27

Scott Harrington

I knocked on the door of D.J.’s bedroom. He had stretched out on the air mattress with a book.

“Can we talk?”

“Sure. Is it Pete? Is he worse?” D.J. closed his book and stood up.

“No. Not about Pete.”

I opened the closet door and pulled out a folding chair. Turning it backward, I straddled the seat, motioning for him to sit in the one easy chair I kept in the room. I needed to get a sense of his state of mind before contacting his wife. I wouldn’t tell him I intended to see her, but I had to get some perspective from him first.

“D.J., I know your real name. I know a little about your situation.”

He gave a pensive nod. “The accident?”

I leaned in, resting my arms on the chair’s back. “Yeah, the accident.”

We sat in silence for a moment. D.J.’s eyes looked past me, though there was nothing to see but a blank wall. It took me back to St. John’s the day I asked him what he did before living on the street.

I waited out the silence, and he again met my eyes. “I figured you knew. You’re a reporter. Didn’t expect you’d let me in your house without checking me out.”

“So do I call you D.J. or Andrew?”

He rested his head back, much like I had done last night at Stella’s. “I don’t know anymore. I’ve been a different person this year, out there on the street. But being here, in a house with other people, part of me is starting to remember how it felt to live.”

We had come a long way from that first grunted introduction over breakfast. “How can I help you? What took you away from home?”

He placed his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his folded hands for a long time. Had he shut himself off again? Did he plan to answer? Then he turned back to me.

“I don’t expect anyone to understand this. Heck, I can’t understand it myself. Everywhere I looked, I saw pain. Pain so deep it became physical, like it stabbed me right in the heart. I couldn’t walk outside my house without seeing the spot where it happened. My chest burned like I wasn’t getting enough air. I couldn’t look at my daughter. I love her so much that the thought of something like that happening to her would kill me. I’d look at her and know that’s what I did to my brother. I couldn’t hold my wife and know how much we loved each other when I’d destroyed my brother’s marriage.”

He turned an agonized expression downward. I shared that level of pain. Someday I might tell him.

“I guess on top of that, I walked around, still walk around, every day with the guilt. I should have been punished, but the legal system didn’t punish me.”

I nodded my understanding. “So you punished yourself.”

“I had to. How could I go back to normal life like nothing happened? Matthew didn’t have that option. There had to be punishment.”

Another emotion we shared. The guilt still stabbed at me when Edwin’s face—forever young as I grew older—crossed my mind.

I pointed to the book on the floor beside the air mattress, tattered and worn from use. “What does your Bible say about that?”

D.J. grinned, such a rare sight. “It says I’m forgiven. But that’s then. In the big picture. Here on this earth, there should be consequences.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever read that part.”

“Well, it just makes sense.”

I could philosophically argue that point, but it would be counterproductive. “What now? Do you want to go home?”

“More than anything in the world. But I can’t do that.”

“Why? Same reasons that you left? There are some better options than the parking lot shed.”

“No. Different reasons. How can I walk back in after what I’ve done to my wife and kids? I abandoned them. I couldn’t handle the guilt and now I’ve added more guilt on top of that. I can’t go back like nothing happened. I’m sure they’ve all moved on by now.”

“How would you feel about getting some help?” My hands formed a steeple resting on the chair.

“You mean counseling?”

“That’s a start.”

He shook his head. “No. No money and I won’t panhandle. And when Pete’s gone, I’m headed back downtown. I won’t live off you.”

“D.J., I can’t let you do that.” Even I heard the sadness in my voice.

He grinned that half-grin again. “You really don’t have anything to say about it.”

“I can help you.”

He seemed to be considering. Had I broken through a small part of the wall he’d built around himself? Pete had, so there was still the basic human need to care and be cared for.

“You’re a good man. Thanks for what you’re doing for Pete, and for wanting to help me. Let’s get through this thing with Pete. He’s getting weaker all the time. Some days he doesn’t want to get out of bed anymore.”

“The hospice nurse will be here this morning.”

I left D.J., hoping he’d consider another path. In the meantime, I would contact Claire Bassett. It didn’t sound like a hostile break up.

After spending the rest of the day writing, I spent more time looking for people in cyber space. Sam Pulkowski lived in the South Hills, a short ride across town.

Tomorrow would be a busy day. I planned to pay a visit to Claire Bassett in Wexford, Sam Pulkowski south of the city, and Caroline McMann in the county jail. I needed some fresh air and walked over to update Stella.

