One of Us (24 page)

“There are resources. Programs, people who can help you.”

“Don’t give me any of that liberal helping-hands bullshit,” he says loudly.

I expect an echo but the chamber we’re in is too compact and the walls too dense for sound to travel.

“I want to work. You understand me? I want to work. My wife wants to work. We’re not freeloaders. We don’t want the government paying for us.”

“I’m not talking about welfare.”

“We don’t want anyone paying for us.”

My mind races trying to come up with anything I can say that can help this man solve his problems.

“When I was a kid I didn’t want to go to Heaven,” he tells me. “You know why? Because it sounded so frickin’ boring. No one had a frickin’ job. What do angels do all day?”

“You’d rather toil in hell than lounge in Heaven. Interesting.”

“Don’t call me interesting. I’m not a chapter in one of your books.”

“You’ve read my books?”

“I can read.”

“I didn’t ask if you could read. I asked if you’ve read my books.”

His eyes flash angrily.

“Turn your lamp off,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Turn your goddamned lamp off,” he repeats through gritted teeth.

Even though Rick is armed with a gun and explosives, there’s still a part of me that would rather risk more of his wrath than do what he’s asking of me, but I know I won’t be able to reason with him if he stays mad.

I turn off my light and my sight is gone. I close my eyes; I open them. There’s no difference in what I’m seeing. I hold my hand up two inches in front of my face. Nothing.

Next to me I feel the tension flow out of Rick’s body. I realize that he likes the dark. More than that, he likes this mine.

I think of all the times I’ve heard Tommy talk about the mines he’s worked in as if he were talking about women. Some were unpredictable, some complained more than others, some were silent and serene, some were generous, some were tough and hard to please, but the miners entrusted their lives to all of them without question. Each lady enfolded them in her depths and looked after them while they took the riches from inside her.

Rick’s overwhelmed by his obligations and responsibilities. He can’t keep his head above water. He’s a drowning man.

“You want to kill yourself in the mine because you’re not afraid of dying here. You like it here. But you’re afraid of something. You’re afraid of drowning.”

“How’d you know that?” his disembodied voice asks.

“Everyone has a particular means of death that terrifies them more than any other and they fall into the four categories of the elements. There’s sky, fear of dying in a plane crash or falling from a great height;
water, fear of drowning; fire, fear of burning in a fire or explosion; and earth, fear of being buried alive.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Being buried alive.”

“Then you’re in the wrong place. I could tell you’re petrified. Your voice is shaking.”

I have nothing to add on this subject. I clench and unclench the hands I can’t see.

“If you’re so afraid, why are you doing this? Don’t say to help me. You don’t know me.”

I try to recall all the reasons I gave myself before I made the decision to come down here, but only one seems to make any sense to me now.

“I wanted to be useful.”

He says nothing to this and I have nothing to say to him. This isn’t a good sign in a psychotherapy session.

“You’re trying to solve a problem for your family but I don’t think you want to die,” I try. “People who succeed at killing themselves do so because they want to die.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re not going to do it.”

“Is that a dare?”

Bad idea. I search for another avenue of self-discovery.

I know how much he cares about Lost Creek. I’ve seen the scale model he made of the town on display at the NONS museum in Nora Daley’s attic. The details are painstaking. It required not only time and craftsmanship but love.

“You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe you don’t have a reason to live. I mean, look at this shithole you live in.”

“Reverse psychology? That’s the best you got? You suck at this.”

Third time’s a charm.

“What about your children?”

“Now you’re gonna try and convince me I should keep living for my kids? Man, you really suck at this.”

“Your kids need you.”

“Don’t talk about my kids. You got kids?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I begin to list the reasons: “Selfishness, fear, a dislike of clutter.”

“Your problem is you think too much,” he tells me.

“We’re not talking about my problems.”

“I’d rather talk about your problems.”

“My biggest problem is I’m sitting in a coal mine.”

“Don’t you have a messed-up mom? The one who went to prison for killing her baby?”

I nod, then remember he can’t see me.

“Yes.”

“Is that why you became a shrink?”

“It might have had something to do with it.”

