The car’s totaled. There’s a bullet in the motor.”
Veronica stared at him. “The car was just a metaphor. You know that, right? You really pissed her off.”
Lowell, in his robe, fixed himself Cheerios and poured some seven-hour-old coffee. “How’d she even know we have a gun?”
“It’s a little house. Snoops around while we’re gone. Probably knows where the lubricant is, too.” She stood very close to him. “You better get right on this and apologize your ass off. This is the stuff of permanent damage.”
“Yeah,” Lowell said. He started down the hallway toward Misty’s room. He opened the door.
“She’s in the county jail,” Veronica called to him. “You may be the only person in the neighborhood who slept through it. Bail’s four hundred. We had about fifty people plus WCIA and the Tuscola Review in the front yard last night. P.S. She was high when they handcuffed her.”
Lowell was dizzy.
“So what’s going to happen?” Veronica asked, aiming her voice down the hall. “Think fast. We’re coming apart, in case you care.”
He stood in the hallway, staring into Misty’s room. There was a stuffed puppy, a giant stuffed panda, and the Nike shoebox with the nine-millimeter clips in it.
•
Showered, dressed, heading for the jail, walking east on Houghton, Lowell called Carol Brown.
“Good morning,” she said. “How’re you feeling?”
“Not real great,” he said.
She seemed to stretch as she spoke. “That’s what it looked like on TV.” Quiet a moment. “Anyway, I’m okay. Thanks for calling.”
“I’m going over to the jail to bail out Misty.”
“Yeah. I saw that. It was horrifying. What the hell happened?”
“Long story. You were not involved. Well. Just wanted to make sure things were holding together on your end. Today is dedicated to deaver squaring things away. I’ll call back later.”
“Okay, Lowell. Listen, be good to yourself. Nothing’s all anybody’s fault.”
“Right.” The call was just a bit off, disturbing his paranoia. Like Carol and Lowell were now on the same side of some secret line. He was relieved to end it. This was all his fault, and he damn well knew it.
When he arrived at the jail, he steeled himself and bounded up the front steps. The front part of the jail was one of the oldest houses in town. The jail was attached to the rear. The front foyer of the house was now an office. The sheriff’s wife was behind the desk. “She’s with Vasco,” the woman said to him before he’d said a word. “He bailed her out three hours ago.”
Lowell, out of breath, sat down in a chair.
“He said she had no business being in the jail because she’s almost a minor, so he coughed up the four hundred bucks and took her to his place. Said his girlfriend would be there to talk her down.”
Lowell stared at the woman, whose name was Marguerite McArthur. “Where’s Bud?” he asked.
“He had to go over to Oakland, so he’s out in the county somewhere. Want him to call you?”
“Don’t parents have to sign off if you’re releasing a minor into somebody else’s care?”
“Yeah, but you know Vasco. We all trust him, and we know you do, too. You totally trust him, right?”
“Do we really have to pay bail even if she’s not supposed to be in custody in the first place?”
“You’ll have to ask Bud or Orson about that. I don’t know the technicalities.”
“Ah.”
“Well, like I say, I don’t know the technicalities. But don’t think for a second, Dr. Wagner, that everybody doesn’t know what upset your daughter. It’s probably you who should have been in the clink. Right?”
As he was going out, Marguerite called after him, toasting him with orange juice and a bagel: “Here’s to holding it together, Professor.”
Vasco’s home was just two blocks east. It took him less than five minutes, and he was on the front porch. Gloria Steinem answered his knock. Gloria Steinem wasn’t her real name, but that’s what everyone called her. Like Vasco, she was a do-gooder—gentle, pretty, and, like a lot of librarians, had an independent authority in her bearing. “She’s feeling better now. I’ll go up and get her—just have a seat.”
“Where’s Vasco?”
“He’s gone over to Forty Martyrs to talk with Father Kelleher. I can have him call you. Aren’t I good enough for this?”
“I owe him some money.”
“Oh, no, I doubt that very much, but I’ll have him call you. Okay, I’ll be right down with Monique.” She turned on the stairs. “FYI, she insists on being called that.”
