The Bleeding Season (2 page)

“I asked what happened,” Donald said flatly, smoking his cigarette with mechanical repetition.  “He said he found Bernard Tuesday afternoon.”

“Jesus,” Rick sighed. “He was dead since then and we didn’t even know.”

Donald looked away.  “When he didn’t offer anything more, I asked again what had happened.  That’s when he said Bernard had hanged himself.”

I ignored the vision of a limp body suspended from rafters as it flashed across my mind’s eye.  I considered mentioning the nightmare I’d had, but decided against it.

“It’s state law that an autopsy be performed in all cases of unattended death,” Donald explained.  “Of course, Bernard’s death was ruled a suicide, but apparently his cousin didn’t have the funds to provide for funeral arrangements and Bernard was broke, so—”

“Why didn’t this asshole call one of us?” Rick snapped.  “Did you ask him that?”

Donald dropped his cigarette, crushed it beneath the sole of his shoe then hugged himself and shook his head in the negative.  “I was in shock, I—I just wanted to get off the phone.  I didn’t want to hear anymore.”

“So where is he?” I asked.

“The state covered the cost of his burial. Absolute minimum, I’m sure.  His cousin said they have a section of one of the public cemeteries in the city for this kind of thing, and that’s where Bernard was buried.  He doesn’t even have a headstone.”

Rick put hands on hips and assumed an unintentional heroic-like pose that would have been comical under different circumstances.  “We’ll take care of that down the road.  I know a guy.  Now, what about his things?”

“I don’t imagine Bernard had much left.”  Donald motioned with his chin to the diner.  The lights had come on.  “Let’s get out of the rain.”

Normally the diner was hopping first thing in the morning, but since most of the clientele didn’t work weekends, Saturdays got off to a slower start.  But for two elderly and grizzled regulars already slumped on stools at the counter, swapping stories and sipping coffee, we were alone.

Donald and I slipped into a booth near the back while Rick grabbed a toothpick from a cup on the counter, rolled it into the corner of his mouth and chatted briefly with the waitress.  He ambled down the aisle separating the rows of booths and joined us a moment later.  “Ordered some coffees,” he said, dropping across from me, next to Donald.  “I worked last night, haven’t been to bed yet, but I’m too wired to sleep now anyway.   I say we take a ride to New Bedford and have a talk with Bernard’s cousin.”

“Look, we don’t know this guy at all,” I said.  “He might not want us around.”

“Who gives a shit what he wants?”

Donald scrambled for his cigarettes.  “What’s the point?”

“I want to know what happened.”

“For Christ’s sake, I just told you what happened.”

The waitress interrupted just in time, placed steaming mugs of coffee in front of us and asked if we planned to order breakfast.  Through a forced smile I told her the coffee would be sufficient.  Once she was out of earshot Rick leaned forward and zeroed in on me, forearms on the table between us.  “What do you think?”

I warmed my hands on the side of the mug and gazed at the rain.  “Bernard’s gone, man.  Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference what we do.”

Rick flopped back against the bench.  “Fine, you guys do whatever you want.  I’m going over there.”

“Why?” Donald asked. “For what purpose, exactly?”

“One,” Rick snapped, “I want to know where they buried him.  Two, I want to know if he has any stuff left.  Might be nice to have something of his, right?  Like, remember when Tommy died and his mother sent us stuff?”

I did remember.  Specifically, an illustration Tommy had made in elementary school his mother had given me not long after his death.  I still had it tucked neatly away in my desk at home, and though I hadn’t looked at it in years, the knowledge that it was there—some palpable piece of him, his history—was somehow comforting.  I glanced at Donald, who was twisting a napkin in his hands as if it had done something to offend him. “We
do
 need to know where he’s buried.”

“I don’t even know where the house is,” Donald said.

Rick threw back some coffee.  “I do.  We went out for lunch a couple weeks ago.  I picked him up out in front.”

“Was that the last time you saw him?” I asked.  Rick gave a nod and looked away.  An uncomfortable silence fell for what seemed an eternity, amplifying the sound of the rain.  Flashes of the nightmare slithered through me, summoning a chill that began at the nape of my neck.  “I hadn’t seen him in about a month,” I finally said.

