The Redeeming Power of Brain Surgery

by Paul Flower

  The house was cool. If the heat was on, it wasn’t turned up very high. A bluish-green digital clock gazed across the kitchen at him from a microwave that hung under a cupboard. It was 2:17 a.m. He’d been at the river longer than he’d thought. The numbers warmed him the way the glow of a TV does when you see it inside someone’s house as you walk by on a cold night, or the way a kitchen with steam in the windows warms you when you’re driving past. Elvis let out his breath then fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on.

  He was standing in a small entry area, a mud room. He half-expected to see a sweatshirt or something of Lavern’s, but the brass coat tree was bare. A pair of muddy boots was on the floor by the door; they didn’t look like anything Donnel would ever wear.

  Deep in the house something squeaked or groaned or thumped; his tired brain only registered “noise.” Elvis stopped and waited. Eyes closed, he half-expected a light to come on or the door on the other side of the kitchen to open. Go. Leave. No. Now. Yes. No. No. Run. Leave.

  His mother wouldn’t have approved of this, would she? Not on your life. This was one of those crazy things he did on the spur of the moment and if she’d caught him at it, she’d have busted his chops good.

  Elvis could barely breathe. An echo of her voice: “What were you thinking? That you’d get away with this? You’re in someone’s house in the middle of the night? Does that seem something a smart boy would do?”

  His voice, small and frail, would answer: “No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

  “I meant no, no.”

  “Sounds like you meant ‘yes.’ Sounds like you thought you could do or think whatever you pleased.”

  “No. No, Mom.”

  “No, what?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’re so stupid; you’re like an old stump or maybe a turd. That’s it. You get pooped out of the dog like a turd?”

  The words. So silly. But how they hurt. And he wanted to defy her. Secretly, just as he had when he was a boy, he wanted to show her he wasn’t stupid. Not at all.

  Why hadn’t he stood up to her ever? Why?

  Why did it matter?

  Slowly, carefully, he shuffled through the open mud room door into the kitchen. It was a dream kitchen, the kind Lavern had always loved. She’d cut pictures out of magazines and showed them to him. There was an island, topped with a shiny, gray countertop. Above it, copper-bottomed pots and pans and serious black-iron skillets hung from a wide-wood rectangle, suspended by chains from the ceiling. The cupboards wrapped all the way around to the opposite wall. All of them were dark wood with that shiny, gray countertop. There was a stainless steel oven and range and a matching refrigerator with a see-through door. To his left, overlooking it all, was a bay window over a stainless steel sink.

  Elvis walked to the island and put down the flashlight. He sauntered to the window and rested his palms, far apart, on the counter in front of the sink. The sink was empty and dry. A towel, folded, was on the counter next to it.

  From the back door, there was a crunch that sounded like feet on gravel. Elvis whirled and eyed one of the skillets over the island. His gaze darted to the drawers. Which one had the knives?

  Another crunch, the slow squeak of the doorknob then the door creaked opened. Slowly, a flannel-shirted arm and half a blue-jeaned leg inched around the edge of the door. It was the guy from the road, Jubal’s buddy. It had to be.

  “Hey, Donnel, get your big Negro butt out of that ‘frigerator,” Elvis yelled. “Get that fried chicken over here so we can cut it up with one of these butcher knives.”

  There was a loud laugh from the guy as he stepped into full view. “That Donnel buddy of yours is gone man, and you know it.”

  Elvis turned. His eyes searched wildly for a skillet, for a butcher knife.

  “Relax dude,” the guy said, hands up, palm out. “I come in peace.” He shuffled around the island, crossed his arms across his belly, and gave the kitchen a once over. “You sure found yourself a nice hideout here, par’ner.”

  “This is my house. And I’d suggest you turn and get out of it.”

  “Listen to you, ‘I’d suggest…’ You standing there looking like something a cat gagged up. Sorry, man. This ain’t your space.”

  “How do you know? How did you get here? How do you know…” Elvis struggled with the thought. “…about Donnel?”

