by C I Dennis
Barbara had booked us in first class so that I’d be comfortable. It wasn’t Brooks’ jet, but it was nice. In three hours I’d be in West Palm, and we would pay off the small mortgage on my BMW, which had been in the parking garage for eight weeks. Assuming the car started, we’d be home two hours after that. I would spend the night in my own bed.
I looked out across Lake Champlain as we gained altitude. It had thawed early—“ice out”, as they called it—after a particularly warm February and March, but the water still looked cold, and I could see whitecaps on the waves. I remembered the time I’d been up in the cockpit of the Bombardier with Yuliana Burleigh, and she’d surprised me with a kiss. I wasn’t about to bring any of that up with Barbara—I’d been forgiven, and Yuliana’s name would never come up again. If you live long enough, you carry some things inside that you will never let out; that’s just part of the deal. Some of them are dark secrets that can eat at you like a cancer. Some of them are special, unique treasures that just shouldn’t be shared. Some are a little of both.
AUGUST
SATURDAY
“Barbara,” I called into the bathroom. “They’re waiting outside and it’s hot.”
“Ready in a sec,” she answered. I could hear her grunting as she tried to get the dress zipped around her middle. She was nine months pregnant, minus a week, and her belly looked like a dangerously overinflated balloon that could explode at any minute. I wore a tie, which felt like a hangman’s noose except that I was happy. Gustavo, Lilian, Roberto and a female justice of the peace with close-cropped gray hair sweltered out on the back lawn while my wife-to-be finished dressing. She finally emerged, looking beautiful in her cream-colored wedding dress with a turquoise necklace that my mother had expressed down for the occasion, as it was something borrowed and something blue.
I took her by the arm and led her out to the back patio of my house. The August sun bore down on us, and I wondered why weren’t inside in the AC like normal, sane Floridians, but Barbara had insisted that we tie the knot outdoors. All the arrangements had been somewhat hasty; she had only recently decided that our forthcoming baby needed parents who were married and that I should propose, which I dutifully did. It was going to be a race as to which happened first: the wedding or the birth.
It was a tie. Barbara’s water broke shortly after the J.P. started, and she dashed off to the bathroom. She came back out fifteen minutes later in a new, loose-fitting floral print dress, looking flushed.
“Finish it,” she said to the J.P., who had found a seat in the shade and was fanning herself with her papers. “The contractions are ten minutes apart. We’re running out of time.”
“Are you sure?” I said.
“Yes,” she said, and she gave me a smile. “Then we’re going to the hospital, and you’re going to be a daddy.”
“Vince, do you take Barbara to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the J.P. asked.
“Whatever,” I said.
Barbara looked at me, and smiled. “Ohhh, you’re going to pay for that one,” she said.
“I know,” I said, smiling back.
“Get the car,” she said, and I did exactly what she told me. I was married less than a minute, and I was already a natural.
NOVEMBER
THURSDAY
Some people’s favorite holiday is Christmas, or the Fourth of July, or even Halloween. Mine is Thanksgiving, especially in Vermont, where the trees are bare and the wind sings songs of desolation as it blows the last few leaves off the red oaks. Late November is deer season, so you don’t take your dog for a walk in the woods without wearing some blaze orange clothing or you could be mistaken for Bambi’s mother. I had already been shot in the head once this year; that was quite enough, thank you.
I got a luggage cart at the Burlington airport and leaned on it while Barbara and I waited for the bags. There had been a time when I would fly in for Thanksgiving, solo, and could just carry on a small bag and skip the wait at the carousel. Not anymore. I had joined the ranks of the Sherpa-dads, and I wondered if one luggage cart would be enough for all our gear. I piled on our three suitcases, a car seat, a collapsible stroller, a diaper bag, a folding basinet/crib combo, Barbara’s huge purse, and a beach bag full of stuffed animals and other soft things for Royal. He would be three months old in a couple days, and already the kid had more possessions than I did. He’d slept through the whole flight, strapped to Barbara’s chest in a Snugli, with his little head peeking out of the top, covered in a soft wool cap that I’d made for him. I couldn’t vouch for the quality of the knitting, and it had taken me ages, but I’d done it with the help of my physical therapist who had given me all kinds of exercises and encouragement to regain my dexterity.
