by Clem Martini
Single Voice
Clem Martini
Too Late
It’s inside, hammering away. Bigger than panic. Bigger than my chest or my lungs. Squeezing. If I wait and I breathe, it slows down, but it always comes back. Since the meeting was set up, it’s stayed longer. Each day, it’s stronger.
It’s crowding out all my other thoughts as I hike into the woods with two of the Garys: Gary Creavy and Gary Fontaine. Seems half the group is named Gary if you include Gary Bonner, who’s in our program and in solvent abuse, too. It’s just after lunch so we’ve got twenty minutes. I’m listening to them with part of my brain—the other part is saying tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
The gravel path that runs alongside the cottages keeps going out into the deeper woods. Officially we’re not supposed to smoke, but if we disappear into the bush, nobody objects. The path stretches a couple of miles through the forest preserve before it ends at a big wooden fence, rimmed with wire. I point out it wouldn’t take much to climb it. Gary F. says, then what? As soon as you got out and away, they’d phone the cops. They catch you after you break parole, you wind up in the joint. He looks at me. You wouldn’t last two days there. They hate guys like us.
I’m not us, I say. Gary F. laughs, snaps his cigarette way off into the bushes. Yeah, he says. Keep saying that all you want. In the joint nobody’s going to pay any attention to your explanation. The moment they find out what you did, they’ll take you apart.
Smokes finished, we hike back. Cross the compound. Three wood cottages, a school, the mechanic’s barn, an old brick admin building. It’s so far out of the city that animals from the forest preserve sometimes stray in. Today I see a couple of skinny rabbits shiver in the bushes as we pass admin. A deer crossed the lawn yesterday. Just before we get to the school I look over at the coyote’s skull that’s nailed above the door of the mechanic’s barn. Tomorrow, it says. Tomorrow.
In through the big rusty, metal doors of the school, down the hall to science class. Meischmitt, the science teacher, fires up a generator, runs electricity through random pieces of metal, magnetizes them so that things that didn’t have a charge before now cling together like their little metal lives depend on it. Lit class, Mr. Danner goes on and on about giants and dwarves and old-time gods. For homework he tells us to write out “the myth of me.” I ask him why, when everyone else at this place is obsessed with what’s true, he wants us to write something that’s a lie. He says it’s about finding other kinds of truths. Other ways of thinking and feeling. I ask, isn’t that just like more group therapy? Because I hate group therapy. He says maybe this will change the way I feel. I don’t think so, I tell him. He says, who knows?—the gods are pretty messed up, maybe even gods have to do group. Screw that, I think. If they’re gods they got power. If they got power they’re for sure not doing group.
Back to Cottage C for dinner. I go to the front desk, get my meds. Staff make sure I swallow them. I ask, are there any messages yet? They say they’ll let me know when they hear. I ask, can I call? No. Can I text? No. They remind me of my phone suspension. I feel myself winding up. If you touched me, I could snap like an elastic band.
I step outside, stand on the back porch with my hands in my pockets. Look toward the city. I figure her plane must have landed by now. I wonder which hotel she’s staying at.
Then it’s time for group. We start with some of the usual stuff. Behaviors and strategies. Cycles of abuse. Gary F. begins talking about his grandfather. How the old man used to select which grandkid he’d do. How anyone who pushed him away would be punished. When Gary turned ten he made himself sick rather than have sex with his granddad. Next time he stayed over, the old man waited till everyone was asleep, crept in, tied Gary’s sleeping bag shut, beat him with an extension cord till he lost consciousness. Gary talked about being trapped in that bag, struggling to get out. Begging and begging.
Suddenly it’s so hot I’m sweating. The room’s small and none of the windows will open. When session finishes and we’re dismissed I go outside, but it doesn’t help. No matter what, I can’t get enough air. I go out on the back porch looking for a breeze, then down the walk and across the lawn. My heart’s pounding. Before I know it, I’m outside the compound.
