Try Dying

by James Scott Bell

  Next thing I knew I was flying forward and down. A body on my back. My nose hit the floor and white fire erupted in my head.

  Hot breath hit me in the ear. And pain like I couldn’t believe.

  He was biting my shoulder.

  I lashed out with an elbow, drawing nothing but air. I felt a hot, sticky pulse of blood.

  He grabbed my hair and pounded my face into the floor again. Little white pinwheels spun behind my eyes.

  With all my might I jerked. No go. He had me.

  My head whipped back again and down into the floor.

  Now I could smell blood and taste it. It poured from my nose. I saw red splotches on the carpet. They swam around in circles, then started to fade.

  And that’s the last thing I remember.

  23

  A RUSTY SAW was cutting my brain in half. I was groaning. And moving.

  Or being moved.

  From a faraway place somebody said Okay?

  Darkness. I was on my back. In a car.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You okay, man?”

  From the front seat. The driver.

  “What’s hap . . .”

  “You got hit pretty bad, dude. Hang on.”

  I tried to sit up. Couldn’t. “Where . . .”

  “Tell me what you feel like.”

  The driver had a slight accent. Who was he? And what was I doing in this car?

  More to the point, where was he taking me? Possibilities started to form like crystals on frozen glass, patterned but not making immediate sense. But I was sure it couldn’t be good.

  “Let me out,” I said.

  “Hey man, you’re hurt. You gotta—”

  “Drop me.”

  “Listen, you don’t want to be dropped. Not out here.”

  I made myself sit up. It was like pushing a laundry bag with a stick. I gripped my head, trying to keep the halves in place. “Where’s my car?”

  “Easy, man. First, how you feeling?”

  I saw him only as a shadow, a dark form behind the wheel. The car itself wasn’t anything to brag about. It had the feel of a lot of miles and fast-food wrappers.

  “Why am I talking to you?” I said.

  “I’m the only one here.”

  Comedian. I looked out the window and saw the lights of some part of L.A. We were on a surface street. The signs were mostly in Spanish. “Who are you?”

  “Your guardian angel, man.”

  “Really? You suck.”

  “I got you in the car. Got you out of there.”

  “I could have used you before that. Who the—”

  “You needed help. I helped.”

  “Okay, you helped. Now take me back.”

  “Just relax, man, and—”

  “Take me back now.” I didn’t like the idea of being a captive, even to a guardian angel. I wanted to get to my car and to my house and my own bed and to my medicine cabinet. I wanted to chew aspirin. Maybe I was permanently messed up. Having your head turned into a soccer ball can do that.

  “All right, no gratitude,” the pseudo angel said. “What this city’s like, you know, do something good for somebody, they spit back in your face. You lose faith in humanity, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Lose faith in angels, too.”

  He started to pull over. The street was barely lit by old-style streetlights. We were in front of a closed up mini-mart. It had hand-lettered signs, TOSTADAS DE CEVICHE and DESAYUNOS. Next to it was a fenced off lot, with razor wire and three Dumpsters overflowing with trash.

  Overlooking it all was a huge, suited Latino guy, movie star looks, glaring down with all seriousness. LOS ABOGADOS! it said.

  The Lawyers. You can’t get away from us anywhere.

  “First we need to talk,” the angel said.

  “Take me back to my car.

  “You ever think somebody might be waiting for you at your car?”

  No, because I wasn’t thinking much at all. Thinking made my head hurt even worse. “Just take me back and drop me and I’ll jump in and drive away. I don’t care.”

  “I do, man.”

  “Who asked you to?”

  We were just sitting there at the curb.

  He didn’t answer. He opened his door, got out, opened the back driver’s-side door and got in next to me.

  My adrenal glands started pumping like mad. He looked a little older than me, wore a white T-shirt and jeans, and was ripped. A guy who could do damage with his hands if he wanted to.

  “Need to talk,” the angel said.

  “Don’t want to talk.”

  “What do you think you were doing out there, in that neighborhood, huh?”

  “Look, thanks for getting me out of there. You did do a good thing. I’m grateful. I just want to go home now. No more talk.”

  He shook his head. “Ah, man, that’s not gonna help me at all. No way.”

  How long was this going to last? I closed my eyes and tried to will the pain in my head to downgrade into something less than a horse kick.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw that my guardian angel had pulled a righteous-looking knife and was holding it in front of my face.

  24

  “SEE THAT?” HE said.

  “Hard to miss.”

  “Can do a lot of damage.”

  “What’s your point?”

  He laughed. “That’s a good one. Point.” He twirled the knife a little. I thought about trying to make a move to the door but knew I’d never make it.

  “You scared?” he said.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “That you’re scared, man. That you’re gonna wet your pants.”

  “If that makes you feel better.”

  “You’re not listening. I want you to say it and I want you to believe it. ’Cause it’s real. Ain’t no game.”

  I was scared all right. But it was a reflex. There was something else going on. A not caring.

  “Whatta you really want?” I said. “Money? You want my money?”

  He shook his head. “Be scared.”

  “Fine. I’ll be Homer Simpson if you want. Just get on with it.”

