December Boys Part 13

"Nicki isn't wrong," I said. "There is something there. I mean, some of these kids, Jenny-we're talking twelve, fourteen. Sentenced to hard time for a pair of Percocet? Two years in a juvenile detention center? I took Chris to one of these places once. They are the real deal. Behavioral modification. Like hazing. They have one goal: break you down to build you back up in their image. You know how stark raving everyone up here gets when the subject of drugs comes up. I mean, I know I'm not unbiased, but, d.a.m.n, you should see this North River-"

My wife shook her head, and when I tried to talk louder, she shook harder.

"This," she said, "this is what I am talking about."

"What? I'm doing my job. I thought that's what you wanted. Me to give a s.h.i.+t about something?"

"I want you to move on! With us! With me, your wife. With your son! Your family! Not with some college girl gone wild."

"So you are p.i.s.sed about Nicki!"

"No wife wants to come home and find her husband standing without his s.h.i.+rt on in the middle of the kitchen with a hot young girl. No, Jay. Big f.u.c.king surprise. Yes, it would p.i.s.s off any wife. From here to Nebraska. Okay? But that's not the problem. You say you're not sleeping with her-"

"I'm not sleeping with her-"

"And I said I believe you! But you're not here, either."

I feigned surprised, panning around. "I'm not here? So where am I? One of Saturn's moons? Because this sure looks like my f.u.c.king kitchen."

Jenny hopped up. I did too.

We stood toe to toe. Another knockdown, drag-out. How many of these we'd had over the years, I'd lost track. I readied for the attack, like any wild animal, most dangerous when cornered, wounded, pitted for survival. But I was also tired. Too despondent, too disheartened to will outrage and win this time.

Now my wife saw my ribs. "What happened?"

"I fell."

"How much are you drinking?"

"I wasn't drunk. There's, like, ice everywhere. I'm fine. You b.i.t.c.h about communication. You complain I'm shut off. But you haven't returned a f.u.c.king phone call in three days."

"I needed s.p.a.ce."

"Yeah? And I need my son. Who you took. Across state lines. And then you don't have the courtesy to pick up a telephone? I'm still your husband. More importantly, I'm still Aiden's father."

"I know. You're right. I should've called sooner. And I shouldn't have kept Aiden from you. I didn't know how else to navigate the situation. I didn't want to hear your voice."

"Well, ain't that f.u.c.king wonderful. So while I can't see my son because you can't stand the sound of me I've got your mother whispering in your ear."

"I know you hate her but-"

"Bulls.h.i.+t. She hates me. Always has."

"That's not true. Believe what you want to believe. But even if it were true-and it's not-have a little faith. I wouldn't be so easily swayed, okay? I'm not this delicate flower, too nave to make up her own mind. People talk s.h.i.+t. They always do. What is going on with you and me is between you and me."

"And what is going on?" I looked around the depressing setting, afternoon skies dampening walls, throwing a dark blanket over furniture and floor. I hated the way the northern wilds could do that. Draw all light, suck it up like soda through a straw. "Because here you are, without my son, after not returning calls, with none of your things. Obviously you're not planning on staying. So what's the deal, Jenny? You're moving out? That it? Want a divorce?"

Jenny didn't respond right away. Then again, I didn't give her much a chance, jumping right back in.

"Just f.u.c.king great."

"I didn't say anything about a divorce."

"Hey," I said, "I mean, who could blame you? You gutted it out, tried marriage for almost, like, a whole f.u.c.king year. Makes you f.u.c.king Mother Teresa, right? G.o.dd.a.m.n martyr, stay married to a monster like me for twelve months. Actually . . ." I pretended to do the math in my head. "Not quite a year. More like nine months. But, still, I mean, close." I clapped my hands in a juvenile display. "Wow, just wow. Should f.u.c.king pin the medal to your chest. f.u.c.king heroic."

"We've been doing this dance a lot longer than a few months. We've been at it since high school. And the problem now is the same as it was then."

"Which is?"

"Your brother."

"What the h.e.l.l has he got to do with any of this?" I stopped and pretended to think. "You mean my dead brother, Chris? The junkie who's been gone for over a year? And truth be told, a lot longer than that. The same guy I barely saw the last five years of his life? The drug addict I avoided like the f.u.c.king plague? That brother?"

I meant the barb to be a stinging indictment of how ridiculous my wife was being.

Instead all she said was, "Yes."

"I'm seeing Dr. Shapiro-Weiss again," I blurted.

"That's good to hear."

"She says I have a PTSD thing going on. Because of Chris. So, y'know, I'm dealing with stuff."

"That's good," my wife said.

"I don't want to lose you, Jenny."

"I know."