  The guy sniffed and wiped at his red nose. “Don’t you squeeze your brain about that, man. I know enough about stuff, let’s just leave it at that. You got yourself caught in a tit grinder and I’m gonna help you out.”

  Elvis frowned. “What makes you think you can help me? What makes you think I want your help?”

  “You best keep your voice down.”

  “There’s nobody here. I…this is my buddy’s place. He’s out of town.”

  The guy laughed again. “Listen, Elvis, calm your little pitty patty heart down. And keep that voice low. You and I both know you haven’t had time to check and see if anyone’s home. With all the racket of breaking in, you mighta rousted someone out of the sack. Could be they’re upstairs calling nine double daggers right now.”

  “Nobody’s around. I rang the bell.”

  The guy shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Darn straight I’ll suit myself,” Elvis said, lowering his voice to a gruff whisper. He frowned again. “How do you know I’m Elvis?”

  The guy took a step forward and lowered his voice a notch too. “I don’t know what you got going on here. Maybe you’re going to pick up a few things—a flat screen TV or a laptop or some such. I don’t know.” He sniffed, looked at the room again and smiled. “If I wasn’t in such a hurry, I might be looking to do a little grabbing myself.”

  “I’m not here to steal anything. I’m not like that.”

  “Relax,” the guy said with a laugh. “I was just yanking your chain, man.” He surveyed the room again then turned to Elvis. “Look, Elvis. I’ll make this quick.”

  “How do you know…”

  “Someone tossed me a couple of bucks to follow you.”

  “Follow?”

  “That whole deal on the road just now? That was me playacting. I was just trying to get in the car with you.”

  “Who? Huh?”

  “I ain’t no friend of no Jubal, but I heard the deal of what happened and that you might’ve knowed him. My mom always said I had a real playacting talent. Said I could’ve been an actor, only I’m so ugly.” The guy laughed, wiped his nose again.

  “Listen to me.” Elvis took a step toward the guy. “Who sent you?”

  “Like I said, just this dude, some guy. He hired me to, like, watch you.”

  “You don’t know the guy?”

  “No, no, no. This was, like, a blind deal. I got a call someone was interested in a little help.”

  “You make a habit of that, going around doing favors—following guys—for strangers?”

  “You make a habit out of breaking into houses?”

  “I told you, I… that’s not why I’m here. Breaking in, stealing stuff, isn’t.”

  “Right.”

  Elvis ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “None of this makes sense.”

  “I know. You’ve had a heckuva day from what I understand. That’s kind of why I’m here.”

  Elvis frowned. “I thought you were here to follow me.”

  “I am. I am. And I tried the tricky approach, but you ditched me on the road. I was hoping you would let me in the car and I could cruise with you maybe for awhile, just to see what you were going to do. Now I’m working the ol’ face-forward.” The guy held his palm up again. “I don’t mean you no harm. Fact is, I’m looking out for your best interests.”

  Elvis sighed. He felt tired, more tired than if he’d worked a triple shift. He was almost drowning in
sadness and thought again of the river, of him sliding into the water and away in the darkness. “You like that angel in that old Christmas movie, go around pulling guys out of the river?”

  The guy thought for a second, then smiled. “Clarence?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the guy. Clarence.”

  “It’s a Wonderful Life. Jimmy Stewart.” He shook his head. “The guy rocked. I’m big on ‘Harvey’ myself.” He screwed up his face and wagged his finger at Elvis. “‘S…s…say Harvey, y…y…you you see here…’”

  “You’re some kind of freak.”

  “No. No. Swear to God. Funny you asked about Jimmy Stewart, man. Dude was awesome.”

  “You saying that back there on the road you wanted to get in the car with me…”

  “Trying to, you know, talk to you. Get a feel for what you got going on.”

  Elvis made a face. “That’s just weird.”

