The Bleeding Season (4 page)

“He’s got a bunch of them.”  Rick handed me a small stack and continued his search.

I rifled through them—six in all—four from my wedding and one of Tommy’s high school yearbook picture, wallet-size.  The sixth was of a woman I didn’t recognize.  I handed the rest to Donald.  “Who is this?”

Rick glanced up and shrugged.  “Dunno, some broad he knew I guess.  A relative, maybe?”

There was something that told me she wasn’t a relative.  There was casualness in the woman’s posture and facial expression that signaled she might have been more to whoever took the picture.  She had a medium complexion, thick auburn hair to her shoulders, and dark eyes.  Her lips were curled into a combination smile/smirk, like an inside joke had been cracked just before the picture was snapped.  The shot was from the waist up, and she wore a low cut shirt knotted just above her navel.  Something about her seemed overtly sexual.  The smile was more than a friendly one, the glint in her eyes telling yet mysterious.  The picture had been taken in what appeared to be a kitchenette of sorts; the woman leaned against a counter.  The setting was not familiar.  I showed the picture to Donald.  “You know who she is?”

He took it and studied it a moment, then shook his head in the negative.

Rick found an old Walkman and a handful of cassettes amidst the clothing.  “Anybody want these?”

“This is just
too
 morbid,” Donald sighed.

“Yeah, please, Rick.  I’m begging you, man, let’s roll.”  I felt like a buzzard picking through a carcass, gnawing scraps of meat from human bones.

He tossed the items aside and began stuffing everything back into the duffel when a small package fell free.  We watched as it bounced soundlessly along the mattress, and as it came to rest, Rick scooped up a shopworn nylon appointment book and planner.  After a quick inspection, he realized it was zipped shut, but as he opened it several papers and things fell free.  “Jesus, it’s stuffed.”

“Probably left over from his job,” I said.

Rick smiled and it struck me as obscene to do that here.  But I saw that one of the things drawing his attention was a sports card in a plastic holder that had fallen free.  He picked it up and looked at it a while.  “It’s his Bobby Orr rookie,” he said.  “I’m surprised douche bag upstairs didn’t snag it and sell it.  He must’ve missed it.”                          

Rick stuffed the miscellaneous papers back into the planner and zipped it shut, but his eyes remained locked on the card.  For the first time there was something in Rick’s eyes beyond the usual.  “Hey, you guys mind if I keep this?”

Before I could answer Donald dropped a hand on Rick’s shoulder and said, “I’m sure Bernard would’ve wanted you to have it.”

Rick held his smile and gave a slow nod.

“Definitely,” I agreed.  “Now please, let’s go, all right?”

Rick stuffed the card in his jacket and Donald hung onto the photographs.  It was then that I realized I had nothing, so I grabbed the planner, tucked it under my arm and explained I’d just as soon go through it later.

In a way, leaving that cellar was like saying goodbye to Bernard for the first time.  Since it was something none of us had been given the opportunity to do except in dreams, we stood quietly at the foot of the stairs, finally able to take it all in, even the rafter he’d been found hanging from.  Now that we understood its finality, for the first time it seemed like it was truly over, like Bernard really was dead and gone, and the time for quiet mourning and contemplation, fond memories and moving on had arrived.

In our own ways, we made our peace with that horrible little cellar, then headed back up the stairs.  But like the tangible entity it often is, darkness followed.

It was far from finished with us.

CHAPTER 3

Nobody said much on the way back to Potter’s Cove, and that was probably best.  The rain continued to pour from dark skies while the three of us, together yet apart, retreated into ourselves for the ride.  I considered bringing up the lie Bernard had told about being a Marine but there seemed little point, and along with the nightmare, I pushed it away and remembered happier times instead.

Before I knew it, we were back in the diner parking lot.

Rick parked but left the engine running and the wipers going.  “I gotta get home and get some sleep.”

“Me too,” Donald said softly.

I believed Rick but knew Donald would first stop at a bar or package store and hide out with a bottle for a while.  Had he leveled with me I’d have joined him, but since he didn’t I tucked the planner inside my jacket and prepared for the sprint to my car.  “I’ll call you guys,” I said absently.

“Why do you suppose he stayed in the basement?”

Rick glanced at me, then away, just before I looked over the seat at Donald.  “What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t he stay upstairs?”  Donald stared at me as if I knew the answer and had refused to share it with him.  “Why would you have your own cousin sleep in that terrible little space when you could just as easily put him up on the couch?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “Maybe it was just easier to—”

“Why?  Why would you do that?”

