COMPARABLE TO THE VASTNESS of the starry sky of Anza-Borrego are the seemingly endless northern plains of South Dakota. Fish and I traveled to the Badlands state to visit another individual who’d become a close friend of Chris’s during his travels, Wayne Westerberg, in Carthage. It was clear to me why Chris had felt comfortable with the measured pace and blue-collar virtues of the small farming community, which covered an area of only one and a half square miles. It boasted one grocery store, one bank, and a solitary gas station. The closest international airport was almost two hundred miles away.
From the letters that Chris had written to Wayne, it was obvious that he had forged a strong bond with him, as if Wayne had been somewhat of a young father figure. In one letter, Chris encouraged Wayne to read War and Peace.
I meant it when I said you had one of the highest characters of any man I’d met. That is a very powerful and highly symbolic book. It has things in it that I think you will understand. Things that escape most people.
In his last postcard to Wayne, he wrote:
If this adventure proves fatal and you don’t ever hear from me again I want you to know you’re a great man.
Clearly my brother was drawn to Wayne, much like others had reportedly been drawn to my brother. I was eager to meet him and understand the man’s appeal for myself.
As Fish and I drove our rental car along barren highways through continuous crops of corn, wheat, hay, and sunflowers, the drive reminded me of the cross-country trips my parents took us on, Airstream trailer in tow. Once when we were driving through the Midwest, we watched anxiously as an ominous dark cloud made its way across the plains. As it approached, we realized it was not the storm we had expected to drive through. Instead of heavy raindrops, the windshield wipers sloshed around a paste of yellow-green mush. Even with the wipers going at top speed, it was nearly impossible to see through the glass. I marveled at the ghastly display as the swarm of insects perished explosively, smacking against the surface with a thunk like hailstones. Dad said they were locusts, just like the eighth plague of Egypt.
Fish and I arrived in Carthage in the afternoon and met up with Wayne, who took us to see the grain elevator and other places where Chris had spent time. Wayne drove fast—with one beer in his lap and one in the console. I looked over at Fish, but he seemed unconcerned, so I double-checked my seat belt and tried not to appear terrified. Later we all met up with Wayne’s girlfriend, Gail, and a group of Chris’s friends and went to the places Chris had liked to hang out after work—the Cabaret bar, the bowling alley. I shared childhood stories about Chris’s intense bowling antics, and his friends all laughed knowingly, remembering the friend they had known. The group was kind and welcoming to me and Fish, and I found them to be incredibly genuine.
Wayne drank heavily all night, and at some point switched from beer to whiskey, so Fish took the wheel when it was time to head back to town. We’d been invited to spend the night at Gail’s house, and she led me and Fish upstairs to our room. As she opened the door, we saw that her teenage son was already fast asleep in the bed.
“Oh no. I feel terrible taking his bed from him,” I said.
“No, it’s fine,” Gail said as she roused him. “Hey, get up! We’ve got guests sleeping in here tonight.”
Her son awoke surprised and a bit annoyed, but he muttered a kind “Hello” as he stumbled out of the room, half-conscious and half-naked, to find an available couch space downstairs.
“Okay, see you guys in the morning,” Gail said melodically as she closed the door.
I stood there looking at the door. “Do you think she’s bringing in new sheets?” I asked Fish.
“What? Of course not.” He laughed as he put his bag down and rearranged the pillows.
“But don’t you think that’s kind of gross? I mean, geez. He was in his underwear! And we don’t know what’s happened in that bed!”
“You know what, Carine? Sometimes you’re just like your mother—everything has to be so prim and proper,” Fish snapped. “Why can’t you just be grateful to the kid for giving up his bed for you?”
