by Joe Nelms
Surely, this shift in gears is a huge mistake. But then all of this has been, hasn’t it? And to what end? To rebuild himself as a healthier version of the man he was at one time resigned to be? To reconstruct himself as the man his wife would fall in love with all over again? To reincarnate himself as someone lovable who could not be left under any circumstances? It’s too late for that, no? Far too late for that.
But try explaining to our man the realities of his situation. He’d never accept it, and, further, without his indulgent, Sisyphean mission, what has he left?
Nothing, I’m afraid.
His plan has morphed. What originally started as a quest for knowledge has interwoven itself with a pursuit of vengeance as well. And necessarily so, the delicacy of revenge serves as the irresistible temptation that a personality like his can burn as fuel for a very long time.
It can happen that fast. Our man has lost track of what is truly important. Forsaken the peace of forgiveness for the opportunity for retribution. In his mind lives the unshakeable belief that without completing the circle he thinks himself to be in, he will never be whole. Incapable of realizing his true potential. Alone. But the regrettable truth is that is exactly how the old boy will end up.
And sooner than he would like to believe.
80
I’ve explained the events of the day to Ella but I can see in her eyes she doesn’t believe me. Not at all. What I’m telling her is impossible, and she’s sick of my shit. Fine. But I know what I saw.
She hands me the photo album she’s added to for the last twenty-five years. Pictures of my parents. Newspaper articles about the shooting. Letters from my father. This is her childhood. I collected nothing but the letters my father sent me and those I threw away once I thought he had stopped writing. Ella kept everything. And then she dug up so much more. She wasn’t there for the shooting and everything that led up to it, so to her it was a fascinating story about two people she barely knew. Romantic, almost. I can only imagine the stories she made up to justify why she had to live with our idiot foster parents. She tried to talk to me about it when she was old enough but I had already repressed everything, so I mostly listened to her questions and said I didn’t know. She asked the adults in our life and they told her what they thought was best.
Some truths were unavoidable.
Your father killed your mother.
Your father is in jail for life.
Your father killed himself.
Some could be bent and refinished and glossed over.
No one knows why he killed her.
Your father had a breakdown.
At one time they were very happy.
My father never spoke about that night. Not to me and as far as I can tell never to Ella. So she dug through archived newspapers and microfiche at the library and she talked to the cops who responded and she tracked down the EMTs who were there and when the Internet came around it only got worse. She lived to research and read and e-mail investigators and IM Dr. HackShag’s widow and then research some more. For a while, she found herself caught up in the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories, but it only lasted for a few months, as it did nothing to further her understanding of one particular night. She reconstructed the evening and the events that led up to it as best she could, but it never amounted to more than a photo album that I have never taken the time to even open. Based on the questions she asked so many times, I knew it held nothing new for me.
Nothing until now.
I already know I’ll find Goose in there. I just don’t know what the context will be. It took her a good ten minutes to find the album while I waited on the front porch. Probably a good sign for her. She must have given up long ago and stashed it in the attic or basement or somewhere you put things you never want to see again but can’t throw out.
—Christian, enough. Let’s get you some help.
I flip through the book as she stares at what’s left of me. She wouldn’t let me in the house. We’re standing on her front porch.
The front page of the Post.
The article from inside the paper that day.
My father’s picture from the academy.
My mother’s high school yearbook photo.
Their wedding picture.
How are all of these in the same album?
More articles on the murder.
A copy of the police report that tells me nothing I don’t already know.
An article in which my father’s partner is interviewed.
That’s him.
Same mustache. Same cocky face.
Edward DeMare. Eddie.
I fucking knew it.
—I gotta go.
—Christian, let me drive you somewhere. There are places that will take you in today. Treat you. We’ll pay for it. I’ll talk to Tim.
It’s thirty years later but I know where he is.
—Christian, please.
She touches my shoulder. I’m not having it. I hand Ella her album back and leave without thanking her.
Now I need a gun.
81
Flaco doesn’t recognize me when I sit down next to him at the bar.
I can see in the mirror behind the tequila why he can’t be blamed for it. It’s a bit of a jarring realization to see how far I’ve come in so short a time.
From one perspective I have achieved everything I’d hoped and dreamed when I started this insane journey. I’ve seen things no man ever thought possible and I’ve done it several times. I won. Or seen from a different perspective, I’ve lost everything. Soon my health will fail me and, with my favorite moral-free doctor dead in her office, I no longer have a safety net. I’m choosing to see this glass half-full.
