Thrust

by Tom Piccirilli

  He opened up and there she was, trembling with flecks of paint under her nails. Mary had been weeping for hours. Muddy, puffy eyes were open way too wide, laced with delirium. The smile just kept easing back towards her ears showing off every tooth and filling.

  Jesus, the wine was cheap crap. It clung to her tongue and lips and turned them pink.

  Funny the way her palm came up, flat out, as if making an offering. She held the rubber out to him for inspection.

  "Don't take whatever she offers you, man! Don't you use it! How you gonna do that?"

  Howard had x-ray eyes, same as Chase's father.

  There's a point when you realize you can't help yourself or anybody else and you just get through to the next minute by having an enormous capacity for forgiveness. Mary's shoulders shook but she wasn't sobbing again yet. They were about five minutes ahead of that, and when it hit she'd fall forward into his arms as if she'd been shotgunned in the spine. Chase had to be careful of where he put his hands, anticipating everything and then watching it occur.

  Get her inside, even if the husband continued squawking.

  "Don't let her inside, man! No!"

  Touching her on the safest spot he could think of, the thumb, Chase drew her into the apartment but left the front door open. Howard might run down with a golf club or meat cleaver or .32. There was no way of knowing how much coke the guy had done today.

  "What's wrong, Mary?" Chase asked.

  This had been the way he always spoke to his mother, in the same tone of voice. Hoping to sound like a man even when he was longing for somebody else to treat him like a child. Come in and hug him, pick him up, carry him out of harm's way. If your mother died before you were ten, you'd search for her for the rest of your life.

  She said nothing and proffered the condom again. It didn't make for a sexy situation.

  So Howard's getting a little action on the side, Mary finds out, and the usual absurdity ensues. Plans for revenge are honed only so far as nabbing rubbers and making a rush for the guy below, who's always home during the day.

  Adversity didn't have to come knocking, sometimes it just clawed at the door and you let it in because you're stupid and that's what you do.

  She handed him the condom and swept around the living room in circles, arms held out, making a wide circuit like she was ballroom dancing. They did it on the ward all the time. Chase looked up to see if Howard had started drilling holes through the ceiling yet.

  "Mary?"

  Her silence really threw him. Considering that she was always talking, rambling, rattling, he didn't like the heaviness of her false composure. This was when you went over the big edge. She twirled some more, clomping her heels now, making the place shake with a nice salsa beat.

  Chase nodded his head in time, finding the same rhythm, understanding how to put it down on the page. She slung herself past the couch and glanced at the pad. Mary stopped cold and picked it up. She tore the top piece of paper off and held it in front of her face, peering through the rips at him.

  Another time he would've said "Go home, Mom," but he was still consciously making the effort to focus. She wasn't his mother. Probably not, anyway.

  "Go home, Mary."

  "I want to stay," she told him, getting a little girl twitter in her voice. Maybe it was meant to arouse him, but all it did was make him think of the teenagers in the Falls who were always getting their stomachs pumped.

  Howard started creeping around upstairs, throwing a fit, mewling. He wailed his wife's name doing his best Stanley Kowalski.

  She didn't appear to notice. A flash of cognizance entered and vanished from her eyes. She moved with great deliberate care, wanting to take her time as events developed. People often thought important moments needed to be lengthened. You held on to drama hoping to find significance.

  An expression of concern pleated the angles of her face into a severe but affectionate pout. The way the nuns used to give it to him in grade school.

  Like this was going to work out somehow, and be of help to everyone. She opened her arms and his flaws and weaknesses nearly propelled him into them. It was a reflex action. You learned to accept intimacy when you found it, no matter how crazy it got afterwards. He wanted to cry out for Mama. You always whimpered for Mama before you took the final step off the rim of the world.

  He found he was still holding the condom and didn't know what to do with the packet. Give it back? Throw it away? His garbage was overflowing in the basket. This is why it paid to be organized and tidy, for situations exactly like this.