~*~

The clock said 6:00 AM, but too many issues competed in my brain. Along with the constant sound of coughing from Pete’s room. My body refused to go back to sleep.

I got up and set up the coffee. The sun started to rise without much promise—gray and threatening.

It was way too early to head out, so I opened my laptop to put final touches on two of the bios, but it was hard to concentrate with the sound of Pete’s constant cough.

I walked over and knocked before opening his door. He lay there, wracked with cough. The sallow complexion alarmed me. He had become a skeletal form of his old self.

Should I call 9-1-1? But what would they do? This was hospice care. We all knew how it would end.

“Hey, Pete. You OK?”

He held out his hand, a gesture that required much exertion. I took it and sat beside him, breathing the sick-sweet scent in the air.

“Scotty, I thank ya kindly for this here bed.”

The energy expended for those words led to more coughing. The trash receptacle beside the bed overflowed with bloody tissues.

“I’m honored to have you here.” Words passed through the thickness in my throat.

“I don’t aim to be here much longer, Scotty. I think the good Lord is callin’.”

“You right with Him, Pete?”

“I’m hopin’ so. D.J.’s been talkin’ to me ’bout that. Tells me things that’s in that Bible of his. We done talked to Him together.”

“You keep doing that, Pete. He’s good to His promise.”

“I’m fixin’ to see that promise pretty soon.”

No reason to deny it. He knew. We all knew. “We’re here with you.”

Pete reached for my hand again and curled his fingers around mine. The strength in his grip surprised me, but the voice was a whisper. “Take care of my boy, Scotty.”

I tilted my head. “Your boy?”.

“Deej. My boy. Lots troubling him.”

I nodded. “I’ll watch out for him, Pete. You’ve got my word.”

He closed his eyes and drifted into a rasping sleep.

At 9:00 that morning, I placed a call to Mary Anne Marshall.

“I wanted to update you. We brought your father to my home to ride out the end of this illness. The hospice nurse agrees we’re looking at the last few days. I wanted you to know.”

“Has he asked for me to come?”

How do you tell a daughter that he hasn’t asked for her? Dodge the question. “He’s medicated—in and out of sleep. I wanted you to have information. I work from home, so the address is on my business card. You’re welcome to come anytime. I understand if you can’t.”

“Thank you for the call. I’ll think about it.”

I hung up and went downstairs to talk with Tyler.

“Hey Ty. I’ve got to go out today. Some important tasks. Pete’s going down fast. Will you stick around here?”

“Sure. I’ll call if there’s anything to tell. And, Scott, thanks for reactivating my phone. I promise I’ll pay you back someday.”

“Not worried about that. I’m more worried about you here alone with no phone and a dying man. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

~*~

A gray chill covered the city as I drove to Wexford, but at least the snow held off. The Bassett home was located in a subdivision that consisted of beautiful, stately homes. Tasteful—not the pretentious estate I’d escaped.

I parked on the street and walked up the sidewalk. Pausing, I swept my gaze toward the driveway. I imagined the scene, and it chilled me more than the cold of winter. No wonder he couldn’t stay.

I rang the doorbell twice, but no one answered. As I walked back to my car, two ladies wearing scarves and mittens approached me.

“Can we help you?” Long blond hair extended beyond the knitted cap.

“I’m looking for Claire Bassett. Is this the right house?”

They flashed a guarded look at each other.

“I’m Molly, her neighbor,” the brunette answered, her cheeks red from the cold. “This is her home, but she’s not here. Why don’t I take your name and have her call you?”

I could do that, but I always liked the ball in my own court.

“Could you tell me a good time to come back? I’m sure she’ll want to talk to me.”

The blonde introduced herself. “I’m Jan. We’re friends with Claire. Can you tell us what this is about?”

I wasn’t about to tell them much. “It’s about her husband.”

They exchanged a look. “She isn’t here now. She’s staying with her parents.”

“How can I find her?”

“Slippery Rock. She works at the university.”

They declined to share an address, so that would have to do. I could locate her parents, but it might be better to see her alone.

My failure at finding anyone home gave me some hesitation about visiting Sam Pulkowski. Chances would be better of finding him home in the evening. I sat in my car and pulled up Slippery Rock University’s website on my cell phone. It listed employee extensions, and I dialed the number in the School of Education noted for Claire.

“School of Education, Claire Bassett speaking.”

“Sorry, wrong number.” I hung up the phone and headed north toward Slippery Rock.