“Donald, I don’t know.”

“I didn’t like that fucker,” Rick said.

“You don’t like anybody,” I reminded him.

He shook his head, the dangle earring dancing as if alive.  “Nah, there was something about him, something not right.  Almost like the whole thing with Bernard scared him.”

“Well shit, finding someone hanging in your basement is frightening stuff,” I said.

“I don’t mean like that.  It was like he was scared having Bernard living there, so he put him down in the cellar, out of the way.”

“Why would he be afraid of Bernard?  No one was afraid of Bernard.”

“What about this business with the Marines?”  Donald asked suddenly.  “Why would Bernard lie about such a thing?  It makes no sense, I can’t figure it out.”

Neither could I, but I was relatively certain we wouldn’t solve it right then and there.  I rubbed my eyes, a vague headache had settled behind them.  “Listen, we all need some rest.”

“Yeah, I haven’t slept since yesterday afternoon and I have to work tonight,” Rick sighed.  “Let’s hook up in a couple days and have dinner or something.”

“Sounds good.”  I looked into the back.  “You going to be OK, Donald?”

His eyes darkened and I wasn’t sure if I’d unintentionally struck a nerve or if there was something he wanted to tell me but for whatever reason couldn’t.  “Of course.”

“Drive carefully,” Rick said.  “Nasty out there.”

“See you guys soon.”  I pushed open the door and darted into the rain.

*   *   *

A coastal town south of Boston, Potter’s Cove had once been a prosperous mill town, but as with the rest of its storied past, the economic affluence the town had once enjoyed was now little more than a vague memory.

Main Street housed an array of inexpensive eateries, independently owned shops and a number of empty storefronts.  Several enormous buildings sat boarded up along the northern part of town—reminders of a former status only the elderly could recall with clarity.  A clothing manufacturer and a national department store giant employed more than five hundred residents, but Potter’s Cove was mostly comprised of working-class folks who had no choice but to seek employment elsewhere.

I drove across town, turned onto the main drag and parked behind a local pizza joint.  Once out of the car, I hesitated and looked out at the train tracks and water beyond—
the
 cove, as it were.  I watched a pair of ducks glide along the surface, oblivious to the rain, and was suddenly confronted with the memory of my mother.  Before her death several years prior, we’d stood together on that very spot countless times, feeding the ducks and talking quietly about whatever came to mind.

I thought of her often in winter.

I climbed the battered staircase at the rear of the building and slipped into the apartment.  The building itself was a two-story zoned for both commercial and residential occupants.  One half of the first floor housed the most popular pizza place in town; the other had sat vacant for more than three years.  Our apartment constituted the entire second floor, and while it was safe and passably comfortable, we’d lived there for more than a decade.  It was to be our “first” apartment.  Twelve years later we still hadn’t moved into our second, and unless we hit the lottery the idea of ever having an actual house was, at best, a wild fantasy.

The apartment was dark but for a lamp on an end table in the den.  I put Bernard’s planner on the coffee table, shook rainwater from my jacket, hung it in the closet and went looking for Toni.

I found her in the kitchen standing at the sink, staring through the double windows overlooking the fire escape.  I wasn’t certain she knew I was there, so I moved deeper into the room, my weight causing the floor to creak.  Shadows wrestled with the sparse bright patches filtering through the windows, cloaking her profile in alternate bands of light and dark.  She still hadn’t turned to look at me, but I could tell from her expression that she knew I was there.  Her eyes blinked slowly; gazed at the row of clay pots on the fire escape.

“In a few weeks it’ll be spring,” she said, wiping her hands with a dishrag.

“Can’t come fast enough.”

“For me either.”  She draped the folded towel over the faucet.  “I’m going to plant some herbs this year.  Parsley maybe.  It’s been so long I can’t even remember what it’s like to have a yard…an actual garden, but…”

As her voice trailed off into silence I went to the cupboard, grabbed a mug and poured myself some coffee from what was left in the pot.  “I can’t believe you’re giving me shit today.  I do the best I can, Toni.”

She finally turned from the window and leaned back against the sink.  “That wasn’t a slam.”  Suddenly she was wide-eyed and innocent.  “Not everything is, you know.”

I sipped my coffee.  Lukewarm piss.  “Think I’ll take a shower.”

“Do you want breakfast?” she asked.  “I have to run to the store but we have some eggs.”

I glanced at my watch.  It was only a little after eleven but seemed much later.  “No, I’m all set.  I just want to get clean and sit down, go through some of Bernard’s things I brought home.”

