His last fight happened in the summer after college. That his then girlfriend called it a fight was barely accurate, actually, but his memory had logged it as one because of her. He and the guy went hands-on for seconds, really. The guy grabbed him by the shirt; he shoved the guy off. That was it.
The morning after, she was still mad. “You’re too old for this.”
“He grabbed me,” Tony said in disbelief.
“You were yelling at him.”
“If you think that was yelling—”
“You could see that he was a drunk asshole.”
“He called that guy a fag.”
“That guy didn’t hear him.”
“So?”
“You don’t get to police everyone. What if you’d been arrested for fighting? What if he went crazy and hurt you, or me? You don’t think about what you’re risking, you just jump into some bullshit hero mode for people who aren’t asking for your help. I don’t like being out with you, wondering who might set you off. You’re not like that when you don’t drink.”
“You don’t think I would have said something to him if I’d heard that sober?”
“I don’t think you would have gotten into a shoving match over it, no.”
For the fight and other reasons, they broke up. She sent a goodbye email to his mother, apparently. Tony never got to read it, but in it she talked about his drinking. He knew because his mom brought it up the next time he saw her.
“You know your dad has quite a quick fuse when he drinks.”
“Are you seriously comparing me to him?”
“No, honey. I know you’re not just going around picking fights. Maybe you even have good reasons. But reasoning can get slippery when alcohol’s involved.”
Tony had spent his life watching his dad get worked up over something a sober person might not have noticed, let alone attached meaning to. Glances Ron perceived as disrespectful or unfaithful. With each popped tab came the potential for jealousy, anger, distrust.
Tony softened his voice. “I’m not an asshole like he is, Ma.”
“I know you aren’t.” They were sitting at her kitchen table, eating the lasagna she’d made for his visit. “Sober, you’re just about the best man I’ve ever known. Sometimes I can’t believe you turned out like you did. Especially with your brother, my God you’re good to him. I stayed with your dad as long as I did because I was worried that a divorce would ruin your life. I guess I was drinking the ‘broken home’ Kool-Aid. If I could have seen what an amazing man you’d become, I wouldn’t have worried. I would have put you in the car and left years earlier. You are nothing like him.” She paused. “You’re nothing like him sober. But the drinking . . . nothing goes from zero to sixty. It’s a slide. When I met your dad he was charming. Such a good dancer. He wasn’t perfect, always a bit of a hothead, but he was different. There was a slide. And I think alcohol made it steeper and faster.”
That month, Tony went to see a drug and alcohol counselor.
“Do you think you have a drinking problem?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “But is it possible to be pre-drinking problem?”
“Like you’re standing at the precipice of a problem, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Absolutely.” She said nothing. She wanted more from him.
“I think that’s what my mom thinks. She’s not, like, a dramatic mom. She doesn’t helicopter. Or guilt trip. And she’s seen it, serious alcoholism in my dad. So the fact that she thinks—” The words were too painful. He exhaled sharply, and the urge to cry passed. “The last thing I ever wanted was to turn out like him. She doesn’t deserve that. And my little brother—he already looks up to me. And I want that, it makes me feel like I matter. I don’t want him to think our dad is normal. I want to be that for him. And if I go over the ledge . . .”
She nodded. “So step back.”
He decided to give up drinking, just for the rest of the summer, to see what he thought. The counselor gave him a list of local AA meetings, but he never went. She also told him to find a hobby that let him process what he was feeling. He started running that summer. It was his time to burn off nervous energy and useless thoughts. The summer ended, but he kept running. His runs got longer, and his highs got stronger.
He stopped a few months into dating Julia. He fell out of the habit so quickly—suddenly he hadn’t gone out in a month. It wasn’t that running had been bad; wasn’t bad now. The stiffness in his ankles was loosening, and his strides grew longer. He remembered this, the kinks working out as his legs warmed up.
Maybe he stopped needing the run. By then he was used to not drinking. Happy with the person he was becoming. And who needs a runner’s high when you’ve got a new girlfriend? He got higher off Julia than anything else. She made him feel blissed out and self-assured. Calm and strong. Not that he became flawless. He had, in fact, punched through a window in anger ten days ago. Broke his pinkie finger. It felt like a cosmic insult: Think you’re a tough guy, big man, punching glass? Now your wittle finger is broken.
He passed a neighbor’s house. They had a barn and an old grain silo that was falling to pieces, big hunks of metal missing from the sides and top. His lungs began to ache in the cold air. It was November now, thank God. October had been miserable all the way through. As much as he’d wanted Nick under his roof, the long visit had exhausted him, and then Walker’s letter swept him off his feet. Tony had been doing so well for so long. Fifteen years—was that right? It was. Fifteen years since he’d made all those changes. And they had worked, he thought.