“She’s one strong lady from what I’ve heard.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mother described this way.

“I mean, her illness,” he explains. “She had spells, right? But she always came back to you and kept being your mom. That must’ve been hard for her.”

I envision my mother clawing her way through the crushing terrain of her illness to get back to me, her blue sky.

She wanted me to be an astronaut. She made me a tablecloth covered with celestial bodies and all of them were happy.

“Rick, I’d like to hire you. I’ll pay you five thousand dollars if you get me the hell out of here.”

The silence is maddening. It’s louder than the streets of Philly at rush hour.

“You expect me to take your money?”

“It’s not charity. It’s not even a loan. I can’t leave without you. I’m paying you to do a job.”

More silence, then I hear a sigh and the lamp on his helmet snaps back on, spraying a glorious shower of white light across his filthy features.

“I can’t take your five grand,” he says, “but I’ll do it for two.”

twenty-three

I
LEFT THE SCENE AT
the mine in the capable hands of Rafe and left Rick Kelly in the capable hands of Dr. Versey, who agreed he should be put under a seventy-two-hour psychological hold.

Rafe didn’t know how things were going to shake out in regards to criminal charges. No one was ultimately hurt, but threatening to blow up a coal mine, even an empty one, is no small matter. Just to be on the safe side I put Brenna in touch with a friend of mine who’s one of the best defense attorneys in the state and adept at vindicating people who have committed their offenses under extreme emotional duress.

Back at Tommy’s I immediately stripped and took a long, hot shower with the rock-hard lye soap he used to scrub with after every shift. I held out my hand to him and he placed the grainy cake, the color of old snuff, in my palm with all the sober majesty of an aged king ceding his scepter.

In return I gave him the garbage bag containing my clothes.

Sporadic bursts of Kellys showed up throughout the rest of the day, all of them bearing some type of casserole or baked good as if the ordeal of helping their emotionally embattled kinsman return to his senses must have given me an insatiable appetite. Tommy and I made small talk with them about everything under the sun except for the topic of Rick; no one came close to asking me to disclose anything he might have said to me.

Mom was feeling better and played the charming hostess. She chatted and made coffee and never showed a sign of her illness, yet everyone present knew her history and could probably sense my nervousness at having her on display. A condition they once feared or pitied or maybe discounted or even ridiculed had shown up in their own lives and become suddenly real to them. They looked upon Tommy and me with a new awareness and regard. Rick’s alarming actions were brought on by desperation and will hopefully never be repeated; his situation is a far cry from my mother’s, yet once a family witnesses a loved one’s disintegration they can never escape the constant dread that it might happen again and that the next time it will be worse.

I did my best to appear fine on the outside, but it took most of the day before I stopped shaking inside.

Rafe told me to stop by his house when he got off work so we could talk. As I stand outside his front door, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up to me. I’d like nothing more than to stretch out on his couch and fall asleep while he sits in a big easy chair drinking a beer watching an action movie or a favorite sitcom. I assume this is how an evening at home with Rafe would sound and look. After all these years of knowing him, I’ve never been across his threshold.

As a child, I imagined Rafe’s home to be similar to Superman’s fortress of solitude. High on a hilltop he would retire after a day of writing speeding tickets and mopping up the countryside to contemplate the woes of humanity and the peril of driving seventy down a one-lane country road.

As an adult, I was surprised to discover he lived in a small unremarkable house badly in need of a fresh coat of paint and a new roof. Tommy and I were driving by once while he was in the front yard, shirtless, on a tractor mower. We stopped to talk to him. He asked us if we wanted beers then hustled off to put on a shirt, but not before I saw the four puckered gunshot wounds in his chest he had picked up in Vietnam.

At the time he was between wives. He’s had two more since then, but the house is the same. Either he moves wives in and out or he always keeps this house on the side just in case.

He greets me at the front door in jeans and a Penguins sweatshirt. It strikes me that my entire life I’ve only seen him in a police uniform or most recently the visual cacophony I’ve come to refer to in my mind as his detective clothes.

It’s strange to see him look like a regular guy.

