The Damage

by Caitlin Wahrer

  About hurting himself, or something else? Tony said nothing. Waited for him to speak.

  “Everyone knows it’s me.”

  Tony was confused. What did he mean? “That you’re the victim? In the case?”

  Nick nodded. Fresh tears began to run down his cheeks.

  “How?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Who knows?”

  “Everyone on campus.”

  “Fuck,” Tony hissed.

  “Yup,” Nick said. He dragged his hands down his face and dropped them in his lap.

  “What do I do? Fuck, Nick. What do I do for you?”

  Nick stared at the floor in front of them. Tony reached for Nick’s hand. Squeezed it three times.

  Nick sighed. “Can you get me a tissue?”

  “Okay. Can I get Julia, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  Maybe an hour later, Tony, Nick, and Julia rejoined Marjorie and Elle, who were with the kids in the living room. Julia had told them upstairs that the rest were going home, to give them privacy. Tony had heard Jeannie earlier. She’d left angry. Julia had probably told her to stay downstairs, to not overwhelm Nick.

  “Sorry about that,” Nick said awkwardly to Julia’s mom.

  Marjorie shook her head and pulled Nick in for a hug. She whispered something inaudible to him.

  Elle was on the couch, flanked by the kids, who were each just about sitting on her lap. She had turned to face the adults, her silhouette over The Jungle Book playing on the screen behind her. She said nothing, and Nick didn’t look at her at all.

  Upstairs, Julia had approached the situation with the calmness of an EMT. She knelt down low, below Nick’s eyeline, and said that she needed him to call a crisis hotline with her. Nick had resisted at first, explaining that he wasn’t suicidal, that he wasn’t actually cutting himself, but Julia had worn away at him, and he eventually agreed to call. The woman at the hotline scheduled an emergency counseling session for Nick for the next morning, as his own counselor was on vacation until Monday.

  Nick had declined their offer to stay over, and Tony was ashamed at the relief he felt when Nick said to Elle, “I’m ready when you are.”

  Tony stood in the window and watched the pair get into an unfamiliar car and pull away.

  “Dad, you said the f-word,” Chloe said behind him.

  Tony turned. Seb’s eyes were glued to the movie, but Chloe’s were on him.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “I got scared.”

  “Scared how?”

  A bone-tired fatigue washed over him. He didn’t know what to say to her. Julia could take this one.

  “Just scared,” he said. “I need to go clean up, we can talk about it later.”

  He left her to find Julia and Marjorie in the kitchen, washing and drying dishes.

  “You don’t need to do that,” he said to Julia’s mom. “We can do all this.”

  “Nonsense,” Marjorie said. “I stayed to help.”

  Julia stepped toward him. “Are you all right, honey?”

  “Honestly, I think I could go to sleep.”

  “Oh, do,” she said. “Really. We’ve got this. That was a lot.”

  “I’ll just help for a minute,” he said in spite of himself.

  Tony walked across the kitchen and into the dining room, where the plates and silverware had all been cleared; cloth napkins were rumpled across the table and in chairs, and glasses of wine and water stood all about.

  He stacked the water glasses into a tower, then started to grip two wineglasses with one hand. One of them—Julia’s—was a third full. It would spill if he took it with another glass. Obscured by the French doors and the wall, Tony glanced around the room and drained the glass down his throat.

  * * *

  The room was dark.

  “How long can we do this?” Tony said in a sleep-laden voice.

  Julia was getting into bed next to him, and he felt her pause. “What?”

  He felt himself wake up more, his eyes registering his bedside table, the clock, the lamp in the dark. “Hmm?”

  “You said something.”

  “Sorry, was dreaming.” He tried to hold on to his sleep, but it was slipping away from him. “What time is it?”

  “After eleven. My mom finally left,” she said with a laugh. “I tried to wake you earlier, but you were out.”

  He’d thudded upstairs and collapsed into bed sometime around four that afternoon. He couldn’t even remember falling asleep.

