Saving Room for Dessert (20 page)

On the days when Rayford got around to pissing and moaning about his wife and his mother-in-law—and he usually got around
to that subject at least once a week—Reseta had started telling him to tune into
Oprah
on Tuesdays because there was a guy named McGraw he should listen to.

So Rayford did. And then he was really confused. ’Cause this McGraw, who, according to Reseta, was some kind of hot-shit mind-man,
sounded to Rayford like ninety-nine percent of the crackers he’d run into in Alabama. And when he’d told Reseta that the next
time they ran, Reseta had said, “What, you listen with your skin now? You don’t use your ears anymore? The man frequently
talks about just the kind of situation you sound to me like you have. The one you talk about constantly? Like once a week?
Like for the last six years? Pay attention to him, I’m tellin’ you. Fact, you want, I’ll buy you a copy of his book.”

And two days later, Reseta showed up in the weight room with McGraw’s book
Life Strategies: Doing What Works, Doing What Matters
.

“And don’t just read it, you hear? There’s a buncha tests in there. Take ’em. And I mean really take ’em, don’t just screw
around like they’re some sex test in
Cosmo
.”

“
Cosmo?
You read
Cosmo?
”

“Like you don’t. You’d be the first guy I ever knew didn’t see one in a doctor’s waiting room, didn’t pick it up see if he
couldn’t find some new magic bullet in there on how to score.”

“Oh well, doctor’s office, yeah.”

“I’m serious. Take the tests. Be surprised what you don’t know about yourself.”

“You think I don’t know myself?”

“You know, when you let your voice get all screetchy like that, you sound like some crackhead from Monessen. I know you don’t
know yourself. Nobody knows themselves all the way. One way or another, we’re all bullshittin’ ourselves about something.”

“My man, I don’t know, watchin’
Oprah
and shit? You’re payin’ way too much attention to them psych books, man. Some people sayin’ your reaction time is backin’
up a notch.”

“Oh is that right, huh? Not you though, right?”

“Not me. No.”

“’Cause I know a guy runs a gun range out in the township, he’s got a timer rigged up to a strobe light, can tell you in hundredths
of a second how fast your draw is. Wanna go? Little wager maybe?”

“James, man, it ain’t about that, you know this ain’t me talkin’. This is other people. I know you could whip a pit bull,
man, give the motherfucker two bites head start. It’s just …”

“Just what? Say it.”

“Guys sayin’ you come out the unit, man, forgettin’ your gear.”

“Oh I get it, this is Fish, right? First place, he never woulda started this shit with me before Carlucci’s mother cracked
his head open. He hasn’t been right since. Anybody’s reaction time changed, it’s his. Now when he comes outta the MU, he’s
already got his piece out, doesn’t wanna talk about nothing to nobody. Ask me, he oughta retire before he shoots somebody.
’Cause far as I’m concerned, the man is certifiably paranoid.

“Here’s what it is, listen to this. He got pissed ’cause last week I talked this guy down. I swear, he was actin’ like he
wanted to dust him off, he was all itchy, you know? Just had that look. The guy hadn’t hit anybody, hadn’t cut anybody, hadn’t
even tried. Just beefin with his wife, that’s all, started rantin’, grabbed the knife, ran outside. When I got there, Fish
was ten feet away from him, got his light in one hand, his piece in the other, he’s aimin’ at the guy’s chest, right at his
heart, ’cause I came up behind him, I got on his right shoulder, I could see exactly where he’s aimin’. And what’s he wanna
know? Where’s my light, where’s my stick, where’s my piece—I told him, I said, Fish, just make sure you don’t shoot either
one of us, okay? And pay attention here, you might learn something. So, okay, I know I shouldn’t’ve said that, ’cause I knew
he was gonna feel like I was patronizin’ the shit out of him, feel like I was comin’ on all superior ’cause I had a plan.
And meanwhile it’s not like he didn’t bring it up, you know?”

“You mean he said somethin’ right then?”

“Yeah. Course he did.”

“What?”

“What do you think? Started talkin’ rules and regs, I said look, Fish, the guy has not made a move on anybody. When his wife
called, she did not say she had been injured in any way. The guy grabbed a knife, he ran out of the residence, he didn’t go
after his wife, the wife didn’t chase him out, he went out there on his own. That’s a man who was lookin’ to cool out. Poor
bastard, he looked sheepish, embarrassed, ashamed. I started talkin’ to him, what’s he tell me? Just that day, that was the
day he finds out his unemployment checks are done. Felt like king of the losers. Man wasn’t gonna hurt his wife. If he was
gonna hurt anybody it was himself. Felt like he couldn’t take care of his family anymore. And there’s Fish, ready to dust
him off. And then he’s gonna harp on rules and regs to me? Please, what the fuck. And this is why I’m backin’ up a notch?
On my reaction time? Double fucking please, okay? You take any of those tests yet?”

