I Know This Much Is True (116 page)

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“It’s his guilt,” I announced. “That’s why he’s crying. He bullied him to death. We
both
did.”

I wasn’t screaming or anything; I was that undertaker out at the cemetery:
The family of Thomas Birdsey wishes to announce that his
brother and stepfather are as guilty as sin.
Everyone turned and looked at me: the Jacobses, Mr. and Mrs. Anthony, Leo and Angie. Free fall was probably going to hurt like hell when I hit bottom, but goddamn if the ride down wasn’t a rush.

“Isn’t that right, Ray?” I asked him. I took a step toward him; he and Dessa let each other go. “We were teammates, you and me.

Remember? The Birdsey wars. A fight to the finish.”

I’d stopped his blubbering cold. He stood there, glaring at me with the kind of contempt he’d usually reserved for Thomas.
What
goes on in this house stays in this house!
And I glared back, thinking,
Fuck you, Ray. Fuck the way she had to run around the house closing all
the windows when you were about to blow, and that bullshit story about
how she broke her arm falling down the stairs, and that bullshit that all
the doctors were spouting about how schizophrenia had nothing at all to
do with the way he was treated when he was a kid. Fuck our family
secrets, Ray. Welcome to the big showdown.

“Dominick?” Dessa said. And I turned to
her
. Pleaded my case to
her
.

“You want to know how many times he visited him while he was down there? At Hatch? I’ll
tell
you how many. Zero. Zip.”

I took a step closer to her—to both of them.

“Kind of funny, in a way, isn’t it? The big veteran of not just
one
war, but
two
. The guy who was always trying to toughen us up for the big bad world out there.” I turned to Ray; he was looking over my shoulder instead of facing me eye to eye. “You were fucking
fearless
against the Axis powers. Weren’t you, Ray? Kicked the Koreans’ butts, right?

But, shit, man, that one-handed spook down at the forensic hospital: you were scared to death of
that
guy, weren’t you? . . . Hey! Look at me, Ray. I’m
talking
to you.”

And he did look. I’ll give him that much: he met my gaze and held it.

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“I’d go down there, go through all that rigmarole—the metal detector, the escort down to the visiting room, all that maximum-security bullshit. Because, after all, he was such a fucking danger to society, right? . . . And he’d come in—they’d escort him into the visiting room—and he’d sit down, tell me what his day had been like. What he’d had for lunch. Who was trying to assassinate him that particular afternoon. And then, oh, usually within five minutes of our visit, he’d go, ‘How’s Ray doing? Why doesn’t Ray ever visit me? Is Ray mad at me?’”

Ray closed his eyes. Swallowed. Stood there and took it.

“I ran out of excuses for you, buddy,” I said. “There’s only so far one teammate can fake it for another, you know? . . . In seven months, Ray? Not
once
in seven months? Not even at Christmastime? Not so much as peace on earth, good will toward lunatics?”

When he opened his eyes again, tears spilled out, down his sagging gray cheeks. I heard Leo start to say something, but my hands flew up in the direction of his voice, stopping him. My eyes found Leo’s.

“I’m not saying
I
was any kind of hero. Believe me. I made my brother’s life miserable when we were kids. Miserable. . . . It’s what I used to live for, I was so jealous of him. His goodness. His sweetness. He was as sweet as Ma. . . . But that stump, man. That goddamned stump. That was
my
penance. . . . I’d sit there in that visitors’ room—and god, that place stunk; you’d get out of there and the smell of Hatch Forensic Institute would be on you for the rest of the day. In your clothes, in the upholstery of your car . . . I’d sit there, across from him, and say to myself,
Don’t look at it, Dominick! Look at
his eyes. Just look at his eyes.
But I couldn’t help it. I always had to look at it because . . . because we’d
helped
him hack off that goddamned hand of his. Didn’t we, Ray? You and me? We were a team, right?”

