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Lowell fell into a routine of running the trails in the morning when it was still cool. He didn’t eat breakfast, ran instead. He was fascinated by the silence. In the afternoons he walked with Vasco. The shaman. Former lit prof denied tenure. Former miner. Seer of the Virgin Mary. And so in some ways it was like having a holy man to retreat with. They walked on the bluff high above the Mississippi and wandered in the woods wherever the paths went. Shoulder to shoulder they walked and, mysteriously, when he remembered it later it wasn’t like they were silent but more like they were conversing. Lowell thought about how communication had become so dependent on talk. But somehow it was silence that was needed, silence that couldn’t be misunderstood. Lowell had used it as a technique in therapy sometimes. He’d come into the room, his client sitting across from him. He’d pull out the drawer on his desk, put his foot on it, keep the clipboard on his thigh. He’d stare at the client without a word. There was a period of discomfort, but finally the person sitting across from deaver him would find some forward momentum and begin to tell a story. Or she wouldn’t. She might sit there for the hour and stare back. But that was a different situation. Lowell was a counselor, getting paid to say a few things. Two people walking in silence at the White House south of St. Louis could arrive on the same wavelength as they walked, could relax and truly be together. Somehow their souls would converse, without any real talk.
In the cafeteria the tapes were played during the meals, Lowell realized, to muffle the sound of silverware and plates and cups tinking in the silence. Once Holbrook’s reading of Life on the Mississippi was finished, another recording played, of the great Trappist monk Thomas Merton giving a lecture on some excerpt from scripture. You never knew what you’d get at dinner time. Sometimes it was Gregorian chant, or prayers put to song; through the windows the music went, out across the bluff, and down into the gardens and into the forest along the walking paths. A failed Catholic, Lowell was hit hard by nostalgia, remembrance of his parents and mass at the old Forty Martyrs Catholic Church.
Rehab, it turned out, was a gift. Cavanaugh was genuinely good and seriously bright. Lowell learned from him. Never once did Lowell think of leaving or of wanting a drink. Of course, everything was different at the White House—the pressures were off, from family, work at the college, and the dark lure of Carol Brown. Reflecting on those events, that one night with Carol might have weighed the heaviest. No amount of running or silence could suppress it.
The one and only evening Lowell was with Carol and their clothes were piled next to the bed, a street light shined through a crack in the curtains, like a lightning flash darting across the bed, and Lowell stared at the damage the stabbing had done. A large deep purple scar in her right chest above the breast, and a terrible tear in her forearm where Wally pinned her arm to the paneling in the den. Lowell wanted to talk about it, but Carol didn’t care to, and so, both drunk, they made love, then made love again, and an hour later he guiltily dressed and, without saying much, went out her back door into the black of the damp, windy, wooded night. When he remembered back, her beauty was still with him, but it was the scars he recalled in detail, how vicious the attack was and how surprising that Carol had recovered. The story had sunk into the swamp of rumor and wonder among the people of the town even though most of them didn’t know much about it—they just had to talk—but Lowell had traced along the length of the scars with his fingers, and, for him, the attack became even more real than it already was. The miracle of her recovery became even more of a miracle. A miracle that Vasco presided over. A Vietnam vet, a combat medic, he stopped the bleeding right there on the sidewalk outside her house, and in moments an ambulance was there to transport her to the emergency room where surgeons waited. Lowell thought about Vasco. Vietnam was in him, in his hands, in the look in his eye. Vasco had seen plenty. Lowell saw that it was still there, the war, inside him.
