by Laura Wiess
The man grunts, not wanting to encourage him.
“I know, pretty amazing, right?” He shakes his head, scratches the smooth hollow between the dog’s eyes. “My dad found her and her sister starving when they were just like, six-week-old pups, and his unit adopted them. He busted his ass to get her out of there and shipped back to me before—” He stops as if he’s just remembered something crucial, averts his dark gaze, and it’s only then that the man notices the circles under the kid’s eyes, the tautness of the pale skin drawn across his cheekbones. “Anyway.” He shrugs and gives the dog’s leash a gentle tug. “Come on, Daisy.” But as they start past the kid hesitates, searching the man’s haggard face. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again. “Enjoy the day.”
“Yeah,” the man says, but he isn’t watching the kid leave, he’s checking the sidewalk for others because streams of joggers, dog-walkers, foot traffic on this lonely overpass never occurred to him. Finding it empty, he puts his hands back on the cement wall.
His son squirms, hiccups and starts to cry.
The thin wail echoes out over the breeze.
“Shh.” The man pats the baby. Rubs his back. “It’s all right. We’re here now.” Brushes away the tears gathered in his eyes, tears that seem to come and go at will these days, and with a grunt of effort, slings his right leg up and over the wall.
“Whoa, hey!”
The man freezes.
“That’s dangerous. What’re you doing?”
The man turns his head, only his head, because he is straddling the wall, the baby is fretting and his fingertips burn from his grip on the rough cement surface. “Don’t,” he says, catching sight of the kid with the dog from the corner of his eye. They’ve stopped and turned back to him, standing maybe fifteen feet away. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“But—”
“Just keep walking,” the man says.
“Okay, but I don’t . . . You shouldn’t . . . Holy shit, wait, you’re not gonna . . . ?” the kid blurts, and then the man hears quick, musical beeping and the kid’s talking again, low and urgent.
The man wishes he could turn his head farther to see more but he’s dizzy, and he didn’t expect that, either. Heights have never bothered him but now, half over the edge, he dares not look down. He sits a moment, absently listening to the kid babble, gaze fixed on the crisp, blue sky, breathing deep to quell the sickening lurch of vertigo, and when it passes, he shifts his butt and swings his other leg over the wall.
Both feet dangle in the air.
“Oh, no way,” the kid says, his voice tight and shaking. “C’mon, man, don’t do this. Seriously.”
The man doesn’t answer. His heart is pounding too hard, his breath too scarce.
It’s the most alive he’s felt in months.
“Think of your kid,” the kid says. “Jesus Christ, it’s just a baby.”
“He,” the man says, looking at him. “Sam. My son, Sammy.” The man stops, not knowing why he feels compelled to set that straight.
“Sam, okay, yeah, good,” the kid says, glancing worriedly back over his shoulder.
The road is empty.
The baby whimpers.
“Shh,” the man says soothingly, patting him. “I’m here.”
A horn blares somewhere down below on the highway, and the baby starts to cry.
“Hey, uh, look, it sounds like he’s not too cool with heights,” the kid says with false brightness. “What if I hold him or something for you? See if he’ll calm down.”
“No. He’s shy with strangers.” Dimly, over the thundering of his heart and the baby’s fussing, the man hears brakes squeal and an engine roar to a stop, the kid babbling, his frantic voice loud and loose now, charged with adrenaline and fear.
He hears the officer speaking, calm and controlled, hears the recited, “Eight oh one central, be advised I have a white male, early twenties, brown hair, jeans, tan jacket, sitting on the Victory overpass wall with an infant . . . ,” condensing him into an efficient, emotionless, no-frills dilemma, then going on to request backup, an emergency response team and traffic control both at the bridge and on the highway below. He stops listening, looks up instead and sees the police car parked at the curb, the solemn, uniformed cop and the kid, eyes huge, face filled with disbelief, the dog poised and watching, red lights spinning . . .
It disturbs him.
