Boston Noir

Help me, he gasped, leaning on the kitchen counter, and holding his arm that looked unhinged. They've shot me.

  Blood was seeping onto her clean white Formica table and collecting into black pools.

  She did not ask who had shot him; she did not want to know. She lit the candles on the counter, grabbed the light, and flew upstairs, pulling out towels and antiseptic fluids and ammonia and bandages and gauze, a pair of scissors, tweezers, pliers, and pain relievers, whatever she could find. She had a well-stocked medicine cabinet.

  Downstairs he had removed the jacket, and his shirt was soaked with blood and the blood was still dripping on the floor she had just mopped that morning and he was whimpering like something half dead. Should I call an ambulance? she asked him. Should I call the police? Take you to the hospital. She tried to remember where she'd seen one.

  And he turned to look at her, perhaps for the first time, and the hardness on his face disquieted her. I wouldn't do that if I were you, he said coolly.

  A fat piece of rage flew into her chest suddenly. Was he threatening her, was this fucker threatening her in her own house after she had dragged him in, that piece of shit? She let the rage hang there between them for a minute. Finally she said, Well, just so you know, mister, you can't stay here, okay, you can't fucking stay here. She was out of breath, winded. She could see the phone and she tried to think who she could call if this joker tried to play the fool. She'd rented the house from an older lesbian couple who were psychiatrists and who lived two houses down with their adopted son Ron, who they said had Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder, but that term, she'd come to learn, was just a euphemism for crabby and rude and antisocial behavior. She could call them. Or, if she screamed, there was George the electrician across the street, she'd met him just yesterday, and there was the woman to her right whose dog was always shitting in her yard; there was the old geezer on the other side who leered at all the young women who passed his porch. Chuck. But even if she screamed, who would hear her with all this rain battering down?

  Help me, he whimpered like a half-dead dog, help me clean this up, please. He was losing massive amounts of blood, she could see that now, and his face looked scared and at the same time slightly suprised. His full lips were loose and leaking.

  She could just let him bleed to death, she was thinking. But she was not that kind of person. She didn't think she could do that. Here, she said, dropping some pills into his hand that shook mightily and giving him a glass of juice. He swallowed them quickly, his Adam's apple sliding up and down. Then she set to work, boiling water on the gas stove, helping him out of his shirt that smelled like shit and sulphite, hauling him over to the sink where she proceeded to extract the bullet with her assortment of instruments, and to bathe and dress and bandage the wound. She was good at this; she'd been an emergency room nurse until a few years ago. She was gentle and patient, as she tended to be with all things maimed. The whimpering soon subsided. She could see he was impressed, but more than that, relieved. Perhaps even grateful. He could have bled to death or the wound could've turned septic. It took a good thirty minutes, and during that time she felt his eyes moving up and down her chest--she was stacked--and around her neck and arms which were strong and scented with ginger and musk oil.

  Have you eaten? she asked him.

  He nodded wearily. And she saw that he was not a bad-looking man, his face was bony and square, his eyes big and long-lashed, and he wore his hair cut close and even to his head. The mustache made him look older than he probably was; she put him to be slightly past fifty. He was not a very big man; she could take him down, she decided, if it came to that, she was strong. Still, he was muscle-bound, as if he'd spent a lot of time in jail or at the gym. She did not think it was the latter. He wore a layer of defeat about him that reminded her of Russell.

  You have family around here? she asked him. You married? She made her voice hard.

  Twice, he said. Two kids. One at community college. The girl. You?

  She shook her head and remembered that she was wearing her duster--and underneath that her pink gown--and she pulled the string tighter around her waist and pressed down her hair, which felt big and heavy suddenly. Did she have toothpaste on her face? Sometimes she used toothpaste to stop the swelling boils. Her fingers edged up toward her cheeks to check. She breathed in relief.

  Divorced, she said when she saw that his eyes were still moving on her honey skin, and then she could've kicked herself. My boyfriend should be coming home about now, she added, and glanced at the clock on the wall, which had stopped at 7:19.

