Damascus Road (11 page)

We returned to the garage after a short stop at a sandwich
shop. Wallace vowed not to cook more than one meal a day for me. I thanked him
nonetheless.

“Do you mind if I work out first,” I asked. “It’s been a
while and I could use the exercise.”

Wallace shook his head and tossed my sandwich in the fridge.

“You want to work on the car after lunch?” he asked.

“Sounds great.”

I took my clothes purchases upstairs and changed into some
sweatpants, t-shirt, and jogging shoes. I came down the stairs and took off
running. I didn’t have a destination, just a time in my head. I counted the
blocks and lengthened my stride to eat through them faster. My body still ached
from the jail beating, but I knew that a workout had a way of focusing my mind,
putting me back on track.

I ran three miles in just over twenty minutes, looping my
way back to the garage. Once there, I found the overhead door open, so I jogged
inside and went straight to crunches. Again and again I hit each repetition,
then I rolled back into leg raises until my stomach was on fire. I rolled over
and started into pushups, until I felt the muscles screaming in my chest. I
switched to one handed pushups and hit five before switching. In the moment, I
had forgotten about my recently dislocated shoulder, so the pain jarred me back
to reality.

I switched into shadow boxing, jabbing, circling, footwork,
then combinations, then into a seamless blend of a mixed bag of fighting styles
I picked up over the years. Krav Maga that I learned from an Israeli friend out
East. Savate that I picked up from a Frenchman in Quebec. Muay Thai that I
learned from an immigrant merchant who I paid to teach me, so he could afford
to bring his family over to the States.

At last, I stopped, breathing hard and covered in sweat. I
realized that Wallace was watching me.

“Are we going to work on the car now?” he asked.

I nodded, too winded to answer.

“Good.”

He tossed me a water bottle and I caught it, but nearly lost
my balance. Wallace had the kindness to walk out of the room before he started
to laugh at me.

We worked on the car the rest of the day. I grabbed bites to
eat while I could. I finished my sandwich, drank my water bottle and grabbed
another. I was ready to work then and gave myself over to it.

We replaced the door and the quarter panel. I inspected the
engine and aside from a tune up and an oil change, everything seemed to be fine
there.

“Fuel line has a leak,” I said while I was under the car.

Wallace grunted.

Fifteen minutes later he handed me a new fuel line. I never
heard him leave.

I kept working, pulled dents and sanded the bodywork. I
tuned the engine as I went.

It was dark out, and I hadn’t noticed until I smelled pizza.

Wallace paid from the same bank envelope, and we ate in
silence over a pizza with three kinds of cheese, sausage, mushrooms, pepperoni,
and olives. The aroma was intoxicating, and I ate three slices before I
realized it.

Leaving me the rest of the pizza, Wallace went over to set
up the paint booth. My mind was a wasteland, and nothing was being built there.
There was nothing that I thought of other than the car. Blake Harrison had been
right. The car had kept me from going mad. From pondering on what I shouldn’t
be thinking about in the first place. I just kept focused on what was in front
of me. Everything else would be all right.

I joined Wallace at the paint booth and zipped up my one
piece suit. We taped off the car, windows, door handles, anything we didn’t
want to paint. It was a tedious job, but one we did in silence. We had the
comfort of knowing that the other person totally understood what needed to be
done. No detail went unattended. I took one last look at the Hemicuda in the
yellow finish, now with a door and a quarter panel that didn’t even match that.

The paint gun was in my hand while I attached the air hose.
Wallace and I looked at one another and nodded. We went at the Cuda with the
paint guns, spraying black paint in wide strokes, circling in perfect sync as
if we had done this all our lives together.

The words that caught in my head then were not the scripture
of my salvation or of Peter when he said that love covers over a multitude of
sins. No…

What filled my mind that day was the song I’d last heard on
the stretch of open road with the window down and the radio playing. Through
the hum of static as I caught the broadcast on the edge of its transmission
range, I heard Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones…

I see a red door and I want it painted black

No colors anymore, I want them to turn black

The yellow paint turned dark and then disappeared under the
midnight sheen. I did not stop moving. I did not leave an inch of it uncovered.