I waited for rea.s.surance, my heart flipping inside its cage, desperate for release, blood pressure surging; I could hear the swells rising in my ears, riptide threatening to drag me from sh.o.r.e for good, surrender me to the undertow. I thought admitting I needed help-telling her that I was getting that help-would be some magic elixir. But I was too late. We'd run out of time. I felt my chest clutch up. The pills the doctor had given me were in the other room. Right on the dresser. Relief ten feet away. But I didn't want to risk moving from that spot. I had this sudden, all-consuming fear that if I took a step away from her right then, let her out of my sight for even a second, she'd be gone forever.

"Tell me what you need me to do," I said. "How do I get you and Aiden to come home?"

"I don't know."

"Why did you even come back here?"

"To talk," she said. "And I needed clothes for Aiden. Some of my things."

"So you're moving out?"

"No. Not moving out. Just taking s.p.a.ce. Time."

"Until what? What the h.e.l.l are you waiting for?"

"I'm not sure. I guess I'll know it when I see it."

Afterwards I retrieved my script and sat at the kitchen table while my wife gathered those things she'd come back for, clothes, makeup, whatever a single mom needs to survive. I didn't watch her pack. I kept my back turned and lit up right there in the house. Didn't bother with a window or the fan. Who gave a s.h.i.+t? I listened to the soft patter of feet, the opening and closing of dresser drawers. We lived on a quiet street, everyone at work or cloistered behind suburban walls. Nothing stirred outside. I could hear every squeak inside our fractured home, and these echoes of extraction stabbed parts of me unknown.

I poured a cup of coffee from the pot Nicki had made, swirled in milk and sugar, sat back down without sensation, a burn victim long after the fire, all nerve endings cauterized, deadened, the pain now seared as a permanent part.

Jenny dragged her haul into the kitchen. My wife leaned over and kissed me on the head, the way you take leave from a mildly annoying cousin you tolerate once a year on the holidays, responsibility served, parting a relief.

I asked when I could see my son. Jenny said since I had the week off, come up tomorrow if I wanted. Just call first. Then my wife walked out the door, and I was alone.

I'm not sure how long I sat at that table, but long enough for the coffee to go cold. f.u.c.k coffee. If I was going to drink something cold, might as well be a beer. I cracked the day's first, and headed out to the garage. I reached into the trash bin and dug out the giant sc.r.a.pbook I'd thrown away, last year's secret obsession to exonerate my brother that hadn't been a secret to anyone.

Last year when Chris had gone missing, I'd needed a picture of him to show around the now-demolished truck stop. The one photograph I had, this old, faded yearbook snapshot, had been taken back before he was a skeleton, when he had a regular haircut and looked human. When I saw my aunt and uncle at the wedding, the social event of the season attended by seven people, including the G.o.dd.a.m.n justice of the peace, money so tight, I'd asked them to bring any old pictures they had of my brother and me, our parents. My history.

I hadn't taken more than a cursory glance at the gold-embossed wedding gift. I ripped the pages from the three-hole punch and transferred Chris and my folks to the back of the binder. Tossed the alb.u.m. I didn't need the constant reminder sitting on a shelf.

Beer in hand, I lit another cigarette and dropped the binder on my workbench, peeling back the cover, skipping the articles I'd compiled on Adam, Michael, and Gerry Lombardi, heading straight to the photos of my family in the back. They were all dead now.

My brother had been ten years older than me, so when he was a teenager, I was a kid. And when Chris was a kid, I wasn't born. We're talking '70s, '80s. Taking photographs then wasn't like it is today, the way Jenny doc.u.mented Aiden's life digitally on her iPhone, uploading them to the desktop, memories that would never fade or decompose, stored in permanent electronic folders. These photos I had of Chris, Mom, and Dad were Polaroids, snapped on cheap Nokia c.r.a.p, yellowed, disintegrating with the pa.s.sage of time.

I ran a finger over the cellophane protector. Little red house. Dirt lawn. Chris in denim outfits, sporting an a.s.sortment of b.u.t.t-chop haircuts. Mom, so young, with too much makeup under her eyes. Dad, s.h.a.ggy and less serious. There were pics of him goofing around, wearing funny hats, a far cry from the stern and responsible man I'd known as a father.