We’re not supposed to go past this point without permission but I keep going. I don’t know where I’m heading, but a few more minutes and I’ll reach the end of the road and the grocery store and the bus depot where you can get a bus into the city. And then what?
I see someone coming toward me. It’s someone I know—the program’s psychiatrist. It’s like I’m watching a movie—she’s small, but with each step she’s filling up more screen. I don’t know how to avoid her. I don’t know how to get past her, but I can’t go back and if she tries to stop me I’ll knock her to the ground. I don’t care.
The psych doesn’t try. She just walks next to me, like it’s the most natural thing to do, even though she’s going back the way she just came. She tells me she needs help and hands me a bag of groceries. I take the bag but tell her to leave me alone, tell her she’s wasting her time walking in circles. She says she’s got nothing against circles. We keep walking, me carrying her plastic bag. It’s got coffee in it. I can smell it through the foil wrap. She asks where I’m going. I still don’t know. I’m shaking. She asks if I’m nervous about my six-month review. I tell her this place is messing me up, that I’ve got no future here. We walk.
“The future is a mystery,” she tells me.
“So what am I doing?” I ask her.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“Here. What am I doing here?”
“You’d know better than me,” she says.
“The court ordered me here. But what for?”
“You’re building something,” she says.
“What?” I ask her.
“A flashlight,” she says.
I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.
She says that when I’ve built my flashlight I’ll shine it behind me to see where I’ve come from and eventually shine it ahead to see where I’m going.
I’m trying to figure that out and she loads me down with more stuff. “Help me,” she says. “My arms are full.”
I still don’t have a place to go. For some reason it makes sense to go back, so we walk together and I help make coffee.
Lights out. Night climbs heavy on me, settles on my chest, hot. Then it’s morning. But the hours still stretch out ahead. The meeting isn’t until two.
Even more than usual, school just feels like a lot of random noise. People move past, their arms wag, their lips move, but nothing means anything. There’s a morning assembly. Some guy who climbs mountains for a living tells us why climbing mountains made him a man.
I eat lunch, and two minutes after can’t remember what it was. Someone at my table tells me they heard that my mom was on campus, but that she didn’t stop at the cottage. Later Brenda, the team leader, gets me from class and walks me to the conference room.
Mom and her man are seated already. She doesn’t say a word—the Step Dud does all the talking. I can’t take in what’s going on at first. I’m just trying to get over the fact that we’re all in the same room. Them over there, me over here. I haven’t seen anyone from home since I was sent to this place. No phone calls all these weeks. No letters. Not even e-mail. Nothing.
I try to catch the expression on Mom’s face. A smile, something. But there might as well be a million miles between us. It’s like she doesn’t even remember me.
I sit still, but my blood’s pounding and my hands are sweaty. I wipe them against my pant legs. Then my brain catches up to what’s happening and suddenly I hear the Step Dud talking. His words pop out at me, clear. He’s saying I’ve got to take owners
hip of my problem. Ownership of my problem? I ask. What does that mean? He just repeats it—as if the smallest child would know what it means. I hold my sweaty hands out in front of me.
I said I did it, I tell him. I confessed to the judge. I said I’m sorry. I said I won’t do it again. I’m in therapy. What more can I do? I tell them I wrote a letter to Deb to make restitution. The Step Dud says they haven’t delivered the letter and won’t.
What? What’s that all about? I ask, and I’m trying to stay calm but I can feel my voice tightening.
Our choice, says the Step Dud, using his lecturing voice. We did what we felt was best.
It was my letter, I tell him, getting louder. My letter to her for her to read.
She’s in our care, he says, and she’s been through enough. We don’t want to scare her, he says.
So what am I supposed to do? I ask.
They don’t say anything. I ask again, and when I don’t get an answer I ask again.
My mother stands, pushes her chair back, leaves the room. The program coordinator runs after her. Step Dud goes out too. Something in the way he swats the door shut says he can’t decide who has annoyed him more, me or Mom. Meeting over, I guess. I sit, me and the random empty chairs. Brenda talks low to someone from admin in the corner.
