Disintegration (22 page)

I make my way back to the front of the house and grab my coat. I can walk up Damen and catch the 21 north and it should drop me off on their doorstep. Always back to Milwaukee Avenue.

There is little relief in killing Vlad, unless you count the relief you get when you step in dog shit and then successfully wipe it off your shoe without embedding it between the treads of your boot. I've lost track of how many people I've killed. Many of the faces are lost to me as well. They should resonate, shouldn't they, these lives I've taken?

As I head north, I see the crowds, people out, hitting the bars. It'd be nice to just stop, sit down, and have a drink. It'd be nice to go home to rest, to sleep it off. Oh, wait, I don't have a home anymore. I burned it to the ground. I have no place to go but home, my new home, perhaps, my wife and children. It fills me with unease.

The snow has stopped and it's simply cold, my face going numb before I get to Milwaukee. As I approach Six Corners, I see the bus fly past. Damnit. That means twenty minutes before the next one. I contemplate Estelle's, but that would be stupid. I shouldn't even be standing here, the ripple of punks and whores floating past, every face an accusation, every pretty smile a lure to the rocks below. There's a liquor store a half block south, I'll pick up a pint and go from there.

In and out without a fuss, a wad of bills in my coat pocket, mostly hundreds, my retirement account. I've offed my employer and my skill set is so unique that I can't imagine finding a new gig. So I stand on the corner, leaning into the brick, sipping at the Jim Beam, smoking a cigarette, and when the first one is gone, I smoke another. Filthy habit. The pills rattle in my coat pocket, and I wonder what will happen when they're gone. I've seen what the beginning of the withdrawal looks like, and there's no way I can get more of these pills. I have no idea what they are. One thing you could say about Vlad, he was a hell of a chemist. I figure the night will go out with a bang, one way or the other. I finish off the happy pills, four or five, with a swallow of bourbon. Whatever comes my way, this should help.

The bus is upon me soon enough, swaying from side to side, the mighty blue whale, and I see its massive eyes lean toward me, the porthole gushing sleet and water. I find my way onto the bus, swipe what I think is my pass card, and head toward the back. It could have been a library card, or a piece of cardboard, but the man driving doesn't hassle me.

I head to the back, the way back, the last row. The bus is half empty. Most of the kids heading out are going south, coming down to Wicker Park from Logan Square, not the other way around. Or they ride the el. Either way, I don't mind the space.

I close my eyes for a second, as I have a ways to go. I'm too far gone to count tonight, to anticipate my stop, so I leave it up to the gods to deliver me or send me on.

The night holds promise, but mostly it holds the promise of my gun in my mouth. I've lost the will and the voice has gone quiet. It doesn't say to wait anymore, so maybe my work here is done. I'm jostled and the bus finds every pothole headed north. The lurching stops and brutal acceleration are lulling me to sleep.

I try to remember back to a time before all of this, and I get a vague picture of suburbia, our life. It was fine. It was mundane. There were flashes of brilliance, moments with the boy, building a birdhouse, or kicking a ball, the little things that seemed like nothing. When his eyes fell on me, seeing me, the world would stop—because we were the same. He was my son, and I was his father, and we had the same temper, the same giving nature, the need to be physical—to run, to throw something, to breathe in the great outdoors. The girl was always so perceptive, so sweet, and quick with a hug or a kiss. Her heart was the same as mine, as it once was, full of forgiveness, easy to smile, to be the optimist. My wife. Why is it I can always remember the fights over stupid things like money or time, the way we handled a situation with the kids, the way I sorted the dishes, or forgot to put food back in the fridge? But I remember more. I remember dinners out—Spiaggia, Roy's. I remember
concerts—Smashing
Pumpkins, Hole, The Cure. I remember movies cuddled up next to each other, deep glasses of red wine at corner bars, dancing at Green Dolphin Street, a trip to New Orleans, and the everyday exhaustion, in front of the television set, stupid TV, a bowl of ice cream, content to merely make it through another day.

“Mister,” I hear a tiny voice say.

I open my eyes. A little girl sits in the seat in front of me, leaning backward over the top of the headrest.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Where's your mother?” I croak. “You shouldn't be talking to strangers.”

She glances back over her shoulder, catching her mother's wary eye.

“You were crying,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I touch my hands to my cheek. It's wet. She's right. Her halo glows a deep yellow, gossamer wings expanding behind her, and her purity is suffocating. I fear I will disintegrate under her gaze. I'm not stable, my molecules are collapsing, and the urchin wants to know if I'm okay.

“Just a small leak,” I say, “the cold, the wind—you know. I'm fine. But thanks for asking.”

She nods her head and walks back to her relieved mother. I nod my head at her and try to smile, hoping it doesn't look carnivorous. She turns away.

“Logan Avenue, Logan Square,” the bus driver announces.

We're here. Already. I pull the string and the bell dings, come out fighting, and the bus lurches to a stop. I stumble out the door and am greeted by a furious eagle atop a massive pillar. It caws at me, a great piercing shriek, and I fall over as it dives toward me, landing on the sidewalk. I blink, and it's still. A statue. Logan Square. Hell of a welcome.

The boulevards are spacious, an extra row moved back from the main avenues, and there are apartment complexes up and down the street, mansions of stone and brick. They are like castles with their turrets piercing the sky, bay windows bowing out into the lawns, high green hedges behind ornate wrought iron, long spears with sharp tips, scrolls and leaves and lions perched on pillars.

