Tell No One

by Taylor Sissel, Barbara

  Zeke reappears, looking sour. Sitting heavily across from Harris, he regards him from under the white-eyebrowed ledge of his brow, and when Harris asks whether anything else is missing, he shakes his head. “Not that I can tell.”

  Harris pinches the bridge of his nose. He asks for another beer when what he wants is something much stronger, but he can’t think how to ask for that.

  Zeke sets a bottle in front of him, resumes sitting across from Harris.

  “Look, if you’re sure Gee’s behind this and the rest of the robberies, if he’s trying to frame Kyle, you’ve got to go to the cops.” Zeke drinks his beer. “Gee’s daddy’ll save him, if it’s consequences you’re worried about. You can bet Darren Drake’s got some high-dollar team of lawyers on permanent retainer who’ll get Gee out of it—O. J. style. I doubt it’ll be more than a speed bump on the road of Gee’s life. The little shit,” he mutters.

  “You going to report it?” Harris nods at the ring where it sits in the center of the table.

  “I didn’t even know it was gone. Might never have. Maybe that’s what the assholes were counting on.”

  “You ever worry the cops might find out about the drugs?”

  The old man’s eyes widen. “What’re you getting at?”

  Harris looks away, the bitterness of his shame riming his mouth. But he’s desperate. He doesn’t want Zeke calling the cops, and maybe he’ll think twice if he’s hiding dope here.

  “Are you talking about the meds I keep here? I’m a doctor. It’s what doctors do. We dispense medication.”

  “You’re retired.”

  “I don’t have a formal practice, no, but I’ve kept up my license to practice medicine in this state. I’ve got a license from the DEA to dispense drugs, and you know it.”

  “There’s a lot at stake, Zeke.” The old man is nervous. Despite Zeke’s denial, Harris can see it. Zeke won’t want the cops on his property, nosing around in his business. Maybe he doesn’t have the proper licensing after all. Maybe he’s a liar too. But Harris is immediately horrified. Has it come to this—that he would want to bring Zeke down to his level? Zeke would never sink so low.

  Zeke finds Harris’s eyes. “What am I going to say to the cops? I don’t know anything other than that you brought me the ring. I’ll let you handle it, okay? However you see fit.”

  “I appreciate that, Zeke. I really do.” Relief makes his eyes water.

  They drink their beers. A siren sounds in the distance. The big clock on the wall ticks away the time. Harris eyes the door, thinking of Holly and the boys at home. There’s not a house out there I can’t get into. How many times has Harris heard Gee say it? The punk has pushed the limit now, coming into Zeke’s and then Harris’s houses. Next thing he knows, Gee’ll tip the cops anonymously. Harris imagines it—law enforcement showing up at his door, flashing a warrant to search the premises. Holly and the boys will be scared out of their minds. Harris can’t let it happen. That’s his first thought. Then, quickly, it occurs to him he’s no longer got the ring. It’s back where it belongs. There’s nothing left at Harris’s house for the police to find unless—

  Unless Gee planted other stolen items in Kyle’s room. For all Harris knows, Gee could have stashed the goods he’s purloined throughout the entire house. Kyle could still be implicated; the robberies could still come back on him—on Harris’s whole family. His breath shallows. It’s everything he can do to stick in his chair. Jesus Christ! The exclamation bolts into his mouth. He tightens his teeth against it, fists his hands to keep from banging them on the table. Even so, Zeke must sense something. He’s giving Harris the eye. “What?” The word is a challenge.

  “Nothin’. You look like you’re gonna puke is all.”

  “Nah.” Harris runs a palm over his head, front to back. “Back’s bothering me. Just sick of fighting the goddamn muscle spasms, you know?”

  “You take anything? Didn’t I give you a script for Oxy last week?”

  “Yeah, but it’s preseason. I’m out on the ball field with the guys every day. It’s hard on an old man.” Harris isn’t lying. Coaching is getting tougher on him every season, mentally and physically. He thinks about how long he’s been punishing his body—since the first year he signed up to play football, when he was six. Almost forty years ago. Some mornings nowadays he wakes up so stiff and sore he wonders how he can get out of bed.