  He decided to just put it in his pocket. Nobody knew what the hell was going to happen tomorrow anyway.

  "I'm going to stay," Mary said, "for a while. You don't mind do you?"

  "If you want to talk about what's going on between you and Howard, I'll listen," Chase said. "Otherwise, you should leave."

  And still the guy was screeching upstairs, "How you gonna do that, man, huh? It ain't right! It's not right!"

  Chase wasn't about to argue. He'd been down a lot lower than these two, and the shrieking helped. Being able to talk to Shake and Jez and the dead girl Stacy was all that kept him alive for a while in there. He didn't underestimate the power of a white heat bitchfest.

  He wondered where they were in the countdown, how close to zero. Mary's fingers quivered badly, her nails clicking together. Maybe he ought to feed her some of his medication. He searched for the bottle of Haldol thinking that if everybody was tranqued there'd be a whole lot less problems in the city.

  There was nothing humiliating about taking the easy way out.

  You could search for years and never find the easy way—when you found it, you had a God-given right to take it.

  So, he could either sit her down and try to nurse her through this ordeal or get her back into her own apartment where she and Howard could pour it all out in front of one another. Mom and Dad should keep the kids clear of the middle.

  "Mary, go back upstairs please. You need to leave now."

  "Screw me, Charlie," she said.

  It took him back. "What?"

  "I need you, Charlie. I want you."

  With Howard smearing himself against the floorboards. "Don't do it, Charlie!"

  Christ, they didn't even know his name.

  Sometimes you had time to fuck around and sometimes you didn't. He realized then that he couldn't help either of them, no matter what he did. Chase grabbed her by the upper arm and tugged her towards the open door. She didn't resist and he could feel her legs wavering, about to give out. Gently he steered her into the hall and supported her while they took the steps. Twice she nearly dropped but he held her steady, enjoying the feel of her weight against him.

  "It's your choice if you want to leave," he told her. "I'm not saying you should stay. You do what's right for you."

  For all he knew he was handing the girl right back to somebody like Joe Singleton. Perhaps, like Annie Singleton, Mary, his Mom, couldn't make the choice on her own. Maybe she was a fool, and would someday pour meth into the stew and try to get Daddy to OD.

  When they got to her apartment he shouldered the door open. Howard was still on the floor, crying, with a daub of coke on his nose. The bottle of wine had fallen off the dinette table and settled in the middle of the room. That cheap shit looked like spatters of blood.

  It made Chase check the kitchen for any butcher knives, potato peelers, can openers, or corkscrews that might be around. There were none out in the open. Not even in the drawers. The dishwasher was loaded. That was good. No one killed somebody else with a dirty utensil.

  He got an arm around Mary and reached down to grab Howard by the wrist. The guy was definitely hitting the powder too hard, he was down to around one thirty-five. Chase pulled and Howard came flying upwards, weightless as cigarette ash.

  Chase carried the two of them, both quietly weeping now, into their bedroom and laid them out on the bed side by side. They started whispering and Chase got the hell out of there.


  He hit the steps and looked down.

  Jez stood at the bottom of the stairway.

  This blade is going to snag your intestines and slide them out.

  Mama, mama.

  "Hello, Killer," she said. "Did you miss me?"

  10

  Yes, he missed her, and every day it somehow grew worse, no matter how he tried to press it back, he only craved and wanted her more.

  When you didn't have somebody on hand to help you through the desperate minutes, then you went and found her wherever you could. Why shouldn't you fall in love in the nuthouse? It made more sense than falling in love in a coffee shop, an overpriced dance club, a Jewish Deli.

  "Yes," he said, "I do."

  Only then did he fully understand that he shouldn't have left his place, that a maniac was on the prowl for him. Jesus, he couldn't stay on his toes even when his life depended on it. He squinted, really concentrated, pushing past the face he saw as Jez, expecting Singleton under the mask, with his sharpened piece of metal already out and arcing forward.

