Broken (14 page)

At Stepik Brothers Funeral Home, the people who had paid their respects were gone and the press had left an hour ago. Sarah was in the director’s office clearing up a few details for tomorrow’s burial while Walter paced the lobby. Anna Mae and David were outside.

Up to this point, supportive coworkers and neighbors had enabled Walter to avoid the reality of his son’s death. However, the funeral home was now deserted. Walter stopped pacing and glanced into Parlor Two, at the brown casket that sat solemnly at the end of the room. His gaze then shifted to the place beside a cluster of flowers where Officer Murphy had pulled him aside to talk in private. Tight ropes of truth squeezed painfully around his chest and he couldn’t catch his breath. He turned and looked out the double glass doors to where Anna Mae and David were sitting on a stone bench. He stared at Anna Mae for a long time. He lit a cigarette, went outside, walked right by the kids without saying a word, and went to his car that was parked at the front of the lot. He needed a drink. The family would have to walk home.

The bar at Mickey’s Pub was almost empty. Walter crumpled his necktie into a ball, shoved it into his pocket but didn’t bother to sit down. As he tossed down his first double bourbon, a fellow steelworker approached. Walter turned his back to the man. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He didn’t want to be near anyone. Twenty minutes later, he finished his fourth and final double shot of bourbon. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, bought two six packs of Iron City Beer and left.

When he got home he carelessly tossed his jacket in the direction of the banister. It fell on the stairs. He stumbled into the kitchen and put one six pack in the refrigerator. He brought the other to his chair in the living room where he sat in the dark, staring through the sheer curtains at the streetlight outside. His Chesterfields and Zippo lighter lay untouched on the end table.

Moving slowly, like a wounded animal, he finally snapped open a can of beer and took a small sip. He picked up the lighter and studied the etching of the naked lady. Years of use had worn away some the details, yet he could still make her out. He took a cigarette out of the pack and stuck it in his mouth. Then coiling his hands around the flame, he lit the cigarette.

Wisps of white hovered above him like miniature cirrus clouds at dusk. He ran his stubby fingers over the light brown stain on the dark end table. Long before he met Sarah, while he was still living with his first wife, and when Stanley was just a little boy, he had accidentally knocked over a glass of Jim Beam. The alcohol had left its scar. Walter put his empty can on top of the stain, opened another beer and held the cold metal against his forehead.

His gaze wandered around the room before settling on the floor. He frowned then leaned forward tilting his head. There were the sports magazines, all cut into pieces, scattered everywhere. He couldn’t remember why he had become so angry with his son for cutting up those magazines.

He lifted his head and looked around the dark room. Stanley’s teenage image flashed across his mind, with his long hair and that sorry imitation of a mustache. “He sure is a hellion, that kid,” Walter said out loud. “Just like his old man.”

A long ash fell from his cigarette. He lifted the fresh can of beer to his mouth and gulped voraciously until the can was empty. In a sudden burst of frustration, he hurled the empty can across the room. It hit the curtains and slid soundlessly to the carpet. He didn’t bother to wipe away the beer that was dripping down his chin.

He never meant to call Stanley stupid. He knew that Stanley knew that he didn’t really mean he was stupid—or an idiot. His son understood that sometimes fathers had to be hard on their children. Because they loved them. And Walter did love Stanley. As much as Walter could love. Walter wasn’t aware of the tears mingled with beer dripping from his chin.

*     *     *

Sarah was still inside the funeral home. Anna Mae and David weren’t surprised that Walter had left. They continued to wait on the bench so Sarah wouldn’t have to walk home alone. It was after nine when she finally stepped out into the warm summer night.

As they began their walk home, the air was tainted with the usual odor of burning coke and sporadic whiffs of sulfur. Friday night partygoers were busy keeping the streets alive. Sarah seemed uneasy in the clamor of the small city at night. But David was captivated by the bright multicolored lights and the young people dressed in their trendy clothes. He stumbled along trying to look everywhere at once, not wanting to miss a thing. He asked Sarah if they could stop for a hamburger, but Sarah didn’t want to spend the money and was anxious to get home.

