The Detonator Page 16

  I look up as we approach the extended driveway to my farmhouse.

  “Nick,” I say, “you mentioned a gun. For me.”

  He turns onto the driveway. He doesn’t respond until we come to the top of the drive and the front of my farmhouse and the red barn beside it, both of which are still lit up in white spotlight. Lights that will stay on all night long.

  He drives onto the front circle which surrounds a small green, the center of which sports a white flagpole, the stars and stripes adorning the top of the poll, full mast. In the stillness of the warm night, the flag isn’t moving at all.

  The detective throws the transmission into park, then leans over me, opening the glove box. There’s a gun inside. A semiautomatic. He pulls it out, closing the glove box at the same time.

  “What you see here is an oldie but a killer. A Colt .45 Model 1911.” He thumbs the magazine release, examines the load, slaps it back home. Thumbs on the safety. “There’s eight rounds in there and one already in the chamber. All it takes is one to stop a charging rhino.”

  “It’s not rhinos I’m worried about.”

  He hands over the gun, grip first. In my head I not only see Patty and what’s now become her persistent presence in my life. But I see myself sitting behind the wheel of my pickup truck back in 1999, a gun barrel stuffed in my mouth.

  “You sure you’re comfortable with a 1911, Singer?”

  I nod. “I’m no stranger to the range. You know that. Got my permit years ago when we started carrying around a lot of explosives. You can imagine the problems should we get hijacked and that stuff ends up in the wrong hands.”

  “Why no guns of your own?”

  “I said I have my permit to carry and conceal. I didn’t say I was a gun guy. Not anymore.”

  He grins. “I understand. But tonight you are a gun guy.”

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a sheaf of paper, tells me to sign where indicated by the Xs he’s scratched in blue ballpoint. He informs me that he already has a photocopy of my permit on file, so I don’t need to produce my original.

  I pull back the slide, just enough to inspect the chambered round. I open the door, step on out.

  “Let’s just hope I don’t have to use it.”

  “I’ll pick you up in the morning for the Wellington show. Seven AM good?”

  “I’ll be up.”

  He pulls away.

  Shoving the Colt into my pant waist, the barrel cold and hard beside my spine, I somehow get the feeling I’ll be up all night.

  Chapter 38

  Ellen and Henry are waiting for me when I come in. Rather, Henry is fast asleep on the couch, while Ellen is waiting up. She wraps her arms around me like I’ve just come home from the wars.

  “Still think the job is boring?” she whispers, voice gravelly and spent. It’s been a hell of a long night for my family too.

  “I take it all back,” I say, holding her tightly. So tightly I think I might break her.

  A voice sounds off in my head then. A voice separate from Patty’s and my own. A loud voice belonging to me, but that is not entirely my own. It tells me to confess. Tell her everything that happened between Patty and me all those years ago. The affair, the heartbreak, the destruction of the marriage, and now, quite possibly a baby who never had a chance to be born. Admit how wrong I was not to come clean about the brief affair in the first place, but also to have so abruptly broken off communications with Patty, as if she’d been there to be used and then discarded at my whim.

  But then another voice sounds off.

  It tells me I’ve kept the secret silent for this long already. That what Ellen doesn’t know won’t kill her. That the last thing Henry needs while he spends his final months on this earth is to think of his dad as a cheater. A liar. A baby killer.

  Releasing Ellen, I remember the pistol stuffed in my pants. Pulling out the tails on my shirt, I conceal it, knowing how much Ellen despises guns, as if they are capable of loading themselves, aiming themselves, triggering themselves.

  “I have some pizza I can heat up for you,” she says.

  “That would be great. But right now I want a beer.”

  “Can’t blame you.”

  Heading into the brightly lit kitchen, I go to the refrigerator, pull out a cold beer, pop the top. Meanwhile, Ellen turns on the oven, places two slices onto a cookie sheet, slides it onto the rack. Closing the oven door, she turns to me.

