A Friend Is a Gift You Give Yourself

by William Boyle

  “The cops are headed to your house.”

  Richie, in the back, starts mumbling.

  “Can you understand him?” Wolfstein says.

  He raises his voice. “Let me just die in my car, okay? I just want to die in my car. I’m here. It’s okay.”

  “We’ll do what we can, fucko,” Mo says.

  Wolfstein takes a right on Stage Road and slows to a stop in front of a pub called O’Leary’s right next to the justice court. The police station is across the street, bustling with activity. Cops getting in their cars. Cops standing out front, some in uniform and some in plainclothes, troubled eyes scanning the sky, trying to make sense of why chaos might visit them on a normal morning like this.

  Crea parks in the spot behind her.

  The pub has a banner hanging out front that reads 9/11 NEVER FORGET. THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE CAPTAIN RON KEEGAN. It looks open. Or maybe it never closes. A neon Miller Lite sign is still on in the window.

  “What are we doing?” Mo asks.

  “I don’t know,” Wolfstein says.

  “He’ll kill us where we sit.”

  Wolfstein reaches into the back and grabs her bag of money, brushing glass shards from it. Richie, ornamented with debris, has dissipated into a heap of silent, confused anguish. His eyes are closed. His mouth is closed. His breathing seems broken. Beneath the glass, he’s all blood and bruises and swollenness.

  “Get out of the car,” Wolfstein says to Mo.

  “And?”

  “We walk over to the police station.”

  “I don’t know about this.”

  “Don’t take the gun.”

  “Don’t take the gun?” Mo says.

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

  “It was your idea. You said, ‘The police station’s right up here.’ You got a better plan? You’re usually the one with the plans.”

  “Keep driving.”

  “Where?”

  “Until we lose him.”

  “And if we don’t?” As Wolfstein’s about to open her door, Crea pulls up next to the Eldorado on the driver’s side. Close. About three inches between the Explorer and the Eldorado. Wolfstein bites down on a gasp. She’s stunned by the move. Mo tilts the gun up, but it seems more in line with Wolfstein than it does with Crea.

  Crea reaches across the passenger seat in the Explorer and rolls down the window. “Manual windows in this shitbox,” he says. “You believe it?”

  Wolfstein and Mo look at him.

  “Look, I’ve only got a second here. These cops”—Crea motions at the small crowd in front of the station—“they’re not gonna be too happy they find out I shot that bald fuck. But I’ve gotta score what I’ve gotta score before I leave. Where’d they go, Rena and the girl?”

  Wolfstein flashes Crea her own wicked grin. “Listen, sweetie,” she says, nerves extinguished by adrenaline, “me and my pal here, we’re gonna get out of this car and walk into that station.”

  “That so?”

  “That’s so.” She pauses, puts her hand on Mo’s knee. “Mo, go ahead and get out.”

  Mo nods. She opens the passenger door and slips out, leaving Richie’s gun behind. Wolfstein, without looking back at Crea, follows Mo, holding on firmly to her bag and then deciding to leave it on the seat. Crea hasn’t seen it yet, and she doesn’t want him to. He’d mistake it for Richie’s haul. Her nest egg up in smoke like that. They stand there in front of the pub, Mo dressed like she’s going to the gym, Wolfstein in her Wranglers and red macramé top, an outfit she used to wear out line dancing in Fort Myers. Richie’s dying in the back seat of the Eldorado.

  “You ladies got balls, I’ll give you that,” Crea says. “I like you a lot.” And then he pulls away up Stage Road.

  Whatever cops are still milling about outside the station take notice of Wolfstein and Mo. Lowering their sunglasses to check out this oddball duo who just landed in front of O’Leary’s in an Eldorado with a shattered back window. Another off thing about the morning. Wolfstein waves. She feels like a gambler who’s just bluffed her way to victory and an even more uncertain future. What an extraordinary world.

  “We get out of all this,” Wolfstein says to Mo, barely moving her lips, “let’s go back to California for a visit.”

  “Shit, sure,” Mo says. “Maybe get some work.”

  “The Cocoon parody the world’s been waiting for.”

