Breaker (14 page)

I stand at the back window, in the kitchen, and look out at the tiny yard, the patch of grass that leads to the alley. On the left-hand side I can see the dirt that has recently been turned over, covered in leaves and garbage, but still visible—to me, anyway.

Natalie is standing behind me, and I am grateful, I am relieved, but I am also worried, flush with embarrassment, and uncertain of what comes next.

“See, you can't even tell where I put the bones,” she says.

“No, not really. You have to look hard.”

She remains silent.

“And the gun?” I ask.

“Unloaded, in my room, in an old shoe box, surrounded by Barbie dolls, inside an old teddy bear that I hollowed out.”

I nod my head. I can't look at her.

“Thank you, Natalie. You saved my ass.”

She doesn't speak.

“I guess I should explain a few things. Do you want to ask me anything first?” I say.

“Did you kill her, your mother?” Natalie asks.

I don't answer. It's complicated, and then again, it's not.

“My mother and father weren't good people, Natalie. And I learn more every day. It's shocking. You saw the clippings, I guess. You read them?”

“Yes, I did.”

“So, while I never heard it uttered from their lips—they never confessed to me directly anything that they did—I have my suspicions. I have memories, some hazy, some crystal clear. Of my father, and his late-night crying at the foot of my bed, a struggle in him that I never really understood. Until recently, that is. My mother, she…she…was not the same after he left, after she kicked him out. She saw in him, in my sister and me, in the entire bloodline, something tainted. That was her struggle as well. My older brother, that's still uncertain, but I now think that he didn't die of SIDS.”

“She killed him? Smothered him?”

“I don't know for sure. And why she spared my sister and me, if she did, it makes no sense. Maybe she was uncertain back then; maybe it was an accident. But my sister left the house as soon as she could. When I started to get sick, I looked closer at my mother and her archaic cures and medicines. The powder for the rats, maybe it was ending up in my soup. Stephanie would never talk to me about anything, about my father and what he may or may not have done to her, or my uncle Tully, who I know was sick, who I shot in the woods to keep him away from my sister.”

I hear Natalie gasp.

“I was ten at the time. And he was the first person I killed.”

“There were more?” Natalie asks.

“Don't be stupid,” I say, turning my head to look at her, the little girl hiding in the shadows as the sky outside darkens, and the world moves closer to an end. “You see me coming home, you've heard things on the streets. I'm not innocent, Natalie. It's been a long time since I was anything close to innocent.”

She stares at me, and I look away, back out the window.

“I started to get sick. Something about the way she was around me, tense, sweating, pale—it wasn't normal, wasn't right. I caught my mother slipping arsenic into my food, and decided to flip the tables. My soup and her soup, I switched them every time we sat down to eat. Her milk and my milk, our plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, anything I put in my mouth. And if I couldn't switch it, I'd pour it down the sink, making excuses to get her to leave the room, disappearing to the bathroom as I faked the early symptoms, vomiting and diarrhea, her saying I had the flu. When she started to get sick, I told her she must have caught it, and she nodded, so blind to my rage and vengeance that it never crossed her mind what I was doing.”

“My God,” Natalie said.

“You have to understand that I was heartbroken, Natalie. My father was gone, my sister just as predatory as the rest of them, my own mother trying to kill me. It was eat or be eaten, so I gave her several bowls of chicken noodle soup, with her crackers, as she lay in bed, unaware. I doubled the doses, tripled them, and in a few days she was dead.”

The room is silent. Outside there are flurries of snow, a blanket slowly descending on Chicago.

“I didn't know what to do with the body. It started to smell, so I dug a hole in the backyard, and left it alone, for years I did, never telling anyone. Nobody cared, nobody came to check on me. I was an adult then—this was only years ago, not decades. I supposed I could have called paramedics, the police, whatever you do when somebody dies. I could have said she just died of natural causes, but I was too scared that I'd get caught. My father disappeared, why not my mother? She could have left just as easily.”

Natalie nods, her arms crossed, hugging herself.

“I came home one day and saw the cable guys in the backyard, digging up a trench only feet from where she lay. Scared me to death. I dug her up and brought her inside, just the bones left now, placing them on her bed in some fucked-up need for her forgiveness. Something I can't really explain.”