Despite all that had transpired in the past week, Anna Mae still struggled with the fact that Stanley was dead. Her memory of the black body bag as it was carried down from the attic was only a scene from a movie. However, the still figure in the casket, the pasty face, the powdery pink cheeks, the hands folded over a blue suit she had never seen before—that was certainly real. So why did she expect to hear Stanley roaring down the cobblestone streets with his motorcycle pals? Why did she look into the neon lit faces of the young toughs milling around the pool hall? What was that about?

As they neared the bottom of Vickroy Street, David, still grumbling about the hamburger, plodded along with his head down and his hands shoved into his pockets. By the time they reached the top of the hill, a cool breeze had almost blown away the putrid mill odors and Anna Mae threw back her head inhaling the refreshing scent of lilacs. A streetlight exposed the claw-like roots of the trees clinging to the hillside. They looked like giant cat legs. David picked up a few small stones and threw them up into the branches.

“Stop that!” said Sarah who was still trying to catch her breath after the climb.

David dropped the remaining stones. He pointed down the block to the old, blue Chevy parked in front of their house. “Is that Dad’s car?”

“It is,” said Anna Mae.

“I wonder if Nick and Andy are at the house,” said Sarah.

“I don’t see the truck,” said David.

“How do you know they have a truck?” asked Anna Mae.

“Because I saw it,” said David. “Me and my friends climbed up in the back of it. There was all kinds of broken bricks and stuff.”

“You had no business in that truck,” said Sarah halfheartedly.

Anna Mae wondered what Walter was doing home so early. He didn’t have to go back to work until Monday. If he wanted to, he could have stayed at the bar all night. She followed Sarah up the wooden steps to the porch.

The three of them hesitated at the front door. Anna Mae looked at Sarah, and Sarah looked at David.

Anna Mae laughed nervously, then reached for the doorknob. As soon as she opened the door, she saw Walter’s jacket on the steps. Anna Mae, Sarah, and David squeezed into the foyer just enough to shut the door behind them. Huddled together, they saw the smoke drifting like ghostly fingers from the living room. They exchanged glances, trying to decide who should go first. Sarah flicked on the hall light.

With Sarah’s hand still on the light switch and David standing behind her, Anna Mae stepped forward and looked into the living room. Walter sat there with smoke leaking from his mouth and curling upward past his nose. He turned his head to look at her. His eyes were bloodshot slits between puffy lids and she felt the power behind his glare.

He knows,
she thought.
He knows what I did.

She wanted to run but she couldn’t move.

Walter pushed himself up and out of the chair like a savage beast arising from slumber.

Two and a half weeks later

Anna Mae sat in the upholstered wing chair gazing through the big window at the neighboring building’s tarred roof.

“Tell me again,” Dr. Rhukov said.

She looked at the doctor. His thick black hair was cut short and sprinkled with gray. He had a high forehead, lively brown eyes set amid deep wrinkles, and a closely cropped gray beard. His soothing voice contained a trace of a Russian accent.

Anna Mae replied in a whisper. “I told you three times already.”

The doctor’s walnut desk was small and shiny, bare except for a Tiffany lamp on one corner and a tape recorder on the other. Anna Mae caught a whiff of lemon scented furniture polish.

“This will be the last time,” the psychiatrist said.

Avoiding his penetrating gaze, she looked to the right where a long bookshelf sagged under thick volumes of medical books, stacks of dog-eared papers, file folders, and an occasional ornate knick-knack. The wall to her left was covered with framed awards and degrees: Psychiatric Medicine, Philosophy, Ethics, Abnormal Psychology and more. The degrees meant nothing to her, but there was something about him; the way he spoke to her with a voice so gentle, the way his friendly, intelligent brown eyes watched her over his rimless bifocals. He radiated an aura of kindness. She trusted him.

“I know this is difficult, Anna Mae,” he said. “However, you must not avoid my question. I must be certain you have recalled everything possible.”

“But that’s all I remember, Doctor.”