“Huh? What tests?”

“What tests. Jesus. The ones in that book I gave you. McGraws. You haven’t take a one of ’em, have you? See there? When I
tell you somethin’ might help you out, give you a book maybe could help you improve your family situation? What do you do?
You turn into the point man for the rumor squad.”

“Aw c’mon, man. It ain’t like that and you know it.”

“Yeah? Well, when you figure out what it’s like, you be sure and come tell me, okay?”

“Man, James, stop. Just stop runnin’ a minute.”

“No, I’m not stoppin’. I’m not gonna defend myself to you or anybody else about bullshit rumors.”

“Hey, man, look here. Six years ago I come in this department, I never saw you prayin’, man. Last couple months or so, every
time before you get in the MU, you’re down on one knee, givin’ yourself a cross and a Hail Mary or whatever, whatever you
Catholics pray.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah that’s right, don’t tell me it ain’t, I see your reflection in the car next to you. Don’t be denyin’ that, my eyes are
twenty-twenty, man. This is new, man. You never used to do that. This just started, seemed like to me right after Christmas,
you got spooked or somethin’, don’t try to tell me you didn’t. Whyn’t you just tell me what the fuck it is? I been tellin’
you shit about me for years now, real personal shit I never tell anybody else, you ain’t never said nothin’ ’bout yourself.”

“You just figure that out?”

“Yeah, I just figured it out, so I’m a slow-ass motherfucker, so what? Figure somethin’ out, don’t matter how long it takes,
long as it’s right.”

“What can I say, you’re an interesting guy. I like to hear what you have to say. About your family, your wife, girlfriends
… your boy.”

“Oh what the fuck, man, I’m a case study now?”

“Maybe.”

“Man, don’t fuckin’ maybe me. Guys’re talkin’ shit on you. Even Carlucci.”

“Carlucci?! Bullshit. I’ll believe that when he asks me if I got a minute. Rugs doesn’t trash anybody behind their back. Not
his style.”

“Awright, so, uh, all he said was, uh, you probably just ’got the short-timer’s attitude, that’s all. Happens to the best
of us’—his exact words.”

“Whoa, now there’s an indictment for you. Carlucci say I’m
probably
a short-timer. Okay. Guilty as charged.”

“What? You goin’ quit? Hey stop, man, this is serious, c’mon, stop runnin’, no shit.” Rayford pulled up short and hollered
after Reseta, “C’mon, man, stop, talk to me.”

“Not today,” Reseta said over his shoulder as he ran on, leaving Rayford straining to catch up. Every time Rayford got close
enough, Reseta put it in overdrive and pulled away, staying just far enough ahead to make it impossible to talk. And after
they stopped their run, Rayford continued to push him but Reseta just shook his head and said, “Not ready to talk about it.”

“Well, tell me this at least. Somethin’ happened, right?”

“Not recently, no.”

“Well when? What?”

“Man, I’ll say this for you. You are one persistent prick. Okay. Got a letter.”

“A what? Letter? From who? What about, grad school?”

“I wish.”

“Aw man, what the fuck, don’t do this coy shit with me, huh?”

“Coy?! This isn’t about coy, man. This is … this is heavy, okay? I don’t know if I can talk about it.”

“Hey you can’t talk it out with me, what the fuck? I thought we were tight.”

“We are. You’re a good man. Let your dick do your thinkin’ for you too much sometimes, and that’s gonna come back on you sooner
or later, but other than that, you’re alright.”

“Just awright, huh?”

“Yeah, alright. What’s wrong with alright? Rather I said you were all wrong?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Okay, I see your point. Uh, let me say it this way. When I was in Nam, I had a buddy … shit, buddy … that word doesn’t begin
to cover it. Not even close. Closest I can come to it is he was my rabbi, but even that doesn’t do it, you know? The man taught
me how to stay alive in the stickiest shit I ever walked through. Never steered me wrong, never busted my balls, never once
got chicken-shit with me. Then he went home on leave. This was ’68, shortly after Martin Luther King got dusted. And, uh,
and he just got totally fucked-up….”

“How?”

“Got hit by a truck. Some cracker thought he was down there tryin’ to stir up the race thing. Wound up in a wheelchair.”

“This is what the letter was about?”

