by Joe Clifford
“Don’t play that bullshit with me.”
“Aiden, come with Grandma in the kitchen,” Lynne said, like she hadn’t orchestrated this entire scene. My boy stared up at me, eyes widened in confusion, as my mother-in-law dragged him away from his lunatic father.
I drew back my clenched fist, ready to break Stephen’s jaw. Maybe I’d have only punched the wall by the side of his head to scare him. I don’t know. Probably the first one. But Jenny grabbed my cocked fist and pulled me off before we had the chance to find out.
“I’m going to go,” Stephen mumbled, fumbling for the knob, squeaking outside.
“Yeah, you do that, asshole.” I panted, overheating, a bull.
When I turned around and saw the mix of horror and disgust on my wife’s face, I knew I’d fucked up.
Jenny didn’t need to say it. But she did anyway.
“Jay, you need to leave. Now. I’ll call you when I’m ready to talk to you again. Until then, I don’t want to hear your voice. I don’t want to see your face. Stay away from me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I SPED ALONG the winding, tortuous route east as light snow began to fall. A dusting coated the roads, sweeping small pirouettes across the empty lanes. I lit a cigarette and punched the wheel, back tires fishtailing with the blow. I accelerated around a hairpin, tempting fate. What the fuck was I doing? When you’re standing on thin ice, you don’t jump up and down.
Even though I knew Stephen, if given half the chance, would try to sleep with my wife—because he was a guy and that’s what guys do—my opinion on the subject didn’t matter. You can see whatever you want to see—if nobody else sees it, what good does it do you? Invisible trees get chopped down in the forest all day long.
Out the window, Douglas firs and evergreen tips bowed with the wind. The spare change in my cup quaked as the earth shook. I couldn’t tell if a storm was brewing or I was driving way faster than I should. My big Chevy block thrummed, rattled. I checked my speedometer, needle pushing fifty around tight curves intended for twenty-five. I saw a call come in on my cell in the center console. I glanced down and ignored it. If Jenny wasn’t on the line, I didn’t give a shit.
Donna Olisky had badgered me all afternoon, ringing every hour on the hour, forcing me to put the phone on vibrate. I knew keeping her in the dark was lousy, and that I’d have to talk to her sooner or later. But you can’t report back on what you don’t know.
My botched afternoon in Burlington wasn’t Donna’s fault, but favors still cost extra—you don’t get to look out for someone else’s well-being until you’ve taken care of your own.
Didn’t help that my defense was inadmissible. As sure as every winter up here promises misery, I knew Lynne had manipulated that whole charade. A plan had been set in motion months ago: wait for a vulnerable moment to unleash the young, urban professional upstairs, whose pump Lynne had surely been priming since the day she moved in. And I’d played right into the trap. But you can’t prove intent, and lunch is still lunch. I couldn’t accuse Jenny of anything other than being hungry.
Coming up on the 302 split, I fought temptation to flip a bitch and bull my way back to Lake Champlain. Stand my ground until Jenny heard me out. If given enough time, I could usually stumble across the right words. If the extra rope didn’t hang me first. Saner instincts prevailed, and I stayed the course.
Even though my wife had thrown me out of her mother’s house, I still had faith I could repair the damage. Jenny was good about accepting apologies. When she calmed down. I needed to stay away for a while, bite my tongue, wait till she returned from enemy soil.
What pissed me off most, I hadn’t been able to give Jenny the good news about my promotion. Which had been the whole point of going up to Burlington in the first place. My mother-in-law had bowled my legs from under me, shortchanging my big score, and leaving me no choice but to split, a loser.
My cigarette died out. I lit another. My phone buzzed again. I picked up the cell and saw the name on the screen. But it wasn’t Donna, and it wasn’t my wife. Sometimes I wondered if the universe delighted in screwing with me. I put it to my ear.
“Hey,” said the cool female voice. “It’s Nicki.”
I didn’t respond right way, molars powdering enamel to keep from screaming.
“From the courthouse?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“So, you free to grab that drink now?”