“So the last thing you remember is Walter getting up from his chair. Then you find yourself sitting on the back porch playing checkers with David. You are surprised to see his arm in a cast. The cast is dirty and covered with drawings and autographs. You realize you had been ‘out’ for a good while. Is that accurate, Anna Mae?”

She nodded.

“When you came in today, you said you were sorry you missed your appointment last week.”

“I am. I’m sorry I missed that appointment. You must be very expensive, doctor. Father John told me not to worry about the money. But it wasn’t right for me to not show up.”

“You were here last week,” he said.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were here. Think about it. If you were not here last week, how did you know to come today?”

“I found your card on my dresser with the appointment on it. Father John must have given it to me. Now that I think of it, why would the appointment be written on your card? Father John would write it on a piece of paper. I never even thought about that.”

“You don’t remember being here last week,” he stated. “However, before we get into that, let me tell you that you are a very strong young lady to continue on with a normal life. My friend, John Falkowski, told me that you make almost straight A’s in school, that you go to church and...”

“I was here?”

“Yes.”

“In this room?”

“Yes.”

“And I talked to you?”

“Yes.”

“What did I say?”

“We’ll get to that in a moment,” he said leaning forward on his elbows. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t remember being here?”

“I’m sure!”

“Well then,” he said, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “I don’t want you to be concerned. We already know that’s why John, I mean Father Falkowski, wanted me to see you.”

“I call him Father John.”

“That’s nice,” he smiled. Then leaning thoughtfully back in his chair and making a temple with his fingers, he said, “Your Father John and I, we were boys together in Russia. My family was killed at the beginning of The Revolution. If it were not for John and his wonderful parents, I would have never been able to escape to America. Father John is my oldest and dearest friend. Do not worry about money. I do this for him, and for you, Anna Mae.”

Anna Mae listened politely, waiting until she was sure he was finished, then asked, “Will you tell me what happened last week?”

“Ah, yes,” he said. He put his glasses back on and was quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t like to dive into these problems too quickly,” he said. “You have already experienced so much pain, both physical and psychological. Your mind has protected you by blocking it out. Facing that is not easy. However, in my experience, it’s the only way you can get better. To stop having these so-called blackouts.”

“I want to get better, Dr. Rhukov. I’m afraid about what I did or said last week. But I want to know.”

“You are not only a strong girl, Anna Mae, you are a brave girl too.” He reached into the top desk drawer, pulled out a cassette tape and placed it into the recorder.

“You taped it?”

“With your permission. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Well, I guess so. I mean—yes. Yes! I would like to hear it.”

“Before we do this,” he said, “I want you to know that it might be very upsetting.”

“Am I crazy?”

“No,” he said with a hint of a smile. “You are not crazy. The mind is a delicate instrument. We have to be careful. If you find yourself becoming too upset, just tell me. We turn it off.”

“Okay,” she said softly.

He nodded and pushed the start button on the recorder. After a brief identification of time and date, Anna Mae said, on the tape, that it was okay to tape their conversation.

Anna Mae stared at the recorder as a few mundane questions were asked and answered. Suddenly she looked up. “That isn’t me!”

Dr. Rhukov pushed the pause button. “It is you, Anna Mae. Most people are surprised at how they sound on a recording. You have to get used to it.”

“Oh. Okay,” she said.

Again, he pushed start. Her voice sounded detached and unemotional as she gave a detailed account of what happened to Stanley. She then talked about the funeral, giggling when relaying the story about David knocking over the ferns. She talked sweetly about Angelo, indignantly about the Road Hogs and compassionately about Sarah. When she got to the part about walking home after the viewing, her voice became shaky.

On the tape, Dr. Rhukov had assured her it was okay to stop whenever she wanted to. She said she wanted to continue.

She described how she, Sarah, and David were nervous about going into the house, how she was the one who opened the door and that Sarah switched on the light. The recorder went silent. Dr. Rhukov lifted his hand making a gesture that said, wait, there is more...