  Zeke says, “I’ve got a couple of fentanyl patches.”

  Harris could cry, he’s so grateful.

  “But listen here, you can’t rely on this stuff too much.” Zeke says this as he leaves the kitchen.

  It’s not the first time he’s admonished Harris.

  “I know you’re against it,” Zeke says on his return. He puts the fentanyl on the table in front of Harris, puts his hand on Harris’s shoulder. “But what can it hurt, giving biofeedback a shot? Yoga and meditation too. That shit is not for sissies.” Zeke sits down. “When it comes to chronic pain, you got to find some alternative to the drugs, man. I’ve told you—”

  “Yeah. Okay. I know you’re right.” Harris isn’t lying when he agrees with Zeke. Holly and his mom have told him the same thing. But he’s tried it—the yoga, meditation, biofeedback—and none of it has worked for him. It’s not just his body that turns on him; it’s his mind too. It won’t shut up. The tangle of his thoughts, his emotions, goes a mile a minute, wrapping him in knots. Sometimes he feels like he’s walking on the crumbling edge of the deepest abyss. He can hear the loosened gravel falling, falling. There’s another sound he hears, too, sometimes—a howl, long and low and hopeless. He could swear he feels the vibration in his chest. It’s the sound a man might make when he’s trapped, like Harris is, in a hell of his own making.

  “I don’t like seeing you in pain, son.”

  Harris looks at Zeke, and the love in Zeke’s eyes causes his throat to narrow. He thinks how he’s using Zeke, a man who has through the years shown him nothing but kindness.

  “I meant it when I said I wouldn’t report the ring was missing, if that’s what’s bugging you,” Zeke says. “But I’m trusting you to handle the situation the right way and put a stop to it, no matter who’s involved.”

  Harris nods and gets to his feet roughly before he can break down. He picks up the fentanyl patches. “I’ve got to go,” he says. “Holly’ll be worried.” But Harris knows it’s more likely she’ll be pissed as hell.

  Coming home from Zeke’s, Harris pulls into the driveway and shuts off the engine. It ticks as it cools. He’s feeling more relaxed now that the fentanyl is kicking in. Still, he’s reluctant to leave the relative safety of his truck. He imagines Holly waiting for him in the kitchen, surrounded by the remains of the dinner he’s missed. She’ll demand an explanation, and he’s fresh out, drawing a blank. Somehow he’s got to find a way to search the house without her or the boys catching on. Maybe after they all go to bed? Worst case, the cops have already been here. The question then would be moot, wouldn’t it? He’s got no idea what to hope for. Pulling the keys from the ignition, he gets out of his truck, crosses the drive, enters through the back door, and stops in the mudroom to listen.

  The sounds he expects to hear—water running, dishes and silver clanging, his family’s voices, the television—are absent. His heart pauses. The kitchen, when he passes through it, is immaculate. There is not so much as a whiff left from whatever it is Holly made for dinner. Harris’s pulse taps in his ears. Her name is in his throat, but he doesn’t call out for her, or for Kyle or Connor. He walks through the downstairs. The great room is deserted, the fire in the grate burning low. The study, too, where the boys often do their homework, is empty. They must be upstairs in their rooms, he thinks, or else they aren’t home, which would be odd on a school night. As he enters the little hall that doglegs between the study and the bedroom he shares with Holly, his blood is cool in his veins. She’s there, seated on the side of the bed, elbows cupped in her hands. She looks up when he pauses in the doorway. The only lig
ht comes from the lamp near a chaise longue in the adjacent alcove. He can’t make out her expression, but he doesn’t really need to see it. The very air is electric, alive with tension.

  “I’m sorry,” he begins.

  “Don’t,” she says in a tone that suggests she’s finished with Harris’s apologies.

  “A guy called, a friend from A&M—” Harris launches into the only story he can think of that might fly, one that Holly can’t check out. She interrupts, cutting him off. From the look she gives him, Harris knows she wasn’t going to buy it anyway.

