by Ray Daniel
“Senator’s sex tape?” asked Dorothy. “Which senator?”
“Should I tell her, Pat?”
“No!”
“Let Kamela know that you spilled the beans?”
“No.”
“Get out.”
Pat got out, leaving the baseball bat by the front door.
I said, “Dorothy, that baseball bat is not working for you.”
“Maybe I should get a gun.”
“Maybe start with a Taser. That would be much—”
“Dorothy!” a voice called from the back of the apartment.
“Coming, Auntie!” Dorothy stepped around, heading deeper into the apartment. I could either stand in a strange living room by myself or follow. I followed. Dorothy stood at a bedroom door.
“I can’t lift you, Auntie,” she said.
“I want to use the bathroom,” came a voice from within the bedroom.
“Marla will be here in a little while. Can you hold it?”
“No.”
Dorothy looked resigned. “I’ll find the bedpan.”
I said, “Can I help?”
Dorothy started. “What are you doing here?”
“I just followed.”
“What could you do to help?”
“I can pick things up and put them down.”
“My aunt Ruby is not a thing.”
“I can pick aunts up too.”
“Who are you talking to?” asked Ruby from the bedroom.
I poked my head around the corner. Aunt Ruby pulled the blankets to her chin. I averted my eyes, waved a little wave. “I’m Tucker. Dorothy’s friend.”
“Did you make her scream?”
“No, Auntie. Tucker helped me.”
“I need to get out of this bed.”
“Show me what to do.”
Dorothy had Ruby sit up, then cinched a wide belt around her waist. “You hold the belt, help her stand, turn a step, and help her sit.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Make sure you hold it tight.”
“Right.”
“And don’t take any steps; just turn.”
“Right.”
“And check that the wheelchair’s brakes are on.”
“Right.” I kicked at the wheelchair. It didn’t move. “Ready, Ruby?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“One two three, stand!”
I grasped the belt around Ruby’s waist, lifting as Ruby stood. She was heavier than I expected. The belt slipped, scraping up her body, lodging on her boob.
“Ouch!” said Ruby.
“Sorry.” I grabbed for the belt. Got boob.
“Young man!”
“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!”
Ruby lost her balance, landed back on the bed.
Dorothy said, “I’m sorry, Auntie. Maybe we should wait for Marla.”
“I need to use the bathroom.”
Dorothy worked the belt buckle, tightened it. We tried again. This time Ruby came right up, we turned, and she sat right down. Perfect! We wheeled her into the bathroom, executed the same maneuver at the toilet in reverse.
“Thank you,” said Ruby.
“You’re welcome.”
“Dorothy, is this nice young man your boyfriend?”
“No, Auntie. He’s too old for me.”
Way to hurt a guy.
A knock reverberated down the hallway. We left Ruby in privacy. Dorothy placed one hand on the baseball bat, opened the front door with the other. A strong-looking middle-aged woman stood in the doorway.
“She’s in the bathroom, Marla,” said Dorothy.
Marla headed down the hall to attend to Ruby.
“Want a beer?” asked Dorothy.
“Sure.”
We moved to the kitchen. Dorothy opened a couple of Miller Genuine Drafts. Not a bad choice. The best industrially brewed beer on the market. The food engineers must have been very proud.
Dorothy sat at the kitchen table and asked, “How did you know that guy was going to be here?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I saw Pat following you, so I followed him.”
“Why?”
“He’s kind of threatened me as well.”
“What’s this about Endicott’s sex video?”
“Who said anything about Endicott?”
“Senator Blair is a woman,” said Dorothy. “Women don’t get caught on sex tapes.”
Unless they’re married to Senator Endicott.
“That’s sexist,” I said.
Dorothy rolled her eyes. “Why would anybody think I have the video?”
“Because PwnSec phished the senator.”
“No, we didn’t!”
“Peter’s computer did.”
“But you said that Peter didn’t do it.”
“Dorothy.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think Pat understands any of that?”
“No.”
We drank our beers in silence. Marla’s voice drifted from the bathroom as she helped Ruby from there back to bed.
“Just you and your aunt?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Dorothy.
“Must be lonely.”
“I have my online friends.”
“I guess you do.”
More silence.
“I forgot to thank you,” said Dorothy.
“For what?”
“For helping me with that Pat guy.”
“De nada.”
“Thanks anyway.”
I stood, drained my beer. “You know what you could do to make it up to me?”
Wariness crept into Dorothy’s voice. “What?”
I headed for the front door. “You could start trusting me.”
Fifty
Adriana opened her front door, appraised me. “You brought wine?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“We’ve got wine.”
“I know. I’m just being nice. Can I come in?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Adriana stepped back, I entered, and she kissed me on the cheek in perfunctory greeting.
Maria’s door flew open and she ran to me. “Hi, Tucker!”
