Scar Tissue

by William G. Tapply

  When I glanced at my watch, I saw that I’d been sleeping for only about an hour.

  I hadn’t been truly drunk in years.

  Never again.

  When I slipped back under the covers, Evie was lying on her side facing away from me. She was breathing quietly. I slithered over beside her and pressed the length of my body against hers from behind. She was wearing a short silky nightgown. It was bunched up around her waist. She wore nothing underneath it. I buried my face in her hair, put an arm around her hips, and snuggled up against her. Her body was very warm. A little humming moan came from her throat. She took my hand, moved it up so that it was cupping her breast, and held it there. Her butt wiggled back against me. She sighed.

  We slept that way, and I don’t think I had any more dreams.

  It was nearly ten in the morning when my eyes popped open. I staggered naked out into the kitchen and got the coffee going.

  Somebody was driving nails into my eyeballs. He was wielding a heavy hammer, and each blow clanged in my brain. Somebody else was doing sit-ups inside my stomach.

  I had a long hot shower while the coffee was brewing, and after I got dried and dressed, I poured a mugful and brought it to Evie.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her bare shoulder. She groaned. “Jesus,” she mumbled. “Don’t touch me.”

  “I got coffee,” I said. “Happy Sunday.”

  She rolled onto her back and blinked at me. “What time is it?”

  “Around ten.”

  “What?”

  “Ten o’clock on a pretty Sunday morning.”

  “Oh, shit,” she said. “Gimme the phone.”

  I passed the phone to her. She sat up, brushed her hair away from her face, and pecked out a number. While it rang she frowned up at me. Then her eyes shifted and she smiled. “Hi. It’s me. I’m kind of under the weather this morning. I’m gonna be a little … No, I’m feeling better. Something I ate, is all … Oh, about eleven?” She ducked her head so that her hair fell like curtains around her face. “No, really,” she said softly. “I’m okay now … . That’s sweet, but I’m fine.” She was smiling. “Yes, you, too,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She turned and handed the phone to me.

  I gave her the mug of coffee I’d been holding. “What’s up?”

  She shook her head, bent to her mug, and took a sip.

  “You got a date or something?”

  She shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “Lucky you,” I said, and I stood up and went into the kitchen.

  I set the table, mixed an omelette, poured two glasses of orange juice, and sliced some English muffins while Evie took her shower.

  When she came into the kitchen, she had her coat on.

  “I made breakfast,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I gotta get going. Thanks, anyway.”

  “It’ll only take me a minute to cook,” I said.

  “I’m not feeling that hot.”

  “You can’t leave on an empty stomach.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I can.” She put her coffee mug in the sink, then brushed my cheek with a kiss. “Have a nice day.”

  By the time I said, “You, too,” the door had slammed and she was gone.

  Have a nice day?

  I cooked the omelette and ate it at my kitchen table with the sports section of the Sunday Globe for company. Then I took the rest of the paper into the living room. I read it all, even the business section.

  There was no mention of finding Jake Gold’s tortured body in Ed Sprague’s barn in Reddington, of course. That would have to wait for the Monday paper.

  I tried calling Sharon in the middle of the afternoon. Her machine answered. She hadn’t changed her message. Her voice was still cheerful and carefree. “Sharon, Brian, and Jake aren’t here right now,” she said, without irony.

  I tried not to think about Evie. But my place felt empty without her. It was Sunday afternoon, dammit. She should’ve been there.

  Evie and I had made no agreements, no commitments. We’d met back in September. We’d exchanged house keys only a couple of months ago. The life stories we’d exchanged were skeletal. She knew I’d been divorced, had two grown boys, and had lived alone for a long time. She knew about Alex, my most recent love, knew that I’d blown that relationship and still regretted it.

  I knew even less about her. Just that she’d been involved with several men. She didn’t like to talk about them, and I didn’t push it.

  It was still early times in our relationship. Evie and I were two grown-ups who’d lived some life, and we’d both grown some scar tissue around our hearts. I figured that was part of the attraction for both of us. We didn’t have to explain ourselves to understand each other.

  We’d lapsed into the comfortable habit of spending weekends together. We always had fun. We cooked and ate and watched old movies and played cards and board games and made love. We laughed a lot.

  Evie had joined the rhythm of my life.

  So what the hell was she doing?

  A date? I’d asked her.

  Something like that, she’d said.

  Huh?

  The more encounters I had with women, the more mysterious and frustrating they became. It reminded me of a conversation I’d had with Charlie McDevitt the last time we had lunch together.

  There were some things, he’d said, that men should say to women, but none of us ever did.

  Such as:

  1. If you think you might be fat, you probably are. Don’t ask us.

  2. Learn how to work the toilet seat. If it’s up, just put it down.

  3. Don’t ever cut your hair.

  4. If you ask a question you don’t want an answer to, you should expect an answer you don’t want to hear.

  5. Sometimes we’re not thinking about you. Live with it.

  Charlie and I had fun with it. We came up with a dozen other things we wished we had the balls to say to women.

