Raveled (13 page)

Yeah, n
ot so much. It was no accident.

If Artie Fennimore came out of this smelling like a rose, someone else would be
deemed the stinker. Against all odds, I had managed to make myself even less wanted in this town than any Fennimore already had been. Pretty heady accomplishment.

At least no one knew about my appointment with Jasper. If I could cut through the paranoid
jungle of bull he planned to lay on me, maybe I could begin to make sense of Lavitte’s collective suspicion about my presence here.

“Thanks, Charlie,” I said. “I had no
idea I’d stirred the waters so much already.”

“My dear,” he
said, “you are the tide coming in. I suggest you grab your mama under your fin, swim your hot little tail back to those gorgeous New York men, and stay upstream, before somebody spears you in the back and serves you up at a fish fry.”

Chapter
17

Artie… sixteen years ago

The bullet opened a fissure in Lionel’s gut. His innards sprayed into the air like a white-hot firework before settling to the ground like cotton balls released from a cloud. Artie lowered the gun to his side while Kevin and Enzo whooped and hollered.

“I can’t believe you killed Lionel,” Kevin said. “He was my oldest friend.”

“You told me to shoot him!” Artie said.

“Only cuz he smelled like piss and B.O.,” Kevin said,
reloading.

Enzo
cringed at the description, subconsciously narrowing his nostrils.

“Told you not to leave him out in the rain all the time
when you were little,” Artie said. “Those raccoons ended up using him as a nest and when they abandoned him, that retarded dog from the Simcox place would come over, lift his leg, and let it rip all over Lionel’s face.”

After laughing,
Kevin nodded in agreement. “It was for the best.” He raised his tin can of hooch and announced, “To Lionel, the bestest, smelliest Teddy Bear a man could ever hope to use for target practice.” They clinked their cans and downed another sip of the poison Enzo had opened two hours earlier. By then, their cans had each seen a couple refills.

The air
around the garage smelled of burnt cotton, dust, and a hint of huckleberry from the plants that grew wild behind the garage. Kevin stared through that same dust, sliced through by horizontal beams of hot whiteness from the workshop lights. Artie had aimed them outside so the three of them could see their targets. With the moon in hiding, it was their only choice. The score stood at Enzo, 5, Kevin, 8, and Artie, 3. Kevin raised his gun, inhaled, exhaled, held position and squeezed the trigger in one slow, steady motion, hoping he’d found that sweet spot between heartbeats when his hand would be at its steadiest. Ping! An oil can flew straight up into the air, somersaulted over itself twice and landed with a final clang.

“Dang, boy,” Artie said, “I wish I had your eyes.”

“That’s funny,” Kevin said. “’Cuz all the ladies love yours.”

“Well, I’m trying
to deserve that,” Artie said. “I surely am. I wanna be a better man. One who deserves to have eyes that makes the ladies melt. And you know what?”

“Please, Dad. Don’t go getting all sappy on us again.”

“I’m sorry, Son, but I gotta say it. Your mother, she’s a wunnerful woman and she deserves a lot more than she got from me over the years. Don’t know why the Lord saddled her with me.”

“Come on, Mr. Artie, you’re a catch,”
Enzo said.

“Tryin’ to be,
Enzo. I surely am. Tryin’ to be a better dad, too, to Allison. But that sure don’t come natural to me.” Artie angled his head towards Kevin. “And as for your mom, I ain’t laid a hand on ‘er for goin’ on three years and I ain’t hardly said a cross word in her presence, neither.”

“I know, Dad
,” Kevin said, his eyes shifting around uncomfortably at this blatant show of emotion. “It’s been great.”

“And Justine, well she’s the only one whose heart I care about melting.”

Enzo playfully rubbed his eyes. “Stop, Mr. Artie, stop! I won’t be able to see the targets with all these tears in my eyes.”

“Go ahead,” Artie said. “Have your fun. But I’m tellin
’ you boys, all those years I bottled up my anger with customers and my frustrations with the garage—and disappointments in myself—and took it out on Justine and y’all. I’m finally learning to channel it right.”