  “Kyle’s in his room; he won’t come out,” she says. “He’s furious about something. When I asked, he told me if I wanted to know what it was about, I should ask you.”

  Harris holds Holly’s gaze.

  Time passes. A beat, two—six. The silence is armed, a minefield.

  “Harris? Tell me what’s going on. Right now. I’m sick to death of this—”

  “This?” he says, stepping farther into the room. He’s angry, too, popping off, and it’s wrong, the wrong thing to be doing. But he doesn’t stop. No. Like an idiot he says, “This what? I’m sick to death, too, of your accusations—”

  “I want you to go.”

  “Go?” Harris stares at his wife.

  “You can’t be here if you’re on drugs. No, don’t deny it.” Her voice rises, cutting off his protest. “You’re back using Oxy, or whatever your drug of choice is these days.”

  “What makes you think—?” He’s hunting for a way to play it off.

  But she won’t give him a chance, and when she says, “Oh, Harris, please,” her disgust etches every syllable. “I’m not stupid. The fact that you think I am makes me madder than anything. You’re on something now. I can look at you and tell. It’s killing me, killing us, our family. Evidently you’re not doing your job either—”

  “My job? What the hell do you know about my job?” Harris is back to righteous anger, as if that’ll work.

  “I ran into Tim’s wife at the grocery store.” Holly leaves the bed, disappears into Harris’s closet. “Cheryl told me Tim had to run practice again today; it’s the fifth time in two weeks.”

  Harris’s gut knots. He stares at her, almost stupid in his shock, when she reappears with a stack of his clothes, his boxer shorts, Harris thinks.

  She flings them on the bed. “So where do you go, Harris? Hmm? Where are you when you’re supposed to be running ball practice? Hooking up with some dope pusher?”

  “Aw, jeez, no. C’mon, Holly—” Begging now. He feels like he’s drowning, going down for the third time, the tenth time. There is no more time.

  Unmoved by his plea, she retreats into his closet, brings out another armful of clothing, jeans, T-shirts, polos, slacks, all jumbled together, and dumps them on the bed.

  Harris goes to her. “Stop.” He takes her arm.

  She jerks it away. “You stop.”

  “Maybe I haven’t been entirely honest.” Can he tell her? His heart is beating like a jackhammer; the sound booms in his ears.

  She laughs at what he says from deep inside his closet, and the sound is brittle. It is a sound like shattering glass. She reappears, and this time she has a canvas athletic bag with a Texas A&M logo on it in her hand. Setting it on the bed, she unzips it, begins cramming his clothes into it.

  “Can’t we talk reasonably about this?” Harris, pulse thrumming, moves alongside her.

  “I’ve given you chance after chance,” she says. “I’m done now. I don’t know who you are anymore. You aren’t the man I married. Or maybe you are, and I was just blind before.” She looks at him, and his heart stalls, seeing the pain he has caused her. “I told your mother today that for all I know you’ve taken drugs from the day we met and every day since.”

  “You know the shape my back is in. You were there for the surgeries.” Harris holds Holly’s gaze. He’s begging, something he rarely does, but he sees it’s cutting no ice with her. He can’t blame her. She has a right to her anger at him, a right to hate him.

  “It’s not just the drugs, Harris.” Holly zips the bag. “It’s the way you hide things, the way you treat me as if I’m on a need-to-know basis, like an acquaintance and not your wife. You have nightmares and panic attacks you won’t discuss. You have a kid at school who’s in trouble bad enough I can see it’s chewing you up from the inside. But you refuse to talk about any of it.” She jerks up the tote and thrusts it at Harris. “Now Kyle is doing the same thing, giving me the silent treatment. I don’t want him involved in your secrets.”

  “He’s not—” Harris breaks off before he can finish. Before he can lie to her again. Of course Kyle’s involved. He knows about the ring, and for some reason Harris can’t fathom, Kyle is going along with Harris’s wish that Holly not be involved.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, but you aren’t a good father or a good husband right now.” Holly is quieter, and somehow the effect makes her seem even more impassioned and sincere. The sense of this gets into Harris. It’s like the slimmest of blades, piercing his heart. “We need time apart,” she says. “My wish, my hope in doing this—”

  “But what is this? What are we doing? Do you want a divorce?” The idea he has had—that divorcing her is the best thing he could do for her—and the actuality, that they might literally split their lives, go their separate ways, leaves him panicked. He will not survive, he thinks.

