Thread of Doubt

by Jeff Shelby

Ruben nodded. “He hesitated at first, but he came around to the idea pretty quick.”

  “He was clean,” Ricky said softly.

  “Look, I didn’t pressure him,” Ruben said defensively. He folded his arms across his chest. “I wouldn't have fucking done that.”

  “I wouldn’t have even offered,” Ricky told him.

  David sat down on the curb, taking his time getting down to the cement, like he was tired and weary. Ricky just shook his head in disgust.

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “I went and got the pills,” Ruben said haltingly. “We'd each probably had three beers by that point. I took two.”

  I bit back a sigh. “And Patrick?”

  Anxiety filled his eyes. “He took four.”

  “Jesus,” Ricky said, putting his head in his hands.

  “I told him he didn't need that many, but he said he was fine,” Ruben said, again sounding like he was trying to defend himself. “So we took them and we both immediately mellowed. I don't even remember what we talked about. But then I said something to him and he didn't say anything and I looked over at him and I thought he was asleep.”

  David was staring at him like he'd never even seen him before. “Dude, what the fuck? You knew his history. How the fuck do you offer him drugs?”

  Ruben didn't have an answer for that.

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  Ruben took a deep breath and it appeared to catch, his body jerking like he'd been shoved. “I don't know how much time passed. I was out of it, too. But I really thought he was asleep. Then I tried to wake him up and he wouldn't wake up. I tried to move him and he was just...still...and that's when I realized he wasn't breathing.” He licked his lips. “I checked for his pulse and tried to listen to his heart, but...but there wasn't anything. I told myself I was still just out of it.” He shook his head. “But I wasn't. I knew he was dead.”

  The other two were now staring at the ground, probably in shock. There were tears in Ruben's eyes.

  “I don't know, man,” he said. His voice was tight, nearly cracking. “I just freaked out. I wasn't thinking straight. I thought everyone would think I killed him or...I don't know. I just freaked.”

  A plane rumbled above us. I watched it disappear to the west, leaving a trail of white in the clear blue sky.

  “So then you went and got the needle,” I said.

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I just panicked. I knew where he used to keep stuff. A drawer in the dresser, stuffed in an old sock. I went looking for it. I found the needle and an old piece of wrap or something. There wasn't really anything in it. I sort of rubbed the needle with the paper then...I went back out to the couch. Where Patrick was.” He sucked in air, looking like a fish that couldn’t breathe. “I just wasn't thinking.”

  “You stuck it in his arm,” I said. “Because you knew no one would question that.”

  “Yeah,” he whispered.

  “And you wrote a fucking note,” Ricky growled. “You wrote a fucking note to make it look like he'd done it on purpose.”

  Ruben shook his head. “I didn't write it. I tore it from one of his notebooks. A letter he'd written to Erin. He was trying to turn it into a song. He told me about it.”

  “Oh, well, that's so much better,” Ricky said, shaking his head. “I guess that makes it okay.”

  “I didn't know what I was doing,” Ruben said.

  David pushed himself up from the curb, his hands on his hips. He stared at Ruben as if he'd never seen him before.

  “I'm sorry,” Ruben said. “I just freaked out.”

  David rushed him, taking him off of his feet and to the ground in a tangle of fists and feet. Ricky made no move to stop it. David had Ruben pinned to the ground, swinging wildly at his face, when I reached him and pulled him off.

  David made no effort to escape from my hold, his entire body heaving.

  Ruben was on his back, a bright red welt beneath his left eye and a trickle of blood snaking out of the nostril on the same side.

  I let go of David and he stalked away from all of us. He didn't say a word, just walked until he rounded the corner at the end of the street and disappeared.

  “So what now?” Ricky asked.

  It was a good question. Ruben hadn't intentionally killed Patrick. He'd shared the drugs with him, which Patrick had willfully accepted. The needle in his arm hadn't killed him, either, but it had been intentionally done to mislead everyone. I had no idea if Patrick could've been revived or saved if Ruben had called for help. I wasn't sure if anyone would ever know that. It was a mess for everyone tied to Patrick.

  I looked at Ricky. “I really don't know.”

  THIRTY FIVE

  I left Ruben and Ricky.

  Not because I didn’t care, and not because I was walking away from what I’d found out about what happened to Patrick.

  It just wasn't my place to report anything. I wanted to give that opportunity to Mike.

  I called him as soon as I left the house but our phone call only lasted a few seconds. He was late for a meeting and said he'd call me as soon as he was out. Considering there was no real sense of urgency to what I had to tell him—nothing I’d found out would change the fact that his nephew was dead—I’d simply said okay and hung up.

  With the phone call out of the way, I drove back to Coronado. The house was empty and Elizabeth was gone. I had a moment of panic before going upstairs to see that her room hadn't been cleaned out and she hadn't run away. It was irrational and illogical, but the entire morning had been a disaster and my emotions were raw.

  It was late afternoon before Mike called me back. He apologized for the delay, explaining that one meeting had led to three more and he hadn't been able to shake himself loose. I'd tried to keep myself busy, pulling weeds outside and cleaning the house. I suggested we meet in person, and he didn’t argue or ask why. We agreed to meet on the deck at the Hotel del Coronado.