I have to convince Flaco I’m the guy who called him an hour ago. The same guy he met with a few weeks earlier, only now bald and missing teeth and looking way older than I should. It helps that I’m buying him beers, and whether he really recognizes me or not, what’s important here is that he brought me a fully loaded Glock. He did.
I hand him what’s left of the cash I got for my watch. A little over three hundred, I think. I don’t need it anymore. If I’m understanding his god damn accent correctly, he’s telling me the gun is stolen but clean, and if I don’t get caught, that I should throw it in the river when I’m done. And, if I do get caught, I don’t know him.
Fine.
82
*It’s six weeks ago.
Harry is insisting I see a professional.
He feels strongly that self-medication is not the way to go in my case. He also thinks you have to nip these things in the bud or they can really get out of control. Mmm-hmm. Nip it, nip it, nip it. That is excellent advice, Harry.
He’s speaking to me as a friend and it makes me sad to see him so human. His raw emotion is as touching as it is revolting.
I know he’s right. He did it himself when Evelyn died. He was a wreck for months, drunk and useless. But look at him now.
The right way out of this is the most painful one. As always. If I want to heal, I need to hurt first. I need to be honest and vulnerable and do the work that so many people before me have done. I need to let go of the past and write my own future. Emotional rehab. Mental boot camp. Acting like a mature adult. I’ll be a healthier person for it. He’s right. He’s so right.
I tell him I’ve started seeing a counselor. Brilliant guy. Works with people in my situation all the time. Really gets me. I’ve been to two sessions and I’m already starting to feel better. It’s only the beginning, but I can see where it’s going and I’m willing to do the work. I tell him I’m hopeful. I even volunteer a Jewish surname that I’m confident Harry won’t check into and if he does, there’s a good chance of there being a doctor with that same name somewhere in Manhattan.
Harry seems relieved and backs off a bit. He congratulates me on taking the first of many difficult steps and then we have that predictable awkward moment between men who have shared something personal beyond their historical
friendship boundaries.
I excuse myself and leave the building to buy a pint of Austrian vodka in honor of Sigmund Freud. It’s gone before I get to the bar in which I’ll spend the rest of the night.
Nip that.
83
The high of recovery has dimmed a bit but I’m still humming along, even after five hours of standing around across the street from the front door of the sixth precinct station. My father’s old home base.
I have done no research. I haven’t called ahead. I did not check online. But I know in my gut that if this fucker is still alive, he’s here. I know he’s a lifer and I’m happy to wait for every shift change that happens from now until I drop dead.
Aside from the falling temperature, the only downside to my plan is all the time I have to think. What I’m about to do is as simple as can be, so there’s no real point in visualizing it too many times. It’s more a matter of having balls at the right time than working out the details. I watch the front door and drift into a state of thoughtful introspection.
Cordoba’s dead. Ella wants to commit me. This is the last day of my life.
Lisa would have plenty to say about this.
—You’re obsessing. Walk away.
—No.
—You need help.
—Get a gun and help, then.
—You got your memories back. Wasn’t that the point? You won.
—I won, but I’m not even.
—You’ll go to jail.
—No, I won’t.
—I’m not worth it.
—Who said anything about you?
—Christian. This won’t change anything.
—This will change everything.
—It won’t change us.
—We’ll see about that.
I go through an infinite number of variations of this conversation, all of which end up as the same unresolved agita burning up the center of my chest. Lisa’s voice in my head has taken on a tone that’s more sedate than argumentative. The simple unsolicited wisdom of someone who can see what’s coming but can do nothing to change it.
It’s got to be close to eleven forty-five by now. Just about time for the midnight shift change. I think I’m freezing. I rub my hands together for five minutes straight to limber them up in case I have to pull a trigger. I should spend a little time in a coffee shop to get this cold out of my bones, but that would mean I take my eye off the front door for more than ten seconds and I can’t do that. Not now. Oh no, no, no.
Ah ha.
There he is, the fat fuck. Same mustache. Same self-important walk. Thirty years later, sixty pounds heavier, and gray. Looks like he made detective. I wonder which came first, the promotion or the belly. He stops on the sidewalk to finish up his conversation with the uniform he walked out with.
No point in waiting. I give my hands one last good rub, bend and stretch them a few times, and decide they’re ready.