“Hey, Dominick?” Leo said. “Why don’t you and me go for a little—”

“All those bad guys who were always after him: Noriega, the Ayatollah, the CIA.
We
were Noriega. Right, Ray?
We
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JFK. It
wasn’t
just his brain. His biochemistry. . . . It was
us
, Ray. We killed them both. Mrs. Calabash and Mrs. Floon. . . . We won, Ray.

It’s V-J Day. This is our victory party.”

“I did the best I could for that kid,” he said. “For both of you.

. . . My conscience is clear. I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”

I had to laugh. “
Really
, Ray? Your conscience is
clear
?” I caught sight of Mrs. Anthony’s bloodless face, her frightened eyes. “You want to hear some
other
stories about when we were kids, Mrs.

Anthony?
I’ll
tell you some stories. Let’s see. There was the time Raymondo the Great here taped up Thomas’s hands with duct tape.

Bound his hands together at the wrist, like he was a friggin’ prisoner of war. You know why? You know what his big offense was? He was chewing on his sleeves.” I held up my own hands—put on a demonstration two or three inches from her face. “I can still see him, crying into his supper—putting his face down into his plate like a dog so he could eat. Like a fuckin’
dog
. Right, Ray? You and your conscience remember
that
night? . . .

“And then, let’s see now, there was the time he caught him eating Halloween candy in church. Remember
that
fun day, Ray? Hey, let’s reopen that particular case because here’s some new evidence for you, buddy. You ready? You listening, Ray?
I
was the one who filled my pockets up before we left for church that day.
I
passed the candy to
him
, Ray.
I’d
been stuffing my face all during Mass. Right in
front
of you, man. You had the wrong twin, bud. You were
always
nailing the wrong guy.”

“You want to know what the probate judge said the day I adopted you two?” Ray said. It was me he addressed—looked me right in the eye; I’ll give the son of a bitch that much. “He said I was a good man, that’s what. That there probably wasn’t one man in a thousand who’d take on what I was taking on. Not
one
of you, but
two
.
Two
of you.

. . . I’m not saying I didn’t make mistakes. That I couldn’t have done things different. But you can march down to that goddamned courthouse and
read
those words if you want to, buddy boy! March 19, 1955. Probate Court of Three Rivers, Connecticut. Because His I Know[749-858] 7/24/02 1:42 PM Page 777

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Honor Judge Harold T. Adams told his secretary he wanted it written right into the court record! That I was a good man. That not one man in a thousand—”

Let . . . me . . . out . . . of . . . here! PLEASE . . . let . . . me . . . out!

“Yeah, well, Judge Harold T. Adams . . .” Now
I
was crying; now it was
me
sobbing in front of the whole frigging world. “Judge Harold T.

Adams would have been real proud of you that night you locked him in the coat closet. Wouldn’t he, Ray? . . . That night she came downstairs with her arm wobbling at the wrong angle.
That
was quite a night. Eh, Ray? Your conscience clear about that one, too?”

He told me I could go to hell. Retreated through the living room.
Slam!
The kitchen.
Slam!
His car started, peeled out, jackrabbited down Hollyhock Avenue.

I looked around the room, caught my breath, searched from face to bewildered face. “Uh, okay, who wants more coffee?” I said. “Leo?

Mr. Anthony? Mrs. Anthony?”

Leo, Angie, Dessa, and I were the last ones there. Just like old times, I thought: the way the four of us, back when we were newlyweds, used to go over to each other’s apartments on Friday nights. Play cards, listen to music, drink beer. The others started picking up plates, half-empty drink glasses. I went out to the kitchen, opened Ray’s refrigerator. Opened four of his beers. “No, thanks,” they all said.

“Come on. I already opened them. Have a beer.”

“No, really.”

Nobody but me wanted one. I couldn’t
give
a beer away.

Angie said she and Leo had to leave—had to pick up the kids.

Shannon was at softball practice, Amber was at her friend’s.

