Grayson's Knife

by Russell H Aborn

  Where do dreams come from, and why do they make no sense? What would a shrink say? The young cop is the sparrow? Or is Bird the sparrow? Is he the bird and God is sick of him being a fuck up and cast him down because he is through with him? He’d heard the term soul-sick somewhere and he knew this was it.

  The young cop, Hawthorne, is dead. A young man lost his life due to the greed and stupidity of others, and one of the others is Michael Grayson.

  In the bathroom, despite misgivings, he looks in the mirror. He’d never borne a morning after sickness like this one, and it is not from drinking. It surprises him that he didn’t drive his head through the mirror; it is an idea that holds great appeal.

  He quick-showers, and finds himself brushing his teeth without any paste, a simple slip of the mind that fills him with dread.

  He calls his brother’s place and gets no answer.

  He calls Donny: No answer.

  Grayson calls the house.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “What’s the matter?” Grayson says.

  “Your mother’s not so good. She’s semi-conscious. We have an ambulance coming to take her to the Carney. Are you coming over? The girls are here.”

  Grayson is sure he isn’t tough enough to deal with this. The idea alone, of watching her being loaded into an ambulance, feels like being crushed.

  “Is Hugh there?”

  “No one has seen either of you,” his father says.

  “I’ll find him,” Grayson says. “We’ll meet you at the hospital.”

  “Did you go to a meeting?”

  Grayson says, “I’ll talk to you later,” and hung up.

  He didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction of answering him in the affirmative. He didn’t want The Old Man to know he’d won, but at the same time, Grayson was filled with self-loathing for denying his father the comfort of what he’d see as some good news. He could have given his father a good moment during a bad time. Why had he not?

  Downstairs, Grayson fires up the GTO and begins to pull out from the curb, but held back, to let an old Bonneville go by. The Bonneville rolls to a stop so the nose of the GTO is pointing at the Bonny’s broadside. The driver has him pinned down. He expects tommy guns to appear in the windows and open fire on him. Instead he sees John M. piloting the boxy monster and smiling at him.

  The power window on the passenger side of John M.’s car zizzes down and Grayson rolls his own open.

  “Did you get all better?” John M. says. “That would be a new record.”

  Grayson beyond frustrated, could only ask himself, man, what does this old buzzard want?

  “I can’t see it, not for me,” Grayson says. “I said I’d give it a try and I did.”

  “You don’t think fifteen minutes is a fair trial, do you? Give it a chance.”

  Grayson doesn’t want a confrontation; he wants to get away from all of it.

  “Yeah, well, maybe later. Right now, there’s a lot going on,” Grayson says.

  “I know,” John M. says. “None of it good. That’s why you should….”

  Grayson’s brain locks out the rest of what John M is saying. It’s fixed on what this guy means by, ‘none of it good.’ What does he know? How does he know it? Grayson zones out, for what seems like a long time, but is only a few seconds, the time it takes to sharply draw, and then release, a breath. As he exhales, he knows sure as shooting that if he asks John M. what he’s talking about, and if this nosy bastard says he was talking about the baby, or the cop, or Bird, Grayson will surely launch himself through the two car windows and choke him into eternal silence. But Grayson doesn’t ask, because he is afraid of the answer, and right now he’d rather be tortured by anxiety than driven to action.

  “Hey, John, let me ask you a question, for a change. What’s in this for you, huh? Why are you following me around, and don’t hand me the AA bullshit, okay.”

  John M. doesn’t say anything for a few moments, while he runs the palm of his hand around the circumference of the steering wheel, and focuses on it as if the answer could be read on the wheel. “Because I believe a life is worth fighting for. And if I didn’t, mine wouldn’t be. It’s how God made us.”

  Grayson clenches his teeth to hold in a snarl. Who does this fucker think he is?

  “Your father told me last night that your mother is slipping,” John M. says. “I’m sure it’s doing a number on you, and I can see how you’d think you’re too busy for a meeting, but if you don’t want to drink, the program can help you through a tough time.”

