Claire DeWitt and the Bohemian Highway (30 page)

“You’re a good kid,” I said to Rob, and I meant it. Maybe in some other lifetime he’d get days off for good behavior. Maybe even in this one. He hadn’t killed Paul and we both knew it. I didn’t know anyone willing to take the rap for someone they loved. Not in the Kali Yuga. But he was. “But, see, no one will believe your story. Ever. It isn’t true and we both know it. The best thing you can do for her now is tell me the truth.”

“Fuck,” he said. He started to cry harder.

“You can’t save her,” I said. “I know you want to. I admire you for trying, I really do. But it will not reflect well on her if the new boyfriend tries to take the blame. It won’t make her look very nice.”

I didn’t know if that was true or not but it sounded good.

“You were at the house,” I said. “
His
house. You were with Lydia. So what happened? Paul came in?”

He sniffed and looked around for a miracle and didn’t find one. Maybe God would be dishing some out tomorrow, but he was all out today, here in Berkeley.

“Yeah,” he finally said, head down, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what happened.”

“Yeah?” I said. I tried to sound gentle. It worked.

“He—he came in while I was there,” Rob began. I could tell he was going to tell me everything. It was all over now. He swallowed and went on: “She thought—we thought—he’d be long gone, but his car broke down. Fucking alternator.” He said it bitterly, as if it were the car’s fault Paul was dead. The alternator broke down so Paul had to die. Nothing to be done about it. “So he walked in on us. We weren’t—I mean, not literally. We were on the sofa and we were just kind of, kind of fooling around.

“So he comes in and, you know, it’s crazy. Of course it’s crazy. I mean, this guy just walked in on some other guy practically screwing his wife, I would freak out too. I mean, I understand that. But. I don’t know. This rage, this fucking rage from both of them, it was nuts. It was like—Jesus, like they hated each other. I mean—Jesus, I know this sounds crazy.”

“Nothing sounds crazy to me,” I said.

His sobs slowed down and he shivered a little.

“It was like I knew,” he said. Now there was something in his eyes, something real. “Somehow, the way they looked at each other, the way they were yelling. I had this thought, this horrible idea—we are not all leaving this room alive. And I started to freak out but I told myself, you know, just chill out. It’s just a fight and yeah, it’s upsetting, but just take it easy. We’re all adults and we’re going to sort this out.”

“But that’s not what happened,” I said.

Rob shook his head. “They were screaming about, you know, everything. P—he was all,
I knew it, I knew you never loved me, you were always screwing around
, and she was all,
The funny thing is I
did
love you, you prick, before you ruined it all.
You know the things people say.”

I nodded. I did know. All it took was one word, I saw now. One word to end it all. Or begin again.

“So they’re yelling for a long time and I’m just sitting there. And like I said—I mean, I was just getting more and more anxious. Just kind of freaking out, because, I don’t know. I guess . . .”

“Yes?” I prodded, gently.

“I didn’t see it at the time. But now, I guess the way they were fighting was like how my parents used to fight, fight before they would
really
fight, like try to kill each other and stuff. And they almost did, a few times. Like once my mom was in a coma and they didn’t even know if she was going to make it. They were actually waiting outside to arrest my dad for murder, but then she didn’t die. But then she did die, from cancer. But it was like that, like that energy in the air.”

Suddenly my face was wet and I realized I was crying too. I felt bad for the kid. I felt bad for all of us, for the whole fucking world. Our fucking hearts. No wonder they were so hard to come by these days. They were hiding from us, trying to preserve what little life they had left for someone who would appreciate them. Or at least not murder them.

“So they’re fighting, and then somehow Lydia has my gun. Then I knew—I mean, I really knew. At least one of us wasn’t getting out alive. So—”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You had a gun? And Lydia somehow suddenly had it? Did you give it to her?”

He shook his head. “I never would have done that. I grew up in the country, guns were a part of life. I mean, we used them in bad ways, like when my parents fought, but also we needed them for rattlesnakes and mountain lions and shit. You don’t call nine-one-one out there. That’s the only reason I had one. Just used to having it around, just used to feeling protected like that. And then, you know, living on the streets and stuff. I mean, I took good care of it. I never, like, abused it or anything. Almost no one even knew I had that thing.”

