Love May Fail

by Matthew Quick

  Portia runs her index finger around the edge of her wineglass for a few seconds. “But now we have a real chance to make sure a good little kid has a shot at a good decent normal-ish childhood. We didn’t ask for this situation, but here it is, and we have a choice.”

  “So you put the ring on for my six-year-old nephew, not me?”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Chuck.” Portia smiles in a way that makes it impossible to take offense.

  I stare at the kitchen ceiling. “You know, when I was up there today, speaking about Danielle, I thought about using again. For the first time in years, I wanted a fix. Even though junk killed her. I wanted to get high. I also wanted to kill Randall Street. I seriously want to kill him.”

  “So what’s keeping you from getting high, throwing away all the work you’ve done?” Portia says, avoiding the second part of my confession.

  “You. And Tommy. And the idea that I might be a good teacher. The Official Member of the Human Race card Mr. Vernon gave us. Choosing to be the person we want to be, right? But I can’t do this alone. So I have to know right now, Portia, are you in or out?”

  “I was always in, Chuck. Always.”

  “Then why’d you put the ring on today?”

  “Because it’s just a ring, okay? If it helps you and Tommy feel more secure, I’ll wear it. But I’m in regardless. I was before I put it on. I’m wearing it for you too, in a show of solidarity. Maybe mostly for Tommy, because I know what it feels like to be alone as a kid—like you have to take care of yourself and the adults in your life. It’s fucked, okay? I didn’t want Tommy to feel doomed. And I wanted you to feel strong. Because you’re never going to use again. We’re going to make a good life for ourselves. We’re going to make it together.”

  I look her in the eyes. “Portia, I knew she was using again. Some part of me knew.”

  She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You didn’t. Maybe you suspected.”

  “I should have saved her. She shot up for the first time with me. Did you know that? I introduced her to heroin.”

  “That was when you were addicted. You were sick. And you also reached out to her when you were healthy. Tried to help. She refused your help. And she left you with her problems, which you don’t even see as problems because you are a good brother and an even better uncle. So don’t do this to yourself.”

  I shake my head and stare at the table. “I don’t know if I can raise him. I’m an ex-junkie with monstrous student loans. I don’t have any answers.”

  She holds up her ring finger. “You’re my fiancé. And what did I tell you in the truck? We’re going to figure it out together.”

  “You sure picked a winner to fall in love with, huh?”

  “You are a winner, Chuck Bass. I don’t marry losers anymore. Been there, done that. This time around, it’s only winners for me.”

  I marvel at this woman who can take control when needed.

  “I just feel so guilty,” I say, shaking my head. “How did I miss the signs?”

  And then I’m crying again and Portia is holding me, kissing my neck and whispering reassuring words.

  CHAPTER 30

  A few awful weeks go by. I feel mad, powerless, like I might explode, although I mostly keep it together for Tommy and Portia—and I wait.

  Then, late one Tuesday night after Portia and Tommy are asleep in bed, Jon Rivers the cop—in plain clothes—picks me up and takes me to the Manor. We get a booth by the jukebox. He orders a Bud bottle, and I have an ice water with lemon. Once Lisa serves our drinks, she returns to staring at her phone on the other side of the empty barroom, and Jon says, “He’s clean. I’m sorry. No record. Nothing prior to suggest that he’s dealing. No way we can pull a warrant to search his place. The diary’s not enough.”

  “You found nothing else?”

  Jon takes a sip of his beer. “He very well might be a small-time drug dealer, but it doesn’t look like he’s selling now. Maybe he’s laying low. Maybe he only deals to friends and was smart enough to take a vacation after your sister’s overdose. Off the record, I had a contact watch his grandmother’s place for a week. He’s there, but nothing’s going on. Nothing illegal at all.”

  “He killed my sister,” I say.

  “From what the neighbors and Tommy said, Randall Street wasn’t even in the apartment when Danielle OD’d. We have nothing on him, Chuck.”

  “You know he gave her the drugs.”

  “I know what your sister alluded to in her diary and how you feel about it. But we can’t exactly bring her in for questioning. And—believe me—I sympathize. But I also can’t bust into his grandmother’s house and arrest him just because you want me to. That’s not how the law works. I’d need a warrant. And for that we need more evidence.”

  “What’s the point of having cops if they’re never allowed to catch the fucking bad guys?” I say, and then immediately feel embarrassed, because I know Jon’s already done more than he probably should.

  He looks down at the table. “Listen, Chuck. I like you a lot, which is why I looked into this thing a little. You’ve done me a few solids in the past, which I haven’t forgotten. But there’s nothing I can do right now—as a police officer—to give you a sense of revenge or justice or whatever you’re after. And I’m worried you might be thinking about taking matters into your own hands. The law says no. And as a friend, I officially say no too. I want to make that clear before I give you this next piece of information.”

  I study his face and can see that he absolutely wishes he could exact justice for me.