  “I know,” he says. “But I can’t right now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Grayson stops at Catherine’s house a little after nine that morning. He has to drive by her door on his way to Hugh’s place, and more than anything he needs to see her, to hear her voice. He needs to talk to his best friend even if she hates him. He’d settle for pity now: at least she would look at him, and if she saw him, he’d feel better. He rings the doorbell and searches for a smile in his shit pile, standing on the stoop by himself. The stupe on the stoop.

  Grayson wonders how much real sleep he’d gotten in the last 72 hours.

  Mrs. Chrisolm answers the bell. Smiling, she says, “She’s not home, sweetheart.”

  Her smile fades, and the light in her eyes dims as she shifts to worry.

  She says, “Oh, honey. Is it your mother? Come in.”

  He came in, stood in the entry way, and she folds her arms. He tells her a little of what is on his mind.

  “Oh, my. Oh, God help us.” She reaches out and gives him a hug. “I’m sure it has to hurt awfully bad. How is your father doing? And the girls?”

  “Okay. I thought I’d tell Catherine. She likes my mother.”

  “She went to New York yesterday. She’ll be back in a few days.”

  He feels his knees start to buckle. New York? New York is where pregnant Boston girls go for abortions.

  “Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” Mrs. Chrisolm says. “She didn’t go with a boy. She just went to visit Maura. She and John Webster are expecting again.”

  Grayson nods, certain Catherine would never tell her mother if she was going off to have an abortion. She likely went to New York because they had more experience in these matters, in New York, and she wouldn’t see anyone she might know. Did girls still have to go to New York? Wasn’t it legal everywhere now?

  “Yeah, I heard. That’s great,” Grayson says. He is lightheaded.

  “Oh, did Catherine tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” He wants to turn and run.

  Mrs. Chrisolm chuckles. “That Maura and John Webster are having another baby.”

  “No. You told me, the other day,” Grayson says. He is sure that if he dared look down, he’d see he’s standing at the edge of a bottomless pit.

  “Oh, that’s right. God loves the babies, but none of them get the parents they deserve.”

  Grayson is taken aback. “You mean Maura and John Webster?”

  “No, not specifically. I mean everyone ever born in the whole world. We’re never as good as our kids deserve, we all fall so short, so short, but, when we try really hard, we can be good enough.”

  Grayson’s disorientation has peaked and is resolving; feeling is seeping back into his body, and the fog fuddling his mind is being exhausted, as if by a vented fan.

  “Do you want to tell her about your mother when she gets back? Or do you want me to tell her?”

  “No. You tell her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Grayson arrives at the Carney Hospital about thirty minutes later. He pulls into the parking garage and drives up to the roof level. As he waits for the elevator to reach the third level, he looks out to Dorchester Ave and in the distance sees a shitty white van pull into a space in front of the bench at the bus stop. It looks like the van that was parked outside the Dark Lords shack, the van that was on the bridge and also went by Donny’s house. Are they follow
ing him? If it’s the same van, he’s going down and deliver himself, then see if they like what they get. In his present state of mind, he is certain he can make short work of two slobs from the Dark Lords. Unless they have guns. He kept looking over there, and as he watches, an elderly black woman toting a big handbag got out and sat down on the bench and the van drove away. The elevator came and Grayson got on.

  Mary Grayson is still in the ER, medicated and semi-conscious, waiting to be admitted and moved to a room upstairs. The three sisters, Emma, Jen and Susan are there along with The Old Man, Aunt Betty, and Donny.

  “Where’s Hugh,” his father says.

  “Not home,” Grayson says.

  A middle-aged doctor is approaching the Old Man, and everyone else converges on him at the same time.

  The doctor nods at the assemblage. “We’re going to keep her a few days in order to stabilize her. She’s on her way upstairs right now. She’s dehydrated, so we have her on intravenous. We gave her something for pain, and something to help her sleep, which she needs. I suggest you leave her alone for now. She needs to rest. When she’s ready to be released, I’ll write her a stronger pain medication and put ‘as needed’ in the instructions. Just keep her comfortable. There’s no need to worry about her becoming addicted.”

