by Tom Bierdz
Carrie was on the porch smoking when I arrived. “When are you going to give it up, Carrie?”
“You think the smoking will stunt my growth?’
I smirked. Carrie was just barely five feet tall standing on her tip-toes.
“I’m down to five a day,” she said, blowing out a stream of smoke.
“You had five at O’Reilly’s.”
“You mean I wanted five. You can’t smoke at O’Reilly’s. It’s getting to be where you can’t smoke anywhere in Washington.”
“You’re right. I guess I was honing in to your impulses.”
“Uh-uh, if you had we’d been doing more than karaoke.” She gave me that ‘gotcha’ look.
“That was a good time. We have to do it again.”
“Without the karaoke.” I meant I didn’t want to sing again, but after I said it I realized she could have taken it differently. I always looked forward to that little interaction with Carrie as it brightened my day and I experienced a loss on those days we didn’t have a chance to talk. It became part of my routine, one of those events that provided a structure in a chaotic world.
I opened up the office, beating Bobby here today, and checked my calendar. There were still too many gaps in my schedule. My DUI and reckless behavior was still keeping patients away. There had been no new patients since Megan. Even the doctors, who were a major referral source for me, hadn’t sent anyone to me lately. I had called a consult, Dr. Schullman, and casually questioned him, but was told he simply didn’t have any current patients needing psychotherapy. True? Maybe, but when the flow abruptly stopped, I had to wonder. Eventually, my practice should get back to normal. In the meantime, I may have to dip into savings to meet my overhead and Hanna’s alimony.
Bobby came in looking rough, hunched over with bloodshot eyes. His shirt was buttoned crooked and his tie askew. “You look like shit,” I said, starting to straighten his tie.
He slapped my hand away, worked on his tie.
“Your shirt is buttoned crooked.”
He rolled his eyes, loosened his tie and re-buttoned his shirt.
I poured both of us a cup of coffee, brought Bobby his. How many times I have felt like Bobby looked. A less loyal employee wouldn’t have bothered to come in. “I thought you could recover from anything at age twenty.”
“Give me a couple of hours. I ran into a couple of old buddies. We pissed away the night throwing down tequila shots.” He sipped his coffee. “I’m still planning on the game tonight.”
I had received tickets from Bruce for Bobby, Greg, and myself. “Good. How’s Hanna?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Hard to tell. For a while she seemed like her old self, perky, sort of excited, telling me what’s she’s been doing. EBay sales, shopping, that sort of thing. Then suddenly, she’s quiet. Somewhere far away. I’d have to engage her. She’d stay with me for a while then be a zombie again. She didn’t eat much, picked at her food.”
“Did she bring up Kevin?”
“No, and neither did I.”
“Did she ask about me?”
“No, only if I liked working for you. I said, hell no!”
I smiled, knew he was kidding. I couldn’t help thinking I was like an infatuated adolescent wondering if she asked about me. But I was also concerned about her professionally and as a responsible ex-husband. Her depression was serious and she could destroy herself suddenly as Kevin, or gradually slipping into reclusive behavior. And I still blamed myself.
Bobby must have been reading my body language when he said, “I’m confident she’ll eventually get it altogether. She’s a strong person.”
I wondered about that but agreed it was a good time to put closure on that discussion.
Mid-afternoon I received a call from Gregory. “I’m not going to make the game today.”
“Why is that?”
He took a couple of beats before answering, “I’m in detention.”
“At the group home?”
“No, the juvenile center.”
“What happened?”
“I started a fire at the group home...umm...I gotta go now.” He hung up.
I cringed, shook my head. I was disappointed in Gregory. It wasn’t always easy to get the baseball tickets and I thought we were making significant gains. Maybe, I had given myself too much credit. Problems that developed over years didn’t usually resolve overnight. Usually, it was two steps forward, one back. I called Carlos. “What happened with Gregory? He called me from the detention center.”
“He tried to burn the fucking place down. We give him a place to stay and that’s how he thanks us?”
I could hear his heavy breathing and felt his frustration. “Slow down, Carlos, and tell me specifically what happened.”
“He started a fire in the dumpster...”
“Outside...”
“Yeah, scorched the back wall. It’s black. Brought out the hook and ladder truck. Presents a bad image.”
“Other than that, the building is intact? No one is in danger?”
“Not this time! What if he sets fire to his room next, burns the place down? I’m responsible for Greg and seven other kids. I can’t let anything happen to them.”
“Of course, you can’t Carlos. I’ll look in on Greg tomorrow. Can he come back?”
“Something wrong with your ears, Doc? With his fire-setting, he’s too big a risk!”
I couldn’t convince Carlos of anything over the phone, and I needed to talk to Gregory and observe the damage. “Are you going to be around tomorrow? I’d like to stop in after I see Gregory.”