“Me either.”  Donald threw the napkin aside.  “I should’ve called him back sooner, I—”

“Don’t do that to yourself, man.” Rick cracked his knuckles with a loud pop; a nervous habit he’d possessed since childhood.  “This ain’t our fault.  Bernard had some hard times—just like the rest of us—and he made a decision.  That’s it.”

I sipped my coffee.  “Why would he do it?  Jesus, why would he—”

“Fucking cowardly if you ask me.”

Donald glared at him.  “No one asked.”

“He didn’t even have the balls to leave a note.”

Donald crushed his cigarette in a small glass ashtray and slid it away with disgust.  “Sometimes you are
such
 an asshole.  Do you think maybe we could mourn for a while before you start passing your usual lofty judgements?  Don’t we owe him that much?”

“We were his friends.  We’re like brothers.  He should’ve come to us if it got that bad.  He should’ve—”

“Did he call you in the two weeks since you saw him last?  Did he?  He called me.  I know he called Alan, did he call you too, Rick?  Did he?”

“I never called him back either,” I admitted.  “I kept meaning to but…”

Rick took a gulp of coffee and returned the mug to the table with a violent slam.  “Fuck this.  Things got tough and Bernard checked out.  He took the easy way out, man, that’s all I’m saying.”

“The easy way,” Donald said through a mock chuckle.  “
Is
 there such a thing?”

I reached across the table, grabbed Donald’s pack of cigarettes and shook one free.  I’d quit a few months prior, but now, recognizing a stressful and sorrowful time, the addiction was beckoning, calling to me once again.  I rolled the cigarette between my fingers.  “If we’re going to do this let’s get it the hell over with.”

“You don’t need that.”  Rick reached across the table, snatched the cigarette and crushed it in his hand.  “Took you months to quit, why blow it now?”

Donald’s jaw dropped.  “Yeah, crush the whole pack, it’s not like I have to pay for them or anything.”  

“Like I give a shit.  Those things are killing us.”  Rick opened his hand, emptied the torn paper and loose tobacco onto the table then scrambled out of the booth.  “Come on.”  He dug a wad of bills from his pocket, peeled off a few singles and tossed them over the mess he’d made.   “We’ll take my Jeep.”

*   *   *

Rain drummed the roof, struggled with the squealing cadence of windshield wipers for attention.  The interior of Rick’s Jeep Cherokee was neurotically immaculate, and since he didn’t allow smoking, Donald, who was already fidgeting about in back, leaned forward and poked his head between the bucket seats.  “What the hell is he doing in there?”

I squinted through the blurred window.  “Looks like he’s talking with the attendant.”

“Christ, pay for the gas and get on with it.”  Donald sat back and crossed his legs, jeans squeaking against leather.  “Sometimes, Alan, I could strangle the bastard.”

“It’s just Rick’s way.  You know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Well I’m getting tired of
Rick’s way
.  God forbid he shows any emotion other than happiness or anger.  Wouldn’t be sufficiently butch, apparently.”

I adjusted my position so I could look into the back.  “That’s Rick, always has been, always will be.  He’s as torn up over this as we are, he’ll just never show it.”

“Just like when Tommy died.  The sonofabitch never shed a tear,” Donald said in an almost absent tone.  “It doesn’t surprise me two of us ended up dead before we hit forty, only which two.  I never thought I’d outlive any of you.  Makes you wonder if life isn’t arbitrary after all.”

“Maybe you’re just indestructible, you miserable prick.”

Our eyes met, and somewhere behind the bloodshot roadmaps and dark circles I caught a glimpse of the past in Donald’s expression, one of impish humor and biting exuberance, his trademark in years past, before the booze, before the darkness.

It seemed an inappropriate time for laughter, but we laughed anyway.

It faded quickly; absorbed by the din of a relentless rain.

*   *   *

The grating voice of a local sportscaster droned from the car stereo.  The Bruins were struggling for a playoff spot and had lost the night before.  Normally I would have been interested, but I focused instead on the hiss of tires against wet pavement and the fast-approaching cityscape of New Bedford.

“Fucking Bruins,” Rick moaned.  “You ask me, they need to goon it up, drop the gloves and throw some fists.  All these fucking do-gooders are ruining the game.”

