Survivor's Guilt and Other Stories

by Greg Herren

  She wondered sometimes, when she let her mind go that way, if Dave had already started suspecting, if that was why the second contract was only for one book rather than two. But she’d heard it from other authors enough—the third book will make or break you—for her to think Dave hadn’t wondered anything, hadn’t suspected anything, at least until Dusk of a Summer Evening was in his hands.

  Jenny had never come out of the mental hospital. She’d died in there.

  Daddy’s agent from that time was dead, and everything he’d had in his files about Daddy he’d returned when he’d fired Daddy as a client. He’d suspected the truth but couldn’t prove anything, of course—knew enough to know he didn’t want Daddy in his stable anymore. But he’d delivered the manuscript to Dave Garrett at Ensign as Daddy had written it, had envisioned it.

  She hadn’t reconstructed the book from bit and pieces of early drafts. She’d simply rewritten it from the original, final manuscript, which she’d always kept locked in the safe in the house she’d grown up in. She knew enough of Daddy’s style to fake it, she knew how to write the way he did—and any slips in style or word usage or language could be easily explained away as early draft, or pieces she’d had to fill in. She had aspired to be a writer herself one day, when she was grown, follow in Daddy’s footsteps and make it big the way he’d come so close to but never quite reached.

  “Your reconstruction of the book was quite masterful,” Jacob was saying. “I just wish I had the chance to ask Dave Garrett why he did what he did to the book. I don’t understand why no one ever did.”

  He’d believed her.

  “I guess we’ll never know,” she replied, having to use both hands braced against the table to push herself to her feet. “Maybe we could continue this another time? I’m—I’m not feeling so well.”

  It wasn’t a lie.

  His face, really rather kind in its extreme level of plainness, looked concerned as he bumbled out platitudes and wishes for her health and of course, just let him know what was convenient and he could understand if she would rather finish it by email, it was just knowing she was in town and he couldn’t let the chance pass by to meet her, his favorite writer’s daughter, and she was smiling and nodding as politely as she could manage, which wasn’t terribly polite at all because what she really wanted to do was scream.

  Jimmy.

  And she was inside, out of the heat, weaving her way through and around pedestrians and groups of people, heading for the Habitat elevators, past the blackjack tables and slot machines, past the showroom and people carrying drinks, the bile boiling in her stomach.

  She got into the elevator and hit the Close Door button, alone as the doors closed in the startled faces of a pair of bros with veiny bulging muscles who smelled of sweat and testosterone and stale beer, and as the elevator climbed ever upward she cursed at herself for agreeing to meet him, for drinking so much the night before and having all that wine before meeting him.

  It was the alcohol’s fault.

  It was the alcohol that opened those doors she usually kept shut in her mind.

  She slid her keycard into the door twice before the light flashed green and she heard it unlock. She stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water into her face, making it to the toilet as the wine and bile forced its way up and out of her mouth, coughing and gagging and spitting, the nasty sour taste in her mouth, her teeth feeling raw against her tongue.

  She rinsed out her mouth, brushed her teeth, waited to see whether she was finished vomiting before walking, staggering out into the bedroom.

  The half-empty vodka bottle sat on the nightstand where she’d left it when she passed out the night before, her laptop open and asleep on the desk.

  He couldn’t know, he couldn’t have known.

  No one would ever know.

  No one could ever know.

  Jimmy. Oh, God, Jimmy.

  Her eyes filled with tears as she reached for the pill bottle.

  “What,” her father had said to her when he’d shown her his original, submitted draft of Dusk of a Summer Evening, “could be more noir than the despoiling of innocence?”

  She poured some vodka with shaking hands into the enormous coffee cup with Flamingo written in pink script on the side, the handle in the shape of a flamingo. She shook out a pill—hell, why not take two, she’d earned them—and washed them down with the vodka. It wasn’t cold—she liked her vodka cold—but the ice in the bucket had melted and she didn’t have the patience to get more and wait for the vodka to chill down.

  She sighed and leaned back against the pillows.