  Got in with the wrong crowd, he said, as if he hadn't heard that her man was coming home. And now they're on my ass.

  Coke. She said this softly. She didn't even know why she said it. But he seemed like he'd do it big. He looked the kind who would want to impress.

  He sighed without answering. Then: They think I have the money.

  She nodded.

  I ditched the car and then hoofed it. Fuckers shot me.

  She didn't look at him, she didn't want to encourage him; she didn't want details. Here was another boy playing at being a man. She knew that crowd. Did he even ask his wife about the cocaine, did he even say to her, Look, love, things piling up, I have this plan? Did he even allow her to talk him out of it? How about this, she might have said, instead? No, he had a scheme, some get-rich-quick scheme, some half-baked idea with a bunch of criminals. But everyone wants to be the hero. Russell too wanted to be a hero. She thought his mustache was ridiculous. He didn't earn it.

  She was exhausted. It was late. She had wiped up the blood from off the floor and the counter and disposed of the rags and the bullet. She was ready for him to go now so she could get back to her life. Except he didn't look like someone ready to move. She grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and a bottle of Jack Daniel's. She poured him a finger, which he sucked down at once; she poured him another and one for herself, which she sipped slowly there at the kitchen table, the rain coming down outside, the flickering candles between them, the light low and soft on their drugged and morbid faces, their shadows skittering off the walls.

  She missed Fred something furious; she had not missed him all this time--but tonight suddenly she wanted his taste on her tongue, his long dark neck, his beautiful mouth with the lips shaped like a heart, his breath jagged and harsh. She imagined him picking up the phone, his surprise at first, which he would immediately cover up by hardening his voice. Then it would be like pulling teeth trying to get anything out of him, anything warm. It was close to 12:30, by this time he'd be asleep or perhaps reading still and sipping the glass of port he took at night before bed, his feet covered in socks no matter how warm the night; it helped him sleep, he said. And what would she tell him? She'd let a white man into her house. A man who could kill her. A man she did not know from Adam.

  She found another candle, lit it, and gave it to him.

  The bathroom is upstairs to the left, she said, you'll find towels too, and soap.

  She turned away from his eyes like coals in the night, and busied herself in the kitchen as he trailed away with the light and started heavily up the stairs. She heard the door close, heard him tinkling, heard the toilet flush, and now the tub was filling with water.

  She had to call somebody, needed to call somebody. But when she picked up the phone and put it to her ear, she saw that it was dead and that the line was cut.

  Motherfucker! she thundered up at him, the panic eating at her now. Where was her cell, where the fuck was her cell? She scrambled around in the dark, knocking over bottles, crashing into bins; a glass fell on the floor and shattered. Jesus Christ! The terror was at her throat. She couldn't find her purse. She couldn't find her keys. She couldn't find anything at all. She turned Jack Daniel's to her head, gulped down a mouthful, and when that didn't produce the desired result, she swiftly swallowed several more. Fred's favorite sermon was about evil. You had to defeat it, he said. You can never let the seeds of it flourish. It is like can
cer, he liked to tell the crowd, the worst, most virulent form, it spreads like wild fire. And when she'd tried to follow his reasoning about what this evil was, it was always the unknown, it was the surprise, and it was the challenge, the unpredictability. He was a careful man, that Fred. She'd left because of her faith, or maybe her lack of it. She didn't have conviction. She didn't have belief. She didn't have strong boundaries against evil, and how could she when she was always so curious about the unknown?

  Suddenly there were footsteps thudding up the stairs at the front of the house. There were voices out there, men talking, there was banging on the front door again, banging on the glass, and she stood up with a start, her heart pounding again. This time the bell was ringing too, and she sat down and got up again, she heard sirens wailing outside, and whirling lights filled the room. It was the police. She ran to the door with the candle; she flung it open wide with a wild and certain joy.

  Officer?

  He was young and fat, his cheeks like apples.