“You got all this from a couple books?” Kevin said.

“Couple books, and I mighta gone to see Doc Baker once or twice.”

Kevin’s mouth fell open. He turned
to his dad as Enzo took aim at a bottle of sour milk some customer had tossed in the grass.

“Now I know that’s the alcohol talking,” Kevin said.

“Maybe,” Artie said. “But it’s true.”

“You went to see Doc Baker after quacking every time he drove
by for the past ten years?”

Doc Baker was the local psychologist/marriage counselor/therapist who looked like
Abe Lincoln if Abe had gone completely grey and developed a hunchback. When the good people of Lavitte had a problem that couldn’t be fixed with a pill or a scalpel, they went to see Doc Baker—and tried to avoid being seen coming or going through his discreet back door.

Enzo helped himself to a second shot at the sour milk and found himself rewarded with an explosion of yellowed spatter spurting into the air like an overcooked heart. “Yes!”

“That’s gonna smell somethin’ awful, Enzo!” Kevin shouted, and as the sour odor reached their nostrils, they all howled with uncontrollable laughter.

“You gonna shoot again or what
?” Artie said to his son.

Kevin
turned to his dad and lifted the gun laterally, his arm strong and unwavering. Without turning away, he rotated only his head, got a shot off, and watched a sack of flour spray into the air like a dusty fountain of old granted wishes.

“
Beauty in motion,” Enzo said, enjoying the show.

“
You sure put that one to bed,” Artie said.

“Speaking of bed,”
Enzo said, “I gotta head home. My uncle needs me to help him early tomorrow. He’s got a thing he’s trying with an old motorcycle engine, some rusted bicycle parts, and a near-new recliner the Kettricks put out to the curb last night.”

“Goddamn Kettricks,” Artie said, channeling his anger where he felt it rightly belonged. “Not enough money to buy their own tools but no problem tossin
’ a perfectly good chair in the trash.”

“Tell you what, Mr. Artie. I’ll clean up out here while you and Kevin get the shop closed up for the night.”

Enzo spent a solid twenty-five minutes out back, cleaning up from the shooting session and picking up litter from customers who’d hung out in the back all week while their cars were being serviced. When he got around to putting new liners in the trash bins, two huge rats dashed for cover inside the garage. Enzo hoped they’d find their way out quickly. The toothy rodents bothered the hell out of Mr. Artie and Kevin, but Enzo found them kind of cute. Minutes later, he entered the last garage bay, closed all the automatic doors with the remote, and locked the window, a new habit they’d all acquired since Bobby’s break-in. There were two cars left in the garage, Bobby’s Chevy and an old Mercedes brought in by a local around 7:00 p.m., the one whose oil Enzo had worn earlier.

By the time
Enzo crossed through the waiting area and entered the office, both Kevin and Artie were passed out cold, snoring like buzz saws on the worn sofas. A couple of the cushions under Artie looked sorrier than Lionel the Teddy Bear and might have smelled even worse. All the lights were out except for the dim one on the desk that stayed on all the time.

“Hey, Mr. Artie,”
Enzo said, shaking him by the arm. “Hey, Mr. Artie, you guys want a ride home? I’m okay to drive.”

Artie didn’t budge, except for the parts of his body jarred by
Enzo’s shaking.

Enzo
tried the same routine with Kevin and got only incoherent mumbling, something about sleeping it off. Enzo cringed. He knew from experience with his own family that Uncle Tito’s moonshine concoctions could wreak havoc with a man’s mind, the upside being that the man didn’t usually remember the havoc—only the headache that shrouded it.

Enzo
checked the time on the cheap alarm clock behind the desk. The glare of red numbers told him he wouldn’t get enough sleep himself tonight, not with the way his head was feeling. And his uncle wanted to be up before sunrise.

