by Nace Phlaux
His good eye opened when I sat down, and I asked, “So whatcha got me as in your phone?” The antiseptic scent of the hospital fought valiantly against Ort’s smoky body odor but seemed to be on the losing side.
He smiled and closed his eye, making me think he was falling back to sleep or unconsciousness. “Assface Squirrelrapist,” he eventually croaked.
“Squirrelrapist?”
“I was feelin’ creative.”
“In your next phone, put me as Kyffanie. K-Y-F-F-A-N-I-E.”
He snorted, followed with a grimace that turned into a coughing fit, ending in him slumping into the bed with a string of curses. “They burned ‘is house down,” he said after gathering his strength. “The clean-cut mother of the three dropped off the Army-looking asshole, then went over to a neighborhood in Tullytown. Watched where the dothead went in, then torched the place. I tried to stop them, I did. I tried to stop them, Eddie, fuckin’ Christ. Told ‘em I made the whole thing up. Told ‘em I just wanted to see someone get beat for shits and giggles. That’s when they handed me my ass.”
“Did you mention my name?”
“The crazy Klansman dropped me off across the street from here. Said he did so out of respect, regardin’ us as old coworkers and all that happy horseshit. Don’t even remember it, but I think I crawled through the emergency room doors. Been kinda in and out of it for bit.” He reached for the cup of crushed ice next to him but wound up hitting the tray table and making it roll away. I caught it and held the cup out to him.
“But did you mention my name?”
He grimaced and batted the cup out of my hand, spreading the bits of ice across the floor. “No, I didn’t mention your fucking name.” I headed to the chair to sit back down, but he said, “I’ll call a taxi or beg a nurse or blow a trucker to take me home. You? You can go fuck off.” At that, he turned his head so his good eye was buried in the thin hospital mattress, leaving me to stare at the bulging mass encasing what seemed like half his face.
* * *
I drank myself to sleep that night. The apartment was almost painfully silent, so I flipped through the channels on TV until something about lizard people living in the center of the Earth came on. Richter would’ve approved. As I sunk deeper and deeper, it dawned on me how, with everyone else either dead or pissed at me, you were the only thing grounding me to this place. This town, this life. You’re the only thing I have left that means anything to me. What would I do if that were taken away?
Dad didn’t have any interest in that. As Ma was passing away, he seemed to welcome me back to the house and never questioned me visiting the hospital. I’d hoped that was a sign to us bridging the gap we’d dug over the years. But as soon as Ma left us, he went back to his usual self. I guess I’m to blame as well since I... Well, I had so much anger directed at him. Me? I don’t know what I did to him. I wasn’t you. After all this time, that’s the best I can figure.
But all that made me think of the girl. Christy. Ty. Whatever she wanted to call herself. If what Poy said was true, she’d been stripped of everything. Who’s to say I wouldn’t go batshit and turn into a villain if in the same shoes? All she was doing was trying to find that one person to connect to. And what she didn’t know yet was that person didn’t exist. Never existed. Nothing more than a few cells. Ma’d be smacking me now, saying something or other about a soul and conception and what not. But the soul of an unborn baby in Purgatory isn’t going to hold you or slap you, whatever the case may be, and tell you it’ll all be okay.
Maybe I should tell her, I thought. Like an angel on my shoulder whispering the idea. Saying it would end her blight on the town and everyone she manipulated. But a Richter-shaped devil popped up on the other shoulder, asking, But then what? With a goal, she’s focused. Not only focused on the one task, but that means distracted from the other tasks she could be doing instead. Take away the last grasp she has on this reality, and what hellfire will come instead?
That night, the only answer I could come to was to drink more. So I did.
* * *
The next morning, half fueled by being hungover and half getting sick of where my life was heading, I went to work with a plan. Once through the doors, I feigned sick, sniffing and snorting into tissues I’d carried in with me, and asked the receptionist if she could throw them out for me. She reached under her desk for a bin as I edged the deepest I could go into her area. A monitor to her right showed the feeds from nine cameras pointing toward various entrances throughout the building. As she dove for a trash can and wheeled herself away from my sniffling, I noted where the cameras covered and—more importantly—where they didn’t.
