The One That Got Away

by Joe Clifford

  “What can you tell me about Benny?”

  Dr. Lawson shook his head, pensive and heavy-hearted. “That boy didn’t have it easy. Although I suppose he’s not a boy anymore.”

  “Do you think he did it?” Alex was surprised how fast she jumped in, got right to what she wanted to know. She hadn’t explained why she needed to know any of this. She offered no cover story, no con about being a reporter. The doctor didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

  “Does it matter what I think?” His eyes crinkled like onionskin when he spoke. The doctor sipped his black coffee.

  “What was wrong with Benny? I mean then more than now.”

  “His technical diagnosis?”

  Alex nodded.

  “In layman’s terms, Benny has a form of degenerative retardation. Medically speaking it’s a type of aphasia.”

  “Aphasia?”

  “The symptoms are similar to a stroke victim.”

  “Benny had a stroke?”

  “No. The symptoms are similar because of a cerebral vascular injury or impairment. It’s hard to say when that damage occurred or how serious that original injury was, whether it was one incident, or a series of aberrations that grew worse over time. A bad fall can trigger it. Blow to the head. More than likely it started in utero or something went wrong during incubation. Benny is much older than his two brothers. He began life a normal boy, so the reaction was slow to evolve, or at least his handicap wasn’t as evident.”

  “How long were you the family doctor?”

  “Can I get you something to eat?” Dr. Lawson said, pulling himself up before she could answer.

  “I’m okay—”

  But the doctor was already rummaging cupboards. “Please. It gives me an excuse to cook. I don’t get much company, and I like to have prepared oats on hand.” Alex appreciated he didn’t say anything corny like she needed to keep up her strength, or hurtful like she looked too skinny. He pulled down a giant canister of stone oatmeal. It was brutal watching him crane for shelves and bend for pots. Alex would’ve done it for him but didn’t want to seem rude. When she got to be his age, she wouldn’t want someone implying she was helpless and always offering to do mundane chores for her. It was insulting. Then again, she was lousy with social graces.

  The doctor measured a couple cups, painfully slow. He ran the pot under the faucet with shaky, liver-spotted hands, before setting it on the burner and creaking back to the table. She waited for him to ask what they were talking about, as if his mind must be going too, but he picked up right where they’d left off.

  “They were a happy family. The Brudzienskis. In the beginning, anyway. I used to go out to the house frequently. Doctors don’t make house calls anymore, but that was a different era. Ron Earl and Dot—that was Benny’s parents—I think they were self-conscious about bringing Benny into town. Benny being the way he was, Reine being so small.”

  “I thought you said Benny was normal when he was younger?”

  “Maybe that’s not the right word. Normal. Who’s to say what is or isn’t normal? Just by looking at him, you could see something was wrong. Eyes too close together, forehead broader, expression duller. He was able to communicate. A few words here and there. Single syllables. He was slow but could draw pictures. Simple, but they conveyed meaning. He grew very fast, abnormally large.” The doctor laughed to himself. “That boy was otherworldly strong.”

  The pot started to boil, and Dr. Lawson headed back to the stovetop. He turned down the heat, letting the oats simmer, occasionally stirring with a wooden spoon while smiling in fond remembrance. “I was out the farm once. Ron Earl was changing a tire on a tractor, and the jack started to slip. Benny was there. Caught the front end of that machine, held it right up. Never seen nothing like it.”

  The doctor stared out the window, then switched off the burner and grabbed a bowl, ladling goopy, steaming oats. He brought the bowl along with honey, nuts and raisins in mason jars.

  “People always thought Benny was stupid,” Dr. Lawson said. “Benny wasn’t stupid. Oh, he had a condition, and it was tougher for him to process information. The pathways from his brain to his hands and mouth didn’t work as well as other folks. There was a short circuit in there somewhere, and his IQ was stunted. But I spent a lot of time with that boy, and he could understand you. He knew right from wrong.” The doctor paused to make sure she caught his meaning. “Benny has a kind, good-hearted soul. I misspoke earlier when I told you I couldn’t comment one way or the other. Whether he did it or not. I don’t know what happened up there at that motel, not the particulars at least. But I know Benny didn’t kill that girl. He was big, strong. But a gentle giant. Wouldn’t harm a woodland creature.”

