by Shawn Grady
I slammed down the handset. My quarters jingled deep in the machine.
Patty’s beckoned.
My dim-lit sanctuary. Where the passage of time either slowed or sped, the metered course of mortality bending to the will of the imbiber. Eleven fifteen on a midweek morning, but to no surprise, there stood Lowell beside a stool, monologuing with arms outstretched, the messiah of malt liquor. Chris Waits sat two stools down, his grin broad between his handlebar moustache, eyes angled with the aged understanding of a Japanese elder. A couple other bodies at the bar laughed and grinned. I scooted up to the rail.
Patty wiped his hands on a towel hanging from his waist.
“Well, if it isn’t the estranged O’Neill boy.”
I folded my hands on the counter. “Estranged?”
“It’s been nearly two months, lad.”
I pulled back. “No way. A couple weeks, maybe.”
“Don’t you lecture me on the passage of time.” He wagged his finger in the air. “You’re not going to win that fight, Aidan-boy. So ya might just as soon—”
“All right, all right.” I raised my hands in surrender. “Man, Patty. Go easy on me.”
“Go easy on ya?” His motor was started.
Here we go.
He whipped the towel from his apron and held it in the air. Then he cracked a smile at the corner of his mouth, and crinkled his eyes in acceptance. He placed the towel on the counter and leaned forward. Reaching up with one hand he grabbed the back of my head and brought my forehead to his. “Good to see ya, lad.” His breath exhausted the thick stench of whiskey. He straightened. “Have you been eating enough? Are you hungry?” He pointed his towel at me. “Remember when you were a boy and you asked why I always drank Guinness?”
“I remember your face looked like I’d just spit in the holy water.”
“And what did I tell you?”
I licked my lips and looked up to recite. “ ‘Cuz it’s a meal in a glass.’ ”
He slapped his thigh and cackled. “That’s right, and don’t you forget it, Aidan-boy.”
Lowell seemed to just notice my presence. “Aidan.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, his eyes already glazed by a couple pints too many.
I wondered what deception lay hidden in his gesture. What truths lay behind that veil?
Waits waved from down the bar. He asked Patty to pour me a pint. I nodded. “Thanks, Chris.”
Lowell continued with his stories. I nursed my stout, running my thumb along the sweating glass sides. Down the bar, the lines of age drew on flushed faces, quivering lips looking for nurture at the rim of a glass. I took back a mouthful, letting it sit on my palate before swallowing its slow mind-numbing medicine.
The pint stood like a silent cone-shaped monolith, my own personal idol. This place . . . my own dark sepulcher.
Was it Thoreau who said the tavern will compare favorably with the church? I’d let this brass-railed bar become my altar, a murky draught my living water. Repetition and ritual.
Ancient.
Revered.
And powerless to change a hardened heart.
All were accepted. None were healed.
I opened my eyes to see streetlight edging through the window blinds. It diffused into the dark of my room. I rolled off the bed, a dull throbbing in my head arguing against uprightness. Separating the shades with my fingers I saw the Land Cruiser parked out in front, straight and proper by the curb. I felt my front pocket for the keys but found only flat denim. The cranial pounding moved to my forehead. I pressed my palm against it.
Green digital numbers glowed from the nightstand: 6:37 p.m.
I stumbled to the kitchen, found a glass, and filled it with tap water. I forced myself to drink it all and ate a piece of bread. Back in the bathroom, my fumbling hands found an aspirin bottle. I threw back three and swallowed, sipping from the tap to wash away the chalky residue. Leaning back against the doorframe, I stared at my vacant bed. A gaping emptiness gnawed at me.
My stomach churned. I dropped to my knees and vomited in the toilet. The cool porcelain felt firm under my palms, the tile hard on my patellas, my heaving stale breath putrid and humiliating.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and pushed aside the shower curtain. I crawled into the tub and lay my head back—sinking into a deep, hollow, dark slumber.
