Morning Rain
I turned over in bed, letting my face sink down into the pillow. I wrapped myself in the heavy blanket as if it was a cocoon, pulling it over my head, refusing to open my eyes. The rain had kept me awake all night, a heavy, incessant rain, pounding on the roof and drumming against the window. I looked outside and saw a curtain of wind-blown water. Another Monday morning had arrived right on schedule and all I wanted was to stay in bed, forget about the job and the kids and the wife and the world.
I stepped into the bathroom, fumbling for the switch in the dark. The tile floor was cold as ice. I’d meant to put down a rug to but hadn’t gotten around to it. I found the switch and a row of sixty-watt bulbs came on at once. My eyes slammed shut under the blinding glare. I reached for the faucet and let the water run until it ran hot in my hands. My eyes slowly opened and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I didn’t like what I saw.
I splashed the hot water onto my face, repeating the process over and over as if I could slap myself awake. I spread the shaving cream evenly and let the razor glide lightly over the thin beard. I felt the blade catch the skin on my neck and saw the trickle of blood.
I turned off the hot water and heard the phone ringing in the other room. I let the machine get it, the ex-wife undoubtedly, pestering me for money. I turned on the cold water and rinsed my neck. I dampened a clean white cloth and held it against the cut until the towel was stained a soupy red. The bleeding still hadn’t stopped. I wrung the washcloth into the sink and decided that cutting my own throat wasn’t a valid reason to miss work, no matter how much blood I lost. I slipped into the newest suit I owned, skipped over a puddle the size of a small pond and paddled off to work.
There was a new patient arriving at the center today, a fifteen-year old boy, court committed. It was my job as a primary counselor at the Westbrook Psychiatric Center to interview him, analyze him and recommend treatment. The boy murdered his seven-year old sister.
The squeaking windshield wipers were ineffective against the rain. So were the balding tires. My old Buick was all over the road and I couldn’t see a damned thing. By the time I arrived at work the lot was full. I found a spot on the street and ran through the pouring rain.
Rainwater was cascading gently down the wide granite steps of the Center. It looked like a fountain in the park, a lot of carved stone illuminated by a row of spotlights submerged in a pool of cloudy water. The heavy glass doors of the main building were dripping with condensation. I took the stairs two at a time and noticed a sheriff’s car gliding slowly around to the side of the building. Two deputies jumped out, oblivious to the morning rain. They opened the back door and pulled out their prisoner. His hands and feet were shackled. His hair fell down in front of his face. His brown prison uniform was swimming on him.
I took the elevator to the third floor, avoiding eye contact with the receptionist. I made it to my desk just as the telephone rang. My ex-wife on line one.
“Hello, Sandra.”
“Your late again, Rob.”
“I know, baby. The checks in the mail.”
“Bullshit. And don’t baby me. Do you remember that you have a daughter, a little girl that needs shoes and dresses, not to mention food? I owe payments on dance lessons and violin lessons that you insist upon and then don’t send the money for.”
“A daughter I don’t get to see. How about I drop by later with the check and spend a little time with Ashley.”
“No way, mister. I don’t see any money, you don’t see Ashley.”
She hung up on me and the receiver suddenly felt hot against my ear. I slammed down the phone and kicked the wastebasket. A crumpled newspaper and a couple candy wrappers flew across the floor. I fingered a picture of my six-year-old daughter, turning it in about an inch from the edge of the desk.
Each of the deputies held an arm, twisting slightly as they guided the boy between them into a bare examination room. His feet slid across the floor as they dropped him into a short metal chair. He took a few furtive glances at himself in the mirror on the wall. The bright fluorescent lights illuminated his face, revealing a hint of acne across his cheeks and peach fuzz on his chin. His hair was wet and flat against his head. It was slick with a greasy shine.
He leaned back in the chair as if he expected it to recline. He might have put his feet up on the desk if the deputies weren’t there. One of them barked at him from the door and told him to straighten up. The boy rolled his eyes behind strands of dark hair.
“My name is Robert Wright. I’m a counselor here at Westbrook. I’m here to help in any way I can.”
“A little late for that.”
“It’s not too late, Domenic. I don’t believe it’s ever too late. But I’ll need your cooperation and your honesty.”
“You know how many times I’ve heard this shit from you guys? Asking for honesty and cooperation. Why don’t you be honest for a change? You’re no different than the cops. You’re all a bunch of phonies. If half the shit you say were true, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”
I put my hands on the table and slid my chair in a little closer.
“What kind of shit are you talking about?”