“Oh no, no. No, I knew about this … almost right after it happened.”

“So what was this letter about?”

Reseta looked away, then hung his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Man … don’t even know if I can say it … aw fuck.”
He formed his right hand like he was holding a pistol and aimed it at his open mouth. Then he quickly turned his head away.

“Aw shit. When?”

“Christmas. Christmas Day. Wheeled himself out to this, uh, this shed behind his mother’s house … she’s who wrote me the letter.”

“Aw shit, James, whyn’t you say somethin’, man? Fuck you carryin’ this around for by yourself, man, this is some heavy shit.
Couldn’t tell me this? What the fuck? No wonder you’re fucked-up.”

“I am not fucked-up. Why you sayin’ that? You think I’m fucked-up?”

“You ain’t?! You ain’t fucked-up?! Behint this shit? The man eats his gun? Your rabbi? And you think you ain’t fucked-up behint
this shit? Hey, James, you wanna lie to me, that’s one motherfuckin’ thing, but you lyin’ to yourself, man. I look like I’m
walkin’ behint a long, white stick? Motherfucker, James, you need to talk this shit out, man, you can’t be holdin’ this shit
back like that. Constipate your mind like that, what the fuck?!”

“You do have a way of puttin’ things, Rayf. Ever think about clinical psychology, huh?”

“Oh would you listen to this? Now you mockin’ me, man. I’m tellin’ you, you in serious shit and you mockin’ me, what the fuck.”

“I am not mocking you, okay?”

“Well that’s good you ain’t, okay? Motherfucker, man, you been carryin’ this shit—you been carryin’ this load since Christmas?!
Is that what you tellin’ me? Since motherfuckin’ Christmas? Fuck is wrong with you, James? I mean, seriously, who the fuck
you think you are, huh? Fuckin’ Jesus maybe? The Buddha? What, you think your heart made outta motherfuckin’ stainless steel?
Titanium?”

“No. It’s way worse than that. I’m lyin’ awake every night, plannin’ how I can get down there.”

“Down where?”

“Mississippi.”

“That’s where he was? Oh man, James, c’mon, man, don’t even say that shit.”

“Hey you asked me, remember? You’re the one wants me to talk. Well I’m talkin’ now, okay? I don’t know why but I am. And I’m
tellin’ you what’s goin’ on. Every night, I wake up about three, three-thirty, same time every night. I’m right in the middle
of this dream. Only there’s no symbolism in it. I don’t have to consult any of my textbooks to figure out what it means. It’s
plain as the back of my hand. I’m down there, I find this cracker, I cuff him, take him out some godforsaken road, pistol-whip
that prick till he’s semiconscious, then I lay him out across the road and I run over the prick half a dozen times, back and
forth, back and forth. ’Cause that’s what I wanna do so bad sometimes I can’t swallow water. I wanna go down there and find
that cracker, run over him with a car. And when he’s layin’ there cryin’ for his momma, then I just wanna empty a box of .22s
into him, start at his hips and work my way up both arms, one bullet every minute, take forty-nine minutes before I get to
the last one, and I save that last one for right between his eyes, and between every shot I get down there in his face, and
I say, you feel that, motherfucker? Do you feel that, huh? That one—you feel that? That one was for Jukey. And so’s this next
one, you pile of pig vomit. You ruined a man on the best day of your life and on the worst day of his, you wouldn’t make a
pimple on his ass … that’s what I’m carryin’ around, Rayf. You want the truth, there it is.

“And this is me talkin’ now, you hear? Me, the guy who’s one thesis short of a master’s in psychology. Gettin’ ready to start
on my Ph.D. in clinical psychology. And what am I thinkin’ about? I’m walkin’ around thinkin’ how we don’t do somethin’ about
the crazy-ass way we raise children in this country, I’m thinkin’ about all the books I’ve read about our emotions, how our
minds work on our bodies, all the classes I’ve sat through, all the seminars I’ve participated in about how to manage anger,
how to mediate disputes, how to read people’s body language and interpret their meanings in what they think they’re sayin’
and what they’re actually sayin’ … and for the last three and a half months, all I do every night is dream and scheme about
how to find this cracker and turn his legs into a pile of bloody rags. I am, in the language of the trade I thought I wanted
to get into, I mean, what you see before you, Rayf, is one conflicted motherfucker … I talked to that man … I didn’t let thirty
days pass that I didn’t talk to him … talked to him Christmas Eve … didn’t pick up one hint, one clue, one sign, one word,
one thought, one fuckin’ eentsie … anything, man, that he was … that he was gonna … do that.”