Walter, ah, he got up from his chair. He was looking at me with this insane, demented . . . I was so scared I couldn’t move. He came after me. He called me a murderer and punched me so hard I fell backward and knocked Sarah down. Then he grabbed me by my hair and kept hitting and hitting. I could taste the blood in my mouth. Davie—I was really surprised—he ran to the dining room and came back with a chair. I was on the floor then. He swung the chair at Walter and hit him in the chest. It didn’t even faze him. He grabbed the chair from Davie and threw it across the room and it almost hit the window. Then he grabbed Davie and twisted his arm. I heard it crack. God, it was awful. Davie let out this terrible scream. I was still on the floor. I tried to kick Walter’s leg. He reached down and grabbed my foot. I bit his hand. He yelled and let go. I tried to roll away from him. He was on me like a wild animal. I thought, ‘He’s gonna kill me this time.

That’s when the police came. They came right into the living room. I found out later that Olga—she’s our next door neighbor—she called them. She called the police even though Sarah had told her a million times never to call the police. But she did.

Walter picked up the coffee table. Stuff fell all over the place—ashes and papers and stuff. He hit one of the policemen across the back with the end table. Another one pulled out a gun while two more wrestled Walter to the floor. It was horrible. Seeing a grown man go crazy like that. Crazier than he had ever been. Somehow they got his hands behind his back and put handcuffs on him. They took him to jail. They took me and Davie to the hospital because his arm was broke. Sarah too. She had a bad cut on her forehead. There was blood all over her face.
I have no idea how that happened—how she got cut. In the ambulance, I asked her. But she wouldn’t stop crying.

Anna Mae listened to the recorded account of her last beating with interest rather than emotion. She just didn’t feel anything. Dr. Rhukov’s gentle voice continued on the recorder:
And what about you, Anna Mae? How badly were you hurt?

My lip was cut clean through. See? And see this? I still have these yellow marks on my arms. And you can see my eye. The bruises go away, but it will take a while. And two ribs are broken. They’re all taped up...Walter…he’s in jail. The next morning, early, before Stanley was buried, Sergeant Smith came to the house. He was so sorry about what happened. He said he was going to find out who told Walter that I gave Stanley those pills. He said Walter wasn’t going to get out of jail for a long time. He’d see to that! I told him I was pretty sure it was Officer Murphy who told Walter. I told him about them talking at the funeral home and all. That Murphy cop had no right. Because of him, Walter was home—waiting for me.

There was a long silence. Then Anna Mae could hear herself on the tape crying—crying so hard that now, listening to herself, her eyes filled with tears.

That’s good Anna Mae,
the doctor said on the tape.
Just cry it out. It’s good to cry. Do you want me to turn off the recorder?

At that point, there was a rustling sound, a sharp click and then nothing.

Dr. Rhukov gave Anna Mae a tissue and she blew her nose. “That’s it?” she asked, wiping her eyes.

“That’s all that’s on tape,” he said, removing it from the recorder. He held it up, asking, “Do you want me to destroy it?”

“Oh, no. No!”

Dr. Rhukov put the cassette back in the drawer then placed his hands flat on the desk. He smiled. “I’m glad you said that. It shows me that you are serious about this therapy process. Now—I was watching you very closely while you listened to yourself on that tape. Do you know that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And do you know what I saw?”

“No.”

“Nothing. No emotion. No reaction at all.”

“But I cried!”

“Not until you heard yourself crying on the tape,” he reminded her. “Before that, all the while you listened to that entire horrible episode, your face was as blank as a brick wall. Do you know what that tells me?”

“No.”

“Think about it, Anna Mae. Make an effort to come up with some sort of an answer.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

Anna Mae lowered her head and studied her hands that were one on top of the other in her lap. Dr. Rhukov restated the question: “Why do you think you were not upset when you heard what you said last week?”

Her reply was barely audible. “I don’t know.”

“Yes. You do know. Now tell me why, when you heard yourself describe that beating…why you showed absolutely no emotion. You should have been horrified. Yes?”

“Yes. I should have. But I was trying to black it out. I didn’t want to go back there, so my brain, I mean my feelings—they shut down.”

Dr. Rhukov got up and walked around his desk to the back of her chair. He placed his hands firmly on her shoulders. “My very brave young lady,” he said gently, “We can fix this.”