Once, on a run, he passed a fallen tree and it reminded him of a fable his mom used to read him as a kid, about an oak tree and a reed. The tree, with its thick trunk, looked indisputably stronger than the wispy reed on the riverbank, but when a fierce windstorm came, the tree was ripped out by the roots and fell, while the reed survived because it could bend. And suddenly he got it—the point his mom had been making. His father thought he was as tough as they came, and he wanted everyone to know it, but in truth he was the weakest person Tony knew. Ron Hall couldn’t function in the morning without a fresh can of Bud. He broke things to scare his wife. He hit his sons. He was pathetic. Tony’s mother, by comparison, was outwardly soft and gentle, but her inner strength was abundant. That day on the run, he’d gotten it. He’d learned the lesson. And he’d gone on for fifteen more years working at himself. Working at learning to bend.
But in spite of it all, the anger could rush him so easily. He’d read Walker’s letter, read those sickening words, and he was blinded. Felt certain that hitting something, anything, would relieve the excruciating pain he was feeling. His father’s method of coping was always going to be there, offering itself up to him. “Don’t be a little pussy; be a man. Hit back. Don’t take that.” Fifteen years and it was still there. And what had it given him? A broken pinkie, damaged pride, and worst of all, two terrified children. Seb had wailed first, then Chloe. The shame he felt in that moment plagued him.
And yet, in spite of his shame, he had stayed angry. After all, Walker was the cause of his behavior. Tony was even a bit angry with Julia, for her shock. Yes, what he’d done was not rational. It was frightening. Violent. Fine, it was all the things he normally wasn’t. But could she not forgive him, after reading what he had? Not only had this man assaulted Nick, but now he had reached them in their homes. Shoved his lies in their faces. Made up a bullshit story and twisted it all back around on Nick.
Tony ran faster, his feet beating the pavement. The ache in his lungs thickened, and his mouth began to water. Fuck Raymond Walker. Fuck him and his lies and his smug, self-important letter about truth and justice. Fuck him for doing this to Nick.
Nick.
A stitch began to stab the underside of his ribs, and he slowed to a walk, panting and grasping for the pain in his side. Nick told him to let it go. Nick was
okay. He hadn’t believed it at first; it didn’t seem possible that Nick cared so little about the letter. But he said he was fine, and it seemed to be true. He answered Tony’s texts. Sent Tony snaps on Snapchat. There was a bored selfie sent from class one day. Another day, a picture of the TV, his roommate off to the side watching with him. His life was going on like it had before. If anything, the only thing that seemed to be bothering him was Tony’s constant checking on him.
Tony wasn’t making anything better; he was only making himself sick. He turned and began to walk home. He hadn’t reached the bridge, but he didn’t care.
27
Julia Hall, 2015
In mid-November, when Charlie Lee’s name lit up her phone screen, Julia hurried to her office to take the call away from Tony.
Charlie rattled through the list of her former clients’ names, pausing long enough for Julia to record the address or phone number he’d confirmed. When they’d finished, Charlie lowered his voice playfully.
“So, the side project.” The way he said it smacked of secrecy. And to be fair, it was a secret. She didn’t want anyone knowing that she’d hired Charlie to look into Raymond Walker, to see if he could drum up anything to help secure a conviction. Not even Tony.
Charlie only told her two things that she hadn’t already heard from either Nick or the detective.
The first was that Raymond Walker wasn’t the one who rented the room at the motel where he took Nick. The man working the front desk told Charlie he booked the room to a woman who’d paid cash. Motel 4 didn’t make patrons put down a credit card, so long as they paid for the room and had a driver’s license staff could photocopy. Charlie hadn’t located the woman who paid for Walker’s room, but based on search results that came up for her name, she was probably transient. Walker had probably offered her cash to book the room. “Happens more often than you’d think,” Charlie said.
Julia didn’t know if the police knew Walker had paid someone to book the room under a different name, but she suspected they did. They must have checked at the desk when they were still trying to track him down. It was hard to think of an innocent reason to do something like that. The term malice aforethought floated up in her mind. It was a term lawyers didn’t use much in Maine but she’d learned it in law school. It stood for something like internal recognition of the evil you would later perpetrate. Booking a room under someone else’s name before you bring someone there . . . that sounded like Walker had planned to do this to someone. It was strange to think that Detective Rice knew about something like that without sharing it with them—or at least with Nick. But that was a silly way to see it. It wasn’t his job to tell them things.
The second surprise Charlie delivered was that Raymond Walker had no criminal or PFA history come up in his database searches.
“Not what I expected,” Charlie said, “but I do think we’re dealing with a crime people are less apt to report. I’m gonna call around out of state, since he travels for work.”
“There’s no way I’ve paid you enough for any more of your time.”
“Don’t mention it, seriously. It’s been slow. And I’m interested. No one’s as clean as this guy seems right now.” He chuckled. “Except maybe you.”
28
Nick Hall, 2015
From his bedroom window, Nick saw Tony pull up on the street.
Nick paused at his mirror one last time. Light blue button-down, Tony’s tan trousers, scuffed brown dress shoes. He looked respectable and adult, albeit boring. All three seemed right for testifying at a grand jury.