  He lowered the knife. “Man, that ’tude’s gonna get you nailed.”

  I started to say something, but he jumped in ahead of me. “Just listen. You’re lookin’ around at stuff you’re better off forgetting. Okay? I’m doing you a real favor here. Stay out of it. ’Cause the next guy who shows with a knife at your face ain’t gonna be so reluctant to use it.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Tell me you understand.”

  “I’m all over it, but—”

  “Then we got nothin’ more to say to each other. Put your seat belt on, man. It’s the law.”

  He drove me back to the neighborhood, back to my car, and didn’t say ten words the whole way.

  As far as I could see there wasn’t anybody out on the street, looking for me or anybody else. All the earlier excitement was over. Just as well for me.

  I hoped the little girl was all right.

  The last thing the guy said to me, as I got out, was, “Remember what I told you. Don’t come back here. Go home and get on with your life.”

  “Tell me your name at least.”

  “Have a good night,” he said before peeling away.

  25

  THE NEXT DAY at the office my head felt like an outtake from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I must have looked like it, too. My assistant, Kim—a paralegal with a Roller Derby body but sweet disposition—looked at me in horror and said, in her indirect twenty-something way, “What happened to you?”

  “Please get me four aspirin. Bring them to my office.”

  She bounded from her desk as I made it to my office, almost blind from the pain. I probably should have checked into emergency. Or maybe donated my head to science and been done with it.

  Kim came in with the aspirin and a bottle of water. I popped the four tabs in my mouth and washed them all down in a gulp. “A
nd please bring me my messages.”

  While she was doing that, I called Southeast Division and asked to speak to Fernández but got put through to voicemail. I left a detailed message about what happened to me and asked him to please call as soon as possible.

  Kim came back with a few pink sheets. Even though the firm prefers we use voicemail, I try to have Katie or whoever else is on duty screen calls. It saves time. I went through the messages one by one and decided not to call anyone back.

  Except one. The message was from a Father Robert. All it said was he had something relevant to offer on Dr. Kendra Mackee. Father. A priest. I thought I recalled Mackee having a client a few years back who said he was molested as a boy by a priest.

  I punched the number and put it on speaker. A woman answered. I asked for Father Robert.

  “We have been expecting your call,” the woman said. “The father asks if you would come this afternoon.”

  “Come where?”

  “St. Monica’s Retreat.”

  “Wait, can I talk to him? Maybe we can set some things up over the phone.”

  “Oh, Father Robert has no phone.”

  “Doesn’t have a phone? What kind of outfit are you?”

  “We are a monastery, Mr. Buchanan.”

  I rubbed my temples, trying to put a rope on the horses kicking at them from inside my head. “Why don’t you find him and have him call me, will you? I really can’t be going all over the place.”

  “Oh,” the woman said, “we are very easy to find.”

  26

  ST. MONICA’S WAS tucked up against the Santa Susana Mountains in the northwest corner of the San Fernando Valley. At one time the valley was dominated by the Catholic Church, acting as sort of a trustee for the Spanish, and later Mexican, governments. Mostly they were there to Christianize the Native American population. Which meant assimilation, sometimes the hard way.

  Later, the land was carved up into great ranchos, but when the inevitable tide of the Anglos swept in, the dons found themselves on the run.

  When the dust settled, though, the Catholic Church had managed to come out with some sweet parcels of land. St. Monica’s was one of them.

  The parcel was just north of the 118 Freeway, which I’d always thought was uninhabitable. Brush fires burned through there every year, it seemed. But here was this little oasis with a killer view of the whole valley. The spread up here would be worth tens of millions to developers.

  Which is why I hoped the Catholics would stay true to their vision and never sell out. The city was already overstuffed with shoulder-to-shoulder houses thrown up by quick-buck artists who’d build on graveyards if they could. More houses brought more cars for the same amount of road space, and that meant more delays and traffic and road rage.

  Welcome, friends, to the mess that never ends.

  I drove through the open gate and up a small drive to a squat, tan-colored building. Not much for design, these people. Practical. Like a nun’s shoes.

  The reception area in the building was as plain as the outside, only with a crucifix above the desk. Behind the desk, in a full habit, was a nun. But not like any nun I’d ever seen before. I’d always thought it was Vatican policy that nuns have dried apple faces and tight lips. Not this one.

  She wore a simple silver cross around her neck. I kept my shades on to hide the multicolored glory of my face.

  “You must be Mr. Buchanan,” she said, rising. “I am Sister Mary Veritas.”

  “Veritas. Truth?”

  “You know Latin?”

  “I took some philosophy in college.”

  “Cool.”

  Cool? What manner of divine was this? She seemed about twenty years old, though it was hard to tell with the habit. What blazed out clear were her acetylene-blue eyes.

  Catholics were a mystery to me anyway. There was a Catholic family down the street when I was growing up, the Sullivans, and they seemed to produce a new kid every year. Sullivans were popping out all over the place, two and three to a room. One of them, Danny, was about my age and knew all the dirty fighting tricks his big brothers had taught him. He taught me how to hold something in my fist, like a roll of quarters, to take the give out of the fingers and make a punch rock-hard. All the Sullivans went to something called mass, and I wondered if they learned more tricks there.