  “What about her doctor?” Emma says. “Did you talk to him?”

  “I did. He’ll get in touch this afternoon to discuss things, Mr. Grayson.”

  “About her prognosis?” The Old Man says.

  The doctor didn’t say anything as he writes on her chart. He looks up. “Yes, among other things. It’s time to make some difficult decisions. You may want to have the family available to discuss what you think is best for her in the days to come. But, in the meantime, we’ll keep her nourished and pain free.”

  “We have an older brother in Florida,” Aunt Betty says, “who wants to spend some time with her. But he’s not in such great shape himself. He recently fell face first down a whole flight of marble stairs. What should I tell him?”

  “If he wants to spend time with her, I’d suggest he get up here as soon as he is able. She is very ill. I’m sorry I don’t have better news.”

  The doctor nods once more, turns and walks away.

  Aunt Betty gathers the three girls into a group hug, and the four of them put their teary faces in and touched foreheads. Donny looks down at The Old Man and puts his arm across The Old Man’s shoulders. Grayson looks away.

  Together they leave the ER and walk over to the parking garage where they pack themselves into the elevator car.

  Aunt Betty says, “Daniel, I’ll make dinner for everyone at your house tonight. I’ll expect you all to be there. You girls bring your families.” She looks at Donny. “You, too, will be there. Make sure you help your cousins today. Do you hear me?”

  “Yup, yup,” Donny says, nodding with vigor. “Yup.”

  They watch as the girls drive off in Emma’s station wagon with Daniel and Betty in the back seat with Jen. Grayson has never seen his father in the back seat of a car, in fact, has never seen him riding anywhere in any vehicle. He is always behind the wheel of whatever vehicle he was in. Seeing him in the back like that gives Grayson a chill.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  At noon Grayson is leaning against the trunk of his car in The Tradewinds parking lot when Hugh pulls in. Donny is just behind him in his station wagon. Grayson’s eyes well up with relief. While they park, he sweeps a forearm across his eyes.

  Hugh comes over and says, “What’s that look.”

  “What look? Where have you been? Ma’s in the hospital.”

  “I know. I talked to Dad.”

  “You told us you had some wild cards going in,” Grayson says. “You better tell us everything. Now.”

  “I don’t think I know everything yet,” Hugh says.

  “What’s going on with Stan Belzer?” Grayson asks.

  “I don’t know,” Hugh says. “I still haven’t met him. He wants to meet me to discuss where we go from here. In any case, I want to tell him we’re cool, no need to worry about us shooting our mouths off, right? What’s going on with Charlie? He called about 5AM talking a mile a minute, saying he was already on his way to somewhere far, far away and he’ll never talk to anyone about anything in his whole life. Then he just hung up.”

  “He had a rough night,” Grayson says. He tells Hugh about Charlie and the Bridge.

  “That’s unbelievable,” Hugh says. “It’s good he took off. He was our weakest link. Now it’s Amy I’m most worried about. I haven’t seen her since I gave her the bag, to give to Stan.”

  Donny says, “She has the money? I thought they were just getting the drugs?”

  “That equation went out the window when Bird did. She hasn’t answered her door since and her car is here. I don’t know if the bikers took her or what.”

  “She could be dead or hurt,” Grayson says. “Would they come here?”

  “I don’t know,” Hugh says. “I’ll try again, and if she doesn’t answer, we’ll jimmy the door and search her place.”

  Upstairs, Hugh knocks a couple of times on Amy ‘s door and gets no answer. He pulls a credit card from his wallet and slips the lock on the door, and Grayson and Donny follow him inside.

  They find Amy on the couch. She is giving a foot massage to a man who is sitting sideways with his bare feet in her lap.

  She says, “I was going to answer the door. You’re awfully impatient.” She continues to knead the man’s feet.

  “Gentlemen,” the man says. His leathery face has the burnt red coloring of one who spends a lot of time outside in the wind. “We were just talking about you.”

