Scott Free

by John Gilstrap

  As one, the room turned to gape at the television cameras, as if they’d somehow missed them before.

  “Dr. Sherry doesn’t like to be interrupted with flash photography, and we’ll ask you to honor her wishes along those lines,” Larry said. “I know many of you have questions regarding your personal circumstances, but I’m going to ask everyone to keep their questions to themselves until the very end of the presentation, at which point she’ll answer as many of them as she can in the remaining time available. At the end of the presentation, Dr. Sherry will be signing books in the back of the room. Stand up and wave, Jocelyn.”

  A freckled twenty-something stood amid a forest of hardcover books and gave a shy little wave.

  “That’s Jocelyn,” Larry explained. “She’s our bookseller today, and she’ll be happy to give you as many copies of Sherry’s books as you can afford. I know some of you brought books from home to be signed, but because of the size of the crowd, I’m afraid we’ll have to limit signatures to books that are purchased here today…”

  Brandon rolled his eyes as he listened. Did people really value Sherry’s handwriting so much that they would pay out real money for a copy of a book they already owned?

  “With those logistics out of the way, now it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Doctor Sherry Carrigan O’Toole!” He announced her name in a manner that reminded Brandon of boxing matches, the syllables overpronounced and building to a crescendo with, “O’Tooooole!”

  Only Brandon remained in his seat as the crowd leaped to a standing ovation. Larry stepped to the side and ushered Sherry on with a grand sweep of his arm. When she appeared from the wings, she glided across the stage, accepted a kiss on the cheek from Larry, then stood there, her hands at her sides, absorbing the love of the crowd.

  “Thank you,” Sherry said. “Thank you very much.” But the applause rolled on and on. “Please, be seated. Thank you so much.”

  Jesus, Brandon thought, she’s a rock star.

  The clapping and the whistles continued for the better part of a minute before it all finally died out and people settled back into their seats.

  “You’re very kind,” Sherry said, her voice amplified by a tiny microphone clipped to the collar of her suit. Her smile looked tired, Brandon noticed, but it was beautiful, nonetheless. More beautiful than the day they’d met. “It’s always wonderful to see smiling faces,” she said. “But on a day like today, after a week like this one, it’s particularly heartwarming to know that I have the love and support of so many wonderful people.”

  That triggered another standing O, which Sherry acknowledged with pained nods and blown kisses. When they were seated again, it was time for the show.

  “Life doesn’t always deal you the hand you want,” she said. “I know this through my practice, of course, but this week has given me a close-up taste of my own medicine….”

  Up there, on the stage, Sherry was an entirely different person than the one Brandon knew. Up there, she was polished and professional. He understood, finally, how people could assume that she had all the answers. How was it, he wondered, that someone fraught with so many insecurities and so much anger could come off in a crowd as something so entirely different?

  She was playing a role up there, just as assuredly as any actress in a play. On the stage, reading from the script that she had written herself, she was a sage giver of advice because that was what she had declared herself to be. Up there, she was cool and collected, every argument logically constructed, every controversial point delivered as the natural, inevitable conclusion to its antecedent.

  “Cue up your television cameras, gentlemen,” she said, twenty minutes into her talk. She’d already covered the way that men oppress women, touching on all the hot-button clichés of the male-female competition for space on the planet. “Make sure I’m in focus, because I’m coming to the part that you most like to misquote.

  “According to the male population of this country, our role as women is to sacrifice. We’re supposed to sacrifice our bodies to our husbands, our careers to our children and our equality to the world.”

  Some in the audience clapped, but others stirred uncomfortably.

  “They don’t just come out and say it, of course. It’s not in-your face quite like that, but it’s part of the common Zeitgeist. Watch television on Mother’s Day, and you’ll get a glimpse of just how expendable we women really are. ‘Good mothers’”—she said this with finger quotes in the air—“sacrifice themselves so that their families can thrive. I want to know why we can’t thrive right along with them. Think of the maternal archetype in the war-torn ruins who gives up her share of meager rations so that her children might have more.” She paused for a moment for the audience to see the image. “She essentially kills herself so that her kids can be left to fend for themselves. Why am I supposed to find this inspirational? Why can’t we both have half-rations, go to bed a little hungry and then wake up alive together?”

  The crowd chuckled.

  “When was the last time you saw a scene where Daddy is cowering in the basement starving himself? Oh, that’s right, he’s out on the front lines, because he’s strong. He’s smart. He’s the warrior. Have you ever heard such bullshit in all your lives?”

  The chuckles turned to laughter.

  “That’s the technical, psycho-medical term for it, too. Shitticus bullicus, in Latin. I see it every day, people. Every single day. Only here in America, it’s not about bread in wartime. It’s about work in prosperous times. Mommy guilt. That hole we burn through our guts every single day when we swing through day care for our kids. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  Oh, yeah, they certainly did.

  “Think about the abuse we have to endure from the old men on Capitol Hill and the windbags on AM radio. God forbid we remove unwanted pregnancies from our own wombs, but once we deliver the little darlings to the world, we’re supposed to abdicate everything smart or exciting or challenging to the warrior spouse. And we’re supposed to pretend that this makes sense.”