“I’m making dinner. Come on in.”

It’s also strange to think of him cooking.

We’re about to step inside when the Mayhem Machine comes roaring down the road and into Rafe’s driveway.

Velma hops out of the van. He’s swapped his duster for a billowing black cape and is also wearing a fur hat that looks like a large gray cat curled on top of his bald head.

He drags out a small toboggan and places it firmly in the snow. Wade leaps out and onto the middle of it where he remains sitting imperially in a shiny lavender ski jacket, matching earmuffs, and four tiny blond UGGs while Velma pulls him toward the house.

As soon as he sees Rafe, Wade goes crazy. He starts barking uncontrollably and chasing his tail while somehow managing to stay on the very limited surface of the little sled. The need for the contraption becomes apparent when his agitation gets the better of him and he tries to propel himself into Rafe’s arms but falls short and soundlessly disappears into the deep snow like a toy dropped into a child’s bubble bath.

Much to my amazement, Rafe bends down and pulls him out of the drift then slips the shivering dog into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

“What are you doing here?” he asks Velma. “I thought you were leaving today.”

“Tomorrow. We want to go back to the gallows one more time. We experienced some very promising activity last night.”

“What are you doing here at my house?” Rafe says.

“Oh, well, Wade insisted on seeing you again.”

“Am I still in danger?”

“No. Now Wade’s insisting there’s a tortured soul from the other side who needs your help crossing over.”

I’m surprised to see Rafe’s highly skeptical look soften into one of possible consideration.

“You actually believe in this stuff?”

“What I believe isn’t important. All that matters is what Wade believes.”

Rafe reaches into his pocket and pulls out the little dog. He holds him up in the air by the back of his jacket. Wade hangs limply in the air.

“Is he yours?” I ask Velma.

“Wade doesn’t like the O word,” Velma replies, then silently mouths the word “owner” to us.

“He also doesn’t like the T word. ‘Trainer,’” he mouths again. “But yes, I’m both.”

“And you really think he can see ghosts and predict the future?”

Wade begins to whine. Rafe sets him back on the sled.

“Wade was a rescue dog,” Velma begins, “and one of his little quirks was he’d suddenly for no reason start barking and running in circles then run into a corner and sit up in a begging position and shake all over looking positively terrified. I said to my partner at the time that he looked like he was seeing a ghost, but we had no idea what was really causing it.

“This same partner of mine loved candles. We had hundreds of them. I finally figured out that Wade went into his little freak-out whenever Justin struck a match. I talked to someone at the shelter and she told me that Wade’s previous owner used to throw lit matches at him. When they found him he had burn marks all over him.”

“That’s terrible,” I say.

Velma nods vehemently.

“I know. Well, the idea had been planted in my head. All I have to do is strike a match to get him to perform. Other trainers use whistles and hand gestures. Don’t get me wrong. Wade is a brilliant dog. He responds to those, too.”

“You use his fear to make money?” I ask incredulously.

“Wade has a wonderful life. Now if you don’t mind, we were hoping to get this on film.”

Rafe reaches down while Velma rattles on and picks up Wade again and returns him to his pocket.

“I’m confiscating your dog,” he says, and goes back inside his house.

“Wait! Wait!” Velma calls out.

“He can’t do that,” he says to me.

“He just did.”

He starts pounding on Rafe’s door.

“Don’t bother,” I tell him. “He’ll give him back when he’s ready to give him back.”

“We have a show to do!”

“Come back in an hour or so. He won’t keep him longer than that.”

“I’m calling our lawyer,” Velma huffs.

“Call away.”

He starts to stalk off then stops and reaches inside his voluminous cape and brings out a Fiji bottled water.

“Here,” he says handing it to me. “It’s the only water Wade drinks.”

I watch until the van is completely out of sight before going inside.

It’s instantly apparent to me that Rafe is a man who never puts anything away, but since he doesn’t have that many belongings, the habit doesn’t overwhelm his surroundings.

