Somebody's Fool, page 43
“But not Delgado?”
J.J. shook his head. “Nope. All indications are he’s doubling down.”
“You know this how?”
“That’s what I started to tell you. Before I went to the hospital, I paid a visit to this dive bar called the Green Hand. The cops all hang out there.”
“That’s where this whole thing started,” Peter told him. “God only knows why, but Thomas went there last night and got so drunk he blacked out and fell off his barstool. That’s probably where he got his concussion.”
“Well, the same crew was back there tonight,” J.J. said, “having what I would describe as a spirited conversation. Deb Harris was there and she knows me, so I had to sit at the bar with my back to them. From what I could gather they were all trying to convince our Mr. Delgado that the situation was serious. I heard somebody say, ‘What if he dies?’ ”
“So they know Thomas is in the ICU.”
“I also heard your name a couple times. Like you were going to be trouble, but Delgado was having none of it. He called them all a bunch of pussies and stormed off. When he was gone, they all sat around shaking their heads, like, Now what the fuck do we do? Tomorrow, I’ll go see Deb. She looked pretty worried. She might talk to me.”
“You might also have a word with Janey at Hattie’s Lunch here in Bath,” Peter told him. “According to her mother, she and Delgado were the ones who dropped Thomas off at the police station instead of taking him to the hospital. I get the impression their relationship has soured.”
J.J. took a small, spiral-ring pad out of his shirt pocket and made a note. “So, you’re telling me to follow up. I mean, this is a real story, right?”
“It is,” Peter reluctantly agreed. “You see the problem, though. I’m right in the center of it. Whatever we write, it can’t come across as a personal vendetta.”
J.J. tucked the notepad back in his shirt pocket. “So,” he said, nodding in the direction of the den. “If it’s not a woman, who do you have in there?”
Peter couldn’t help smiling. How to explain Carl Roebuck? “An old friend of my father’s, actually,” he said. “He’s going through a rough patch.”
J.J. was looking around now, taking the place in, clearly impressed. “You’re doing all this work yourself?”
“Me and one other guy.”
“It should be worth a fortune when you’re done. Bath is going to explode.”
“Your lips to God’s ear.”
“Well, I should get going,” J.J. said, pushing back from the island. “Thanks for the vino. Tomorrow, we nail these bastards.”
They shook on it.
When J.J. was gone, Peter poked his head into the den where the movie’s credits were scrolling and Carl was still snoring peacefully. What he’d told J.J. was true, Peter thought, but not the whole truth. Yes, Carl Roebuck had been a friend of his father’s, but he was also, it appeared, now a friend of Peter’s. Had he been on Sully’s original list of people he was supposed to check up on? Peter couldn’t remember, but it didn’t matter. He was apparently on it now. Grabbing a blanket from the closet, Peter draped it over him.
Back in the kitchen he poured himself another glass of wine, then set up his laptop on the island and waited for it to boot up. J.J. was right. The house probably was worth a fortune, or would be once the recession ended. His long-awaited ticket out. During the course of the day, though, something had shifted. When he awoke this morning, the place had been his to do with as he pleased. Now things felt more complicated. Maybe he was only part owner? Didn’t the fact that the house had been Will’s home and he loved it mean he, too, had a say in what happened to it? And if that was true, perhaps the converse was as well. Maybe the fact that Thomas and Andy had been unfairly denied that home meant they, too, had a claim. Even if, as Peter suspected, Thomas came all this way to burn the place to the ground, it was still part his inheritance. That was the other thing he’d given voice to at the hospital on the off chance Thomas was still in there somewhere, trying to decide if he wanted to live. Maybe, he told his son, it wasn’t too late. If he wanted to, they could start over. Right here in this very house.
One last thing, then, before bed. He thought again about putting it off until morning. After all, what possible difference would a few hours make? But no, he’d do it now. In Google’s search rectangle he typed: SULLIVAN. ANDREW JAMES. WEST VIRGINIA.
And hit search.
Me, Again—
The weirdest thing, Little Bro!
I know, I know. It’s all been pretty weird, right? Everything I’ve been telling you since I got here? Pop taking me on a grand tour of the house we planned to torch? Rub-Not-Rob giving me the stink eye, like somehow he took just one look and he knew, knew, KNEW why I was there? Then that Grandpa Zack’s Treasures chick in the flatbed who maybe thinks I’m Brother Will? Then me going out and getting hammered and waking up in jail? That crazy cop damn near killing me before I could hightail it back home? And me almost choking to death on my own puke after they wired my jaw shut?
Except, wait! I haven’t even told you about that part yet, have I? Doesn’t matter. All that can wait. And you know what, Little Bro? Even if I never get to tell you about it, so what? You can guess, right? It’s not like you don’t know what a fuckup I am when things head south, like they always do, eventually. Which is why I really can’t blame you for taking off like you did. After all these years, you’ve had about enough of me, am I right? All I can say is move over. You want to know the truth? I’ve had about enough of myself. You ever feel that way, Little Bro? Like you’ve had just about enough of yourself?
Anyhow, before I tell you about this totally weird new thing, I should probably let you in on a secret. It might not even be real. Could be I dreamed it. Could be I’m still dreaming. You can be the judge, okay?