Natalie doesn't speak.

“I'm not a bad person, Natalie,” I say. “At least, I don't think I am.”

She stays quiet.

“I've done what I needed to do in order to survive.”

“I suppose so,” she says.

I turn my head to look at her, and I can't tell if I've lost her, if she's scared of me now, or if she understands what I've gone through. I hope and pray she can't relate.

“You didn't say anything to the police. Why?” I ask.

“I wanted to hear your story first,” she said. “I read the clippings, so I had my doubts that you were a cold-blooded killer.”

Her eyes tear up.

“I see how you look after me, when nobody else does, when my parents are ghosts, the girls at school shallow and lost, the boys that hassle me damaged already.”

She smiles.

“We have each other, Ray. I know you'd never hurt me. I can see it in your eyes.”

I consider what to do next, what's coming for me, how best to proceed. I hear that clock ticking again, getting louder every day.

“So, we're good?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “You think the bones are okay where they are?”

“For now,” I say. “It's winter; I don't think anyone will be out there digging in your beetle farm looking for bones.”

“What then, what next?” she asks.

“We go on as usual. Nothing is changed. I need to see my sister, though. I need that gun back, too. Something's not right.”

The devil you know versus the devil you don't,
that's what runs through Natalie's head. She sits in her bedroom, her mother and father talking in the kitchen, dinner cooking—sloppy joes and french fries, one of her favorites.

Her room is dark, a solitary lamp sitting up on a white dresser, ornate but chipped at the edges, mismatched knobs in glass and wood. The top of the bureau is covered with her collection of snow globes. She likes to pick them up and turn them over, the snow drifting over the scene, spilling a landscape and telling a story that always entertains, her imagination running wild. Downtown, where she's been only a few times, there is a jagged Chicago skyline, the Chicago River running through it all. There is another of a village at the North Pole, filled with reindeer and presents; elves scamper below as Santa's sleigh flies off into the night. She also has one of New York City, where she's never been, the buildings so tall, little lights on top of the antennas blinking on and off, neon signs glowing. Her least favorite is an old one from her aunt Rose, dead now a few years. It shows a wolf hunched over in a cave, his black silhouette always unnerving Natalie, the huntsman standing outside with an axe in hand, Little Red Riding Hood off to one side, her cape and hood like a curtain of blood, the yellow dots of the wolf's eyes piercing a white snowscape.

A wolf in sheep's clothing, which means that somebody is hiding, disguised as something else, something innocent. Is that Ray, she wonders?

Or is Ray more of a bear, hibernating for months, waking up hungry, striking out at whatever is near, no mercy for any poor creature that wanders close to his lair?

A lion perhaps, maybe this is who Ray is—king of the jungle, dangerous and predatory.

She thinks of Ray's messed-up family, and in it she sees so many familiar faces, so many monsters that have haunted her own life. She has had uncles that asked her to sit on their laps, festive holiday gatherings where liquor was pouring, laughter and music, nobody paying attention to the words whispered in her ear. Her father has lashed out, slapping her mother, never laying a hand on Natalie, but raised once, his arm trembling, fist made, his teeth bared as if ready to bite. Her mother hurts Natalie in different ways, with cruel words, her indifference, and her icy exterior. The boys in the area are nothing but trouble, the recent incident in the alley just one of many that have happened over her short life, violence leading to violence, younger boys looking up to older brothers, eager to please, to destroy, to smash, ready to show they are men in waiting, never weak, always on top. The girls are not much better, sniping at each other, the constant comparisons, jabbering about money and sex as their eyes glaze over, or telling of deeds done in the dark of night for a ride home, for leather jackets and sparkling stones or, sadly enough, done simply for a quick thrill when nobody is looking.

This is her world, and she wants to escape it, with no idea of how to make that happen.

Why did she hide the bones? Why did she take the gun? Is it because she believes that somehow Ray is still a good person, deep inside? Or because she needs a friend, somebody to help her get ready for whatever fate awaits her just down the road—so many of these futures wrapped in yellow police tape.

She shivers, and holds herself, lying back on the bed.

