Everything Begins and Ends at the Kentucky Club

  I took the number down. Before he hung up the phone, David wanted to know why I didn’t ask how my mother was doing.

  “I already know how she’s doing,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” I said. “She’s the same.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Did she ask about me?”

  “No. I guess she didn’t.”

  “Like I said—she’s the same.”

  When I hung up the phone, I sat on my bed and looked at the painting I was working on. It wasn’t any good. I didn’t care about the painting. I didn’t know what it was, didn’t know what it meant, didn’t know why I was doing it.

  Everything always stayed the same, the way I lived, the way I felt. I was wasting my time going to see David. Maybe I’d stop.

  I took out some gesso and painted over the canvas I was working on. A fresh start. Yeah. Maybe there was a painting inside me.

  I found myself in the law office of Richard Fry at 6:15 sharp. The receptionist ushered me into his office. It was exactly what I expected: an expensive and extensive law library, original art on the walls. All the accoutrements of success. He was an impossibly handsome man in his late forties, impeccably dressed, had a warm handshake and the straightest teeth I’d ever seen. The kind of man who seduced people just by walking into the room.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  I wanted a cigarette. I had never been good at hiding the fact that I was uncomfortable in my father’s world.

  “Would you like something to drink?” He smiled. “I suppose I should ask how old you are.”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “You like scotch?”

  “No.”

  “Bourbon perhaps?”

  I didn’t respond. He poured us both a drink, handed me mine, then sat down across from me. He took a drink and nodded.

  It was very good bourbon. Of course it was. I held the taste on tongue. I still needed a cigarette.

  I watched Richard Fry walk to his desk, pick up the phone and call his secretary. She came into the room. He smiled at her, gave her a folder and told her she could leave for the day. She liked him—that was obvious. He liked her back. That too was obvious.

  She smiled at me as she was walking out the door. “Don’t let Richard give you more than two of those. If he offers you a third, excuse yourself or call the cops.”

  Richard laughed.

  We sat in silence for a few seconds.

  “She’s great,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “I represented her years ago,” he said.

  “Really?” That interested me. “She didn’t kill anyone, did she?”

  “Almost,” he said. “She was a stripper. She stabbed a guy who tried to rape her.”

  “Good for her,” I said.

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “So you just hired her?”

  “Yeah, something like that. My former legal secretary trained her, showed her the ropes. She went to school in the evenings. Then one day my secretary tells me she’s moving to Florida. Mariana took over my office. Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  “So, I take it you got her off.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t that difficult a case.”

  I took another drink. “So, you’re like this fucking saint or what?”

  He smiled, then looked down at the floor, then looked up at me again. “Sometimes decent people make you do decent things. There’s nothing extraordinary about that, Charlie.”

  I didn’t want to like him but I did. Still, the expensive suit bothered me. And the manicured fingernails. I stopped myself from taking a sip from my bourbon.

  He swished his drink around, then dipped his finger into his glass and stirred it. “I guess you’re wondering why you’re here.”

  “I’m always wondering why I’m here—no matter where I am.”

  He studied me, my face, my hands, my eyes.

  “I handled most of your father’s legal matters.”

  I nodded. “You’re an interesting choice.”

  “He was looking for a new attorney. He gave me my first break.”

  “That surprises me. You’re nothing like him.”

  “I wasn’t a part of his world. He wanted someone who didn’t have competing interests.”

  “You’re nothing like him,” I repeated.

  He nodded. “Not that you’d know.”

  I nodded back at him. “Yeah, not that I’d know.”

  We were both trying to hide our smiles.

  “You and your father weren’t close.” It wasn’t a question.

  “My father hated me.”

  “Yes, I think he did.”

  I don’t know why that made me laugh.

  “Love wasn’t his strong suit, Charlie.”

  “Not my strong suit either.”

  “Well, at least he left you a fortune.”

  I didn’t know what to do with that information. I don’t know what he saw on my face.

  He repeated it. “He left you a fortune.”

  “Why would he do something like that?”

  “Your father was a complicated man.”

  “I suppose he was. But who isn’t?”

  He was studying me again. “You look like your mother.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  It was his turn to laugh.

  “I don’t want his money,” I said.

  “I’m going to give you some advice.”

  “I have a therapist for that.”

  “Take the money, Charlie.”

  “Give it to my mother.”

  “The last thing your mother needs is more money.”

  “Taking his money will only make me hate myself more.”

  He was very quiet for a moment. “Then hate yourself in comfort.”

  I didn’t laugh at his joke.

  “Take the money, Charlie. Do some good with it.”

  “Yeah, well, why don’t you do that for me?”

  For an instant, it seemed as though he’d left the room. And then he came back. “Your father actually left the money to you and your brother. To the both of you.” He looked at me. “I have something to tell you, Charlie.”

  I knew what he was going to say.

  He rubbed his forefinger over his bottom lip. “I have some bad news.”

  I didn’t say anything. I waited for him to just say it.

  “It’s about your brother.”