I cross the street as he wraps it up with the uniform. I slip behind him on the sidewalk as he heads down West Tenth Street. Whistling. Still with the whistling. Could I ever be so self-satisfied that I whistle to myself for the sheer joy of it?
Maybe someone is watching. Probably Goose is packing. Definitely there are cops around. I pull the Glock out and get a nice firm grip on it. It feels so solid in my hand. I should walk around with one of these all the time. The weight and the design are so reassuring. This is my new best friend.
—Hey.
Whistling.
—DeMare.
Now I know he knows two things. He’s a seasoned cop so he heard me the first time and decided not to turn around. Figured I’m calling to someone else, which means it’s not his problem. When I used his last name he knew I’m looking for him specifically and that my tone means this will not be a social conversation. He keeps walking but I know that’s because he’s waiting for me to do something stupid. My heart is racing because I know this is the right thing to do. I’ve never been more focused.
—I’m Tony’s boy.
That must have been stupid enough because he stops and turns his mustache around to face me. He squints and thinks and finally nods. I looked a lot like my father before I ruined my body. Maybe there was some of that left.
That god damn smirk.
—Hey, look at the big shot.
I can’t tell if he’s noticed the gun I’m holding next to my leg or doesn’t care. He must have seen it. No way a guy on the job this long misses it. He doesn’t think I’ll use it. His chubby arms hang by his side like they have nothing better to do. There is no flinch in him. It might not be the first time someone approached him holding a gun.
—What’s up?
I finger the Glock and notice the handle is slick with sweat. When did this thing get so heavy?
—Whaddaya want, kid? Put the gun down and tell me.
—I know what you did.
I thought it would feel different to say it out loud.
His voice is calm, but he’s calculating things like how dilated my pupils are, how fast he can draw his gun, and whether it’s possible or even worth it to talk me out of what I’m about to do.
—Yeah, so? It was a long time ago. Besides, I didn’t do nothing. Your dad did everything. Read the papers.
Five hours of rehearsal and I can’t lift my arm. He’s waiting for me to play my part in this scene. I can’t.
No. Not can’t. Don’t. I don’t lift my arm. I don’t take aim. I don’t do what Goose thinks I’m going to do. I don’t.
I see you, Goose. Not the eyes on your face. Not the you that you think you are. I’m looking through you and you’re long gone. You’re gone like my mother and my father and my eight-year-old self. You’re gone, Goose. Like everything else.
Tension streams from my pores, releasing itself on its own recognizance. I can’t feel my hands. I’m sinking and soaring at the same time. I don’t even know if my heart is beating anymore.
What I am not is afraid.
I watch old Goose with my aching eyes and Goose watches me, both of us so still. He, sizing me up. Me, transcending.
Goose, I had such high hopes for you. For us. The plan was to go out together. A blaze of glory. A yin and yang of cause and effect. Revenge and comeuppance. Absolution all around. But that’s not going to happen now.
If my muscles relax anymore, I’ll melt right out of these clothes. I am serenity. I think I might be floating. I may have dropped the gun.
I can see the glow behind your head, Goose. I know what’s coming. It’s the same light I would find if I opened my chest cavity and looked in. If you’ve ever seen a white star, you know exactly what I’m talking about. That’s the one that burns the brightest. It’s a chaste white light. Unsullied. Welcoming. It’s the same light that grows behind me as I explain this to you. I know it’s there. If you could see it, you’d be blinded by now. But you can’t. That’s my light, Goose. It’s for me.
I don’t know if he tackled me or watched me leave or called for backup or decided I was a harmless crackpot and walked away. By the time I turned around to see the new world behind me I had forgotten Goose and karma and living and breathing and hanging and punching and needles. I didn’t need them anymore. When I turned around, what I found was The White.
And I walked right into it.
84
White.
The White.
I’m back. I’ve never felt better in my life.
Unsplintered.
Whole.
This is where I belong.
The Whoosh begins and I feel relaxed. My old friend. The memories wash over me and I fall in love with each and every one of them all over again. Only this time I go with them, swimming in and out, up and down, alongside them in perfect sync.
Look at me, Lisa. I did it. I’m whole again. Forever. I’m perfect.
We’re perfect.
I know I’ll never leave here and I know that’s the way it should be.
This is me.
I am The Whit
e.
White.
Copyright © 2014 by Joseph Nelms.
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ISBN 10: 1-4405-7180-5
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7180-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7181-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7181-7
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
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