Saving Room for Dessert

by K. C. Constantine

Mrs. Remaley didn’t say a word. She picked up her large, black, leather purse and her large, black, leather briefcase and marched out of the room, head held high.

  There was an awkward silence for a few moments, then Valcanas cleared his throat and said, “Well, Mr. Mayor, if motions are in order, I move you declare this inquiry over.”

  “Not so fast, not so fast. I instigated this damn thing, the least you can do is give me a written report—or at least tell me you’re gonna give me one, somethin’ I can show the paper when they get around to askin’ what happened. God knows, none of us wantsa look any more ridiculous than we are—least I don’t. If I were you guys, and I was tryin’ to make somebody pay for this, I’d make Figulli write the damn report. There’s nothin’ he hates worse, and you ask me he deserves all the pain you can give him.”

  “Well then, Mr. Mayor, I think it’s incumbent upon you to appoint yourself chairman pro tern and get this thing wrapped up,” Hepburg said.

  “Yeah, you would. Okay, let’s do it.”

  RAYFORD AND Reseta were running at the Rocksburg High School football field. Once every couple of weeks, instead of running along the Conrail tracks by the river or running through town, they’d run a lap around the quarter-mile track at the football field and then take the bleacher seats two at a time up and one at a time down, do another quarter-mile, and then run up and down the bleachers again. It was Rayford’s idea, and he was always trying to get Reseta to do it because it was the one way Reseta couldn’t keep up with him. Going up the bleachers would cause the piece of shrapnel in Reseta’s butt to stick him, and coming down jarred his back— though he didn’t complain about it—and he’d have to push himself extra hard to catch Rayford when they got on the flat.

  When they started their cool-down walk, Rayford said, “Know what I never ast you?”

  “What?”

  “Happened to that kid?”

  “What kid?”

  “Irish kid. One you was haulin’ ass down the juvey center.”

  “When?”

  “ ’Chu talkin’ ’bout, when? Second worst night of my life.”

  “Gone. Man, it’s hot. Supposed to be this hot for May?”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “Gone, wherever gone is, I don’t know. Children’s Bureau found his foster family, sent him back to them, then he took off again.”

  “So he never had a lawyer momma? Or doctor father?”

  “Maybe he does, I don’t know. But there’s no doctors or lawyers in the foster house. Just another foster family. Four other kids in the house. Apparently he was the only one didn’t like their rules.”

  They walked a lap, wiping their sweat, drinking water.

  “Still ain’t goin’ tell me what happened with you in Nam, are ya? When you shot that guy, huh?”

  “No, and if you don’t stop askin’ you’re gonna run by yourself from now on.”

  “Well why’d you tell me I was headin’ for a shit storm after I shot Hornyak? And why’d you look like you looked?”

  “ ’Cause you were. But you got through it. Without any help from me no matter what I looked like. So forget about it.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know why I even talk to you.”

  “You have to talk to me, nobody else likes you.”

  “Oh if you ain’t the fucked-uppest motherfucker I ever knew— what happened to your face, you goin’ tell me that?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me anyway, so why should I?”

  “Look here, man, you got one cut under your nose, you got ’nother one on top a your right eye, and you ain’t goin’ tell me what happen?”

  Reseta stopped and faced Rayford. “If I tell you, I want your blood oath on your shield this stays right here.”

  “Ow, that bad, huh?”

  “Wipe that smirk off your face, this is serious. I want your word—”

  “Okay, okay, got-damn. It stays here.”

  “I, uh, I been on this med. For, uh, depression.”

  “Depression? You? You mean like the real shit? Not some-woman-stole-your-furniture-and-wrecked-your-ride kinda depression? The chemical shit?”

  “Yeah the chemical shit.”

  “Since when, man? Whyn’t you say somethin’?”

  “I am sayin’ something, you gonna let me say it or not?”

  “Yeah yeah, say it, man. Sorry. Shit.”

  “You know, since, uh, since after Christmas.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Your man in Mississippi.”

  “Yeah. It got real bad around the middle of March, end of March. So, anyway, had to do somethin’, I couldn’t keep on like that. Went to see this GP, he prescribed this med. For a while it worked real good. Then it started messin’ with my sleep.”

  “Messin’ how?”