  Julia snuggled into the nape of his neck and kissed his ear. “You doing okay?”

  No talk, not now. I’m so tired.

  “I wanna keep sleeping,” he said as he rolled away. “Love you.”

  She rubbed a hand over the back of his head. “Love you, too.”

  He tried to sink away, gently, not forcing the sleep to come.

  Nick’s scabbed, picked arm flashed in his mind.

  Shh, go away.

  Nick’s tear-soaked face on his neck.

  Stop. He tried to breathe deeply. The air he inhaled whistled down his throat, disturbing something like the taste of alcohol. He’d drank a glass of wine before he came to bed. Or was that a dream? Had he really done that?

  This was all taking too long. Someone had to do something. A year of this? A year of articles and comments and letters and Facebook and everyone that mattered to Nick, everyone who saw him every day, knowing it’s him? His body, his story, his reputation? A year of Nick trying to survive that? No. He couldn’t. Something had to be done.

  Nick was getting help in the morning. It would be fine.

  But Nick had been getting help, and still he was digging his own skin off.

  Soon Tony was pounding with adrenaline. He couldn’t keep trying.

  Slowly, he pushed his feet from the bed and found the floor. He slid from under the covers to stand. Just walk, like you’re going out to the bathroom. Tony strode purposefully from the room, and Julia said nothing.

  Down the stairs he crept, across the hall into the living room. It wasn’t there. He circled the downstairs until he found it in the kitchen—his phone. He leaned against the counter and pulled up the browser. He would finish what he started a night ago. Town of Salisbury’s Assessor’s Office. Online Database. Search by Owner. Walker. And there it was. Raymond Walker’s address.

  32

  Julia Hall, 2015

  Julia woke up to Chloe’s face inches from her own.

  “Oh, jeez!”

  “Seb’s in the cookies and he hasn’t had breakfast yet.” Chloe frowned at her bitterly.

  Julia wiped the grit from her eyes. “What time is it?” She turned and saw that Tony was already out of bed. According to her phone, it was 8:23. How had she slept so late?

  “Honey,” she said. “We don’t tattle. Only when someone’s being unsafe.”

  “But you said it’s not healthy to eat dessert before breakfast.” Chloe raised her eyebrows and looked at Julia like they were standing on opposite sides of a courtroom.

  Damn that clever child. She hadn’t been awake long enough to enunciate a better definition of tattling. It was like SCOTUS on pornography: you just know it when you see it.

  “Why are you blessing me with this information instead of Dad?”

  “Dad’s gone,” Chloe said.

  Another run, Julia thought, finally. Maybe he’d sweat off the emotional hangover he no doubt woke up with. Just remembering the day before made a fresh lump rise in Julia’s throat. Poor Nick.

  “Come snuggle me,” she said.

  Chloe climbed into bed, and Julia wrapped her arms around her, buried her face in her hair.

  Chloe’s voi
ce was muffled. “Can I have a cookie, too, then?”

  Julia squeezed Chloe tighter. “Yeah, let’s go have cookies for breakfast.”

  They climbed from bed, and Julia followed Chloe from the room.

  Down in the kitchen, her eyes skimmed over Tony’s sneakers at their usual station, sitting in the corner by the door to the mudroom. Had she paused to register what she was seeing, that Tony was not on a run, it might have all been different.

  33

  Tony Hall, 2015

  Tony had been sitting on the street in front of Raymond Walker’s house for hours, waiting to see what would happen. At some point, he would make up his mind, or Walker would force a decision by emerging from the house.

  Tony had checked the website again to be sure, but there was no question this was it. It was a gray bungalow on a quiet street in Salisbury, a way from Nick’s apartment, across town from the bar where they met. The house looked wrong, not the way Tony would have pictured it. There were flowers out front: tall purple ones; white globes of petals on thin stems; bursts of orange and yellow. The driveway was empty and the door was down on the detached garage.