“Everything all right?”

“We’ve got some questions, but I suppose that’s always the case when someone takes their own life.”  I reached around her and poured the coffee into the sink then put the mug on the counter.  She smelled vaguely of coconut and some other soap-induced scent I couldn’t quite put my finger on.  “You’re not surprised he did it, are you?”

She recognized it as more statement than question but responded with a subtle nod anyway.  “I’m sorry he did it,” she said softly, “but not surprised.”

“Why not?”

“Sometimes life is harsh.  Not everyone’s cut out for it.”

“You never really liked Bernard much.”

“I didn’t know him that well.”

I studied her eyes.  “You’re an awful liar.”

She left the counter and strolled to the table.  “Let’s not do this, OK?”

“You knew him for years too.”

“And I’m sorry he died, Alan.”  She snatched her purse from one of the kitchen chairs, slung it over her shoulder and faced me.  “But you asked me if I was surprised.  No, I’m not.  Bernard was a strange guy.  He lived at home with his mother until she died, he never had a girlfriend or any sort of relationship I know of with a woman—a man or anything else for that matter.  He sold cars for a living without ever seeming to realize he was a walking caricature of a used car salesman, and while he could be sweet and was never anything but nice to me we both know he had a penchant for stretching the truth and being evasive.  There was something inherently creepy about him, Alan.”

She was right and I could think of nothing to say in his defense.

“He was also very sad,” she continued.  “You could see it in his eyes, if you bothered to look for it.”

“Right,” I said, glaring at her now. “If only I’d bothered.”  The nightmare had crept back into my mind and I was weakening against its resolve.  I’d always had nightmares—even as an adult—but nothing like this, nothing that refused to let go even once I was fully awake.  My hands were shaking again and I felt for a moment like I might collapse.  I gripped the counter as casually as I could and felt my weight shift against it.  Toni stood staring at me with those big brown eyes, the natural curves of her figure concealed beneath a baggy cotton sweat suit.

“You’re finding an argument behind every word I say.”  She moved closer long enough to give me a peck on the cheek.  “Take a nice hot shower and try to get some rest.  I’ll be back in a bit, OK?”

Before I could agree or disagree, go along or scream for help, she was gone.

*   *   *

I’d washed my face and thrown on jeans and a sweater but hadn’t bathed before I left to meet Rick and Donald, so the hot water pulsing from the showerhead felt great.  Wrapped in curtains of steam, I threw back my head and let the water cascade across my face and shoulders, savoring the quiet time, the peace.

It was short-lived.

The nightmare was back, replaying in my mind, and this time I allowed it to come, lost in the hypnotic warmth and resonance of surging water.

The ticking of that damn clock is driving me insane.  It’s one of those fancy desk clocks, the kind with a sketch of the double globes on it; you know the type.  It’s at least ten feet from the bed but in the small room it overpowers everything else, even the faint traces of traffic in the streets below and the occasional sounds trickling in from beyond the confines of my bedroom.  A headache has settled behind my eyes and is making me nauseous.  That damn ticking only makes it worse, as if the clock is counting off the gongs throbbing through my temples.  I move my arm from across my forehead, my eyes focus on the low ceiling overhead and a hint of him at the edge of my peripheral vision.  Folding my arms over my chest like a corpse, I draw a deep breath and slide shut my eyes.  Returning to the darkness is easier somehow.  I hear the floor shift as he moves deeper into the room, hesitating just inside the doorway.  He is looking at me now—I can feel it—waiting to be acknowledged.  My mouth is bone dry and I know sitting up will only make my headache worse, but I do it anyway.  With one quick heave I swing my feet around and settle into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.  I rub my temples, look at him, then look away.  He just stands there staring at me with those sad eyes.  He looks…not sick exactly, but…he doesn’t look like himself.  Pale.  He looks pale and pasty, like he hasn’t slept in a very long time.  I finally ask him what he’s doing there.  He smiles, and it’s the saddest goddamn smile I’ve ever seen, and says he came to say goodbye, that they allowed him a few minutes to come and say goodbye.  It’s only Bernard…why am I so frightened?  Because he’s no longer alive, or because I sense he’s not alone?  I clear my throat, reach for a small cup of water on the nightstand and take a quick sip.  I nod to Bernard and tell him I’m sorry about what happened.  I try to explain just how sorry I am but he smiles that sad smile again and holds up a hand like…like he’s telling me there’s no need for explanations.