  Mike was already waiting, two beers in front of him, when I got there. The sun was just beginning its slow descent behind the edge of the water to the west. The beach was uncrowded and it looked lonely. A slight breeze was making its way off the water to us and I shivered as it raced across my bare arms.

  “Sorry again about taking so long,” Mike said after I'd sat down across from him. “Just usual bullshit that got more out of hand than normal.”

  I took a sip of the beer. “No problem at all.”

  “So,” Mike said, leaning back into his chair. “What's up?”

  There was no reason to beat around the bush. It wasn’t my style, and Mike wouldn’t want it any other way than straight. “Your nephew didn't kill himself,” I said. “It was accidental.”

  He didn't immediately react, just raised an eyebrow.

  I told him what I'd learned, starting from the very beginning and up through what Ruben told me earlier that morning. He listened without saying a word, just occasionally shifting in the chair and drinking from his beer. When I was done, he just nodded and stared at the half-empty pint glass in front of him for a good ten minutes.

  I drank and waited.

  “Well,” he finally said, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think the kid meant any harm?” he asked. “Did he do anything with intent?”

  “He was definitely angry with Patrick over the band stuff,” I said. “But was he trying to hurt him?” I thought about everything Ruben had said and shook my head. “No. I think he really was just trying to cool things off between them and then panicked when it went bad. If he had to do it all over again, I think it would've been a lot different.”

  “Right,” Mike said, looking away from me. He picked up his glass and drained the remaining half. He set it on the table and spun it slowly. “Shit.”

  “I know. I'm sorry, Mike.”

  “Me, too,” he said, weariness creeping into his voice. “But I appreciate you doing all of this.”

  �
��Of course.”

  “I know Elizabeth is home and all that, so I'm sure you would've rather been spending time with her.”

  “It's been fine,” I told him. It wasn’t the time to tell him about the slight strain it had put on our relationship. And even if it was, I probably wouldn’t have said anything, anyway. “I'm just sorry I didn't have something better to bring you.”

  He shrugged. “Was going to end badly one way or another, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  He shrugged again. “So there you go. You weren't gonna have any good news for me and I knew that.”

  I nodded because he was right.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “Truly not a clue,” he said, smiling sadly. “Not a goddamn clue. Any suggestions?”

  “Not really,” I told him. “I'm not sure what the right path is and what best serves everyone. The only thing that comes to mind is the logistics. If Patrick had any insurance, the official cause of death will matter. But I'd guess ultimately his mother will have to decide what, if anything, she wants to pursue. I'm happy to help in any way she'd like.”

  Mike nodded slowly. “Yeah, I suppose it will be her call.” He sighed. “Alright. And thanks, Joe. Really. I appreciate all of this.”

  We talked for a few more minutes before he needed to go. I told him I was gonna stay for a bit longer. We shook hands and I watched him settle the tab at the bar, then amble down the deck back toward the hotel.

  I switched to the other side of the table so I could watch the sun do its thing. It was halfway below the water, pinks and oranges dancing across the horizon. The clouds dropped lower, almost like the curtain on a stage.

  I knew I was avoiding going home in order to avoid having another conversation with Elizabeth.

  And then I thought about Cleo Bullock.

  Cleo seemed clear on her son and his demons. She'd tried to do the right thing, supporting him but not enabling him. I wasn't sure what else she could've done. Ultimately, it hadn't been his habit that killed him, but I had to wonder if his death just filled some prophecy that everyone else had written for him. She'd never be able to ask him or have another conversation with him about why he'd taken the Xanax that night. She couldn't ask him anymore about his relationship with Erin or the band's direction. It was all gone, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  “Uh, Mr. Tyler?” a voice said behind me.

  I turned around.

  James Barrett, a student from one of my classes, held up a hand. “Hi. I thought that was you.”

  I forced a smile. “Hey, James. How are you?”

  “Oh, I'm pretty good,” he said. “Hey, I don't mean to bother you or anything, but did you get my email?”

  I winched and shook my head. “I did not. I haven't even opened my school email since the break started.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said, nodding.

  “What's up? Can I answer a question?”

  “I was just wondering if you got the essays graded,” he said. “I thought it was kind of a hard question, so I really wasn't sure how I did.”

  The guilt I'd been feeling since the break had started and I'd avoided the papers crept back into my gut. “You know what, I have not gotten to them all yet. My daughter's home for the break and I haven't had time yet.”

  He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Oh, alright.”

  I could tell he was disappointed.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I'll make sure I get to yours tomorrow morning, alright? And I'll send you the grade before I even enter it into the system.” I paused. “I'm sure you did fine.”

  “Yeah, I hope so,” he said. “My mom will kill me if I failed or something.”

  “I'm positive you didn't fail,” I told him. “I'll email you tomorrow.”

  “Okay, thanks. Have a goodnight.”

  I watched him turn and walk back down the deck.

  I shifted in my chair and faced the sunset again.

  I'd do James's paper because I felt guilty and because I told him I would. I didn't want to make it hard on the students I had a responsibility to. That wasn't fair to any of them. I wasn't doing my job and I wasn't sure what that said about me.