  “Started havin’ these dreams, man. Awful. So bad I’d wake up, two, three, four times a night. Be so tired in the mornin’, it was like I hadn’t slept at all. I was runnin’ on caffeine.”

  “Yeah, man. We noticed that.”

  “We? Well, yeah, I’m sure everybody did. But not as much as I did. Started forgettin’ things. Simple stuff, basic stuff. Come outta the unit, forget my baton, my flash, started screwin’ up my UIRs. One day Nowicki chewed me a new one. So I got the dose adjusted, worked okay for a little while more. Then it started again. The dreams.”

  “Like what kind?”

  “Okay. I’m gonna tell you the last one. And this is how I got these cuts. You can laugh, I don’t care, but you can’t tell this—”

  “Already swore, James, I said I wouldn’t, what the fuck?”

  “Alright. Here it is. I’m on some kinda campus. College campus somewhere. There’s shit everywhere. Human shit. It’s impossible to walk without steppin’ in it. I’m short, I’m fat, and I’m wearin’ a basketball uniform—”

  “Basketball uniform?!”

  “Just listen, okay? Some guy’s leadin’ me to this field house. I’m supposed to win this basketball game, everybody’s cheerin’ me. The game’s goin’ on right then, it’s bein’ played while I’m bein’ led into the field house. And I’m supposed to win this game, but not because I got great basketball skills …”

  “What then?”

  “It’s, uh, it’s because I fart—”

  “Say what? ’Cause you fart?”

  “Yeah, just listen, willya?”

  “Okay. ’Cause you fart. You goin’ win the game ’cause you fart—”

  “That’s right, it’s a dream, alright? When I fart, I emit this noxious gas, really nauseating odor. It’s so bad people can’t stand to be anywhere near me. So what I’m supposed to do is get in the game, get under the basket, and fart, and the other team, they’re gonna wanna get away, and our guys are gonna get all the rebounds, and that’s how we’re gonna win.”

  “Well if your farts are so bad, why’re your guys, I mean, how come they don’t try to get away?”

  “I don’t know. That wasn’t clear. All I know is the person who’s leadin’ me into the gym, he’s arguin’ with somebody about what to feed me to produce the foulest smell. Somebody tells him that I love kolbassi and the garlic in it will make me fart more. And worse—”

  “You told me one time you don’t like kolbassi—”

  “It’s a dream, okay?”

  “Oh. Okay. So then what?”

  “I mean this is all serious, this is as though life itself depends on the outcome of this game. And as we’re about to enter the field house, the entrance, it’s lined with the longest turds I’ve ever seen, ten, twelve, fifteen feet long. It’s very hard to avoid them. And I notice how much they resemble kolbassi. I think maybe they are kolbassi—”

  “Oh man you ain’t goin’ tell me you wind up eatin’ shit—”

  “Stop interruptin’ me, will ya?! It’s a dream.”

  “Please don’t tell me you—”

  “Shut up, will ya! I don’t eat shit, okay? But somebody comes runnin’ up, they’re slippin’ and slidin’, and they got
one piece of grilled kolbassi on a tree branch. Everybody’s cheerin’. They’re sayin’, yeah, that’ll do it, feed him, feed him, put him in, put him in, they’re chanting, and the noise is ferocious, it’s deafening. And then I hear these girls talkin’ about how fat I am, how short I am, how it’s ridiculous to think I’m gonna help the team win because they say I can’t play at all—”

  “Oh I’ve seen you play, James, and they’re right, you can’t—”

  “Will you shut the fuck up and let me tell it? You wanna know what happened to my face, I’m tryin’ to tell you.”

  “Okay, go ’head, go ’head.”

  “So I’m insulted by these girls. I become determined to play well, that if they put me into the game I’ll win it not because of my farts but because I play well. And then I’m in the game, I get the ball, I attempt a shot and I’m fouled. I go to the foul line. I’m so inexperienced at basketball I have to ask the ref if I’m standing in the right place. And he tells me yeah, so I try to bounce the ball, you know, dribble it a couple times to relax myself, and its surface, the surface of the ball is like the top of a muffin—”

  “The ball’s like a muffin? A muffin?”