I figured before that night he’d had two things he was proud of in his short, miserable life: his gun and his relationship with Lydia. Now both were ruined.

“But bringing a gun into, you know, into a home like that, into an argument, I never would have done that. Never.” He stopped and looked at the floor. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“I don’t think so either,” I said. “But I don’t understand. Then how’d Lydia get it?”

“Well,” he said, a little shamefaced, as if he didn’t want to admit it. “I had it in my pack. My backpack. I was staying in this squat in Oakland and—” He looked at me. “Okay. The real truth is, I think she took it earlier. I thought it was in my pack, see, because that’s where I kept it, ’cause I was staying at this place in Oakland that wasn’t very safe, so I was just keeping it with me. But honestly, I can’t tell you the last time I saw it. She could have taken it just when Paul came in or she could have taken it, like, a week before.”

“And you’re sure it was your gun?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “A Colt. I’d had that gun since I was a kid.” He frowned.

“Do you know what happened to it?” I asked. “If we can find it, we can get it entered into evidence, and then maybe you can get it back someday.”

He shook his head. “We tossed it in the bay.”

“So let’s go back,” I said. “So they were fighting, and suddenly Lydia had your gun.”

He nodded. “And
he
—” I noticed he couldn’t say Paul’s name. “When she got the gun, it was like . . . like all the anger just went out of him. All the fire. And he just got this look on his face, this mean look
.
Like, defeated, but
mean.
It was like—like Lydia, like me, like the whole world had just sucked all the nice out of him. Like there was just nothing good left. And Lydia’s still screaming, you know,
You stupid son of a bitch, look what you made me do. I hate you, I fucking hate you.
And he’s just sitting there.”

Rob didn’t say anything for a second.

“He knew what she was going to do, didn’t he?” I said.

Rob nodded. “I think so. It was so—” He started to cry again. “I
do
think he knew. Like I knew. Like we all knew but her, you know: This is happening. It was like, Jesus Christ. Like we were on a train and we couldn’t get off. Or
didn’t
get off. Like we could have stopped, but—”

He didn’t finish his sentence.

“So then?”

Rob wiped his nose with his hand. “So then. She’s yelling and screaming, you know, waving the gun around, saying he’s cheating on her, that he never loved her, all this stuff. And she screams and she screams until she runs out. Just empty.

“And then Paul, he just looks at her and he says,
I can’t believe I thought I loved you.
”

We both knew what was coming next.

“That was it,” he said. “Lydia pulled the trigger.”

He shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it.

“I got up and, you know, I tried to stop her. I mean, as soon as I saw she had my Colt, I tried—Jesus. It was just like it. Just like when . . .”

Again I felt bad for the kid. I didn’t know how many times you were supposed to watch your mother and father kill each other in one lifetime. But his karma was his, and there was nothing I could do to change that.

“You know none of this is your fault, right?” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. “Lydia and Paul decided on this a long time ago. Long before any of us were born.”

He looked at me. “You really believe that? Like reincarnation, and choosing your own life and all that shit?”

I looked him right in the eye. “Absolutely,” I said. I had no idea if I believed it. “And I know this. You didn’t come here just to be, you know, the guy with the gun. You have your own things to do. And when all this is over, you need to get back on track and do them, okay? Do you know what I mean?”

He nodded. He understood, or I hoped he did.

“You have your music,” I said. I tried to think of something else he had. “And you’re young,” I said. He didn’t say anything.

“So what happened next?” I asked. “After she shot him?” Now I couldn’t say his name either, or hers. The words felt like dirt in my mouth, like old leaves and rot.

“She shot him,” he said again, and I realized what a relief it was for him, to say it out loud, but also how excruciating. “She shot him, and, you know. I mean, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen that, close range—”

I nodded.

“It’s like this little explosion. And then it takes a second. I mean, at first it’s just like a hole in his shirt. And then the blood.”

