An Incidental Reckoning (17 page)

“Jon…okay if I call you Jon?”

“That’s fine.”

“This man that’s missing. He’s not a very savory character. Been arrested for assault several times, and is suspected of selling illegal narcotics. Not the kind of person someone like you wants to get mixed up with. So I’m asking you one more time, for your own sake, is there something more to this? Who was the man you helped, Jon? He’s likely just as bad or worse. If you’re in some trouble, let us help you.”

Instead of being put at ease by the detective, now a concerned father figure as his tone warranted, Jon got angry. He didn’t like the implication that he was the weak sister and unable to handle himself.

You don’t know anything about me, Detective.
I shot that man dead then dug his grave with a little help from my friend. After that, we robbed a convenience store; furthermore we plan to participate in some major-but-yet-to-be-announced criminal adventure in the near future. How you like them apples?

“Detective, if I knew his name, I would tell you. I don’t. I wish I could help more but that’s all I know. If you haven’t talked to Will yet, call him and he’ll say the same thing. We were just trying to do a good deed, and it’s starting to seem like it won’t go unpunished. I need to get back to work, so is there anything else?”

Manning sighed. “No, that’s it. We did talk to Will and you've confirmed what he told us. He wasn’t as polite, but I can’t arrest him for that. I’m not entirely convinced yet I’m getting the whole truth here, so you may hear from me again. I hope it won’t need to be in the form of a personal visit.”

“Okay, then. Goodbye, Detective.”

Jon hung up the phone and the air whooshed out of his lungs. He felt weak and gripped the desk for support, then forced himself upright and took several deep breaths. So far, they had gotten away with it. With everything. He wasn’t sure now that if he could escape Brody’s reach, he’d be willing to go to the police. Chris, in his opinion, got nothing more than what he invited and deserved. The clerk still had all of his body parts and in good working order, and the store had lost a little bit of money. Why get tangled up anymore with the law, spend hours being questioned by gruff police detectives like Manning with the hope it all got sorted out properly? The police didn’t invent justice, and if it had already been served and no other real harm done, perhaps their deeds could stay quietly buried with Chris in the forest. The single thing that bothered Jon was the undisclosed nature of what lay ahead. Brody did well planning the convenience store robbery, but everyone’s luck ran out. And Brody had acknowledged as much, with the lesson of the single bullet in the gun. The wild card. Forcing away anxiety and struck with a sense of the surreal that this was actually his life, Jon opened the door and stepped outside.

“Everything all right, Jon?” Brad asked for the second time today. He wanted an explanation, Jon could tell, but he had no plans to involve Brad in this conspiracy, even at the remote fringes.

“Yes, fine, Brad. Just a question about a minor accident I witnessed over the weekend. But honestly I’m not feeling all that good. I’m going to take some sick time and go home.”

Brad appraised him for a moment, bit his lip and said with some reluctance, “I saw how hard you worked this morning, and I think the other guys can handle the load today, so go ahead.”

“It’s my time, Brad. I’ve earned it, whether you approve or not,” he said without first filtering the statement, but no so much as a challenge but a statement of fact. He began to form an apology, but then thought,
Why? It is my time.

“You’re right, sorry. See you tomorrow.”

“Maybe. I might need to take tomorrow, too.”

Chapter 12

Will had arrived home late from the camping trip also, driving a circuitous route to Erie, and then once in the city choosing random streets, lost in thought. He still clung to the aftershocks of the adrenaline high that the robbery had sparked but mostly dealt with a growing sense of shame in finding himself in a near identical situation to the one he had intended to resolve; Brody Stape once again their master, but this time, he, Will Roup, entirely responsible.

He didn’t fault Jon for attacking him, expected much worse than the single punch and knew he deserved it. He assumed that if they made it through this fiasco to the end, and were still alive and not incarcerated, his friendship with Jon had reached its expiration date. The only other scenario he could envision was that they might bond once again in prison for the sake of survival, not a thought he wished to entertain.

Will ended up outside his house, where Michelle and Justin lived, and parked his car at the curb across the street. He had intended to enter Erie as a conqueror, with his past bound in chains and paraded behind him. Instead, he came at the end of the procession, led by Brody as if he rode ahead on his Harley, dragging Will in the dust.

Will watched the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of his wife or son. The only light that filtered to the kitchen and the bedroom he used to share with his wife came from the living room, deeper in the house. Justin should be in bed already, so Michelle probably sat transfixed in front of some reality show, the type which Will hated and had been the source of many petty arguments, before she caught the weather on the eleven o’clock news and then headed to bed.

The bedroom light came on, and without the shade pulled Jon’s pulse quickened at the possibility of seeing her. He experienced some arousal at the thought of catching her in a stage of undress, then felt utterly pathetic at his demotion to peeping tom in regards to the woman he used to share a bed with.

It wasn’t Michelle that he saw, however, but an unknown man entering the bedroom - technically still Will's bedroom - with his shirt off, displaying a more muscular build than Will could ever hope for. Michelle followed, wearing only her bra and an already short skirt, rumpled and riding high up on her thighs. She walked directly to the window and pulled the shade, but the image remained burned in Will’s mind even as he closed his eyes to block it out.

