A Plague Year (20 page)

Catherine Lyle moved to cut Ben off. “Okay! Those were some good questions, and that was some great information about new options in substance-abuse treatment. I hope you have all benefited from this exchange. Now let’s thank Dr. Lyle and let him get back to the university.”

Most of us just stared at him. But Jenny, ever polite, muttered, “Thank you, Dr. Lyle,” and a couple of other kids joined in.

He replied, “You are all very welcome. And good luck to you.” Then he and his boys started toward the door.

Catherine and Wendy got up to walk them out.

That was when I overheard Wendy ask one of the boys a question. A very strange question. “Couldn’t Joel make it?”

The boy shook his head no.

Arthur heard the question, too. He said to me, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Does she mean Joe? ‘I don’t have a website anymore’ Joe? ‘My mommy needs to buy me a new laptop’ Joe?”

Wendy stopped and turned. She asked Arthur, “What are you talking about? How do you know Joel?”

Arthur assumed an innocent face. “I don’t. I don’t know anybody named Joel. I was thinking of a guy named Joe.” He turned to me. “What was Joe’s aura, Tom? Was it, like, ultraviolet? No, no, that’s right—it was yellow. Total yellow.”

Wendy snapped, “Shut up!”

Arthur snapped right back, “You shut up!”

Dr. Lyle stepped toward Arthur and warned him, “Don’t you dare speak to my daughter like that.”

Arthur met his gaze. “Okay. I’ll speak to you, then. How much weed did you and the boys smoke on the way here?”

Dr. Lyle’s eyes widened (and they were really bloodshot). He growled, “I beg your pardon.”

“You beg my pardon? Why? Did you burp?”

“What?”

“Hey, come on, Doc. You didn’t fart, did you?”

“What?”

“Are you having trouble hearing me? Is all that weed frying your brain?”

Dr. Lyle turned to his wife. “What is going on here, Catherine?”

Catherine Lyle had no idea, and her face showed it. She stammered, “I-I-I’m very sorry. Maybe you should just leave. Quickly. All of you.”

Dr. Lyle spun around angrily. He stomped out through the office, with the boys on his heels. They weren’t smirking anymore.

Catherine rounded on Arthur. “What was that about? Is that how you show respect to a guest? I am very disappointed in you, Arthur.”

“Respect? We’re an antidrug group, and they showed up stoned.”

Catherine Lyle sputtered, “Arthur! That is not true!”

But Arthur knew what he was talking about, and he let her know. “That is true. I’ve seen those guys around Caldera.”

Catherine clearly didn’t believe him. “What? What on earth for? What would they be doing at—”

“They were trying to cop.”

“What?”

“Trying to buy drugs.”

“Drugs? What drugs?”

“Weed, I believe. That’s what the frat boys prefer.”

She sputtered, “I’m sure that is not so, but I will mention it to my husband.”

“Yeah. You do that. Mention it to him. Mention that they were driving a white Saab convertible. That might help him remember. I can get the tag number for you next time, if you need it.”

Mrs. Lyle backed away and started to gather her belongings. She looked like she might cry.

Wendy looked like she might punch Arthur. Instead, she grabbed her stuff and ran out of the room.

It had been a long day already, and I still had to go to the Food Giant. I was in no mood for sweeping floors or bagging groceries or rounding up shopping carts.

And I certainly was in no mood for Reg the Veg.

I opened the door of the anteroom, though, and found myself looking at the trio of Reg, Bobby, and John. And they were at it again.

Or at least Reg was at it again, trying to prank Bobby. I had long since given up on the Veg, but when was John going to grow up and stop this?

Reg recapped tonight’s story, I suppose for my amusement.
“So it’s a Thanksgiving promotion, Bobby. Walnuts for three-ninety-nine a pound. Now, that’s one heckuva price. All you gotta do is carry two walnuts like these”—he held out a pair of walnuts—“and put them in a Baggie like this.” He dropped them into a sandwich-size Baggie. “Then you take it out and you ask customers, ‘Aren’t these beautiful nuts?’ ”

John started to laugh, but then he stole a glance at me and turned it into a wince. Still, he didn’t speak up, not even when Bobby reached out to take the bag.

So I did. “No, Bobby! Don’t do that. My father would not want you to do that.”

Then John acted like he agreed with me, and like he was about to do the same thing. “That’s right, Bobby. In fact, you should check with me before you do anything like this.”

Bobby looked from John to me to Reg. His neck and ears turned bright red, like lava rising in a volcano. He slapped at Reg’s hand, knocking the Baggie to the floor and causing the nuts to roll out by Reg’s feet. Then he pushed past me, angrily, and exited the room.

John shook his head. He told Reg, “You need to stop bustin’ his balls. I’m the one who catches hell about it, not you.”

Reg bent and picked up the bag and the walnuts as John pulled on a slicker. Reg muttered, “Don’t be so pusillanimous, Uno, my man.”

John looked at him, puzzled—clearly not up on his PSAT vocabulary. He frowned and followed Bobby out.

Reg straightened up. He tossed the Baggie and the walnuts into the trash. Then he told me seriously, “There ain’t much to do around here, Tom. Tom Terrific. Tom-Tom-the-piper’s-son. I think you’ll find that out someday. In the meantime, you have to get your laughs where you can.”

Dad and I stayed after closing time to get some extra jobs done. We mostly stocked shelves—straightening, replenishing, removing misplaced items. After about an hour of working separately, we both ended up at the beer aisle, across from the frozen foods.

I could tell that Dad was upset about something. He had been all night. He finally came out and told me, “I had to fire Walter today.”