The three of them at Christmas. The three of them on vacation by the beach. Picnics in the park. They were a family. They all seemed happy. Until I showed up. Once I appeared on the scene, the tone s.h.i.+fted to somber. Then a terrible thought: maybe it all turned to s.h.i.+t when I was born? So long after their first, maybe I was the accident that disrupted the harmony? All I remembered was Chris and our father screaming at each other, my mother silent, off in the distance. I knew my father to be a good man, the kind of man I aspired to be. He was good to me. But there was undoubtedly a distance. My father reacted and battled my brother. My mother seemed broken. Even as a kid, I knew she drank too much. As a child, I attributed these stresses to my brother's acting out. I'd wonder what if Chris wasn't here? What if it was just my parents and me? Maybe then things would've been better. Maybe then we'd be happy. And when they died, even if I didn't blame Chris the way the rest of the town did, I'd think if he hadn't been born, maybe my parents would be alive today. I viewed Chris as the aberration, the mistake. But what it if it was the other way around? What if I was the one who shouldn't be here?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

I'D SUCKED DOWN half a pack of cigarettes and drained another case of beer running through the photographic seasons like a perverted version of The Wonder Years, watching satisfaction erode with each vacant expression.

I opened the garage door and stood at the edge. Still hadn't put on a s.h.i.+rt, hair damp. Nothing dries in the cold. Probably catch pneumonia. The skies over the mountains threatened storm. I inhaled a deep, icy breath, which hurt my lungs. But the air here was clean, pure; I knew it filled me with something good.

Turning to go back inside, I spotted the car. Several houses down, just sitting there. The last house on the block. Sedan. Brown, black, maybe dark blue. Engine running, taillights glowing. In the day's dying light, I couldn't see too well, but I could make out the two shadowy figures inside. I checked up and down the street. I hadn't met all my neighbors. Had no interest. But this car did not belong here.

My heart started speeding again. How much did I have to drink? Or were the cigarettes making me jumpy? The pills the doctor prescribed weren't cutting down on the anxiety. I knew whoever was inside that the car had been sent to do me harm. Haul me away, take me in, make me disappear. Even without seeing anyone's eyes, I could feel intentions of malice. Veins throbbed up my wrists, thrumming inside my biceps, my breathing harsh, hostile, agitated.

When the landline rang, I practically jumped out of my kicks, like I'd grabbed hold of an electric fence.

I closed the garage door and headed inside, snagging a dirty tee off the arm of a chair. The ringing droned, annoying and obnoxious. I should've known who was calling before I even put receiver to ear.

"Jay," Andy DeSouza said. "Why aren't you picking up your cell?"

I carried the landline, cradle and all, to the window and cracked the shutters. The car down the block began coughing exhaust as it pulled away slowly, taunting me.

"I had to call HR to get this number."

"Yeah," I answered, waiting for the car to move faster. "What's up?" Get the h.e.l.l out of here and leave me alone.

"Were you out at the North River Inst.i.tute last night?"

The car drove off up the snow-packed street, creeping around the corner, two taillights blazing red around the bend, a pair of demon eyes casting judgment.

"Your truck was spotted on a road up there."

I let the blinds fall. "What? You're having me followed, Andy?"

"So you admit it. You were out there?"

"What do you care what I do in my free time? Which I now have an abundance of, thanks to you. Oh, and I appreciate you telling my wife I'd been suspended."

"I think I was pretty clear not to look into-"

"What's your damage, man? I'm sitting in my house, doing squat, because you told me not to come to work. Then you rat me out to my wife? Now you're calling to bust my b.a.l.l.s because someone saw my truck on a road? What the f.u.c.k?"

"This isn't the kind of att.i.tude that's going to get you to Concord-"

"You know, Andy, you've been dangling that bulls.h.i.+t prize since I got here. You're like one of those rigged f.u.c.king games at Chuck E. Cheese I take my kid to in Pittsfield. Slip a buck, try and snare a plush bunny with a metal claw. But you know what? You can never win the bunny. You can never hook any of the good stuff. It's fixed. A con game."

"I can't tell you how disappointed I am, Jay. Y'know, Concord-"

"Andy?" I stopped him. "Do me a favor. Take Concord and stick it up your f.u.c.king a.s.s." I slammed the receiver.

The phone immediately rang back.

"I said f.u.c.k off!"

"Whoa, Jay. It's me. Everything okay, man?"

"What do you want, Charlie?" I peeked back through the curtains. Light snow fell through porch light, fresh powder in the street unblemished by tire tracks. I took a deep breath, feeling for my smokes. "I just lost my job."

"You got fired?"

"Or I quit."

"s.h.i.+t. What's Jenny going to say?"

I unscrewed my script, toppled a pair of pills, took a swill of warm, flat beer, and lit another cigarette. "Doesn't matter," I said through the slow burn. "She packed up her s.h.i.+t earlier. She's gone."

He didn't say anything.

I stared down at my feet when I realized I'd been walking in circles. Literally in circles. Like one of McMurphy's rejects lobbying to see the World Series in the nut ward.

I forced myself to take a chair. "Why are you calling?"

"To apologize," he said. "I'm not sure I helped last night. I'm not sure I've been helping at all. I mean, last night, you didn't need that."