This moment was supposed to be peaceful, just the two of them, a permanent bonding of him and his son, the one thing they could have that no one could ever take away, but now, thanks to his poor planning, even that is slipping out of his grasp.
He tightens his grip on the baby.
The cop approaches, talking low and reassuringly, taking deliberate steps toward him, telling him everything will be all right, that his name is Officer Areno, Nick for short, and he’s just there to listen to whatever the man has to say and make sure everybody stays safe. The cop, Nick, is older, middle-aged and worn looking, not cocky, beefed up and bald but with a slight paunch and worry lines, dark salt-and-pepper hair sticking out from under his hat and one of those classic, old-fashioned cop mustaches.
His gaze is steady with purpose. Steadier, the man fears, than his own.
“We can work this out,” the cop says firmly, and then, into the radio pinned to his shirt, adds something in a low voice about getting the crisis negotiator here. “Come on down, sir, so we can talk. There’s nothing here that can’t be fixed.”
The man stares at him, unmoving.
“Do you have any weapons on you? Any knives, guns, explosives . . . ?”
“No,” the man says, offended.
“Okay, good. And I see you have your son with you,” the cop says, nodding at the baby held against the man’s chest. “Sam, right? How’s he doing? Mind if I take a look at him?”
The man hesitates, then, keeping one hand on the bridge, pulls back the edge of his jacket, the edge of the sling, and caresses the baby’s damp, ruddy cheek with a gentle thumb. The baby gurgles and beams up at him.
“Good-looking boy,” the cop says, nodding. “What is he, four, five months old?”
“Three,” the man says absently, lost for a heartbeat in the pure, hypnotic sweetness of his son’s smile. “He’s big for his age.”
“That’s good,” Nick says, ambling forward another several steps. “Good, strong, healthy boy. You two have a lot to look forward to. First birthday, teaching him how to swing a bat, ride a bike—”
“Stop,” the man says, dropping his hand and letting his jacket swing back into place. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Hey, just talking one father to another,” Nick says, and his voice is casual but there’s a watchful light in his eyes that the man doesn’t trust.
“Don’t come any closer,” he says, shifting forward on the wall.
“No problem,” Nick says, halting his advance. “So, what did you say your name was?”
“Corey,” the man says after a moment.
“What’s your last name, Corey?”
The man remains silent.
“How about Sammy? What’s his last name?”
The man’s mouth tightens and he doesn’t answer.
“Does anyone know you’re here?”
“No,” Corey says flatly.
“Is there someone we can call for you, a family member maybe, bring them down here to talk? Best friend, parent, girlfriend . . . ?”
“No,” he says again after a long moment.
“Well, if you change your mind, the offer’s open,” Nick says, his gaze never leaving the man’s face. “So are you from East Mills, Corey?”
He doesn’t answer.
Nick keys his radio and says in a low voice, “Eight oh one central, be advised subject’s first name is Corey, three-month-old male is his son, first name Sam. DOB and birth mother’s name unknown. Check Mercy General.” Dispatch acknowledges, and he says to Corey, “I don’t know about you but I could sure use a cup of coffee right
now. Or maybe a nice, cold soda.” A bead of sweat trickles down past the cop’s ear. “What do you say you, me and Sam go grab something to drink and work this out together?”
“No,” the man says, forgetting his vertigo and shaking his head. The sky rises and dips, his stomach lurches and he gasps, fingers digging into the cement. “Just leave us alone.” The man tightens his jaw and his son, perhaps sensing the tension, lets out a whimper.
“Look, I can see you love your son,” Nick says, sweat darkening the armpits of his blue uniform shirt. “And right now you’re just sitting on a bridge with your boy, enjoying the day. Nothing’s happened and nobody’s been hurt, so let’s keep things safe, okay?”
The man is silent a moment. “Life is what’s gonna hurt him, not me,” he says finally, stroking the baby’s back.
“Yeah, sometimes it feels that way,” Nick says, resting a white-knuckled hand on the cement wall. “I have a kid, too. A daughter. She’s sixteen. She’s a great kid, really smart, but I still worry about her and want to protect her. That’s what fathers do. I know it’s not always easy, but it’s worth it. So what do you say, Corey?”