All the nights Lowell spent there were quiet. The AA meetings revealed to him, once again, how lucky he was to have been saved from bottoming, really bottoming, as so many of these men had. That too was a miracle Vasco had presided over, in the best of spirits, with the best of intentions, tackling Lowell, handcuffing him, breaking down his resistance. Sometimes rehab was very emotional. Lowell cried in the AA meetings. The emotion came from the stories of the other men, how bad it could get, how far gone someone could be on drugs or alcohol—so far that the flesh on their faces began to change as their liver gave out and gradually they were out of control, then abusive, then mortifying for their loved ones. Their own children dodged them, their wives left with the kids and hid from them in safe houses. Family life was torn by strife and words were said that could never be taken back. Lowell thought of Wally, who went violent on his normal prescription. Lowell had seen him have Prozac episodes at the college, and when he heard what had happened to Carol, he knew that was what it was. Lowell had dropped the ball. He’d intended deaver to call John Landen, Wally’s physician, and report the strangeness in Wally’s behavior, and to suggest a different prescription. Landen would have acted immediately, and Wally wouldn’t be in prison and Carol wouldn’t have been cut to the quick with a chef’s knife.
But they were instructed in the daily morning homilies to let the past go, because nothing could be done about it. They learned to change the things they could change, let go of the things they couldn’t, and to have the wisdom to know the difference. Lowell was gaining the wisdom to know the difference, and he could feel his blood pressure go down. Perspective arrived. He wanted his marriage to Veronica. He wanted his relationship with his daughter. He even tried to pray alone in the deafening silence of the chapel sometimes. He prayed that things would be fine when he got home, and that Veronica would accept him back. Part of the assignment for returning was to do Retribution. To find those he’d hurt with his behavior and ask for forgiveness. The walk to and from the chapel, night or day, was peaceful. Lowell would walk at night, under a big moon, and yes, it was on the other side of the earth during the day. One night by the light of the moon Lowell spotted a small silver stone on the asphalt, and he picked it up, handled it, and put it in his pocket. On the walk back the wind blew hard against the bluffs, but the windswept clouds spread across the moon like thin fibers of cotton. Lowell encountered Cavanaugh striding across the yard in his Jesuit robes. A silent wave passed between them. In his room, he pulled out the stone and examined it. It didn’t seem of this earth, and he chose to think of it as a gift from someone somewhere else.
SCARS
Lowell’s sudden disappearance from the town threw his clients. Veronica put a message on his answering machine that said, “Hello. Thank you for calling our office. Dr. Wagner is out of town for a few weeks, due to a family emergency. Please watch his website for the announcement of his return, so you can resume your appointments. Have a good day.” Then she went on the website and posted a big sign on it that said, “Under (re) construction and (re) newal. Check here often for status updates.”
Veronica had to explain at some length to Monique the principle of anonymity in AA, because Lowell had lapsed in his long-time AA association, and Vasco Whirly had emailed Veronica that Lowell would have to go back to serious AA when he returned, whenever that might be. A few days after he was gone, she received the insurance money for the car Monique had destroyed on that bad night and bought a spanking new royal blue Toyota Camry. Their first new car ever. In that same frame of mind, she cleaned the house top to bottom and went on a search for a handyman to repaint the interior. Howie Packer, a client of Lowell’s and an old Marine from the Vietnam era, was suggested. He worked at the homeless shelter on a volunteer basis, helping out returning veterans from that war and all our subsequent wars. Because Howie was dirt poor, he didn’t have a phone, but one day Veronica saw him leaving the shelter. A stocky guy, weightlifter type, about Veronica’s height, with a stride like he deaver was still in uniform. He was square-jawed and battle-ready and wore his hair short under a Seattle
Mariners baseball cap. She decided not to approach him when she saw him because it seemed like he was on some kind of mission, but she would catch him the next day.
The next morning, she found out where he lived and parked down the street. At one point he came bursting out his screen door, whirled and locked up, then hurried along Buckner all the way to Main, then a left on Main and the business district was hoving into sight. Fifteen-minute walk at his speed. It was a small town. In her new blue car, Veronica hung back a ways, perhaps a block. On Main she pulled alongside him and accessed the nice new button to roll down the passenger window. She called to him, “Are you Mr. Packer?”
As he walked he looked over at her. He didn’t seem to get it that she was talking to him. For one thing, he was listening to music in his headphones. And maybe people didn’t talk to him much.
“Are you Howie Packer?” she said again.