I turned from the window long enough to glance at him and offer a quick nod, hopeful he would take my cue and be quiet before Donald let loose on him.

“It’s even changed at the high school level,” Rick said.  “Shit, when we played we got the job done—and we played like fucking men.  Remember the game against—”

“If I give you a dollar,” Donald said from the back, “will you stop talking?”

Rick grinned.  “You’re just jealous because you never played.”

“Yes, positively green with envy.”

“Sure, make jokes, you know it’s true.”

“Can we talk about something else?” I said quickly.

Donald scoffed.  “How about nothing at all?”

Rick tightened his grip on the wheel and decreased speed as we left the highway and veered along the Downtown New Bedford Exit.  “Same thing with football,” he said.  “I was one of the best players our school ever had, but you always made it out like it was no big deal.  Guys like you always do, because you got no talent for it.”

“Guys like me.  Interesting.”

“You know what I mean, don’t go getting all politically correct on me.”

Donald poked his head between the seats.  “I’m glad you found such satisfaction in playing your games, Rick, really I am.  But you’re pushing forty, maybe it’s time to focus on something a tad more adult.”

“You’re just bitter.  All that fancy bullshit—books and classical music and all that poof-poof crap—none of it mattered in the long run.  You can recite a poem some guy wrote a hundred fucking years ago, and you know all about plays and paintings and all that crap.  So what?  You ended up ditching college and living in Potter’s Cove working a regular job just like the rest of us.  At least I got—”

“Both of you just shut the fuck up, all right?”

Donald disappeared into the back and Rick looked at me with genuine surprise.  I turned away but heard him mutter something unintelligible, and from the corner of my eye saw him shake his head.

We headed into the south end of the city, one of the rougher areas of New Bedford.  Even in such weather, the streets seemed unusually empty, the city unnaturally quiet, as if in anticipation of our arrival.  

“Nice neighborhood,” I mumbled.

“Fucking shit-bin.”

“As Melville said, ‘
Such dreary streets’
,” Donald offered quietly.  “Such a historically significant city, such decent, diverse, hard-working people, yet still so dreary in some parts.  I wonder what Herman would think of her now.”

“Drugs, that’s the goddamn problem,” Rick said, turning onto a side street.  “Drugs are ruining this country, and let me tell you—”

“Is there anything you
don’t
 have an opinion on?”  Donald asked.  “The city’s been on the rise for quite some time now.”

“I got your
rise
right here, swinging.”  The Jeep slowed and Rick pulled over into the only vacant space, a spot near the top of the block.  The narrow street consisted of two-story tenements with tiny fenced-in yards and side driveways.  Most were dilapidated and in various stages of disrepair, and even bathed in steady rain, strewn garbage and assorted filth defiantly clogged gutters and stained sidewalks.  It seemed darker here; as if night had not yet fully released the city like it had the outskirts and beyond, as if the dreary streets Melville had written about in
Moby Dick
 could still be conjured more than 150 years later.  Rick pointed over my shoulder.  “That’s it.”

The building stood on the corner; the front yard cordoned off by a rusted chain-link fence, the tiny section of grass beyond unkempt, cluttered with toys and other debris.  I felt my stomach clench as I noticed a small window along the base of the tenement.  Somewhere on the other side of that grimy pane of glass one of my best friends had lived out the final days of his life and eventually killed himself.  My eyes shifted to the windows on the first floor.  One facing the street was filled with light.

How could anyone continue to live there after what Bernard had done?

I tried to picture him walking this block, moving through the rickety gate and going inside.  I tried to picture him alive here, but all I could see, all I could sense, was death.

“Let’s go.”

Rick’s gruff tone snapped me back, and I was out of the Jeep and standing in the rain before I’d even thought about it.  Donald, looking nauseous and pale, stepped out just as Rick rounded the front of the vehicle and set the alarm with a push of a button on his key chain.  We all stood there a moment, watching the building like children staring down the local haunted house.

The next street over emptied into an enormous vacant and weed-infested lot, beyond which loomed one of the more infamous housing projects the city had to offer.  I vaguely remembered cruising that project nearly two decades before while still in high school, searching for a quick pot buy before heading off to a party in nearby Westport.

This seemed like another life entirely, and maybe it was.