  “That poor woman at the Planned Parenthood,” she says, her face taking on a frightened, tight-lipped expression. “How on earth could someone do such a horrible, unspeakable thing to another human being?”

  I steal a long drink of the cold beer, feel it soothe the back of my parched throat. I’m tasting the beer, but I’m still smelling the results of the explosion on Lark Street. The acrid smell of blasted concrete, brick, and granite.

  “There’s real evil in the world,” I say. “I’ve seen it in action.” Heading to the opposite end of the white kitchen, I gently push the swinging door open, catch a glimpse of Henry on the couch. Ellen joins me, sets her hands on my shoulder, cranes her neck to get a look.

  We’re both thinking the same thing. Henry’s ultimate passing. With that heavy burden always on my mind, how could I ever lay the truth about Patty and me on her? Or perhaps I am a coward, plain and simple. A coward who can’t admit to the truth for fear it will be far too painful, not for my wife or dying son, but for me.

  “It’s going to be hard when he finally leaves us.” She sighs heavily. “It’s going to be so very hard.”

  I allow the door to close. There’s been too much talk about Henry’s death as of late. Way too much talk.

  “We don’t have a choice,” I say. “Henry doesn’t have a choice. It’s up to God now.”

  She takes hold of my hand, squeezes it desperately.

  “Do you wish we had terminated the pregnancy, Ike?” she asks. “Back when we had the chance.”

  Cold air slices through me like broken glass.

  “For God sakes, El. Never. I can’t imagine what life would be…will be…without our baby boy.”

  She sniffles, wipes her eyes. “It’s just that, we gave him this life, and now it’s being stolen from him. He had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t his fault. It was our fault for bringing him into this world in the first place. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

  “I know it’s a raw deal. You know it’s a raw deal. He, of all people, knows it’s a raw deal. He’s in pain, and he’s dying. But somehow, that still doesn’t mean he’s not happy or that he’s not enjoying what little life he’s got left.”

  She wipes her eyes again and goes quiet for a few beats.

  Then, “We’ll be there for one another, won’t we? We’ll be one another’s steadfast pillars of support. One another’s rock. It won’t be like when he was born and you got very angry and retreated from me. We trust one another now. Rely on one another. More than the average couple. We don’t just love one another. We have a common bond like no other, and he’s asleep on the couch.”

  I see my son…our only child…lying on the couch, his face looking old and decrepit, his hair thin and receding more and more each day, his body beginning to fail him. But then I also see my little boy…my toddler…who only yesterday I held in my arms while I rocked him to sleep inside his nursery. How in the world can I possibly admit to an affair with Patty at this point? How can I do it when Ellen’s heart is already breaking a little bit more each and every day in direct proportion to Henry’s deteriorating health? That the reason for all the destruction in Albany is partly my fault?

  “We’ve been blessed to know him, El,” I say. “To love him. For now, let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s just enjoy the time we have left with him.”

  The smell of pizza begins to fill the kitchen.

  Ellen crosses to
the other side, pulls the pan out, slides the slices onto a dinner plate. I drink down the rest of my beer, grab another.

  “You mind if I eat in bed?” I say, not without a sly smile on my face.

  “It’s late, cowboy.” She’s smiling, but I can tell she’s forcing the smile. Forcing an attitude adjustment. A very necessary attitude adjustment. It’s the same adjustment I’m forcing upon myself. I need to be close to my wife right now. I feel the sudden, almost panicked urge to be as physically close as we can get.

  “It’s not that late,” I say. “Besides, I need to make up for that less than stellar performance in the shower at the Cape.”

  “Wow, how can a girl refuse an offer like that?” She giggles while she wipes her eyes with her fingers. “Just remember. Making love isn’t about performance. It’s about trust and security and, well, love.” Smiling warmly. “See you upstairs, lover boy.”

  The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. Patty used to call me lover boy.

  “What did you just call me?” I say.

  She furrows her brow. “Lover boy. You got a problem with that?”