  Ma'am? He sounded surprised to see her. Maybe it was because she was black, or because she was in her duster, with her hair unsuppressed about her face. Ma'am, he said again, sorry to bother you.

  Her face must've looked weary at this point. And she was weary.

  Ma'am. He thrust a picture in her face. Ma'am, this man is very dangerous. Just escaped from Walpole. Maximum security. We're going around the neighborhood looking for him. We have the stolen car outside, so we know he isn't far. Have you seen anyone?

  She felt faint suddenly. She remembered when they came for Russell, fifteen of them for one little nineteen-year-old boy. She must've rocked unsteadily, for the officer caught her under the arms.

  You're okay, ma'am?

  She opened her mouth to speak, to tell them that the piece of shit they were looking for was upstairs now in her tub, naked as the day he was born, that she'd patched him up, patched up the arm nice and good and extracted the bullet, and how did he thank her, he cut the telephone wire, that's what he did, he cut the wire. And despite herself, despite herself, she yawned loud and staggering. Then she yawned again and again, as if her brain needed an extraordinary amount of oxygen.

  Sorry to wake you, ma'am. It's just that the stolen car is right outside.

  She paused to peer into the night but all she saw were the circling lights from the police cars and Russell spread-eagle, fifteen guns pointed at his head. And then, in the distance, George's house, and faces pressed against the windows watching.

  Look, ma'am, if anyone comes by asking for help, do not let him in, do you hear me? We might have shot him, and he might be bleeding. In fact, call us at once, call 911. I'm Officer Derrick. Tom Derrick. He took her hand, which was limp and slightly damp. Sorry to bother you like this. He was about to walk away and then he reconsidered.

  Ma'am, we're just going to take a look around the back; make sure you're safe. Then we're going to check next door. Thanks again for your time.

  She watched them traipse down the stairs, must be about six of them. She watched them fan out, turning the corner to the side of the house, shining their big lights. She heard them unlock the gate and step across the garden, their shoes sluicing through mud. She could hear them banging on the door of the woman next door whose dog often shat in her yard. She could hear them rooting around for some time before they slammed back into their cars and drove away. She looked out at the everlasting falling rain and at the streak of white light zigzagging the sky from the west. She waited for the thunder-clap to blast through the heavens. And then she cleared her throat to make sure her voice box was still in operation. Hello, she cried into the night so she could hear herself. Hello! The air felt good on her skin; in fact, it was warmer outside than it was inside her house, which was freezing.

  She turned back to her house, locked the door behind her, and leaned against it; a sigh sounding like a wail heaved out of her chest.

  Fucking pigs!

  She reeled at the sound of his voice so near her neck and ran smack into him, his chest like steel against her duster, which had flown open. She screamed then, and immediately caught herself and whacked him hard across the face with the flashlight. He cried out. She whacked again and again until he found her wrists and grabbed them. He thrust her against the wall, his breath acrid against her neck. And for a long time they stayed in that dance. She could tell he was thinking, thinking what exactly to do with her. He could not read her motives.

  Cool it! he barked, his nails biting into her flesh. Don't get crazy now, okay, bitch? Don't get fucking crazy.

  She could not see his eyes, but she imagined they were small and mean, the eyes of a man who could kill and maim people, the eyes of a man who could rape and murder and end up in maximum security.

  She pulled away and moved back into the kitchen, and when she couldn't figure out what she wanted there, she went back to the living room, back to the door where she lingered for some time watching the night, and then she headed upstairs which was damp with the steam and sweat and oils from his bath, and inside her room she bolted the door and shoved the antique dresser against it and sat down at the edge of the bed. Her face, she realized now, was wet and her hands were trembling. She sat on them and tried to calm her breathing. Her book on uncertainty stared up at her from the floor.