I shuffled behind the fully-laden cart toward the rental car desk. I wasn’t supposed to drive, but I’d ignored that, and Barbara didn’t argue—she had her hands full. My left side was coming back, slowly, except for the foot-dragging, which Barbara called the Vinny Shuffle. I could walk and drive, but I wasn’t about to start dance lessons.
“Are we still picking up Junie?” Barbara asked, in her don’t-wake-the-baby whisper. Royal had a healthy set of lungs on him and could make his presence known when he was hungry, tired, or just plain cranky. His great-grandfather Basilio Tanzi had been a singer and had entertained the other stonecutters at the Old Labor Hall in Barre on Saturday nights, long before I was born. Everybody had called my grandfather Royal, which was the translation of Basilio, and his little namesake could belt out an ear-splitting aria when he wanted the breast.
“He texted,” I said. “He’s riding with Carla and Rod. They’re not getting there until later.”
“Who else is coming?”
“Just Mrs. Tomaselli,” I said.
“Your girlfriend,” she said.
“She’s harmless,” I said. “I’m a married man now.”
“That won’t stop her,” she said, and we laughed. I was initialing boxes on the rental form, declining all the add-ons. I’d rented a mommy-van, and when we collected the car and threw all our stuff in it, I finally understood why people bought vans after they had babies. Either you got one or you kept your old car and put on a trailer hitch for a U-Haul.
It hadn’t snowed yet, or at least nothing had accumulated on the fields and hills along the interstate. The afternoon sky was clear, and you could see Mount Mansfield from the road. There was a smear of white frosting across the top, and on the cold nights they’d be making snow for the ski trails below at the resort. Part of me wanted to drive up to Stowe and just look around: Tomas’ aerie, Brooks’ hilltop farm, the shops, the restaurants—and the airport. I had a morbid urge to revisit what had happened ten months ago—to confirm that it had been real. Perhaps when you die it’s better to be buried six feet down, under a Rock of Ages memorial, rather than to be cremated. It would allow your loved ones to look at the cold slab, read the inscription, and say, “Yes, he’s dead.” Scattering an urn full of ashes might be more eco-friendly, but vaporizing like that can leave people wondering. Right now I was wondering if Yuliana Burleigh had ever existed, and why I still couldn’t remember what had happened on the day she died. The Tetris puzzle that had started when I’d awakened in a hospital was still missing some pieces.
*
The interstate was busy with people coming north, but traffic was light going south toward Barre, and the town itself was deserted. Everyone was with their families, cooking, eating, watching football, and drinking malt beverages. I stopped at a store and picked up a six-pack of Pilsner Urquell. I could drink again, although not like I used to. Any more than a couple beers and my wires got crossed. But I needed to get something, because I figured that my mother would be offering the same three-liter bottle of Carlo Rossi Paisano that I’d opened last January, and by this time it would only be good for embalming someone.
Mrs. Tomaselli met us at the door and took me into her arms. She gave me a full kiss on the lips, and Barbara guffawed while I turned bright red
. She turned to Barbara. “Don’t shut him off now, dearie,” she said. “Men need sex, even if you don’t feel like it.”
“Mrs. T—” I began to protest.
“When the baby comes in the door, the love life goes out the window,” she said. “Don’t deny him, or he’ll stray.”
“I’m not a dog,” I said.
“You’re slurring your words, Vinny.”
“A little,” I said. “I’m a lot better than the last time you saw me.”
My mother came up from behind her. “Out of the way, Donna,” she said. “Let me see my boy.”