  “Did you tell the cops that?”

  “Cops never asked me. Neither did the papers. Then again, there were other doctors besides me. You’re the first person to ask my opinion about any of this.”

  “What are his brothers like?”

  “Dan and Wren? I didn’t know them as well. Benny’s almost fifteen years older than Wren, and Dan’s a few years younger than that. As time went on, I saw less and less of Benny and the family. He needed specialized care. When he started to go downhill, he went downhill fast. I know Ron Earl was considering institutionalization. Of course then Dot got sick with the cancer. Not enough money to care for them both.”

  “How old was Benny when you stopped being his doctor?”

  “Let’s see.” The doctor counted and subtracted in his head. “I’ve been retired eleven years, and I hadn’t been his primary for a few years before that. Fifteen? Maybe longer?”

  “How much do you think he understood?”

  “They put his IQ comparable to an eight-year-old. I always thought it was higher than that. But I didn’t administer those tests. I know when I talked to him, I didn’t talk down to him like most folks, and he followed along just fine.”

  “What about now?”

  “After the accident, you mean? You’d have to talk to his current doctor.”

  “I don’t think that’s happening.”

  “No,” Lawson said, laughing. “Probably not.”

  Alex dug into her oatmeal. Even with the honey, the breakfast was bland, tasteless. Needed salt. She didn’t want to offend though. “What happened to Ron Earl?”

  “After his wife passed, Ron Earl didn’t last long. I don’t think he had the heart to go on without her.” The doctor gazed out the steamed-up window, condensation gathering, droplets rolling down the pane. “I’ll always have a soft spot for that family.”

  “Was Wren bitter about having to quit football?”

  “I couldn’t speak to that. But I’ll tell you this. That farm was in shambles when he took charge. Ron Earl was a good man, but he didn’t know how to run a farm, at least not the business end of things. He was always one bad crop from ruin. Not sure how good Wren was at football—from what I hear he could’ve gone pro—but he was a very good businessman. The Brudzienski farm is now one of the biggest in the state. The insurance money helped—Ron Earl had a sizeable policy—but Wren had a good head for farming. He hired the right people, contracted what he had to, kept in-house what was needed. Formed partnerships with the right vendors and banks. Did a helluva job.”

  Alex finished her oatmeal, scraping the walls clean. The doctor made to stand, but Alex gestured to stay seated, bringing the bowl to the sink and running water. She thanked the doctor for his time and for the meal.

  Dr. John Lawson insisted on walking her out. She thought he had something else to say, his face gathering urgency, but he only smiled and wished her luck.

  Wasn’t until they said their goodbyes and Lawson closed the door, after Alex had walked down the front steps and was halfway across the stone garden that she realized he never asked her name. A circumstance she might’ve found more peculiar if not for the car idling down the block. She couldn’t see who was behind the wheel but she knew they were there for her.r />
  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Alex slid in the driver’s seat, hands unsteady as she pretended not to be spooked by the car up the block with its eyes on her, doing her damnedest not to give into fears she was being hunted again. Who would tail her all the way out here? Maybe it was the cops, someone sent by Riley. But would Reine PD really allocate limited funds to tail her? For what? Even when they’d been together, Riley had never been the possessive type, and it had been a while since they’d been together. She was kicking stones but hadn’t uncovered enough to warrant attention. She’d made zero headway, either in exonerating Benny or proving he’d done it. No one knew where Kira’s body was, and seven years later there was little chance of it popping up now. That car sure looked like an undercover’s. Dark, boxy, meant to blend in. Cops usually did a better job when they wanted to remain inconspicuous. Whoever this was didn’t mind being seen. The car sat there, making no effort to hide.

  The singing phone jolted her out of her seat.

  “Jesus, Nick. What?”

