Smoke

by Joe Ide

“He put on a puppet show for schoolkids. Hansel and Gretel, the fairy tale? Both of them were naked and anatomically correct. He snuck into the church before choir practice,” she continued. “There was a microphone on the pulpit. Billy replaced it with a plastic turd, one of those novelty things? Reverend Anders was outraged and drop-kicked the thing across the chapel. Every couple of Sundays, Billy would do the same thing, and the reverend would react the same way. I think it was the fifth time or sixth time Billy did it,” Irene cringed. “He used a real turd. I guess you can imagine the rest.

  “The kids started seeing Billy in a different way,” she went on. “He wasn’t an idiot, he was outrageous, he was a freak, but in a good way. The kids made him a folk hero. And he loved it. There was no reason to stop. Dead cat in the bakery window, red dye in the water main so anybody who took a shower thought they were bleeding to death. At the school talent show, he performed a rap song called ‘Where’s My Samitch, Bitch?’ and got a standing ovation. The principal suspended him. Kids started singing the samitch song on the playground and at parties and around the house. Parents were pissed off.”

  Gretta was humiliated, Irene said. Cannon was furious. The offenses were minor but they were happening on his watch. Cannon got written up in the Eureka Examiner, the article titled TOWN SHERIFF INVESTIGATES PLASTIC POO POO. It was published in other newspapers too. The city council was outraged. Billy’s antics were making their town look ridiculous. Everywhere Gretta went she got looks. She’s the attorney with the crazy son.

  “Billy dropped out of school,” Irene said. “He had nothing to do. He got into fights. He was arrested for shoplifting, public intoxication, urinating in a mailbox, sleeping in someone else’s car and other petty offenses. His pranks continued, but without an audience of high school kids, they went largely unnoticed. He worked sporadically at menial jobs. Basically, he was a bum, living at home. Gretta gave up on him. Everyone gave up on him.

  “Except me,” Irene said. “But Billy went too far. He re-created a scene from American Graffiti. You know, the one where Richard Dreyfuss attaches a steel cable to a police car?” Isaiah knew the scene. Once the cable was attached, Dreyfuss drove past the cops at high speed. The cops took off in pursuit, and the whole axle was ripped off. “Unfortunately, it was Cannon’s patrol car,” Irene said. “Of course, Billy videotaped it and posted it on YouTube. It went viral, like worldwide viral. Lots of people love that movie.” Billy was arrested and charged with vandalism, assault on a police officer and destruction of public property. The press was all over it. That Billy’s mother was an assistant DA made it all the more intriguing.

  “When Billy was out on bail, he was arrested again,” Irene said. “He was drunk out of his mind, wandering around on the interstate. He nearly got run over a dozen times. With permission from Judge Marsten, Gretta’s longtime friend, she had Billy committed for a ninety-day psych evaluation. It made everybody happy. There would be no trial, Billy was removed from public view, and in the meantime, they’d work out a plea deal. That’s Billy’s story in a nutshell.”

  Isaiah was expressionless. “What about it?”

  “What about it?” She was surprised by the question. “I guess what I’m trying to tell you is that Billy’s got problems, but he’s not insane. He doesn’t drink anymore. He’s done playing pranks. He’s lost and needs therapy, but he shouldn’t be stuck in a hospital.”

  “What’s this have to do with me?” Isaiah said. He knew, of course. The girl was setting him up, trying to tell him Billy wouldn’t be a lot of trouble. She was going to ask him if Billy could stay. Let her ask, he thought. The days of saying yes to this kind of bullshit were over.

  “Could you let Billy stay with you?” Irene said. “Just for a couple of days? He’s been cooped up in the hospital for weeks. It’s probably why he’s like this. Frustration sets him off. If he has some breathing space he’ll calm down, and I’ll take him to the hospital myself. I promise.” Isaiah started to reply, but Irene cut him off. “I brought his meds, phone, laptop. He’ll be quiet and he can sleep in the basement or the garage. I’ll come every day and check on him. I have money for food.” She smiled, as if to say, I’ve taken care of everything! No worries, sir! “He won’t be any trouble,” she added.