  “Time’s right for that. A dirty joke twenty years in the making about a movie no one remembers.”

  “Thanks, Mo. Whatever happens next, thanks a lot for sticking with me. Now let’s see if these cops have any smokes.” Wolfstein steps into the street, stopping to reach into the Eldorado for her bag. As she does, she looks back at Richie, hoping that he’s run out of steam and thinking that he probably has.

  When they finally approach the herd of cops a minute later, Wolfstein kicks into hustle mode.

  LUCIA

  Lucia says she wants a ticket on the next bus going wherever. The big guy behind the counter at the station, wearing a tight T-shirt that reads HEY ASSHOLE MY EYES ARE UP HERE and reading an X-Men comic, tells her a Binghamton-bound Short Line is arriving in a few minutes. Prepaid cell phones and calling cards hang on the wall behind him.

  She says that’s fine and pays with a hundred from the stack of bills she has stuffed in her pocket.

  He cringes when he sees it, acts like maybe it’s counterfeit. She tells him it’s real and to keep the change.

  He says, “What’s your story?”

  She shrugs, takes her ticket, and goes to wait on a bench by the pay phone.

  She sits there, briefcase in her lap. She’s tired and thirsty. She’s never heard of a place called Binghamton. She wonders what’s there. Her feet hurt. They’re grimy from the woods and the road, bottoms speckled with gravel impressions. She should’ve just gone back for her sneakers. That was stupid, trying to prove to Grandma Rena that she could do whatever she wanted. The muscles in her legs feel twitchy. The run through the woods hadn’t been easy. She was afraid she was lost until she found Lakes Road. Even then, she wasn’t sure she was headed in the right direction. When she hit the village and saw the lakes, she stopped in front of a beer distributor and asked a dude pushing boxes around on a dolly where the bus station was. He pointed catty-corner to them. She saw the pizza place Mo mentioned and then noticed the station.

  “What happened to your shoes?” the guy asks her, coming out from behind the counter and bringing her a bottle of water.

  “They got ruined,” she says. “Thanks for the water.”

  He nods. “You look thirsty. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” she says without hesitation, unscrewing the cap on the bottle and taking a long pull.

  “You are seventeen?” he says.

  Her turn to nod. “Yeah, why?”

  “No reason.” He goes back behind the counter.

  Lucia figures it’s about a fifty-fifty chance Grandma Rena shows up before she can get on the bus and get the hell out of town. So be it. She just hopes the rest of them don’t show. She knows the situation. She doesn’t want them dead. She just wants to be alone. Or as alone as possible.

  In school, there’s a boy named Dom Fischetti who always bothers her to no end. Draws dicks on loose leaf with chalk and then presses the paper against her back, so she’s got the outline of a dick on the back of her shirt the whole class. Her friend Liz says it’s Dom flirting. Fuck that. She’s glad she doesn’t have to go back to school. Or church. All these routines people put you through that just don’t mean anything. Confession’s the worst. Sitting there like in one of those prison booths, making up stories to beer-breathed Father Flaherty on the other side of the screen. “Go ahead, my dear,” he’d say. She hated being called my dear like that.

  One time she said something true to Father Flaherty: “I wish I knew my real father.”

  “That’s no sin,” he’d said. And then he told her some kin
d of parable-sounding thing that didn’t make any sense.

  All she was saying was she wished she knew her father. Now she’s wondering if maybe he lives in Binghamton. Sounds like a place for fathers.

  The door opens. A man in jeans and a work shirt and an Irish flat cap comes in. He buys a ticket at the counter for the city and then sits next to her. “I’m Pete,” he says.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “A lot of ruckus out there. I wonder what’s going on. Sirens and what not. Must’ve been an accident.”

  Lucia shrugs.

  “I’m going to work in the city. I’m an electrician. I’m working at the Javits Center. Where you going?”

  “Nowhere,” she says.

