Monument Road

by Michael Wiley

‘I would rather plow into a viaduct.’

  When I came out of the appointment, thunderclouds hung heavy overhead. If I caught a bus soon enough, I could be locked inside in my room at the Cardinal Motel by the time that lightning cracked the sky and the first fat raindrops hit the ground. Instead, I boarded a bus to the Regency Mall and the AMC Cineplex.

  I got off as the clouds broke open and rain pounded the dusty pavement. I ran across the parking lot, passed the department stores and another parking lot, and stepped into the Cineplex, soaking wet, twenty minutes after Toy Story started. Water ran from my hair and dripped from my clothes, but I went to the concession and looked for the popcorn girl.

  A skinny boy with curly black hair and glasses worked alongside a heavier version of himself. No one else was there. The skinny boy asked what I wanted.

  ‘More than you can give me,’ I said.

  I went to the Toy Story theater. Seven kids sat in the second row, two of them in birthday hats. I went to an end seat in a middle row.

  I’d seen Toy Story when I was a kid myself. Now, Woody and Buzz Lightyear competed again for the love of the boy who owned them. Their fight got vicious – Buzz fell out of a window, and he and Woody tumbled from a car – though I remembered that, after all the battles and adventures, they would work together and love each other. The movie theater was cool and calm, and the sugar in the air smelled like a place far from my troubles, but I shivered in my wet clothes, and Dr Patel’s voice rang in my head, telling me, You should see your brother. When a neighbor kid started torturing Buzz and Woody, I’d had enough. I went out to the hall and back to the concession.

  The skinny boy eyed me as if he hoped I would go away. But I said to him, ‘A girl was working here yesterday. Cynthia. Is she here again?’

  He looked left and right, as if she might be hiding behind the counter. ‘Haven’t seen her.’

  ‘What days does she work?’

  He just frowned.

  I turned away again, and he called after me, ‘You want a Coke with that?’

  When I went back to my seat, Buzz Lightyear, realizing how rotten his life was, jumped from a banister and broke off an arm. Who could blame him? Then the neighbor kid tied him to a rocket.

  I went back out to the hall to catch my breath, glanced at the concession, and then returned to my seat to watch the happy ending.

  Yes, Buzz and Woody became friends. Yes, Woody saved Buzz’s life. Yes, they landed in the arms of the boy who loved them. Life might not work that way, but movies sometimes did, and that might get me through the afternoon.

  As the credits ran up the screen, the birthday party kids filed from the theater, and I followed them out to the hall. I headed for the exit, eyeing the wet pavement through the glass doors.

  Then a voice called to me from a corridor that led to other theaters. I turned and Cynthia smiled at me. She gave me the same fingertip wave she’d given me yesterday. ‘Hi,’ she said, and moved toward me.

  I wanted to say Hi back. I wanted to go to her. But my stomach clenched. I stood for a moment, staring at her. Then I fled outside into the evening.

  The bus tires hissed on the wet pavement as I rode back to the motel. The clouds were clearing, but I felt as if I was riding a nightmare bus that had left its route and plunged into holes that the city planners dug for people like me. I was falling toward places in my mind that I’d promised myself I would never revisit – toward the first night they put me into general population and three men came to my bunk, smelling like three men who come to a cell in the middle of the night. And then I was falling toward the infirmary, which smelled like an infirmary where you go after three men come to your cell in the middle of the night. And further falling – toward the solitary box that I entered a week after getting out of the infirmary.

  How does one claw one’s way up the sides of an oil-slick tunnel when one is falling, falling, falling?

  I dug my fingernails into the skin of my upper arms until blood rose in crescent moons. That was a start. I forced myself to remember how – after that first night in my bunk and then the infirmary afterward – I learned to fight as if my life depended on it, which is to say, fight as if I was willing to die, ready to kill or be killed before I let three men come to my bunk again. Then I blinded one of them in the left eye with a spoon – which put me into solitary for seven months – but when I got out, no one came to me in my bunk anymore and the man with the eye patch stayed clear in the exercise yard. One of the others became my friend. His name was Stuart and all he’d done was hold me down for the others, and if you can’t forgive a man who’s done no more than that, who are you going to forgive?