  Charlie said that pissing accurately while standing up is harder than pissing from point-blank range, and they ought to accept the fact that even the best shots will sometimes be off target.

  I suggested that men who own two or three pairs of shoes at the most are poor judges of which ones go with which outfit.

  Charlie added that men didn’t bother matching their shoes with their wallets.

  I said that the ugliest, most evil-tempered dog is a better friend than the cutest, sweetest cat.

  We agreed, of course, that telling women exactly what we were thinking was guaranteed to ruin a relationship forever.

  Had I said something to ruin my relationship with Evie? Probably. I’d been drunk. I couldn’t remember what I’d said.

  I decided I wouldn’t call her. I’d wait for her to call me.

  If she didn’t, that would tell me everything I needed to know.

  SEVENTEEN

  I spent that Sunday afternoon moping around my apartment feeling sorry for myself, and when the phone rang a little after four o’clock, I figured it was Evie, full of explanations and apologies.

  I thought about not answering. Show her a thing or two.

  Childish, of course.

  When I picked up the phone, there was a hesitation on the other end. Then a woman’s voice I didn’t recognize said, “Is this Mr. Coyne?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Sandy. Sandy Driscoll.”

  It took me an instant to connect the name with the chubby black-haired girl from the camera shop in Reddington. “What’s up, Sandy?”

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “No. I mean, not on the phone. I’m at the shop. We close at five.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  I pulled up in front of the camera store in Reddington at about quarter of five. I sat there and smoked a cigarette, and at exactly five the lights in the shop blinked out.

  One minute later, Sandy Drisco
ll opened my car door and slid in beside me.

  “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing,” she said.

  “Whatever it is,” I said, “you can trust me.”

  “Can I?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She was looking out the side window. I couldn’t see her face. “You’ve got to promise me,” she said. “No matter what, you won’t tell anybody unless I say it’s okay.”

  “I promise.”

  She turned to face me. Her eyes were watery. “I can’t get Mrs. Gold’s dream out of my mind,” she said. “Then today, when I heard that Brian’s dad …”

  I nodded.

  “So,” she said after a minute, “so I decided … God, I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

  “Sandy,” I said, “what is it?”

  She stared out the window for a moment, then reached up and snapped on her seat belt. “Drive,” she said.

  I turned on the ignition. “Where to?”

  “Head for Boston.”

  Sandy told me to get on the Mass Pike and take the Kenmore Square exit. Then she found an FM station on my radio that played what they called “classic rock,” and she sat there beside me in the darkness of my car, gazing out the side window and saying nothing.

  I resisted the almost unbearable urge to ask her what the hell was going on.

  At Kenmore, she directed me to the Fenway, and a little past the Museum of Fine Arts she told me to look for a parking space.

  I found one off a narrow side street under a PERMIT PARKING—RESIDENTS ONLY sign.

  We got out of the car. Sandy looked around, as if she was orienting herself, then started up the sidewalk.

  I caught up with her and touched her arm. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me what’s up?”

  “You’ll see,” she said. “Just remember your promise.”

  I followed her onto one of those myriad one-way side streets that connect Huntington and Columbus avenues on the fringes of Northeastern University. Cars were parked against dirty old snowbanks, leaving barely enough room for a vehicle to creep past. Here and there we stepped around a tipped-over trash can that had spilled newspapers and beer bottles and pizza crusts onto the sidewalk. Music blared from inside the buildings.

  Sandy walked slowly, peering at the doors of the identical dirty-brick four-floor walkup apartments.

  Finally she stopped. “Wait here for a minute.” She went into the building. I could see her inside the little entryway. She appeared to be talking on the intercom.

  A minute later she opened the door and beckoned me up.

  She was holding the inside door open. We went in, and I followed her up a curving flight of stairs to the second floor.

  There were just two apartments there, twenty-one and twenty-two. Music came from behind both doors.

  She banged on the door of number twenty-two, and a tall young man with a blond ponytail and a wispy goatee opened it. He and Sandy hugged each other, and then she turned and pointed to me. “This is him,” she said. “He’s a lawyer. We’ve got his word.”

  I held out my hand to the boy. “Brady Coyne,” I said.

  He gripped my hand firmly. “I’m Jason,” he said, and left it at that. He turned to Sandy. “I’m not sure about this.”

  “I’m not, either,” she said. “But I don’t see as we’ve got a choice.”

  Jason nodded, then looked at me. “C’mon in, then.”

  I followed him and Sandy into a tiny room with a high ceiling and tall windows that looked out onto the building across the street. It was furnished with a ratty old sofa, a couple of mismatched wooden chairs, and a low coffee table. The table and floor were strewn with Coke cans and dirty dishes and pizza cartons and newspapers and textbooks. A television set sat on a plank that was supported by a couple of cement blocks. A stereo system was playing what I thought I recognized as hip-hop music. It was very loud.

  “Where is he?” said Sandy.

  Jason pointed down a narrow hallway. “Last door on the left.”

