December Boys (11 page)

The kicker was that in each case, the parents had signed off on the treatment. Box after box notarized. How bad could North River really be if Mom and Dad were on board?

I swept up the Xeroxes and headed to the computer. Under normal circumstances, I’d have Jenny here to help me navigate this kind of digital research. Today, I was hunting and pecking search engines on my own. Not that I had to look far. The North River Institute was the top result.

Most of the press featured glowing testimonials from parents. I had to scroll a few pages before I found a disparaging word, a couple malcontents in a chat room. Then again, it’s hard to lodge a complaint when they don’t let you out. The real grievances didn’t come till several pages later, allegations of physical and sexual abuse buried way beyond the electronic breakers.

The institute pitched itself as an alternative to incarceration, bullet points cramming in as many loaded keywords as possible (Therapeutic, Reparenting, Intensive). In between the testimonials and touted success rates, including an 80 percent “satisfaction with life” for those who completed the program, whatever the hell that meant, the phrase “behavior modification” caught my attention.

I may’ve been suckered in by party lines if not for personal history. My brother Chris was as far gone an addict as they come. In the end, he didn’t care about his life circling the drain, and I didn’t have much sympathy for his lame, failed attempts at sobriety. After so long in the wasteland, my brother had quit quitting before he walked through hospital doors. But early on I’d tried to get him cleaned up, and he’d at least gone through the motions. In those days there was a certain kind of facility that scared even me.

One of the counselors gave it to me straight in private. “They will tear you down to build you back up.” He explained the strict regiments and controversial techniques critics called brainwashing. “But, frankly,” he said, “some of these brains could use a little washing. Reformed addicts who know the game police these houses. They will call you out on the BS and aren’t afraid to put a man in his place.”

I remembered driving through the gates to check Chris into one of these facilities, taking a look at the jacked-up, ex-con trustees and tatted enforcers, arms crossed and glowering in the doorway, and I turned the truck around.

Maybe I should’ve let those guys have a run at Chris. Maybe he’d still be alive if I had. I just knew my brother, how he responded to that kind of pressure. Like a sow bug. Slightest bit of pressure and he’d curl in a ball. Besides, I didn’t know then what I know now. I’d thought I was protecting him. Dealing with adult addicts isn’t the
same as teenagers. Right? And North River wasn’t a rehab, not in the strict, official sense. As I read through the courthouse copies, I saw more often than not, drugs were involved. The blog girl, a rare exception. There were almost always multiple infractions. An initial charge, for say shoplifting or truancy, would then be augmented with possession, distribution, public intoxication, proximity to a school, some drug-related case that made rehab a feasible and reasonable option.

Donna Olisky hadn’t contacted me since last Friday. At first I’d been grateful to be let off the hook. Now that dots weren’t connecting, I wasn’t so sure. Despite DeSouza’s expressly forbidding contact with the Oliskys, I had to know the real reason for the change of heart. Why would a mother go from worried parent to willing participant in the sentencing of her son to somewhere like North River? There had to be a more logical explanation. Unable to reach Donna at home, I checked the clock on the microwave, and tried her at work. A friendly “Welcome to We Copy!” quickly turned sour when I mentioned my name.

“How can I help you, Mr. Porter?”

The return of “Mr. Porter” felt stiff and needlessly formal, but whatever; I forged ahead. “I’m just checking in, Mrs. Olisky.”

“About what?”

I wanted to say, What the hell do you think? But instead, I took the high road. “How is Brian? I wasn’t able to speak with him at the courthouse.” I knew damn well how he was doing, and where he was doing it, but I was attempting tact.

“My son is getting the help he needs.” Her cold, dismissive tone annoyed me. Like I was a telemarketer pitching worthless swampland, interrupting dinner. Where was the protective, overbearing mother of a few days ago? Beatrice jumped on my lap, and I stared down at her with a “What the fuck?” expression. My fat white cat
pretended to understand. Then she coughed up a hairball. Had this whole world lost its head?

“He’s at the North River Institute?” I said, priming the conversation.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that strange? I mean, North River doesn’t seem like the best fit for your son.”

“How would you know what’s best for
my
son? This has nothing to do with you.”

“You asked me to drive up to the courthouse in Longmont?”

“I never asked. You volunteered.”

“Because you were upset.”

“Or because you felt guilty denying our claim over a technicality?”