Enzo
covered Artie with a moth-eaten blanket that usually draped across the back of the threadbare sofa. Over Kevin, he threw a baby blanket that a customer had left behind last week. At least it covered Kevin’s chest and hips. The office was already filling up with the aroma of yeasty perspiration and wet grass, the latter’s source being the soggy-bottomed shoes of his employers. He headed to the pitch-black waiting area adjacent to the office to gather his things when the sound of shattering glass brought him to full attention. It had come from the garage. He froze in place and weighed his next move.

Chapter
18

Allison… present

Ravine Psychiatric Clinic didn’t advertise itself as such. The sign in front merely read RAVINE in flowing blue letters, probably some font with a water-themed name. How lovely. How peaceful. What was a ravine anyway? A chasm? A stream? Did anyone ever say,
Let’s jump in the ravine
, or,
We’re going to picnic on the banks of the ravine today
? No, definitely not. But saying the word aloud, as I did now without thinking about it, seemed to impart a peaceful feeling. Probably some hundred thousand dollar research grant that resulted in naming all mental illness facilities with a mandatory letter
V
for its soothing, welcoming tone. It even sent a meditative vibration through the lips and into the body. The same study had probably resulted in the earth-shattering recommendation to avoid naming such facilities with a hard
K
. For example, you’d never hear,
Yes, Jasper, we’re committing you to RockFrick. You’ll love it
. Such a harsh name would surely send the patients charging into their former workplaces with Rambo-like bullet-belts slung across their chests.

So, Ravine it was. The building failed to match its font.
Undistinguished beige brick, reinforced windows, four stories of basic cookie-cutter construction, with one of its unique features surely going unseen—limited roof access for the patients. I pulled into the potholed, macadam lot. The six visitor spaces up front were filled, as were four of the eight handicap spaces. Reaching the end of the building, I wove around to the rear, passing an unexpectedly tasteful courtyard with a non-working fountain in its center. I parked, smiled into my rearview mirror to bring the necessary mood to the forefront, and walked around to the entrance with a forced but hopeful spring in my step. I really needed Jasper to like and trust me.

As I waited for the
automatic double doors to open, the scent of antiseptic assaulted my nostrils. I trusted it was the floor cleaner and not what they rubbed on patients’ arms before injections. Hopefully, they did that stuff in a more clinical setting than the lobby or Jasper might be looking at serious Staph infection before he checked out. The doors refused to open so I waved my hands at the motion sensor, feeling foolish but maintaining the smile in case anyone was watching.

Through the glass, I s
potted a guy with a gut bigger than my car trunk, about my age. He came around from behind the glassed-in reception area, revealing teal scrubs, and greeted me with an unreserved grin through the doors. He held up his index finger to tell me to wait. With minimal effort, he wrenched the stuck doors apart.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Welcome to Ravine,” he said, his tiny blue eyes carrying a sharp astuteness despite their near disappearance when he smiled. “Sorry about the doors. They’ve been sticking every tenth opening and the manufacturer is making us jump through hoops with a warranty claim. You know how that goes.”

Not really
, but I nodded anyway.

“
How may I help you?” he said. The friendly demeanor and sing-songy voice juxtaposed with the image of the former football player who still ate as if a coach was putting him through two-a-day workouts. But it was a welcome contrast, and friendly faces were a rarity these days, so I returned the smile and it felt real.

“Hi. I’m Allison
—”

“Hello, Allison,” he said. “I’m Ray. Welcome to Ravine.”

Okay, we already did that, Ray. Step away from the antidepressants and take it down a notch.

“
Nice to meet you, Ray. I’m here to see—”

“I know who you’re here to see. Jasper
Shifflett. Smart guy. Very bright. He told me he might have a young lady visiting. Isn’t he the popular one?”

I had no idea. I waited for Ray to go on since he seemed to have a handle on the situation
, but he just stared at me apologetically.

“So what do I need to do here, Ray? Sign in? Show I.D.?”
I walked past him and signed in as I asked the question. An idle bartender is a poverty-stricken bartender, after all.

“I’m afraid you can’t see Jasper today
,” Ray said, his face emoting enough sadness that I feared for all the joy on the planet.

“What? Why not?”

“He fell ill a couple hours ago. Can I confide in you, Allison?”