  Jon lowers his voice. “The genius is right here in Oaklyn. His grandmother’s house just so happens to be within walking distance of this very bar. The old lady isn’t around. There’s another elderly woman who lives across the street. She’s apparently very nosy and shares your deep hatred of Randall Street. Likes to call into the station with her theories. We’ve been talking to her, and she says Randall hasn’t gone out for days. She’s been watching the house like a hawk. Day and night. Just waiting to call the police on him once she sees something suspicious. Apparently Randall’s grandmother left for Florida just to escape him, and the old lady across the street misses her knitting buddy. Says all of her other friends have died, and she can’t afford to winter in Florida.”

  “When a regular heroin user doesn’t leave the house for days, it means one of two things: he’s either getting clean or he has a supply stockpiled,” I say.

  “It’s a shame that I can’t just bust in there and find out for myself. If only there were some sort of need for the police to enter the house. If only someone else busted in there and caused some sort of disturbance that the old lady across the street might be able to officially report, but we can’t wish for that and expect it to just happen. And without a warrant, we’d have to see the drugs right out in the open to search further, which is a distinct possibility if Randall’s shooting up in there.”

  My knee is going up and down, quick as a sewing machine needle.

  Jon looks around the bar. “The place is right off Kendall Boulevard. On Congress Avenue. A run-down sky-blue number. Only one painted that color on the street. I can’t tell you the actual address for legal reasons. I wouldn’t want you anywhere near that house, Chuck. If the law caught you there, it would be a very sticky situation. So don’t you dare get caught anywhere near that property. You understand?”

  “I do,” I say. “You’re being crystal clear.”

  “Again, my condolences,” Jon says, and then downs the remainder of his beer in several quick, nervous gulps.

  I nod. “Thank you, Jon.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says. “Maybe spend the rest of the night talking with Lisa. That sounds like a good idea. She’d do anything for you. Even though you’re not in here as much as you used to be. Did you know we’re sort of dating, Lisa and me? Keeping it qu
iet, but yeah. I like her a lot. I trust her too.”

  After Jon leaves, I sit in the booth alone, gripping my pint of ice water and thinking, until Lisa says, “Anything else, Chuck?”

  “What?” I say, surprised to find her standing right next to me.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Just a check.”

  “On the house.”

  “No, I’ll pay.”

  “For water?”

  “For the beer.”

  “We always give the cops free beer. You know that,” Lisa says, chewing her gum nervously. “Jon says you and I should talk tonight for a few hours. Maybe you need to talk? So if anyone asks where you were, tomorrow, I’ll just tell them you were right here with me. No one comes in the back bar after eleven on Tuesdays. No one. Which you already know. So as far as anyone else knows, we had the whole place to ourselves tonight. Maybe we even talked in private back in the kitchen.”

  I’m not quite sure what to say.

  When the silence starts to get too awkward, Lisa says, “Danielle was my friend too. You can trust Jon. He wants the same thing you do. And you and me go back years, Chuck.”

  “Why are you and Jon doing this?”

  “I was the one who took in Tommy that night, remember? The one who saw Danielle with a needle sticking out of her arm. So why do you think I’m doing this? Jon’s your friend. He wants to do the right thing. So go, okay? Do what you have to do.”

  We lock eyes for a long time, and then Lisa says, “Be careful, Chuck. Will ya?”

  I nod once, leave, and make my way down the train tracks parallel to Manor Avenue, headed toward Congress.

  I’m not even really thinking about Danielle or Johnny Rotten or revenge—I’m just moving forward like a force of nature, maybe a storm cloud. I have no idea what I’ll do when I find the man who supplied my sister with the drugs that killed her, but I keep moving forward nonetheless.

  When I spot the sky-blue house, I notice that there’s a light on across the street. I glance over and see an elderly woman knitting, framed by a bay window. So I walk by Jon’s informer with my hands in my pockets and my head down. At the end of the block I look around and see no one, so I walk up the driveway of an unlit home and then—jumping fences and navigating backyards—I make my way back to the sky-blue home.

  I spent years robbing homes for drug money, so I’ve had more than enough practice.

  I’m a decent lock pick and can break a window making minimal sound, but I always try the door first. You’d be surprised how many times people forget to lock doors in suburban neighborhoods. And I suggest you always lock yours, because sometimes I just searched for the unlocked entryway—trying every back door in a neighborhood—and never once did I come home empty-handed.

  There’s a second-floor light on, but the blind is pulled. The rest of the house is dark.

  When I try the screen door, it’s locked, so I check the windows within reach, and they’re all locked too. There’s a rather large flowerpot on a little wooden bench, and when I lift it up, I find a key. It opens the screen door, but the actual back door is locked and requires a different key. It’s an old wooden frame that doesn’t feel very secure, and when I feel around, some of it is rotten. After pulling my sleeve down over my fingertips, I turn the knob, and push with my shoulder.

  It gives a quarter inch before catching.

  I can feel my heart beating harder now.

  I silently count to three and then send my full weight crashing into the door, which opens with a crack—and then silence.

  No footsteps, no yelling, no dogs barking, no lights switching on.

  I wait a few minutes before I make my way up three little steps and into the kitchen. The blue moonlight streaming through the window reveals that the appliances and cabinets haven’t been updated since the 1970s. Everything looks a grayish blue. There are used dishes and utensils on the counter, and on a small round table too. Some old cartons of half-eaten Chinese food are decomposing next to the sink. The trashcan is overflowing with the ripped-open packaging of microwavable food. Still no sounds.