Clothing and dishes are piled everywhere, but the clothing is clean and folded and the dishes look clean, too, stacked in various spots around the room. A flashlight, pocket knife, screwdriver, roll of masking tape, and a can opener are neatly lined up on a windowsill. The top of a desk set in a corner of the room is functioning as a pantry and liquor cabinet. Bottles, canned goods, a loaf of bread, and a box of Wheaties sit there along with a scattering of Jolly Ranchers of every color but pink.

I’m not sure if he has a fear of drawers and cupboards or can’t be bothered to take the time to use them. Whatever the reason, he does all his living out in the open.

An entire bookcase is filled with framed photos of his five grown daughters at every stage of their lives along with those of his numerous grandchildren.

Mixed among them I’m surprised to also find photos of him with each of his ex-wives: him as a blue-eyed boy in a suit wearing a tie he probably had to borrow clutching a brown-eyed girl in a simple white dress, both smiling breezily, their confidence stemming from the fact they were too young to imagine life beyond twenty-two; in front of a
flower-festooned church altar, the big Irish Catholic wedding to Glynnis Kelly, her in a sparkling ivory ball gown, Rafe in a tux this time, grinning broadly, drunk already, a man with a good job, good bennies, the first mistake of a marriage behind him, settling down now to the real thing; at the VFW, in a suit again, not a tux, middle-aged, with a safe schoolteacher in an eggshell suit trimmed in lace holding a bouquet of gardenias, not smiling this time, serious about this one, serious about life; a picnic table outside the Lick ’n’ Putt, the remnants of chili dogs and slushies in front of them along with their miniature-golf scorecards, with a woman to warm his bed and his leftovers, which he thought would be reason enough to make it work.

I follow the smell of sautéing green peppers, garlic, and onions into the kitchen. Rafe is busy at the stove. Wade stands behind him intently watching.

A plateful of shredded blackened chicken topped with a handful of fresh herbs sits on the table along with a stack of flour tortillas.

“Is this cilantro?” I ask Rafe.

“Yeah, how ’bout that? We ignorant yokels stumble across exotic stuff now and then.”

I take his ribbing in stride. Normally I’d feel a sting, but after what I’ve been through today, nothing can bother me as long as it’s happening aboveground.

Wade rises up on his hind legs and paws at the air.

“What’s he want?” I ask.

“I think he wants you to take his coat off.”

I lean down and unzip the little parka. Underneath he’s wearing a black T-shirt with “Doggie Style” written across it in miniscule silver studs.

“Velma says this is the only water Wade drinks.”

I set the Fiji bottle on the counter.

Rafe ignores it and fills a bowl with tap water he sets on the floor.

“Pour us a drink, too,” he says.

I follow his gaze to a bottle of vodka. He’s been mixing it with Mountain Dew.

I refresh his drink and get myself a glass.

“You know if you two start seriously seeing each other you’re bound to wind up in the tabloids,” I warn him, glancing at the happily lapping terrier.

I look in his refrigerator for an alternative mixer. Beer, beer, milk, and more beer. I end up settling for straight vodka after discovering one lone lime.

“Come on,” he says.

I begin to follow him then realize he’s talking to Wade.

The little dog trots after him back into his living room.

Rafe turns on his TV and searches through the channels.

“Here’s that show about meerkats,” I hear him say. “You should like that.”

Wade jumps onto the couch, circles the cushion a few times, and lays down.

Rafe returns to the kitchen and tends to his vegetables on the stovetop.

“You never told me the whole story about Scarlet and Billy’s gun,” I say to him.

“Not much to tell. She took it.”

“How did she manage that?”

“She got him to take her back to his place. He was shitfaced. He said she talked him into showing her his gun, had sex with him, and when he passed out afterward, she took it and left.”

“You believe all this?”

“Not the part where she had sex with him, but everything else.”

“She admitted to it?”

“Not to taking the gun, but she took it. There’s no other explanation.”

“It doesn’t make sense for her to take a gun.”

“It makes perfect sense. I think this woman has already killed three people that we know of.”

“A gun is too pedestrian for her. Shooting someone is murder. There’s no other way to classify the act. If she was responsible for those other three deaths, I highly doubt she thinks of them as murders.”

“Then what the hell are they?”