Homicide Related (30 page)

Dooley glanced at the clock above the stove. It was ten o'clock.

After Jeannie went upstairs, Dooley dialed Beth's cell phone number. Voice mail. He hated voice mail. Still: “Hi, it's me. Call me.”

By eleven, she still hadn't called. Dooley imagined the scene at her house. He imagined Beth's mother telling Beth, “He brought a girl home. She's staying there.” Knowing Beth's mother, she'd jumped to all the wrong conclusions. He wished now that he'd had the chance to explain about Teresa. It ran around and around in his brain: Her mother telling Beth,
He brought a girl home, a girl who had just lost
her baby.
What would Beth think? Why would someone bring home a girl who had just lost a baby unless the lost baby was his? He tried her cell phone again. Still no answer. He left another message: “It's not the way it looks.” He wondered where she was. With Nevin, maybe. Good old solid Nevin, whose only interaction with the cops, Dooley was willing to bet, was
maybe
some traffic cop giving him a speeding ticket.

He tried her again. And again. And again. He knew she wasn't going to pick up. He told himself maybe her mother had confiscated the phone. It was possible, maybe even probable, knowing Beth's mother. Or—this was also possible—Beth had jumped to her own conclusions, the wrong ones, and she was mad at him because he was supposed to have told her everything and here he was holding back again.

He tried her one more time.

Nothing.

He got up and opened the cupboard in the kitchen where his uncle kept a bottle of vodka for Jeannie and one of scotch for himself. He listened. It was quiet in the house. But quiet enough? He crept up the stairs—it was easy to do, they were carpeted and one hundred percent squeak-free—and peeked in at Teresa. She was sound asleep. The door to his uncle's study was closed. The lights were off. He pressed his ear to the door—and what do you know? Jeannie was snoring. It was a soft sound, more like a dentist's drill than a buzz-saw, which is what his uncle's snoring sounded like. He went back down the stairs, out the door, and started walking. He told himself he needed the air. He told himself the exercise would do him good—all that tension, walk it off, Dooley; it was the least destructive way to deal with it.

And now here he was on the corner, eyes shifting this way and that, searching for a familiar face.

And there it was, the face belonging to a guy he knew named Luz, who did a double take when he saw Dooley and then broke into a grin.

“Dooley, shit, man, it's been a while.”

“Yeah,” Dooley said.

Luz looked around. “You here by yourself, man? Can I do something for you? You need something?”

Dooley nodded. Yeah, he needed something all right.

Sixteen

T
his was a bad idea. A very bad idea. There was a dog across the street somewhere, a big one, from the sound of it, that wouldn't shut up. Lights were going on in houses up and down the street, and a few heads peered out of windows to see what the dog was barking about. Dooley pressed on, trying to give the impression that he belonged in the neighborhood and that he knew exactly where he was going until, finally, he found the number he was looking for. It was a stuccoed house, nice and tidy, surprising Dooley by not surprising him at all. It was exactly the kind of house he figured a guy like Dr. Calvin would live in. There was even a light on, which told Dooley that maybe it wasn't too late after all, even though it was five minutes to midnight.

He hesitated on the sidewalk. Who was he kidding? You don't ring a person's doorbell at midnight, especially when you haven't seen that person in a couple of months and, before that, maybe six months.

He glanced around. A police car was sliding down the street toward him. That decided it.

He turned up the walk, climbed the porch steps, and pressed the doorbell. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the police car slow to a crawl.

The porch light came on.

A face appeared in the glass and then vanished again.

The inner door opened, then the outer door.

“Dooley,” Dr. Calvin said, frowning.

“I'm sorry,” Dooley said. The minute he heard the words, he wanted to kick something. He was tired of being sorry for everything, tired of apologizing to everyone. “I just—”

“I heard about your mother,” Dr. Calvin said. “Your uncle, too. How are you holding up?”

A wave of self-pity washed over Dooley. No one had asked him that. Bullshit was piling up around him, and no one had asked him how he was coping. Dr. Calvin's eyes shifted from Dooley to the street.

“I think you'd better come in,” he said. He stepped aside to let Dooley pass and then looked out into the street again for a moment before closing the door behind him.

“Charlie?”

A woman appeared. An extremely pretty woman with long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, creamy clear skin, and nice, full lips. She was wearing a long silky robe over a long silky nightgown.

“My wife,” Dr. Calvin said. “Jenny, this is Dooley. Dooley, Jenny.”

Dooley nodded and felt bad now that he had come here.

“Can I get you something?” Dr. Calvin's wife said.

“Tea would be wonderful,” Dr. Calvin said.

Dr. Calvin's wife smiled at her husband—Dooley never would have guessed by looking at him that Dr. Calvin could score such a babe—and disappeared.

“Sit,” Dr. Calvin said. “And tell me what brings you to my door.”

Dooley hesitated. He shouldn't have come. Dr. Calvin wasn't his therapist anymore. He hadn't been since Dooley was released. But Dooley liked him. He wasn't distant, like some of the other therapists Dooley had seen. He seemed more like a regular guy.

“Please,” Dr. Calvin said. “Sit down.”

Dooley dropped down onto one end of the sofa.

“So, what's up?” Dr. Calvin said.

Boy, where to start? Who to start with?