CHAPTER
32
L ook, Aidan. See Daddy?” Steam lifted from the iron resting on the end of the board.
I held a smooth wood block over my building. It was as tall as the table, as tall as I was. I threw a quick glance at the television. A long ladder stretched into a smoky sky. A fireman carrying an axe climbed it. I peeked at my swaying tower.
“Look, Aidan.”
I squeezed the carpet with sock-covered toes. “Is that Daddy?”
“It sure is. See him on the ladder?”
“Is he in the sky?”
The iron exhaled a hot vaporous sigh. My mom turned over a chalk-blue collared shirt, one Dad wore at work. “He is very high up.”
“As high as the mountains?”
“No, not that high. About a quarter of the height of Circus Circus.”
When we went there I got lots of quarters. They had these heavy brown balls that when you rolled them and they went up in the holes, then you got lots of tickets. “The quarters of the game place?”
“That’s right. Good memory.”
I set the block on top of my building. It fit perfectly on the phone-shaped one. The building leaned a little, so I shifted the block and it balanced. I let go, and the tower swayed slightly. I measured with a flat hand from my head to it.
“As tall as me, Mom.”
“The building?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think so, dear. That building is hundreds of feet tall.”
My chest swelled with pride. “I know. Look.”
“Oh. Right. Very nice work, Aidan.”
“It’s hundreds of feet tall.”
“Maybe in pretend feet.” She turned the shirt over again. She didn’t have the white basket with all the pants and shirts. Just that one.
“That’s a special shirt.”
She stared at the TV.
“That’s a special shirt, Mom.”
“What, dear?” She looked over and smiled.
“That one takes a lot of ironing.” I smiled back.
The iron breathed out. She stopped smiling. A sad look filled her eyes.
“Mom, you’re squeezing the shirt!”
She looked at her fist and set the iron down. She draped the shirt on the board and turned away into the kitchen. “Aidan, don’t touch that. It’s hot.” Her voice sounded warbly.
I itched my nose and stared at the ironing board.
She loved to iron blue shirts.
I’d almost forgot about my building. I sidestepped around it, then ambled down the hallway, finding the creaky boards. I could make it to my bedroom in five creaks.
Warm sunshine shone through the high window in my room. It made a rectangle on the floor that half covered my circle carpet with all the colors and half covered the wood part of the floor. I laid down in it. The sun made rainbow circles when I squinted my eyelashes. Sometimes if I looked long enough I could see invisible things floating around like little hairs or worms or bubbles. When I lifted my hand and shielded the sun, I saw some different dark clouds that were only in one part of the sky. They were black like the wax paper you can write on with toothpicks.
Under the window sat my mud-colored toy box. He-Man was in there, probably on the bottom in the corner next to the rubber turtle and my disc guns. I lifted the lid and dug my arm in.
Nope . . . Nope . . . There he is.
I ran from my room and skidded down the hallway all the way from the bathroom to the living room, jumping on the carpet where the wood floor ended.
I landed, and my building swayed. I stood perfectly still, holding He-Man by the waist. When it settled, I stret
ched out on my belly, looking up at the tower the way He-Man saw it.
I brought him up to one of the blocks at the bottom and cocked back his fist.
“Oh, dear Jesus!” my mom cried out.
She cupped her hands over her mouth, standing at the edge of the kitchen. She stared at the TV.
I didn’t like it when she was so loud. The TV picture was smoky and orange and shaky. “Where’s the ladder, Mom?”
She said something so quiet I couldn’t hear.
“What?”
She shook her head.
“Mom, I can’t hear you. Take your hands down.”
But she just stood there.
“Mom, what did you say?” I looked at the TV. The ladder appeared, and a fireman with an axe climbed down through the smoke. “Look, Mom. Is that Daddy?”
Her hands moved to her chest. “Oh, Lord. Thank you. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, thank you.”
“Are you praying for the food?”
She came over and knelt in front of Dad’s chair, her arms held open. “Come here, baby.”
