Lamentation

by Joe Clifford

  Stumbling to the bathroom, I set the landline on the hook. A second later it rang.

  “What the hell?” Charlie said. “I’ve been calling for two hours. Who you been talking to this long?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Listen, what are you doing right now?”

  “Going to sleep.” From the background chatter, I could tell he was calling me from the bar. I knew he was going to try and drag me down there.

  “Any luck finding your brother?”

  “No.” I dug my cigarettes from my jeans pocket. My nameless cat rubbed against my leg. I took a drag. “Honestly, he could be dead in a ditch like Pete. Wouldn’t even know it.”

  “Come down to the Dubliner, meet me for a drink.”

  My head throbbed. My bones ached. The biting north winds swirled outside, rattling the windowpanes. No way was I going out in that cold.

  “Not tonight, man.”

  “What?” Charlie scoffed. “You got something better to do?”

  “It’s late. It’s been a long day. I need to get some sleep.”

  “C’mon, one beer,” Charlie pleaded. “I’ve been working on how to solve your problem.”

  “What problem?”

  He paused for an exaggerated moment. “Chris! What do you think I’m talking about?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie, you called me.”

  I thought I heard someone outside my door.

  “For me? Please? Just one beer. You’ll be glad you did. Promise.”

  Someone rapped lightly. Then tried the handle.

  “Okay,” I said under my breath. “Half an hour.” I quickly hung up.

  The handle jiggled harder this time.

  I hadn’t turned on the lights in the apartment, the room blacked out, but I could see shadows moving beneath the front door gap from the bulb that blazed all night in the stairwell. I walked softly across the floor, peering out the living room window into the street. Through the halo of streetlamp and drifting snow, I didn’t see any recently parked cars; each one was covered with a good few inches of fresh powder.

  Who the hell would visit this time of night? Without calling first? I didn’t believe my brother would risk coming here, not with everyone on his ass. Hank Miller lived in the house next door, but he never stopped by without a heads up. One of the reasons I kept renting from the guy; he respected my privacy. Then I remembered those junkie bikers from the shop.

  “Open up. I know you’re home,” Jenny said, voice muffled behind the door. “I can hear you tiptoeing around in there.”

  Christ, I was acting as fidgety as my brother.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, flicking on the lights and opening the door.

  “That’s a nice way to greet someone,” Jenny said as she slipped past. She was bundled up head to toe, like a little kid with an overprotective mom on a snow day, button nose wind-nipped and pink. “I wouldn’t have to come out in the freezing cold if you’d answer your phone.”

  “Where’s Aiden?”

  “At my mom’s.”

  “You scared me,” I said. “I thought something was wrong.”

  “No, our son is fine. A terror. But fine.” She smiled weakly. “He dropped Brody’s keys in the toilet today. And then flushed.” She waited for me to say something. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We were able to fish them out.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  She furiously rubbed her hands together. “It’s an icebox in here. Is the heat even on?”

  “Sorry,” I said, and reached behind her and cranked up the radiator. The old pipes sputtered and coughed like an old man with a chest infection. “Gas bills, y’know?”

  “If you need to take back some of that money, Jay—”

  “I’m good.”

  I kicked out a chair for her. Only had the one. Leg had broken on the other, and even though I worked with used furniture practically every day, I hadn’t gotten around to replacing it. Wasn’t exactly hosting a lot of dinner parties.

  “Have a seat,” I said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Which was a ridiculous thing to say, and her face screwed up, letting me know it. I didn’t understand how she could still make me so nervous after all we’d been through together. It was like, whenever I got around her, I instantly reverted to a fourth grade dweeb, stomach knotted, scared to hold hands on the jungle gym because my palms might get sweaty. It also made me defensive, which could make me sound like a dick. Plus, I was still pissed off about the move. I wasn’t going to bring it up first and give her the satisfaction. I’d just wait for an opening when it would do the most damage. I knew I should be bigger than that. But I wasn’t going to be.

  “Can’t I stop by and say hello?” she asked, peeling back the hood of her parka. For a moment, the way her long, brown hair fell so softly, her playful smile etched on pretty lips, it made me forget how angry I was at her for taking my son to Rutland with that dillweed hillbilly. In that instant, she was just that girl I had fallen in love with all those years ago, drinking beer on the banks of Coal Creek as the summer slipped away and we dreamt big.

  “I read about your brother,” she said. “How are you doing?”

  I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer. I held it up behind my back.

  “No thanks,” Jenny said.

  “Suit yourself.” I cracked it open and took a hearty slug, then wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve and belched. It was the most bachelor thing I could think to do.

  “What are your plans?” she asked.

  “For what?”

  I started gathering dishes shellacked with food scraps and empty to-go containers off the table, dropping crusted pots and stained coffee mugs in the sink, soaping hot water to let them soak. The place was a pigsty. It stank. I hadn’t done laundry in a month. I balled soiled tees and chucked them in the corner. Then dragged the trashcan from under the sink and started dumping ashtrays and plastic lids overflowing with cigarette butts.

  Jenny crossed over and took my hands in hers. “What are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like? Cleaning up my apartment. You should be happy. You’re always bitching about what a slob I am.”