So, here goes: I think I might be dead.
Hah! Bet you weren’t expecting that!
Dead but also…not dead. Because, you can’t think you’re dead and be right. It’s impossible, because dead people don’t think. But here’s the thing. If I’m not dead, then where did all that pain go? Answer me that. Before—after that cop busted me up—there wasn’t a single part of me that didn’t ache. Now? Nothing. Instead of pain it’s like I’m floating. Almost like before you’re born, you know? You’re just an embryo, all dark and warm, not a care in the world, because, like, there is no world, not yet anyhow, not for you. So, all you do is just float there, happy, no idea what you’re in for. That’s kind of what this feels like, except I’m not alone in here. Wherever here is. Pop’s with me, or anyway his voice is. Inside my head, kind of. Like he means to guide me through it, this whole being dead thing. So there won’t be any surprises and I can hit the ground (ha!) running. Mostly he wants me to know everything’s okay. Death, I guess he means. Why? Basically because I can quit worrying about stuff. Like money, which you’d have to be either rich or dead not to worry about, right? Also, transportation. Don’t ask me how, but Pop’s figured out the Yellow Sub’s gone, which means there’s no way for me to get back home. Don’t worry about it. That’s what I keep hearing him tell me, but come on. How am I ever going to find you again with no wheels and no idea where you went?
There’s more. Pop wants me to know there’s no reason to feel guilty about what we were planning. Like, that whole time him and Rub-Not-Rob spent fixing up the place, only to have me show up and burn it down? Nothing to get all worked up about, he says. That’s kind of the gist of everything he’s telling me. No worries. It’s all good. Turns out there’s nothing to be scared of, either. Why? You’re gonna love this, Little Bro. Because he brought the stopwatch. Remember? The one me and Will fought over? It’s mine now, Pop says. I can time myself being brave if I want to. Lucky me, right? Oh, and here’s the kicker. Even if I’m dead? Turns out it’s not too late to start over, me and him. All I gotta do is want to. That’s what he keeps coming back to, like it’s super important, even more important than me being dead: IT’S NOT TOO LATE!
Hah! You thinking what I’m thinking? Because that was the other song Mom was always playing on that cassette tape of hers, remember? In the Yellow Sub? Before Dickweed? Oh, it’s too late baby, now it’s too late, though we really did try to make it. Remember that? And also something has died. That was part of it, too. Something has died, but damned if I can remember what. Can you? In the song, I mean?
Me, is what it feels like. Just floating like I am, the pain all gone, Pop trying to get me to believe it’s not too late when it is. It feels like maybe it’s me that died.
Wait, though. I just remembered another line. There’ll be good times again for both me and you. Remember? And hey, that would be cool, right? If that was true? I’d like that. I definitely would. Because they weren’t all bad, right? Those times? Me and you? Despite me always being so messed up? I mean, hey, I did get you away from Mom and Dickweed. I get that much credit, don’t I? When I heard about what they did? Making you go to that place? I came back for you, right? Okay, I never should’ve left in the first place. I know that now. I know what you must’ve thought. That I was gone for good. But, hey, I did come back. And you did better for a while, right? I mean, things were still pretty fucked up, but you did better? Or were you just pretending so I wouldn’t feel bad? Was it already just too late?
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I get it. About why you had to split like you did, not even saying goodbye. Because of me and my plans to get even, right? Me bullying you into agreeing about what had to happen. Same as with that blood oath when we were kids. Me wanting actual blood. You wanting to just say the words. You’d always go along, pretend my idea was a good one. Figuring it was just talk, that I’d either change my mind or forget and that would be the end of it. Except not this time, right? I think when it dawned on you that I meant business, that’s when you decided to take off. Go someplace far away.
I’m sorry, Little Bro. I am. I should’ve been more on your side all along. Remember that time when you asked me if I was ashamed of you, and I said I wasn’t? The look on your face? You could tell I was lying. That I’d broken that blood oath of ours—never to lie to each other. You knew, knew, KNEW that I was ashamed. Of you being what you are, even though it’s not your fault. I wish it wasn’t too late to take that back. That shame. Like I said before, you deserved better. Better parents. A better big brother, too.
Crazy, all of it, right? And now here I am floating somewhere that isn’t even a real place, no company except for Pop’s voice saying how it’s not too late, even though I know it is. That’s what dead means, right, Little Bro? That it’s too late?
But we really did try to make it, didn’t we? Me and you?
Superpower
“YOU SURE you don’t want to come in?” Janey said.
She and Roger were sitting in his truck in the alley behind Hattie’s, his cane balanced on the seat between them, as if to suggest that both the thing itself and what it represented would always be there, not just a barrier but a challenge to overcome. Nor, apparently, was it the only one. If they continued to see each other, she’d be dating a man who both limped through life (like Sully) and drove a vehicle with a snowplow blade attached (also like Sully), which meant she’d be that much closer to living her mother’s life, the very thing she’d always been determined to avoid, even if it meant settling for something worse.