  Now, as the sun set outside my window at the Cardinal Motel, I lay naked in bed and watched the news.

  Mostly, the reporters told the same story they’d told throughout the day. But they did add that all eight bullets from Higby’s gun hit Josh Skooner – in the abdomen, the chest, and the head. A ballistics expert told an ABC reporter that, even at close range, Higby shot with exceptional accuracy.

  The reporter asked, ‘Does that suggest this was an execution?’

  The expert said, ‘It might indicate nothing more than Detective Higby’s high degree of professionalism.’

  They flashed a picture of Higby at a practice range, and I said, ‘Give the man a cigar.’

  CBS ran a short segment on Josh Skooner.

  A male reporter said, ‘Two stints in drug rehab. Kicked out of both for relapsing. Assault charges for a fight outside a bar.’

  A female reporter said, ‘His father says that while he was far from perfect, he was getting help. He was making an effort.’

  The male reporter said, ‘Police have confirmed that, just before the shooting, he was driving erratically – speeding, driving through stop signs, cutting across lawns.’

  The female reporter said, ‘The police have also said that the rumored hit-and-run never happened. Basically, this kid needed a traffic ticket.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ the male reporter said.

  I wondered again how much Judge Skooner could control what came out of the TV, the prosecutor’s office, and the other big mouths in the city. He must have intimidated or coaxed powerful people to tell the story his way.

  When the reporters flashed another picture of Higby on the screen, I said, ‘It sure looks bad for you.’

  Twenty minutes later, CNN brought the story to a national audience. ‘Josh Skooner’s father denies his son ever owned a gun,’ the newscaster said, and then, ‘Investigators canvassing the scene have failed to produce the gun that Officer Higby claims Josh Skooner shot at him.’

  The news reports sang to me like a lullaby. By midnight, I was breathing calmly again, and I smiled to think of the popcorn girl saying Hi.

  Then someone knocked on the door – three taps that sounded like the warden coming to tell me it was time.

  I put on pants and yanked up the zipper. The warden had skipped my turn, moving on to Sammy Nines and the others, but when the fingers knocked again – three more taps – I felt like they were poking my chest.

  I looked through the security peephole.

  My brother stood outside. The peephole lens made his face clownish.

  When I opened the door, Jared held one side of the doorframe. His eyes hung half closed. His lips looked like he’d heard a half-funny joke. ‘You’re up?’ he said. He sounded drunk.

  ‘Barely,’ I said.

  He looked past me to the flickering light of the TV. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I thought we could talk.’

  I blocked the door. ‘You know when I could’ve used someone to talk to? When I was locked up for eight years. You know where I would be happy to talk now? At your house, if you invited me to stay with you.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So are you going to let me in?’

  ‘It’s midnight, Jared.’

  ‘I know. I don’t sleep so well.’

  ‘I wasn�
��t thinking about your sleep.’

  ‘You don’t look like you sleep so well either.’

  ‘Go home, Jared.’

  ‘Five minutes. That’s all.’

  I moved aside.

  He came in, went to the TV and turned it off, walked to the bathroom and peered inside, then sat down on the bed.

  ‘This place isn’t so bad,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a shithole.’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah, it’s a shithole. How are you settling in? You adjusting?’

  ‘Did my reintegration counselor ask you to come talk to me?’

  He stared at me. ‘Don’t be that way.’

  ‘What do we have to talk about?’ I asked. ‘I mean, really.’

  ‘You know, we had good times together too.’

  ‘I don’t remember many,’ I said.

  He looked at me square. ‘Are you making friends now that you’re out?’

  ‘I haven’t been out long enough,’ I said.

  He stared some more. Then a grin broke across his lips. ‘You know what we need to do? We need to get you laid. I mean, you’re living on hooker alley, but the girls out here – they’re not what you want, right? We’ll go to a nice club, and I’ll introduce you to some girls and—’

  ‘Not interested,’ I said.