  She stared empathetically. “Talk to me.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “You must be worried about your brother.”

  “What do you care? It’s not your problem anymore.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I still care what happens to you.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do, Jay.”

  I broke from her grip. “But that’s not stopping you from moving five hours away, is it?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Not fair? You mean, like not discussing moving with my son to another state? Like buying a house with some rebound fuck. Like not giving me a chance—”

  “A chance? I’ve given you nothing but chances. To spend more time with Aiden. To catch up on payments. To fix us. And what have you done? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  “I just gave you money.”

  “It’s not about money.”

  “What’s it about then?”

  “Your priorities, Jay. How you chose to focus your energy and spend your time. It’s about you not settling for less when you’re worth so much more.”

  “I know you think you’re paying me some twisted compliment when you say stuff like that, like you’re building up my self-worth or something. But you’re not. All I hear is that I’m not good enough.”

  “Then you’re mishearing me—because that is not what I am saying.”

  “This is a really rotten time to be laying this on me. I’m in the middle of this shit with my brother.”

  “What do you think I’m talking about?”

  “Here it comes.”

  “Here what comes?”

  “You hate my brother. You’ve always hated him.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Jenny stepped back, arms akimbo. “
That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t hate Chris. I actually like your brother. When he’s not all fucked up. I think he’s sick, and I feel sorry for him. I see how hard it is on you. I think he needs help. But you can’t be the one to fix him.”

  “I gave up trying to fix him a long time ago. But I’m not abandoning him, either.”

  “No one is asking you to. You have to find a way to distance yourself, though. You can’t keep making his habit your problem. Whatever he’s done this time—”

  “He didn’t do anything,” I said, “other than be his usual screw-up self. Wrong place. Wrong time.”

  “Then let him answer for himself. You can’t shoulder that stone.”

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “Let Chris deal with Chris’ mess.”

  “Nice, Jenny. When they fish him out of a dumpster behind the truck stop, I hope you feel good.”

  “No, I won’t feel good,” she said. “But I won’t feel guilty, either.”

  “He’s family.”

  She stared at me, urgently. “You keep saying that. Don’t you see? We’re your family too. And you shut us out.”

  “My family? And what are you doing with my family, huh? Packing up and running off with that shitheel to Vermont. You know damn well I’ll never get down there. I have a hard enough time making it five miles down the road as it is.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “I work, Jenny. I don’t have some cushy union job with four weeks’ paid vacation. I have to cull a million different projects together, hustle and bust my balls to cobble a halfway decent payday just to keep creditors off my ass. My schedule is irregular; I never know when the work is going to dry up. I need to take advantage of it when I can get it. That means long hours, that means I don’t always get weekends off.”

  “That’s your choice. You could do anything you want. You’re a bright guy—”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “—who plays dumb. You sell yourself short, hauling junk for Tom Gable.”

  “I don’t haul junk. And Tom’s been good to me.”

  “I’m sure he has. I like Tom. He’s a nice guy. But you could be doing so much more—you still can do so much more.”

  “I’m glad you are such an authority on my life. And I do appreciate the unsolicited advice, really.”

  “I think you’re scared.”

  “Scared?” I had to laugh. “And what am I scared of?”

  “Not being as good a father as your dad. You blame yourself for not being able to fix your brother, and you feel you’re letting down his memory. So you deliberately sell yourself short and don’t live up to your potential. You suffer. Like a penance.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, jeering. “That’s officially the dumbest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “How long do you expect us to wait for you to get your shit together?”

  I moved toward her.

  “What if I did?” I said.

  “What if you did what?” Her eyes blazed with fury as she balled her hands into tiny fists, mouth compressed into a hard, thin line, which is what happened every time I got her worked up, something I possessed an uncanny ability to do.

  I stepped closer, and she stuttered a half step back.

  “What if I had my shit together?” I said. “What if I had a regular job, a steady paycheck with security and benefits—what if I worked at the phone company like Charlie—punched a clock every morning, came home every night?”

  “What if you did?”

  I moved in. She backpedaled, bumping against the kitchen table, hands fumbling to grip an edge.

  “Would you still be with me?”

  She couldn’t retreat any farther; I was pressed against her now. She turned her head away. But I had her pinned, my mouth inches from her face as she squirmed half-heartedly.

  “I’m not answering that,” she said. “It’s a stupid question.”

  “What’s so stupid about it?”

  Jenny stopped squirming, squared her face to mine. Her hands went to my hips, pulling me in, pressing hard against my jeans. She stared into my eyes.

  “Because I never would’ve left in the first place.”

  I jerked a hand over her head and snagged my heavy wool coat off the kitchen table. “I have to go.”

  I left her standing there.

  “Thanks for the visit,” I said, walking out. “Lock up when you leave.”

  “You should know, people are saying he killed that guy.”

  “People are wrong.”

