Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  “There are two armed guards standing right on the other side of that glass behind you,” I point out before raising my hands an inch, letting the chain between them lightly touch the bar they’re secured to. “And I’m working on a three-inch tether.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Pearson replies, still without looking at me.

  She continues shuffling things back and forth as her electronics power up and little yellow lights on the back of them flash in front of me.

  Despite the array of gadgets strewn about, not one thing has crossed the imaginary line bisecting the table. She is painfully aware of personal space and boundaries and has no problem letting me know it.

  Classic power move.

  “Is that why you shook my hand earlier?” I ask, my voice low, my tone neutral.

  Flipping open her notebook, Pearson rifles through several pages, their lines filled with bold blue ink. Upon finding what she’s looking for, she folds the other half back and places it in front of her, checking each of her screens.

  “I shook your hand because that is what people do when they are introduced,” she replies, her demeanor letting me know that she has no interest in being drawn into actual conversation.

  Again, I can’t blame her. I’m quite certain I wouldn’t want to if I was her either.

  “I will be using the iPad to record this conversation. Is that alright by you?”

  The terms of our interview were hammered out by attorneys weeks ago. We both know her being able to record, and perhaps even reproduce some of it, were key provisions in the contract. I have already agreed to such, but it’s nice of her to pretend otherwise.

  “By all means.”

  I can see the top of her head move up and down just slightly in a nod of affirmation as she sets the device to record and places her hands on the keyboard.

  “Okay,” she says, pushing out a breath, “was it worth it?”

  The last two days have been spent training myself not to react to this question. Most of the time, it comes over a phone, making it easy for me to cover the receiver and shake my head, to scoff at such short-sighted questioning.

  Now I am forced to not react at all, lest I infuriate her or, even worse, cut things short prematurely.

  “Not yet,” I say, raising a hand as much as my bindings will allow.

  “Not yet?” she asks, jerking her attention up towards me, puzzlement drawing her eyebrows together.

  “Not yet,” I repeat. “At the end, if you still want to ask this you may, but not now.”

  She lets me see the look for another moment and makes sure I watch as it transitions from confused to annoyed.

  “Okay,” she states, moving down to the next line on her page; the writing I can only presume to be her handwritten questions. Using the black gel pen, she makes a small checkmark beside the first one, the tip of it scratching against the paper audibly.

  “Mr. Doyle, what can you tell me about the events of July 4th, 2012?”

  This time, I am unable to hide the smirk that pulls back the corner of my mouth. I leave it there for a moment, shaking my head slightly as I raise my gaze to the window behind her.

  “What? Not yet on this one either?” she asks, a sardonic eyebrow arched in my direction.

  Already, I can tell I am on the verge of losing her, or at the very least pissing her off beyond repair.

  “Do you know why I requested you here?” I ask, ignoring her question by posing one of my own.

  I can sense she notices my avoidance, pushing a loud sigh through her nose before answering.

  “Vanity? A last second attempt at saving your life? Hope for a pass in the court of public opinion?”

  The opposite corner of my mouth moves up, completing the smile. Just minutes into the interview and already the nervousness and certainty she entered with are fading away. Her journalistic instincts are now taking over.

  “No,” I say, “not why I wanted to do this, why I asked for you in particular?”

  I can visibly see the frustration growing on her face. The fingers of her left hand are closing into a fist and clenching tight.

  “No, why?”

  “Because you tell stories the way they are intended to be told,” I say, leaning forward an inch to let her know I am being serious without putting her on the defensive. “Unlike Jane Ryan or Mark Mendenhall or the other big name reporters out of Chicago or D.C., I lobbied for you to be here because I knew you would get it right.”

  The armored façade stays firmly in place as Pearson stares back at me, the lower half of her face hidden behind her laptop screen.

  “Yeah? And you’ve got the next blockbuster just ready to be uncorked? A tale that’s going to make us both media sensations overnight?”

  The smile on my face grows a little larger as I stare at her, leaning back in my seat.

  “I never said that. All I have is my story, but it is a complete story, one that started a long time before July 4th, 2012.”

  She holds my gaze and I can’t tell if she’s buying everything I just said, but it seems she’s invested enough to hear me out, even if just for a little bit longer.

  “Tell me,” she says, leaning back and folding her arms across her chest.

  The tan sleeves of her suit jacket seem a size too large for her thin frame, loose fabric hanging down. The pose gives her the appearance of wearing an off-colored strait jacket.

  “Is the entire thing as rehearsed as that opening?”

  “Ha!” I bark, the sound loud and sharp, causing her to flinch a tiny bit.

  My face rolls up towards the ceiling as I consider the question, my cheeks bunched tight in mirth.

  “No,” I reply, “just that opening, and thank you for calling me on it. I figured at some point within the first ten minutes you would be ready to head for the door, so I prepared a few lines. From here on out though, you get the unfiltered stream of consciousness.”

  She waits for me to lower my focus from the ceiling before asking, “Why were you so certain I would bolt?”

  “Because I’m three days from being sent to the electric chair for murder,” I reply. “Any person in their right mind would have never walked in here, let alone stuck around.”