“You know I’m chained to this place. I’ll be here, but don’t think you’re going to sweet-talk me into anything.”
“See you tomorrow.” I hung up, checked my calendar. One good thing about sizable gaps in my schedule was that I could easily respond to emergencies and I didn’t have to move patients around.
It was a nice night for baseball with clear starlit skies. The temperature was only in the mid-fifties but fans expected it to be nippy this time of the year and dressed accordingly. No threat of rain, but with a retractable roof, games were never rained out at Safeco Field. Without a roof, with all the rain we got, the team would be forced to scramble to get in the required games, playing a series of double-headers.
Bruce was scheduled to pitch. We arrived early to our front row seats so we could talk with him.
There was something about being in the ballpark that made my heart flutter. So much of my young life had been devoted to baseball. Over the years I played many positions but gravitated to third base where I usually played. I was an exceptional fielder, gobbling up ground balls and whipping them across the field to first base with a strong arm. I could cover a wide area and at the instant the ball left the bat, dash to my right or my left to field it. I was near perfect, rarely making an error. But I couldn’t hit with the best of them. I had no problem hitting in the low three-hundreds in college but that didn’t translate into pro ball. I did have an opportunity to play minor league ball at the beginning A level, but I was realistic enough to know that I would have struggled in the system for years, never getting called to the majors. I chose to go to medical school instead. I don’t regret the decision, but whenever I step into a major league ballpark I still think about my dream and fantasize being out there by third base.
Bruce Dieter was six-foot-two and a muscular two-hundred-twenty pounds. With that frame and his thick black goatee, he threw a moving fastball still in the mid-nineties. I imagined he looked intimidating to the opposing batters. He was a welcome sight to me as he strolled over to us. I always hit Bruce pretty well during inter-squad games at the University of Washington, but I don’t think he went all out, reserving his strength for the games that counted. And he continued to develop as a pitcher in the minors before reaching the major leagues. At 35, in the latter stages of his career, he was still a premier pitcher. Now, I’d be lucky to foul off one of his pitches. I was proud of Bruce and glad for his suc
cess, but I envied him. How magical to be richly rewarded and respected for playing a game you love. I made a good living–at least I did until recently–but it paled in comparison to the millions professional athletes are paid.
We bumped fists and I re-introduced him to Bobby.
Shaking his hand, he said, “I met you at Grant’s house a couple of years ago. Hanna’s brother, right?”
Bobby nodded, tongue-tied. He wore this look of adoration that athletes and celebrities seem to command in our society.
“How is she doing?” he asked me.
“Not good. She’s still stuck. Can’t seem to free herself.”
“Did you know that Nancy went out to see her? About a month ago. Urged her to see a therapist. Did she?”
I was in med school with Nancy, Bruce’s wife, before we veered off into our specialties. She went into pediatrics. Extremely bright, she finished number one or two in her class, was appealing and sensitive. I knew she’d become an excellent doctor. “No, I’m afraid I spoiled it for Hanna. She won’t be seeing any therapist.”
“I tried to tell her, there were some good ones,” Bobby offered.
I knew what Bobby meant although it didn’t come out right.
“She still blames you?” Bruce asked. He stretched, moving his shoulders back and forth, rotated his arm.
“Afraid so.”
“Too bad. No one has that kind of power over another.”
“There are things I could have done differently.” I felt that lump in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want the conversation to move in that direction. I wanted to forget about Kevin and Hanna, escape and enjoy the ballgame. I could understand Hanna’s need for solitude where no well-intentioned friends probed into areas still painfully raw.
“Of course, there were. Who doesn’t look back with regret, wanting do-overs? But deep down inside, you have to know it wouldn’t have changed anything.”
Intellectually what he said made sense. I’ve said the same to patients, but I wasn’t totally convinced.
“Where’s the kid you were bringing?”
“He got into trouble. I’ll bring him another time.”
“Sure. Anytime. Look, I got to go warm up. Good to see you again, Bobby. And Grant, I’m there for you, too. If you need anything.”
“I know. Get out there and win one for us.”
The stadium was beginning to fill. Bobby and I got our food and beers and settled down to watch an exciting ballgame. Bruce pitched a good game, allowing seven hits and two runs in seven innings and leaving to a round of applause with a three to two lead. He wasn’t the pitcher of record as the Baltimore Orioles tied it in the eight before the Mariners won it in the ninth, four to three.
8
The juvie center was in the old, rundown, outdated and undersized, King County Youth Services Center which also housed the Juvenile Court, as well as juvenile division of the Prosecuting Attorney’s Office and the Department of Juvenile Administration. Due to its age and maintenance problems with the plumbing, electrical, and ventilation, movement was afoot to replace it soon. But even in the most modern facility built to be warm and hospitable, juvenile detention centers were depressing places; modified jails.