“One sec. Watch this.” I aimed He-Man so he would strike the block. He swung a mighty swing, toppling the tower to the carpet. It was awesome.
I hopped over the blocks and jumped into my mom’s arms. She held me tight, swaying back and forth. She smelled like my blanket and bear. I liked long hugs.
I played with her earrings. They were gold with little white marbles. I tried to get the marbles out. “Aren’t you so glad you saw that?”
“What, dear?”
“Aren’t you so glad you saw that crash?”
Her eyes crinkled. Each side had four lines. “Oh, yes. That was a really strong punch by Conan.”
“That’s He-Man, Mom.”
“Right.” She sniffled and smiled. “I love you, Aidan.”
“I love you, too, Mom. Is it time to eat yet?”
She looked up and ran fingers under her eyes. “Oh. I guess it is.”
“You know that four plus four is eight.”
She blinked and gave a curious look. “Very good, Aidan.”
“Will Daddy be home tomorrow?”
She put a hand on my cheek and kissed my hair. “Yes, bug-a-boo. Yes, he will.”
CHAPTER
33
I stood in a stream, my feet ankle-deep in warm muddy water. The wetness climbed my pant legs, rising, flooding, then raging. A hiss-splash of pelting water shot over my face.
My eyelids unlatched under blurring rivulets, refracting white tile and incandescent light.
“Wakey, wakey, A-O.”
The shower shut off. I blinked away droplets. My wet plastered hair dripped water down my temples. I wiped my face and stared up into the purple moon judgment of Christine’s countenance.
“You know,” she said. “Yi Jing once spoke the ancient proverb, “ ‘He who wants warm, dry rest ought not to sleep on a riverbed.’ ”
I pushed myself over the edge of the tub and slosh-stepped past her to the bedroom, stripping off wet cotton.
She scoffed. “Top of the mornin’ to ya, laddy.”
I turned and threw my sopping shirt. It hit the wall beside her, leaving a wet shadow imprint on the plaster.
She stared at the shirt and then at me. She held a small cardboard box filled with miscellaneous items and dangled keys on a finger. “Here are your house keys. I’d like my apartment key back, please.”
“I . . . I don’t know where my key ring is.”
She let out a derisive laugh, then turned and walked out. “And if you’re going to insist on not answering your own phone, have the department take me off your emergency contact list. It’s C-shift today.”
I glanced at the clock. 9:05 a.m.
I was already late.
“Don’t expect me to bail you out next time,” she yelled from the entryway. “You’re not my problem anymore.”
The front door slammed.
Mauvain’s office.
There were few things I enjoyed less. I typically made every effort to avoid setting foot on the second floor, and I worked even harder to avoid entering a chief ’s office. Lowell called the entire floor a commonsense black hole. Spend too long in administrative management and rational thought got sucked from your synapses.
Butcher wasn’t a happy camper when I’d walked in at nine thirty-five. But in the sea of other items he had to tackle that morning, my issue was set adrift, only to be snatched up by Mauvain, who happened to be walking down the stairs as I made my way up.
I stewed in the chair opposite his desk and chewed on the inside of my lip. The chair’s height adjustment was stuck on low, exacerbating the already present feeling of being a kid in the principal’s office. Mauvain’s large leather chair sat empty. I stared at his wall of framed certificates.
He walked in holding a flopping stack of papers, leaving the door open, and settled behind his desk. He didn’t look up but set the papers down, clicked the mouse for his computer, and lifted his head to read the screen. I looked out the windows, across the parking lot and the train trench to the bleak urban tones of downtown.
“O’Neills and punctuality.” He typed and stared at the monitor. “Close the door, Aidan.”
I wasn’t quick about it, but I stood and complied, and then slowly made my way back to the low-rider seat. I could just see him after hours with that chair upside down, working with a screwdriver to sabotage the height adjustment. I didn’t know where he was coming from with the “O’Neills and punctuality” comment. My dad had made a habit of showing up a half hour early for every shift. Now, awards ceremonies . . . that was a different story. He may have missed one or two of those.