  The response is completely unscripted, though that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Three years ago, I would have run the first chance I got. By now, I’m sure she has seen what I did many times over; the whole world has. To even consider the proposal took gargantuan fortitude, to come and stay is something in an entirely different stratosphere.

  It takes her a moment to process our short back and forth before unfolding her arms and again resting her hands on the keyboard.

  “Alright, we’ll do this your way, from the beginning.”

  I nod in agreement and slide a few inches lower in my chair. I would give anything to have the freedom to fold my arms or, better yet, get up and walk about, but I know there’s no way they will allow that.

  Not with what I’ve done.

  “Not the very beginning,” I reply, getting myself as comfortable as the chair will accommodate. “My childhood was wonderful, my parents were great. I’m not here to blame what happened on any of the psycho-babble stuff. I take full responsibility for every last thing that I’ve done. I ask for no quarter, from the courts of law or public opinion. Everything that was handed to me was deserved.”

  The sound of her typing echoes through the room, her taking down as much as possible despite the recorder sitting beside her. From my angle low in the chair, I can just see from the bridge of her nose up, her eyes and forehead bunched together in concentration.

  “No, I mean we need to go back to the real beginning, the moment that started me on a course that would end in a head-on collision with Hell itself. The exact instant where my entire focus shifted.

  “My father’s funeral.”

  Chapter Three

  Monday, October 3rd, 2011

  2:00 pm

  A lingering Indian summer sun has my dress
shirt sticking to my back by the time I make it to the Grace Memorial Funeral Home, a small hackneyed operation on the edge of town. If we could afford anything else, we would have taken him there but as it is, this is what we’re stuck with.

  I’ve never been especially adept with a tie and an extra fifteen minutes in front of the mirror wrestling with it has me running a little behind. The whole way over, I envisioned pulling up to a packed house, having to face the double indignation of losing my father and being the last to show up at his funeral.

  To my extreme surprise though, there are just four cars in the parking lot.

  Glancing down at the clock on the dashboard, I confirm that I am right on time with the proceedings set to begin in just a few minutes. Confused and uncertain, I grab my suit jacket from the passenger seat and head inside.

  Along the way, I try to pull the damp cotton away from my back before slipping the coat on. The garment feels like an oven bag as it wraps around me.

  The sound of an organ playing “Amazing Grace” drifts through the open front door and finds my ears as I pass through. There is a single man standing just inside it that I recognize from the wake the previous day, a stack of programs in his hand.

  He nods at me in recognition but says nothing, a sorrowful look on his face.

  Whether it is because of the occasion or the lack of attendance, I can’t be certain.

  Walking fast, I pass through the outer waiting area of the funeral home and into the main chamber. Row after row of folding chairs has been lined up for the occasion, almost every one of them sitting empty.

  The sight is jarring to say the least, so much so that for a moment I just stand and look, moving my head from left to right, scanning the scene. My jaw falls open and the bottom drops out on my stomach, the realization of what I’m seeing beginning to set in.

  “Charles,” my mother says from the front row, waving a hand at me, a tissue clutched in her fingers.

  The gesture is unnecessary, the movement and her voice the only of either in the room. Just the same, I begin to move again, walking forward. My feet feel leaden and my legs numb as I go, my shoes scraping against the thick carpet underfoot.

  My voice barely sounds like my own as I sit down beside her and say, “Sorry I’m late, trouble with my tie.”

  Her eyes are rimmed red, her nostrils the same, but she tries to force a smile. She nods as the glasses perched on the end of her nose bounce precariously.

  “It’s okay. You made it and you look dashing.”

  Dressed in a blue wool suit that was my father’s and a polyester tie that is bunched into a knot at my throat, we both know she’s lying, but say nothing.

  For better or worse, my mother has always gone out of her way to lift my spirits.

  “Hey, Quas, thanks for coming,” I say, leaning forward a few inches.

  On the other side of her is my friend, Abe Fullman, though everybody has always just called him Quasimodo, or some variation thereof. Even seated like he is, it’s not hard to see why; his shoulders bunched behind his neck, his back arched into a slope that resembles a turtle shell.

  Adorned in wrinkled khakis and a button-down shirt, it is easily the most dressed up I’ve ever seen him. He has even cleaned the lenses on his glasses and attempted to tame the rat’s nest of light brown hair sprouting from his head.

  He nods in response but remains silent.

  Leaning forward a bit more, I can see an elderly couple seated together on the far end of the row. They look to be at least fifteen years older than my parents, both dressed in styles last seen in the eighties, holding hands and sitting in silence.

  I’m quite certain I’ve never seen either before.

  All four cars in the parking lot have been spoken for in the front row; the old couple, Abe, my mother, and myself.

  “Where is everybody?” I ask, leaning back into my chair.

  I sit facing forward, the casket holding my father a few feet in front of me, my head tilted just enough so my mother knows I’m addressing her.

  “I don’t know,” she replies, “guess they were busy. You know how hard it is for folks to get off on a Thursday.”

