Not today, p.13
Not Today, page 13
• • •
“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” Christine said, and Charlie looked to see if she was kidding. She looked serious, but there was a hint of humor in her eyes.
“Look,” he said, joining her on the couch. They were in his apartment, which he had spent the entire afternoon cleaning and rearranging. Christine had that effect on him. “We’ve both been lucky enough to get Covid tests, and we’re both negative. So, that should put you at least somewhat at ease.”
“Somewhat,” she agreed. “But we’re not going in that bedroom, Charles. Nor are we ‘doing it out here,’ which I know you were about to say.”
He laughed and shook his finger at her. “You! You know me well.” He leaned close suddenly and kissed her on the lips. It was a soft, gentle kiss, with no urgency to turn into anything more.
She kissed him back. Then, when he pulled away, he saw that she felt as he did, so he kissed her again, with more passion this time, but still with no push to do anything more. It was a kiss that said it was just fine remaining a kiss. It was a kiss that asked politely, with love, for more kissing. So, they kissed some more, with hands caressing one another’s face. Like teenagers, for whom kissing was a new discovery.
After a few minutes, he sat back and saw that she was looking at him, her walls coming down. She smiled a sweet, self-conscious smile and looked down.
“I have church in the morning, at ten,” she whispered.
“No, I don't think you do.”
“I do. Oh, wait. I don’t. This virus—”
He smiled. “I could get used to this virus.”
She frowned. “Don’t say that. Real people are sick with this thing!”
He shook his head, still smiling. “You are such a good girl.”
She smiled back. “Sure you don’t mean a nice girl?”
“I guess we’ll see … no church.” He smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “But seriously, I am now a gentleman.”
He saw her dubious look. “I know how you are Charles.”
“I’ve changed since we were together before, but don’t take my word for it—spend time with me. I’ll be ever the gentleman, and if it doesn’t work for you, stop. I won’t push you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Now she leaned over and kissed him lightly then passionately. When they stopped, she watched his expression, which was one of curiosity.
“Have you given any more thought to what I asked?”
She turned to him. “What did you ask?”
“About a possible murder sometime in the past, about these weird phone calls that Officer Hart and then Dora Ellison were getting, and how any of that might be tied to the goings on at City Hall, and to Hart’s death. If anyone would know about that part of it, you would.”
She folded one leg beneath her, swinging the other gently, grazing the floor. “The dysfunction at City Hall is so thick you could cut it with a knife. But what you’ve described sounds more like a focused conspiracy that’s somehow covering up a murder, probably two murders. I’m not sure you’d get enough people at City Hall who are on the same page to be involved in something like that, not unless we were talking about a very small coverup. Everyone is at everyone else’s throats. Very little of the teamwork needed for a conspiracy.”
Charlie considered what she said. “Hmm … You know what is needed?”
“What?”
He took her chin in his hands and pulled her to him. “More kissing.”
She could not disagree.
Chapter 18
Frank Patella, or Cranky Franky, as he was known by those he spent most of his time with, was late for work. He had been late for work, or had been a no show, most days for the past nineteen years. This was his own private joke, since he had been technically and happily employed by the same employer in a capacity that was never mentioned, except on his original work form, and was wholly unrelated to his actual job—except in name. He was a messenger. He was The Messenger.
Franky also spent nearly an hour every day watering and feeding his beloved flowers. They graced the windowsills and the tables arranged in front of each of his windows. There were orchids and petunias, zinnias and geraniums, begonias and nasturtiums—all surrounded by ivy and heather. He planned to add bonsai trees and self-contained hydroponic gardens.
These were his babies. His family. He did not go to work until he gave them some love.
The city had originally hired Franky as a messenger, to deliver envelopes between departments. That he had, in fact, become a different sort of messenger was probably an attempt at humor by someone somewhere. Perhaps not a coincidence. Franky didn’t believe in coincidences, and he didn’t give any of this much thought, except to smile now and then to himself about this private joke, and to look up and nod to his Uncle Sal, wherever he was—probably not up, if he gave it any thought, which he did not.
If he were to be honest, also unlikely, he would have had to admit that his job did not always entail sending a message. At times, it did. But, at times, his job was to clean up a mess, to make it go away. Maybe he should then be called a janitor or a cleaner, or maybe a magician, since the mess often simply disappeared.
He sang softly to his orchids, pouring just a little bit of lukewarm water into each of their containers. Today, he was doing both jobs—he was sending a message, which also involved a cleanup. Rare, but it happened.
He added water to his annuals and to their miniature ground cover, smiling and singing softly. “I see trees so green, red roses, too. I see them bloom for me and you. And I think to myself what a wonderful world …”
In the past, he’d had to be careful about keeping track of the routes he took to his destinations and who might have seen him on the way. But now, because of this corona virus pandemic, he wore a face mask, covering the lower half of his face. It was, in fact, a bandana, and at any other point in his life, he could only have worn a bandana over his face if it were Halloween, or if he were robbing a bank, something he had never done … yet. He was always open to new experiences.