  “No.” I smile. “Not at all. Just don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that term before.”

  “Now you have,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze. She turns. Heads out of the kitchen, toward the stairs.

  Lifting one of the slices from the plate, I take a bite. The pizza is hot and delicious. Smith’s. Good choice. The only choice out here in the country. Grabbing hold of the can of beer, I drink it down in one, long pull. Tossing the can into the recyclables under the sink, I grab another from the fridge, pop the tab. I keep drinking like this, I’ll grow a beer belly in no time.

  She’s sitting on the counter beside the sink. Rather, I can’t help but imagine her sitting on the counter. Just like she were alive and well.

  You’re right, Patty says in my head. I used to call you lover boy, even as far back as college, when we weren’t even lovers. And yes, keep on drinking and you’ll get fat…

  Stealing a sip of the new beer, I feel it going to work on me. Calming me. But thus far, I’ve had only one can. Not nearly enough to cause hallucinations. But then, I don’t need to be drinking to see Patty in my head, or out of it.

  “It would tear her apart,” I say silently. “And you know it. What the hell do you want me to do? March upstairs after disarming explosive devices that your own daughter set tonight, and calmly tell my wife that I not only cheated on her sixteen years ago, but that it resulted in my having a child that was aborted? And that the woman who died tonight at the Planned Parenthood can be directly traced back to my bad decision?”

  She’s still dressed in the black panties and pink T-shirt she wore during our one night together. Her hair mussed up, the blood leaking out of both nostrils now, the crack along her forehead more visible, the skin purple and swelled in the bright overhead light. Her condition is deteriorating. At least, that’s the way I’m creating it in my brain.

  You’re going to have to tell her sooner or later. You know that, don’t you?

  “Sure,” I say, sipping some more beer.

  Alison is one very determined young lady. You know I never saw the psychosis in her. Never thought for a minute she would be capable of killing me, not to mention the antics of this evening. She makes like a pistol with her right hand, brings the thumb down like it’s a pistol hammer. I were you, Ike, I’d watch my back…

  “The police are onto her. Her best bet is to turn herself in now while only one person is dead.”

  Patty laughs.

  The long and winding road, she sings, mimicking the old Beatles song. You remember that one, Ike? It was our song.

  “It was never our song,” I say. “We weren’t a couple in the first place.”

  Oh, but it was. We listened to it how many times that night? That lovely night? The night I’d been hoping for for so very long. But a night that turned out to be so tragic and so deadly. I wonder how we choose the songs we love. The songs that mean so much to us. Must be something ingrained in us. Something deep and indescribable. Something in our genes. Something truly emotional. Like the will to kill. Who knows why Brian wanted to kill you. Making a time-out T with her hands. Well, hold the phone on that one. I know very well why Brian wanted to kill you. You fucked his wife three or four times inside that motel room. And it was a very fun three or four times let me tell you. You never lost your hard-on. Not even once. But as for Alison, who knows what her motivation is other than bitterness. Because who doesn’t want a real family growing up? Who doesn’t want Leave It to Beaver? Instead, all she got was torture and a city that shuttled her from one foster home to another.

  “She got a shit sandwich after Brian died. I get it. But that’s no excuse for murder. She’s going to be arrested and nailed with murder one. How’s them apples?”

  She smiles.

  Alison has already exacted her revenge on me. You’re next, Ike. So yes, how’s about them apples?

  Then, coming from upstairs. “Singer, you coming?”

  I shake my head, stare down at the beer in my hand.

  “Yeah, be right up,” I bark, loud enough for her to hear me.

  I glance at the counter. Patty is gone because she was never there in the first place. There’s nothing supernatural about her death, but there’s something very real in the guilt I feel now, and have felt for years. Patty’s presence is still somehow being felt in my bones. And it is a bitter cold sensation.

