by Lee Thompson
The closer they got to the landing, the more excited Herman became, and the more convinced Luther was that he needed to call the police, and tell them about the body in the woods, give them the description of the Buick and the man, and the visit he paid to Luther’s house, and how the man had followed them.
He made the 911 call as soon as he got Herman out of the car and their dad stepped out of the woods, his smile as easy and natural as the lake in the twilight. Then the rain came, gentle at first, a mist. Luther told the 911 operator everything and she asked him to stay put until an officer arrived on the scene. Give them twenty, thirty minutes. The police force had dwindled, Luther knew, used to be three hundred officers in Saginaw years ago, now they were down to fifty patrolmen and women. Too much ground, too many situations for them to deal with really. He told himself to be patient, to enjoy himself with his family while he could. Herman was talking to their dad, telling him about planes and fishing, beaming brighter than a star, talking too fast, but their dad glanced at Luther and smiled. Luther knew he’d made the right choice by bringing Herman. Things were as they should be.
26
Hazzard laughed as his Buick slid down the hill toward the embankment bordering the highway. The car was gaining speed but it didn’t bother him. Hell, he’d hardly ever felt as alive. It was like the other morning when he was chasing the Impala through the fog. Strangely, he felt in control. The jostling car helped him, the ruts helped it, the nose bouncing back toward the on-ramp. The driver’s door was crushed. There was safety glass in his lap. The Buick hiccupped onto the ramp. There were a few cars coming down it to merge onto I-75, but he flashed his lights and held down on the horn, controlled the middle of the lane, laughing as oncoming cars swerved to avoid a collision with him.
He had to move Barb’s body now. No evidence, no way that punk and his brother could put the squeeze on him. He drove as fast as he could to the lake.
27
Geneva had been dusting Dominic’s room when she heard the knock on the front door. She wasn’t expecting any company, but with recent events, she also wasn’t surprised that someone might visit in an effort to comfort her. Part of her worried it was Regina coming to make amends, or to spite her by saying she decided what she wanted (Raul), in which case Geneva would tell her to take him, she had no use for him anymore.
She tried to ignore whoever was out there. She didn’t know where Isaac was or she’d ask him to send them away. She had little desire to see anyone, let alone talk to them. Then she heard the front door open and her mother-in-law called her name. Geneva kept quiet, unmoving for a second, and then she wiped her face and said, “Back here. Dom’s room.”
Raul’s mother had a heavy, forceful step for such a small woman. Geneva sat on the bed, like she had with Regina, and waited. Mrs. Spencer poked her head into the room and said, “Ah, there you are.” The carpeted floor quieted her steps. She had perfect posture, sat perfectly straight on the mattress next to Geneva, so close their shoulders and hips touched. She said, “Has Raul come home?”
“I don’t know where he is. Did he come talk to you?”
“Surprisingly, yes.”
“Did he want you to take his side? Make himself the victim?”
“He tried playing the victim card.”
Geneva looked at her mother-in-law’s hands. She said, “What happened to your finger?”
“Raul broke it.”
“What?”
“I think he’s having a nervous breakdown. I called a friend of my husband’s, a psychiatrist, and he called the police so everything could be documented, and for his own safety.”
“How did Raul break your finger?”
“I tried to stop him from leaving by grabbing his arm. In hindsight, I wish I wouldn’t have told him at all. He didn’t understand my concern, he thought we were all picking on him.”
“He’s a teenager.”
“He’s been acting like one,” his mother said.
Geneva looked at her son’s room. Raul’s mother said, “How are you?”
“Hurting. Shocked. Confused. Angry.”
“I wish I could tell you it gets easier, but it doesn’t. Did Raul ever tell you about his little sister?”
“No. I didn’t know he’d ever had a little sister.”
“I figured as much. He was so young, and it’s not something my husband or I discuss, at least not any longer.”
“She died?”
A nod.
“And the pain is still there? The loss?”
“Some days are better than others.”
“I can accept that,” Geneva said.
Raul’s mother patted her leg. “I knew you’d be able to.”
“Did you tell the cops about what he did to you?”
“Yes, but I’m not pressing charges. I just want them to take this seriously. He’s going to hurt himself or someone else, or both, if he doesn’t get some help. Things like this need to be nipped in the bud before they gain any speed.”
“He beat up the cop who hit Dominic.”
“He told me. He said he liked it.”
“I’ve never seen him like that. He looked insane.”
“He’s never been like that,” his mother said. “But he’s a pressure cooker, I think. He’s been simmering for thirty years. I just hope he doesn’t do any more damage than this.” She raised her wounded hand.
“I lost my son, my husband, and my best friend, all within twenty-four hours,” Geneva said. “I want a drink but I know if I start, I might not stop for days, maybe weeks.”
“You’re a wise girl.”
“Has your husband ever cheated on you?”
“After Lori died.”
“Why do men do it?”
“It’s not only men. I had an affair too. To get back at him. I regret it to this day. It was childish. I was childish.”
“How did she die?”