Greg was reading a magazine in the general area when I saw him first. He set the magazine down, looked at me sheepishly. “Sorry, Dr. Garrick, I was looking forward to the game. I read that the Mariners won and your friend pitched well.”
“I’m sorry, too, Greg,” I said, sitting on an adjacent chair. The large room was near empty. Another youth was pacing the floor with his head down. “This place is usually crowded. Where is everybody?”
“Cafeteria.”
I glanced at my watch. I hadn’t realized it was lunch time. “You’re not eating?”
“I did. A little. Then came up here.”
“Why the fire?”
He clenched his lips, rubbed his elbow. “I don’t know. It was an impulse. I was angry. I found this book of matches in the street, and...”
“Who were you angry at?”
“Justin ripped up my photography magazine and Mr. Gutierrez didn’t do anything about it.”
“So you were angry at your roommate and Mr. Gutierrez?” I figured Greg played a part in this, too, but I didn’t want to confront him now. Plus, his explanation for the fire-setting was too simple. It was more complicated than that. “I talked to your social worker...”
“Big Bertha?”
“Yeah. She hasn’t set a court date for you. Because I went to bat for you, she’s willing to give you another chance–if...” I caught the glitter in his eyes, the anticipation. They defied his outward aloofness. “...Mr. Gutierrez will take you back.”
“And if he don’t?”
“They could possibly find you another group home, some place that’s willing to take a fire-setter. More likely juvenile court sends you to a home for delinquents like the school for boys at Chehalis.”
His eyes became glassy. “I guess I really screwed up this time.”
“Can I count on you not to burn the place down if I vouch for you?”
“Promise.”
“Okay, but I’m going to tell him you will paint the wall you damaged.”
“What! Not the whole wall! Those skinny boards?”
“That’s the deal, yes or no?”
“I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“Shake on it,” I said, extending my hand. After he did, I told him I was going to see Mr. Gutierrez and I would get back to him. As I left, the juveniles stormed into the room. I liked to think there was good in every one of these kids, but looks and body language of some of them was scary. I imagined many of them would go on to live lives of crime on the fringes of society.
I went to the back of the building to see the fire damage before talking to Carlos, and was surprised to see him tossing a ball to two of the boys behind the building. He had removed his jacket and tie and had a glove on as he played catch. I didn’t know he engaged with the boys on this level and equated him to the player-manager in baseball.
“You need a glove, Doc,” he said, seeing me approach.
I smiled and intercepted the ball, designated for the boys, in the air and tossed it to them.
“That’s all for me,” Carlos said to the boys. He led me to the back wall where the paint had blistered, scorching the wall above the dumpster. It was worse than I imagined, covering an area about ten feet by six feet. Those were some pretty high flames. “That’s what your boy did.”
“My boy? Since when is he my boy?”
Carlos ignored my comment. “You can see the potential if the fire hadn’t been discovered till later.”
He was right. Had the fire been in the middle of the night it could have been deadly. “What was in the dumpster?”
“Cardboard, branches, cleaning chemicals...I don’t know. Whatever.”
“I’ll work with him,” I pleaded, looking Carlos in the eyes. “Give him another chance. I don’t want to see him go to a boy’s school.”
Carlos flung his arms in the air. “I’m responsible for all the boys. Not just Gregory. If I look up the State regs I suspect they also advise against fire-setters. The home office expects me to purge him.”
“Have you reported it yet?”
“Not yet.”
“What if Greg paints the back wall?”
“The whole wall?”
“Yeah, at our expense. You don’t report it and no one can tell there was ever a fire here.”
Squinting and running his hand through his hair, Carlos said, “It’s two stories. We don’t know if Greg’s capable of painting. He’s going to put up scaffolding and paint the top floor? I can’t allow that. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll get some professional painters to paint the top floor.”
“That’s not cheap, doc. Why would you do all that?”
Despite his need to play by the rules, Carlos had a soft spot and I felt he measured his success on how well his kids di
d. I was banking on his wanting Gregory to succeed. “To save a kid I guess.”
Carlos jammed his hands into his pockets, tapped his foot on the blacktop, mulling it over. “If you’re willing to go that far for this kid, I’ll give him one more chance. Another fire and he is automatically out. Understand? Also, you’ll need to get on the painting right away before my home office hears about the fire.”
I thanked Carlos, called Bertha, and brought Gregory back to the group home. I had gone way beyond my professional responsibility and took a calculated risk. I gambled that Greg would recognize what I had done for him and not do anything to put himself or others in danger. I saw something in Gregory, some potential. But I also knew that I was compensating for whatever it was, that I had neglected to do for Kevin.
Megan called late while I was still awake, but after I had gone to bed. She had my number and didn’t need to go through the answering service. “Grant, I think Sasha overdosed. She called me, talked about killing herself.” Panicky, her words ran into each other. “I drove out here. I can’t wake her. There’s an empty vial of pills on her bed stand.”