  “Swear to Jesus. I got hired to follow you around, only now I, like, met you, you offering me pizza; I see you’re maybe an okay guy—I see you’re under stress and all, so I’m willing to let it go, you almost hitting me back there on the road. But now I’m thinking maybe you’re interested in flipping the playing field here.”

  “Flipping.”

  “Yeah, turning, like, the tables.”

  “To help me out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And if I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, way I see it, and I don’t mean to piss you off or nothing, but—again, way I see it—you got no choice.”

  “‘Course I got a choice. I got all the choice I want.”

  The guy looked around the kitchen, then turned back to Elvis and lowered his voice, “The hand you’re playing ain’t exactly the best.”

  Elvis looked down at his hand. “How do you know about my hand?”

  “Trust me,” the guy said.

  Elvis closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were slits. “I pretty much dumped you back there on the road.”

  “That you did, but like I say, water under the bridge, far as I’m concerned.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting at. What I’m getting at is you couldn’t have followed me here. How’d you find this place?”

  The guy just smiled and shrugged.

  Elvis tried to breathe. Another image, a black bat of a thought: Donnel and Lavern coming here, playing grab-ass in this kitchen, hot dogs warming in the microwave, guys like this hanging out in the backyard, drinking beers. Elvis waved the image away. He thought for a moment. “Who hired you?”

  “Guy who was working for someone else. I’m, like, a subcontractor. Can’t tell you much beyond that.”

  “So what exactly can you tell me, ‘cept that you’re ugly and not a freak or an angel?”

  “And the thing about Harvey.”

  “Harvey?”

  “Yeah, I told you that too, that thing about Jimmy Stewart and Harvey. The one thing I didn’t tell you was I drove my Camaro. It’s parked back by the woods.”

  Elvis’ head had begun to throb. He looked at the floor.

  “Elvis, dude, listen. Here’s the deal.” The guy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The deal is that maybe you didn’t have nothing to do with killing the dude at Bonner. The deal is maybe it wasn’t the kind of accident or bad-heart thing that it looked like. Oh, and the deal is maybe there’s other things that aren’t what they appear to be either; like there’s something going on that’s about something else. I’m not sure what it’s about but I can maybe, like, help you, if you’re interested in what you call a reciprocal investment.”

  Elvis’ knees buckled. He steadied himself on the kitchen counter, looked at the guy, and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “What are you saying?” he said, his voice a whisper.

  “I’m saying what about scoring two ways on the same play? I give you some information, you maybe come back with a little back-scratch of your own.”

  “The guy at work? He? Him? And—other things? Donnel? Lavern? What?”

  The guy smiled. “Things aren’t always the way they look is what I’m saying, brother. And if you want to maybe…”

  “What kind of back-scratch? Money? You trying to squeeze money out of me?” Elvis took a step toward the guy, suddenly angry. “What do you know? About… about the…about everything. That guy at work? It wasn’t me, right? It wasn’t. What do you… how… know?”

  The guy took a step back and held up a hand. “Whoa. Cool down, partner. I can fill you in. But I got to have your help, you know—two way street—so I can maybe make a play the other way, too.”

  “Information? About what? I don’t know anything about anything,” Elvis was shouting. “What do you know? Who are you?” He lunged toward the guy. The guy, both hands in the air, spun away—like a dancer. Elvis stumbled and caught himself. One hand on the counter, he felt the kitchen twirl. The guy put a hand on Elvis’ bare shoulder. The warmth of the hand, the gentleness of the touch, was surprising.

  “Elvis. I know stuff,” the guy said, talking fast, the voice, pushed by smelly breath, in Elvis’ ear. “This stuff would turn your hair, like, albino white. And if I’m right, if I got my head on straight on this, you know some stuff already, too. You got it stuffed away in that bony head of yours, only you’re not sharing it for some reason. At least if I’m right.”

  “Right about what?” Elvis said, his eyes meeting the guy’s.

  “Well, that’s the part I’m not sure I’m right about. At least it’s part of it.”

  “You’re not sure you’re right about something you’re not sure about?”