  As I enter the living room, I can see light leaking down from the stairs, which are carpeted and therefore quiet when climbed.

  I reach the second floor with ease, although my shirt is beginning to feel heavy with sweat.

  There’s a half-opened door at the end of the hallway, so I move toward it stealthily, relying on the old instincts. It’s like I’ve stopped taking steps and am being silently pulled across ice by a rope.

  When I’m in front of the door, I listen for a good five minutes, but hear nothing.

  The hinges creak when I push the door open, but it doesn’t matter.

  Randall Street is hunched over on the floor, the middle of his spine against the wall. His chin is resting on his chest and he’s rubbing the top of his head in a circular pattern. His gear is in front of him.

  Needle.

  Spoon.

  Lighter.

  Cotton balls.

  Small baggie of powder.

  Rubber tube tourniquet limply tied around his arm.

  A bag of pills—every color of the rainbow represented—suggests he’s popping meds like candy.

  A marijuana bong and a large baggie of weed.

  A few empty beer cans.

  Half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  An ashtray full of cigarette butts and a half-empty carton of Camels.

  The bedroom reeks of smoke and body odor.

  Randall’s so high—off a combo of chemicals that he couldn’t remember, let alone re-create—he has no idea I’m even in the room.

  When I was walking up the stairs, I was pretty certain I wanted to beat him to death, but he looks so pathetic below me now that I can’t even muster up the ire to spit on him, let alone strike him repetitively.

  I look at the walls and see posters of rock bands—the Sex Pistols, Guns N’ Roses, Metallica, Slayer. It’s not unlike many of the small rooms Danielle and I used to share when we were kids.

  Randall’s moaning now, and rubbing the top of his head more intensely.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I take three swift steps, and like an NFL punter I kick Randall Street hard in the stomach. The impact makes this thumping sound, like dropping a bowling ball from a roof and hearing it land on a pillow laid out on the grass.

  He lets out a long moan and then rolls onto his side in the fetal position, whispering, “Why? Why? Why?”

  I snap back into reality.

  This isn’t me.

  Not anymore, anyway.

  I’ve done the work to change myself back into a human being.

  I’m an elementary school teacher.

  And I’m all Tommy has.

  Plus, Portia would be so disappointed.

  I no longer want to kick or punch the moaning Randall, so I search the room for his stash. The worst thing I can do to Randall Street is send him to jail, where men much worse than me will do the punishing. I quickly find two larger bags of heroin in Randall’s sock drawer, which is a terrible hiding place. That alone lets me know just how far gone he is. Who knows, maybe he really misses my sister, and that’s what the drug binge is about? The size of the bags more than suggests Randall is dealing. I leave one on the kitchen table and one on the coffee table in the living room as presents for Jon and his boys.

  Once I’ve done that, I open the front door and flick the front lights on and off until I see the woman across the street pick up a phone. I leave the front door wide open.

  On a whim, I go back upstairs to take one last look at Randall Street. His left cheek is on the carpet, and he’s puked up a puddle of bile that now spreads from his mouth like a speech bubble in a newspaper cartoon. I’m just about to go when I see the small bag of H and needle on the floor.

  It reaches o
ut to me like the hand of a drowning friend.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve scooped up Randall’s personal gear and then I’ve left his grandmother’s house through the busted back door and I’ve jumped the fence and I’m running into the woods, knowing that the drug in my hand can make all of the guilt and anxiety and regret vanish instantly—I can be blissfully apathetic again—and suddenly I’m panting behind a huge tree and I’ve got the dirt and water in the spoon and the flame from the lighter is licking the silver underbelly and the smack is liquefying and then I’m sucking it up through the little cotton ball and into the needle as easily as I’m breathing air and every part of my body is begging me to stick the thin metal into my arm so I’m pulling up the sleeve of my coat and just before the needle enters my skin I start to hyperventilate and I’m smart enough to visualize my Official Member of the Human Race card—

  . . . you become exactly whomever you choose to be.

  —I pull out my cell phone and hit the one button and it rings and rings and rings and fucking rings and then I’m hearing Kirk Avery’s voice message for the first time in my life because he’s never before failed to pick up when I’ve called him and it all seems like a sign that I should shoot the hit into my veins and I’m thinking I just might when my phone buzzes and it’s Portia and I hesitate but then pick up and she says, “Where the hell are you?” and so I tell her an abbreviated version of the truth, choking out the words, and she says she’s on her way and I push the plunger of the needle so that the hit sprays into the night air and when there is none left I stab a tree and break off the point and I dump the rest of the junk into a mud puddle and then I’m burying the remaining evidence and covering the freshly packed earth with leaves and I’m saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” as I run as fast as I can back to the Manor with the sound of police sirens wailing behind me.

  I’m mentally reciting the Official Member of the Human Race card like the words to a prayer when Portia pulls up.

  . . . ugliness and beauty, heartache and joy—

  the great highs and lows of existence . . .