  “You really know how to make a guy feel wanted, you know that?”

  “Sorry. Wasn’t expecting a call.” Alex kept watch in the rearview as she fired up the engine, battered Civic coughing to life.

  “Where are you?”

  “Visiting Benny Brudzienski’s old doctor.” Parked too far away, she couldn’t make out any impactful detail, not even a definite color for the vehicle—dark blue? brown?—the driver’s face a blur.

  “I thought you were going to get some rest?”

  “Yeah, I don’t do well with men telling me what to do.”

  “I was trying to help. Whatever. What did he say?”

  “Not much. Mostly he talked about what Benny was like as a boy. How he wasn’t always so screwed up. His condition is degenerative.”

  “Did he give you an actual diagnosis?”

  “Begins with an A.”

  Alex couldn’t think, preoccupied with the car down the block. It just sat there. Watching her. Which made her think of Denise. Anytime her mom smoked crack, she’d start rambling about being shadowed. Once she got on that ledge, nothing could talk her down, not logic, not reason, nothing. “They changed drivers and they changed cars,” Denise would say, crouched on the floor, peeping out the slats, “but they’re still following me.”

  “What are the symptoms?”

  “Loss of motor function, cognitive ability, communication. Same as a stroke. But Lawson made it sound like Benny still comprehends.” Alex hated giving into paranoia like this. Over the years, she’d met a lot of people like her mother, people who’d get jacked on coke and become convinced the authorities had sent in a task force, NSA spy planes, DEA agents. The truth was no one cared about people like her. What was that car doing there?

  “So it’s possible Benny is faking it?”

  “Lawson meant before the accident. Nick, I think someone is following me.”

  “What do you mean ‘following’ you?”

  “There’s a car outside the doctor’s house. Same car I saw the other day.”

  “I thought you saw Wren Brudzienski’s truck?”

  “I did. This is a different car.” They changed drivers and they changed cars but they’re still following me. “I’m sure I’ve seen it before. After my first trip to Galloway. Might’ve been outside your house this morning.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Nothing. Just sitting there. Idling down the block. Watching me.”

  “Shit. What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” Alex thought for a second, eyes never leaving the mirror. “Why are you calling?”

  “I wanted to see if you were up for lunch?”

  “Impromptu midday date? Don’t ever change, Nick. You’re adorable. I can’t. I’m still up in Schenectady.”

  “What are you doing up there?”

  “I just told you. Benny Brudzienski’s doctor. He lives in Schenectady now. I have to go.”

  “Wait. Hold on. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you on your own.”

  Through the rearview, the driver slowly pulled off the curb, K-turned and headed in the opposite direction. At a stop sign, the car hooked a right and was gone.

  “If you’re being followed—”

  “Never mind,” Alex said. “They’re gone.”

  “You should get back down to Reine. I’ll cut out early—”

  “I appreciate the concern. But I have some business to take care of up here.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like none of your business. Don’t worry about it. It’s personal. Christ.”

  “You don’t make it easy, Alex.”

  “To do what?”

  “Be your friend.”

  After Alex hung up on Nick, she rang Noah Lee but he didn’t pick up. She left a message telling him to look into the Brudzienski farm. Something wasn’t right. Call it a red flag. A cause for concern. Or flat-out common sense. A family on the brink of financial ruin, a business going under—lender’s ready to swoop in and foreclose—and magically everything is restored, flourishing, better than ever, the farm incorporated into one of the most lucrative in the state? And all it took was two people dying to make that happen. Alex wasn’t implying Wren was guilty of murder. Cancer grows from mutated cells, and unless Wren spiked his father’s drink with nightshade, heart attacks are hard to predict. But when you hear the words “large insurance policy” ears prick up. If nothing else, the timing was strange, the angle worth pursuing.

  Alex knew she could lose chunks of time, and a serious disconnect existed between her endgame and points of origins, intentions perverted on their path to execution. Pathways fractured, Point A didn’t always arrive at B. At least not in a straight line or cogent fashion.