  ‘Not interested? You’ve been locked up with dudes for eight years, and you’re not interested? They turn you while you were inside?’

  ‘I already met someone,’ I said. ‘I don’t need—’

  His grin widened. ‘You met someone? Good man. You banging her?’

  ‘Jesus, Jared. It takes longer than that.’

  ‘Why wait? You know what I did when Trina and I split? The afternoon that the papers came through, I bought a ticket to Thailand. Two days later, I was there. The night I got to Bangkok, I went straight to a sex show. They had a girl shooting ping-pong balls out of—’

  ‘It’s time for you to leave,’ I said.

  ‘No, listen,’ he said. ‘There was no passion in it. It left me cold. But – and this is what I’m telling you – I bought a hooker anyway, because either you’re in the saddle or you’re out, right?’

  I went to the door and opened it. ‘Great to see you again,’ I said. ‘You can tell Doctor Patel I’m doing fine.’

  But Jared just sat there. ‘Now I’m tired of porn,’ he said. ‘Bored. And I hate the soft-focus shit.’ He stared hard at me. ‘You know what I mean?’

  ‘It’s time for you to go,’ I said.

  His grin had fallen, and I felt a sadness coming from him like a fever. ‘We did have good times too,’ he said. ‘A lot of good times.’

  ‘Sure we did,’ I said.

  He stared. I stood with the door open, the smells and sounds of the highway leaking into the room.

  He said, ‘Do you remember that night Dad got drunk and—’

  ‘I remember a lot of nights Dad got drunk.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘OK,’ and he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the door. ‘I just thought we could talk.’ I moved to let him pass. But he stopped in the door and forced the grin on to his face again. ‘I mean, we were kids, Franky. Just kids.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘we were kids,’ and I closed the door behind him.

  SIX

  Eight years ago, the news said the Shell station owner found the boys’ bodies when he arrived at work. Said one was sexually assaulted. Quoted a police detective who reported that the assailant bit them both and shot them, once each, in the forehead. Said they were Duane Bronson, age fifteen, and his little brother, Steven Bronson, age thirteen, out for a joyride. Single mother. Minor juvenile records. Said anyone who’d seen anything should call the Sheriff’s Office.

  I’d seen something. Christ, I’d given them a ride to the station.

  I called the number.

  Responsible one that I was. Answering the door when I didn’t know who was knocking. Never afraid of the worm that might crawl into my ear when I picked up the phone. Fool that I was.

  Officers would send a car to pick me up, the man said. No need to drive myself. A quick conversation, that was all. They appreciated my cooperation.

  Sometime during the second night, I didn’t became I did.

  Dream logic.

  The big, tall, white detective with black hair always knew it. The black detective with a moustache always knew. The woman cop who brought me coffee, though I didn’t drink coffee, always knew it too.

  I was the only one who doubted it.

  Like I didn’t get the joke.

  Say it, goddamn it, the moustache said.

  Say it, goddamn it, the black hair said.

  Please say it, the woman cop said.

  For thirty-eight hours I didn’t say it. And then I did. I said it.

  I knew it, the black hair said.

  So I caught my breath and backtracked. I didn’t do it.

  You did, said the black hair.

  I didn’t, I said.

  ‘Help us out,’ the black-haired man said when I first sat down in the interview room. His name – Detective Bill Higby. He said, ‘You were there. You had your dad’s rifle in the trunk. Help us understand what happened.’

  ‘I wasn’t there. I gave them a ride. I left.’

  ‘It was raining,’ he said. ‘It was dark. It was two in the morning.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘What happened next? Imagine what happened.’

  ‘Nothing to imagine. They got out of the car. I drove away.’

  ‘Imagine what happened to them after you left.’

  ‘Should I have a lawyer?’ I asked. Not always a fool.

  ‘Sure. We’ll get you one. But this first.’