  Sandy took my hand and led me down the hallway. At the last door on the left, she stopped, blew out a quick breath, and knocked.

  A voice from inside said, “Yeah? Who is it?”

  “It’s Sandy,” she said. “Let me in.”

  “It’s not locked.”

  Sandy pushed the door open.

  It was a tiny room, not much bigger than my bathroom, and it was dark except for the streetlight outside the single window.

  A figure was curled on the cot-size bed, facing the wall.

  “What do you want?” The voice was muffled.

  Sandy went over, sat on the edge of his bed, and touched his shoulder. “I brought someone to see you,” she said gently.

  “Who? I told you—”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “He won’t tell anybody.”

  The figure on the bed pushed himself up onto his elbows, turned, and looked at me over Sandy’s shoulder.

  I’d forgotten how much he looked like his mother. Same shiny black hair, same dark, frightened eyes.

  “Hello, Brian,” I said.

  Brian Gold blinked at me. “Uncle Brady?”

  I nodded.

  He flopped back onto his bed. “Please,” he said. “Just leave me alone.”

  Sandy stood up, backed away from the bed, and arched her eyebrows at me.

  I went over and squatted beside Brian. “It’s awfully good to see you,” I said to him. “Your mother—”

  “No,” he said. He rolled onto his side, putting his back to me.

  “She thinks you’re dead,” I said.

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  “She deserves to know you’re okay,” I said. “She’s grieving terribly.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “Brian,” I said, “your father …”

  “I heard.” His voice sounded strangled. “That’s my fault, too. Just leave me alone. Mind your own business, Uncle Brady. Go away. Both of you. Just forget about me.”

  “At least tell me what happened.”

  “Ask her,” said Brian. “Ask the traitor. Ask my former friend who said I could trust her. She’ll tell you all my secrets.”

  I glanced at Sandy, who was leaning back against the door. She was hugging herself. She looked at me with wide eyes and nodded once.

  I turned back to Brian. “At least call your mother.”

  He curled himself into a ball, as if he were trying to disappear, and said nothing.

  I bent over him and gripped his shoulder. “Brian, listen—”

  Sandy tugged at my jacket. “Leave him alone. Can’t you see he wants to be left alone?”

  I sighed and straightened up. “Okay.” I touched Brian’s cheek. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  He jerked away from my hand and hugged his knees.

  Sandy and I didn’t speak until we were back on the Mass Pike, heading outbound to Reddington.

  Then I said, “Talk to me, Sandy.”

  “I’ve been ready to explode,” she said softly. “It’s been so awful, having this secret, not being able to tell anybody. He made me promise. When you told me about his mother, it was bad enough. Then I heard about his father … .” She was silent for a minute. Then she said, “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “No,” I said. “I hadn’t figured it out but I should have. The day after the accident, when you and Mikki were tossing daisies into the river, you said they were for Jenny. Not Jenny and Brian. You didn’t mention Brian until I reminded you. Right then, it passed through my mind that you thought Brian was still alive. But I figured it was wishful thinking on your part. They hadn’t found his body, so there was still hope. So, no, I didn’t know.”

  “I guess I blew it, huh?”

  “What, bringing me in to see Brian?”

  “Yeah. I promised him I wouldn’t tell anybody.”

  “You did the right thing, Sandy,” I said. “There are times when breaking a promise is better than keeping i
t.”

  “You better not tell anybody,” she said. “You promised me.”

  “How can I not tell Brian’s mother that her boy is alive?”

  “He will himself,” she said. “When he’s ready. You heard him. He’s got his reasons.”

  “Do you know what his reasons are?”

  “No,” she said. “Anyway, it’s not up to me to talk about Brian’s reasons.”

  “What do they have to do with the murder of Chief Sprague and Brian’s father?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Honestly.”

  “Sandy—”

  “I can’t talk about it,” she said.

  We rode in silence for a while.

  “Sandy,” I said, “at least tell me what happened that night. Brian said you’d tell me that.”

  “He called me a traitor.”

  “You did the right thing, bringing me to him,” I said. “You had a hard choice, and you made the right one. Now you’ve got me to share your secret with.” “If I tell you what happened that night—?”

  “I’ll keep that a secret, too, if you want me to.”

  EIGHTEEN

  This is what happened on that fateful Thursday night, the night before Groundhog Day, as Sandy Driscoll told it to me:

  Sandy’s phone rang a little after nine o’clock. Her mother answered it, listened for a moment, then frowned. It was a hang-up.

  The next time it rang, Sandy got there first.

  “It’s Brian,” he said. His voice was soft. He sounded scared. “Please. Come and get me. Don’t tell anybody. Not even your mother. Just come. Hurry.”

  She told her mother she was going to a friend’s house to do some homework and needed to borrow the car. Her mother was watching television. She waved a hand without turning around and told her to drive carefully.

  She followed Brian’s directions to the abandoned factory building by the dam on the river. Brian was hiding in a doorway. When she stopped her car, he sprinted out and slipped in beside her. “Go,” he said.