I hadn’t denied anything. Her son confessed. To my boss. But I knew pointing that out now would get me nowhere.

“I don’t understand, Mrs. Olisky. Last week you were freaking out about Brian feeling lonely for a few hours in a courtroom. Now you’re saying he’s been locked up inside a juvenile detention center, and you don’t have a problem with that?”

“Do you know they found drugs in the car?”

“I heard they found a joint, yes.”

“Do you know that’s how my other son, Craig, died?”

“Because of pot?”

“Because of drugs! Drugs killed my boy. I will not sit by and watch them destroy the only son I have left.”

I thought about their accident. The timeline didn’t add up. Even if Brian had been alone in the car at the time of the crash, his mother arrived at the scene before the cops. Why wouldn’t she have known about the marijuana sooner?

“I’m sorry, Donna. Mrs. Olisky. I’m confused.”

“About what?”

“When did you learn about the pot?”

“It doesn’t matter. My son needs help. The courts were kind enough to offer a treatment program for him. I took them up on their offer.”

“North River isn’t treatment. It’s a behavioral modification detention center. And it’s not cheap.”

“Since
your
company declined our claim, I don’t see how
our
finances are any of your concern.” Donna Olisky cleared her throat. “I have to get back to work now. Don’t call me again.”

I flinched when she slammed down the receiver.

What the hell? I stared into the earpiece I held at arm’s length.

Why
did
I care? This had nothing to do with me. So what if Brian Olisky had been handed over to North River on a trumped-up, bullshit charge? Why did I care if his mother was buying into the antidrug hysteria up here? Her and the rest of the goddamn state. I could’ve explained to Donna Olisky how after everything I’d seen pot was a goddamn vacation, pills a picnic. Then again maybe Donna was the smart one. Who was I to offer advice on how to deal with drugs? I’d botched every attempt.

I was ready to leave it there. I had Nicki’s photocopies rolled back up and was about to walk out to the garage and ceremoniously drop them into the trashcan like I’d done with my own failed attempts investigating the Lombardis.

Instead, I grabbed my phone.

“Hey. You up for taking a ride?”

* * *

“What the hell is this place?” Charlie asked.

We sat in my idling Chevy, shielded by a cluster of pines. Tall,
barbed chain-link ran the length of the perimeter, boxing the property. Had to be a few solid acres. The main building, squat, stout, intimidating, sat a football field away across a windswept gully. With high lookout towers and too much room to cover before reaching freedom, the place mirrored a penitentiary.

Like Nicki mentioned, the complex appeared to be in the state of serious influx. I saw the skeletal frame of a new building at the back end of the lot—and not a storage shed either, like a mini high-rise you’d find downtown in a big city. There were other telltale signs of major renovation, too. Sandbags. Cement mixers. Breaking new ground in this weather was impossible, but you could always tack on. Scaffolding wrapped around steel girders, with lifts and ladders, piping for waterline extensions angled sharply and intertwined, a boatswain chair to reach the top floors. Several moving trucks, the long haul kind that transfer entire worlds, split the difference between the fence and D-block. Blue Belle Moving Co. Looked like you could fit the whole prison inside those trucks. Things were enormous.

I hadn’t mentioned a destination to Charlie on the ride over, and he hadn’t seemed too concerned, not even as we turned down dark, unfamiliar routes and endless farming roads. Charlie was always up for an adventure. We chewed the fat about less pressing matters. The Bruins. The Pats. The Sox. He didn’t mention Jenny. I didn’t touch on his lack of employment or direction in life. Win win. Now that we were here, I was having a tough time answering his questions why. I wasn’t sure I could express my urgency to see North River. Maybe my friend had picked up on that uncertainty—I could feel his uneasiness—I only knew I had an itch to satisfy. Save for the occasional whisper of winter wind, the country night felt eerily calm. One by one lights flicked off. Bedtime for the inmates.

“Are you going to talk to me, man? What is this place?”

“I’m not sure, Charlie. A prison, of sorts.”

“Of sorts?”

“A juvie. A prison for teenagers. Long-term drug treatment. I don’t know.”

“Sorry. I just don’t understand why we’re here.”

Funny, I’d been asking myself that one, too.

I reached under my seat and pulled the folder, in which I’d coalesced Nicki’s photocopies, adding a few webpages of my own that I’d printed off the Internet, flipping the entire batch to Charlie. I switched on the cab light so he could read.