Another meeting’s scheduled for tomorrow.
Tonight when I try sleeping, every day of the last six months flips past. I think about all the time I’ve spent in program. I think about tomorrow and the next day, and the days after that, stretching ahead of me like train tracks.
I wake. This meeting is set for right after breakfast, so I don’t have to go to school. I head up to admin again, but this time when I step into the conference room everything’s changed. The furniture is moved, the seats are arranged in a big happy circle, and it’s full of all kinds of people who weren’t here yesterday. My case worker’s here. My parole officer’s here. The psych is here, the director of the program’s here, and way, way off on the other side, my mother and the Step Dud. My mother is crying.
Sheila, the program director, waits for Mom to get it together. That’s not in the cards so Sheila launches into things while Mom blots at her face with a soggy tissue. Sheila mouths something about everyone having their say, something else about respect for feelings, but in the end it comes down to one thing—they won’t take me back. They say I’m too big a risk.
I just sit there for a minute, trying to make sense of it, but I can’t. It’s like—with one decision—every part of me before I was sent to the program has been erased, like I never had a grandma or cousins or friends, like I never had a home.
The Step Dud I could see, but my own mother?
They say they have to make it safe for my stepsister and can’t risk having me there. She’s been in the house only a year, right? But it’s her this and her that.
“What about me?” I say. The Step Dick says, “You had your chance.”
“When? When did I have my chance? Who kept things safe for me when it was my dad at home?” Mom won’t even meet my eyes.
I tell them I’m sorry, that I won’t do it again. They say no one trusts me anymore. So I’m fucking bawling now, and I can’t stop. “I’ll be good,” I tell them. “I’ll be good.” Step Dick walks outta the meeting again, and this time the door clicks shut like that’s his final statement. My mom keeps crying, saying, “It’s too late to be good.”
Too late to be good.
So that’s it, I’m done. They’ll send for my things, put them in storage. I’ll complete treatment and find another placement, if there is another placement. If anyone will take me. And I’m thinking about closed doors, the closed door at the end of Cottage B with the cartoon that’s taped on it of Death in a black robe, holding his scythe in one hand, distributing questionnaires with the other that ask, “Tell me how I’m doing today.” I’m thinking of my hometown and how that’s just another kind of closed door now. I’m thinking about the coyote skull nailed to the mechanic’s barn, and now I know what it was grinning about. It knew yesterday that the door was about to slam shut.
And Otis, I’m thinking about him too. He finished program here, turned eighteen, funding over. They gave him an independent living placement in his hometown back east. So far so good, right? But the newspapers found out he was back and published his name and his address. Someone shot out his window one night. His neighbors marched in front of his apartment building. The landlord canceled his lease. People were pushing, shouting, throwing things, so the police picked him up, took him to the airport, and stuffed him on a plane. He’s here again, living in the facility, and nobody knows what to do with him or where to send him. I read that they’re going to make a national registry of sex offenders and publish it wherever we go. So where do I go when I’m done, and why pretend there’s a point to treatment? I eat dinner, but don’t taste it, attend group, but don’t feel it. Pretend to watch TV at quiet time, get advice from the staff and pretend to take it, pretend to sleep. It’s all make-believe.
I wait a day, cause I know they’ll keep a close watch on me for a day at least. I go to my classes. Mr. Danner hassles me for my “myth of me” assignment. I tell him everything about me is made up. He says I can do better than that. Gives me an extension. The next night, after lights out, I throw my things in a bag, leave by the back door. I sell my iPod to Leslee up at Spiritlives Program. She meets me at her window, I pocket the cash and go.