  She’d wanted to talk to Benny’s doctor. If he’d been in Reine, she would’ve had no reason to drive up here. How was it her fault his practice had closed, or that the doctor had retired and moved back to her mother’s hometown? But she knew it didn’t matter where Dr. John Lawson lived. Alex would’ve made this trip eventually.

  She’d lied to Riley the other day. She hadn’t gone to Albany to arrange the funeral after Denise died. She’d gone up there to collect her mother’s ashes.

  Alex had been popping pills all morning, drinking hard. Looking back, she’d later wonder why they let her drive away from the funeral home, why no one stopped her, sat her down, called the authorities. She could barely stand and had no business being behind the wheel of a car. Maybe the director gave her the benefit of the doubt because she was grieving. Maybe they had another customer in the waiting room and had to keep the line moving.

  She knew Riley was around, and she wanted to get in touch. As soon as she got to Reine, she changed her mind. She couldn’t let him see her like this, didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his pity. Instead she drove around visiting old haunts. The crappy apartment. The Fireside. The pizza place where Parsons snatched her up. Like the world’s most depressing sightseeing tour, her dead mother in a cardboard box in the passenger seat beside her.

  Denise’s dying hit her hard. But not for the reasons most people thought. She didn’t hate her mother, she’d long ago accepted what their relationship was, and there had been some good times in between the letdowns and disappointments. Alex didn’t blame Denise. They still talked a couple times a year. She certainly didn’t wish her mother dead. When the news came over the phone, Alex felt so little she feared something was broken inside her, as if she were missing the mechanism that allowed her to process feeling like a normal human being. Alex had been at a party with friends, acquaintances from the bar. After the call ended, no one asked if she was all right. Nothing about the news had unnerved. Like an automatic notification that a prescription is ready for pick-up. The party carried on.

  But she knew it affected her, on some level, the loss of any chance at reconciliation. Because even if Alex managed to swa
llow her own bullshit about acceptance and forgiveness, she had to lament the loss. Not just for her mother, but for all of it, the missing years. Denise was the key to understanding parts of her life, the men, the abuse, the cutting and self-destruction. Someday Alex might seek out another therapist at the clinic, a Dr. Jane or a Margaret, an Abby, someone whose last name she wouldn’t remember week to week but who’d work for sliding scale, and they’d probably have questions, right? And it would’ve been nice for Denise to stick around long enough to help answer them. It’s call restitution. Comeuppance. Payback. Fucking karma. It was only fair. Alex was owed that much. Now Denise was gone. Of all the shitty things her mother had done, for as piss-poor a legacy as she’d left behind, checking out this early was the most inconsiderate.

  The decision to drive up to Schenectady that day wasn’t planned, a bad idea fueled by good whiskey. Or maybe the other way around. Searching for a poignant moment, some poetry, Alex had driven along the 146, searching for that dirt road her mother had pointed out once long ago, the winding path gouged in the hard clay and stone around the gnarled wolf tree, the one that led to a tiny house atop a hill, the shelter Alex had never seen, only heard horror stories about. Cycles of violence passed down, generation after generation.

  Denise had been drunk that afternoon. Her mother was always drunk. Like Alex was drunk now. She thought she’d found the turnoff, and pulled over, squinting through the thatch, searching for a home she could not find. As good a place as any for a funeral. Alex opened the box and cast her mother’s cremated ashes to the wind, waited for them to be carried away on its wings. But the winds abated, stopped sudden, and the ashes dropped like stone, deposited in weeds and mud.

  Alex unceremoniously tossed the empty box, a takeout container of mediocre Chinese, because, fuck it, Denise was what Denise was, and she might’ve been a mother but she’d never been a mom. Alex told herself that in some perverse way Denise would appreciate the sendoff, like pissing on Jim Morrison’s grave, a fitting end to a raunchy, unconventional life. Besides, Alex wasn’t rewriting narratives just because someone was dead. Death doesn’t change who they’d been when they were alive. Death doesn’t translate to some magic get-out-of-jail-free card.