The Redeeming Power of Brain Surgery

by Paul Flower

  Gretchen walked to him and reached to caress his face, but Jesse shook his head violently. “You don’t. Don’t stay. Go on. Get away from this. Take Robbie. Oh how? How? Could never undo it. I. You. Go. Get away. Don’t let it touch you. Any of it. You hear me? You hear me?” Gretchen, a sheen of tears on her face, stepped back, then stopped and held her ground.

  Jesse, suddenly exhausted, clawed at an itching hand and fell silent, his eyes fixed on the ground.

  Elvis looked in his mother’s face and saw it, a smile, cool and liquid, curling on her lip. A new storm of memory, fierce and frightening, rumbled through his tired mind. He tried to brush it away but he saw Dad’s eyes dancing, the smile on his face, early that Saturday morning. He remembered their final moment together: Elvis’ hand, his boy-hand, trembled as he picked a penny from Dad’s man-hand as Dad told him how Abe Lincoln was on the penny ‘cuz Abe always knew the truth and stuck by it. Between sickles of lightning, Elvis could see past the walls he’d built, past the denial years and his dad’s eyes. He saw the penny in his own hand, felt the fullness in his heart and his dad’s knuckles Dutch-rubbing his butchcut boy head. He saw Dad bending over to work on the lawnmower, leaving Elvis to walk away light as a baby bird, penny clenched in sweaty fist. The world that morning was hot and muggy, but beautiful until he reached the edge of the woods and the gathering storm. Elvis saw himself turning at the sound of the door and Jesse walking into position with the gun, that ugly canon-gun. He saw the screen door opening, rusty gauze hiding Mom’s face. The whole ugly scene played out again as Elvis twisted his head now, trying to break the burning grip she had on him; Jesse now yelling about what had he missed, what had he missed? Elvis heard the sound of death, then he saw again the limb falling, the back door easing shut and Dad. Oh. Dad. Then he knew what he’d always known. Through all the years of living with her, of pretending it wasn’t true and finally acting like it had never happened, he’d known. He’d tried to forget. But he’d known.

  “You killed him,” he said to his mother, his eyes open at last.

  Jesse frowned. It didn’t register.

  “She did it. She shot,” his voice quivered as he tried to pull away from her, away from the smell of her. “She shot him. You missed. You missed him completely. And then, I lived with her. With it.”

  For a moment, nothing. The wind held its breath. The trees stopped their endless moaning.

  Then Jesse heard the angels.

  Elvis twisted free.

  Mom slapped Elvis’ face.

  Lavern and Gretchen gasped.

  Donnel stood.

  Kid-cop unsnapped his holster.

  Monahan grabbed kid-cop and growled “hold it.”

  “You stupid nothing idiot,” Mom hissed. She looked at one son, then the other. “Both of you. The apples falling from the tree. Way it goes. I had to do everything. You,” she jabbed a gnarled finger at Jesse. “Nothing in your brain at all.” Then she jabbed at Elvis, “And you, you was gonna be a man,” she said. “But you couldn’t. You, Mr. Fancy Pants, all full of yourself. You got in over your head and you missed. Good thing I was ready. Good thing I was aiming and shooting, too. You stupid, stupid idiot. You missed. Darn straight, you missed. And now you come all the way back and look now how you mucked it up. You mucked it all up.”

  She snared the purse and fumbled to open it. The thing burst open and its contents, including a pearl-handled revolver, spewed to the grass. Mom snatched the gun and leveled it at Elvis.

  Elvis grabbed her arm.

  Jesse took two steps, stumbled.

  Donnel ran and dove toward Mom.

  Kid-cop drew his gun.

  Jesse fell.

  Lavern reached for Elvis.

  Gretchen stumbled toward Jesse.

  Monahan screamed, “Hold it.”

  BWAAM!

  Chapter Twenty

  Harvey Monahan spent three hours, one liter of Mountain Dew, and four trips to the bathroom on the report.

  She’d aimed to shoot Elvis or Jesse or both. That’s how he wrote it. But this Donnel, this buddy of Elvis, had come out of nowhere and body-slammed the old witch to the ground. Lucky he didn’t kill her. Broke her wrist. Self-defensive move, Harvey noted. He wrote that the errant bullet had gone right through his, Detective Monahan’s, shoulder; it was a clean shot, no ballistics fingerprinting available, unfortunately.

  She’d shot her old man forty years ago when her poor kid had missed, but she was being charged for shooting a cop when she’d missed the kid. It was screwy.

  Throw the Jerry Plannenberg thing into the mix and, well, this was a humdinger. He thought about a guy in Chicago, an agent, and made a mental note to call him. This would make a heckuva book.

  Harvey chuckled as he re-read the last of the report and signed it. He loved irony. The young Trooper hadn’t seen the beauty of it, but he’d gone along. Third generation cop, and he didn’t want to explain to papa and grandpa how he’d nearly zipped his partner the first week on the job.

  Harvey stood, checked his watch and slipped the report in a manila envelope. Twenty minutes, time enough to get home and feed the dog. He sighed. It wasn’t that he minded meeting the Icabones for dinner. They were so grateful, how could he refuse? Harvey felt like he’d let them down. There was no way they could charge the old gal for the old murder. There was just nothing to work with; the pitiful brain doctor had reduced the remains to ashes. Fine tooth combs don’t turn up bullets that aren’t there. And as far as Jesse Icabone-Tieter was concerned, well he was going to have to answer to the conspiracy charge for the death of the guy at the factory. A good lawyer and sympathetic judge would see the guy hadn’t been in his right mind. Talk about your extenuating circumstances. Who knew how that would end up?