“I know,” I said, and I realized I was shivering. “I’ve seen it.” I’d shot a man at close range, but somehow before that moment I had never actually imagined it happening to Paul. How scared he must have been, so alone . . .

I sat back down on the bed.

“His eyes were open—I think he lived for like a second or two. Or maybe he just looked alive. But it was a few seconds before the blood started, and Lydia, she just stood there. Just watched him die. It only took a few seconds, there was nothing to do. Then, I guess we both freaked out,” he said. “I mean, Lydia—it was like she just couldn’t fucking believe it. She was just
Oh my God, oh my God.
You know, just total horror. I mean, she was even calling his name, like he wasn’t dead. I had to take her and get her out of there. She was all, like, trying to pick him up and shit. I was like, Girl, it’s too late. You did it.”

“So you got her out of the house,” I said.

He nodded. “I grabbed her and we just ran, at first. I was pretty sure no one saw us, but it was a while before I was even thinking like that. I mean, we just ran.”

“And on the way out,” I said, “Lydia grabbed both sets of keys—hers and Paul’s. She grabbed the keys and locked the door behind her, just like she always did.”

Rob looked at me. “Yeah. How’d you know? She did take both sets of keys. I mean, it was just something she always did—lock the door behind her.”

Habits die hard. Harder than people, apparently.

“A few days later I tossed them in the trash in Berkeley,” he said. “Anyway, that night.
That
night. So we just ran out and I started thinking. We’d just committed a murder and we needed, like, an alibi and all that shit. Like on TV. And Lydia, she couldn’t even think. So I made up this story—Lydia, it wasn’t you. Someone else killed Paul. You’re gonna go to the Make-Out Room, make sure some people see you there, and then when you go home, late, you’re gonna find there’s been a robbery. And the weird thing was, it was like she believed me. I just kept saying, ‘Everything’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna fix it all. It never happened.’ And by the time she got home that night, I think she kinda believed it. I mean, at first she knew she was lying, but then I don’t think she did. I think it was like she, you know, like in her mind she just covered up the whole thing.”

“So you went back to the house,” I said.

“No,” he said. “First I got rid of the gun. Tossed it in the bay. I mean, you watch a lot of cop shows and you figure out what to do. Get rid of the gun. Figure out an alibi. Lucky Lydia took those extra keys, because I used them to get back in the house and go down to the studio. I just—Jesus, that was the worst. I mean, he was there and I just pretended I didn’t know. With the—anyway. So I got Lydia’s car, went to the house, made sure no one was looking, grabbed some gear from the studio, and split.”

“And you also locked the door behind you,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, regretful. “It was completely fucking stupid. I should have left the door open and left the keys in the house. I thought of it like an hour later. But it was already too late.”

“So what happened to the guitars?” I asked.

He made a face. “I ditched them,” he said. “I drove out to this place in Oakland, this place I know, like an abandoned lot, and I just ripped them all apart. Just fucking smashed them all to pieces, then I burned them. Then a few days later I went by and cleaned up what was left and put it in the trash.”

“Except the Wandre,” I said.

He nodded.

“Where is it?” I said.

“At my friend’s place,” he said. “My friend who lives down in Santa Cruz. I told him I’d ripped it off from this rich couple in the Mission and asked him to hold on to it until things cooled down. It was so—it’s just so fucking beautiful. Like a fucking work of art. When I was busting up the other ones I had it there and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

Is the thing we love always our downfall? Always our destruction?

I reached into my purse and he looked a little scared, like I was going to pull out something even worse than my gun. Instead I took out a pen and paper, stood up, and handed them to him.

“Your friend,” I said. “Name and address.”

He looked at me like I was kidding.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” he said. He started to cry again. He wrote down the name and address. I thought he was crying over the guilt of his involvement in taking a human life. I was wrong.

“I want to see her,” he said in between sobs, face wet and red. “I miss her so much. Can’t I just see her? I haven’t seen her since that night. I didn’t want anyone to see us together.”

I looked outside. It was raining, and so foggy that I could hardly see across the street. I wondered if there was fog like this in the other yugas. Or just here, in the Kali Yuga, where the lights had been turned off and no one knew how to turn them back on.