  Yes, he will, Isaiah thought. He’ll be all kinds of trouble.

  “I don’t know,” Isaiah said. Shit. He shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know means you’re thinking about it, that the idea is on the table.

  Irene was tearful and clutching his arm. “He has no one else, and it’s just a couple of days,” she pleaded. “I promise he’ll behave himself. Really, Mr. Quintabe, you have my word.” Isaiah looked at her, this girl who loved her brother and didn’t want him to suffer or be humiliated. Isaiah knew this would end in unqualified disaster. He absolutely knew it. It was guaranteed, fated, as certain as catching a cold.

  “Okay, but just for a couple of days.” Irene thanked him profusely and left. Alone again, he thought about the shit that was bound to come. The old adage was true. No good deed goes unpunished. The only questions were what form the punishment would take, how long it would last and whether violence would be involved. Billy came in.

  “Thank you. I really, really mean that. You’re saving my—”

  “Stop. I don’t want to know what I’m saving,” Isaiah said harshly. “I don’t want to know anything. Whatever’s happening with you, keep it to yourself. I want no involvement of any kind.”

  Isaiah was uninvolved for exactly forty-six minutes, because that’s when Sheriff Cannon showed up at the door. “Mr. Quintabe,” he said gruffly. He held up Billy’s mugshot. Great, Isaiah thought. His houseguest had a criminal record.

  “His name is Billy Sorensen,” Cannon said. “Have you seen him? He escaped from neuropsych. Somebody saw him around the area.” Tell him, Isaiah! Tell him Billy’s in the kitchen! “He’s not dangerous,” Cannon said, “just an asshole that stirs up trouble. He’s also a pathological liar.” Isaiah hesitated. “Well?” the sheriff said, impatiently. “Have you seen him or not?” Tell him! Tell him, goddammit!

  “I, uh—no, I haven’t,” he said. Cannon stared a moment, turned, and walked away. Isaiah closed the door.

  “What the fuck have I done?” he said aloud. Billy came out of the kitchen, grinning, about to say something. Isaiah cut him off with a glare. “Don’t say one fucking word. Just get out of my goddamn sight.” Billy slunk away.

  Isaiah was disgusted with himself. He hated his gooey, stupid heart, his compassion and kindness, his compulsive need to be the Good Samaritan. Grace loved him for it, but it made her angry too, deliberately inviting danger, thinking he was immune, threatening himself and their relationship. Now the relationship was gone and so was his career. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself, but knowing that didn’t make the feeling go away. Insights like “You’re feeling sorry for yourself” just added to your misery. Not only are you a friendless outcast, you’re a weakling and a crybaby. You’re a man without a dog.

  He found a support group in Clarkson, on the Nevada side. It met in the evening at the senior center. The room had one small window, a circle of metal chairs and a coffeemaker on a folding table. It made the meeting seem clandestine. Six men and one woman. They were grim, disheveled, downcast eyes, arms folded tightly across their chests. He wanted to be an observer instead of a participant. In a gesture he knew was pathetic, he pulled his chair back from the circle a foot or so.

  The therapist was a man named Hank. Heavyset, friendly, a leather vest over a blue shirt and a silver earring. He welcomed everybody, nodding at Isaiah, the new guy. He went around the circle and everyone said their names. Isaiah said his was John. Hank asked if anyone would like to speak first. A fortyish guy with a gray ponytail said he was afraid of sleeping because of his nightmares. He tried to stay awake with coffee and amphetamines, but they made him jumpy and gave him the sweats. He called people for no reason. He had fits of temper and broke things.

  He
said he was in Afghanistan in 2004, drove a convoy to Fallujah. He saw the four contractors who were killed by the insurgents, charred black and hung from a bridge. Of all the horrors he saw, that’s what traumatized him, that’s what razed his mind and leveled his soul for all these years. He sought escape in suicide twice. Every morning he’d wake up thinking, Shit, I’m still alive. His wife, that bitch, said he just wanted the attention he never got in life; that it was an act of anger, like fuck you, you’ll miss me when I’m gone. She never understood that suicide was about stopping the pain. Suicide was not being able to take it anymore.