  The man is not introduced. He looks like the senior elf in Satan’s Workshop. He’s got a vivid black Van Dyke beard that tapers to a sharp point well below his chin. His brow seems harvested from a Neanderthal and transplanted. His eyes, which look like he’d stolen them off a snow man, are shiny, cold and dead as coal.

  “Oh, yeah?” Hugh says.

  “I’m deciding your fate,” the man says.

  “You’re Stan, I presume,” Hugh says.

  The man gives a perfunctory salute.

  “Indeed, I am. I’d stand up, but my dogs are killing me.” He looks at Amy with affection. “Don’t stop, dear.” He speaks in a rich, relaxed voice, sounding like Mel Torme on The Old Man’s records.

  The way he is positioned on the couch makes it difficult to estimate his size. He has long hair combed back, parted in the middle and falling over his stick out ears.

  He is attended by a foul odor, like burning hair. It is a smell that makes you want to run and hide.

  “Give me another minute here,” Stan says. He flashes a quick, toothy smile. “It’s in your best interests that my feet don’t hurt when I decide your fate. Pain is a thing that loves to be shared. So, be patient.” He looks over at Grayson, and rocks back slightly, as if in mild surprise.

  “You look like you have something to say,” he says.

  “I do,” Grayson says. “Fuck you. Mister President. Decide our fate, my ass.”

  “I like this kid,” Stan says, holding his gaze on Grayson. “He’s got spunk. I’m going to call you Spunky from now on, kid. Okay Spunky?”

  “Sure, and I’ll call you Stinky,” Grayson says.

  “Stop it, man,” Donny says. “Let’s hear him out.”

  Grayson forgot Donny is with them. He’d gone silent and motionless on arrival. Grayson looks at his cousin, afraid that Donny has gone still in hopes of not catching the eye of a predator nonpareil. But happily, he sees that Donny has his eyes locked on Amy, and is ignoring Stan. This is the first time Donny has seen her, and, by golly, she is fun to look at. Amy is Manson-Girl crazy, but she has a figure which could stop traffic at the Indianapolis 500. She is dressed in a conservative blue suit and white blouse, and looks like the woman in the shaving cream commercial who shakes her hair out and drapes herself on the guy who is scraping off the product, and,
it’s implicit, going to get his ashes hauled. Moreover, Donny doesn’t even require a woman be good looking, necessarily; if his glands are firing, he would kick Popeye’s ass to woo Olive Oyl.

  Stan squints his eyes and runs his fingers through his chin hair as if considering the proposed name Stinky. “I don’t think so.” He shakes his head, definite now. “In fact, if you call me Stinky once, I’ll drill a hole in the top of your head and suck your brains out through a straw. Which shouldn’t take long.”

  “That’s grisly, but amusingly grisly,” Grayson says.

  “Get to it, Stan,” Hugh says.

  “Here’s the deal, chaps,” Stan says. “I’ve wondered how to square things with you in regard to your murder of my best buddy. My first inclination was to kill you in a way that my friends would remember fondly. You know, your heads mounted on our clubhouse wall, stirring fond memories of good, old what’s his name.”

  “Bird,” Donny says.

  “That, you have to admit, is kind of ironic,” Stan says. “I gave him that name when we were kids. Spooky.” Stan looks at Amy. “That big one is a good-looking specimen. Do you want to tag team him? He’s certainly big enough for two.” Amy smiles, as Stan turns to look at Donny. “Do you dig guys, too? I could show you some jailhouse lovin’, you’d never go back to girls.”

  Startled, Donny glares at Stan. “You’re pretty funny, man.”

  “Okay,” Hugh says. “Look. We’re sorry Bird got hurt, but it was an accident.”

  “Hurt? He’s way past hurt. He’s dead, isn’t he?” Stan withdraws his feet from Amy ‘s lap and stands up. He is lanky, of average height, but with very long arms. He wears a bright white long sleeve T-shirt under an unbuttoned, black leather vest. He’s tied the ensemble together with a tan, fabric Boy Scout belt, with a gold buckle and dungarees with a sharp crease in the legs. Around his neck, he has a taut gold chain, which has some kind of medallion attached, but the medallion itself is hidden by the T-shirt.