I was taken aback by Fish’s abrasive response. It pissed me off when anyone drew similarities between my mother and me beyond our big brown eyes, and he knew it. But before I could object, we heard a full-blown fight outside the room. I heard Gail hurrying down the hall and screaming. Fish looked away from me, his glare turning to concern and alarm. He rushed over to open the door, and I saw Wayne attacking Gail, battering her as he pinned her up against the wall. In a flash, Fish was out the door and, without the slightest hesitation, had pulled Wayne off her. He picked Wayne up by one shoulder and his belt, carried him down the flight of stairs, and literally through Gail’s storm door. I stood at the top of the staircase, frozen. I could see Fish had pinned Wayne down on top of a patch of grass and was yelling in his face “You do not hit a woman!” over and over again.
I was horrified, and devastated by the thought of Chris escaping our home only to see this. I began to cry hysterically.
Fish released Wayne and stood over him for a moment. Wayne made no attempt to get up. Fish turned quickly, walked back through the doorway, took a stash of cash from his wallet, and handed it to Gail. Gail stood with her eyes wide and her hands clasped at her chest.
“I’m sorry about your door,” Fish said sternly. “I’m taking Carine out of here.” He continued back up the stairs without pause.
Fish shot me a look that said, Everything will be okay. You can stop crying, and I did. We both had too much baggage tied up in what we’d just seen, and it was time to go.
I hadn’t even processed everything before Fish was in and out of the bedroom with our bags. I numbly followed him to the car, not saying a thing to Gail or her son. Although Fish had not struck him, Wayne appeared lifeless as he lay drunk in the front yard.
I had no idea where we would go. Fish’s only concern was to go away.
Rural South Dakota is pitch-black at night if there are no lights from the cosmos to help guide you. We drove around aimlessly, as if the car and roadways were tightly wrapped inside a swath of thick black velvet. With no hotels nearby and nowhere to stay, we pulled over to the edge of a cornfield to sleep in the car until the sun came up and we could find our way back to the airport and to Virginia.
We didn’t talk about the scene we’d just left. Tears streamed slowly down my face and I remained silent. As I laid my head on Fish’s shoulder, I attempted a fitful sleep. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I’d hoped to come to Carthage to feel closer to Chris, to spend time with those he’d grown close to in the years we were apart. Instead, I only felt confused.
All I could think was Did Chris ever see Wayne do that? And if so, why in the world did my brother stay in Carthage? No one who’d witnessed Wayne’s drinking throughout the evening had seemed concerned. It seemed to be his typical behavior. Did those drunken nights always end in violence?
Had Chris ever had to pull Wayne off Gail as Fish did? Would he have done what I had tried to do with Patrick’s father—to make him see his errors and repent? Had he ever encouraged Gail to leave? Chris had been on a pursuit of lightness and peace. I couldn’t understand why he would have felt so connected to Wayne.
Perhaps, I thought as I finally drifted off, it was the same thing that kept me connected to my parents.
CHAPTER 11
AFTER OUR RETURN from South Dakota, I relied on Fish more than I liked to admit. Despite the emotional roller coaster I was on, I managed to remain comparatively grounded, and I owed much of that to his love and support. Even when we argued, he was even tempered and gentle hearted. We had a successful business and a beautiful new house; we’d acquired a girlfriend for Max—another Rottweiler named Shelby—and with that, we’d established our little family at home to add to the family we’d created at work. We spent time with our employees socially, and many of our customers were also our friends. We traveled to visit with my siblings, and when we saw my parents, Fish was a
welcome buffer, always keeping the mood light.
While I still struggled to imagine a world without Chris, I wanted for nothing. I saw my entire future before me, and it involved a long and happy life with Fish. Our days were routine at times, and I would recall my brother’s cautionary advice that if you plan everything out completely from beginning to end, you destroy your chance for adventure. But Chris and I were as different as we were similar, and the fluency of the monotony felt comfortable to me.
Sometimes, though, even if you don’t seek change, it finds you.
Throughout the next several years, I started to notice changes in Fish. He became arrogant in ways he’d never been before, and I knew something wasn’t right. We had built up our business with a solid staff, and as we continued to grow and expand, I felt strain from the employees. I heard sideways comments that I should be around more.