“Like tell someone what’s going on. Tell the truth. They’ll help. But they never do.”
“Did you speak to somebody prior to this incident? Have you asked anyone for help?”
“You should know. You have the file. Don’t you guys write everything down?”
“I’m asking you.”
“You’re asking me to answer a question you already know the answer to?”
“I guess so.”
He leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table and resting his head in the crook of his elbow. His face was hidden in the folds of his brown prison uniform. His heavy muffled breathing sounded like air escaping from a balloon.
“You have trouble sleeping?”
“Nobody sleeps in the detention center. They lay down and close their eyes but they don’t sleep. Might never wake up.”
“Well, you’ll be able to sleep here. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
I straightened the stack of papers on the table and replaced them in the file. Two orderlies came in and led the boy out.
I lit the lamp on my desk. The rain tapped at the window, leaving streaked lines of dripping water on the glass. The dark gray clouds rolled by. I jotted down a few notes, first impressions and questions for tomorrow’s session. I saw the light blinking on my phone and knew I had a call coming in. One of these days I wouldn’t be where I was supposed to be. I wouldn’t be sitting at my desk, asking questions and answering them like a middleman selling his own brand of sanity.
It was South Elmhurst Elementary School calling about my daughter.
“We tried contacting your wife, Mr. Wright, but there was no answer. We did have another number, for a Mr. Charles Ardent, but we thought to call you first.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Elizabeth is complaining of a stomach ache. She’s in the nurses’ office now. She’s asking for you.”
“I’ll be right over.”
I met with the principal in his office. He was a tall, thin man, in a brown suit that seemed an inch too short in the legs and the sleeves. His striped gold tie was crooked, coming loose from his collar. His hair looked ten years out of style.
“Mr. Wright, please come in. I’ve spoken with your wife many times but never with you.”
“Sandra and I are divorced. Everyone keeps referring to her as my wife.”
“That is awkward, my apologies. I wanted to have a word with you about Elizabeth. These ailments, these complaints of pain, they’re becoming more frequent. The nurse doesn’t seem to think there’s anything physically wrong with her.”
“You’re saying the problem is mental?”
“Emotional, maybe.”
“I don’t doubt it. Her home life has been disruptive in the past year.”
“We mentioned it to your wife. She seems to think that your daughter is a bit of an actress, looking for attention. We just want to make sure there’s nothing going on, something that we need to be concerned about.”
“Such as?”
“It’s a lonely world out there for some kids, Mr. Wright. Imagine the worst.”
“I’ll talk to her. Thanks.”
Elizabeth was too happy to see her father to spoil it with talks of her troubles, of belly-aches and broken promises. She sat in the back seat, all bundled up with her bookbag at her feet, telling me how funny the substitute teacher looked and about the new girl in her class and the presents she wanted for her birthday. But nothing about her mom’s new boyfriend, nothing about getting off the bus and walking home alone and finding him there as if it was his house and she was his daughter.
Sandra was home when we got there, waiting in the doorway. Her car was still warm in the driveway. I took one look at her, at her tan skin, the reddish glow, and knew she’d been at the salon, probably lost track of time. I didn’t have to see her hands to know that her nails had a fresh coat of red paint. Her toes probably did too.
Charles Ardent appeared behind her in the doorway. I’d heard the name a few times, usually when Sandra was throwing salt into a fresh wound. We’d never met face to face. Elizabeth refused to get out of the car. There was sudden panic in her eyes, looking at me as if I was the only person in the world who could protect her.
“I don’t know who’s worse, you or her. You both cry when you don’t get what you want. You both need constant attention. She only behaves this way around you.”
She opened the passenger side door and dragged Elizabeth out of the car. She moved quickly, addressing her comments to Elizabeth as much as to me. I ran around the car and tried to block her but I was too late. My attention turned to Ardent, coming down the front steps. His punch hit me square in the jaw. I lost my balance and tumbled to the ground. I could hear Elizabeth crying. By the time I struggled to my feet, they were inside the house.
I rubbed my red, swollen face and banged on the door until my fist got sore. I yelled as loud as I could and I kicked Sandra’s Volvo sedan in the driveway. I didn’t know what else to do. Sandra would be calling the police. That much, I knew.
I sat on the couch in the living room with a bag of frozen corn on my face, pouring over the case file on Domenic Lamb. Apparently, there had been allegations of sexual abuse by the step-father, Jimmy King. But they’d never been substantiated. There were comments about Domenic’s propensity for lying, his anger over his mom’s involvement with various men, fights in school and at home. He’d stuck to his story but no one believed him. The police investigation failed to bring an arrest and the years went on. Domenic’s behavior got worse.