  Harvey Monahan sighed again, flicked off the lights in his cubicle, and closed the flapper door on the overhead cupboard. On the way out, he dropped the folder on the basket at the front desk and let himself smile. Darn, he had to admit, this one still felt good to solve.

  ****

  Gretchen picked her way through the clutter of Lavern’s gloomy living room and fell into the overstuffed easy chair. She closed her eyes and swallowed a wave of tears. You can only cry so much, she thought. She’d begun to wonder how much that was.

  “How was he today?” Lavern’s voice was irritating and soothing; the question was expected and welcome, just difficult to answer.

  “Oh, he’s a little better. But he’s so medicated, he sleeps a lot right now. Sleeps and dreams,” she choked back a sob. “He cries in the dreams.” She took a long shaky breath. “They say he needs time. Really. Space and therapy and time.” She opened her eyes. “There’s a lot ahead. Prison time, probably.” She stared off, then turned to Lavern. “Listen, Lavern, I just want to thank you again. For finding me through the hospital, for making contact. For everything.”

  Lavern plopped on the couch opposite her and held up a hand. “No. Stop that.”

  “It’s just that without you…”

  “Stop.”

  The tears welled again. Gretchen looked away and sniffed. The weird-looking bird, a cockatiel, Lavern called it, cocked his head at her. Gretchen looked away. The cat darted across her feet and she jumped, then laughed. Gretchen let herself run from laughter to tears then back again. When she was done, she felt better. She felt as good as she had in weeks.

  Lavern was looking at her, dabbing her own eyes. “You know, you’re welcome to stay here. Really, if you want. And you could go get your boy and…”

  Gretchen suddenly felt clear-headed. “No. Really, no.” She looked around at the room and smiled. “I think I’m going to check out of the hotel and head home.” She sat up. She stood.

  Lavern was worried. “You sure you won’t… What about…?”

  Gretchen set her mouth in a determined line. She opened her purse and took out a tis
sue. “There are a lot of people who can help him, people he knows very well, and I’m going to make some arrangements, get things settled, then I’ll be back this weekend.”

  Lavern stood. She opened her mouth. Gretchen held a finger to her lips, then to Lavern’s. She smiled. “We did it, you know. What we had to do. ‘The truth shall set you free.’ I believe that.”

  Lavern smiled. “Yes. Yes. I do, too.”

  ****

  Elvis threw the hand on the table. “Uno.”

  Donnel chugged his beer, groaned, and looked at his watch. “This two-handed crap is useless. ’Sides it’s ’bout time for you to leave, anyways. You going to supper with that cop and all.”

  “I told you you could come along.”

  Donnel stood and started clearing the mess. “Some stuff I just feel like moving beyond, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Elvis stared off. His mother’s face, Lavern crying as she told him what she knew, tears in her eyes—it all flowed through him like a ribbon of water. And just beyond it flowed the trickle of memories of his dad. It was a lot to handle. The cop, Monahan, had given him a name of someone. Someone he could talk to about it. He’d offered to set it up, said he’d tell the guy everything if Elvis wanted him to.

  “Sorry, bud. I know you been through hell here, and I’m complaining.” Donnel’s hand was on Elvis’ shoulder. “You okay?”

  Elvis snapped away. “Yeah. Yes. Yeah, I’m fine, dude. I’m fine.”

  “No you ain’t.”

  Elvis felt a quiver in his head. His eyes burned. He pictured a penny. He saw his mother’s face and Jerry Plannenberg’s ponytail. He felt an ache in his heart for his brother. He opened his eyes. Suddenly, Monahan’s offer seemed like a good idea. “You’re right, I ain’t.” He looked at Donnel’s sad, expressive face. “But I’m gonna be, Donnel. I’m gonna be.”

  Elvis set his jaw, picked a cigar butt out of the ashtray on the table and jammed it in his mouth. “Jesse, he’s gonna be fine too. Way I see it, he’s gonna be.”

  ****

  The “Strawberry Fields Forever” lyrics were strangely clear and plaintive above the rumble of the thunder in the cloud. From his place in the bathtub on the floor of the garage, Jesse could almost see the musical notes through the steam. He could feel John Lennon’s voice, washing him along with the soap he was using to scrub his skin. The only problem was the smell. The garage smelled of smoke and the thing in the tarp, and Jesse needed to get rid of that smell. He needed to cleanse the air of it. In his head, as the music played and the cloud rolled through the garage around him, he tried vainly to get the feel of it from his skin. The smell was coming off of him, but only in tiny, dry, blackened flakes, flakes that turned to flies as they hit the water of the tub.

  As he washed, the flies fell, floating in the water, bobbing there, turning it black.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo: Lauren Flower Witt

  For more than three decades, Paul Flower has been an award-winning copywriter, creative director and a journalist. He has spent much of his life and career in West Michigan’s beach-resort country, where wealthy Chicago tourists cross paths with a rich cast of made-for-reality-TV locals––the ideal backdrop for this, his first published novel. Paul and his wife, Lori, have four grown children and a yellow lab named Barney.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book is the culmination of far too many years, spent alternating between blood, sweat and procrastination, to recognize everyone who has played a role in its development and publication. But I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Bob Young, Dave Kagan and my daughter Tracey for their thoughts and insight. Nor would I dare overlook my other children; Susan, Aaron, and Lauren; for supporting, inspiring and challenging me. Thanks, too, Jennifer Baum, for believing in this story. And finally, my wife: Thank you, Lori, for putting up with me and this silly dream.