  Tony knew what he wanted to say: his wife was a lawyer, and if Walker and his mother didn’t stop posting stuff about Nick online, they’d sue him for invasion of privacy or libel. Julia had already said they probably couldn’t sue him, but Walker didn’t need to know that. Tony would stand tall, look him in the eye, and tell him he was done bullying Nick. Tell him he was lucky court was taking care of the situation instead of Tony.

  But now that he was there, something was stopping him from getting out of the car. As soon as he knocked on the door to that house, there was no going back. As the morning sun climbed his windshield, the thought grew stronger that it was pointless to threaten a lawsuit. Walker was shameless. He took pleasure in hurting others—Tony would only be showing Walker that it was working. And what would happen if Tony pissed him off?

  Then, the side door opened. Raymond Walker, clear as day, stepped from the doorway. Raymond Walker. The man who’d made Nick hurt so badly he’d gone on hurting himself. Walker turned to shut the door. Turned back to the driveway. Started to walk to the garage. Wait, he was leaving.

  Tony fumbled his door open and stepped into the street. “Hey!” he yelled.

  At the top of the driveway, the garage door was climbing upward; Walker was standing in front of the garage, waiting for the door to open. He turned toward Tony’s voice.

  “Raymond Walker,” Tony said as he crossed the street. His voice was strong, commanding.

  Raymond Walker tilted his head incrementally. “Yes?”

  Tony was in the driveway now. His legs carried him faster than he could think. He was approaching Walker, who took a step back toward the truck in the garage.

  “Hey—hey—hey,” Walker yelped.

  Tony grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him against the bed of the truck.

  “You stay the fuck away from Nick Hall you piece of shit.” His voice had gone shaky.

  Walker raised his hands, squeezed his eyes shut. “Done,” he said. “Done.”

  Spittle had flown from Tony’s mouth, and it glistened on Walker’s forehead. He could see the pores on his nose, he was so close to him.

  Tony released the lapels of Walker’s jacket and stepped back from him. He turned and strode down the driveway. What did he do? What did he just do?

  He reached the street as Walker spoke.

  “Hey, for future reference, are you the brother or the boyfriend?”

  Walker was goading him; Tony needed to get in the car and leave. But his feet stopped. He swayed in the street. He didn’t turn. Just walk forward. Just get in the car.

  “He talked about his big brother.” Walker’s voice was edged with a strained cheeriness. “You certainly look big.”

  Just take a step forward and the other will follow. Get in the car.

  “Maybe when all this blows over—”

  “Open your mouth again and I will kill you.” Tony turned to Walker. Gone was his strong voice or even the shaky one. Hot tears had sprung up as he spoke, and his voice went to a whisper. “I will kill you. You leave him alone.”

  Walker grinned, ugly and satisfied.

  Tony turned back to the car, strode to it, climbed in, slammed the door, started it, pulled away, as Walker stood and watched.

  34

  John Rice, 2015

  Detective, call for you.”

  Rice had barely made it through the unit door when Officer Thompson called out to him.

  “Take a message.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Thompson said. He was new, painfully young, and a little clueless about station etiquette. Rice had been called in at four that morning for a burglary and aggravated assault and was just getting to the station; he didn’t need to be jumped the second he walked in the door.

  Rice continued across the bullpen, toward the breakroom, slow enough to hear Thompson say, “Sorry, Mr. Walker, I’ll need to take a message for when th—”

  “Hey!” Rice spun and waved his free hand at Thompson, coffee sloshing up onto the lid of his Styrofoam cup. “I’ll take it,” he mouthed.

  “Oh,” Thompson said as he watched Rice. “Why, there he is. I’ll put you through to his line.”

  Rice set his coffee down on his desk at the edge of the bullpen and elected to press Speaker so he could stand. The unit was relatively quiet, and his back was aching—he’d forgotten to pop an Aleve before he left the house that morning.

  “Detective Rice here.”

  “Good afternoon, Detective. So glad I was able to catch you.” Raymond Walker’s shit-weasel voice almost sounded sarcastic, he was trying so hard to sound charming.