  I nodded.

  We looked at each other.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know how much you loved him.”

  I downed my drink. “How would you know that?” I could hear the anger in my own voice.

  He took the drink from my hand, walked to where he kept his liquor and poured us both another drink.

  He handed me my drink, then sat back down. I could feel myself trembling. The bourbon burned in my throat. I could tell he was almost as lost as I was—and wondered why. “What do you know about my brother?” There was still that anger in my voice.

  “I knew him.”

  “What does that mean, you knew him?”

  “I used to send him money—when he needed it.”

  “Where? Where was he living?”

  “Buenos Aires.”

  “And you sent him money?”

  “Yes. When he needed it.”

  “Your money or my father’s money?”

  “You have to ask that?”

  “Why would you send him money?”

  “Because I have too much of it. And he had nothing.”

  “Why would he get in touch with you?”

  “Because—” He stopped. “I liked your brother, Charlie. I was a very young attorney when I met him. He worked for me one summer when he was seventeen.”

  I knew before he told me. Just by the look on his face. “You liked my brother? Or loved him?”

  He looked away from me. “I didn’t know I was that transparent. I’m going to hav
e to do something about that before I go to court next week.” He looked at me, his eyes on mine. “Yes,” he whispered. “I loved him.”

  “Did he love you back?”

  “He was so young, Charlie, he was so, so young.”

  “But did he love you?”

  “Yes. He loved me.”

  “My father never knew?”

  “Do you think I’d still be his attorney if he’d have known?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Richard shook his head. “I wish I would have been a braver man.”

  “Are you braver now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  I took a sip from my drink. Then another. “How did he die?”

  “His lover killed him. You want the details?”

  I shrugged.

  “His lover was an addict.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “And, well, one night—”

  “Stop. I don’t care. I don’t want to know.”

  He nodded. I wondered if I looked as sad as he did. He wanted to explain, to talk, so I let him. “When your father died, I tried to contact Antonio. I couldn’t reach him. I hired a detective in Buenos Aires to find him. It didn’t take him long to come back to me with the news.”

  I placed my hands over my face. I don’t know how long I sat there and cried. Richard didn’t try to comfort me. He just sat there quietly and let me cry for as long as I needed to. It was strange, to feel pain. I’d lost Antonio so long ago. So why did it still hurt? I finished my drink. I looked at my watch. “Shit,” I said. “I have the early shift today.”

  “What do you do?” Richard’s voice was soft.

  “I’m a part-time student.” I looked down at the floor. “And I’m a bartender.”

  “An honorable profession.”

  “I don’t know about that. It’s just serving people drinks.”

  “We all serve people what they want. You could say I’m just a more expensive bartender than you are.”

  I couldn’t read his expression. “You’re like him,” he said. “You have his eyes. And you have his smile.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you seduce my brother?”

  He didn’t hesitate when he answered. “No. He seduced me. He made me feel like a boy.” There were tears running down his face.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That was a mean thing to ask.”

  He shook his head. “No. No, it wasn’t.” He sat so still. I wondered if his heart had stopped beating. I don’t know why I thought that. “I let him go,” he whispered. “I let your brother go.” We both sat there for a long time. I didn’t mind the silence. And then I heard him whisper, “Your brother loved you. You do know that, don’t you, Charlie?”

  I don’t know what I said to him. I must have said something. Sometimes I get so tired of remembering what I say to other people. I just don’t remember. And I don’t care. I do remember leaving his office. I remember walking around downtown El Paso, just walking. I remember telling myself that Antonio was dead. My brother my brother my brother. My brother who divorced the English language and got married to another, the language my parents refused to speak. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he died in another language. That’s what I thought. That’s funny. That’s so, so fucking funny.

  I found myself back at my apartment, going through my drawers, looking for my passport. I put it in the back pocket of my jeans and found myself walking across the bridge, going into Juárez. No one went there anymore. Everybody was afraid of getting killed. You know, stray bullets everywhere. Lots of bullets in Juárez. Maybe I’d get lucky and one of those bullets would find me. I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking. I remember the line of soldiers on Avenida Juárez. I walked past them, pretending they weren’t there.

  I sat at the Kentucky Club and ordered a drink. Then I left and went into the Cucaracha. The Cucaracha was empty. The owner didn’t much like gringos. I told him I wasn’t a gringo. Told him I hated gringos as much as he did. I sat there and drank myself silly.

  I tried to remember my brother’s face.

  I remember walking back across the bridge. I remember that. I remember sitting at the Tap, getting drunker and drunker. That’s all I remember.

  I must have done something bad. Something stupid. Something mean. Must have. Because when I woke up, I was in a holding cell. There was blood all over my shirt. There was dry blood on my fists. My head was throbbing like a sonofabitch. What did I do? What the fuck did I do? I was thinking that maybe I could call David. But therapists didn’t generally bail their patients out of jail. Then I thought of Richard. That was his department. That’s who I could call. But then I thought, screw it. Maybe I’ll just let myself rot in here.