  I bulled out the door and down those old rickety steps, out into the biting northern winds that felt like a million razors slicing my skin.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Dubliner was dead, typical for a Sunday night. A few college-aged stragglers looking too preppy for White Mountain Community—but too far from Dartmouth to be Ivy League—played a game of ham-fisted darts in the corner, in between loud sports talk and rape jokes. A pair of white-haired, leather-faces slumped over amber shot glasses along the bar, droopy eyes, poor posture, trying to tuck a lifetime of regret deep down inside and keep it hidden from the light.

  On weekends the place could pick up when Liam, the bar’s owner, featured his Celtic folk trio, The January Men. The music sucked, but if you cozied up to him afterwards, telling him how great they were, you’d get drinks on the house all night long. Even on Fridays and Saturdays, patrons were mostly locals; nobody would come to a place like the Dubliner unless he lived within a six-block radius.

  I didn’t see Charlie so I poked my head out on the smoking porch, where I found him—and Fisher—leaning against the long tiki hut counter, island straw and bamboo entirely out of place in an Irish-themed bar in the dead of winter in the Northern wilds. Charlie waved at me; Fisher nodded glumly. The two of them were smoking cigarettes, a pitcher of beer and a basket of chicken wings between them. The cold night air hurt to breathe in.

  I’d give Charlie hell later. I knew he’d planned on calling Fisher, but didn’t realize he already had, and that that was the urgency behind meeting for a drink. I could’ve used prep time before having to deal with the guy.

  All the umbrellas were strapped down, chairs upended and set atop tables. Deep snow covered the patio floor, except where Charlie and Fisher stood, a puddle of slush from smokers’ trampling. On the walls, a fenced enclosure, hundreds of license plates and other tin sign oddities hung, quirky symbols of Americana from places like Route 66, the Grand Canyon, Amish Country. I remembered being so drunk with Charlie one night that we tried to pry off a chicken ranch sign with a screwdriver.

  I’d been gnashing my teeth the whole drive over here. Seeing Fisher only agitated me more. I would’ve gone back to my place, except I’d left Jenny there, and she was what I wanted to get away from. No one could make me as happy as she could, and no one could piss me off as much.

  I was in a helluva mood, and the oily stench of bar food and cloyingly sweet smell of cheap aftershave wasn’t helping.

  “Hey, man!” Charlie said, perking up too enthusiastically.

  Charlie knew Fisher and I didn’t get along, which thrust him into the role of peacekeeper whenever we got together. Which didn’t happen often. I probably hadn’t seen Fisher in three, four years, not since Charlie had pulled the same stunt at an Applebee’s in Clear Lake. I think Charlie, who didn’t have a lot of friends, secretly held out hope we’d suddenly start liking each other.

  Fisher gnawed on BBQ, slurping bits of meat from bone, face and fingers stained muddy red. He waggled a wing at me before flinging it into the cast-off pile.

  “So, Porter,” he said, “still the king of Shit County?” He snorted. Fisher had packed on some pounds since I’d seen him last. His hair was thinning, but he still wore it longish, in a mullet. Slick, black ringlets curled behind a pair of Dumbo ears. With his bulbous nose and soft chin, Fisher hadn’t exactly grown into his looks.

  Snow started to fall. Nobody made for the door. I fired up a c
igarette and let Charlie pour me the last of the beer.

  “Why’d you drag me down here, Charlie?”

  Charlie clasped a hand on Fisher’s back. “I told you. Fisher’s an investigator. He’s offered to help us out. Isn’t that great?”

  “Yeah. Great.”

  “Why not?” Fisher said, sucking on the bone. “We’re all friends here.”

  His contemptuous tone made it clear he still hated my guts. Our rivalry began at the reservoir one summer, when I felt up Gina Rosinski in the backseat of Sal Atkinson’s Buick. Fisher had a thing for Gina, which I only became aware of after the fact. Hell, it was high school. He never got over it. I seriously doubted he was itching to do me any favors.

  “I appreciate the offer,” I said, “But I don’t have money to hire an investigator. I’m sort of out of work right now. I don’t know when it’s going to pick back up.”

  Fisher sifted through the basket of wings, searching for a juicy one. “I don’t want your money, Porter,” he said, as if the mere suggestion was offensive. “Charlie tells me you’re in a tight spot. I’m here helping my mom pack up the house—you know she’s moving to Florida, right?”

  I hadn’t seen Fisher’s mother in probably fifteen years. How the hell would I know that? I nodded anyway.

  “Charlie says you had a run-in with some tough druggie bikers.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a run-in.”

  “The Desmond Turnpike is a pipeline for dope smuggling,” Fisher said. “Boston to Montreal, up, down, all through the night. Better than the I-93.” Fisher poked around the discarded bones for any fleshy tidbits he might have missed. “They have video cameras set up all along the Interstate. Highway Patrol records license plates. Same vehicle makes the trip too many times—say ‘cheese’! Boom, they pull your ass over. Trust me, I deal with this shit every day.”

  “So what,” I said, “you’re, like, a private investigator now?”

  “Not private, but, yeah, I’m an investigator.” Fisher drained his pint, clinking the bottom of the glass against the counter.

  Charlie playfully punched my shoulder, grinning. “See? Aren’t you glad I brought you down here? He’s offering to help, Jay. And he ain’t charging us anything. We could use a pro.”