I picked her up and she kissed me on the cheek, we being a family that saves lip kissing for other things.
I carried Maria down the hall to the kitchen where Catherine was cooking what looked like tacos, put down Maria, and raised my arms for a hug. Catherine looked up at me, said hi, and looked back at her cooking.
“So,” I said. “Tacos. Yum!”
“What’s wrong with tacos?” asked Catherine.
“Nothing’s wrong with tacos. I like tacos.”
“You sounded sarcastic.”
I shook my head slowly. “No. I was just saying ‘yum.’”
“Exactly. Very sarcastic.”
I asked Adriana, “Should I open the wine?”
“Sure.”
“I think it’s red wine with tacos.”
“I want white wine,” said Catherine. “I’ve got some in the fridge.”
“Okay, then,” I said. I opened the red wine, poured a generous helping for Adriana and me, opened the fridge, unscrewed Catherine’s white wine, poured her the same amount. I raised my glass to the ladies.
“Salute,” I said.
“Salute,” Adriana responded.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Catherine asked, looking at the glass.
“Look, should I just go back out and knock on the door again?”
“Why?” asked Maria.
“It just seems that we should start over.”
“Why do you have a new phone number?”
“I was getting a lot of phone cal
ls I didn’t want,” I said.
“You mean like selling you stuff?”
“No, like people being mean and calling me—”
“You don’t have to tell her about that,” said Catherine. “She doesn’t need to know everything.”
Silence hung between the four of us. Maria walked out of the kitchen, down the hall to her room. Catherine stirred ground meat in a pan. Adriana sipped her wine. I sat at the kitchen table. Beginnings of conversations formed in my mind and were vetoed just as quickly by a superego that played them out and showed me how they would fail.
Catherine pulled warm taco shells out of the oven, dumped them in a bowl, and scooped the meat into another bowl. Bowls of lettuce, tomato, and shredded cheese sat on a counter, ready for the table. Still the silence hung in the air. I moved from deciding that I should break it to deciding that I should let it play out to deciding to just try to be normal.
“Could you call Maria?” Catherine said to Adriana.
Adriana walked to the door. “Maria, supper!”
I pointed to the bowls of food. “Should I put those on the table?”
“I’ve got them,” said Catherine. “Just sit.”
I sat in my usual spot. Maria returned, sat in hers. Catherine placed the bowls on the table. Adriana sat. We stared at the bowls.
“So,” said Catherine. “Eat.”
I took a shell, scooped some meat, lettuce, and cheese into it, started to spoon salsa onto it.
“She doesn’t like salsa,” said Catherine.
“You don’t?” I asked Maria.
She shook her head.
I served Maria the taco. Then gestured to Catherine. “Ladies first.”
“For crying out loud,” said Catherine. She grabbed a shell, splatted some meat into it, tossed on some toppings, dropped it on her plate. Adriana made a taco, and I followed.
Despite the mental warning bells, I started a conversation.
“You going back to school Monday?” I asked Maria.
“No, she’s not going back to school, Tucker,” said Catherine. “Monday is Patriots’ Day, then there’s school vacation.”
“Right,” I said. “I forgot.”
“Of course you did.”
I bit into my taco. The shell had burned a little in the oven. Carbon bitterness filled my mouth and nose, overpowering the taste of the filling. I chewed, swallowed, put the taco on my plate, drank some wine.
Catherine said, “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“You don’t like it?”
“What’s going on here?” I asked Adriana.
Adriana had not touched her taco. She drank her wine and said, “Maria got in a fight today.”
“You did?” I asked her.
Maria nodded.
“Me too.”
“We know you too, Tucker,” said Catherine. “We saw the video of you beating up that poor kid. Maria showed it to us.”
I pushed my plate away. Drank more wine.
“Is that why you got in a fight?” I asked Maria.
“Olivia Incaviglia said you were a crook,” said Maria. “She said that all the Rizzos were crooks. So I pushed her down like you did in the video.”
My lizard brain smiled, but I blocked the expression before it could reach my lips.
“That was the wrong thing to do,” I said.
“I see how it is,” said Catherine. “Do as I say, not as I do.”
I ignored Catherine and said to Maria, “I apologized to Russell—”
“Who’s Russell?” asked Maria.
“The guy I pushed.”
“You did more than push him,” said Catherine. “You have a serious anger-management problem.”
“I apologized,” I repeated to Maria, “because it was wrong to hit him.”
“What did he say?”
“It doesn’t matter. Did you apologize to Olivia?”
“No. She said my father was a crook even after I hit her.”
But he was a crook.
I looked at Adriana. She shrugged.
“You should apologize,” I said.
We crunched our tacos. I hit a burned spot, but decided to chew and swallow the bitter piece of carbonized corn rather than spit it out and start a fight. More crunching, more chewing, more swallowing, no talking.