It came out in a jumble. Lorraine's sudden reappearance in his life. Her just-as-sudden death. What he had found out about her.

“Except he's not really my uncle,” he said. There it was, the part that had been eating at him, the part that he hadn't said out loud yet. “And he wasn't really Lorraine's brother, either. You think maybe that's why she was so fucked up?”

“Because she was adopted, you mean?” Dr. Calvin said.

“Because she was a replacement,” Dooley said. “They even called her by the same name.”

“That could have been a burden on her,” Dr. Calvin said. “Especially if she thought she had to live up to her namesake. And it is true that some adopted children feel a certain alienation, a sense of not belonging, that can cause identity problems, which, in turn, can lead to, say, certain sometimes destructive behaviors …”

“You think that's why she got into drugs?”

“I really can't say, Dooley. She wasn't a patient of mine.”

“But based on what you know,” Dooley said. “Based on your experience.”

Dr. Calvin leaned back in his chair and studied Dooley for a moment.

“Well,” he said finally, “theoretically, it's a possibility. I'm saying this as someone who never met her, you understand, Dooley?”

Dooley nodded.

“Someone in your mother's situation
might have
had conflicted feelings, such as the feeling that she had been abandoned by her birth parents. She may also have felt directioned—pushed into—a role and possibly a persona that was not her own. As a result, she
might
have developed certain feelings that may have been so uncomfortable or so painful to her that she may have attempted to dull them by resorting to self-medication.”

So, basically, yes.

“Every time I think about her, I mean
every
time, I see her as fucked up,” Dooley said. “She was high, or she was coming down and was in a bitch of a mood because of it, or some guy was giving her a hard time, or she was giving some guy a hard time, or she was trying to get some money together so she could get high again. Even times when she was supposedly trying to do the right thing, like Christmas. Do you have any idea how many Christmases she ruined, either because she was high or drunk or because she was seeing some asshole guy and they'd get into it?” He shook his head. He couldn't remember a Christmas that resembled anything like a picture on a Christmas card.

Dr. Calvin waited. When Dooley didn't go on, he said, “What's the real question, Dooley?”

“The real question?”

“Why are you here? What is it you want to know?”

The jackpot question.

“What I want to know,” Dooley said, “is why I even give a shit.”

Dr. Calvin's wife appeared just then.

“Sorry,” Dooley mumbled.

She smiled at him as she set a tray down onto the table. On it were two mugs of steaming tea, a couple of spoons, a sugar bowl, and a small pitcher of milk.

“I'm going upstairs,” she said to Dr. Calvin. She bent and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Dr. Calvin watched her go before stirring a teaspoon of sugar into his tea.

“Go on,” he said.

“Why do I even care about her?” Dooley said. “She never wasted much time thinking about me. She didn't even make my court date.”

When he'd gone to court that last time, he'd believed, given the seriousness of the charges, that she would be there and was surprised at the disappointment he'd felt when she didn't show. Then he got mad at himself for being such an idiot—of course she wouldn't show. He got mad at her, too, when the judge had wondered where “the mother” was and was told by Dooley's lawyer that she had been notified and was expected but that the lawyer had no idea why she was a no-show. She never visited while he was in detention, either, not even once. Never wrote. Never called. Didn't send a card on his birthday, didn't send a gift at Christmas. Nothing.

“Are you angry with her for that?” Dr. Calvin said.

“I don't care,” Dooley said.

“Your question is why do you care, and now you're telling me you
don't
care? It sounds to me as if
you're
conflicted.”

“For nearly three years I didn't see her or hear from her,” Dooley said. “Then she shows up all of a sudden and tells me things are different and she wants me to come and see her. I find out later”—too late—“that she got herself cleaned up. She'd been going to meetings, she had a sponsor, the whole deal. My whole life I never knew her anyway except fucked up and then, just like that, there she is, clean. How did that even happen?”

“You're clean,” Dr. Calvin said. “At least, I assume you are.”

An hour ago, he'd been on the edge.
Can I do something
for you? You need something?

“Yeah, I'm clean.”

“Well, how did
that
happen?”

Dooley gave him a look. “They locked me up,” he said. “They cut off access.”

“Nice try,” Dr. Calvin said.

Nice try. Dooley couldn't help it; he smiled. He used to want to punch Dr. Calvin's face in when he said stuff like that. Dooley used to hate having to meet with him. Dr. Calvin would sit there, all preppy and dorky looking, and he'd ask some dumb-ass question like,
Why do you think you hit that boy, Dooley?
And when Dooley answered him—
Because he was an irritating little asshole who wouldn't lay off
—he'd look at Dooley with that I'm-not-going-to-let-you-know-what-I'm-thinking expression of his and say, Nice try. Then he'd sit and look at Dooley some more until Dooley came up with something else or until his time was up, one or the other. But that was then. Now Dooley was willing—well, some of the time—to think things over.

“You mean after that, right?”

Dr. Calvin didn't say anything.

“You mean how come I'm still clean,” Dooley said. “I guess because I'm tired of being fucked up. I don't want to be like her—like she was.” He thought maybe Beth was a reason, too. And his uncle. But mostly it was because he was tired of being fucked up and of everyone expecting nothing from him except attitude and trouble. “You think maybe Lorraine was trying to change?”