  Fred, she moaned quietly into the night. Fred. She was afraid. Deathly afraid. But what could she do? She had to do something. She had to come up with a plan. She had to get out of there. Or get him the hell out. She saw that she was still shivering, that her hands were trembling, even her teeth were chattering. Her entire face was on fire. She grabbed a bottle from the bedside table and sprinkled some pills into her mouth. Then she stood up, blew out the candle, and crawled under the blanket, pulling and tucking it under her chin, and with her breath, she waited.

  It rained steadily through the night and though it was at first impossible to sleep, she eventually drifted off, waking from time to time grateful for the snores wheezing through the house, which meant he had not killed her, he had not robbed her and left. At one point she got up to close a window downstairs that had swung open in the wind, and when she saw him on the couch curled up like that, curled into a ball and shivering and wheezing into the dark, she put another blanket on him. But as soon as she went to the door and paused in front of it, trying to decide how fast she could move, how far she could get, the wheezing stopped.

  She woke to the smell of coffee and frying bacon. She woke to the warm sun pushing its way through the maple leaves outside and through her window and into her bed, falling in a square on her face. She woke to the life that she had imprisoned herself in. It wasn't Fred this time or her marriage. It was of her own doing.

  She lit a cigarette. This was one of the things he hated, that she smoked; she drank to the point of drunkenness, she cursed, she loved sex, she read pulp, she liked violent movies, and she didn't always give a damn about his sermon when he was a preacher at a big evangelical church and had an image to uphold.

  It was Thursday. On Thursdays she visited her mother who had Alzheimer's and lived in a nursing home three hours away. Usually she got there by noon, so they could have lunch. Her mother used to love oxtails and she had found a little Cuban place that braised them tenderly in tomato sauce and served them with small yellow-eyed pigeon peas mixed with saffron rice. Sometimes she'd read to her mother, recently they'd been working on a book about Sidney Poitier's life, and she'd sing show tunes and spirituals with her. Whatever she remembered. Her mother had taught piano and singing lessons for years. After that they would go for a walk in the botanical gardens nearby, then she would return her mother to her room and make the three-hour drive home. She looked forward to these outings with her mother dearly.

  Downstairs on the counter he had scrambled eggs and the coffee was dripping steadily into the pot. She looked out the window at the wind-strewn grass that needed weeding; all the plants she had bought at Home Depot last week, intending to repot, were now blown to
shreds or drowned. There was still no electricity and the room was quiet, no humming coming from the refrigerator or newscaster's voice buzzing from the television in the living room. Birds were busy at the feeder, noisy old jays and a few starlings. Is he even hygienic? she wondered, glancing at the plate of yellow eggs and then at his long and shapely fingers, the nails neatly cut and clean.

  You might want to add salt, he said. I don't touch the stuff, high blood pressure.

  He closed his eyes over his food, and then started to eat. The flashlight had left big angry welts on his face. This did not make her feel bad. He ate slowly, meditatively; he cut his bread into neat little squares with his knife, he chewed a long time as his dark bristled jaw, strong and square, moved up and down. He was wearing the pin-striped suit and the wrinkled shirt underneath was white and clean. He must've washed it last night. And the burgundy wingtips with his toes bunched up at the front were definitely not his size. He must've bludgeoned someone and taken his clothes and car. The felt hat sat proudly on the counter.

  These are good eggs, he said to no one, must be organic. He looked at her and showed his teeth, which were big and bright and yellow. They don't have these where I'm coming from.

  After they took Russell, her father had a break down, then a heart attack. After they took Russell, her father was no damn good.

  She had no appetite whatsoever, and her food lay untouched, though after a while she played with the mushy eggs on her plate, using the fork to push them aside and then draw them toward her again. She had a CD she could cash and give to him. It had several more months still before maturity; they would charge her a penalty. Didn't matter, she would give it to him and then maybe he would go, he would drop off the face of the earth. That was her predicament: now that she had let him in, how to get him the hell out of her life.

  Thank you for last night, he said softly, and she looked at him quickly, his eyes big and blue and full of light. She turned away. She wanted to tell him he must leave at once, but something was stopping her.