I had to end this now. Nothing good could come of it. I’m a happily married father. I don’t screw around.
“Listen,” I said, attempting tack. “You seem like a nice girl, Nicki. But I’m married—”
“Yeah. I know, I saw the ring. Sorry about that.” She laughed. Well, less a laugh and more a mocking jeer. “It was shitty of me.”
“Sorry?”
“Y’know, how I was with you earlier, playing. I thought interning at a courthouse would be fun. Or at least a good experience. Get course credit, walk away with a few stories to tell. But it’s so boring. All I do is sit in that little box, filing paperwork. All. Day. Long. Can’t even check Facebook on my phone. The only way I can pass the time is hitting on old married guys. Lame, I know. But it’s entertaining watching how nervous they get.”
Old? I’m not old. Since when is thirty-one old?
“Not that you’re old,” she added.
Talk about a bitch slap. I’d gone from worrying about how to let her down easy to getting batted around like a wounded mouse for the amusement of a house cat. I could practically hear her licking the blood from her claws, satisfied with another kill.
“I want to show you something,” she said. When I didn’t respond right away, she added, “We can meet in a well-lit, public place if you’re worried.”
“I’m not worried. I’m busy.”
“I have information about your friend, Brian.”
“Where is he?” My self-worth had taken enough of a hit for one day. I wanted back in front of my TV, sweats and a tee, beer in hand. Pop in a DVD and forget this whole rotten day. Mocked by yuppies and college girls. Does it get any worse?
“Place called the North River Institute.”
“North River?”
“Listen,” Nicki said, “it’s too complicated to explain over the phone. So here’s what I’m going to do. I am stopping for a drink at the Chop Shop. It’s a steakhouse slash cocktail bar a few blocks from the courthouse. Corner of Main and Laramie. If you want my help, I’ll be there for the next hour. Or until I find something better to do. If not, nice meeting you, Jay.”
* * *
Nicki sat at a small table by the bar, twirling the tiny umbrella between her fingers. Being allowed in the bar meant she had to be at least twenty-one, not that Longmont County cared any more than the rest of New Hampshire when it came to following the letter of the law. But if she was working at the courthouse, I couldn’t see her using a fake ID. She might be brazen, but that con was short-lived. She spied me and took another sip of her fizzy pink cocktail. A tall, untouched pint sat across from her. I wondered if I was interrupting something. The rest of the bar was empty.
“You strike me as a beer guy.” She slid over the glass. “Crowd will pick up in about fifteen when the courthouse closes for the day. Good luck getting a drink then.”
I stared down at the beer, then at her, still deciding whether I wanted to sit with this girl.
“Truce,” she said, nudging forward the frothy pint.
“I didn’t realize we knew each other well enough to be fighting.”
Nicki cocked her head. “Not yet,” she cooed, before biting a lip. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
A giant picture of a dissected cow hung on the wall behind her, illustrating the various cuts of beef.
“Have a seat. I won’t bite, promise.”
For the first time I detected the accent. “Where are you from?” I pulled the stool out.
“Took you long enough. The City.”
“Concord?”
Nic
ki laughed. “Is that what you call ‘the city’ up here? No. I mean, the City. New York.” She flicked her nose ring. When I didn’t react, she peeled her shirtsleeve, revealing the rest of the sunburst flare, a brilliant kaleidoscopic supernova wrapping around her biceps, comet tail shooting up her shoulder.
“People are inked up here, too.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Except people with tattoos don’t say ‘inked’ or ‘tatted.’ That’s TV talk.”
“Okay, Nicki. I get it. You’re cool. I’m not. I don’t care. You said you wanted to show me something? Show me. I have better things to do than sit around and get insulted by a girl half my age majoring in women’s studies at White Mountain Community.”
“Actually, I’m twenty-two, and it’s criminal justice at Keene State. Just taking a break while I am stuck living with my uncle in Ma and Pa Kettle Country.”
“Terrific. But I still don’t care.”
“Drink your beer,” she said through a pursed smirk. She hoisted a handbag to the table, rooting around, extracting a folded sheet of paper.