He stopped, then walked over to her car, lifting off his headphones as he came. Stepping off the curb, he leaned down to look in at her. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Howard Packer.” He had a friendly smile.
“I heard that you sometimes do handy work.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ve done some research and people speak highly of you. By the way, I’m Lowell Wagner’s wife—Veronica.” She reached over and shook his hand. “Lowell’s out of town at this time, you might have heard, and I was wanting to get the interior of the house painted before he came back. Maybe some lively new colors, so it’s different and fresh. I don’t know exactly when he’ll be back, so it would probably mean starting right away. Could that happen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, why don’t you hop in, and we’ll go for a ride and talk about it. I’ll show you the place, and maybe you can give me an estimate.”
“Can we drop by the shelter so I can let them know what’s up?”
“Of course,” she said.
With a click the door was unlocked on the passenger side and Howie hopped in. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said. “It’s great that you caught me, because I was just thinking about this. I’m fresh out of cash.” He had broken a sweat on his fast walk. Now he wiped his face with his sleeve. “And I owe some people.”
“I know the feeling. There’s never enough money.” She smiled at him. “Do you mind taking a drive up to Champaign? There’s a great coffee shop up there. I haven’t been there in ages.” Though her new blue car was still unfamiliar in town, Veronica didn’t want to be seen with Howie while Lowell was away. She wouldn’t admit to herself why this was.
“Can we be back in three hours?”
“Oh sure,” she said.
“Sounds good.”
She parked diagonally in front of the shelter and Howie ran in. She watched him through the front window, talking to somebody. Then he was back out. He strapped in and they were off.
They slowly cruised by the Wagners’ house, an uncomplicated little bungalow that Veronica called home and loved. Howie commented that the place was not unlike his own rental, though the Wagners’ was in better condition. He estimated that painting it might run Veronica fifteen hundred dollars, which was considerably lower than she expected. The drive to Champaign on Route 45 was less than half an hour, but not as quick as on I-57. Problem was that the interstate skirted Champaign, requiring a drive across town to the Café Kopi. Veronica did know what she was up to. Entering on the south side by the old highway and progressing into the center of the town on the city streets got them there quicker. They found a parking spot within a block. It was about ten in the morning.
The Kopi was in an old storefront, facing east. Its floors were hardwood, and the ceiling was tin in the fashion of the old department stores of the Midwest. Nora, the owner, was tirelessly devoted to the place. It was set up so that customers ordered at the counter, and deaver then carried their order on a tray to a table. When they were leaving, customers were kindly asked to clear their own tables and put the dirty dishes in gray bins. Nora would gladly handle that task herself if a customer forgot. The piped-in music was vintage rock, and the interior was sophisticated and relaxing. Students from the University of Illinois frequented the place to get online, and attorneys and local office workers flowed in on the way to work or for a quick lunch. A large print of Hopper’s “Nighthawks” was framed and placed in the restroom alcove.
Once they were settled, Veronica asked him a few questions. “Where do you come from?”
“Idaho,” he replied. “Boise.”
That surprised her. “What brought you here?”
“I wanted to start school at the college, but I have to save some money. The GI Bill won’t handle it all. Old as I am, I can’t seem to give up hope about going to college.” He smiled.
“Majoring in what?” she asked.
His eyes stared down at the table. He was shy about this, the presumption of it. “I’m really not sure,” he said.
“You like the town then?”
“Oh yeah, I’m good here,” he said.
She was back to the task. “I’ll pay you fifteen hundred dollars,” she said, “and together we can go buy the paint—I’ll put it on a credit card, so the materials money doesn’t come out of your pay.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Really, that’s perfect.”
“What all do you do at the shelter?”
“I fix lunches and keep the place clean,” he said. “I’ve painted it a couple of times, and I fix stuff when things break down. The place is full of donated appliances, most of them on their last legs.”