I was dumbfounded. Walter had been one of Dad’s favorites. I asked, “Why? What did he do?”

Dad shook his head back and forth. “I caught him with a carton of Sudafed in his trunk.”

“No! Not Walter!”

“Yes. Inventory hasn’t matched sales for weeks now. I suspected it was Walter, and I caught him today.”

“God. Did he say anything?”

Dad shrugged. “He said he was sorry.”

“Did you call the police?”

Dad looked toward the office. “No. I’m leaving that up to corporate. But from here on out, I’m locking all pseudoephedrine products up in the office. Every night.”

Dad returned to straightening beer bottles, so I did, too.

I felt really bad for him. He hated firing people. After a few minutes, he told me something else. “I caught Bob Murphy shoplifting today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Poor guy. He looked like hell—like a skeleton. I barely recognized him.” Dad nodded thoughtfully. “Does his kid still go to Haven?”

“Mikemurphy? I think so. I haven’t seen him in a while. He
was getting suspended a lot, so they might have sent him to the county school.”

“That’s too bad. He was a nice kid.”

“What was Mr. Murphy stealing?”

“Beer. He had this big coat on, and he filled the pockets with cans of Yuengling Black and Tan. He couldn’t even walk without clunking. I followed him outside with a cart and got it all back.”

“What did he say?”

“He was mad! He said, ‘I know you, Gene Coleman! You’re a damn alcoholic. Who the hell are you to judge me?’ I said, ‘Whoa. I’m not judging anybody, Bob. But you can’t come in here and steal stuff.’ ”

Dad got quiet for a moment. I asked him, “So … is it ever hard for you? Being around all this beer?”

He shrugged. “It used to be, but not anymore. That was a long time ago.” Then, to my surprise, he went on: “I’m genetically disposed to be an alcoholic, Tom. My body converts alcohol into food and I just keep going, keep drinking, until I collapse. I’m not like other people.” He directed a worried look at me. “And maybe, genetically, you are not, either.”

“Genetically, from your side?”

“From both sides, I’m afraid. Your uncle Robby was worse than me.” Dad stopped straightening. He turned and told me, “We used to drink together at the American Legion bar. He’d stop in after work at the Sears Auto. I’d stop in after the Food Giant.”

“When was this?”

“Twelve years ago. Twelve years, two months, and seventeen days.”

“Wow! You know it to the day?”

“Yep. I had your mother and you and Lilly at home; he had Robin and Arthur at home. But we’d drink every night, regular
as clockwork, ten or twelve Rolling Rocks. We’d sit next to each other so it wouldn’t look like we were drinking alone, but I guess we really were.”

I shook my head. “I don’t remember any of that. I don’t remember you ever taking a drink.”

“Well, I drank at bars,” he explained. “I’d only drink at home on weekends—out back, usually, where you and Lilly couldn’t see me. I got pretty good at it. I’d finish off my two six-packs a night sure as the sun would set.”

“You didn’t work on weekends?”

“No. Not back then. I was like Reg Malloy. I unloaded all the trucks, and they came Monday to Friday.”

Dad looked down for a moment; then he went on quietly. “The beer was always enough for me, but not for Robby. He started taking Quaaludes. Did you ever hear of them?”

“No.”

“That was the big drug back then, like crack was later, like meth is now. People called them ‘ludes.’ They were strong sedatives, like sleeping pills. Robby would wash them down with beer. They were a powerful combination, all right. A deadly combination.”

I asked cautiously, “So, did he … OD?”

Dad nodded his head yes. “Robby left the bar a little early that night, twelve years, two months, and seventeen days ago—the last night of his life. It was raining, and he crashed into a telephone pole. I’m the one who found him, dead, with a broken neck.”

Dad stopped talking for about thirty seconds, reliving the moment. He continued in a haunted voice: “All I could think of as I stared at Robby was the word
worthless
. A dead human being
is worthless, no matter who you were just half an hour before. You can’t ever do anything for anybody, ever again.

“I stood there in the rain and stared at him for so long that somebody else stopped, some other guy. He’s the one who got the police.

“I was still standing there when they arrived. When they pried Robby out of the car, his eyes were wide open, like he was staring back, saying,
Do you want to end up like me?

“The cops were going to take me away, too, for being drunk, but I made a deal with them: If they would drive me home, I would report to my first AA meeting the next night. Lucky for me, they gave me that chance.

“The next night, I was sitting at a folding table at a church in Minersville, listening to six guys and two women tell their stories about being drunks and fools and criminals. Then I stood up, and I told them my story.”

Dad looked at me and smiled. “I guess you know how many years and months and days ago that was.”

“Yeah.” I asked, “And you never drank again?”

“I never drank again. But it’s been hard. It has been, literally, one day at a time.”

Dad clapped me on my shoulder and then went into the office. I stayed in the beer aisle, looking at all the colored bottles, trying to imagine my dad as being young and stupid.

It wasn’t easy. And I knew it wasn’t easy for him to talk to me about this. It was more than he had ever said to me about anything.

And I appreciated it.

I appreciated it. I really did. But not enough to stop my plan.

Today, I was going to betray Dad. And Mom. I was going to do the worst thing I have ever done, and nothing would stop me.

I got up before dawn, as focused (and as frightened) as I had been for the honor-vengeance trip up to Blackwater U.

I unzipped my backpack. I dumped out the contents and replaced them with underwear, socks, T-shirts, and a backup pair of pants. I zipped the bag up until it was nearly closed. Then I slipped down the hall to the bathroom. I wrapped my toothbrush in a tissue and stuck it through the hole at the top of the backpack. I did the same for my stick of Right Guard deodorant.