I clocked in and headed straight to Pip, asking him where I could find Tran without giving any context. He pointed me to the loading docks, where I found a couple guys milling about, waiting for trucks to roll in. As I stood by the doors into the area, an Asian man came in, and I asked him his name. When he said it was Tran, I told him Gaunt was looking for him and asked him to follow me. The guy looked—I think the best word would be “scrappy.” Thin and short but with some muscle on him. Wearing a t-shirt like the dock wasn’t cold as Hell. Once we were on the other side of the entrance, the side I noticed wasn’t recorded by the security cameras on the receptionist’s desk, I swung around, grabbing him by his shirt and slamming him into the wall.
“Gaunt knows,” I growled into his ear. “He’s watching you. All the kiddie crap you’ve been doing around here? He noticed.” Tran, much younger than me, maybe even as young as late twenties, struggled against my grip and said he didn’t know what I was talking about. “Sure, peanut. But if you haven’t been doing it, then you probably know who has. So let me tell you my suggestion: Quit it. Learn to work a warehouse. Or go elsewhere.
“Go to J & J over by the Oxford Valley Mall in Langhorne. They’ll think you’re real interesting, considering where you’re coming from. You can milk a lot from that if you’re smart enough.” Tran, his entire body at high alert, ready to strike. stared at me intensely. I let him go, dropping him in an almost audible plop. But he ran away before I could get him or say anything more.
When I visited Gaunt, the secretary was back, that heavy scent of hers emanating from the office and catching my attention long before I got near the entrance. Without a word, I passed by her and opened the old man’s door, the clicking of the handle finally triggering the girl’s instincts to say, “Excuse me. Excuse me! Is he expecting—” Her boss looked up at the spectacle she was creating and told her it was all right.
After giving Miss Vanilla enough time to look cautiously between me and Gaunt and turn back to her desk, I closed the door and said to the boss man, “Tran’s taken care of.” He silently gave me a look, to which I responded, “He might leave the warehouse. He might become a better worker. But either way, the BS he’s been doing is done.”
“That’s not what I—”
“It’s what you got,” I interrupted. He may’ve been thinking like a manager, trying to build a case to fire the guy, but I knew how to deal with the lowest level of the crew. I’d been mired there for enough years. In the best case scenario, Tran might’ve stayed, scared straight after a period of being a childish prick to his company. Only time would tell. “We have to talk about your other concern, though.”
“And what’s that?”
“You pay me enough to cover the rent and some vodka. But protection and investigating? You think those kids that tracked you down showed up randomly? They were the first wave. Someone wants to know what you know—or what they think you know. Stopping them and tracking down their boss ain’t cheap.”
He stuck out his chin and nodded, contemplating my words, I assumed. “And how much are we talking about, Mr. Mazzaro?”
I was on fire. Not so much in that indestructible, taking life by the horns mentality. More in that I gave my last shit kind of way. Caring any less? Not an option. So why not push some buttons and see what came up, right? I told him ten grand should cover f
inding who attacked him and make sure they never came back.
Gaunt sat back in his chair, rubbing his fingers up the bridge of his nose and then down the lines of his face, pinching at the old man skin under his chin and snorting when he finished. “I want you off my property, Mr. Mazzaro, within ten minutes. The trust you’ve earned thus far is the only reason you won’t be escorted out of the building. But I never want to see you in this factory again.”
“I know too much about you, Gaunt. What would the police say?”
“Nothing as interesting as what they’d say about your sister, I’m sure.”
Crap. I had forgotten about that lie.
* * *
News traveled fast, apparently. The next morning, I was enjoying my breakfast at Violetwood, watching the news ramble on about the nor’easter that had passed just shy of our little part of the world and rained hell on Boston and parts of Canada. The lull between the breakfast and lunch crowds had begun, but it was still too busy to care about every opening of the door. When the all too familiar scent of Marlboro Lights and church reached me, my head jerked to the entrance. I took solace that she stood there alone, but my heart still pounded as if her boys hand joined her.