  Again, we both know she is just trying to make me feel better but, for one of the few times in my life, her words ring hollow. The sense of shock and even dread I felt just a few moments before begins to shift to anger.

  It wells up within me, bringing even more perspiration to my skin. My breathing becomes louder as my left hand closes into a fist and my leg begins to bounce up and down.

  I know it drives my mother crazy when I do it, that the shaking is probably vibrating every chair in the room, but I can’t help it. Maybe I’m just projecting, maybe I’m working through the twelve stages of grief, seizing on anger to avoid having to face acceptance. Whatever it is, by the time the rent-a-pastor we hired for the day walks to the front of the room, heat is rolling off me in waves.

  My mother can sense it, the way she always can, reaching over twice to pat my thigh. Abe seems to know it too, reclining past her to look over at me a few times, but keeping quiet.

  I can feel their stares on me, and I know what they must be thinking, but I do nothing to acknowledge it. Instead, I focus my stare on the single bouquet of flowers sitting atop the closed casket, letting the colors swirl together into a misshapen orb before my eyes.

  “Good afternoon,” the pastor begins, “today we are gathered here to discuss the bittersweet moment that is the passing of Jim Doyle.”

  The words do nothing but raise my acrimony even higher.

  Chapter Four

  Friday, January 21st, 2015

  10:30 am

  “Did you...?”

  It is the first sound Pearson has made in over a quarter hour, save the tapping of her fingers against the keyboard. The words stop me mid-sentence, my mouth hanging open as I compute what she has just asked.

  Never once has it occurred to me that somebody might think such a thing. Regardless what I might have done, the notion that such a thought exists out there seems foreign to me.

  “Did I kill my father?” I ask, equal parts surprise and amusement in my voice.

  I can tell by her instantaneous reaction, looking down at the screen, blood flushing her cheeks, that just hearing the words embarrasses her greatly.

  “No,” I reply. “Without getting too deep into a meta-discussion about cheeseburgers and automobiles with exhaust pipes and all that stuff, in my life, I have killed exactly one thing.”

  The last word was meant to be a touch provocative, a bread crumb I know she won’t be able to resist picking up.

  “Thing?” she asks without looking up me, the disgust in her tone doing plenty to relay what she thinks of me at the moment.

  “Are you referring to Terry Weinberg as a thing?”

  “No, I’m merely pointing out that he is the only person, the only animal, the only insect, the only anything I have ever killed. I wasn’t a sadistic child that walked around with a magnifying glass and I never got my start targeting neighborhood pets. There is blood on my hands for sure, but I want to be clear about how much and for what reasons.”

  Her head tilts upward, her eyes meeting mine above the screen.

  “And what reasons are those?”

  I match the gaze a moment before a smile crosses my lips. “You’re getting ahead of yourself again.”

  Just as fast, her visage disappears back down, only a crown of copper hair facing me.

  “Cancer,” I say, knowing it will pull her back in before I lose her, “and believe me, it was far more ravaging, far more destructive, than anything I could have ever dreamed up.”

  Her fingers continue moving for several moments, the only sound in the small room. I decide to wait her out, sitting completely motionless in my chair, letting whatever repulsion she might feel for me pass before pushing ahead.

  To my surprise, it takes only two minutes. For a woman of her age, she is far better at this than I anticipated.

&nbs
p; “Why were you so angry?”

  “Where to even begin?” I reply, the response bringing a look to my face that is mirrored by my sour tone.

  More than three years have passed since that day but, still, I feel just as angry thinking about it now as I did the moment it happened.

  “When you first walked in the church,” Pearson clarifies, “start there. You mentioned sitting down, asking your mother where everybody was, and then clenching your fist.”

  “Hmm,” I say, the prompt helping me to gather my bearings.

  “My father lived his entire life within fifteen miles of that funeral home. He was born at Franklin Memorial Hospital, graduated from Franklin High. After a brief stint in Korea, he returned and served as a mailman at the local branch of the Greater Nashville Post Office for forty years.”

  I can hear my voice rising as I speak so I pause a moment, drawing in a breath and pushing it out through my nose.

  The anger I feel can be directed at many people, but Carmen Pearson is not one of them. We are barely a half hour into our task and I need her engrossed in the work, not concerned about when my next outburst might be springing forth.

  “Somehow, in all that time, he managed to draw five people to his funeral, four really, considering he never cared much for Quasi. He was just my friend there to pay his respects. Seventy-five years on this earth and he was able to connect to four people, only two that weren’t family and not technically required to show up.”

  Opposite me, I can see her head rise and fall a fraction of an inch, though she remains silent.

  “Apologies,” I offer. “Thirty-nine months have passed, and it still rankles me to think about. All of those people he touched over the years; guys he was in the service with, classmates he went to high school with, coworkers at the post office, folks on his delivery routes. Forty years and only two of them took the time to come pay their respects.”

  Again, I can tell my voice has gone up a decibel, so I cut myself short.

  There were only two rules I outlined for myself before this began. The first was to not contort the truth in any way, no matter Pearson’s response, no matter how much it might behoove me. The second was to not become preachy. A very specific set of circumstances and motivations came together to make me do what I did.