I see a line of cars and they’re all painted black

With flowers and my love both never to come back

I was humming behind my mask and then the words came to me
and I began to sing,  louder and louder until that was the only sound in my
head. Not the whispering of conscience or the conviction of God or the voice of
my father. Only the lyrics.

I look inside myself and see my heart is black

I see my red door and it has been painted black

I skipped to the side and did a little spin, imitating ole
Mick up on the stage. It felt right. Nothing else to think about, to worry
about. I ran around the Cuda, covering it in Velvet Black. Every inch. None of
the old color left behind. Only the total absence of light.

Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts

It’s not easy facin’ up when your whole world is black

I killed the spray gun and looked up to admire my work. The
car was perfect, exactly the way I had hoped it would be. I smiled and pulled
the hood off my head along with the air mask.

I looked around. Finally, I saw Wallace. He was standing
back against the wall, his mask in his hand. He was watching me with an
expression of shock and horror. My little performance must have taken him off
guard.

“Sorry,” I said. “The song…you know, that song? It’s a…I
used to listen to it…”

Wallace dropped the paint gun and threw his mask on the
floor. He turned and walked away without saying another word to me.

“What?” I asked.

WALLACE AND I HAD DINNER LATER THAT
NIGHT. We sat in silence. He couldn’t be bothered to look at me, and I didn’t
especially want to find out what was bothering him. I cracked first.

“How do you know Blake Harrison?” I asked.

Wallace looked up at me as if I’d spoken in tongues. I
stared him down, not saying a word, waiting him out. He sighed and started
making another sandwich.

“Blake’s a good man,” he said.

“And?”

“And I help when I can,” Wallace said.

“How’s he been a good man?” I asked. “What do you mean by
that?”

“James Marlowe, you of all people should know better than to
judge a book by its cover,” Wallace said, jabbing a finger in my direction.

“Well said, sir.”

We sat quietly for a moment.

“So, the wake is tomorrow?” I asked.

Wallace grunted, nodding. He swallowed hard.

“Blake’s going to call you,” he said.

“Hmm.”

We sat and chewed. I made another peanut butter and jelly
sandwich.

The phone trilled. Wallace leaned over and looked at the
caller ID. He grabbed the handset and tossed it to me. I caught it and answered.

“Hello?”

“James, how are you doing?” It was Blake.

“Fine, you?”

“Doing well. Just wanted to let you know that the wake has
been set up for tomorrow night,” Blake said. “The funeral home arrangements
have been made. Is there anything that you knew your father wanted?”

“I didn’t… I mean we didn’t… um, no. There’s nothing that I
can think of.”

“I’m sorry, James,” Blake said. “I know this is difficult.
Will you be driving to the funeral home? Or should I pick you up?”

“Why don’t you come get me,” I decided. “I don’t know my way
around town. I’d appreciate your help.”

“Sounds good,” Blake said.

“Any word on the other thing I asked you about?”

“Actually, yes,” Blake said. “I convinced Agent Walters that
this inquiry was essential to my security. He put somebody on it and got an
answer back.”

“What’s the verdict?” I asked.

“There was a name signed to the manifest that didn’t match
with the employee records,” Blake said. “I don’t know if it means anything to
you.”

“What is it?”

“Nathan Cain,” Blake said.

I mimed a pen and paper. Wallace reached behind him and
found some, placing them in front of me.

“Spell the last name for me?” I asked.

“C-A-I-N.”

“Like the brother of Abel?” I asked.

“Exactly right.”

“Thank you Blake. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Goodnight, James.”

I rang off the phone. The letters on the page were taunting me,
secrets to share, just beyond my grasp. I traced the letters with the pen.

“Everything okay?” Wallace asked.

“No,” I replied. “Not at all.”

That night, the dreams were back in full force, and I could
not escape them no matter what I tried to do. I fell into an uneasy sleep, but
awoke with a jolt every hour remembering only the most fragmented images of my
dreams.