But apparently she was getting ahead of herself, because if Roger was in love with her, as Ruth claimed, he was doing a pretty good job of disguising the fact. Oh, they’d had a good time tonight, better than good, really. He’d cheered her up like she hoped he would, but now here they were, half an hour later, sitting awkwardly in the cab of his truck with the heat blasting and he hadn’t even tried to kiss her. Back at the Horse she hadn’t been sure she wanted him to, but it was now clear that she hadn’t wanted him not to, either.
“No,” Roger said in response to her second invitation. “I should be moseying along. Tina will be expecting me at Grandpa Zack’s bright and early.”
“Fine,” she said. “Whatever.”
“I had fun tonight, though,” he said when she reached for the door handle.
“Really?”
He nodded. “We should do it again sometime.”
She took her hand off the door handle and turned back to him. “Okay if I ask you a question?” she said.
“Shoot.”
She exhaled deeply. “My mother…who’s generally full of shit…has this crazy idea that you’re in love with me.”
At this he grinned. “Does she?”
She waited for him to elaborate. When it became clear that he had no such intention, she continued, “But, obviously, you’re not.”
He appeared to give this statement more careful deliberation—at least to Janey’s thinking—than should have been necessary. “Could be I just want to go slow?” he said, as if this were one possibility among many and he really had no more idea than she did as to its validity.
She had to chuckle at this. “If so, you’d be the first,” she said. “Every man who’s ever been interested in me was determined to break the speed limit.”
“Could be I’d rather not be one of those.” Great. More hypothesizing.
“Okay, but what sort of pace did you have in mind?” she asked, pleased that he hadn’t categorically denied having feelings for her but disappointed by the ease with which he appeared to keep them in check. “Neither of us is getting any younger. How long have we known each other?”
“I’ve known you longer than you’ve known me.”
She blinked at him. “That makes exactly no sense, Roger.”
“Put it this way. I’ve been paying attention to you longer. Your attention has been elsewhere. I’m just giving you a chance to catch up. Also, you’re seeing somebody, right?”
“Not anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Since tonight. That’s what me asking you out means, in case you were wondering.”
“Does he know he’s history? This other guy?”
“I told him, but I’m not sure he was listening.”
“Well, once you’re shut of him, we can start a headlong romance of our own.” He was enjoying himself now, she could tell. “Maybe try holding hands or something.”
“You really don’t want to come in?”
“I never said I didn’t want to. I said I wasn’t going to.”
“Well, crap, Roger. There’s no changing your mind?”
“Not tonight.”
She shook her head. “You could be missing your one chance. Did you ever think of that?”
“I sure hope not.”
“All right then,” she said, opening the door and climbing out, thereby upsetting the balance of his cane, which tumbled out of the cab and onto the snowy pavement.
“Don’t worry,” he said, when she picked it up and wiped it off. “You can’t hurt that thing.”
“What’s it made of?” she said, surprised by its weight, when she handed it back into the cab.
“Some alloy or other,” he said. “Titanium? Who knows?” And there it was again, that goofy grin from the tenth-grade photo, the one that tugged at her heart.
“Just so you know,” she said. “Tonight won’t be your last chance.”
“Good.”
“Call me?”
“I will,” he promised, and somehow she knew he would. Men had lied to her her whole life, but she knew this one was telling the truth. Only after watching him back out of the alley and head up the deserted street and out of sight did she insert her key in the lock. Something immediately felt wrong, but it took a moment for her to understand what—the door was already unlocked. So, when she pushed it open and flipped on the light switch, she wasn’t entirely surprised to see Del sitting there on the sofa.
He looked calm, but then he always did, even when she knew he was roiling inside. She thought about making a run for it, but he’d likely catch her before she got very far, and at this hour there’d be no one around to hear if she called for help. So instead she put the keys back in her purse and set it on the end table. “This door was locked when I left,” she told him.
“My professional advice would be to install a dead bolt,” Del smiled. “I picked that lock in about ten seconds.”
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. “So how long have you been sitting here in the dark?”
“A while. Where’ve you been?”
“Out.”
He nodded. “I already knew that. Where?”
“None of your business, Del.”
“I waited for you at the Hand.”
“That was dumb. I told you I wasn’t coming.”
“I waited for you,” he repeated.
“That was your mistake.”
“No,” he said, getting to his feet. “It was yours.”
“My mistake?” she said, amazed by how she always went from zero to sixty, anger-wise, with men like Roy and Del. Once the die was cast and there was no hope of de-escalating things, why not hasten the inevitable along? At least that way she felt some agency. “My mistake was wasting the last four months of my life with you and your dumb-ass cop friends.”
He took a step closer now. “I explained the situation to you. That I needed your help. Was I unclear?”
“No, you were clear. You were asking me to lie for you.”
“Which you are going to do.”
She let out a barking laugh at this, knowing full well that it was the exact wrong thing to do. Somewhere in the world there might be a man who didn’t mind being laughed at, but she hadn’t met him yet. She glanced at Del’s hands to see if they were balled into fists yet, but they weren’t. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to punch her, just that he had a longer fuse than Roy, her late unlamented husband, who would’ve dispensed with all these preliminaries and put her on the floor two seconds after she walked in the door.