  But no, it was only the girl, Dawn Miller, and beside her was standing the kid, Jasper Cox.

  "Hey!" she said. "I hope you don't mind us dropping over like this."

  He descended the stairs and they followed him back to his apartment. The fey blonde winked at him. She smiled and the dimples creased her cheeks. That erotic pouty lower lip jutted at him.

  Jasper's deviated septum made his breath come out in panting bites, and his wheezing stirred the down under Dawn's ears. The rich pink flush of her neck was almost red and looked like somebody had been grabbing her, choking her. Those blue eyes shifted to green and stayed there. Chase waited, but they didn't change back. Maybe he just had bad lighting in his apartment.

  They had both been drinking and were a little hammered.

  Chase actually let out a chuckle. He rarely had people over, and it felt good to have somebody inside who wasn't a phantom and probably wasn't trying to kill him. So far as he knew.

  "We thought we could take you out to dinner before your reading tonight."

  "Yeah, have a couple of cocktails. Get you in the zone."

  They were watching him, making sure he didn't crap out again like last time. His own personal trustees. So this was how Jasper was making his move up the ranks—get in close, do some back-patting, feed folks Mom's soup, and make sure the old guard didn't topple before inviting in the new. If only Chase had been smart enough to play the game that way when he was Jasper's age.

  "What a great place," Dawn said. "It's wall to wall books."

  He had to look. After so long, Chase didn't really notice anymore. His bookcases and their contents all flowed together into one solid object, like a painting that constantly grew larger.

  Jasper's slightly crooked nose aimed at Chase's brag shelf bookcase and, magnetized, drew towards it with his hands out. He ran his fingers across the spines of Chase's published collections, clearing away the dust and rubbing further, as if he could take Chase's name off and replace it with his own.

  It didn't take long before Jasper's face went through its usual contortions, the fusion of emotion jerking the muscles of his upper lip, his left eye gaining a tic. His passion for literature was made up of equal parts jealousy, love, fear, respect, dream, and morbid suspicion.

  Looking around at the furnishings, crappy as they might be, and thinking, poetry did all of this. It welcomed you into history and made you immortal—even if only for a little while. The endurance of your work no different than the durability of your skull. It lasts until the minute when it no longer holds.

  "So when did you two meet?" Chase asked.

  "Early last night, before you went on," Dawn said. "We talked for a few hours."

  "And made a lunch date," Jasper added.

  "Isaac's very thankful for you," Chase told him. "You may have saved his life."

  "That's an exaggeration. I just helped him up off the floor."

  "I hear your Mom makes a mean bowl of chicken soup."

  "She sure does," the kid said, taking pride in his Mama, the way he should. He'd be calling on her with his last breath.

  "Did she make the babaganoush too?"

  Jasper frowned in puzzlement. "What's that?"

  "A delicacy in the Middle East. It's a dip, similar to hummus."

  "I never had hummus either. No, Mom doesn't make any of that stuff."

  "Thanks, man!" Howard shouted from above, not quite as clear this time because he was still in the bedroom. "You're stand-up! We're gonna make it work! Thanks to you!"

  "Is that somebody upstairs yelling for you?" Dawn asked.

  "My neighbors get a little rowdy this time of the day."

  "It's five in the afternoon," Jasper said.

  It was the kind of comment only a young, soft man would say, without comprehending that you could flip your fright wig any time, over any damn thing.

  Jasper held back, toeing the floor, getting a little of the aww-gee fanboy fluster going. Chase watched as he extracted a folded piece of paper from his back pocket, held it carefully by its corners. Chase could almost recall what it was like, when the first draft of some transient thought and forced rhyme was more important than a college degree, a job, a girlfriend.

  "Well," Jasper said hesitantly, his forehead actually flushing. "When you have time, would you, ah… mind… reading my latest piece?"

  Chase took the sheet of paper and read.

  not my fault

  He pretended he saw more on the page and nodded his head as if catching the cadences. He hoped it wasn't a haiku or he'd really look like an ass. Tried to put a faraway look in his eye as if vivid images and bittersweet turns of phrases were working their magic.