After a long moment, he looked again, but saw only the shade backlit by the lamp, and then darkness as it was extinguished. He considered going to the door, pounding on it, forcing her from the bed and into her bathrobe, and confronting them both. He could go in hard, pushing her aside and attacking her lover before either could react. He found that he didn’t much fear a physical confrontation with a man that would probably knock him to the floor, but discovered little solace in it now. What he feared most was that Michelle, while his blood dripped into the carpet and they both stood over him in disgust or contempt or pity, would ask him for a divorce. This wasn’t part of the plan. But then nothing had gone according to plan, for his entire life, it seemed.

Will started the car and drove away, his heart torn but thinking that maybe there was still a chance to get her back. Perhaps this weekend hadn't been a total debacle. Maybe revenge no longer mattered. Just as Brody had explained, that most people are made to follow, perhaps it came down to understanding his personal limitations, finding the right fit, and doing the best within those parameters. Yes, that might be it; but he was too exhausted to hammer out any details right now. Will went to his apartment - not his home as this place could never be that, still thought of the house he had lurked outside of as home - and crawled into bed.

The matter of winning back Michelle became moot the next morning. When checking the mail that had accumulated in his absence, he discovered a thick envelope from a downtown law firm that carried the news he had feared, delivered in a much more formal and detached fashion. Michelle wanted a divorce and custody of Justin. He would have visitation rights, to be determined by the courts at a later date.

He wanted to burn the notice, tear it up into pieces, scrawl obscenities on the documents, mark the envelope "return to sender" and thrust it back into the mailbox. But Will did none of those things, only sat in his ratty armchair found at a yard sale - marked “free” - with the letter on his lap. He wondered if he should be crying or yelling or doing something, but could only manage a general feeling of numbness that glued him to his seat.

At nine-thirty, long after he should have been at work and out making sales calls, he still sat, replaying the various scenes from the weekend. He found them more stimulating than anything else currently happening in his life.

At eleven he decided that alcohol might be just what the doctor ordered, and made his way to a bar that he had passed many times but never visited, walking gingerly with the soreness that had settled into every strand of muscle tissue. Seemed like a place beneath his status, but perfect now for solitary and anonymous inebriation. Will wasn't much of a drinker, would share a casual beer with some guys from the company or with a customer, or a glass of wine at dinner when he and Michelle had gone out. He hadn't gotten sloppy drink since college, and decided that since he had opened up a portal into his past already, he might as well step through again; the results certainly couldn't be worse.

The bartender appeared dubious at his request for a shot of brandy but served him without comment, returning to cleaning the glasses and straightening the bottles of alcohol with their labels out, preparing the bar for patrons later on. Jon sat on a seat at the very end, as far away from the door as possible, in a corner a few shades darker than the overall gloomy interior. The only lights came from over the bar - and only at the other end where the bartender focused his tasks - and some white Christmas lights strung up around the wainscoting secured with thumbtacks. The neon beer signs hadn't been plugged in, so the space lacked the third world carnival atmosphere that no doubt gave hope and encouragement to the regular alcoholics, that they engaged in something exciting rather than wasting their lives and livers. The place looked like a natural fit for such characters, the drunken alter egos of Cliff and Norm. Will didn't aspire to become one of them, but as the alcohol burned his stomach and soothed his frayed nerves and bruised feelings, he thought he might make a little more room in his life for such a magical potion. But he would visit the state store and buy a bottle to drink in the comfort…well, at least the privacy of his own place.

He ordered another drink, the bartender making no attempts to engage him in conversation and Will grateful for it. The components of his life had been poked and prodded and revealed as hollow and he felt raw and exposed, with no desire to talk about the weather or sports or women. Will considered one more drink, but decided the strong buzz just shy of intoxication was enough for now to take away the edge, feared that with any more he might begin discussing things best left unsaid to strangers such a corpses buried in the woods. He put his money on the bar with small tip and got up to leave.

"Thanks," he said to the bartender, who only looked at him and then returned to writing in a notepad.

"I said, 'thanks'."

The man, a young man probably college age but working in a bar instead, this time gave a small wave without looking up, a motion that reminded him of someone shooing away a fly. Irritated, Will walked deliberately back to the small pile of money he had left and pulled back the two dollar donation, making sure the change jingled to get the man's attention.

"Guess I'll have to put buying that Ferrari on hold. Bye, asshole," he said.

Will searched for a retort, his anger piqued by the blatant disrespect. He imagined he were Brody, tried to picture what he would do. But he knew Brody wouldn't have been in this situation; the bartender, if he had any brains at all, would know that he stood in the presence of a dangerous man and would behave accordingly. Once upon a time he, Will, would have walked away at this point. But that Will had been upgraded, his tolerance for rudeness from a loser like this drastically reduced. He might be Brody's bitch, but that certainly didn't extend to this punk.

Instead of a response, Will picked up all of his money, put it in his pocket and walked towards the door.

"Hey. You have to pay for your drinks. I'm talking to you, dickhead."

Will stepped outside, and heard footsteps close behind. He darted quickly to the right and flattened himself against the building, out of sight, wanting to time it perfectly. As the man passed through the threshold in pursuit, Will swung his fist into his gut as hard as he could and stepped back. The bartender's momentum caused him to fall forward as he crumpled to his knees, and he lay on the sidewalk with his head on the curb. He gasped, trying to catch his breath, his knees drawn up and his hands holding his stomach. Will stood over him, savoring the man's helplessness, nearly pulled back his foot to kick him in the face, but instead took all of the money, tip included, from his pocket, and threw it down. The change jingled on the concrete, a quarter running on its edge into the street, and the bills flutteredin the air like fallen leaves.