  I thought of Jesús, the bartender I worked with. He asked me once if I’d ever done crack. I said, “No.”

  “You should try it.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Why would I want to do that shit?”

  He smiled at me and said, “It makes you feel alive. Fucking amazing.”

  I looked at him and said, “Why would anybody want to feel alive?”

  I closed my eyes and wondered if I could keep them shut forever.

  SOMETIMES THE RAIN

  There’s always a gun around—even when you can’t see it.

  There’s always a finger that’s embedded somewhere in your brain, a finger that’s itching to pull the trigger of the gun that’s always around.

  And when the trigger is pulled, you remember all the shit that ever happened to you: that awful day in second grade when you were in hurry and caught your foreskin in your zipper and had to be rushed to the hospital for an unplanned circumcision; that winter night when Rose slapped you again and again and again until your lip was bleeding, slapped you, yelled at you, kicked you, cussed at you—and all this for delivering the news that her husband had died in an accident; the time your father whispered that you were no good—even as he lay on his death bed.

  It could happen anytime. The finger tightens, pulls, and a bullet goes flying through the air. That’s how remembering is. The gun, the trigger, the itchy finger, the bullet: a CD playing as I drove on a lonely road in New Mexico, Louie Armstrong singing a song about summer, about fish jumping and swimming holes and fishing poles—and me nodding, lipping the words, not really singing, just lipping. And then the rain pouring down. That’s when the bullet went shooting right through me.

  And there he was. Brian Stillman.

  I’d never been one for having my picture taken. I always managed to skip school on picture day. I was something of a recidivist truant. The yearbook always had this dumb cartoon in place of my picture that said Gone fishing. When I entered high school in 1967, I was fifteen years old, looked ten, acted like I was thirteen. I hated myself because I looked like a little boy and wanted to look like a man, wanted to look like the guys who were advanced, not mentally, hell, the guys that were physically advanced and already shaving, hell, they didn’t know shit about thinking. And thinking was the last thing they were interested in. Some of those guys who looked like men in junior high school, they didn’t start thinking until they were in their thirties. By then it was too late. But I still wanted to look like them.

  Brian Stillman, he was one of those physically advanced guys. He must have been shaving since he was in sixth grade. And he could’ve been one of those guys who didn’t start thinking until it was too late. But he wasn’t.

  I’d known him since entering high school. He was in some of my classes. And we were both on the cross-country team. I hated sports and hated guys who played them. I didn’t fit in with Brian Stillman and all his buddies, didn’t fit in with the coaches and their attitudes. But running wasn’t a sport to me. Running was a place—the only place where I belonged.

  There was no reason in the universe that I should have ever known anything about Brian Stillman. Except that something happened. I guess that about sums up living. Som
ething always happens.

  It was April of 1970 and we were weeks away from graduation. I’d finally grown three or four inches and all my pimples had disappeared. I could actually bear to look at myself in the mirror. I was trying to decide if I was good looking or not. I hated that it mattered so much.

  It was a Thursday and I had decided to skip school. I don’t know why, not that I needed a reason. Maybe it’s because I had my parent’s car that day. I got to drive to school a couple of times a week—when my mom carpooled to the factory. My dad, he had a beat-up Studebaker truck. Painted it blue. Looked nice, drove like shit—and he never let me touch it. “It’s a piece of shit, anyway,” I told him once when he didn’t let me drive it.

  “That piece of shit is worth more than you are.” That about summed up my father’s opinion of me.

  So that day, I had the car. A white Chevy Impala, twelve years old. I’d lost my wallet and my license along with it. I hadn’t made the time to get a new one. My father told me I was the worst driver ever to get behind a wheel. “You’re fucking gonna die in a crash. Won’t live to be thirty.” But my parents had bigger worries than letting me drive their car. My oldest brother was in the can—ten years for robbing a 7-Eleven with a weapon. My parents insisted he was set up. I knew better. My oldest brother was the meanest sonofabitch I’d ever met. I would never have used the word innocent within ten feet of him. My sister, two years younger, was pregnant and living with my grandmother. My youngest brother died of meningitis. My father’s grief and disappointment turned to rage. The rage was pointed in my direction. Hell, me driving without a license didn’t even register on the list of things my parents were worried about.

  I lit a cigarette and sped away from the school parking lot and made good my escape. I hated fourth, fifth and sixth periods. I was acing all the classes. So why go? The rent-a-cop didn’t even notice I was driving off campus without a pass. He was too busy flirting with a girl who would land him in the same place as my brother if he wasn’t careful.

  I didn’t have a plan. Anywhere but school. School was hell. I felt like an ice cube that was slowly, slowly melting. I felt if I stayed in that school one more second, I would disappear. The sad part was that nobody would notice.

  I drove around town. Not much going on at one thirty in the afternoon. I always thought Las Cruces, New Mexico, took a siesta in the afternoons. On certain days, I was convinced the town didn’t even bother to wake up.