“Bring ’em back over,” I said. “There’s enough leftovers to feed about
fifty
kids. I haven’t seen those two in months.” They exchanged a look. Angie stumbled through some half-baked excuse about why they couldn’t. Leo said he’d call me the next day, and they left.

I sat down at the kitchen table, amidst all the uneaten desserts.

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at the sink, wiping dishes. “
You
seen the kids lately?” I asked. “Amber and Shannon?”

She said she’d taken them to the mall the Saturday before.

“I
never
see them anymore. What is it? Is it their schedules or is it me?”

I sat there, waiting, pick-pick-picking at that label. “It’s your brother,” she said.

“My
brother
? What about my brother?”

She came over and sat at the table, sat across from me. “Last fall?

When he cut off his hand? Amber kind of freaked out about it. She kept seeing
you
do it. To
your
hand. And it just . . . it kept getting worse and worse. Leo hasn’t wanted to say anything to you. He knew you’d feel bad.”

“What got worse and worse? What do you mean?”

“Amber started developing all these phobias: afraid to go to sleep, afraid to ride the school bus. It’ll be like midnight, one or two in the morning some nights, and she’s still awake. And then when she finally
does
get to sleep, she keeps waking up again. Two or three times a night, sometimes. They’re taking her to a specialist now.”

I closed my eyes—waited out the urge to cry for them both: my niece, my brother.

“Give her some time, Dominick. She’ll come around. The kids love you. You know that. It’s just that for now . . . ”

I held my beer bottle over a perfectly good plate of cream puffs.

Flattened them, one by one, watched the pudding ooze out and off the edge of the plate. “Schizophrenia,” I said. “The gift that keeps on giving.”

Dessa asked me where I thought Ray had driven off to.

I shrugged. Told her I didn’t particularly give a damn
where
he went.

“You know what his worst offense has always been?” she said. I looked at her. Waited. “Not being your real father.”

She stood up and went back to the sink.

I told her she was wrong—that that
wasn’t
the worst of it. Not by a long shot.

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“Yes it is,” she said. “You’d forgive him for all the rest of it before you’d forgive him for that.”

She stayed. Helped me with the rest of the cleanup. “Really,” I kept telling her. “You don’t have to do this.” She ignored me, of course; whether she admitted it or not, Dessa could be as stubborn as her mother. But I was glad she stayed. I was grateful.

“I have to use the bathroom,” she said. “Then I have to go.”

Back to their peeling farmhouse with that jazzy mailbox, I thought. Back to him.

I was looking through Ma’s photo album when she came back down the stairs. I’d taken it out of the china closet to shove Jerry Martineau’s basketball picture in there and then gotten lost in the old photographs. And when I patted the sofa, she surprised me. Sat down beside me.

We leafed through the book together: Thomas and me with Mamie Eisenhower; Domenico in a two-piece bathing suit at Ocean Beach. . . . I opened my mouth to tell Dessa about how I’d been reading the Old Man’s “history,” and then changed my mind. I was whipped; it was complicated. She’d already had enough of Dominick and Company.

“I’m worried about you,” she said. I kept turning pages. Thomas and me in Junior Midshipmen; Thomas, Ray, and me at the New York World’s Fair . . .

I told her I’d be okay—that, in some ways, Thomas’s death felt like a reprieve. That I wasn’t sorry I’d nailed Ray in front of witnesses.

“Well, you’re bound to have all kinds of conflicting emotions right now, Dominick,” she said. “You really need to
talk
to someone.”

I asked her if she was volunteering for the job.

“You know what I mean. A counselor. A therapist.”

I told her I was way ahead of her. Filled her in on Dr. Patel.

She nodded. Reached over and took my hand. “What made you start going?”

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up at Hatch, I guess. That maximum-security stuff: it was eating me alive. I guess it was like that front hall closet all over again. . . . At first, I was just going there to fill her in on his history. Give her some background on our happy little childhood here at Happy Valley. And then