I didn’t see why not. We’d known each other all of
forty seconds.

Ray cocked his head and held the side of his hand to his mouth, pretend-whispering
like Groucho Marx delivering a punch line. “I think it was the clam sauce on the linguine last night.” He huffed and returned to his normal voice. “I told Julia we needed to take that off the menu, but no, they don’t listen to Big Ray here. I’m just the receptionist. But guess what? I know food.”

He grabbed his belly with both hands and rocked it up and down like Santa and a bowlful of jelly.
“This isn’t all air and spare parts, you know.”

I felt like he wanted me to pat him on the stomach and join in the fun, maybe draw a happy face on there with his belly-button as the nose, but I had no trouble refraining.
“Food poisoning?” I said. “That’s awful. Are you sure I can’t talk to him, though? He might be feeling better by now.”

“He’s in the infirmary. No can do on the visitor front, if you know what I mean. Against regulations.”

“I’ve driven several hours to see him. Could you just ask him if he’s up for a visit?”

Ray’s bright attitude dimmed a tad. He heaved out a sigh
, but remained in puppy mode—eager to please and receptive to edible treats. “For you, Allison, I’ll check. Hold on a moment.”

“You’re the best, Ray. I really appreciate it.” I resisted the temptation to reach into my purse, pull out a
treat, and toss it towards his stubby snout.

He
walked back to his station and slid the glass partition between us closed, then he sat down on a chair that was one third the size of his butt. He picked up the phone and spoke in a hushed tone. A good two minutes went by before he finally slid the window open. “No can do on the visitor front, Allison. Doctor’s orders.”

My turn to sigh. I scratched at an itch between my eyebrows and hoped it wasn’t the seed of a migraine coming on. “Okay, Ray. I guess
I can reschedule if it’s absolutely necessary.”

It w
asn’t a migraine after all, but the seed of an idea. “Would you mind, though, if I went up to his room for a quick second?”

“Whatever for?
” Ray said. “I don’t see that you’ve brought a gift.” A hint of judgment crept into Ray’s voice.

Should I have brought a gift? It didn’t even occur to me.
What did one bring to a former genius acquaintance who had cracked like a Ming Vase in an earthquake and couldn’t possibly hope to conceal his life’s journey because his current address included the words
psychiatric institute
? I gave Ray my best look of sincerity. It worked well on customers who chose to unload their life’s lamentations moments before they were due to dole out a tip. “I, um, I told Jasper, well, he wanted to show me something in our old yearbook,” I said. “We went to high school together.”

If Ray wanted to assume we
palled around and graduated together, let him. I just needed to steal a glance at Jasper’s room and get a glimpse of how his mind worked these days. Who knew? Maybe Jasper had left me those thousand words in written form in a nice, neat envelope. On the other hand, if the room was covered in pictures of E.T. and Alf, that would be telling in another way. But maybe Jasper’s environment would hint at middle ground, giving off something subtle that could be ammo for the next time I spoke to Smitty. Either way, I had to hurry. The reunion was the day after tomorrow and Smitty would surely skedaddle back to D.C. the moment it was over.

“It’s highly irregular,
” Ray said, standing. “I’d have to go with you. Which I really can’t do while I’m manning the desk. Julia’s on break.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “Make that extended break.”

I glanced
around the barren lobby. “Seems quiet now. You sure we can’t go up for a quick minute, see if that yearbook is lying around?”

Ray needed one more nudge.
Let’s see how good I was. “Come on, Ray. As a favor from one football fanatic to another?”

He beamed. “Now how’d you know that?”

“Just a guess. I was a football cheerleader back in Lavitte. I know a defensive end when I see one.”

“Shut up!” Ray said. “I was a defensive end.”

I removed all trace of New York from my voice and let my North Carolina roots shine. “’Course you were. And wouldn’t you know that the best-looking boys in our class were always the defensive ends? Something about knowing they could protect a little thing like me, come heck or high water, well, it just made a girl feel safe.”

Ray puffed up
, then leaned down a bit to bring himself to my level. It really made his chins pop. He reminded me of a lovable family pet, if the family kept a full-grown grizzly as a pet.