Outside, it felt cold enough for snow, but the sky was clear.
Nick climbed into Tony’s SUV. “Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem,” Tony said. “I wanted to bring you.”
“I didn’t give you much notice.”
Tony looked away and began to drive. “It’s fine. I know I’ve been a bit much.”
“No,” Nick said.
That was a lie—Tony had been a bit much. After Walker sent the letter to the paper, Tony started texting him almost daily.
How you holding up, Just checking in
just checking, checking, it was exhausting. So Nick had dealt with Tony as he had done before: Nick gave him quick, perfunctory answers.
Fine; Good; Can’t talk, busy; In class.
Basically, he would say enough to reassure his brother, and he’d withhold enough to stifle conversation. It had worked, and eventually, Tony backed off. Now Nick felt guilty. Tony just wanted him to be okay. Was that so bad?
Back when he was tired of Tony’s concern, he told Tony he wanted to go to the grand jury himself. Tony asked a few times, but Nick said no, and Tony gave up. Then that morning, Nick woke up gasping for air, clawing at his throat, and it had taken seconds, long seconds, for him to realize he was safe in his own bed. For the sound of laughter to fade from his head. He was safe. Safe, but alone. He texted Tony. Asked if he wanted to come after all.
When they got to the courthouse, Nick used the bathroom for the fourth time that morning. His stomach was killing him. He’d eaten some toast, but even that wasn’t sitting well.
A marshal told them where to go, on the second floor of the courthouse. Linda came out into the hall and met Tony. Told them they could sit on the bench against the wall. Said it would be a while as she ducked back into the room down the hall.
They sat together talking about television, Nick’s classes, a funny story about his niece, anything but why they were there. Tony was trying to distract him, and right now, Nick didn’t mind.
The toast and acid in Nick’s stomach were rioting, and the noise was getting obvious. A couple of times, he noticed Tony’s eyes flick toward his stomach and back up again.
Finally, Tony said, “It sounds like a barrel of snakes in there.”
Nick burst into laughter, shocked and delighted at the absurdity of it.
Tony laughed, too, clearly pleased with himself. “You must have been shitting your brains out earlier.”
“I’m nervous,” Nick groaned, still smiling. And he was nervous, but the laughter was settling his stomach.
The door opened. It was Linda again. “Ready?”
Suddenly, Nick felt Tony’s hand close over his own. Three squeezes: I love you, like when Nick was little. Nick returned four squeezes. He did love Tony. He might have loved him more than any other person. His brother was a pain in the ass, but he took care of Nick like no one else did.
When he stepped into the room, first he noticed the people. Sherie, the advocate person for the case, had called him last week to talk about the grand jury, and she said there would probably be twenty-three of them. Twenty-three grand jurors who would vote on whether Linda had enough evidence to charge Ray with raping Nick. Twenty-three strangers who would decide what they thought of Nick.
There was wood paneling and Maine and American flags in the corner, but the room was a little unlike a courtroom, too. There was no judge, no seating for an audience. He sat down in a little booth, like he’d seen in court movies before. Linda stood to the side of him, and he faced the grand jurors.
Linda started off easy. His name, his age, where he lived, what he was studying.
“Now I have some questions about October second of this year.”
The thud-thud-thud in Nick’s chest quickened. He nodded.
Why did he go out? Who went with him? Did Chris show up? Was he dating Chris? What did he and Elle do at the bar? How many drinks did he have? How quickly? But over how much time? So he wasn’t drunk, right? When did he notice the man who introduced himself as Josh?
“When I went up to the bar. Elle wanted another round.”
“What time was that?”
He couldn’t remember. Was that bad? Sweat broke out on his hairline. “I don’t remember.”
“Would you remember if you looked at your state
ment?”
Nick nodded.
Linda pulled a stapled set of pages from a folder on the table beside her. She folded over a page and underlined something with a pencil from the table. She handed it to Nick.
It was a police report. It read DETECTIVE JOHN RICE at the top. A sentence was underlined in pencil: Nick told me it was sometime after 10:30 and before 11:00 that he met the man he would later identify as RAYMOND WALKER at Jimmy’s Pub.
“Do you remember now?” Linda asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “It was sometime after ten thirty and before eleven.”
“Okay. Was he at the bar when you went up?”
Nick’s eyes drifted to the carpet. He pictured it. “No,” he said. “He sat down beside me when I was already there.”
“Who initiated the conversation?”
He didn’t have to think about that one. “He did,” Nick said quickly. Nick hadn’t wanted to think back on that night—he wanted to let the memory of it wither and die in the dark. But Ray had written that letter, and he’d made it sound like Nick had been pursuing him. Nick couldn’t help remembering, comparing his version to Walker’s. That part just wasn’t true.
Linda’s questions went on. What name did the man give Nick? What did they talk about? How long did they talk? How many drinks did Nick have? How many did “Josh” have? Who invited whom to leave?
The Damage Page 13