A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  Food was evyting ta me. I amemba how I useta give people directions back in da days when I could still get aroun. It’d be “Go down to da Dunkin Donuts an turn left, den go bout tree blocks an turn right at da Dairy Queen an it’s bout half a mile downa street, a block past Paisan’s Pizza.” All my landmarks hadda do wit food.

  But afta I won da lotto an we moved out to Long Island, I got so fat dat my whole world became my bedroom, an time got measured by meals an TV shows.

  Da TV’s on now. I useta love to watch TV. All da game shows an talk shows inna mornin, an da soaps inna aftanoon. Loved dem all. Now I hate ‘em. Not da shows—da commercials. Food! All dey seemta be sellin is freakin food. Like torture, man! I go crazy wit da little remote control but evytime I switch I see dis food bein shoved at me in livin color! I’m bout t’go crazy, know’m sayin? I mean, if it ain’t McDonald’s it’s Burger King or Wendy’s or Red Lobster wit dose shrimp just oozin butta onna enda da fork. Or da Pillsbury Doughboy’s got some new cinnamon ting he’s pushin, or dere’s microwave chocolate cake or Reese’s Pieces or Eat Beef It’s Real Food or Domino’s Pizza or Peter Pan Peanut Butter or Holly Farms Chicken or Downyflake Waffles or Dorito Nacho Chips an on an on.

  Know’m sayin?

  Tell ya it ain’t fair, man. Guy could go crazy.

  “Okay, Topsy,” Delores is sayin. “It’s time to do your back. Now I know you can’t turn over, but I want you to help me. I’m going to unstrap your right hand so I can do some of your back.”

  Dey been keepin my hands strapped downta da bed frame. Dat’s cause da diet’s been makin me kinda goofy. I got bandages on da middle finger and pointer a my right hand cause I tried to eat dem.

  Kid you not, man. I been goin a little squirrelly here. I mean, da otha night I really tought dose fingers was hot dogs. S’true. Jus like I tought my sheet was a big lasagna noodle an my pillow was a giant marshmallow, I coulda sworn dat night my two fingers was hot dogs. It was dark. I started chewin on dem an screamin at da same time. Da docs said I was hallucinatin. Closed me up wit ten stitches. Now dey keep my hands tied down so’s I don’t do it again.

  Dey shouldn’t worry. I won’t. It hurt too much.

  “Gimme a candy first,” I tell her.

  “No,” Delores says. “After, Topsy. After.”

  “Okay,” I say. But I don’t really mean it.

  When she unstraps my right wrist, I roll left, like I’m lettin her wash da part of my back she can reach. But while I’m twisted dat way, I work on da left strap an get it undone. Now I’m ready.

  “Okay, Topsy,” she says. “Roll back now.”

  I roll. An keep on rollin. As I rock to da right, I grab Delores.

  “Candy!” I shout. “Gimme! Now!”

  Delores squeals an twists away. She’s strong but I got a good grip on her. She pulls away but I stretch after her. Her feet slip an she goes down but I lean over da edge of da bed, keepin my grip, never lettin go, reachin wit my free hand for da pocket wit da caramels.

  But suddenly I feel myself slippin. I mean da bed’s tiltin, da whole freakin hospital bed’s tippin ova wit me on it. An I’m headin right down on toppa Delores. I try to stop myself but I can’t. Da bed’s tilted too far. I’m outta control. I’m fallin. Delores screams as I land on her.

  It ain’t a long scream. More like a quick little yelp, like your pooch makes when you accidently step on its foot. Den she cuts off.

  But she don’t stop movin. She’s strugglin an kickin an clawin unda me, tryna get out, tryna breathe. An I’m tryna get offa her, really an truly I am, but it’s so hard. Finally I edge myself back an to da side. It’s slow work, but finally I get offa her face.

  Too late. Poor Delores has stopped strugglin by den. An when I manage to get a look at her face, it’s kinda blue. Real blue, in fact. I mean, like she’s sorta dead.

  I like start ta cry. I can’t help it. I loved Delores an now she’s gone. I specially loved her caramels.