  “Yeah, a muffin. Don’t ask me what kind. And it’s very heavy, the ball. I don’t know if I have the strength to make the shot. But I try. The ball barely makes it to the front of the rim, but it bounces straight back to me. I don’t hesitate. I shoot and I make the basket. On the inbound pass, the ball’s rollin’ loose on the floor. I’m determined to get it. Like it’s the most important thing in the world for me to get that ball. So I dive for it. And I wake up, my nose is bleedin’, my eye’s bleedin’, my elbow’s throbbin’. I dove off the fuckin’ bed—”

  “Oh man, you dove off the bed?!”

  “In my sleep, yeah. To get the ball. Face-first into the table beside my bed.”

  Rayford tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help himself. He doubled over and stamped his feet.

  “See, you think that’s funny—”

  “I can’t help it, James, it is, man. That’s the wildest shit I ever heard.”

  “Well it ain’t funny to me. That’s the kinda dreams I’ve been havin’ since about two weeks after I started on this med. Can’t remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep.”

  “Well, believe this, I started dreamin’ ’bout playin B-ball that bad, I’d flush that shit in a heartbeat.”

  “Yeah? Me too. Except the depression’s a whole lot worse.”

  “Well I’d either get me another pill, man, or another pill-roller, one or the other,”

  “I thought so too. For a while. But I don’t know. I think these dreams’re tellin’ me it’s time to pack it in. Move on with my life.”

  “Shit, James, you been sayin’ that for how long now?”

  “No. I mean it. I mean what’s this dream about, huh? Me tryin’ not to step in shit. Human shit. Me tryin’ to get in the game. And the people want me in the game, they want me in there not ’cause I’m good but ’cause I emit this gas that’s so noxious it drives everybody away. And that’s what I’ve been doin’, long as I can remember. The Guinnans, Victor Charlie, the Scavellis, the Hornyaks, the Buczyks, man, that kid, the runaway. Then the night I saw you and Canoza in the wagon, you were holdin’ your nuts, that thing was stickin’ outta Boo, and the next thing I knew, I was on my ass ’cause I stepped in dog shit. Enough’s enough, man, how long can you keep tellin’ yourself you’re helpin people when all you’re doin is tryin’ not to step in their shit?”

  Rayford shook his head. “You put it that way, man, maybe it’s time for you to be gone. But I think you’re wrong. I think you helped a lot more people than you think you did.”

  “Yeah? Name one.”

  “Me.”

  “Oh right, yeah, I helped you a lot.”

  “You did, man. Gave me that book. Made me take those tests. I got to the second one, that one that goes, what you goin’ tell your- self if you don’t make a change in your life? And soon as that inquiry bullshit was over, I talked to my lawyer, you know, Valcanas?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Told him my situation, told him I cut off my wife’s rent, and he told me he’d do my divorce for a hundred and fifty bucks. So I said go on and do it, man. So see there? If you hadn’t given me that book, I wouldn’t’ve done that. Life Strategies: Doing What Works, Doing What Matters. Ol’ Phillip C. McGraw. Man done made me take a bite outta my life. So see there? Wasn’t for you, I’d still be messed up.”

  “Oh you think you’re not, huh?”

  “Oh, I’m ’onna pay you a compliment, you goin’ talk shit on me. Awright. Well see here, motherfucker, when I go to bed, I sleep. And if I’m dreamin’ B-ball, you can believe when they put me in the game it ain’t ’cause I can fart, it’s ’cause I can shoot, and I ain’t shootin’ no motherfuckin’ muffins either. B’lieve that.”

  “Aw you’re so fulla shit. What time is it?”

  “Time to go to work. Time to collar some non-pooper-scoopers.”

  “See there? That’s what I mean? After twenty-six years, that’s my mission now?”

  “Yes it is, my man. And you don’t soon get you a new holster, you keep showin’ up with that funky-ass thing a yours, Nowicki goin’ shit a hat and make you wear it. Worse than Boo, man.”

  “Can you imagine how bad he’d be on Boo if he’d’ve got stuck any lower on his back? Where his vest should’ve been?”

  “Aw Boo man, that dude—what can I say? He is seriously fucked-up behint that.”

  “You would be too you were sweatin’ a coroner’s inquest.”

  “Hey, I sweat my own thing, man, remember? Inquest, inquiry, whatever—”

  “Trust me, Rayf. The coroner is no Mrs. Remaley. That man asks hard questions.”