The man gazes past the cop at the kid with the dog. Somehow, in these last few moments the kid has aged and doesn’t look so young anymore. “Your father’s dead, right? Isn’t that what you meant before?”
The kid blinks, taken aback, and glances at the cop, uncertain.
“Come on, now, this isn’t about him,” Nick says, motioning the kid back a few steps. “Let’s—”
“Your father put himself in harm’s way to protect you, and when he died they told you he was a hero and that you should always be proud of him,” the man says, holding the younger guy’s stricken gaze. “Right?”
“Don’t t-talk about my f-father,” he stammers, his eyes welling up.
Corey ignores him. “Well, I’m putting myself in harm’s way too, but you know what they’ll tell my son when I’m gone?” He lowers his head, keeping his gaze on them, and kisses the top of the baby’s head. “That I was a coward and a loser who didn’t give a shit about anybody but himself, and how they’re all better off without me.”
“They’re wrong, Corey,” Nick says. “Come on down and we’ll talk.”
“They’ll poison my own son against me. He won’t understand, he’ll never forgive me and I can’t have that.” He is careful not to glance down at the highway below. “A kid shouldn’t grow up thinking his father didn’t care about him.” He looks into Nick’s eyes, letting him see all that’s left. “It screws him up inside.”
“Easy,” Nick says, and the tension in his voice is obvious. “We’ll get you through this; you have my word on it. If you come down from there we can sort this out and—”
“He didn’t ask to be born, and he doesn’t deserve all the miserable, rotten shit that’s gonna be dumped all over him because of me.” The man can’t even see them now; the sudden spark of anger has flared and died, and despair stains his vision a dense, opaque red, blotting out all but futility. “And it will.” His voice is thick, dull to his own ears. “It will.”
“Corey, listen, it doesn’t have to be that way.” Nick keys his radio. “Eight oh one central, requesting ETA on county crisis ERT.” The words are sharp, tight, and the radio squawks in return but for Corey it all fades and is finally gone.
Only the pain remains, overwhelming and unbearable, conquering him in what feels like an hour but is actually only seconds. It blinds and deafens him to all but the rumbling landslide of hopelessness and helplessness, drowns him in the unchecked misery flooding his brain, cutting off any chance of survival. He surrenders, beaten, exhausted from waging this brutal battle with himself every day, forcing his leaden limbs out of bed, tormented by the constant, bitter burden of unanswered prayers, the wanting, waiting, hoping to feel something better than desolation, sweeter than doubt, something kinder than the relentless, razor-sharp shredding of his own tortured thoughts twisting him up inside, fueling the hemorrhage of all he ever was, hoped for, would be.
A sudden, whispered thought—You can go now—twines through his mind, and, grateful, he accepts it.
“I love you, Samster,” he murmurs, tears streaking his face. “Close your eyes.”
“No,” Nick says, stepping closer. “Corey, wait. Please let me help you.”
“You can’t,” he says simply, and as the cop lunges the last few yards the man pushes off of the wall and, tipping forward into empty space, plummets out of sight.
“No!” Nick yells, and peers over the wall, shouting into his radio.
Eli Gage, the guy with the dog, stands forgotten, staring in stunned shock at the spot where the man and his son went over. Their plunge sends ripples through the air, and shuddering, he retreats a step, then another, but there is no escape. They widen, spread, and break over him. He is awash in it now, a part of it, and will be forever.
The cop stands, chest heaving, his face raw with anguish.
He is a part of it now, too.
Trembling, Eli pulls a pack of Marlboros from his T-shirt pocket, lights one and, knees weak, sinks down on the curb, head in his hands, dog at his side.
In the distance, someone is screaming.
But when I looked for good, evil came;
And when I waited for light, darkness came.
My lyre is turned to mourning,
And my pipe to the voice
Of those who weep.
—JOB
Chapter 1
Does bad news come in threes, the way dead people are supposed to?