  Which reminds me of her goody pocket. So while I’m cryin, I reach for her pocket. I push my hand inside but I can’t find no caramels. Not a one.

  No way, man! I know dere’s candy in dere!

  I push deeper inta da pocket but it’s empty, man! Freakin empty!

  I’m kinda upset now. I pull on da pocket. I mean, I know dere’s candy in dere. Da pocket rips an still no caramels. I rip deepa, layer afta layer till I reach . . .

  . . . skin.

  Smooth white skin. It’s a leg. Turkey leg. Big white meat turkey leg. Never heard of such a ting, but here it is right in fronta me. Waitin for me. An I can’t resist. I take a bite—

  Gaa! Ain’t cooked. Raw and bloody. God, I’m freakin hungry but I can’t eat raw turkey!

  I look up an around. Da utility room is only a dozen or so feet away. If I can make it to da microwave . . .

  The developer didn’t look like Donald Trump.

  He was older, for one thing—mid-fifties, at least—and fat and balding to boot. And nowhere near as rich. One of the biggest land developers on Long Island, as he was overly fond of saying. Rich, but not Trump-rich.

  And he was sweating. Jack wondered if Donald Trump sweated. The Donald might perspire, but Jack couldn’t imagine him sweating.

  This guy’s name was Oscar Schaffer and he was upset about the meeting place.

  “I expected we’d hold this conversation in a more private venue,” he said

  Jack watched him pull a white handkerchief from his pocket and blot the moisture from a forehead that went on almost forever. Supposedly Schaffer had started out as a construction worker who’d got into contracting and then had gone on to make a mint in custom homes. Despite occasional words like venue, his speech still carried echoes of the streets. He carried a handkerchief too. Jack couldn’t think of anyone he knew who carried a handkerchief—who owned a handkerchief.

  “This is private,” Jack said, glancing at the empty booths and tables around them. “Julio’s isn’t a breakfast place.” Voices drifted over from the bar area on the far side of the six-foot divider topped with dead plants. “Unless you drink your breakfast.”

  Julio came strutting around the partition carrying a coffee pot. His short, forty-year-old frame was grotesquely muscled under his tight, sleeveless shirt. He was freshly shaven, his mustache trimmed to a line, drafting-pencil thin, his wavy hair was slicked back. He reeked of some new brand of cologne, more cloying than usual.

  Jack coughed as the little man refilled his cup and poured one for Schaffer without asking.

  “God, Julio. What is that?”

  “The smell? It’s brand new. Called Midnight.”

  “Maybe that’s when you’re supposed to wear it.”

  He grinned. “Naw. Chicks love it, man.”

  Only if they’ve spent the day in a chicken coop, Jack thought but kept it to himself.

  “Is that decaf?” Schaffer asked. “I only drink decaf.”

  “Don’t have any,” Julio said as he finished pouring. He strutted back to the bar.

  “I can see why the place is deserted,” Schaffer said, glancing at Julio’s retreating form. “That guy’s downright rude.”

  “It doesn’t come naturally to him. He’s been practicing lately.”

  “Yeah? Well somebody ought to see that the owner gets wise to him.”

  “He is the owner.”

  “Really?” Schaffer mopped his brow again. “I tell you, if I owned this place, I’d—”

  “But you don’t. And we’re not here to talk about the tavern business. Or are we?”

  “No.” Schaffer suddenly became fidgety. “I’m not so sure about this anymore.”

  “It’s okay. You can change your mind. No hard feelings.”

  A certain small percentage of customers who got this far developed cold feet when the moment came to tell Repairman Jack exactly what they wanted him to fix for them. Jack didn’t think Schaffer would back out now. He wasn’t the type. But he’d probably want to dance a little first.

&
nbsp; “You’re not exactly what I expected,” Schaffer said.

  “I never am.”

  Usually they expected either a glowering Charles Bronson-type character or a real sleazo. And usually someone bigger. No one found Jack’s wiry medium frame, longish brown hair, and mild brown eyes particularly threatening. It used to depress him.

  “But you look like a . . . yuppie.”

  Jack glanced down at his dark blue Izod sports shirt, beige slacks, brown loafers, sockless feet.