  Hank asked Isaiah if he wanted to say something but he declined. He left before Hank led the group in prayer. He drove fast like he had when he’d fled LA. The night was moonless, the sky, black as a raven. The drone of the engine made his head thrum, the headlights reducing the world to a white line on black asphalt. He began to panic, as if his very self was dissolving, his life evanescing into the cold mountain air. His hands shook, he nearly missed a turn and ran off the road. He pulled over and stopped. He closed his eyes, telling himself repeatedly that he wasn’t actually dissolving. He was safe no matter how he felt. He turned off the ignition. He turned off the lights. He sat in the quiet for a long time, the occasional car swishing past. He thought about his choices. He was healthy, unattached, money in the bank, there were a hundred things he could do. But he could only think of one. Going back home. Going back to Grace. The gangs and bounty hunters would be waiting. He wondered what difference it would make. Dying here or dying there. It didn’t really matter, he decided. He started the car and drove on.

  Chapter Eight

  Rock Climbing

  Gloria was sitting on a lawn chair, sipping a cold Corona. It was very refreshing. TK kept them on ice in a Styrofoam cooler. You couldn’t get them that cold in the fridge. TK was holding a beer with one hand and tending the barbecue in his easy, patient way. Their brief courtship had been combustible, but everything had turned out fine. She’d been reluctant at first. Afraid was more like it. Her husband of twenty-seven years had left her for a barmaid. From then on, love was a cuss word and men were worthless scoundrels, objects of punishment and little else. Until TK came along. He convinced her otherwise with his sweet nature and loving heart; with a little red bird and dancing elephants.

  “Why is the chicken taking so long?” she said. “You should put some more coals on there.”

  “You’re talking about grilling. This is barbecue,” he said.

  “Well it’s still taking too long,” she grumbled. She was in a bad mood despite the pleasantness of the day. It was all Juanell’s fault. Thinking about him made her anxious.

  “What do you say we go somewhere? Take a little vacation,” TK said. That instantly brightened her mood.

  “That’s a lovely idea. Let’s go someplace sunny and warm. What about Hawaii?”

  TK shook his head. “Not for me.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with Hawaii?”

  “I don’t need a tan. Do you?”

  She spit up her beer and laughed. “See what you made me do? Now my dress is wet.”

  “Leave it like that. I believe I see some cleavage.”

  “Stop it,” she said. But she didn’t dry it off. They sat there awhile, looking out at the wrecking yard like it was a sandy beach on Waikiki. Love can do that to you, she thought.

  “How’s it going with Dodson?” TK asked. Gloria huffed and shook her head.

  “We start his education tomorrow, and I’ll tell you this. That young man needs a lot of work.”

  “Dodson’s been Dodson a long time. You’re trying to turn a bicycle into a pickup truck.”

  “I’m not saying it will be easy. Juanell is so stubborn. You’d think change was some kind of torture. He’s so hardheaded.” TK didn’t say anything. Gloria looked at him. “I’m not like that. I’m not like that at all.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” TK said, tucking away his grin. “Uh-oh. I think my chicken’s burning.” He handed her his beer and got up again. TK did that, confronting her without confronting her. She was learning from him, and that hadn’t happened in a long time. She finished her beer and finished TK’s too. Tomorrow was going to be a war.

  Cherise was at work. Dodson and Gloria were facing each other across the breakfast table, Gloria’s posture as straight as the high-backed chair she was sitting in. She was looking at him like he was a fecal sample. “Let me understand,” she said. “You want me to teach you how to behave properly and be presentable in public, is that right? How to be civilized, dignified and normalized so you can join decent society like a regular human being? Are we on the same page?”

  He inhaled so deeply he thought the Cocoa Puffs would come flying out of the box. “Yes, we’re on the same page.”

  “You realize that I’d rather put my head in the microwave than spend time with you. If there was a choice between cutting off my foot or talking to you for five minutes, I’d go out right now and buy myself some crutches.” The feeling’s mutual, Dodson thought. Please, God, get this over with. Gloria went on. “I have never met anyone in my life with lower moral standards or a higher likelihood of going to prison, and the only things I can think of with less intelligence are my dead Uncle Dewey and a pound cake.”