Finally, I said, “What’s going on?”
Adriana and Catherine exchanged a glance, with Adriana giving Catherine a pointed look, then inclining her head toward me.
“He’s your cousin,” Catherine said.
“It’s your idea,” Adriana said.
“You said you’d support me.”
“I am supporting you, but you tell him.”
“Tell me what?” I asked.
“Fine!” Catherine said. She looked me in the eye. “We don’t want you to be part of our family anymore.”
“Who’s we?” I asked. “Don’t you mean you?”
“We think that you’re a bad influence on all of us.”
“You all think that? Does Maria think that?”
Maria said, “No!”
“Don’t bring her into this,” said Catherine. “She’s a child.”
“I want Tucker in our family!”
“Maria, go to your room.”
“No! I’m staying with Tucker.”
“You see what I mean?” said Catherine to Adriana.
“Maria, you know what?” I said. “Why don’t you go to your room and let us talk about this.”
“I don’t want you to leave!”
“It will be fine.”
Maria hopped off her stool and looked daggers at Catherine. She yelled, “I hate you!” and stormed out of the kitchen.
“So you support this?” I asked Adriana.
Adriana shrunk inward, picked up her taco, put it down, looked up. “There are safety concerns.”
“What safety concerns? You’re afraid of those dweebs at Anonymous?”
Catherine said, “No.”
“No? Then what safety concerns?”
“I’m afraid of you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“Twitter says you killed a man.”
“I did not kill Peter.”
“Not Peter.”
My mind jumped to a kick in the nose, bone driven into brain. Nobody knew about that.
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you killed a man?”
I swallowed.
“You have?”
Adriana said, “Oh my God, Tucker!”
Lying seems like a simple proposition. You just say words that don’t reflect what really happened. We do it all the time. We tell people that their clothes don’t make them look fat, that we were late because of traffic, that they weren’t invited to the wedding because we ran out of space. We tell ourselves that we’re going to quit drinking or smoking or snarking. We go online and tell the world that we’re having a great day, that we actually like the photo of someone’s dog wearing a party hat, that we give a shit about how delicious their lunch was. Lying seems simple.
But it’s not. At least not for me, not when it matters, not when I’m talking to people I love.
“Who did you kill?” Adriana asked.
Where should I start?
“That settles it,” said Catherine. “You have to go, get out of our family, don’t come back.”
I looked deep into Catherine’s eyes. “No.”
“No?”
“No. I refuse.”
“You can’t refuse! It’s my right to tell you to stay out of our lives.”
I stood. “I’m leaving now.”
“And don’t come back.”
I looked at Adriana, who sn
iffled back tears. “I’m disappointed in you,” I said.
The dam burst. Tears splashed down her cheeks. “It’s for Maria!”
“Sure it is,” I said, and to Catherine: “This isn’t over.”
“I’ll get a restraining order!”
I said to Adriana, “You need to fix this.”
I left the table, walked down the hall, past Maria’s room, and out into the night.
Fifty-One
Rage, like nuclear-waste heat, has to vent. It churns and boils in your gut, leaking out at every door slammed open then slammed closed, every chuck of melting snow kicked across a street, every shot glass drained then slammed back onto the bar. The rage stretches the seams of whatever system you’ve built to control it so that you can remain a conforming member of society, someone who doesn’t haul off and punch a guy in the face, someone who doesn’t kick a pigeon that gets too close, or shake a fist at a baby. There’s no place in the world for rage.
Which is why we invented the Internet.
I took my rage-addled self to the Corner Cafe, a little bit of South Boston tucked into the North End. The neighborhood bar sits solidly in a residential building under an apartment. I had stormed out of Adriana’s house, walked around the corner, plunked myself onto a barstool, and ordered a double Jack Daniel’s. Reached for my phone to vent some rage on the Internet.
And I still had the fucking flip phone!
I cocked my arm, ready to throw the useless thing into the trash. The bartender caught my eye, shook his head. I shoved it back into my pocket. Knocked back my drink. Asked for another, this time with a beer chaser.
“What kind of beer?”
“Draft. I don’t care.”
The bartender chose the Stella Artois—sure, Tennessee whiskey and Belgian beer: let’s travel the world.
I played the expulsion back through my mind. Recounted Catherine’s clear leadership in cutting ties with the Internet monster who had ruined her marriage. I’d like to think that she was wrong, that her fears were unfounded and her actions uncalled for. But she wasn’t.
In the course of a week, the dweebs of Anonymous had ruined my reputation, disrupted my phone service, and fomented a mob in front of my house. They had taken the dark impulses normally tamped down in my psyche and drawn them into the light. Slapping CapnMerica for calling Jael names, beating up Russell, even mass doxing the whole PwnSec contingent had not been the products of my better nature.