I prepared for a hug, but she unzipped the Snugli on Barbara’s chest and extruded our little bundle, who woke up and began to howl. He looked his grandmother in the face and abruptly stopped as she held him to her chest. “Let’s go inside and get acquainted,” she told him. “Vinny, get the bags,” she said, and I went back into Sherpa-mode.
*
I had one of the Pilsner Urquells open and was slumped in my father’s old chair in front of the television watching the Patriots win. Royal was dozing in his car seat, next to me. I would have explained some of the finer points of the Pats’ pass-rushing strategy, but he showed no interest. A slight odor rose from his basket, and I prepared myself for the diaper changing ritual once he woke up. After only three months of fatherhood I could change him one-handed, blindfolded, chained up, whatever. Harry Houdini had nothing on me.
The last time I had seen my father, not counting the time he lay in his casket, he had been slumped in this very chair, drinking a beer in front of the TV while my mother lay on the floor of the bathroom, screaming from fear and pain. I had learned a lot about him over the past year, some of it bad, and some of it surprising. Being a father myself now, I realize how much stress it brings, and how kids can wear you out. It’s an absolute joy, but it’s also a challenge, and there is no operating manual. You can buy books that describe a child’s development in month one, month two, and so on, but they don’t explain how radically different life is going to be. For me, the change was welcome. It was a gift that I felt I barely deserved, and looking after Royal was actually helping my own recovery. But for some people it could be a breaking point, and Jimmy Tanzi might have been one of those people. Three kids running around may have pushed him into drinking, harder than usual, as an escape from the pandemonium. I took a sip of my beer and reflected on the irony—here I was, sitting in his chair, making excuses for his violence and abuse. Maybe that was part of forgiving him, or at least understanding him.
The kitchen was abuzz with activity. Barbara, Mrs. Tomaselli, and my mother were old friends now, after the weeks they’d spent doing shifts at the neurology unit. They were laughing and talking girl-talk while I had my little testosterone-fest out here with the boy. Junie, Carla, and Rod arrived right after half-time, and Carla set the table while Rod and I hung out in the living room, and Junie showed me his trombone. He played it with a slide, which didn’t take a great deal of finger dexterity to handle. He was amazingly good at it, and had already sat in with the Vermont Jazz Ensemble. He put it to his lips and played a soft melody, which woke up Royal, and I got up to get the changing pad and baby wipes from the pile of equipment in our old bedroom. I changed my son on the couch while Rod carved the turkey, Junie played trombone, and the girls brought out bowls and platters that held all the trimmings. No wonder Thanksgiving was my favorite—you can’t buy it, wrap it, or put it under a tree, and even the greeting card companies can’t seem to make a buck off of it. It’s just a meal, with people who you love and who love you back, no matter what.
*
Everyone in the house was asleep except for me. I was looking in a side pocket of my suitcase for the charging cord that went to my phone when I noticed something else in there that I had forgotten about—two letters to my mother, from my father. I’d stashed them there in January, and they had lain hidden until now.
I had long ago decided not to read them, as they were obviously personal. But the envelopes were not sealed, and I was curious. I suddenly wanted to know more about my father, even at the expense of my mother’s privacy.
The first one was definitely private, and it was oddly encouraging to know that a seventy-four year old man could still have the hots for a seventy-four year old woman. I put that one back and re-sealed the envelope so that it would look like I hadn’t read it.
The second letter was more of a chatty account of my father’s life as a driver for Brooks Burleigh; the trips he’d made and people he’d met. It went on for three pages, and I read the second-to-last paragraph twice.
And then we went up to the house and I helped Eunice and Kermit with the party. There were people from Montpelier and Washington, D.C. too, and everybody was dressed real nice. You would have liked the ladie’s dresses. I sure did. Ha ha, don’t get jealis! Miss Burleigh took some of the men down cellar, where they have a shooting gallery and they made a lot a noise. I cleaned up with Kermit but I had to get the car and take Mr. Rudy up to Quebec because he said his car was in the shop. He’s a quiet one. Anything ever happens to me Miss Betty Boop, you call Vince and tell him to talk to Mr. Rudy, and not to go alone.