I frequently found small pieces of foil in Fish’s pockets when I did his laundry. When I asked him why, he said he’d been “experimenting with a new way to test electrical connections.” His answer didn’t make sense to me, but I didn’t question it. At work, I noticed unsettling discrepancies in our accounting. I began to feel uncomfortable with some of his new friends, the ones who hung around the shop at night. I dealt with dissatisfied customers for the first time.
Whenever I questioned Fish about these things, he had a reasonable explanation for himself or an accusation toward one of the employees. One employee in particular—Lee—was a problem, according to Fish. When it came time to fire Lee, Fish left all the talking to me, though all three of us sat down together. Lee gave me a piercing look—not an angry one, but one that seemed to say, You’ve got it all wrong, honey. It was unsettling. After Lee walked out, I turned to Fish.
“You were so adamant about firing him,” I said. “Why did you just sit there? You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even look up.”
Fish shrugged. “It was just hard to look at him after what he did,” he said, and I chose to believe him.
Even once Lee was gone, the imbalance in the books continued, so I questioned our receptionist, Cindy. Cindy had worked for us for two years. She was hardworking, pretty and sweet, thorough and trustworthy. I put her on task to ensure that every part that was delivered was matched up to a customer invoice.
Then receipts started to disappear.
One day while hovering over Cindy’s desk, I tracked her organization to see if I could solve the puzzle.
“Somehow we’re losing receipts between your files and mine,” I said. “Show me how you track what still needs to be billed out.”
“After every part comes in, I assign it to that customer’s invoice, just like you instructed me to,” she replied, “and then I label it accordingly and put it in the relevant folders on your desk, exactly like you asked me to.”
“Well, how in the world do I keep getting bills from our suppliers for parts we’ve never charged out?” I interrogated. “Here are the carbon copies of what the suppliers sent me, and your signature is on them as the person who received the parts. I just don’t understand how these are falling between the cracks, and it’s costing us a fortune!”
Cindy was noticeably flustered as she looked up at me with red eyes. She was a wonderful employee, and I wasn’t trying to accuse her, so I softened my tone. “I know it gets busy up here sometimes, so just please try to keep better tabs on the receipts.”
“Are you going to start spending more time up here during the day?” she asked.
“Well, I was going to,” I answered, “but Fish prefers that I join him at night. I like having the quiet in the office while he works back in the shop. It’s more productive that way. He assured me he’s not overloading you up here.”
Cindy rolled her eyes in a rare display of dissent.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just . . . never mind.”
“No, tell me.”
She was hesitant but continued. “Fish takes those parts from my desk, and the receipts, before I can enter them into the computer,” she said softly.
“But don’t you ask him which customer they’re for?” I inquired. “I showed him what’s been missing each month, and he said he doesn’t understand how they aren’t getting billed out.”
Cindy stood up and looked at me for a few more seconds. Then she sighed and walked out to the shop. I hoped she wasn’t quitting. I felt extremely uneasy, like something awful was about to happen. My instincts were validated when she walked back in a few minutes later, following our lead technician, Greg, who was also Cindy’s husband.
Greg was an excellent technician. He wore long black braids, was a rider of Harley Davidsons, and hosted an elaborate annual Halloween party laden with terrifying, fantastic theatrical props. He was small in stature but big in heart, well-read, and enjoyed listening to an eclectic mix of disturbing rock and classical music while he diagnosed automotive ailments. He’d worked for us for several years, and I had grown to respect and trust him.
“Listen, we need to talk,” he said. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re being really naïve. Your husband has a real problem. He’s been using crystal meth up here at the shop.”
The words coming out of Greg’s mouth rattled around in my head, my brain void of comprehension. “What?” was the only response I could muster.