  “I will show you to Father Robert,” Sister Mary said.

  “I never knew this convent was here,” I said.

  “Oh, we’re not a convent, Mr. Buchanan. We’re Benedictines. This is a monastery.”

  “I thought nuns lived in convents.”

  “The Benedictine order lives in community.”

  “But you’re still nuns, right?”

  She laughed, but not condescendingly. “Oh yes. But to our vows of chastity, poverty and obedience, we also add others from St. Benedict, including hospitality.”

  “So if I order a beer, you can get it for me?”

  “Not exactly. But if you come to us seeking a place to stay, we cannot turn you away.”

  I almost said, If word gets out about you, you’re gonna have a ton of guys showing up trying to get you out of your vows, sister.

  27

  SISTER MARY WALKED me across the nicely groomed grounds. Spreading shade trees had the feel of the old ranchos, knotty and lush. The smell in the air, though, was something else.

  “What’s cooking?” I asked.

  “Fruitcake.”

  “Fruitcake?”

  “Fruitcake.

  “I never associated fruitcake with Catholicism.”

  “What do you associate it with?”

  “Aunt Betty. Every Christmas, without fail, an inedible fruitcake in a tin came our way, courtesy of Aunt Betty.”

  She stopped and faced me. “Every order such as ours needs a way to raise funds for ministering to our community. We are actually well known for our fruitcake, Mr. Buchanan. It’s really good. If you’d like to try—”

  “Thanks very much, but maybe another time.”

  “Send one to Aunt Betty.” She had a cherubic smile.

  “Let’s go see the padre.”

  Toward the back of the property the green grass got scrubby and brown, melding into the dirt and rocks of a sun-baked hillside. Parked under a gnarly oak tree was a white trailer, maybe a twenty footer. Another of the same type was parked on the other side of the tree. I was surprised when the nun walked up to the first trailer and rapped on the door.

  The trailer shook a little, then the door creaked open. A black man poked his head out, looked at the nun, then at me.

  He smiled. His face had the weathered appearance of fifty hard years. His hair was short and the color of New York snow—not pure white, but mixed with the dirt of heavily trafficked sidewalks. He was not what I expected in a priest. I always thought Bing Crosby when I thought priest.

  “Mr. Buchanan, I presume,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “I’ll leave you now,” the nun said, and hurried away.

  “I’m Father Robert,” the priest said. “You can call me Bob.”

  Bob? Calling a priest Bob was a little too weird, like calling your gym teacher in middle school Frank. I decided to defer what I would call him until I knew what he had to say.

  His modest crib was plain like everything else at this place. The vow of poverty thing showed. We sat at a Formica table and he offered me a lemonade. It was hot that day and lemonade sounded good.

  “I want to thank you for coming all the way out here,” he said. “I haven’t had a visitor in a while.”

  “I guess the nuns take all the good quarters, huh?”

  “This was my choice. It’s like a little hermitage. Since I’m precluded from pastoral work, I thought spending more time with God would be a good idea. Fortunately, the diocese also found it convenient.”

  “Convenient?”

  “They had entertained and then accepted an accusation against me, of molestation. I’ll tell you about that in a mo
ment. But what to do with me? Well, the abbey here needed a priest to say mass and hear confession, you know, so that’s what I was assigned. Besides, I was beginning to be the cause of a little too much discomfort, claiming innocence and all. Funny how a little thing like false accusations can set the powers that be all a twitter.”

  “You maintain your innocence, then?”

  “Do I detect a little skepticism in your voice?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “It’s all right,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “The context of the times does not lay a lot of benefit of the doubt on the priestly side. I understand your reaction.”

  Embarrassed, but fully in agreement with his perception, I took that moment to have a sip of lemonade.

  As I did, he smiled and did a-rat-a-tat on the table with his two index fingers. Fast.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “What?”

  “That riff.”

  “Oh, that. A little habit of mine, actually relaxes me. I used to pretend I was Chick Webb when I was a kid.”

  “One of the greatest drummers of all time.”

  His eyes lit up like Christmas lights. “You know about Webb?”

  “A little. I played drums once.”

  “Get outta town!”

  “Not a bad idea at this point.”

  “No, really. Tell me.”

  I shrugged, not wanting to get into it. The way you don’t want to talk about a pet that died. “In a band once.”

  “Rock?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So who did you like? Keith Moon?”

  Amazing. A priest who knew about rock drummers. “Moon was great, sure,” I said. “Neil Peart, though, is something else. And John Bonham.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Led Zeppelin. He did a fifteen-minute solo on a song called ‘Moby Dick’ on the live album they did at Madison Square Garden. The best.”

  “Son,” he said, beaming. “There was Buddy Rich, then everybody else.”

  “Oh yeah, I saw him play on The Muppet Show once. And Carson. You may be right.”

  “Brings back some good memories.”

  He reached into an Arturo Fuente box and pulled out a cigar. “Can I offer you one?”

  “No thanks.”