“Court records?”

“Remember that kid I was telling you about? Brian Olisky?”

“What about him?”

“That’s where they put him.”

“The kid who lied about driving?”

I stared at North River. Even the pictures from the website, the ones supplied by the facility itself, boasted a fortress under lock and key. Up close, the place was a mini gulag.

“Not just him,” I said. “Other kids, too. Bullshit charges.”

“Like?”

“One girl created a fake website,” I said. “Making fun of her science teacher, principal, whatever. She’s been locked inside North River for a year.”

“What’s North River?”

I pointed at the complex. “
That
is North River.”

Charlie panned around. “What town are we even in?”

“Middlesex.”

“Middlesex? Isn’t that where your brother’s ex-girlfriend lived? What was her name again? Bunny?”

“I told you. Kitty. Short for Katherine—she’s not a stripper—and yeah, she lived here. At a halfway house, other side of town. Why do you keep asking about her?”

“You ever talk to her?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Because,” Charlie said, “she knew your brother. She knew him during . . . that time. Maybe talking to her would help you.”

“Help me what?”

“Y’know, get past his death.” He paused. “The guilt you feel.”

“I don’t feel guilty.”

Charlie turned toward the window, embarrassed for me over my bold-faced lie.

Yeah, you’re not guilty, Jay. Then why are we sitting on an access road staring at a lockdown ward? It’s almost midnight
.

“I don’t know how to get ahold of Kitty,” I said. “It’s been over a year since we talked. Since then I’ve moved, changed numbers. I don’t even know her last name. She lives in California, for Christ’s sake. What could she really offer me, anyway? Chris is dead.”

I’d seen the signs. Private Property. No Trespassing. Turn Back.

Charlie fidgeted. I twitched with edginess too. Which was strange because Charlie was the one person I could always be myself around. As much as I wanted to blame him for the weird vibe, I knew my mood was at fault. I’d been out of sorts all day.

He tried to change the subject, rambling about his dart league, something about a cute Australian girl from the bar. I was mired in my own game of solo Q&A, a psycho’s version of solitaire.

Troubled teens? Drug addicts? Rehabs? Juvenile prisons. This isn’t for work.
I’m on involuntary vacation. My wife’s out of town with my son. What am I supposed to do?
What’s it matter? Even when she’s home, you’re not there.
Oh, shut up.
What are you so pissed off about?
I don’t know, man.
You can’t save me. You know that, right?
No shit. You don’t think I know that?

“Jay?”

“What?”

Charlie stared at me like I was sweet pickling the short bus. “Dude, you’re talking to yourself.”

“So? People talk to themselves all the time.”

“Yeah, but you’re answering yourself, too. You okay, man? You haven’t looked right since you picked me up. Shit, you ain’t been right the last few times I’ve seen you. You’re not telling me something.” He held up the photocopies. “At least not the whole something.”

I didn’t know why I wanted to drive out to North River at this hour, or what I thought I’d find here. They weren’t going to let me tour the place during business hours, let alone the middle of night. Nicki had touched a nerve. I ached to do something, find a reason to believe. I couldn’t sit in that empty house a moment longer, not without Aiden and Jenny. I kept envisioning her having dinner with Stephen, laughing at his cornball jokes, touching his arm at all the right times, because when she’d walked back into Lynne’s condo the other afternoon and I’d seen her smiling eyes it hadn’t been over me; it was because of him. All I could do to combat the creeping malaise was smoke cigarettes, drink beer, and stare at water stains on the wall. I couldn’t compete with the Stephens of the world as it was. Take away the steady paycheck, and what the hell could I offer? I pictured my empty house, and I could already feel the cold air seeping in, insulation failing, hear the lack of laughter, the absence of other people breathing. So many times during this new life, I craved solitude. Not to be alone. Just to be left alone. I’d walk through the door after a long day of work, and Jenny would have a hundred things she wanted to talk about, mind-drudging domestic details, and Aiden would be jumping around, demanding attention, and I’d wish I had a remote. Press the pause button. Let me grab a beer, put on sweats, take a deep breath, acclimate to suburban dad. I longed for a few minutes, not
forever. I felt like the universe had heard my ungrateful bitching and this was the retribution of entitlement. I’d grown to dread the sound of a coffeemaker gurgling at dawn’s first light.