They talked for a while, and Veronica found him interesting. He was resourceful and energetic, and his mood seemed very good. Of course he was hardcore Vietnam, in the old way she remembered from many years ago. He was in war before women were in war. His eyes were clear, and it was mysterious what his problem was, what he was seeing Lowell about, but PTSD had a way of hiding and she allowed that that could be what was holding him back. Something was holding him back, because otherwise he gave off the vibe of a stalwart citizen. Maybe he was just in a suspended moment of his life, a quiet pattern, pulling together money for school. He was older than most of the college faculty. He didn’t need college, but he felt he did, so he did.
“I was a mess when I got back,” he said. “I’d been shot while I was over there—I didn’t process it very well. I’m not the only one—there are a lot of walking wounded around.”
“Do you know Nick Bellinger?” she asked. “He’s a vet.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Howie said, “but he isn’t one of us. He was never in Vietnam. It’s a big lie he used to tell.”
“Oh my,” she said. “Seriously?”
“He came to a meeting of the vets out at Squeak’s, a project Dr. Wagner helped us pull together. Nick told his usual story and we asked him questions. This story he was telling is a cliché, right down to the number of guys he says got killed, thirty-nine, one survivor—Nick himself. He didn’t have the imagination to change it even a little. And he couldn’t recall his own combat unit. Most of us, we know the Vietnam combat units in the Army, where they fought. We know what units went into Cambodia. We know the war. We damn sure know our own combat unit. He broke into a big sweat when we started asking questions. We all knew what we were talking about, and clearly he didn’t.”
“Yikes,” she said. “Poor Nick.” Veronica never thought for a moment that all Nick’s war talk was untrue. This meant he was a good liar, and that meant he was probably lying about a lot of stuff.
“Poor Nick? Are you kidding? He’s lying about being in the war. He’s appropriating other guys’ war experiences and pain. It’s sick.”
“Sorry,” Veronica said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Seriously, this is one of the worst lies a man can tell. Anyway,” Howie said. He stared out the front window of the Café Kopi.
Hours passed in the Kopi as they sat and talked. Howie said he really didn’t need to be home in three hours, now that he had a job to do an
d a notion of what he’d be paid. As time passed, Veronica started to feel guilty and she wasn’t sure why. They talked about a lot of people in the town and how small a town it was. Nearly everyone who came up had seen Lowell at one point or another. He was their common bond, though Howie seemed to avoid talking about his shrink. Like everyone else in town, Veronica brought up what happened between Wally and Carol, but Howie didn’t seem all that interested. Howie seemed to go quiet at the mention of Carol Brown, but Veronica pressed him on it this time.
“Well,” Howie said. “There might be some bad news about Lowell and Carol Brown.”
Veronica braced herself. “What.”
“That the two of them got together.”
Veronica gulped, turned away in her chair. “How do you know that?”
“I’m sorry—I figured you knew.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“I watched them. Back before the building burned, up there in Dr. Wagner’s waiting area. It looked like something was going on.”
“So it’s just a suspicion?” she asked.
“I think it’s real,” he said to her.
Veronica got up and went into the ladies room. She stood at the sink and stared into the mirror. What was she doing here, out in Champaign? Did she really want Lowell to come home? She remained in there for fifteen minutes, splashed her face with water. Why would Howie tell her this? Didn’t he like her? Or was he just odd? She unlocked the door and returned to their table.
Late afternoon, they put their dishes in the gray bins and, high on black coffee, they found themselves walking hand in hand down the street to the Inman Hotel where they got a room on the top floor of the building. The elevator ride to the sixth floor would haunt her for years, how she was on the cusp of a decision, how in Howie’s mind that decision was probably already made. Once they were locked in the room, they held each other. She kissed him. He was different from Lowell—shorter for one thing, but also whiskered and solid in the neck and shoulders. His crewcut was bristly, whereas Lowell’s hair was always longish and soft. Howie was a different sort, a different man. He began to remove her clothes, lifting her top over her head, unhooking her bra. She pulled his shirt over his head and there they stood, skin to skin. While he was in the bathroom, she took off her jeans and slipped under the covers. When he came out, he slid off his boots and a small pistol fell out onto the floor.
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