  “I thought you might feel that way,” Dodson said. “I don’t know why. Maybe I’m psychic. Are you going to help me or not?”

  “I’ll do this for one reason and one reason only,” Gloria said. “Cherise and the baby.”

  “That’s two.”

  She glared and snapped back, “Although I might change my mind if you get smart with me. And I have conditions. Are you listening to me?”

  “I’m sitting right in front of you. How could I not?”

  “Condition one. You will not talk back to me. None of your lip, none of your smart remarks. Do you understand?” Dodson nodded so slightly it might have been a tic. Gloria scowled. “I said, do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Second condition. You will do exactly as I say. No attitude, no objections, and no negotiations. I say it, you do it. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, it’s clear.” He wondered if there was a way to kill Gloria and get away with it. Stick a black widow spider into her ear or put Super Glue in her toothpaste. She might not die but she’d shut the fuck up.

  “Do I have your word on that?” Gloria said. Dodson said something inaudible. “What was that, Juanell? I didn’t hear you.”

  He mumbled, “Yes, you have my word.”

  “Louder, please. I need to know you mean it.”

  “Yes, you have my word.” He could hardly keep from screaming.

  Gloria got up and smoothed down her dress. “We’re going out.”

  “Out? Out where?”

  “Wherever I say. Go put your shoes on and not those ridiculous glow-in-the-dark sneakers.”

  They went to the Suit Store on Atlantic Boulevard. “How can I help you today?” the salesman said.

  “We’re looking for a business suit,” Gloria replied. She hesitated, like saying the words might hurt or cause a landslide. “For my son-in-law. Something conservative. No stripes, checks, logos, gold buttons or anything else.”

  “Can I choose the color?” Dodson said.

  “Yes, you can. You can choose between charcoal gray and charcoal gray.”

  “How about a three button?”

  “No. Two.”

  “How about a vest? I’ve seen professional people wear them.”

  “You mean like a waiter or a riverboat gambler? No.”

  “How about a yellow tie?” Dodson said, getting desperate. “Yellow and gray go good together.”

  “Maybe if you’re a taxicab or cockatoo,” Gloria said. She turned to the salesman. “Something medium blue with a small pattern.”

  They bought shoes, black oxfords. Dodson wanted the ones with perforations in the toe cap but Gloria said no. “A man’s got to have some kinda styl
e,” he complained.

  “Yes, some men need style but that’s not you. You have too much style. You have extra style. You have style you need to get rid of.”

  Dodson stood in front of the three-way mirror. He was horrified. “I’ll have to move out of Long Beach and live someplace where they ain’t no black people.”

  “Your posture is terrible,” Gloria said. “Don’t lean on one foot, make your shoulders level, and stand up straight. Now shake my hand and say, good afternoon, Gloria, it’s very nice to meet you—don’t look off somewhere, look directly at me. What are you doing, watching for a drive-by?” She smoothed her dress again. “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Good afternoon, Gloria, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “Now shake hands.” Dodson bent his elbow, his hand curled.

  “Stop right there,” she said. “People in the business world don’t shake hands like that unless they’re a rapper or basketball player. Now shake the normal way.” He took her hand like it had mud on it and shook. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” No, it was worse, he thought. Like touching a corpse or an alligator. She looked at him in the mirror again and frowned.

  “What’s wrong now?” Dodson said.

  “You look like you stole that suit. Something isn’t right.”

  “Of course it’s not right. It’s like a Japanese tourist wearing a cowboy hat. Some things are just wrong.” Gloria wasn’t listening. She was still looking at him, lips pursed and nodding. A horrifying thought occurred to him. He backed away, his palms out protectively. “No, please, Gloria, I’m begging you.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were approaching Pete’s Place. “Don’t do this,” Dodson said. “Let me keep my dignity, that’s not too much to ask, is it? I’m begging you.”

  “Oh, you hush now. You’re being melodramatic.” They stopped at the doorway.

  “No, that’s it. I refuse,” Dodson said.

  “Well, that’s fine with me,” Gloria said. “Do you know a good motel? Because that’s where you’ll be living if I tell Cherise.”