“What’s that?”
“The new address where your pal Brian is staying.”
“I wouldn’t call him a pal.”
“I know. You work for NorthEastern Insurance. I made some phone calls.”
I checked the address. North River Institute. “What is this?”
“A diversion program.”
“Diversion from what?”
“A life of crime. Rough crowds. Gangs.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“If you met this kid, you’d know. He’s a string bean. A tadpole. A nerd.”
“Nerd is the new cool.”
“Good to know. But the only gang Brian Olisky is in danger of joining is the Doofus Patrol.”
“If he was such a square bear, he wouldn’t have been brought before Judge Roberts. North River is no joke. It’s a juvie. A hardcore rehab. Seen a lot of troubled kids getting sent there lately.”
“Brian Olisky is not troubled. He lied on an insurance form.”
Nicki pointed down at the rest of the paper I had yet to read. “Says the cops found drugs in the car.”
“Bullshit.”
“Read.”
Below the handwritten address for North River, an official summary of charges spelled it out. “A joint? How long are these diversion programs?”
“Depends. The courts work out sentencing with parents beforehand. A joint decision. But incarceration is open ended and can last for years, if there’s enough financing.”
Brian’s mother never would have signed off on anything like that. She’d been a nervous wreck last time we’d spoke.
“You could’ve told me all this on the phone,” I said to Nicki, folding the police report and address.
“I know. But . . .” She glanced around the room as a couple suits stepped in from the cold.
“But what?”
“I told you. I don’t know anyone up here. You seem like a nice guy—”
I held up my ring finger.
“Get over yourself, Jay. I mean, I could use a cool guy to talk to, grab a beer once in a while. Y’know, a friend.”
I returned an incredulous stare.
“What? Men and women can’t be friends? What are we? In high school?”
I didn’t answer. I was thinking about Jenny and how I’d gone ballistic over her having lunch with a guy. Pretty much the same thing I was doing here. Actually less egregious, because every time I looked at Nicki I couldn’t help wondering what she looked like naked.
“What is wrong with everyone up here?” Nicki asked. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend. Trust me. I’ve had my fill.”
Draining my pint, I stood and stuffed the sheet in my back pocket.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“Home, Nicki. I appreciate you getting this information for me.” I looked around the barroom, which had now started to fill with a steady stream of prosecutors, clerks, and public defenders. “I’m sure you’ll make plenty of friends.”
She cocked her head.
“We’re real friendly up here.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
PARKED UNDER A street lamp, I sat in my idling truck a few blocks from the bar. Strong winds swept down the street with the late-afternoon cold front, whistling outside the glass, kicking up snow. I pulled the piece of paper, rereading the address for the North River Institute, trying to reconcile conflicting reports. A diversion program? Basically a rehab masquerading as detention center. That’s how Nicki had pitched it. For Brian Olisky? A band geek who had been arrested, arraigned, and sentenced in less than six hours. There’s swift justice. Then there’s cruel-and-unusual warp speed. Death Row inmates wait longer than that. What had Brian done to warrant this kind of response? I pictured that skinny, scrawny, pencil neck, imagined how scared he must be inside those prison walls. He wouldn’t last a night.
Maybe Nicki had oversold it. Maybe North River was a residential facility designed to intervene before teens went down a dark path. Except Brian Olisky was as far from the dark side as I was from domestic bliss. I had no way of knowing what the Institute was really like without checking it out, firsthand, a mission I had no interest in undertaking. Because this wasn’t my problem.
Did I need to call Donna Olisky and explain her son wasn’t coming home tonight? Or did she already know? I wasn’t sure which scenario bothered me more.
I checked my phone to see how many of her calls I’d missed. After the disaster with Jenny, I’d seen my phone light up several times. I’d stopped paying attention after a while. When I scrolled the log, I saw the calls from Donna stopped early afternoon. The rest were from Charlie, texts and voice mails urging me to head over the mountain and catch him at the Dubliner if Jenny hadn’t returned.