Greg explained that he’d witnessed the drug use on several occasions and had confronted Fish about it but to no avail. Cindy tearfully explained how she often had to talk to him about customers’ cars through the bathroom door. They explained how inventory was being sold for cash or traded for drugs, as was most of the after-hours work. Fish’s mood swings were making all the employees nervous, as were his implications that they would all lose their jobs if I became aware of the situation.
I stood there, taking it all in. Greg was right; I had been incredibly naïve. I had never used any drugs, never smoked a cigarette, never even had a cup of coffee. I was completely ignorant about the signs of addiction all around me—but I shouldn’t have been. The pieces of the puzzle all slid into place. It all made perfect sense in its absurdity. The only thing that made no sense was how Fish could take such a perfect life, such an amazing opportunity, and risk it like this.
I waited until Greg, Cindy, and the rest of the staff had left for the day before confronting Fish. Although Fish had claimed that Lee’s job performance was the reason for his firing, I was now worried that he had been a victim of Fish’s deceptions, and I did not want that to happen again. I walked into the shop where Fish was working, or where I’d thought he was working; he was slumped over, apparently sleeping, in a red barber’s chair in front of the intricate parts of a Ford AOD transmission sprawled across a workbench. A day earlier I would have marveled at how he could sleep in such an uncomfortable position, with his large, muscled body all slumped over itself. He must be so tired from working so hard, I would have thought.
“Fish!” I said loudly and shook him.
He rubbed his eyes. “Hey, hon,” he said, smiling warmly.
“Hey, we really need to talk. I want you to tell me what’s been happening with these receipts. I want you to tell me why we’re not getting paid for these parts. We’re not getting paid in the books for these after-hours jobs either, so what are they being paid for with?”
“What’s going on, Carine?” he asked, confused and still waking up. “We’ve talked about this—I don’t know what the problem is with the receipts.”
“Listen to me, Fish. I know you are lying. Please give me the respect I deserve and tell me the truth.”
“What exactly are you accusing me of?” He was wide awake now. “Did someone say something to you?”
“It doesn’t matter how I know. I just know. You’re using drugs. You need help.”
Fish was caught, and he knew it—there was no sense trying to deny it. What he did deny was that it was a problem. He was only doing a small amount, only occasionally, he explained. “Carine,
come on, hon, it’s me. I’m fine. Look at me.” And he did look fine—muscular, tanned, healthy. Not what a meth head was supposed to look like. “Look, we work so hard, and I need a little pick-me-up to get through sometimes. But it’s not a problem—I can stop anytime I want.”
“Great,” I said. “Then stop.” I couldn’t enable him to ruin himself completely, destroying all of us in the process. I had a responsibility to our customers and staff, and to all that Fish and I had worked so hard for.
I had faith that Fish would stop using, but I wasn’t going to depend on seeing change in someone—I had learned that lesson already. There was no time to feel ashamed or sorry for myself. At the shop, I went into survival mode. I became very methodical while making a point to stay completely fair. I changed the computer passwords on the accounting and check-writing programs at the shop to protect the company. I went to the bank and entered instructions that neither Fish nor I could withdraw any cash from the business or personal accounts without both of our signatures. I kept the books and financial reports completely transparent.
I became heavily involved with the operations of the shop during regular business hours, working alongside the staff, watching Fish closely—who still assured us he could stop cold turkey, no problem, even though we were all “clearly overreacting.”
Fish now served in a diagnosis and service management role only. He seemed normal and was still functional in the shop, but we could not have a drug abuser repairing brakes or installing wheels. I monitored when Fish was there and who was with him. If he worked late, so did I. I banned certain persons from the property.
At home, I moved into one of the guest rooms. Fish agreed to counseling and we began to see Reverend Keever once a week, the same man who’d guided us in exchanging wedding vows on that hopeful summer day. After months of listening to Fish lie and deny throughout our sessions, I worried that he had no intention of quitting his drug abuse. Though he claimed he already had, the signs were still there. The employees confirmed my fears, since they had become watchdogs themselves.
The Wild Truth Page 16