“Raul killed her,” she said, wiping her eyes, looking straight ahead, at the wall, at Dom’s toy box. “On accident. I’d never questioned if I was a good mother before that and I’ve been questioning if I am ever since. What he said this evening hurt more than a broken bone. I tried, but I think I failed.”
“Was she run over?”
“No.”
“It’s horrible to say, but I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s had to deal with this.”
“You’re not the only one in anything.”
Geneva nodded. “Despite what’s happened, what’s going on, I still have a good life. I have a lot of good memories too, and I’m going to do my best to treasure them.”
“Tell me one.”
Geneva smiled. “I never appreciated you enough.”
“I’ve been guilty of the same with you. But it’s never too late for either of us to start.”
“So,” Geneva said, “some good can come of all this.”
“This is only the beginning, you’ll be even more aware of the good things that come your way. You’re one of those people.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me one of your fond memories.”
“Dom’s first steps.”
“Were they here?”
“They were. I had him in the living room. He’d been crawling for two months. By then he was very fast.” She laughed. “I couldn’t imagine how quick he’d be when he got his balance. Anyway, I was reading and I looked up and he was standing there next to me, grinning, so proud of himself. I leaned over and kissed him (he was so into open mouth kisses at the time), and he thought we were playing some new game and he kept his left leg stationary, and he used his right to spin around in these tiny increments. It was the cutest and most beautiful thing. Then he laughed and, arms out at his sides like he was about to walk a tightrope, he ran three steps and fell. He looked back and laughed and I said, “I’m going to get you!” and he giggled again, and pushed himself up and ran three more steps as I came off the couch. We were both giggling madly, like we were the only two people in the world. An
d we were, both of us so absorbed with each other. Nothing else really mattered in those moments.”
Raul’s mother patted her thigh and laughed. “The more he could walk, the more of a daredevil he became.”
Geneva said, “Yeah. And he loved chairs. He was always trying to climb up on one at the dinner table, trying to sit with us, like us, eat like us, as if he were all grown up.” She shook her head. “When he laughed, it was with his whole body. No restraint.”
“I remember.”
“He loved deeply for being so young.”
“Wherever he is, I’m sure he still loves you deeply.”
“I just hope there’s not any pain there. I’m glad he never had to suffer a first heartbreak.”
“Is Raul your first heartbreak?”
“Dom is,” Geneva said. “I loved people before Raul, and I’ll love people after he’s out of my life, but I’ll never love anyone again like I loved my son.”
“Well said.”
“We should get you to the doctor.”
“I’m going there as soon as I leave here. If Raul comes home, call the police.”
“I will,” Geneva said. “Thank you, for everything.” She leaned over and kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek. It was the only time she’d ever seen her blush.
28
Luther set his phone on the seat of the car next to the paper hiding the butcher knife and shut the door. Their dad was kneeling by Herman’s wheelchair now, listening intently to what he had to say, the two of them smiling, their dad lifting one hand to slap Herman gently on the shoulder and Luther’s brother loving every second of it.
He had always hidden how he’d felt about their parents not being in their lives, but Herman never had; his older brother thought of them, of what might be, often, he just didn’t talk to Luther about it much because he knew it made Luther uncomfortable, what couldn’t be helped, what couldn’t be changed.
Luther had never seen this day coming, couldn’t have ever allowed himself to hope for it. He was still angry with his grandmother, at least a bit, although he couldn’t blame her too much because he’d done things, kept things hidden from Herman, simply to protect him. He took a deep breath, let it out. So, here they were, a family, or learning to be one. It didn’t seem like it should be too hard, they already had plenty of practice with their grandmother. It was so much to hope for though, that their dad would stick around, to learn to trust him, to offer him the opportunity to seriously break their hearts. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities for him to play up their hunger for him in their lives, and then to use that to get something he wanted: their grandmother’s house, a little money, a vehicle, whatever. Then after he had what he wanted, he could leave them high and dry, disappear from their lives as if he’d never been there.
How do you trust a con? Luther wondered. The man, their dad, was so convincing though. Luther walked up to them, but kept back a few feet, giving Herman plenty of time to talk to him, share with him, love him, because Luther had spent most of the morning with the man.
He couldn’t stop thinking about their mother though. How afraid and hopeless and lonely she must have felt to take her own life. Luther had never known anyone who had committed suicide. He wished he knew what she looked like. That was a damn maddening part of it. No idea what your mother looked like, or how her voice sounded, or the mannerisms that made her a unique person. Never going to get the chance to see or hear either. Poof. Gone. And how hard must it have been for his parents, whom Luther understood loved each other to an incredible degree, for them to be incarcerated, apart, unable to share what each other were going through with the other convicts, with the guards, with whatever regrets they might have had. She was alone. Helpless.
He wished he would have visited both of them now, but especially her. She had probably needed him and Herman, too. What mother, locked up especially, wouldn’t think of her children, and wish for them to come see her? He’d failed her. And he didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it. If he could go back in time, he would. He’d make sure he visited both of them. He’d take them gifts, paper, pencils, anything they could use to help them lessen the weight of each day.