Her wig was black with a purple stripe down the side, pulled back into a messy bun. Her faux pea coat, leggings, and patent leather boots matched the darkness of the hair. When I was a teenager, I would’ve found it exotic, seductive. Something different from the cheerleaders and typical period piece background actors that filled the space. But at my age, tainted by the actions I’d seen her and her crew perform, the actions I’d done on her behalf, she just looked diseased. As she neared, I pushed the remains of my breakfast away, knowing my stomach wouldn’t unclench again in time to eat any more of it.
“You were recruited under the assumption that you wouldn’t require so much babysitting. It seems that mistakes were made.” I stayed silent, not meeting her gaze or her reflection’s in the mirror behind the counter. “We did, however, receive a call regarding another worker under Gaunt, who suggested he may be useful to us. When asked how, he said something about working for Havis and how he was told that should make him useful. Debbie thought the call was so weird, she told all the girls about it. And so here I am.” A waitress came up, but the girl told her she wouldn’t be staying long. Once the waitress left us and after a considerable amount of silence, she said, “I know that trick, too, Eddie.”
“You got another job for me?”
She sighed, probably pursing her lips in the process, while my eyes stayed on the ugly laminated counter. “I’ll send something to your burner in the next day or two.” She stood up, and from my periphery, I could see her straighten her coat and dust off whatever imaginary dirt had trespassed from the cafe seat. “I like you, Eddie. A bit chaotic, but effective. But too much chaos? We’ll have to keep an eye on that, okay?” She replayed the last time we’d met there, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a cigarette and lighter, preparing to leave her trail of smoke from the door.
The moment she turned, I threw money on the counter and hobbled for the door. After a few moments, Poy’s car came into view, and I waved him to park. He thankfully caught what I was motioning and pulled into an open spot in the parking lot. I hopped into his car and thanked him for stopping. “I know how important it is to follow the Goddess,” I told him. He shrugged and seemed humbled for a moment. “And thank you for your gift. And your apology. I know you didn’t mean what you did.”
“Did you like them? I didn’t know what you’d like.”
“I just wonder how you got them. Seems like there’s a good story there.”
He scoffed and said, “There’s a rock in her backyard. I’m not even sure she knows. But inside is a key to the backdoor.” He turned bright red and looked down, humbled as if he’d found some great secret of one of his heroes. “I found it while trying to look through her kitchen window one time. Sometimes I...” Whatever perverted story he nearly expelled caught in his throat. Thank freakin’ God.
“Thanks, Poy.” I tried to make the smile as sincere as possible. Who knew what was wrong with the kid, but I’d heard those spectrum kids could see right through most people’s BS. The thought crossed my mind to ask about Ashish and his family, but I figured the less anyone knew of any connection between the arson and me, the better. “Can I buy you breakfast? This place is great, save for the coffee.” He shook his head, so I added, “Well, then, thanks again. I really appreciated your gift.”
“Yeah, I bet you did,” he said under his breath.
Candy 5
1526 Marsha
Yardley, PA 19067
February 8, 2013
Dear Dorothea,
Oh mercy, Dottie, it’s been one heck of a week. A whirlwind roller coaster of emotions. A...I don’t know. I can’t describe it. It is what it is. My husband? My stranger? There’ve been tears and laughter and relief and sorrow and none of it in that order. I’m just so giddy, I can’t think straight, you know? So the last time I wrote you, I had just set up a fake Facebook account and sent Jerry a friend request, which he accepted. Somewhere out there, my mystery man haunted me, despite only having known him for such a short amount of time. But he appeared at a tender moment of my life and tickled me in just how I needed. Bless me, Dottie, but it’s true.
Jer asked if he knew me from somewhere, and I said our boys went to the same school. According to my Violet Jessop, we met on the night of a parent-teacher night in October. I imagine he groaned when I mentioned that evening. One of Danny’s teachers was a nightmare, and several us gabbed about her in the parking lot. Someone suggested going over to the Puss N Boots Tavern, and the next thing I knew, we were ordering drinks and appetizers from the menu.