Domenic’s mother had found her daughter’s body in a shallow grave behind their house. It wasn’t hard to find. The autopsy results said she’d died from hypothermia. She’d been alive when Domenic dragged her into the yard. There were signs of sexual abuse but it was impossible to determine from the physical evidence who the perpetrator was.
The police interviewed Domenic. He didn’t deny any of it. He was arrested and charged as a juvenile. All the assumptions from all the counselors and all the teachers and all the cops were confirmed. The kid was bad and now he was my problem.
Nobody in the office commented on the bruise under my eye. Nobody wanted to hear that kind of story. They’re much more comfortable with their own opinions, right or wrong. I watched Domenic through the two-way glass, sitting in the same room, at the same table, waiting for me to come in and start probing. He was picking at an acne scar on his cheek and I thought I saw blood.
“How’d you sleep?”
“The nurse gave me a pill.”
“All the patients here are prescribed medication. You’ll be seeing a doctor today who will prescribe medication for you. It helps.”
“Turns you into a zombie.”
“Not really.”
I opened a manila folder and started tapping my pen lightly on the table.
“Domenic, could you tell me about a fight you were in after school. You hurt a kid pretty bad. He was a friend of yours.”
“Dennis was my best friend.”
“What happened?”
“He started running his mouth. So, I shut it for him.”
“What did he say?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
“He wanted me to go with him over his house after school. I told him that I had to watch Olivia.”
“Olivia was your sister.”
“He said the only reason my mom kept me around was to keep an eye on Olivia while her and Jimmy went to the bar. He said Olivia would be okay for an hour by herself.”
“Did you watch your sister often?”
“Practically every day after school.”
“Did that make you mad?”
“Sometimes. It was like I had no life of my own.”
“Did you blame Olivia for that?”
“Not really. I knew it wasn’t her fault.”
“Did you blame your mother?”
“Everyone knew about my mother, what she was like. Jimmy wasn’t Olivia’s father. I was more like her father. What Dennis said was true. My mother didn’t give a shit about either one of us.”
It was slowly coming out of him, like water seeping out of tiny cracks in a dam. Domenic wanted to talk. He was angry and he wanted to tell someone about it, purge the anger. The guilt he felt over his crime and the conflicted feelings for his mother weighed him down. If he could just tell it his way, the burden might lift. He nose-dived onto the table like before, hiding his face as if he was exhausted and ashamed.
“Did you eat today?”
“Just breakfast.”
“What did you have?”
“Toast and eggs, milk.”
“Good. Keep eating. It’s good for you.”
I started shuffling papers and he knew our time was up. I put a soft smile on my face like a surgeon in the recovery room after he cuts you open. Domenic Lamb was my only assignment. I refrained from calling him my patient. I wasn’t a doctor. But my dissection of him was done for the day. I spent the rest of the day trying to get hold of my lawyer. He’d been avoiding me lately. I didn’t blame him.
There were two detectives waiting near my car in the parking lot. I saw them as I exited the building, standing at attention in matching black raincoats.
“Mr. Wright, we have a warrant for your arrest.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“What for?”
“There’s a list of charges, sir. Interference with the custody of children.”
“I picked my daughter up at school.”
“Assault.”
“I didn’t assault anybody. He hit me.”
“Violation of a protection from abuse order.”
“I was only dropping my daughter off and leaving.”
“You’ll have a chance to tell your side of the story in court, Mr. Wright.”
They snapped on the handcuffs and squeezed me into the back seat. The metal bit into my wrists.
“What about my car, officer?”
The cop in the passenger seat half-turned and looked at me through the smudged plastic barrier.
“What about it?”
I stood before Judge Patricia Jordan, a stern, sour-faced woman with white hair, red-rimmed eyes and blue lips. She announced my name and read the charges out loud. She informed me of my rights and scolded me severely. She told me to stay away from Sandra and Elizabeth and released me on my own recognizance.
I took a bus back to Westbrook. I stood in the aisle, hanging on to the overhead railing, looking out the window at the city streets. I watched the people and the cars moving blindly by as if nothing could distract them as they monotonously followed their daily routines. Most of the passengers on the bus seemed to be women at the end of a long day of bargain shopping. They stared at me, clutching their bags to their breasts as if I was some kind of schizophrenic ready to bite them on the ass.