  “I wish I was going nowhere. Work sucks. I’m sorry I’m bothering you. I’m nosy. My wife tells me I talk to strangers too much. I like to talk to strangers. I’ve got a daughter about your age. She’s a runner. Hey”—he looks down and notices her feet—“where are your shoes? Do you need shoes? I can call my wife and ask her to bring over an old pair of my daughter’s. She’s away at running camp, my daughter. We have lots of old shoes of hers in the mud room. What size are you?”

  “That’s nice of you, but I’m fine.”

  “You sure? Barefoot’s no way to be.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “To each his own. To each her own, I’m sorry.”

  They sit there in silence for a few minutes. Pete takes out a little notepad from his shirt pocket and starts writing with a golf pencil. “I jot down these ideas I have,” he says. “Nothing special. Ideas for inventions sometimes. Ideas for how to make my commute nicer. Like your situation made me think there should be a guy here at the depot selling shoes. Where better? Your shoes get messed up and you’re getting on a bus, you’re in trouble. Not designer shoes. Just something comfortable and cheap. Good idea, right?”

  Lucia nods.

  “Eric,” he calls out to the guy behind the counter, “you hear my idea? Shoes for sale right here.”

  “Good one, Pete,” Eric says without looking up from his comic.

  “I think so.”

  The Binghamton bus pulls up outside. “I’ve gotta go,” Lucia says, standing up.

  Pete says, “I’ll always remember meeting you because you gave me this great idea for selling shoes.”

  The tiles are cold on her feet as she walks from the bench to the door. She pushes the door open and walks out. The sirens Pete mentioned, she hears them now. Sees a police car speeding up Lakes Road. Probably headed to Mo’s. She doesn’t know what happened. She cares, but she cares more about leaving.

  The bus is at the curb in front of her, the driver standing on the sidewalk, opening the luggage compartment. “Binghamton?” he says to her. He’s got hairy ears and wears a plain blue ball cap and uniform. He’s probably about Grandma Rena’s age. Lucia looks at his hands and sees that his wedding ring is secured in place with electrical tape. He’s also got a small Celtic knot tattooed on the back of his hand.

  “Yep.”

  “No other bags?”

  “Nope.” She hands him her ticket.

  He looks down at her feet. “Are you okay, kid?”

  “I’m seventeen,” she says. “I’m walking barefoot for my friend with leukemia. The more miles I walk, the more money I raise.” She’s not sure where that lie came from, but she thinks it sounded pretty convincing.

  “Okay,” the driver says, laughing a little. “Good for you.”

  She looks up at the big bus with its dark windows. She can see some people scattered around. She climbs on, taking a seat in the back behind a lady wearing an NYPD cap, and puts the briefcase on the floor. The lady turns and gives her the once-over. She’s obviously not concerned about Lucia’s well-being; she just thinks she’s up to no good.

  Out the window is one of the lakes or ponds or whatever. Early-morning dog-walkers and runners are on the path. Lucia drinks her water, scrunching the bottle after she’s done for the noise. She picks off the label. She sees Grandma Rena then, coming from Lakes Road. Grandma Rena crosses the street and disappears out of her view behind the bus. “Fuck,” Lucia says. The lady in the cap looks at her now like she’s uncivilized. Barefoot and cursing.

  Grandma Rena’s voice outside carries into the bus. She’s talking to the driver. She asks about Lucia, mentioning the briefcase and that she’s got no shoes on. The driver says the kid just got on, wants to know if she’s a runaway. Grandma Rena says she isn’t and asks if she can get on and just talk to her granddaughter for a second. The driver says he’s leaving in less than five minutes, she better go in and get a ticket if she wants to get on. She says the girl has her money. The driver says go ahead. Lucia ducks down in her seat.

  Grandma Rena boards. “Lucia?” she says, looking at everyone as she passes.

  Lucia feels small behind the seat in front of her.

  Grandma Rena stands in the aisle next to her. “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Getting away,” Lucia says.

  “Without me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you give me some money so I can go in and get a ticket?”

  Lucia sits up in her seat and digs around in her pocket. “I already gave the guy enough for two tickets,” she says. “But here’s more.” She passes her a hundred. “Can you get me some popcorn while you’re in there?”

  “I’ll be right back,” Grandma Rena says, walking up the aisle and off the bus. She pauses to talk to the driver, telling him she’ll be right back, please don’t leave.