Misty came down the stairs in bare feet, jeans, and a black Grateful Dead t-shirt Lowell and Veronica had given her for her sixteenth birthday. Gloria Steinem remained upstairs, ostensibly to give father and daughter a little time together, but Lowell could hear her talking real low on the phone to Vasco.
“We won the game, five to two,” Misty said to him. She told him about the game and how she’d gotten a couple of hits. “Sorry you missed it.” She was looking at him level and serious. She was a woman now.
“Me, too,” he said. He put his arm around her. “Misty, I’m sorry. I caused this. I’m a giant hunk of pooh.”
“Very funny. Dad, it’s Monique,” she said. “It’s the new me.” She looked at him.
He smiled. “Monique will take some getting used to.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “You and Mom named me that.”
“True.” He laughed. “We like the name.”
She gave him a hug. “I’m sorry I ruined our car. Please don’t ever do that again. You embarrassed me in front of everybody. I’m so used to being proud of you, and you…I was so angry I went crazy.”
“Well.”
“And the police have your gun.”
“Okay. They can keep it.” He smiled at her. “It’s not registered anyway. It’ll be a relief to have it gone. I don’t want to be next, after the Corolla.”
“Stop it. I was crazy, I told you. Why isn’t the damn thing registered?”
“I bought it before guns were being registered. Never fired it. Never took it out of the box.”
“You bought it in a Nike shoebox? Weird. Well, you apparently loaded it, because it was damn sure loaded. My ears are still ringing.”
“Do you want to go home yet?”
“It was great that Mr. Whirly brought me here. Jail was awful. Gloria Steinem has been wonderful to me. We had donuts and coffee at five this morning.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Not really.”
“Where did you get the weed?”
“You know, it isn’t really characteristic of a person on marijuana to shoot up her father’s car. It’s a very peaceful drug.”
“You were upset.”
“Upset? I was out of my mind. Did you see the news on TV?”
“No. I never want to see it.”
“I didn’t even recognize myself. Anyway, I got the stuff from Buddy.” Ah. The boyfriend. “After the game he said I probably needed it more than he did. He thought it
would settle me down.”
“Is it all gone?”
“I think so.” She stared at the floor. “Well, of course, there’s more where it came from.”
“Was it your first time smoking dope?”
“No.”
In a mental ditch after yesterday’s drunk, he couldn’t get himself to lecture her on marijuana.
“You don’t even know me, do you?” she said, tears streaming down her face.
“I know you, honey,” Lowell said.
Vasco suddenly appeared in the room.
“Hey,” Lowell said. “What do I owe you for getting Misty out?”
“Monique,” she said.
“Nothing,” Vasco said. “Lowell, we’re going to get you out of town for a while. We, you and me, are taking a flight to St. Louis out of Champaign. Veronica knows about it. So does Misty.”
“Monique,” she said.
“Father Kelleher’s waiting outside in his car. Veronica packed a bag for you.”
Orson Morrell stepped into the room, shiny silver handcuffs hanging from his belt.
“How long would I be gone if I agree to this nutty idea?”
“Depends how you do,” Vasco said. “Four weeks max.”
“A month. That’s a long time.”
Vasco said, “Yeah. And we gotta go if we’re gonna make the plane.”
“Bye, Dad,” Misty offered.
“Anyway, honey, I’m sorry about yesterday.” Lowell couldn’t hide tears then. He stood up. “Look, fellas,” he said, wiping his eyes, “I’m fine, and I’m not going on this little trip you’ve cooked up.”
Vasco and Orson Morrell came up close to him, Lowell pushed them away, and in two shakes he was on the floor of Vasco’s front room being handcuffed. His face was smashed into the rug, and somebody’s knee was on his back. Misty was shouting, “Get off of him!” He could almost breathe. His heart was bam-bam-bamming, the mortification in front of his daughter. This was payback for the ballgame, no doubt about it. He had a rug-burn on his cheek. His arm was twisted in a way that arms aren’t meant to twist, a famous cop trick.
“Get the fuck off me,” he said. “Pardon my French, Monique.” And as he said it, he thought, I was wondering what the bottom looks like. This is the motherfucking bottom. He understood they were trying to help him, that this is what friendship looks like in the extreme, and he decided since there wasn’t a choice, he would lean in deaver and make a break for it at the first opportunity.
Forty Martyrs Page 16