  His meds were really falling down on the job.

  "Do you like it?" Dawn asked.

  Clearly the girl was catching the mood, feeling for Jasper and wanting to witness him draped in praise. No wonder she had dug Chase the other night. She liked an underdog.

  "It's terrific," Chase said, letting his grin ease free. "Gripping conceptions, but subtle and evocative, with some of the most descriptive phrasing I've read in years. You write about important things, Jasper. You're very young to be highlighting the human condition with such maturity."

  It was almost word for word what Shake had told him, the first time Chase had gotten up the guts to show him a poem.

  Dawn gave a tiny round of applause and embraced Jasper Cox, rocking him side by side as he beamed. The kid reached around her and stuck his hand out. Chase shook it.

  The phone rang and Chase said, "Excuse me." He walked into the bedroom and shut the door.

  The weight and magnitude of significance was already in the receiver as he touched it, so much so that he had a hard time lifting it to his ear.

  He knew the voice instantly although he hadn't heard it since he got out of prison. "This is Ellis."

  Chase had the same screwed feeling he had the first time he met Ellis. That there was some energy he was playing off, feeding on. Even the way Ellis spoke conformed to bad theater. Surly but with command, like he was trying to reach the back rows.

  "Hello."

  "You know that Joe Singleton is out?"

  Still no social amenities or small talk. Okay, then. Chase imagined the expressionless curves of Ellis' Botoxed face again, the glimmer of sorrow in the center of his self-assured eyes. "Yes."

  "You have to watch yourself."

  "I know. I promised his wife I would."

  "That's why I wanted to phone you. I thought you wouldn't have heard. Keep hold of yourself. She's dead."

  The icy shudder started at the base of his spine and worked up through him until the cold settled across his brow. "No."

  "It's true. Annie Singleton was murdered last Friday afternoon."

  "Oh my Christ."

  "She'd taken a job as a waitress at a local burp'n'slurp down in Tuscon. He caught up with her at her apartment after she'd finished her shift. She lived alone an
d nobody missed her until the next afternoon."

  "How do you know it was him?"

  "She was killed with a single knife thrust to the heart."

  Chase almost went over on his face but managed to grab hold of the night stand and prop himself against his headboard.

  Annie Singleton must've gotten lazy.

  She must've forgotten. The same as he'd done, despite her warnings.

  He turned and saw Stacy seated on the edge of his bed. She had her back to him, facing away, but his dresser mirror showed no reflection, so he couldn't even look her in the eye.

  As though she were weakening, giving up on him after all this time. She'd done what she could and he'd failed every step right down the line. He didn't blame her.

  The heat flashed up his arms until he was on fire. The familiar crazy rage—thank Christ for it—was still there, blazing inside him. He held the phone to his chest and gritted his teeth until the muscles of his jaws were stinging, as he threw back his head and swallowed down his regret and fury.

  He was going to kill Joe Singleton and he was going to enjoy it.

  "Are you there? Grayson?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you plan to do?"

  Ellis was almost breathless thinking about it. How the circumstances set in motion half a decade ago were finally about to come to fruition. Waiting for the third act. The sound of silk slithering free hissed over the line. Ellis was unknotting his tie.

  Chase said, "You're addicted, Ellis."

  "What's that?"

  "You're a drama junkie."

  "What do you...?"

  "Check yourself into Garden Falls."

  "You crazy bastard—"

  "Listen to me."

  "I called to warn you!"

  "Thanks for that, but listen to me, Ellis. No attorney should be this attached to a case. Get yourself some help. And if they try to stick you in the tub, sue their asses off."

  A lengthy pause grew steadily heavier in silence for another ten seconds before Ellis hung up. Maybe he'd heard what Chase was trying to tell him.

  In the living room, Jasper and Dawn were standing on the couch having a conversation with Howard upstairs.