I was relieved I didn’t have to break the news to Donna. Someone from the courthouse must’ve already done that. Why else would she suddenly stop calling? Sucked for her. But my job was done. My stomach knotted up, I toppled a few antacids, choking down the dry chalk, trying to locate Route 302 in the dark.
Steady precipitation returned, thick sleet and wet snow glopping the windshield like spitballs from a juvenile god. My wipers labored through the slush, little motors grinding gears until I could smell the burn. I didn’t know this area so well. Whenever I’d had to bail out Chris, I’d come during the daytime. That was ages ago. Tonight I was relying on GPS to guide the way. I still didn’t have the hang of the technology, goddamn screen rotating every time I picked up the phone to get a closer look, and the robotic vocal instructions to “turn left here” always came a beat too late. Felt like I was going in circles.
Keeping my eyes peeled for deer, which had a bad habit of jumping out and standing in the middle of the road, I was so focused and preoccupied over Brian Olisky and Jenny and where my life was headed, I didn’t spot the cruiser on my tail. Even when the lights flashed and air horn bleated, it didn’t register they were talking to me.
I slowed to the side. Blinding high beams shot through the back window of my truck, smacking off the rearview. I cocked the mirror to shield my eyes. Doors opened and slammed shut. I leaned over to fish my registration from the glove compartment. After the day I’d had, last thing I felt like doing was dealing with Podunk PD for rolling through a stop sign.
I hadn’t been pulled over on a routine traffic stop in a while and couldn’t find my paperwork, too many crinkled receipts and ATM statements, napkins from the Dunkin’ Donuts that I kept for when Aiden’s nose ran, which, as a little kid living on the tundra, was invariably. I swatted aside papers in the glove compartment, growing agitated over my lack of organization. A hard knock rapped off the glass.
“Hold on,” I said. “Jesus.” Without looking up, I reached back with my left hand to unroll the window. Waiting for the requisite “Do you know why I stopped you, sir?” I continued digging around, wading deep in the dish, until I found the re
gistration, crumpled yellow paper like a McDonald’s cheeseburger wrapper. I sat back up, expecting a balding reject picked last in gym class. Instead I got highway patrol buzz cut and a pair of crazy eyes better suited for mixed martial arts than law enforcement.
“Put your hands on the wheel where I can see them.” The quiet seething in his voice should’ve been my first clue this wasn’t an ordinary stop.
“No problem,” I said, flipping the paperwork in the center console. Sudden movement, a stupid move. Sig Sauer unholstered and aimed at my skull, the officer ripped open the door, reached in, and flung me to the ground. I hit the frozen tarmac with the full force of a belly flop on a winter lake, knocking the wind out of me. I pushed myself to my hands and knees, waving a hand to let me catch my breath so I could explain.
I heard more footsteps in the snow, my vision tearing up, blurry. A pair of boots came to rest on each side of me.
No one was interested in explanations.
The pair alternated kicks to my stomach, flanks, and sternum. The unexpected force made me throw up. One of them grabbed me by the scruff, lifting me off the asphalt like a misbehaving mutt, hoisting me to unsteady feet. He spun me around, pushing me against my truck, face-first. My forehead cracked against the frame. Feet kicked apart, I was patted down. My head rang and I tasted blood in my mouth.
Satisfied I wasn’t carrying any weapons, they spun me back around, where a high-powered flashlight shone in my eyes.
“You have a hard time following orders, eh, boy? You been drinking tonight?”
I squinted and tried to focus on the face talking to me. I couldn’t tell if it was the same crazy-eyed psycho or his partner. Not that it made any difference.
“He’s talking to you, boy. You been drinking?”
“I had a half a beer. About an hour ago.” I still couldn’t even see who the hell I was talking to. I hated that I couldn’t see a face.
“Don’t lie to me. Nobody throws up from half a beer.”
I didn’t mention the roundhouse kicks to my lower intestines. By now I was pretty sure no one gave a shit what I thought.
“Except faggots. That it? You some kind of faggot? Can’t hold your liquor?”