  She was engaged to Jimmy, sweet Jimmy, with the reddish-brown hair and the snub nose and the cheerful disposition, that she’d met in a pub after his rugby team had won some game and she was over in a corner by herself reading, and they were roughhousing and he almost fell on top of her, smiling that boyishly handsome smile at her, and said, “Sorry, miss,” and her heart had almost melted.

  Jimmy, who could always make her feel safe and warm and loved.

  Who could always make her laugh.

  Jimmy had wanted to ask Daddy for her hand, ever the traditionalist, and she’d said no, it was better if she talked to Daddy first. She’d told him, there, in his office in the house in Dover, so close to the sea with the shriek of gulls forever in the background, yes, she’d told him that she was going to marry Jimmy and Daddy just had to be okay with it. He hadn’t said anything, just gone over to the safe and gotten the manuscript out and handed it to her.

  She’d read it that night, unable to stop reading, drinking wine as she turned page after page.

  It was a masterpiece.

  It was the book that would have launched Daddy once and for all, made him a literary superstar.

  But, Jesus—if she, who had never met her, who’d only ever seen her picture—could recognize Jenny Garrett, had Daddy honestly thought Jenny’s own father wouldn’t?

  She’d thrown the manuscript at him, with the rubber band stretched around it tightly again, her own anger unabated, her fury lashing out at him one last time before she stormed out of his office, and he went to get his own gun.

  She looked at the bottle of pills and shook out some more.

  Jimmy.

  She washed down another five or six with another gulp of vodka, took another four or five.

  And once the bottle of pills was empty, she leaned her head back against her pillow and closed her eyes. It was long past time.

  She should have done this years ago.

  And as she slowly felt herself slipping away, the last words she’d screamed at her father echoed in her brain.

  “I thought I was special!”

  A Streetcar Named Death

  There was a crowd of people, like always, grouped around the corner of Canal and Carondelet.

  Barry Monteith sighed and crossed Canal to the neutral ground. It was a miserably hot August afternoon, and his socks were already soaked through with sweat. He mopped the wetness off his forehead and tried not to go to the bad place. It was hard—without the crutch of a cigarette or a Xanax or a drink to ease the stress balling up between his shoulder blades or the pinpoint of pain forming behind his right eye. He pulled his iPhone out of the pocket of his slacks and found a playlist of calming, soothing mellow music and hit Shuffle. But even the silky voice of Gladys Knight didn’t seem to help much as he crossed from the neutral ground to the far side of Canal and joined the crowd of sweaty people gazing down the street hoping to catch sight of a streetcar coming.

  He leaned against the brick wall of the Foot Locker and closed his eyes, wishing death on the incompetent mechanic who still hadn’t found out what was wrong with his car. If a streetcar doesn’t come along in five minutes I’ll try flagging down a cab, he decided, wondering if there was enough time to run across to the Walgreens and buy some aspirin. Breathe in and out, nice and slow and deep, listen to Gladys sing, and think happy thoughts. The car will be fixed tonight and I’ll be able
to pick it up on my way to work in the morning and everything’s going to be just fine.

  He opened his eyes and smiled. There was a streetcar stopped at the light at Common Street just a block away. See? When you think positive thoughts, good things happen.

  Wordlessly the crowd started forming a line. He joined the queue, and in a few minutes paid his dollar twenty-five and made his way to the back of the streetcar. He always sat in the back, because it was easier to get out the back door at his stop. He closed his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze coming in through the window as the streetcar clanged and went around the corner onto Canal. He leaned his head against the window and looked around at his fellow passengers. The car was crowded, but no one had sat on the small wooden bench next to him—and there were several other empty spots. His eyes met those of a young black man with dreadlocks wearing the filthy white smock and black-and-white checked pants native to kitchen workers. The young man shrugged slightly and closed his own eyes, slumping farther down on his own bench.