  “Right, partly.”

  Elvis straightened, brushing the guy’s hand away. “You’re really starting to piss me off.”

  The guy sighed, took a couple of steps back, looked at the floor for a moment, tapping his muddy workboot on the clean, gray ceramic tile. Finally, he looked up and smiled. “Elvis, why don’t you start at the very beginning?”

  Elvis’ eyes came up, cool and gray and weary. “What beginning?”

  “Start at the very beginning,” he continued, singing the words, half-dancing, like Julie-fucking-Andrews. “That’s the very best place to start. When you read, you begin with A-B-C. When you sing, you begin with do, re, mi.”

  “You are a freak. Or you’re stoned out of your mind.” Elvis squinted at him, tilting his head. “You stoned?”

  “Nope. Just trying to lighten the mood, my friend. Blame Sister Luckenberry.”

  “Sister Luck…”

  “Fourth grade, Sacred Heart of the Bleeding Virgin Elementary, Chicago, Illinois. Always big on the positive, on laughing through tears. A spoon full of sugar shit, you know?”

  Elvis shook his head. “What is your deal?”

  “You already asked me that. I’m asking you what your deal is.”

  Elvis scowled. “Some dude’s dead at work. My freaking wife is gone. My buddy’s gone. My job is gone. And you’re walking in here telling me you know stuff, like maybe…”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know,” Elvis gulped at the thought. “Maybe all this, this stuff that’s happened has to do with one another.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t say it all had to do with one another. You said it.”

  “Whatever. Whatever. Still, that’s pretty stupid, you think about it.”

  “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s stupider to think it’s separate. Maybe it makes more sense that it’s all related, like all for the same—all because of the same thing.”

  Elvis felt an icicle of pain in his skull. This was too much, way way too much.

  “Look, Elvis, relax that brain. Start back a square or two. And trust me. Really. Trust me that I’m with you, not against you.” The guy e
xtended his hand and nodded at it. Wary, Elvis took it. The guy smiled and shook.

  “Name’s Harvey. Harvey Monahan. Mom named me for that damn rabbit, honest to Moses she did.” He fumbled in his right pocket for moment, pulled out a wallet, held it up for Elvis. It was shiny, looked like alligator; not the kind Elvis figured a Harvey Monahan would own.

  “I can help you man, but I can’t without your help. Don’t know how else to put it. Sounds cruel, I know.” He threw the wallet on the counter. Then he reached in his other pocket and pulled out a business card. This he handed to Elvis. “Call me when you’re ready.”

  Elvis, frozen now, card in hand, stared at the wallet. “You left. Your wallet.”

  At the door, Harvey Monahan turned. “Better keep your voice down, ace. And start at the beginning. Do, re, mi.” He left.

  ****

  Elvis gawked at the blue lettering, looked away from the card and stared at the pans hanging over the island, then stared at the card again. He frowned and shoved it into a front pocket, picked up the wallet and flapped it open. A gold MasterCard peeked through a plastic window. The name on it was Jesse Tieter, M.D.

  He rifled through the cards. There was a gold MasterCard and a gold VISA, a Discover, a card for an automatic banking machine, and a bunch of cards for stores Elvis’d never heard of.

  He found the driver’s license and glanced at the picture. Something damp and cool wrapped itself around his chest. Trying to ignore the tremble in his hands, he slipped the license out of the wallet. Jesse Tieter, M.D.’s address was in Evanston, Illinois. Elvis glanced at the photo again then dropped the license to the counter. With sweaty palms, he opened the money compartment and pulled out a sheaf of bills. A piece of yellow paper slid out with them and fell to the countertop.

  Elvis unfolded the paper carefully, pressing it down on the countertop, smoothing out the wrinkles.

  “Do you always do what your momma says?” Someone had scribbled the message on the paper in red pen, making big, exaggerated letters. To Elvis, it looked like whoever’d written it had been in a hurry and had been trying to write funny. He studied the handwriting. His throat tightened.