  Brandon noted how thoroughly she owned the crowd right now.

  Sherry raised her voice louder and louder, just to be heard. “Do you remember what the technical, psych-med term is?”

  The audience answered as one: “Bullshit.”

  “Ah, yes. Shitticus bullicus. Listen to me closely now, because I’m going to commit social heresy. Are you ready? Here it is: selflessness and self-actualization are mutually exclusive.” That line seemed to settle the audience down some. “What’s wrong? You seem shocked. There’s nothing new here, men have known it for years. Self-actualizing is about achieving goals, and I can think of precious few intelligent human beings whose lifetime goals extend no further than fruit juice and Band-Aids.

  “And before the hypersensitive among you start seizing on the floor, I am not bad-mouthing motherhood. Did you hear that? Motherhood is good. So is childhood. I’m just sick and tired of having to counsel brilliant, wealthy, successful women who continue to buy into the shitticus bullicus. Success is a cause for celebration; it should not require the use of antidepressants because darling little Charlie ate a nutritionally balanced meal in day care while his friends with stay-at-home moms got to rot their teeth on handmade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I mean, my God, can we possibly build a stronger emotional cage for ourselves?

  “Soccer games and school Halloween parties are delightful diversions, folks, but so is closing a multimillion-dollar business deal. You can have both.”

  Brandon watched the performance, his belly boiling. Yes, you could indeed have both, he thought, but how the hell would she know? It all sounded so terribly reasonable when he heard it coming from the stage, so carefully balanced for dramatic effect, but the fact of the matter was, Sherry was never interested in both; she was interested in Sherry. When a publisher dangled a pile of money where she could see it, her beloved husband and son transformed into mere roadblocks.


  Brandon stood and stepped out from behind his pillar, and just like that, Sherry broke character. Her recognition was instant, and her discomfort shined like a beacon from her face. The audience locked in on her line of sight and soon they were all staring at him. This was his chance. Finally, he had the opportunity to expose the real Sherry Carrigan O’Toole; not the one on the poster or the book jacket or the stage, but the vindictive bitch who not only wanted it all, but felt compelled to take it from him. He wanted to tell the entire room, the entire world, how her evil little prank had inflicted so much pain on so many people.

  The moment grew uncomfortable as Sherry’s eyes darted to the wings, bringing Larry just barely into view. The audience didn’t know what to make of the silence, but the murmurs grew quickly as they waited for someone to say something.

  And God, did he have something to say. Sherry valued her image and reputation above all other things in the world, and this was his one golden opportunity to hurt her more deeply than she ever dared imagine. But the words wouldn’t come. What was the point? This was her stadium, not his. Finally, he looked down to the lady sitting next to him, a Gen-Xer with lips pursed so tightly that he could barely see them. “Excuse me,” he said, and he made his way toward the exit.

  BRANDON HAD COME TO THINK of the seat at the end of the bar as his own. Back home, his regular watering hole was the Conservatory Bar in the lobby of the Reston Hyatt, where Luis Martinez, champion of all bartenders, never let him down. Here at the Whiteout Saloon, Joe had become his best friend, knowing when to make small talk, and knowing when to just keep the liquor coming.

  The place was crowded for eleven in the morning, a dozen people or so, mostly men or women who looked like men. Beer seemed to be the drink of choice, but Brandon was sticking with scotch for the time being. It got him where he wanted to be and kept him there longer.

  On the television, speed skaters tore across the ice like grey-hounds chasing a fox, their bodies low and sleek and looking positively ridiculous. For Brandon’s money, skating only made sense if you had a stick in your hand, chasing a puck. The thought of a pickup hockey game sat very nicely with him, as a matter of fact. It’d feel good to slam a few people.

  “Not giving up hope yet, are you, Mr. O’Toole?” Joe asked.

  Brandon didn’t realize he was so transparent. “I’m not giving up anything, Joe. I just had a bad morning.”

  Joe leaned in closer, his forearm resting on the bar. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s gonna end up being just fine.”

  Brandon felt himself moved by the tenderness of the old man’s delivery. He toasted him. “From your lips to God’s ear, buddy.”

  Something in Joe’s face changed as he watched the back of the room. Brandon caught it in the mirror behind the bar: Barry Whitestone stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, clearly looking for somebody.

  Brandon hissed, “Shit.” As he spun in his seat to face the newcomer, he caught a peripheral glimpse of Joe making himself scarce. Brandon just glared at the chief, waiting to catch his eye. He didn’t wave, he didn’t call out. It made no sense to beckon trouble when trouble was already hunting you down.

  Finally, their eyes met, and the rest of it was just a formality. Whitestone’s scowl never so much as twitched as he waded through the tables to join Brandon. “We need to talk,” he said when he arrived.

  “You here to convince me my boy is dead, Chief?” He said it a little too loudly, making Whitestone uncomfortable.

  “Why don’t we talk someplace a little more private?”