Today, people all over were wearing masks, as medical authorities suggested. This virus was no joke. The only fools who weren’t wearing masks were those who were okay with infecting their fellow citizens or risking infections themselves. The low that people sank to amazed him. What was the world coming to?
Yes, today, he would be late for his job. His aftercare required him to be at a twelve-step meeting, and today, it had been Narcotics Anonymous, and it had been his turn to share.
So, he had told a story—the story. Why he had become an addict, though he could not be sure he would not have become an addict, anyway. Maybe it was genetic. He explained why he had become violent, though he could not say for sure he would not have become violent, anyway. He had once cared for someone, and she had cared for him. He had once trusted someone, and she had been trustworthy. He had once loved someone, or perhaps he loved her in hindsight. No, he had loved her. He had given himself to her. And because his life had been such a dangerous jungle, their love had been like the sun coming out after a terrible storm.
No matter how he looked at it, she had been special. They had been so young, barely more than kids, yet he remembered their love as fully grown love. And she had been beautiful. She had the pick of many boys, yet she had chosen him, at least for a time. Until—
Yes, today, he would be late for delivering his message, because he was first delivering another message—about the dangerous interplay between love and addiction. The story of Frank and Anne.
• • •
The medical facility, which housed the groups that C3 was mandated to attend, was actually a complex of three low, brick buildings that had been built in the 1960s. The complex now housed two dentists, an obstetrician, an ophthalmologist and optometrist husband/wife practice, a freight forwarder, a candy manufacturer’s corporate office, and the Rockplace Counseling Center, which offered mental health and addiction-related services, social work and, after hours, twelve-step meetings of various kinds.
C3’s parole conditions required that he participate in group counseling twice a week, one-on-one at least once a week, and daily twelve step meetings, with at least four of these being Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous meetings.
He had asked his father if he could move back home. He hated the halfway house, where there was some camaraderie and mutual support, but also a feeling that reminded him a little of prison. He wasn’t really free. His father responded that he needed structure, and C3 agreed, saying his father would be better able to keep an eye on him if he were living at home. Surprised, his father had relented.
The ongoing Covid virus situation had migrated all of these to a video chat platform. Today was the first day of in-person meetings, which were limited to the first ten attendees to show up, all of whom were to be masked and practice social distancing. The rest would attend online or by phone. Today was Adult Children of Alcoholics—ACOA.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Terence, and I’m an adult child.”
“Hi, Terrence,” the group said in unison.
“Today’s topic is Step One,” Terence continued. He was in his fifties, wore silver, wire-rimmed glasses, had thinning grey hair, and a slight paunch that spilled over his belt. “I’m powerless over the family disease and my life is unmanageable.”
Most of those in the room nodded. C3 was looking at a young woman with dark hair and a single, thin, auburn braid. She wore a too-tight lilac blouse with ruffles fringing a plunging neckline.
“I grew up in a crazy situation,” Terence went on, “with an alcoholic mom and a father who gambled and ran with some bad people. It wasn’t my fault, and I couldn’t cope with the dysfunction. I didn’t cause it, I couldn’t control it, and I certainly couldn’t cure it. So, it came out the side of my neck, so to speak. I acted out, caused trouble, broke windows, got high, got in fights. Anyone identify? Tracy?”
The young woman with the lilac ruffles had sensed C3’s interest and was looking pointedly in the opposite direction, but her energy remained focused on him. He could feel it—a spark between them. She was startled by the question. “Hmm …?”
“Can you identify?”
“With … oh, um, kind of, I guess …”
“How so?”
“I-I’m not sure I’m comfortable enough to share this. It can take me a while to feel safe.” She turned toward Terrance, focused now on the question. “Um, I did have a pretty abusive stepfather and stepbrother. And you don’t want to know about my boyfriends.”
Terrance nodded sadly. “I understand. It’s important that you feel safe. Franky?”
Franky was tall and lanky, with hair that was a color somewhere between blond and grey and floppy bangs that covered his eyes. He looked out from a perpetual squint. “Me? Heh, I feel safe. I always feel safe.” He laughed, and some of the less secure members of the group laughed uneasily. “I just don’t like people. I like plants.” His tone was defiant, as though daring anyone to challenge him.
Terrance waited, but Franky did not elaborate.
“Can you identify?”
Franky shook his head and pouted out his lower lip. “Identify? You mean, like tell you who I am? You run the group. You should already know.” He looked around for signs of approval.
Terrance was patient, speaking calmly. “I mean, have you ever had an experience similar to what I described? Or, would you like to tell us a little about your past, how you came to join us?”
“I could,” Franky said, “but then I’d have to kill you.”
The same two or three people giggled.
Franky did not. He had expected fear from these people as he did from everyone and found … compassion?
“What about you, Charles?” Terrance asked, looking at C3.
C3 shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. I guess I trusted the wrong people and woke up one day wearing orange.”