Because it feels that way today, like something else is going to go wrong but I have no idea what, so all I can do is wait for it on this hot, hazy April Thursday when the air is hushed, heavy and strangely silver, the phones are silent and storm clouds bank in the distance.
I have the door propped open and am working alone for the first time in the month since I started here, standing behind the front counter of the dry cleaner’s trying not to worry about what’s happening at home and digging forgotten change from the pockets of old Mr. Hanson’s damp, ugly polyester slacks before pinning an ID tag on the waistband and tossing them in the bin scheduled for Friday cleaning.
I put the coins on the counter.
We’re supposed to return anything of value we find in our customers’ pockets, put it in an envelope and staple it to the ticket on their hanger, but my boss, Eva, left early to take her car to the shop and it’s only twenty-seven cents, so I drop the pennies in the Need one? Take one! bowl by the register and pocket the quarter.
I’m saving for a car and I figure anything under a dollar is fair game.
Besides, the red and white plastic WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ITEMS LEFT IN CLOTHING! signs posted everywhere in the store pretty much cover it.
And one stupid quarter is small compensation for having to wait on Mr. Hanson twice a week, to maintain my professional smile and not gag every time he touches my fingers when he hands me his ticket, licks his purple, livery lips and stares at my boobs.
Ugh.
I think about it a moment longer. Take the quarter back out, retrieve two pennies from the bowl, drop it all in an envelope and staple it to his main ticket.
I don’t want anything from him, especially not in my jeans pocket.
There are four more bundles of dirty clothes under the counter waiting to be pinned, so I shake off the specter of his disgustingness and get to work, letting the familiar rhythm of searching pockets take over and gazing absently out the plate-glass window into the nearly empty parking lot.
Weird.
It’s almost rush hour and this place should be bustling. Besides us, the minimall has an ice cream depot, a laundry, a liquor store and a bagel shop, and when I started work at three there was a line at the ice cream place but instead of getting busier as school let out, it’s dead quiet.
Even the traffic on Main Street is lighter than usual.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s the weather.
I finish the first bundle—a silky Diane von Furstenberg dress, black skirt and jade silk blouse—and take them back to the Monday bin. Stop at the radio Eva left playing softly in the background—Terence, the presser, loves classic R & B and Eva will do almost anything to keep him happy as he presses clothes faster when he’s in a good mood than when he’s crabby, and Eva’s country music station definitely makes him crabby—and spin the dial, trading Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” (my father, in his wise-guy moods, sings this to me when I wake up rumpled, cranky and bleary eyed) for Evanescence’s “My Last Breath.”
Go back out front and start on Mrs. Malinowski’s mother-of-the-bride dress from her son’s wedding, a daffodil-yellow chiffon-and-sequin number that I have to be very careful pinning because chiffon is not a fabric that forgives and forgets puncture wounds.
There’s a lipstick smudge on the bodice so I put a little stain-arrow sticker on it, carefully drape the dress and jacket over a hanger and leave it on the line near the press. The ticket is marked for next Friday but she probably won’t pick it up then or even within the month, because according to Eva, single-use event wear always gets left here until we make our quarterly Your dry cleaning has been here for three months and we’re just reminding you to pick it up phone calls. Still, unless there’s a last-minute rush today and we get loads of clothes due for tomorrow, Terence will have everything in this place clean and pressed by ten, and Helga, the surly, uninspired morning clerk, will have it all bagged and filed, including the gown.
I hope it doesn’t get so slow that Eva lays me off.
Not now.
Just . . . not now.
No more bad news allowed.
This whole week has been a mess.
If I hadn’t cut school six long, miserable days ago to meet stupid Justin and get left at McDonald’s, then my father would never have left his patrol area to bring me home in the police car.
And if he hadn’t done that, then he wouldn’t have been anywhere near Victory Lane when Corey Mahoney decided to jump off of the overpass and take his baby with him. No, someone else, whoever was patrolling our area that day, would have caught the call and been the one to try to stall Corey until the county crisis negotiator arrived.