Mauvain sat back, folding his hands. “You are aware that we have an arsonist on the loose?”
My head was still pounding. My mouth felt like cotton. “Yes, sir.”
“And, you are aware that we start work downtown at eight in the morning.”
We started work at every station at eight in the morning. He was the king of condescension. “Yes, sir.”
He raised his eyebrows and ran his tongue along his teeth, making a suction-release sound. He wanted an excuse. And any reason I gave would only open an opportunity for him. I kept quiet and stared at him. His face drew down. I was making him work. Time for a new tactic.
He pushed his chair back and walked to the window. “That was quite a fire at the Cairo.”
I kept silent.
He stared into the distance. “Interesting, Aidan, how things seem to fall apart around you. First Hartman. Then a couple flash-overs. Your unpredictable behavior. Folks have been talking.”
There it was, his next weapon, the power of the opinion of some indefinable group. He wanted me to ask what “they” had been saying, who “they” were. But I wouldn’t learn from him anything I didn’t already know. Guys couldn’t figure me out. How could I blame them? I couldn’t figure me out.
He turned, leaving his thin façade of cordiality on the sill. He leaned both hands on the desk, staring in my eyes. “Spitting image.” He shook his head and breathed out through his nose. “Same look. Same insolence. Same arrogant attitude.” He straightened. “The apple certainly hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”
I held his gaze. As far as I was concerned, he’d just paid me a compliment.
“You should know that Biltman’s a bust. He set his own place off. That’s it.” He sat down and framed a tent with his fingers. “But of course, you knew that, right?”
I cleared my throat. “Why would I know that?”
He rocked his chair back and forth. “How was your time off?”
“Short.”
“Get everything done that you wanted?”
“What makes you think I had anything I wanted to do?”
He parted his hands and shrugged. “Guy like you that works a lot. Must be things you want to take care of.”
“I was in Mexico.”
“Right. Right.” He scratched his temple. “You have anyone
who can account for that?”
“May I ask what this has to do with my being late?”
“I heard that you were at the Prevention lab the other day.”
“And . . .”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if he were letting me in on a little secret just between the two of us. “Folks down there are swamped. This investigation is high priority, and there is a lot of sensitive information surrounding it. It’s probably in your best interests to not get in their way, if you follow me.”
“No, I don’t follow you.”
“Stop showing your face around Prevention.”
I pulled out my phone. “Maybe I should have a union rep here.”
He put out his hands. “Please. I don’t think we need to take it to that level. Just having a chat.” He stood, this time walking to his awards wall. He pocketed his hands. “James never saw the value of recognition. A certificate to him was just a piece of paper. But you know what these are, Aidan?” He motioned toward the wall. “These are rungs. Each one lifting the smart and diligent worker another step higher. Some folks are jealous of that. Some resent an individual’s efforts to better himself. They feel threatened. Belittled. But knowledge is power. Isn’t it?”
He waited for me to respond.
His face betrayed a subtle twinge. “Knowledge is power, Aidan. And don’t think I don’t know you. You’ve been lucky with these recent fires. It would be unfortunate for that luck to run out.” He walked back to the desk. “Tell you what. I’ll be sure to keep watch over you.” He picked up the paper stack and thumbed through it. “Your next paycheck will show three hours docked, absent without leave.” He looked up. “I’ll make sure that gets in your file.” Looking back at the papers, he waved toward the door. “Leave it open on your way out.”
The black leather punching bag creased and retreated from my fists. Blow, blow, blow. Combo jabs and palm-heel thrusts and dorsal-foot-plane side kicks. That afternoon gave me Station One’s basement gym to myself. My iPod blasted The Who from a set of connected speakers. Roger Daltrey wailed “Won’t Get Fooled Again.”
What was Mauvain’s angle anyway?
Front kick. The bag chain clinked and shook. Front kick. Sweat flipped and sprayed from my face.