If you want to run, you practice running—short dashes, then longer, then marathon distances that stretch out to the horizon. If you want to fight, you train with a fighter—learning the moves to keep you safe, the strategy to outwit your enemy. If you want to kill, you study a killer.

She must be careful. When you surround yourself with monsters it's easy to become one of them as well.

She thinks of the man in the white van, and she thinks of her friend Melanie. She finally lets herself imagine what might have happened, what that might have looked like. She sees her friend walking home, just like she did every day, minding her own business. She sees the van pull up, and the window go down. Maybe he offered her a ride; it was cold outside after all. She might have been shivering, forgotten her gloves, too fashion conscious to wear a hat and mess up her carefully styled hair. Or maybe there was no conversation, the van parked, the door sliding open, the man leaping out when Melanie walked by, grabbing her and dragging her inside, holding something over her mouth, or hitting her on the head.

Was there not an opportunity for Melanie to escape, to fight back?

Natalie doesn't finish the scene in her head, what came after the abduction, the sex and violence, the penetration and the strangling. She can't handle that.

Instead, she pictures something different instead: outrunning the man, her legs now in shape, tight muscles propelling her down the street, or a carefully directed spray of pepper, a thumb in his eye, a foot to his balls.

Natalie is preparing herself for the worst.

Stephanie won't answer my phone calls or text messages, and I've healed enough to finally get out of the house. Another cold and gray day, the apartment building quiet, Natalie at school, I bundle up and leave my cave to venture north on foot. It's not that far, and I can use the fresh air.

There aren't many people out on the boulevards, the trees like a graveyard full of skeletal fingers, reaching up out of the earth toward the sky.

Of all the people to get mixed up with, why did she choose the Gangster Disciples? Did they know something about me—did somebody see me take those boys down? Were they using her to get to me, thinking they could milk her for information on how to win the fight? Was that knife meant for me and the Latin King just got it first? None of it makes any sense. Maybe it's just a coincidence, Stephanie never being very smart about the men she sleeps with, the men she dates. Did she just eliminate the middleman, keeping herself high, her fix satisfied, or did she really think she was going to cash in on the fight? Why not bet
on
me instead of against me?

On the walk north it seems every other vehicle is a white van, lettering on the side,
HOSTESS
and
FEDEX, UNITED STATES POSTAL SERVICE
—none of them with a man inside looking for little girls, as far as I can tell. These spectral ships float up and down the street, filling the air with noxious exhaust.

When I get to her apartment, there are very few people on the street, not a terrible area, just another building of red and brown brick, sandwiched between a liquor store and a dry cleaner, a Laundromat and Subway down on the corner. I buzz her number and wait.

Nothing.

I buzz it again, several times, stepping back to look up at the windows above, and there's no movement, no lights on at this time of day.

I think of buzzing all twelve of the apartments hoping that somebody is home in the middle of the day, a grandma waiting for a kid to hop off the bus, someone collecting unemployment sitting on a couch watching bad daytime television—
Ellen
and
The View
and
Dr. Oz.
But then what? Why am I here—pizza guy, that old trick? Somebody's going to see me, and I'm not sure I want that. Not if I have to kick in her door and look around.

That's an idea.

I push against the front door and the lock holds. I rattle it, and it's loose. It's a wood frame with glass in the center; I don't want to shatter it and draw attention to myself. I can't sit here and wait for somebody to walk in or out—I'm hard to miss, can't slink into the shadows at my size. I take out a flexible piece of plastic, my library card, and slip it into the gap between the latch and the frame. If it's an old door, I might get the lock to disengage, so I slide the plastic up, and voilà, the door slides open.

In the foyer there is some mail on the ground, mostly junk, some of it with Stephanie's name on it. Which means nothing, the pile so small, not abandoned for weeks, just a few days. I push open the next door and walk through the landing to the stairs, only a few flights up to her apartment, the dirty, dark carpet worn out and stained, the tan walls dingy with scrapes and handprints, a handrail pulled out at the top, lying on the steps.

I find her apartment and stand outside it for a moment, listening for music or voices, but there's nothing to hear. I knock on the door and it swings open. An alarm bell goes off in my head, lights flashing, and I start to sweat.