  “We’re on the Upper West Side, Mr. Schaffer. Yuppie Rome. And when in Rome . . .” Schaffer nodded grimly.

  “It’s my brother-in-law. He’s beating up on my sister.”

  “Seems like there’s a lot of that going around.”

  People rarely sought out Jack for domestic problems, but this wouldn’t be the first wife-beater he’d been asked to handle. He thought of Julio’s sister. Her husband had been pounding on her. That was how Jack had met Julio. They’d been friends ever since.

  “Maybe so. But I never thought it would happen to Ceilia. She’s so . . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  Jack said nothing. This was the time to keep quiet and listen. This was when he got a real feel for the customer.

  “I just don’t understand it. Gus seemed like such a good guy when they were dating and engaged. I liked him. An accountant, white collar, good job, clean hands, everything I wanted for Ceil. I helped him get his job. He’s done well. But he beats her.” Schaffer’s lips thinned as they drew back over his teeth. “Dammit, he beats the shit out of her. And you know what’s worse? She takes it! She’s put up with it for ten years!”

  “There are laws,” Jack said.

  “Right. Sure there are. But you’ve got to sign a complaint. Ceil won’t do that. She defends him, says he’s under a lot of pressure and sometimes he just loses control. She says most of the time it’s her fault because she gets him mad, and she shouldn’t get him mad. Can you believe that shit? She came over my place one night, two black eyes, a swollen jaw, red marks around her throat from where he was choking her. I lost it. I charged over their place ready to kill him with my bare hands. He’s a big guy, but I’m tough. And I’m sure he’s never been in a fight with someone who punches back. When I arrived screaming like a madman, he was ready for me. He had a couple of neighbors there and he was standing inside his front door with a baseball bat. Told me if I tried anything he’d defend himself, then call the cops and press charges for assault and battery. I told him if he came anywhere near my sister again, he wouldn’t have an unbroken bone left in his body to dial the phone with!”

  “Sounds like he knew you were coming.”

  “He did! That’s the really crazy part! He knew because Ceil had called from my place to warn him! And the next day he sends her roses, says how much he loves her, swears it’ll never happen again, and she rushes back to him like he’s done her a big favor. Can you beat that?”

  “Nothing to keep you from getting a bat of your own and waiting in an alley or a parking lot.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of it. But I’ve already threatened him—in front of witnesses. Anything happens to him, I’ll be number one suspect. And I can’t get involved in anything like that, in a felony. I mean I’ve got my own family to consider, my business. I want to leave something for my kids. I do Gus, I’ll end up in jail, Gus’ll sue me for everything I’m worth, my wife and kids will wind up in a shelter somewhere while Gus moves into my house. Some legal system!”

  Jack waited through a long pause. It was a familiar Catch-22—one that kept him in business.

  Schaffer finally said, “I guess that’s where you come in.”

  Jack took a sip of his coffee.

  “I don’t know how I can help you. Busting him up isn’t going to change things. It sounds like your sister’s got as big a problem as he does.”

  “She does. I’ve talked to a couple of doctors about it. It’s called co-dependency or something like that. I don’t pretend to understand it. I guess the best thing that could happen to Ceil is Gus meeting with some sort of fatal accident.”

  “You’re probably right,” Jack said.

  Schaffer stared at him. “You mean you’ll . . .?”

  Jack shook his head. “No.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Look. Sometimes I make a mistake. If that happens, I like to be able to go back and fix it.”

  Schaffer’s expression flickered between disappointment and relief, finally settling on relief.

  “You know,” he said with a small smile, “as much as I’d like Gus dead, I’m glad you said that. I mean, if you’d said okay, I think I’d have set you to it.” He shook his head and looked away. “Kind of scary what you can come to.”

  “She’s your sister. Someone’s hurting her. You want him stopped but you can’t do it yourself. Not hard to understand how you feel.”

  “Can you help?”

  Jack drained his coffee and leaned back. Past the pots of dead brown plants hanging in the smudged front window he could see smartly dressed women wheeling their children, or white-uniformed nannies wheeling other people’s children in the bright morning sunlight.