I love him to one extent or another, but Jer has this habit of close talking when he’s drunk. So we were all conversing, patterns of couples switching throughout the tavern, each exchanging opinions of various teachers and programs, and he reached a wife who was laughing at his jokes a little too hard, but she kept taking a step away from his advances. After a while, they were halfway across the room from where they started, seemingly unaware that either had taken a step.
We drove home that night with me at the wheel and him singing along to the oldies station, and the next morning, I had to remind him of the finer details of the evening. He could’ve met Violet that night. He could’ve met Obama that night. The response I got on Facebook was, “I hope I didn’t make an arse out of myself,” which I found strange since I couldn’t recall hearing Jer ever use the word “arse” before. Such a silly curse.
“I sent a friend request, didn’t I?” I wrote back.
Over the next few days, we chatted like crazy, basically befriending my husband all over again. Part of me wasn’t sure whether it was to fall for him again or to spy on him better. I’d decide that when the time came. For now, I’d just converse with him—something I hadn’t been able to do much of in quite some time. But what I found the most fascinating was how he presented himself to someone new, despite me knowing all his stories already.
It started small with him saying he wanted to be a musician but had to relinquish the dream to settle down. To “adult better,” he said. He made a tape of songs with his friends and a few keyboards when we were kids, but I never thought it was a big ambition of his. I’ve never been too into music, beyond liking to use it to fill the silence, and I assumed Jer was the same. But I found him listening to the tape sometimes for nostalgia’s sake—or so he told me. Or maybe he thought it’d make him sound artistic to Violet.
The tone got more serious when he brought up worrying over his son, and he surprised me when he said he meant Joey. Something about the boy’s obsession over his brother smoking seemed really unhealthy, he said. I had to catch my breath before I responded with, “You let him smoke? Like cigarettes or marijuana or...?”
“We don’t let him, but I know he smokes pot. Don’t know if he smokes like his mom. But it’s just li
ke when we were kids. My parents weren’t stupid. They must’ve known when I came home giggly and eating half the pantry. I see Dan doing the same, but what am I to do? If I say something, I’m the @$$ and won’t hear a word from him ‘til he needs tuition for college. I’d prefer to stay his buddy and keep the lines of communication open.”
Oh, hon, I was mortified. My son doing drugs? My husband? I thought Jerry ran in proper circles when we were in high school. I mean, we were both from Catholic schools. My hands still sting from nuns thwapping me with their rulers. And that was just for speaking without being called on! What on Earth would they had done if they caught me with marijuana? And here’s my husband saying he used to do it when we were kids. And what was the “like his mom” bit? As if I had something to do with Danny smoking drugs.
“You still do that?” I replied, hoping it sounded relaxed enough.
“Just a phase when I was a kid. Probably didn’t even get high. I hear what kids today have makes what we could get our hands on look like crud.” The “Typing...” icon kept flashing on for a few moments then off and back on for a few moments, over and over, driving me a little batty. Eventually “You and the hubby doing anything for Super Bowl?” came through, steering me away from the stress-induced heart attack or brain aneurysm I swore would hit at any moment. I said my husband and I weren’t doing anything too exciting. Watching the commercials while having a few beers, mostly. But what actually happened during the game? Hoo-boy.
The boys stayed home, and as per usual, I made my buffalo chicken dip in the crock pot. Helyne whipped up an artichoke dip that the men seemed to enjoy. I would’ve added a little spinach, but it is what it is. She stayed by Dommy’s side mostly, munching on a bag of popcorn and staring blankly at the screen while I buzzed around the room, cleaning up and making sure bowls were full. I tried to ignore Danny eating, since every handful of food made me wonder whether he was high. Better to let Joey watch over him. Jer worked on a case of that Lord Chesterfield Ale he likes a little faster than I expected, so I took that as a sign to crack open my own bottle of wine and get to Facebook.