It's a small apartment, much like mine, with thrift store furniture, the usual ratty couch, a scarred wooden table and recliner filling up the living room. No television now, probably sold for drugs months ago. She's been clean, mostly, she says, but I don't really buy it.

On the rectangular coffee table is a pile of unopened mail, lots of red lettering,
URGENT
and
OVERDUE
stamped on several of the envelopes. I click on the light switch and nothing happens. I flick it up and down. I realize it's cold in here—the heat either turned off, turned down, or shut off by ComEd. I suspect the latter. Ashtrays overflow with cigarette butts, empty beer bottles and cans filling the rest of the space. Here and there are tiny glassine envelopes, with a white powder dusting the inside, and on one of the end tables sits a bent spoon, several plastic lighters, and a few syringes. Not sure if it's meth or heroin at this point. Does it matter?

Resting over the faded brown recliner is a blue flannel shirt.

I close the door behind me and feel it latch shut.

“Stephanie?” And then louder, “Stephanie!” but there's no answer.

In the kitchen, what little light there is left in the day drifts in from a dingy window over the sink. There are dirty dishes piled up in the sink, gray water at the bottom, tomato sauce stuck to the dishes, noodles turned hard and crusty, milk with green mold in a few of the glasses, some ants crawling away in a straight line.

I open the refrigerator and it's mostly empty, nothing but ketchup and mustard and an old jar of dill pickles—one box of baking soda tucked in the back.

I head to the bedroom, and now I can smell something, a sickening sweet vanilla, and I see flickers of light coming from down the hall. Before I get to the bedroom, I come to the bathroom door, where a yellow light shines out into the hall, a dull glow from behind the nearly closed door.

“Stephanie?”

I push it open and see what I've been waiting my whole life to see—the inevitable.

There are black candles all around the tub, melted down to stubs, puddles of wax leaking all over the edge and down onto the floor, their light reflected in the mirror. Stephanie is lying in the tub, water up to just over her breasts, her left arm under the water, the right arm resting on the rim, sliced open from the wrist nearly up to her elbow. I cover my mouth and gag.

The tub is filled with pink, her eyes open, her skin pale, a new tattoo at her left eye, a singular black tear. Tied over the knob to the door is a blue bandana, which I pick up and place over my mouth, my eyes watering, a sob slipping through my lips. Her cellphone sits on the counter with a tiny light glowing, so I pick it up and slip it into my pocket. In the trash, something catches my eye.

It's a home pregnancy kit box.

Rooting around deeper in the can, carefully looking out for needles and blades, I find the plastic device and pick it up. I stand up, straightening out my back, squinting to read the screens in the candlelight. Pregnant is two lines, not pregnant is one.

I don't have to look too hard to see the results.

Two lines.

I debate taking her out of the tub, doing something with the body, but to what end? She is gone now, and to be honest, she's been slipping away for years. I think of her text messages—she was reaching out. Would she really kill herself?

I don't know.

I look around the apartment, but there is no sign of a struggle, nothing broken, no blood anywhere but in and around the tub.

Mother, Father, Uncle Tully, and now Stephanie—am I the last one? Did our bloodline end with me?

That might be a good thing.

I blow out the flickering stubs of the few remaining candles; no sense burning down the entire building. Time to go. I make sure there's nothing left from my visit, no fingerprints on doorknobs or handles, wiping down a few things, and I ease out the door, pulling it shut behind me, leather gloves back on now, the front steps the only way out.

Down and down and down, I pass an elderly Hispanic woman with gray hair and she steps to one side as I lurch by in a daze, her arms holding a bag of groceries, a frown on her face.

Out the front door and down the street to a gas station, I find a pay phone, and drop in a handful of change. I dial 911. I tell them the address.

And then I hang up and go home.

Part of me is grateful that she's gone, and I sit with that uneasy feeling, not liking myself very much for thinking that way. Or maybe I could have helped; maybe she wasn't beyond saving.

Either way, it's done now. And I feel just that much colder inside, hands stuffed in my pockets as sirens start up from far away, getting closer with every step. I turn down Kedzie Avenue south and walk home, snow starting to float across the sky as my eyes begin to water.