  Barry felt better. Gladys Knight switched over to an old Olivia Newton-John song that had been a hit when he was in junior high school a million years ago. He smiled to himself. Junior high school had been hell when he’d been living through it, but all these years later the memories didn’t sting anymore, didn’t have any power over him.

  Everything, he reflected, becomes less painful over time.

  The streetcar lurched to a stop, and he looked out onto the sidewalk. There were maybe three or four people lining up to board—so he wouldn’t have the seat to himself for much longer. He looked up to the front of the car as the first person climbed up the steps and paid. He turned to walk down the aisle, and Barry’s blood froze.

  It can’t be, he thought as he stared with his mouth open and his right hand coming up to his throat. I must be seeing things, it can’t be him.

  But it was him.

  It had to be.

  He looked older—with a shock Barry remembered it had been over eight years—and he was leaner, more muscular than he had been when he was just seventeen. But the face—there was no mistaking that face. The square jaw, the wide-set green eyes, the thick pouty lips, the prominent cheekbones—it was him. It couldn’t be anyone else. Barry could remember thinking, somehow, through the burning bitter hatred, what a shame it was that such beauty was going to be wasted.

  The green eyes looked around the interior of the car, lighting on Barry for just a moment before moving on without any sign of recognition. He was wearing a black T-shirt with Who Dat written across the front in gold print and glitter, over drooping jeans rolled up into cuffs at the ankles. There was a strange tattoo on his left inner forearm, and he slid into an aisle seat several rows in front of Barry.

  Deep breaths, Barry, he reminded himself as his heart pounded in his ears and his stomach churned up burning acid, stay calm. It might not be him, he thought over and over again as he worked his iPhone out of his pants pocket. Olivia Newton-John had given way to Roberta Flack, but he hit the button on the bottom of the phone and pressed the Safari icon. The little wheel spun around and around as the streetcar started moving again. A heavyset black woman slipped down into the seat with him and grunted a hello. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, just kept staring at the screen on his phone, willing it to finish loading before he lost his patience and his temper and threw the fucking thing out the open window.

  It finally did load, and he pulled up Google, typing with trembling fingers the name Ricky Livaudais, having to back up to correct typos several times before he finally got it correct and touched the Search button.

  A list of links came up when the streetcar stopped at Poydras Street and more people got on board, standing in the aisles since there was no place to sit.

  None of them were the Ricky Livaudais he was looking for—the one sitting several rows in front of him on the streetcar.

  Roberta Flack was now Carly Simon, and with a sudden jerk the streetcar started moving again.

  He’s out, Barry thought as the streetcar rolled down St. Charles, past Gallier Hall and restaurants, corner groceries with big signs advertising po’boys and Lotto tickets in their windows. He’s out and he’s alive and he’s back in New Orleans. Why didn’t I know this? Why didn’t anyone tell me?

  He swallowed, his eyes burning a hole in the back of the head just a few yards away from him. There was a sunburst tattoo on the back of Ricky’s neck, right where it met his shoulders. The bottom rays of the sun disappeared inside of the collar of the T-shirt.

  It’s been over eight years, he reminded himself. No one probably even gave me a second thought. The world keeps turning, life keeps moving, and no one remembers anything. Maybe they thought it was better I didn’t know. Maybe they figured Ricky Livaudais could come back here and I’d never know. What were the odds against us winding up on the same streetcar?

  The streetcar swung around the statue of General Lee on top of its massive marble column and stopped just outside of Lee Circle. Several people got out of their seats and climbed down out of the streetcar before it started moving again, including the black woman who’d sat next to him and the Goth-looking girl who’d been sitting with Ricky.

  Barry realized with a start that he was neither angry nor afraid.

  In eight years, he’d never once thought about how he’d react if he came face-to-face with any of them again. They were in jail, convicted and sent away—and when he’d walked out of the courtroom after their sentencing, he’d put them out of his mind like they’d ceased to exist.

  But now, staring at the back of Ricky’s head, he felt—nothing, really, just an odd sort of curiosity.

  I’m probably just numb from the shock.