I had no idea who he was talking about, but I was going to find out. I wondered how Patton and Pallmeister would react if I called their cell phones at a quarter to midnight on Thanksgiving.
FRIDAY
My mother never collected the million dollars from the insurance policy, because it was determined that the money was dirty, and the insurance company wriggled off the hook. The investigation after Brooks’ death had turned up all kinds of complex schemes to avoid taxes and launder money, and my father’s policy was one of them. They did let me keep the twenty grand Brooks had paid me, and I used some of it to buy her a queen bed for the room where Junie’s and my bunks had been. Barbara was sleeping in it with Royal asleep at her breast, and I got up to get some coffee going.
Junie was in the kitchen. He’d already made a pot and poured me a cup.
“So your hands are working?” I said.
“A little,” he said. “They ache like hell most of the time.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Not your fault,” he said. “You’re getting around OK too, huh? Except that you sound kinda retarded.”
“Thanks for pointing that out.”
“That’s what brothers are for,” he said, smiling.
“Did you ever hear from Melissa?”
His smile melted away. “Yeah, I heard from her. She’s a celebrity back in Moldova, like the rest of the girls.”
“Yes, I read about that,” I said. “Anything still going between you?”
“Not really,” he said. “I’m a fucking cripple now anyway.”
“I doubt that would matter to her,” I said.
“She said she wants to fly me there. She made some money posing nude for some magazine.”
“I read about that, too, but Barbara found it under the bed.”
Junie laughed hard this time. “Fucking Vinny.”
“Don’t get her pregnant,” I said. “Unless you want to be ankle deep in baby poop.”
“Don’t worry,” he said.
“Are you going to go see her?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Junie…did you ever know someone named Rudy? Someone who Brooks Burleigh might have known?”
“I don’t want to talk about that guy,” he said.
“Rudy?”
“No, Brooks,” he said. “It’s his fault that I’m like this. And no, I don’t know anyone called Rudy.”
*
I started with Pallmeister. “Remember those letters my father left in his apartment? Addressed to my mother?”
“Vaguely,” he said. “You took them, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “Did you read them?”
“Someone on the team did, but they were love letters if I remember. We left them there, and I think I told you about them.”
“You
did, and I stashed them and forgot about them. I just opened them up. Let me read you something.” I read the paragraph from the second letter over the phone.
“He says Mr. Rudy, not Rudy. Is it a first or last name?”
“It could be either,” I said.
“Obviously it was someone who Burleigh knew,” Pallmeister said. “Well enough to lend him his driver.”
“Right. And my father was afraid of him.”
“Schultheiss? An alias?”
“I lay awake half the night thinking about that,” I said. “I don’t get it.”
“I’ve only got a few people in today, but I’ll get on it,” he said. “Any ideas?”
“You do the name search. See what you can find in motor vehicles or your own records. I’m going to do some field work.”
“Where?”
“I’m going to Stowe,” I said. “I’m going to visit Kermit and Eunice and see if they have any leftover turkey.”
*
I took the Subaru and left the van for Barbara in case she needed to go out. I told her I wanted to drive around for a few hours and get some air. There was no need to worry her.
Stowe was quiet like most of the rest of the state, except for the malls near Burlington where the Black Friday elite-competition shoppers would be scooping up deals if they hadn’t already been trampled when the doors opened. What was that I said about Thanksgiving not being commercial?
Kermit and Eunice lived off the Morrisville Road, a few miles outside of Stowe. Their double-wide trailer was tucked behind an abandoned farmhouse that stood empty, with the windows and doors gone, and not a speck of paint remaining on the rotting clapboards. Sooner or later the old building would collapse from the weight of a big snowfall. Smoke curled from the trailer’s metal chimney and spread the welcome smell of burning wood.