Ellis Marlowe in life...in death…flames…screams…

Car crashes and bar beatings…

I would wake in a cold sweat and move to the bathroom to
splash water on my face, get a drink, calm my nerves, and finally return to
bed, only to have the whole process repeat itself again and again.

Finally, I gave up and sat in the one chair in the room. I
grabbed my coat and rummaged through the inside pocket until I pulled out a
worn leather Bible. I opened it and began reading, then stopped, flipped the
book over and threw it onto the bed in frustration. I sat in the dark and
stared at the wall.

Blake Harrison could not come soon enough. I put on my suit
and stood outside, waiting for him to arrive. His car pulled up, and Agent
Walters opened the door for me, and I got in.

“James, you look nice,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. The suit is very nice.”

“I’m sorry again about your dad. Ellis was…” Blake would
have said more if I’d let him, so I didn’t.

“Blake, please,” I said. “We’re friends, right? In whatever
odd way, we’ve become friends, haven’t we?”

“Yes, James, I’d like to think so.”

“Then please understand that there’s no need to tell me
those things,” I said. “Since you’re my friend, I would expect and depend upon
your sympathies. So, you don’t have to tell me. It’s enough that you’re here.
Okay?”

I didn’t say it to be smarmy or rude, but it was true and
needed to be said.

“I completely understand,” he said with a smile, then looked
out the window and left me alone with my thoughts, which is what I wanted in
the first place.

We arrived at the funeral home just as the sun was setting.
I walked in with Blake and we were introduced to the funeral director. Having
been to Chris Beck’s service, it struck me that these people were all very
similar, cut from the same cloth. Understated and respectful, guiding the
agenda of the day and herding the sheep of the mourning family. I shook my head
and tried to dispel my negative thoughts, but they would not go.

Blake and I walked in, and the funeral director, Mr. Eames,
showed us Ellis Marlowe in his casket. I measured each step as I approached,
unsure if I wanted to make this last longer or just get it over with. Before I
could decide, I was there; and we stood looking down at my father.

I heard Blake and Eames whisper to each other, but ignored
them.

“He looks good.”

“He’s in a much better place now.”

“The flowers are very nice.”

I couldn’t stop staring at his face. Ellis’ face. Last I had
seen him was in the trauma room. Indeed, they had done a good job of freshening
him up, but this was not my father. As they said, he was not there. In body,
but not in spirit.

“Thank you, Mr. Eames,” I said without looking at him.
“Blake, I need to…”

I didn’t finish the sentence, but rather gestured toward the
open foyer and sitting room of the funeral home.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Marlowe,” Eames said. “Sit wherever you
please during the visitation. Mr. Harrison will come get you just before
service.”

I nodded my thanks and walked away, casting one last look
over my shoulder toward Ellis’ body. It was the last time I would see him, I
vowed. Of that I had no doubt. I had no more tears to shed. The pain was still
raw and red and clawing at my chest, but I had locked myself in.

I walked out of the chapel and down a wide hallway. For the
first time I appreciated the place. The wide banister on the steps, the
expensive furnishings, the polished wood. The place was meant for comfort.
Chairs and couches meant for sitting and holding one another while you sobbed
quiet consolations.

I found a chair in the corner of the room and slumped down
into it. The fabric was soft, the cushion firm. It was a high-backed wing
chair. I sank down and put my chin on my fist and waited to watch the people
come in.

They came relatively quickly then, a steady stream of
strangers, come to say good-bye to my father. I did not know them. Not a soul.
I hadn’t had the foresight to notify Tyrell or Bill Beck and I didn’t want to
trouble them to come out of some sense of duty.

From where I sat, I could see almost everyone as they
entered, but they did not look for me. Attendants pointed the way to the
chapel, and the mourners dutifully followed.

And then, I saw her. Tall woman with dark hair and a black
dress. She had to be in her  fifties or more by now, but she looked almost two
decades younger. Not from plastic surgery or chemical peels, but from a life of
hard work that was occasionally hidden behind Sunday best.