  Actually, I was starting to think I knew exactly what it said about me.

  I picked up the beer, watched the sun dip lower and the oranges and pinks fade with it, thinking about that.

  THIRTY SIX

  The next morning, I stumbled out of the bedroom, the smell of burnt toast or something like it, waking me.

  Elizabeth was standing at the counter, spreading peanut butter on half of a bagel. She glanced in my direction. “Thought you might sleep all morning.”

  I ran a hand through my hair. “What time is it?”

  “Seven,” she said, picking up the other bagel. “Other half is here if you want it.”

  She wasn't home when I’d gotten home the night before, but she'd left me a note, saying she'd be back before midnight. There was even a heart above her name. It felt like some sort of detente.

  I walked over, spread some peanut butter on the other toasted half, and picked it up. “Thanks.”

  She nodded while she ate and we stood there next to one another, not speaking for a few minutes.

  She wiped her hands on a napkin when she was done and screwed on the top to the peanut butter jar. She carried it to the pantry and put it back on the shelf.

  She closed the door and then leaned against it. “I'm sorry about yesterday,” she said.

  I waved her off. “No, I'm the one who needs to apologize. I overreacted, and I wasn't being fair. Not cool on my part.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “I didn't mean to spring it on you. And your opinion matters to me. Obviously. I didn't mean I was going to pack up and move or anything like that.”

  “I know that,” I said. “Now. 24 hours later. I'm sorry for getting so angry.”

  “And I'm sorry for being insensitive,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head. “You wanna go run?”

  Her words were music to my ears.

  I shoved the rest of the bagel in my mouth. “Let me go change.”

  THIRTY SEVEN

  We jogged slowly through the neighborhood to warm up. The morning air was cold and damp. Fog had moved in overnight and was just beginning to burn off as we turned toward the beach. The fog rolled slowly over the ocean, like smoke from a chimney.

  I kept pace with Elizabeth as we picked up speed heading south toward the jetty and the hotel, running on the hard packed sand at the water's edge. I was even with her when we U-turned and headed back toward the base at North Island. She started to push a little harder, but I stayed with her, focusing on getting my legs to turn over, my arm swing pulling me forward. She kept trying to drop me, but I stuck to her, refusing to fade. The fence to the base was in view as we reached the end of the beach reserved for dogs and I surged ahead of her, my feet flying over the sand. I heard some sort of noise from her—surprise, shock, anger, I wasn't sure—and she pulled even with me again and then stretched out her stride.

  She beat me to the fence by four steps.

  I paced around for a couple of minutes, my hands on top of my head, pacing around, trying to catch my breath. My lungs burned and my legs were heavy with lactic acid. Sweat poured down my back. That was about as fast as I could go. I wanted to win and was mildly irritated that she'd beaten me, but I knew that was probably as good of a fight as I could give her.

  I noticed that she was taking a little extra time to recover. Her hands were still on her head and her breath hadn't returned.

  Small victories.

  “Almost,” she said, finally dropping her hands to her hips.

  “Almost,” I said, nodding.

  “Was that your anger with me fueling that?”

  I laughed and shrugged. “Maybe. I don't know. Just felt like I could go today.”

  “Well, you went.” She shook her head. “I nev
er would've heard the end of it if you'd beaten me.”

  “One hundred percent true.”

  She laughed and took a deep breath, her cheeks pink, sweat dotting her forehead.

  We walked slowly back toward the dogs romping in the waves. Their owners were throwing balls and Frisbees, standing around, chatting. The dogs moved back and forth, chasing one another, thoroughly relishing their own stretch of sand and water, frolocking in the water despite the cool temperature.

  “Maybe we should get a dog,” I said, sitting down in the sand to watch them.

  Elizabeth sat down next to me and untied her shoes. “A dog?” She tipped one shoe over, letting the sand slide out from inside of it.

  “House is quiet without you. Would give me a companion.”

  “You aren't home very much,” she said. “With school and all.”

  It didn’t sound like a barb over the time I’d spent on Patrick’s case, and I didn’t want to think it was. “I suppose.”

  “Did you figure out the thing for Mike?” she asked, right on cue.

  “I did,” I said. “Met with him yesterday. We're all done.”

  I waited for her to ask questions, but she stayed quiet, her eyes locked on the water.

  A wave rose up and knocked over two smaller dogs. They came up yipping and running for the shore.

  “What?” I asked. “I can tell you're thinking.”

  She plucked a shell from the sand, a white scalloped one, and held it in the palm of her hand. “It's what I said a few days ago. Maybe you need to think about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Investigating again,” she said. “I know you said you were done, but...I don't know. I don't want to repeat myself, but maybe this is what you're supposed to be doing. Instead of teaching.”

  I watched the dogs jump around in the water. I'd felt the same thing the previous few days. I felt competent again, comfortable. I had yet to feel those things in a classroom. I hoped they would come but I was starting to doubt that.

  “I don't know,” I said. “Maybe. But not sure how that would be fair to you. The odd hours, the not knowing where I am all the time. It doesn't make for a great home life.”