  “I want us to live apart for a while. As little as I like the idea, I hope it will scare you enough that you’ll reconsider counseling, or the other ways out there to handle your pain.”

  “They don’t work.” He is grim. He wants to say it, that she’s killing him.

  “Well, neither is this. We—we aren’t working, Harris, and we never will unless you find a better way, another way. You have to, or else I’ll be forced to make the separation more permanent.”

  “What will you tell Kyle and Connor?” he asks, going to the bedroom doorway, pausing there.

  “The truth,” Holly says. “They know anyway—about the drugs. They aren’t stupid either.”

  11

  Caroline—Saturday, January 13

  Neilson’s was packed on Saturday morning. Caroline had known it would be, but she hadn’t known where else to suggest she and Kip meet. Searching the chattering crowd, she saw him almost immediately, or rather she saw the red Astros ball cap he’d said he’d be wearing. It was pushed back on his head, giving him a boyish appearance, although he must be in his sixties. She caught his glance and gave a low wave, moving to join him. He half stood, grinning, open faced, genial. They exchanged greetings and made small talk about Kip’s drive up from Port Aransas, the weather. It was a beautiful blue-skied morning, sunny and fifty-two degrees, according to what Caroline had heard earlier on the morning news.

  “It feels downright balmy after Omaha,” she said.

  “I hear you,” Kip said. “I couldn’t hack the winters up there anymore. That’s why I moved to Florida.”

  A waitress came, someone Caroline didn’t know, and she was glad not to have to introduce Kip, to answer questions about herself or her mother.

  Kip ordered coffee and a kolache.

  Caroline said, “Just coffee for me, please.”

  The waitress left, and they watched her for a moment before facing each other.

  “So,” Kip said, “you’re looking for your dad.”

  “Yes,” Caroline answered. “We weren’t on the best of terms. He remarried, and I wasn’t—I didn’t take the news very well.”

  “I recall him saying you were having a rough time with it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You know, I went to Omaha to get a story, but your dad and I ended up being friends. He’s never been too far out of my mind.”

  “Are you saying my dad confided in you?”

  “We hit it off. I’ve always thought he was one of the better friends I’ve ever had. I’ve missed him.”

  Caroline toyed with her napkin.
>
  “I still think about that business up there, the story, you know? It’s like the fish that got away.” Kip’s grin was brief. “I took a lot of notes back then, and last night after we talked, I sat up reading them. You know his second wife, Julia, had a kid, Harris. I always thought he was a big part of Hoff’s wish that y’all would work it out, that the four of you would be a family.”

  “Did you ever meet them? Julia and Harris?”

  “Yeah. I spent a weekend in Wyatt once. Hoff bragged on Harris’s skill on the football field so much I went down to catch one of his games. Harris was maybe ten at the time. The kid was an athlete for sure, big for his age, but watching him move, you would have thought he was a ballerina, he was so graceful, quick and agile. His hands and feet were huge. I told Hoff once Harris grew into those, he was going to make one hell of a quarterback.”

  Caroline shifted her glance, and her silence was overtaken by the buzz of breakfast conversation and the sharper clatter of dishes and cutlery. It amazed and irked her that she could still feel it, the sharp pinch of jealousy toward that boy. Of course, Harris was no longer a boy.

  “I followed his career for several years even after I lost touch with Hoff. High school and college athletics—it’s like its own small town. You get to know the players, the ones who show up regularly in the sports pages. Harris quit football. Did you know? Switched to baseball in junior high.”

  “That’s hard to believe. Dad was always going on about what a natural he was.”

  “Yeah, well, what I read at the time, he was good at baseball too. Got a full ride to Texas A&M. Pitched and played first base four years for the Aggies, although he was sidelined by a back injury a lot of the time in his senior year. I imagine he would have tried out for the big leagues if it wasn’t for that.”