  ‘I imagine … they went to the pay phone. Tried to call someone for a ride.’

  ‘But the pay phone was broken,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. What did they do next? What did you do?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. I was gone.’

  ‘Imagine what they did,’ he said.

  ‘They waited. What else was there to do?’

  ‘Where? Where at the station did they wait?’

  ‘Somewhere in the light?’ I said. ‘Maybe they sat by the door to the minimart? The overhang would keep them dry.’

  ‘A couple of kids who snuck out while their mom was sleeping?’ he asked. ‘And stole her car? They would sit in the open where everyone could see them?’

  ‘OK, so they would sit in the dark.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. Wherever it was dark. Behind the station.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘That’s very good. And what did they do while they sat there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Then I remembered the smell of wet cigarette smoke as I drove them to the gas station. ‘They would smoke. Talk and smoke and wait for morning.’

  ‘Right again.’ Broad smile under all that black hair. ‘We found the cigarette butts,’ he said. ‘You’re good. You could do my job for me. What next? What happened next?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Someone came?’

  ‘Or someone never left,’ he said.

  ‘I left,’ I said.

  ‘Of course you did. And tell me – imagine it – how did those boys die?’

  And hours later, after the pinnings to the wall, after the proddings and pokings and the dream logic, when they told me again to talk, I talked and I talked and I talked – crazy responsible fool that I was – and I said, ‘I did it.’

  Funny thing – my teachers always called me smart. ‘You’re smarter than that,’ they told me. And when they called Dad in for a conference, they said, ‘Your son is smart. But his thinking lacks structure.’

  Dad told them, ‘He’s school smart but world foolish. He’s got no common sense. I tell him all the time—’

  The teachers interrupted before h
e buried me too deep. ‘We would be happy with academic improvement. With more application—’

  ‘And a lot more common sense,’ he said – this man who drank himself out of every job he ever held and chased his wife out of his arms.

  ‘Do you have anything to add?’ the teachers asked me.

  I looked at Dad and said, ‘It takes one to know—’ until he raised his hand to hit me.

  ‘Enough of that,’ the teachers said.

  ‘He’s too smart for my liking,’ Dad would say.

  And that was that until the next time they called him in.

  They kept me in the county lockup for seven months while the court scheduled, delayed, and rescheduled. My public defender, Lance Stoddard, came to see me when he could and assured me he had all the evidence lined up so he could knock down the prosecution. I should relax and stop asking to meet so often, because our meetings took time away from his building my defense. I wanted to believe him. I needed to. But each time he came to see me, he seemed to know less about my case.

  So when they took me out of the county jail and into the courtroom, and Lance started his opening argument by sputtering and looking to the judge for help, I knew I was screwed. When the prosecution showed slides of my fingerprints on the car battery from Steven and Duane Bronson’s Cavalier, and Lance failed to tell the jurors how I tried to help the boys with their radiator, I thought again, I’m screwed. When the prosecution showed slides of the boys’ fingerprints from inside my car, and Lance argued that I should be praised for being a good Samaritan instead of accused of murder, I thought, I’m still probably screwed. When the prosecutor said that the boys each died from a single gunshot into the forehead, that the bullets were twenty-two caliber, that I had a .22 rifle in my car trunk, and that ballistics showed that my gun could have fired the bullets – and then Lance failed to argue that could have was insufficient in a murder trial – I thought, Yep, screwed. When the prosecution hung up two pairs of white Fruit of the Loom underwear, one of them threadbare and smeared with blood, and Lance failed to ask why the hell the other pair was even relevant, I thought, Oh, no. When the prosecution demonstrated that the blood on Duane Bronson’s T-shirt matched my own, and then Lance tangled himself up in an explanation that confused even me, I thought, Oh shit. But when the prosecution showed pictures of Steven’s and Duane’s bodies with the bite marks on them and then introduced an expert who said the marks matched my dental alignment – and Lance looked at me as if this was the first he’d heard about the bites – I knew I should start thumping my veins for the lethal injection.