  Brandon twisted in his stool, surveying the room. He knew he’d had too many just from the way his head spun separately from his body. “For what you’ve got to say, this is as good a place as any. Probably a lot safer for you, too.”

  Whitestone didn’t rise to the threat. “I wish there was another way, Brandon, I really do. I wish we had more time, and I wish the weather was better, and I wish we had more manpower. But wishing doesn’t make anything so. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s a lot of words for a simple message. You’re turning your back on my son.”

  “I’m not turning my back. I’m facing realities.”

  Brandon scoffed. “I’ve seen the barricades going up on the corners, Chief. I know what your realities are. What’s one little plane crash when the president of the United States has autographs to sign?”

  “That’s not fair,” Whitestone said.

  Brandon turned his back on him. “You don’t want to get me started on fairness, Chief. Go on, you’ve done your job. Consider your news broken.”

  Whitestone didn’t know what to say. Brandon sensed him standing there for a good half minute. Finally, the chief asked, “You want me to tell your wife, or are you going to take care of that?”

  “Go on about your business, Chief,” Brandon said again. “I’ll take care of it all.” He watched in the mirror as Whitestone made his way back to the door.

  Joe gave Brandon ten minutes to compose himself before wandering back. “You’re not giving up,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “No.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not letting them do this.”

  Joe smiled. He reached across the bar and squeezed Brandon’s hand. “Give ’em hell, kid.”

  23

  BRANDON HEARD THE CAR slide to a halt outside the chalet, but opted against meeting them at the door. Sherry was on a tear, no doubt about that. He could hear her bitching all the way up the walk.

  “…could he do that to me? Why was he even there, Larry?” The door opened, and she stormed into the foyer. Brandon stood from his chair in front of the massive front window.

  “I let myself in,” he said.

  Sherry nearly jumped out of her skin. Then, instantly, her wits were about her again. “You bastard!” she growled.

  Larry moved past her like an overly protective house cat to confront the visitor. “How dare you break in here. Get out right now.” He started to reach for Brandon’s sleeve.

  “Be careful, Larry. Think orthopedic surgery.”

  Larry froze. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Grab my arm and find out.”

  Larry made a gallant effort at holding Brandon’s gaze, but it just wasn’t in him. “You have no right to be here.”

  Brandon felt himself blush. “I’ve got no fight with you, Larry,” he said. It was as close to an apology as he intended to get. “In fact, I never thanked you for all your help the other night when I was trying to get through to Her Highness here.” Turning his attention toward Sherry, he said, “I talked with Chief Whitestone a while ago. They’re abandoning their search for Scott.”

  Sherry brought her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh, my God. He’s dead?” She sat heavily on the step leading from the foyer to the living room. Larry sat next to her, his arm around her shoulder.

  Brandon held out his hand to her. “We need to talk,” he said.

  Sherry kept her hands at her mouth, her expression unchanged.

  “Let’s walk her into the living room,” Brandon said to Larry, who continued to pull her close to his side.

  “She needs a minute,” Larry said.

  “We all need a minute,” Brandon said dismissively. “Everybody but Scott, who doesn’t have a minute. Come on, Sherry, we need to talk.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Sherry whined through her fingers, her eyes focused someplace else. Then she looked at Brandon. “It’s not my fault.”

  “Nothing ever is,” Brandon said, and he gently but firmly grasped her arm. He was surprised to see that Larry was helping him.

  “Let’s go to the living room, Sherry,” Larry coaxed, and she rose to her feet.

  Her show of emotion caught Brandon off guard. It wasn’t like her to waste tears on so small an audience. Any minute now, he expected a Scarlett O’Hara swoon. When they had her seated on the sofa, Brandon shifted his eyes to Larry, who ins
tantly got the point.

  “I’ll make myself busy upstairs,” he said.

  Brandon thanked him with a nod, but Sherry reached out after him. “No, Larry, please stay with me.”

  “Not on your life. I don’t belong within twenty miles of this conversation.” He headed for the stairs.

  When they were alone, Sherry asked, “Did they find the bodies?”

  “He’s not dead.”

  The statement confused her. “But you just said—”

  “I said that they’re giving up the search. They’ve written him off, but I think he’s still alive. I’m sure of it, in fact. But if we let them presume otherwise, it becomes self-fulfilling.”

  “You’re not making sense. If you know something they don’t—”

  “It’s not like that,” Brandon said. “I’ve told them, but they don’t want to listen.” He paused. He knew he was talking in circles. “It’s a feeling, okay? If Scott were dead, I’d know it. It’s hard to explain. But I want you to help me change their minds.”

  She waited for him to elaborate.

  “I saw the crowd you drew today.”

  “You were a bastard to show up like that.”

  He let it go. “I saw all the press. You’re a damn celebrity, Sherry. The press will listen to you. You can make these bozos stay with the search.”

  “Because you have a feeling? I’ll look like an idiot.”

  “It’s only been five days,” Brandon argued. “He’s trained for winter survival. He can make it this long.”

  “But they’re the experts, Brandon. They know what—”