The grounds are deserted. I cross the lawn, cut through the forest. It’s dark, but I follow the path by feel, by the sound of the gravel under my feet. A couple of miles in, I scale the fence and start to climb the hill. But it’s pitch black now and I can’t see how to make my way through the bush. I try fighting through it. Branches snag me. Thorns slash me. I trip, fall back, slide down the hill, rip my jacket. My bag falls and gets lost in the underbrush. I kneel and reach into my pocket, take out my lighter, set fire to a dead branch, and use it as a torch. After that it’s better. I’m like one of Mr. Danner’s gods. Climbing the hill, I feel the heat on the back of my hand, the branch crackling, lighting up the ground ahead of me. I find my way to the top. From there a long rippling field of tall grass stretches to the highway, hissing and whispering. I think about setting fire to the grass. Setting the whole hillside on fire. Burn my tracks, burn my history, burn every trace that I was here, leave nothing behind, nothing but ash and smoke and embers. I want to. But at the same time I know if you set fire to something, you send a signal and everything comes. Fire department, police department, every other kind of department. I snuff my torch on a rock and throw the smoking branch spinning into the bushes. The night sky whirls above me, and suddenly I feel like I’ll fall off the earth if I don’t hold on. I grab handfuls of dirt, wait, crouched, till the dizziness passes. Then I stand, wade through the tall grass to the side of the highway, and stick out my thumb.
Cars blow past. I keep watch for police. After forty-five freezing minutes, I finally get my first ride. Wouldn’t you know it: a mom and dad, all concerned, asking me if I’m lost. I tell them I’m returning home. Never was a bigger lie, but it’s the right answer, I guess, because they give me a ham and cheese sandwich from a package they’d put together for their drive. They let me off an hour later.
Next, some guy in a beat-up Mustang, big droopy ’stache. Doesn’t say a word, pulls over after forty minutes, nods for me to get out. Then a man chain-smoking, lighting his cigarettes one off the other, asking me to talk and keep him awake. Then a truck driver. Then a red Toyota with a thin man and a dog. The dog is stuffed into a small cage in the back. The man peppers me with questions as the dog whines nervously. How old are you, how many brothers, how many sisters? I turn, the dog has its muzzle pressed between the wires, tongue lolling red and eyes open wide. It’s a husky-shepherd cross, the man tells me. Its long ears bend into two furry Ts as its head presses against the top of the cage. It stares through the wires right into me. The man says it’s for the dog’s own good. The cag
e will protect him. The cage will keep him safe. I hear him telling me that, but I’ve never seen a cage that kept anyone safe, and I see the wire cutting into the fur and wonder what the dog thinks. The man drives and fires questions faster than I can think. Plans for the future? he asks me. No idea. What skills have you got? None. What do you want to be? Nothing. You must want to be something? No. Want to grow up to be something? No. Everyone’s got skills they’ve been given, he insists, everyone has gifts. It’s like he won’t stop, and in the end I snap. There are no gifts. There’s nothing I’ve got that anyone wants. After that the ride gets quiet. A little while later he lets me out.
Two hours in the dark, the wind rising. A lot of time, just me and the road. Time to think about whether I’ll get caught. If I don’t get caught, what will I do next? I stamp to keep warm and hum a song I only half remember. The wind snatches up the part I remember along with the part I don’t. The cold feeling I’ve got in my fingers and feet moves in deep, settles in my belly.
I hear a police siren. They can’t know which direction I’ve gone yet, but if they pull over, they’ll ask for ID and if they do, I’m finished. I grab my bag, scramble up the slope beside the road, crouch among the trees in the dark, and watch. I think back to all the times in my life I’ve spent hiding. In the closet, in the basement, in the dust that settled under the back steps, under dirty clothes in the laundry, in the trunk of the car, hiding till everyone was gone, till folks passed out, till the old man was asleep. I’m the hiding expert. I wonder about Toyota Man and his questions, wonder what kinds of jobs call for expert hiding skills? The police car wails louder as it draws close. I wait till the wail fades to a whisper, then stand up and stumble back down through the brush.
It’s deep morning now. Practically nobody’s driving along the road—it’s just a bare, thin strip of pavement and me. Nothing else to do, so I walk, I don’t know how far.