They must be doing well.

When I find the address, it's a small house on the boulevards, tucked back a little ways from the road. Streetlamps with dull glowing orbs are scattered up and down the block, the bushes blocking my view, the fence keeping me out. I can see that there are still lights on in the house—no idea what time it is, but obviously not too late, not the middle of the night, for sure. I walk up to the gate and place my hand on the knob, expecting it to be locked, but instead it makes a slight creaking noise as I turn it, so I step into the yard. Lace curtains hang in front of the large bay window, shadows moving behind them, the smell of evergreen drifting to me, a radio playing in a car up the road, doors slamming shut, laughter echoing into the night.

There is a gap between the drapes, and as I walk up the sidewalk, closer to the house, I can see a woman sitting down at a dining room table, a glass of red wine in her hand. She sets the drink down and rubs her eyes. She looks tired. There are bushes all around the house, so I slip behind them, and push my face as close to the glass as I can. It could be her, my wife, it's hard to tell, my eyesight isn't what it used to be, her hair has touches of gray at the edges, long and dark, down to her shoulders. She looks up and the children come into the room, running around the table, joking and laughing, the boy with a deck of cards in his hands, the girl chasing him, saying it's her turn to pick. I can't tell, it's been several years, the boy has grown and filled out, so much taller, the girl, with her hair cut short now, in a cute little bob.

Headlights sweep across the yard, mostly getting caught in the fence and the bushes, but I duck down out of reflex. A car is pulling into the driveway, the garage door going up, as a long, sleek machine drifts down the cobblestone driveway, an oil slick on wheels rumbling to a stop. The kids turn their heads and walk toward the garage door, the mother taking a sip of her wine, a deep breath—her eyes twinkling now. In walks a man with a large pizza box, and the irony isn't lost on me. What was once an instrument of death, a way for me to slip inside and destroy, now reverts to its original
meaning—nourishment,
comfort, and inclusion. There are hugs and kisses all around, pizza night it seems, and the names echo, Robbie, the boy, hugging the man that is a distorted reflection of myself. The girl, she is Taylor, her hand on his arm, a wide smile on her face, united in their gratitude for the food, the second parent home safe, completing the picture, relief all around. No working late, no drunken anger, no violence or random chaos from the outside world, just the safety and peace of a family together, settling in for the night.

It's time for me to go, I know that now—the knowledge sinking to the bottom of my gut like a rock in a lake, down and down, until it hits the silt and lies there quietly, a presence weighting me down. They will be better off without me—I can see that. Whatever I was once, that person is gone, there is no repairing what has already been broken—the lines and cracks always rising to the surface.

For one moment, she looks outside, my wife, and there is a heaviness about her, and I wonder if she's thinking of me, I wonder if in all of this merriment there isn't room in her heart for her long-lost husband, these rituals that used to be ours, this replacement an able father, but not the same, not me. She smiles and turns back to her family, what was once mine, and replies to a question, tells a joke, and there is laughter, plates being handed around, pizza being dished out, as the cards are shuffled and dealt.

I take the hand that I've been given, turning away from these people, knowing that the best thing that I can do is to keep walking, in the other direction, to distance myself, so the poison that runs through my veins can't seep into their lives. I close the gate, with a barely audible click, stuff my hands into my coat pockets, and start walking south. Alpha and Omega, there is hope for me yet, in what place or form, I do not know.

This book is dedicated to those who continue to rage against the dying of the light.

Over the years there have been a number of groups and communities that have supported my writing. Without their support, this book never could have happened. A special thanks is owed to all of the talented authors and generous friends at Write Club, The Velvet, The Cult, and
LitReactor—thank
you for believing in my writing. To those that actually read this novel in its earliest forms, thank you for taking the time to make it better. Thank you to everyone on Facebook and Twitter for following and chiming in. I also want to thank everyone at the Murray State University MFA program for their support, especially my thesis director, Dale Ray Phillips, and my other thesis advisors, Lynn Pruett, and Julia Watts—but also Heather Foster, for her undying support. I have to take a moment to thank my relentless agent, Paula Munier at Talcott Notch, for never giving up on this dark tale, and my brilliant editor at Alibi, Dana Isaacson, for his patience, guidance, and kind words along the way. I also have to thank Beth Pearson, Fred Chase, and Kathryn Jones for their exhaustive edits—they saved me from myself, a thousand times over. I want to thank my brother, Bill, who reads it all, and my mother, who reads much less (THANK GOD). Thank you, dear reader, for coming here, for taking a chance, or for coming back for more, perhaps—it's you I write to, don't you know? And finally, most importantly, I have to thank my wife, Lisa, and my children, Ricky and Tyler, because if they didn't hug me and tell me they loved me, if they didn't pull me off the computer and get me outside once in a while and remind me what I'm fighting for, then none of this would be worthwhile.

PHOTO: © JOHN GEIGER

R
ICHARD
T
HOMAS
is an award-winning writer whose work has appeared in more than one hundred publications. Nominated for five Pushcart Prizes, he is the author of the novel
Transubstantiate
and two short-story collections,
Herniated Roots
and
Staring into the Abyss
. Thomas lives with his family in the Chicago area.

whatdoesnotkillme.com

Facebook.com/​richardgthomas3

@wickerkat