The parking lot at the clinic was deserted, a light rain still blowing across the open pavement. My beat up old Buick looked abandoned, waiting for the wrecker to tow it away. The streetlights had already begun to flicker on.
I stopped at Mulroney’s on the way home and toasted my good fortune. I had one in honor of my bruised face. Another for my sore wrists. And one more for my tortured soul. I drank enough Canadian whiskey to go blind and made it home without killing myself or anyone else.
It was still raining the next morning, a cold, steady rain that kept the squirrels hiding in the trees and the birds huddled together in shivering flocks. The water ran like a river in the gutter, carrying an oily blackness with it down into the sewer. Domenic sat straight in his chair, waiting for me with his hands folded on the table as he was taught in grade school.
“You’re late.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Why do we have to meet here? Why not in your office?”
“Rules. Technically, you’re in our custody.”
“Your rules or theirs?”
I started tapping the pen against the table again, holding it like a cigarette between my fingers. It had become a nervous habit and I’d become oblivious to the sound. Domenic stared at it like it was a clock ticking on the wall.
“You’ve been very honest with me so far, Domenic. Honest with yourself, too, I think. You have a difficult road ahead of you, though. Hang in there.”
“More questions?”
“Tell me about the day it happened.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Did Olivia say something to you or do something that made you angry?”
“No.”
I was still tapping the pen, only harder now as if I were trying to hammer a hole into the top of the table. Domenic couldn’t take his eyes off it. They were bugging out of his head. I suddenly became aware of what I was doing and abruptly stopped.
“Did you love your sister, Domenic?
“She was the only thing I ever loved, and she loved me.”
“Then why did you kill her?”
“I needed to protect her. I tried to protect her. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to her that happened to me.”
“And what happened to you?”
“It was Jimmy. He’d be there when I got home from school, sitting on the couch with his feet up on the table like he owned the place. There’d be empty beer cans all over the place. He’d give me a can and make me drink it. He said it would make me feel good. After that, I don’t always remember what happened.”
“It’s okay.”
“I knew I couldn’t let it happen to Olivia. It was happening already. It was my idea to watch Olivia after school. I knew my mom would go for it ’cause then Jimmy could meet her at the bar after work. But it made Jimmy mad ’cause he couldn’t be alone with Olivia.”
“What did Jimmy do then?”
“He’d beat the shit out of me. Usually late at night after they came home from the bar and my mom was passed out drunk.”
“You’d had just about enough of it, huh?”
“Yeah, it was Jimmy I should have killed.”
“You needed help and there was nobody there for you.” I slipped the pen into my shirt pocket and began arranging papers inside the manila folder on the table. I leaned back in the seat and looked Domenic in the eyes. “Let’s keep talking. You still haven’t told me any details about the day in happened.”
“I was really angry when I got home from school that day. Dennis’s blood was smeared all over my pants and I just wanted to be alone. Olivia got off the bus and as soon as she came in the door she just wouldn’t shut up. I wasn’t in the mood. I told her to go up in her room and watch TV but she wouldn’t. I knew the minute my mom and Jimmy got home the fighting would start all over again and they’d probably get a call from the school and they’d blame everything on me.”
“Then what happened?”
“I hit her.”
“That’s it?”
“I kept hitting her. I couldn’t stop. It was like I was a different person. It was like I was hitting Dennis all over again. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Had you ever felt that way before?”
“I guess.”
“Like a temper tantrum?”
“Yeah.”
“Once you started hitting her and you lost control, what made you stop?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How did you feel afterward?”
“I was scared. I carried her outside and pushed her down into the wet leaves behind the trees in the backyard. I was sure someone must have seen me but no one did. I told them she went to Sarah’s house, her friend up the street. By the time they found her, it had already gotten dark and cold. I heard she was still alive out there, that I didn’t kill her, that she froze to death.”
His head collapsed on the table again as if he’d gone to sleep and wouldn’t remember anything when he woke up.
There wasn’t much left for me to hear. I was forming my opinion and developing a course of action, a plan that I hoped would help Domenic avoid becoming a career offender. I didn’t think this kid was evil. I had never really believed in evil. A pair of sadistic hands molded him and it was my job to re-shape him.
I only saw Domenic a few more times. We talked about baseball and movies and music, anything but murder. Some crazy judge got the idea that he’d be better off in a less restrictive environment, a residential facility with other troubled kids his own age. I hoped he wouldn’t become a victim in one of those places or a predator.
My hearing finally came up. I sat at the table with my attorney. He’d nudge me every few minutes, reminding me to sit up straight and look serious for the judge. I got supervised visitation and a suspended sentence.