  The streetcar came to a stop at Melpomene. The light was red, and Ricky stood, walking to the front of the car. Before he realized what he was doing, Barry got up and went to the back door. The green light was on above it as he stepped down, but he waited until he saw Ricky step down onto the pavement before he pushed it open and got off the streetcar two stops too soon.

  The light turned green and the streetcar lurched across, continuing on its path uptown.

  Why did I get off? Barry wondered as he watched Ricky cross the neutral ground and start across St. Charles.

  Because you want to see where he goes, that’s why. If he hadn’t gotten off so close to your own stop, you wouldn’t have.

  Carly Simon was now Melissa Manchester as he followed Ricky across the street.

  I just need to see where he’s going, that’s all, I should know where he lives, he told himself as he watched Ricky’s slender frame head down Melpomene Street toward the river. If I’d gotten off first that would have been the end of it, but he got off in my neighborhood so I need to see where he’s going. I need to know where he is if he’s living in my neighborhood. I have a right to know where he’s at, don’t I?

  Ricky crossed Prytania Street, but the light had changed by the time Barry got to the corner. He had to wait, as rush hour traffic drove by in both directions, his eyes on the retreating form as he got farther and farther away. By the time Barry could cross, Ricky was crossing Melpomene at the corner at Coliseum, and was soon out of sight.

  But when Barry got to the corner, he saw Ricky crossing the park, waiting at the curb to cross Camp Street. He hurried across the street as Melissa Manchester became Bette Midler. He watched from under a live oak in the park as Ricky went through a black wrought iron gate on the other side of Camp Street, climbed the front steps, slid a key into the lock, and opened the front door.

  He lives less than two blocks away from me, Barry thought, feeling the panic rising from deep inside. He put a hand up against the tree and closed his eyes, listening to his heart leaping inside his rib cage. He focused, as the long-ago therapist had taught him, on the sound and rhythm of his heart, slowly imaging it softer and quieter, until it was the sound of waves lapping against a white sand beach, beautiful clear green water cresting softly with white foam. Once hi
s heart was beating normally again, he crossed Coliseum Street and walked on the other side, never taking his eyes away from the fuchsia Victorian and the big green door Ricky Livaudais had disappeared behind.

  Before he knew it he was unlocking his front door and stepping into the air-conditioning inside. His orange striped cat howled and wrapped himself around Barry’s legs as he stood there, leaning back against the door. He slid the dead bolt into place and put the chain on. Breathing deeply, he fed the cat and sank down into an easy chair. The phone was blinking, so he pressed the message button.

  BEEP. “Hi, this message is for Barry Monteith. This is Lawrence Schindler. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I hope this is still your number. I have to apologize for not contacting you sooner, but I only just got the notice myself and I thought you should know they’ve released Ricky Livaudais. Yes, he was sentenced to eleven years but he got out early for good behavior. I’m sure this is a shock to you—it was to me, too—but he has done his time, Barry, and I hope you can remember that, appreciate it. I know it’s hard but you have to let the past go. He’s free, he’s paid his debt to society and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. He was just the driver, remember—the others won’t be eligible for parole for at least another seven years, if then. If you need to, you can call me at—”

  Barry depressed the Erase button. There was no need to call Lawrence Schindler.

  He walked into the kitchen and, for the first time in four years, poured himself a drink.

  The vodka tasted good. Tasted, in fact, like another glass.

  That would have been the end of it, really, if it weren’t for the fact that it seemed he ran into Ricky Livaudais everywhere he went. Standing in line to buy toilet paper at Walgreens, the front doors would open and there he would be, walking in and picking up a shopping basket, sliding it onto his tattooed arm before disappearing down the aisles. At Zara’s Grocery, when Barry walked in to buy lettuce and vegetables for a salad, there he was at the cash register, buying a loaf of bread and a pack of cigarettes and a really cheap bottle of gin. When he walked to the Burger King when he didn’t feel like making dinner, there Ricky was at the soda fountain, filling up an extra-large plastic cup with Coke before picking up his greasy bag and walking out the front door.