He wanted the letters she’d written him and Herman.
He wanted too, to know what his parents had done to his brother. There was something there, some horrible thing, tied into Herman becoming crippled and their parents’ incarceration.
First though, he had to let Herman get to know the man, for the man to get to know Herman. Then he’d ask their father, when they were alone, to spill it, because it couldn’t be good to hold all that in. Of course, if his grandmother still had some of the letters, all he needed to learn could be inside one of them. It was the first thing he was going to do when he got home, ask her where the letters were so he could read them, and he’d filter through them and find the ones Herman could read without it hurting his feelings too much.
He thought there was a good chance his grandmother was going to give him an ultimatum too. She could do it. It was her house. Either you live here and don’t talk to the man, or you talk to him and find somewhere else to lay your heads. And he couldn’t afford a new place to live. Not yet anyway. He didn’t want his dad to know if he got a place either because he was still a stranger and he might ask if he could crash with them. No, too soon for that. Had to take this stuff slow, protect his brother’s emotional well-being. Maybe his own, too.
Their dad turned Herman around, pointed him at Luther and the Impala. His face was open, warm, and he moved his hands from the handles to Herman’s shoulders. Luther said, “It’s dark out here. Think maybe we should be getting home, Herman?”
“I don’t want to leave yet.”
“Okay. Another twenty minutes?”
“Are we going to come back tomorrow?”
Luther said to their father, “You going to be here tomorrow?”
“I don’t plan on going far. You come out here, you’ll find me.”
His dad shifted his stance. There was the sound of a car behind Luther and he thought it was the police, which he’d forgotten about, so deep in thought over this stuff with their dad and mother and grandmother, and the big fork, shadowed, he saw in the road ahead. But the car door shut behind him, next to the Impala. And there was a sound like someone banging a large stick off an empty barrel, a flash of light that lit his periphery in a burst of flame. At first, in the mist, he thought lightning had struck close by, near the Impala and the police car behind him.
Only there was no one speaking, only his dad’s white face, white open mouth, Herman seated in front of him, his mouth moving like a fish as if he were having trouble breathing. And then there was another boom, another flash, over his right shoulder, and his dad crumpled and Herman was still holding his chest, panting, the veins sticking out in his throat and forehead, pasty white face now. And Luther realized it wasn’t the police behind him and he dove forward, rolled, his shoulder and cheek wet with thaw, leaves sticking to him, his whole body freezing all of a sudden.
Then he was up and the killer fired his weapon again, spitting up bits of mud and frozen soil and sticks in front of Luther, as if the bullet had gone right between his legs. He zigged and zagged, headed for the woods, and heard another shot, more muffled, the whine of a bullet crying through the trees beyond him. His heart pounded, he blinked moisture out of his eyes, not thinking at all, just fleeing, away from his father and brother, away from his car and phone.
The woods were much darker than the landing. The moon was out, but hidden by the thick canopy above him. He ran as far as he could, tripping, stumbling, exhausted, scared, tears in his eyes as he thought about how Herman and their dad had died. He was sure they were dead. He imagined the murderer walked up to them casually, put the gun to Herman’s head, delivered the killing shot, then walked as casually up to their father, the old man, the ex-con trying to make things right, thrashing there, hurting, wanting to fight, but his body racked by shock, unable to lift
himself from the wet, cold earth, and defend himself.
Shot down there in the stillness with his son, their blood wetting patches of snow, dead leaves.
Luther wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and rested his back against a tree. He saw a branch he could use as a club five feet away and he grabbed it quickly and hid behind the trunk of the tree again.
He couldn’t hear anything but the rain dripping in the trees. The police would be there any second now, if they weren’t already. Luther hoped they shot the man down in the same cold-blooded manner he’d done to Luther’s father and Herman but he couldn’t count on that. Most cops he knew were so bound by rules that it might cost them their lives, a moment’s indecision to affect the rest of your life. It was his fault, he knew, for not thinking, for not taking their dad right back to their grandmother’s house in his car, pick up Herman. Could have taken the two of them somewhere public, a restaurant, whatever, fed his brother, laughed with him; only now, never again. Herman had never hurt anybody. He’d been a great brother.
29
Raul withdrew five hundred dollars from an ATM at First Merit Bank. In the morning he’d have to go in and empty his account, close it, never look back. It felt like everywhere he went people were watching him. He cried for a bit, sitting in a WalMart parking lot, as far as he could get from any of the lights. He hadn’t meant to hurt his mother. She’d always been good enough to him, and he cried because it hurt she’d called Sydney to evaluate his mental state. There wasn’t any aberration. He was acting like everyone else. He didn’t know how he’d ever be able to look at her again without feeling angry, or a profound sense of loss and shame.
No matter. He’d never see her again. He’d have to leave the state so they couldn’t label him insane and lock him up in some institution and keep him so pumped full of drugs he wouldn’t be able to remember who he was any longer.