Charles Ardent had walked into the courtroom holding Elizabeth’s hand. I could have accepted my own blindness rather than see him hand in hand with my daughter while I sat helpless, at the mercy of a justice system turned upside down.
I clenched my fist and banged it on the table. All that did was draw an angry glare from the bench.
Pretty soon I was back at Mulroney’s on the same stool, drinking the same amber ale. Patty Mulroney took one look at me and set a shot of Jameson on the bar, his cure for everything. He didn’t ask any dumb questions. He didn’t want any details. He just lined up the shot glasses like pawns on a chessboard and I emptied them.
“Hey, Patty, where can I get a gun?”
“I’m going to break one of my cardinal rules, sonny boy. What the hell would you be wanting with a gun?”
“That is a stupid question, Patty. Guns are for shooting, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I want to do some shooting.”
I gulped down another shot of Irish Whiskey and slid the glass across the bar as if it was a shuffleboard table.
“I’ll re-phrase the question,” Patty said, snatching the glass. “What do you plan on shooting? Or should I say, who?”
“You ask a lot of questions for a guy who don’t ask many questions.”
“Trying to look out for your better interests, lad.”
“Just pour. I’ll handle the rest.”
I couldn’t see what he was reaching for behind the bar. His hands were hidden. I assumed it was his private stash, aged for thirty years, liquid fire that put hair on your chest and gave you a set of balls. He walked around and pulled my arm by the sleeve and dropped a loaded snub-nose revolver in my hand.
“Throw it in the river when you’re done. I don’t want it back.”
I waited a long time. I parked up the street away from the light, in the shadow of a rotting maple tree. I leaned back in the seat and turned on the radio, a little night-music to put me in the mood. The gun sat in the seat next to me under my jacket. I assumed the guy worked. He had to come out sooner or later.
It was a quiet street and a quiet night and I imagined what the blast of that gun would sound like. I wondered if it would wake people up, if it would crack open the early morning darkness and spill all those sleepers into the street.
It was that time just before dawn when the sky begins to brighten but the night still refuses to melt away. It was that combination of black fading to blue. The front door opened and he walked out. He paused on the landing and lit a cigarette, looking for his car on the crowded street. He took a few long drags as if he was expecting someone, waiting for a car to pull up and drive him to work.
I stepped out of the shadows with my hands in my pockets and the gun in my hand. He saw me standing there. He must have seen the smile on my face. It was an empty, far-away smile. A stiff, burned-on smile meant to hide the face underneath, a smile that I put on like a mask when I had nothing to say. He looked at that dismal smile and came down those stairs with all the false confidence of the truly ignorant.
“Hey, Jim.”
He didn’t return my greeting. He didn’t say a word. He tossed the cigarette past me into the street. He didn’t recognize me because he’d never seen me before. We’d never actually met though I knew him instantly. I knew just what he’d look like because I knew all about him. I’d been studying the effects of his work my entire career and for once, I knew exactly what I had to do.
I emptied the gun into his belly, all five shots. Fire exploded from the barrel. His hands went to his stomach. He tried to hold himself together, trying to stop the blood from spilling out onto the sidewalk. He took a couple staggered steps forward and fell flat on his face.
I walked away toward my car, expecting a flood of people. I’d been expecting the street to fill with witnesses, watching that smile flatten on my face as I made my escape. I waited for the lights to come on and the sound of distant sirens but nothing happened. I shot a man dead in front of his house and no one even noticed. The silence and the darkness returned to that quiet street like the tide rushing over the sand and I floated away like a phantom.
I showed up early for work the next morning. Domenic was leaving and I wanted to say good-bye. I wanted to find out if he got the good news. There were two sheriff’s deputies waiting for him in the lot and the same two detectives waiting for me. Domenic smiled as they bent my arms behind my back and snapped on the cuffs. It was one of those grins you see on a kid after he hits a home run. It starts off small, a little embarrassed like it was just another swing of the bat. Then, it grows across his face because he just can’t keep it in anymore. I smiled back.
The interrogation didn’t take long. I confessed. I told it to them just like it happened, in my own words with all the extenuating circumstances. They’d looked at my case files. They’d seen all the lonely faces just like I had. They’d seen the failures and the disappointments and the victims I couldn’t save and the forgotten ones for whom there would be no justice. I pleaded guilty and drew fifteen years. With good behavior, I’d be out in ten. I wondered if Charles Ardent would be counting the days, the same as I would.