  “I don’t think so. Domestic stuff is too complicated to begin with, and this situation sounds like it’s gone way past complicated into the twilight zone. Not my thing. Not the situation my kind of services can help.”

  “I know what you’re saying. I know they need shrinks—at least Ceil does. Gus . . . I don’t know. I think he’s beyond therapy. I got the feeling Gus likes beating up on Ceil. Likes it too much to quit, no matter what. But I want to give it a try.”

  “Doesn’t strike me as the type who’ll go see a shrink because you or anyone else says so.”

  “Yeah. But if he was hospitalized . . .” Schaffer raised his eyebrows, inviting Jack to finish the thought.

  Jack was thinking it was a pretty dumb thought as Julio returned with the coffee pot. He refilled Jack’s but Schaffer held a hand over his.

  “Say,” Schaffer said, pointing to all the dead vegetation around the room, “did you ever think of watering your plants?”

  “Wha’ for?” Julio said. “They’re all dead.”

  The developer’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right. Of course.” As Julio left, he leaned over the table toward Jack. “Is there some significance to all these dead plants?”

  “Nothing religious. It’s just that Julio isn’t happy with the caliber of his clientele lately.”

  “Well he’s not going to raise it with these dead plants.”

  “No. You don’t understand. He wants to lower it. The yuppies have discovered this place and they’ve been swarming here. He’s been trying to get rid of them. This has always been a working man’s bar and eatery. The Beamer crowd is scaring off the old regulars. Julio and his help are rude as hell to them but they just lap it up. He let all the window plants die, and they think it’s great. It’s driving the poor guy nuts.”

  “He doesn’t seem to mind you.”

  “We go back a long way.”

  “Really? How–?”

  “Let’s get back to your brother-in-law. You really think if he was laid up in a hospital bed for a while, a victim of violence himself, he’d have a burst of insight and ask for help?”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  “No, it isn’t. Save your money.”

  “Well, then, if he doesn’t see the light, I could clue his doctor in and maybe arrange to have one of the hospital shrinks see him while he’s in traction.”

  “You really think that’ll change anything?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to try something short of killing him.”

  “And what if those somethings don’t work?”

  His face went slack, his eyes bleak.

  “Then I’ll have find a way to take him out of the picture. Permanently. Even if I have to do it myself.”

  “I thought you were worried about your family and your business.
”

  “She’s my sister, dammit!”

  Jack thought about his own sister, the pediatrician. He couldn’t imagine anyone beating up on her. At least not more than once. She had a brown belt in karate and didn’t take guff from anyone. She’d either kick the crap out of you herself or call their brother, the judge, and submerge you to your lower lip in an endless stream of legal hot water. Or both.

  But if she were a different sort, and somebody was beating up on her, repeatedly . . .

  “All right,” Jack said. “I know I’ll regret this, but I’ll look into it. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Hey, thanks. Thanks a—”

  “It’s half down and half when I’ve done the job.”

  Schaffer paused, his expression troubled.

  “But you haven’t agreed to take the job yet.”

  “It might take me weeks to learn what I need to know to make that decision.”

  “What do you need to know? How about–?”

  “We’re not practicing the Art of the Deal here. Those are the terms. Take it or leave it.”

  Jack was hoping he’d leave it. And for a moment it looked as if he might.

  “You’re asking me to bet on a crapshoot—blindfolded. You hold all the aces.”

  “You’re mixing metaphors, but you’ve got the picture.”

  Schaffer sighed. “What the hell.” He reached into his breast pocket, then slapped an envelope down on the table. “Okay! Here it is.”

  Without hiding his reluctance, Jack tucked the envelope inside his shirt without opening it. He removed a notepad and pencil from his hip pocket.

  “All right. Let’s get down to the who and where.”

  Jack rubbed his eyes as he sat on the lawn chair and waited for the Castlemans to come home. His third night here and so far he hadn’t seen a hint of anything even remotely violent. Or remotely interesting. These were not exciting people. On the plus side, they had no kids, no dog, and their yard was rimmed with trees and high shrubs. Perfect for surveillance.