• • •
The Bay Constable employed four men during the day and two, Constables Mitch Schoen and Tony Aldretti, at night to keep an eye on the city park docks and local bay waters, as well as some of the larger local construction sites, from both land and water vantage points. Their primary tasks were to make sure that boaters and jet skiers were not too inebriated or reckless to threaten public safety, and to make sure that those who fished had the appropriate licenses, and the fish they caught were within the legal limits of the season. They were also tasked to be on the lookout for vandalism and to ensure that nothing illegal or inappropriate was dumped into the water. The constables were armed but had rarely needed to use their firearms and were strongly discouraged from doing so.
Mitch and Tony played music over one of their phones, set softly to speaker during their shift so they would also hear any alerts that came over the radio. Typically, their shift was quiet until school ended and the summer parties began. This year, with Covid-19, it was different. Quieter, and much stranger.
Mitch loved classic rock, just about anything from the early 50s through the 80s, up to and emphatically not including disco. Tony preferred classical music—symphonies. Tonight was Tony’s night, so they were listening to Antonín Dvořák. Mitch was surprised to admit he liked the music.
Just after three a.m., Mitch tapped Tony on the shoulder. “On the dock, seven o’clock.”
“Hmm?” Tony had been dozing. “Yeah?”
“Shh! Couple of guys. Dark clothes. No boat. No lights.”
Patrolling the docks from the water, they kept the engine in gear, just above idle. They had just passed the spot Mitch was indicating, on the dock, to their left.
Tony shifted into reverse while Mitch flipped on the microphone.
“Police. Stay where you are. Police. We need to see your hands.”
The two dark shapes had been bent over a low, dark shape, possibly a garbage can or a small dumpster, between them.
Mitch trained the boat’s searchlight on the pair. Two young men; one tall and lean, Caucasian with longish hair, and the other possibly Latino, stockier, with short hair.
Tony maneuvered the boat to the dock and, once they were close, Mitch secured the boat with towline.
“See some ID?” Mitch said. He was just over six feet from the two. Tony remained on the boat, having moved from the bridge to the searchlight.
Neither man moved.
“Got names?” Mitch asked, louder and more forcefully.
Both men reached into their rear pockets.
“Do it slowly,” Mitch said.
One, the shorter, darker complected of the two, fumbled with what looked like ID, but Mitch had no time to learn more, as the taller, leaner man had whipped a short, cylindrical object from his pocket, flicked his wrist, and the object, which was a specially made baton, telescoped to nearly two feet in length.
An instant later, Mitch was writhing on the ground, blood pouring from the side of his head.
“Whoa!” was all Tony managed to yell before Franky Patella was on the boat, the baton shut and flipped around to its other end, from which a thin, steel blade protruded.
Tony, Franky knew, had seen him, so he thrust the blade at the constable’s gut then pulled hard upward, slitting the man’s stomach then drawing the blade quickly across the constable’s throat. He then leaped back to the dock where Berto, his partner, was struggling to tip the nearly full dumpster onto its side so they could resume their task.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Berto breathed. “Did ya have ta do that?”
Franky giggled, loving the terror in Berto’s eyes. He couldn’t help himself. “Nope,” he said, giggling again. Then, together, they went back to pouring the contents of the last of the barrels into the bay.
This had been their first try at using this site for dumping. There was simply too much waste product to dump at the factory, which left this Clean Acres construction site and city dockage. Both were patrolled by Bay Constables. They would pass word along so that, next time, their reception would be friendlier.
Chapter 19
When Dora was a teenager, her parents took her to a family therapist. The session had consisted of her parents describing a litany of Dora’s misdeeds, all of them true, though her perspective on each was somewhat different from her parents’. At the end of the session, the therapist explained that normal children develop a healthy sense of themselves which, as they grow up, develops into self-confidence—a healthy perspective of who one is and how to connect with the world outside oneself.
In Dora’s case, the therapist explained, she had not developed that self-confidence, so she overcompensated with violence and rage. Dora had waited for them to get to why she had not developed that self-confidence and talk about the violence her father had visited upon her and about her mother’s inability to protect her. Wasn’t that what therapist’s did? Secrets were uncovered and clients healed.
But her parents denied anything like this ever happened and insisted that their daughter was delusional, on drugs, or was mentally ill. As the session ended, and both her parents expressed their sadness at Dora’s emotional disability, the therapist asked for her thoughts.
Dora’s response was to put into play what would become one of two primary coping mechanisms—silence. She didn’t answer. She kept her opinion to herself, since her experience was that allowing others to know what she thought was to open herself up to criticism and ridicule. Vulnerability was dangerous, so she shrugged and remained silent.
She was on her way out to the library when she remembered that it was time to feed Felix. She poured a bit of room temperature, bottled water into his water dish. Felix only drank bottled, never tap. He was particular, refined, Franny used to say. Dora then mixed tuna from a can with cooked chicken breast and set the food dish with the thick green capital “F” on the floor next to the water dish. Felix ate only people food, select people food.