  “Well you ask me, it look like pilin’ on, man. I don’t think No- wicki was right, suspend Boo’s ass on top a him lookin’ at that inquest? Which I don’t even wanna think ’bout it, man,” Rayford said. “Excuse me while I put on my honky voice. I don’t even want to think about it, sir.”

  “You better think about it. ’Cause you’re sure as hell gonna get asked about it.”

  “Just wish I hadn’t said what I said.”

  “Well you said it, so just keep on sayin’ it. Whatever you do, don’t change it now.”

  “Wasn’t plannin’ to. Just… just feel shitty, that’s all. For Boo. ’Cause every time I go over it, you know? What I said? Sounds like what I said was he slammed her down. And her head went whump! I can’t think of how else to say that.”

  “Well did he slam her down or not?”

  “No. She just kinda fell back down. Like she was out already. Or maybe even dead already—”

  “Hey don’t speculate, Rayf. Don’t say anything except what you saw and heard. You do that, you might make detective sergeant yet.”

  “Whattaya mean might? Already made it. They just ain’t give it to me yet.”

  “Tell you what. When I get my Ph.D.? I’ll give you the first month’s therapy free. One hour a week, you can come in and vent how they’re screwin’ you around on your promotion. Should have my office open in about three years.”

  “Hey, motherfucker, I don’t get those stripes by Labor Day, I’m goin’ re-up in the air force.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s you, off into the wild blue yonder—”

  “No shit, man. I mean it.”

  “You’re gonna be wearin’ Rocksburg black for the next twenty years, who you tryin’ to kid?”

  “I’m tellin’ you, man, no stripes by Labor Day, I’m gone.”

  “Uh-huh. C’mon. Time to collar some non-pooper-scoopers. Jesus, twenty gazillion years of human evolution and this is the best I can do?”

  RAYFORD WAS cruising the Flats. It was 2215 hours when he’d pulled in for gas and a coffee refill at Sheetz’s. And when he passed the Rocksburg National Bank their sign said the temp was 81 degrees. That was a half hour ago. Fifteen minutes to go on his patrol,
and the air flowing in his windows was gluey with humidity and the raw smell of storm sewers clogged from yesterday’s daylong downpours. The Conemaugh River had risen more than two feet in the last twenty-four hours, and the gutters in the Flats were still rushing with muddy water. At least it had quit raining.

  For most of his patrol yesterday, Rayford felt like he was back in Alabama during hurricane season. The only good thing about it was that the weather had kept the civilians inside—except when they were in their doorways anxiously eyeballing the water backing up out of the storm sewers. So he was spending his patrol tonight, like last night, mostly in the service mode, calling the fire department to start cars and pump out cellars.

  Rayford liked service much more than protection these days, especially when he cruised the Franklin, Jefferson, Bryan, and Miles block. That’s when, during some part of his patrol, he’d see Joe Buczyk doing part of his ARD by driving Pete Hornyak to and from his medical appointments or shoveling up dog crap before he cut the grass, in both their yards, or like tonight, hosing the mud off Hornyak’s sidewalk.

  It helped even more that Nick Scavelli was still in the Mental Health Unit, though it was almost a sure pop he was going to be transferred to Mamont State Hospital once it was determined he was incapable of aiding in his defense for stabbing Canoza. Rayford learned on the sly from a female aide who worked in Mental Health that all Scavelli did all day was ask people if they’d saved room for dessert.

  “Asked him, since when you get dessert with breakfast? He just said if you ain’t gonna save room for it you ought to eat it first. And that’s all he says. Doesn’t know what day it is.”

  Cold as it sounded, Rayford had to admit it helped him as much as Canoza that Mary Rose Scavelli was dead and buried and that Coroner Wallace Grimes had ruled her death a result of natural causes.

  “That sound they heard in Pittsburgh was me sighin’ in Rocks-burg,” Rayford told Canoza after he reported back to work. “Thought sure your ass was gonna get nailed ’cause of what I said.”

  “Piece a cake,” Canoza said, but Rayford knew he was blowing smoke.

  Because Chief Nowicki allowed Canoza to serve his suspension—for not wearing his vest—while on medical leave, Booboo showed up for work wearing his vest and had been wearing it every day since he’d come back, and not even once did he have to be reminded to put it on.