  I grab hold of my plate, set my beer onto it beside the slices of pizza. Turning out the kitchen light, I slip into the den and, for a brief moment, consider moving Henry. But he’s so caught up in a deep sleep, I don’t dare move him. Turning off the light, I whisper, “Love you, son.”

  He mumbles something under his breath. It tells me he’s dreaming. Sweet dreams I pray. Before heading back out of the room, to the center hallway, I take one last look outside the picture window, and the spotlight-lit yard. A wave of ice cold washes over me.

  Something’s out there, and it’s not good. Or perhaps I’m being paranoid.

  The weight of the semiautomatic presses against my backbone.

  Inhaling a breath, I turn, go to the stairs.

  Chapter 39

  Alone inside the bedroom, I place the pizza and the beer on the nightstand. Opening the drawer, I carefully, quietly, set the pistol inside. Then undressing, I slip under the covers. Ellen occupies the sink in the bathroom, directly across the room from me. She’s wearing red and green lace panties and a tight, white, muscle-beater T-shirt that shows off her pert breasts. Her entire body is as fit as it was the day I met her in college at a Halloween party during our sophomore year. Her creative costume made it appear like she was in bed with her nightgown on, cold cream on her face, hair in curlers, and a mattress strapped to her back.

  She looked absolutely beautiful to me.

  I’d decided that year to purchase a rubber scalp so that I appeared entirely bald. I bought a pair of round metal-framed granny glasses, and wrapped a white bedsheet around my midsection. Add to that a pair of sandals, a walking stick, and I was now an oversized Gandhi. We spent our first five minutes of getting acquainted laughing aloud at one another. It certainly beat trying to come up with small talk.

  We both drank too many cheap draft beers from a keg and ended up walking to the all night food truck which was parked on the road that separated the upper campus from lower. We shared a cheeseburger sub and talked about what we wanted out of the life that lay ahead of us like a long and winding road. I already knew how much I wanted to work in the commercial construction industry, but not building things. Rather, tearing them down…blasting them to smithereens.

  She wanted to be a concert pianist.

  I made a joke about how loud we would be if we ever got married. Her eyes went wide and she barked, “Loud residence!!!�
� mimicking the old Saturday Night Live skit from the late 1970s back when we were still in grammar school.

  I walked her back home that night and ventured a kiss. She gladly reciprocated. After that, we became inseparable for the remainder of our academic stay. We graduated, moved to Albany, began our respective careers. Mine by having already partnered up with Brian Darling to form Master Blasters, Inc., a firm that was financed by Ellen’s attorney dad. And she by taking on a job as a piano teacher at the Jewish Community Center. First to get married were Brian and Patty, who were still our best friends, and then we tied the knot a few years later. When Ellen found out she was pregnant with a boy, we thought nothing could invade the wonderful life we’d built for ourselves. In a word, I’d found true happiness, even if my career centered around destruction (what I called “Construction Destruction”). Happiness was all any man could ask for.

  Until Henry was born an old man, and I lost it. Until despair invaded the life we’d built, and I sought the love of a woman who, it turns out, never stopped loving me even from a distance. The foundation cracked then, but somehow, our marriage still stood. I’ve always believed it stood then and it stands now because Ellen knows nothing about the truth behind what happened.

  Ellen shuts the light off in the bathroom, comes back in, and slips into bed. I’ve eaten my pizza, but I’m still sitting up drinking my beer. The time on the clock says two AM. But my heart is beating. Pounding.

  “You gonna stay up all night drinking beers?” Ellen says quietly. “Or are you going to have dessert?”

  I feel myself smiling because she is clearly feeling better. Setting the beer can on the nightstand, I turn over, set my eyes on her. I can smell her clean rose petal scent as I bring my face to hers, kiss her gently on the mouth. She wraps her arms around me, digs her fingernails into the flesh on my back. Rolling her over onto her back, I press myself against her and run my hands through her thick, long hair. That’s when we begin to slowly slip one another’s clothing off, our mouths never disconnecting, and bodies never separating.