“Come on, little Miss,” he said. “No reason you shouldn’t at least have a peek in Jasper’s room after drivi
ng all that way. And it is slow as a herd of snails in here.”

After
four floors of an elevator ride filled with more gushing and guffawing than a science nerd’s first date, Ray unlocked the door to Jasper’s room. Unfortunately, that’s all it was. A room. As non-descript as my apartment. Cheap, standard-issue furniture. A desk, bed, two chairs, tall bookshelf, cheap dresser, and closet. Some piles of papers on the desk, but all in order. No signs of a psychotic mind. No walls covered in pictures of Bobby Kettrick or Shelby Anderson. No ode to aliens. In fact, no pictures at all.

“I don’t see a yearbook,” Ray said. “Was he going to leave it for you?”

I glanced around. Ray was right. Scary piles of yearbooks, catalogued by year and threat level, didn’t surround Jasper’s phone the way I’d imagined. “Maybe he didn’t have a chance to get it out.”

“You wanna check the bookshelf?” Ray asked. “I can let you do that.”

I crossed the hardwood floor, picking up the faint scent of spicy deodorant from a flannel shirt hanging on the back of Jasper’s desk chair. Then I ran my finger along the top bookshelf. One picture had found its way into the room, after all. A dusty, framed photo sat almost sideways on the shelf, its edge in place like a book spine. I pulled it out. Jasper and his mom. Jasper sported a beard, wild and bushy like his teenage do, but he had much less hair up top. On his nose, wire-rim glasses shielded pinpoint pupils. Medicated, probably. His thin right arm, its gauntness noticeable even in a vintage suede jacket, hung over the bony shoulders of his mother. The picture must have been shot when she was at the end, someone having nudged them together on the hospital bed for one last image before her death. Still, the resemblance between mother and son came through. Not that Jasper would take that as a compliment. His mom’s pallor resembled plasterboard, her eyes hollow like lightly penciled outlines of life. Maybe the picture was turned because he only wanted to be reminded of his mother periodically, when he felt strong. More likely, though, if the stories of Jasper’s paranoia were true, he didn’t want his dead mother watching him through the picture. Judging.

His mom’s face drew me in.
There was something amiss in her sad and tired expression. Concern or fear. Over what? Her son’s fate? His future without her?

“D
id you know his mom?” Ray asked.

“Yes,” I said,
though she and I had never exchanged a word. “Sweet woman. Sad that she died so young.”

“He told me once that she was his rock. Said she’d given him
only one bad piece of advice her whole life.”

“What was that?”

“No idea. Only said he’d remedy it one day.”

I scanned the rest of the bookshelf, curious if Jasper
really had been looking at my picture when we spoke on the phone. No yearbooks, only philosophy books, science fiction by Phillip Dick and Ray Bradbury, lots of military non-fiction, and a stack of psychology journals. Must have been a rip-roaring whirlwind of fun in Jasper’s head.

From down the hall, a
woman’s voice entered the room before she did. “Ray, what are you doing in Mr. Shifflett’s room? Don’t you know he’s in the infirmary?”

Ray shifted from foot to foot, while his eyes took a quick liking to the floor. I owed him.
I grabbed the first book I saw from the middle shelf and held it out triumphantly. “Found it!” I said to the slender, thirty-something brunette woman in the white slacks and practical shoes who appeared at the door. Despite her attempt at stern disapproval over Ray’s intrusion, her lack of wrinkles and relaxed stance indicated that her default attitude was mellow and approachable. Definitely a white wine kind of gal, one glass a night, who kicked it up to a watered-down appletini on Fridays.

“Hi
,” I said. “I’m Jasper’s high school girlfriend. He called me earlier and asked me to pick up this book. Wanted me to read a selection at our reunion since he can’t be there.” I tilted my head and worked up a sentimental pucker, as if remembering a solemn oath. “Promised each other senior year that we’d do that at the fifteen-year reunion.” I hoped Ray wasn’t appreciating the ease with which I could lie.