Читать книгу See How Small - Scott Blackwood - Страница 18

11

MICHAEL SOMETIMES REIMAGINES his brother Andrew’s last conscious minutes. He conjures up a single, wavering moment among many now inevitable ones that gives Andrew pause. Saves him from bad luck. Instead of coming through the house’s side door, where he’ll be surprised by the owner, Andrew works his way through the gate and around to the back of the house and hears, through an open window, the murmuring of a baseball game on the radio. The veteran announcer’s soothing voice is one Andrew has heard for years. Never impatient or hurried. Even on bad days — a blown save or key dropped ball — there is always some possibility of redemption in it. Andrew, standing there in front of the den window with his duffel bag of tools that says simpatico appliance repair, can see a fish tank in the corner of the den, its bluish light undulating on the ceiling above. Though there aren’t any other lights on in the house and the radio announcer seems to be talking to himself, Andrew thinks: Not today. This one doesn’t feel quite right. And he makes his way back to his car parked down the street, drives on home, his face intact.

But sometimes it seemed to Michael that it wasn’t chance or luck. That there were no decisive moments that could have tipped things one way or another. Sometimes it seemed as if an invisible cord threaded through them all, pulling them along. When he was eleven, his dad showed him a glossy magazine photo of a group of Hindu men on a religious pilgrimage. A dozen hooks pierced the skin of their chests and attached to the hooks were taut colorful ropes being pulled by someone outside the photo. “Whenever you think someone has you by the short hairs, remember this,” his dad had said, tapping the photo and laughing. But as a kid, the photo had fascinated and terrified Michael. The men’s faces knotted in pain that was also a kind of ecstasy. Their bodies leaning forward, as if into a strong wind.

“But where are they going?” he’d asked his dad.

“Up the mountain,” his dad said, leaving it at that.

Later, he’d taken the photo from his dad’s dresser and tried to duplicate the hooks and ropes in the bathroom with some safety pins and kite string. But when his chest started bleeding he’d passed out and hit his head on the toilet seat.

Michael was living in an apartment on the east side when the detectives found him, five years after the murders. First, there were the bad portents: the series of odd phone calls with nothing but buzzing on the line, two strange men asking about him at his daughter’s preschool, then the carefully handwritten note in green ink under his car wiper blade: Are you the do-right man?

He hadn’t been hard to find, he supposed, considering the detectives had talked to his wife, Lucinda, who’d abandoned them two months before. For the first month of their trial separation — as Michael still called it — Lucinda would call in the evening and they’d plod through Alice’s bedtime routine with exaggerated goodwill. He’d bribed Alice with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and sodas so she’d speak to Lucinda. Sometimes there would be long silences on the other end and he suspected Lucinda of falling asleep with her mouth open like she did after too much wine. Then something changed. Lucinda’s calls took on a manic edge — she phoned at all hours, sometimes claiming he’d stolen Alice from her and threatening to get her back. She said he’d better be careful. She said she had him figured out. Michael began to worry about her abducting Alice from school at recess or lunch, and so he sometimes made impromptu visits to the school office around these times — claiming he needed to drop off a jacket or Alice’s left-behind chocolate milk — to quiet his anxiety.

A few times on the phone Lucinda had prompted him with people’s names, places in Austin where they used to live or hang out years before. She even mentioned the murders, saying she’d seen one of the girls’ parents on the news leading up to the fifth anniversary. Something about a memorial fund. “Can you imagine?” Lucinda had said. He asked her why the fuck was she bringing all this up now? Often during these conversations, Alice, as if on cue, would begin calling him from her room: Could he turn the closet light on? Flip her pillow over? Brush her teeth again because she didn’t want a gold tooth like his? On the phone, Lucinda would pivot suddenly, confess that she made a mistake, that she missed the old days. She needed Alice back in her life. She was sorry for accusing him of stealing Alice. Sorry for the way she’d acted. She had a sponsor at AA now, she said. He should go too. Then he’d hear her inhale softly — almost mournfully — on her cigarette and could see her lying in some stranger’s bed (her sponsor’s, probably), the ashtray balanced on her bare belly, the shadowed curve of her breast. He’d say it all would be okay, they’d come through this, if they just learned to trust each other. This was their job now, he said, rebuilding that trust. Part of him actually believed it.

For the past few months, Michael had worked at straddling the gaping hole Lucinda had left in their heads. Sometimes he did this by taking Alice to a kid matinee at the Paramount Theater. Sometimes by picking up Lucinda’s slack at the YMCA Preschool parents’ day or taking on extra hours working at the men’s residence while Alice was there. Sometimes he and Alice would make space ships and submarines from duct tape and discarded boxes they found in the alley behind the apartment. But most of the time Michael spanned Lucinda’s absence by levitating on vodka tonics and her left-behind anxiety pills. They’d watch too much bad TV and laugh too loudly and long at his downstairs Korean neighbor’s jokes, which Alice didn’t understand but laughed at anyway, like the one about a Korean restaurant manager and the missing neighborhood dog.