  Rice matched his tone. “What can I do for you, Ray?”

  “I just wanted to make a report that Nick Hall’s brother just came to my house and threatened to kill me.”

  Rice picked up the receiver. “He did, did he?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand this must be hard for him, not knowing his baby brother is lying about the whole encounter.”

  Rice bit his tongue; Ray could easily be recording the call. In this day and age, never say anything on the phone you wouldn’t want played back in court.

  Ray continued. “I really do empathize with the family. But I can’t have someone coming to my house, putting his hands on me, throwing me around.”

  Rice grimaced; was Tony Hall that stupid?

  “I have to draw the line somewhere, don’t I? Compassion must have its limits.”

  How much would Rice mind hearing “compassion my ass” played back in court? Instead, he said, “You sure this was Nick Hall’s brother?”

  “Oh, yes, so many of the same features. And I’m sure you know he drives a gray Ford Explorer.”

  Shit. What was Tony thinking? Tampering with a witness was a felony, not to mention assault and terrorizing charges. This would only complicate things. Julia would be a wreck. Rice felt almost dizzy, and he shook his head as though to scatter the thoughts.

  “All right, Ray. Can you come in to give your statement?”

  “Oh, I’m not pressing charges.”

  What?

  Ray continued when Rice didn’t speak. “I will if anything like this happens again, but for today I just wanted to make the report. He frightened me, Detective. He said he’d kill me. But I’m a reasonable man. I know he’s grieving. And he doesn’t have reason to believe me over his little brother . . . yet.”

  What was his game? Rice pulled a pen from his breast pocket and found a clean sheet on his desk. Wrote: 11-27-15 Call from RW. TH threatened to kill RW. RW not pressing, just reporting, knows he’s grieving. Rice paused then added quotation marks around just reporting.

  “Well, I’ll leave the choice with you, to press charges or not.”

&nb
sp; “And I’m choosing not.”

  “What time this happen?”

  A pause. “This morning, around nine fifty.”

  “Well,” Rice looked at his watch, “it’s nearly two. Why’d you wait till now to call?”

  “I went to brunch first. I was on my way out the door when he surprised me. He was waiting in the street.”

  “Mm. And where’d you go to brunch?”

  “Why?”

  “For your report. Better if I ask the details now so you don’t have to remember them later if you change your mind.” The whole thing reeked of ulterior motives. Rice scribbled down the times on his sheet.

  “Fork and Napkin,” Ray said quickly, then: “I need to get going.” There was something to his voice. He just wanted Rice to write down exactly what he wanted . . . and he didn’t want to linger on the restaurant.

  “Over in Ogunquit? Great little diner. No problem, Ray, you go about your business today. I’ll log your report and close it out.”

  “Thanks,” Ray said flatly, and hung up.

  Rice hung up the receiver slowly. What was he after?

  When Rice called Fork & Napkin, a young voice told him that they’d had a pretty busy morning, the day after Thanksgiving usually was. She did remember a man coming in, though, whose name she did not know. He was somewhere around thirty, maybe older, maybe younger, she was terrible with ages. But this man stood out to her.

  “He said he was late for a ten o’clock, and he said a few different last names to check for, and I found the reservation but no one had shown up. Besides him, I mean.” She told Rice the name the reservation was under—it was meaningless—and continued. “He seemed sad when I said no one else was there. I think he was stood up.”

  Rice thanked the girl and hung up. So at least some of Ray Walker’s friends had the good sense to distance themselves. If only the idiots agreeing with him online had done the same.

  Tony Hall needed to be set straight. If any part of Walker’s story was true . . . how could he have been so foolish? Rice knew Tony and Nick were close. Tony was a father figure, in a way, to Nick. Clearly this was all driving Tony crazy. But he had simply given Walker ammunition: See? The Halls are unstable. He was hurting the very person he was trying to protect. Not to mention risking what could happen to Tony—how that would harm his children, his wife?