  As Grandma Rena’s in the station, Lucia weighs her options. Run? Where? Crea is still out there probably. Maybe he’s killed Wolfstein and Mo. Maybe he’s coming for his money. She wishes the bus would just leave before Grandma Rena gets back, but she’ll settle for leaving soon with both of them on board.

  Grandma Rena comes back and hands a small bag of popcorn to Lucia. She also has two of the prepaid phones. “Scooch over,” she says.

  Lucia moves close to the glass, the briefcase clenched between her calves. She tears open the bag of popcorn and eats it all in a minute flat, holding the bag over her open mouth and pouring in whatever’s left.

  Grandma Rena settles in next to her. She opens the packages the phones come in, hands shaking, and gives one to Lucia. She finds a stubby golf pencil and abandoned racing form stuffed in the pocket of the seatback in front of her and writes down the numbers for both phones twice, tearing off one scrap for herself and one for Lucia. “I thought we needed these. Just in case. I don’t really know how they work. They’re prepaid.”

  “Thanks,” Lucia says, stuffing the phone and the paper in her pocket. She’s glad to finally have a phone, even if it’s just a burner. “Are Wolfstein and Mo okay?”

  “I’m not sure,” Grandma Rena says. “I took off after you through the woods.”

  “And they stayed behind?”

  “They decided to go back into the house. Trying to get”—she lowers her voice—“the thing that was Richie’s in the trunk. Maybe they got in the car and drove away.”

  “There are a lot of sirens.”

  “I know. I really hope they’re okay. I brought this into their lives.”

  “You knew my real father, right?” Lucia asks.

  Grandma Rena turns and looks at her. “Not really. He was out of the picture fast.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was a short-term thing. I don’t even know if Adrienne ever told him.”

  This information shocks Lucia. “She didn’t tell him about me?”

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t much of anything, from what I remember. Adrienne wanted nothing to do with him.”

  “You remember his name?”

  “Lucia, I can’t think right now. Why do you want his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you want to stay with me now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Grandma Rena looks up at nothing in particu
lar. “I always tried to do things right. But you can’t do things right when everything’s built around lies. My whole life’s been shaped by violence, even if I never took part. I looked the other way. I heard whispers. I don’t want that for you, Lucia.”

  “My mother was just killed in front of me,” Lucia says with a clenched jaw. “You said you wanted Crea taken out.”

  The lady in the NYPD cap is obviously finding it difficult not to eavesdrop, head turned slightly to them.

  “I know. I know. I’m so sorry.” Tears in Grandma Rena’s eyes. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know how to say the right thing. I’d like a chance with you. I want to help make your life what it can be. We can do that. What I see for you, what I want for you, is a husband, a yard, some kids on a seesaw. I don’t want you to be torn apart.”

  “What if I want a wife, not a husband?”

  “I just want you to be happy. I want you to have a happy life. I don’t care about the money. Will you tell me you love me?”

  “I barely know you.”

  Grandma Rena takes a deep breath. “His name was Walt. Your father. ‘Not My Fault’ Walt, they called him.”

  “Walt?” Lucia says, eyes scrunched. It sounds like a name a character’s called in a cartoon. She didn’t know there were Walts in the world. There are. One’s her old man.

  “Walt Viscuso,” Grandma Rena says. “Real lowlife. I don’t know how Adrienne ever got tangled up with him. They met at some club, I think. It didn’t last long.”

  “He’s still alive?” Lucia says.

  “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  The driver is on the bus now. He whooshes the door closed with a lever as he plops down in his seat and then consults his passenger list.

  An SUV rolls slowly past the bus on the left. Lucia recognizes it immediately as the one she saw pull up outside Mo’s through the blinds. She puts her hand over her face and slouches in her seat. She doesn’t look long enough to see Crea behind the wheel.

  “What is it?” Grandma Rena asks.

  Lucia motions to the truck, exhausted. “It’s him again.”

  The SUV pulls in front of the bus, boxing it in. The driver leans on the horn and then throws his hands in the air. “What the hell’s going on here?” he says.