Not in the Heart (9 page)

I would usually take my plate to my bedroom because I could predict within a few seconds the exact moment when something would break or a fist would go through the wall or a door would be kicked in. Call it my early reporter's instinct.

I vowed I would never be that kind of father. I would never terrorize my family and make them fearful. That was at the back of my mind when Abby came along. And I accomplished at least that much. My family did not dread my appearance in the doorway of their lives. Instead, I had left them to wonder if I would ever return, a phantom lurking in the shadows. I had abandoned them. For what, I wasn't exactly sure.

“Is that your phone ringing?” Helen said.

I hadn't noticed the buzz in my shirt pocket. Some memories run deeper than others. “Yeah, you're right.”

It was Ellen. I looked at my host at the wobbly kitchen table, then back to the phone and wondered how I was going to explain to my wife. “I'll be right back,” I said to Helen.

“Tru, where are you?” Ellen said. There was an extra-sharp edge to her voice, and I wondered if I'd missed my chance with Aiden.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, no change, but where are you?”

“I took a walk,” I said as I moved through the hall past a bathroom and into the tiny living room. Helen was right. There weren't any pictures of Diana. Just knickknacks and paddywacks and trinkets of a lonely, grieving old woman. “What's up?”

“You took a walk?” She said it like I'd told her that I was preaching Sunday at her church. “Tru, did you even see him?”

“I met your pastor,” I said, hoping that would quell her disgust.

A pause and sigh. I could see Ellen's face, though I wanted to see Diana in a cap and gown from high school. Or cutting hair on the front porch.

“Tru, I need you,” Ellen said. “Two men came to the house.”

“What men?” I said. The room spun. I held the phone tighter but it slipped because of my greasy fingers.

“Two guys who asked for you. They pushed their way inside and went through the house.”

I took some tentative steps toward the front door. There was the smell of old wood here. Old memories trapped like dust in the curtains. “Did they hurt you?”

She didn't answer.

“Ellen, did they
hurt
you?”

She began to cry and I closed my eyes, imagining what they did. After the tire iron incident I should have known they would follow me. It made me wonder if they'd gone to the hospital.

Aiden. What about Aiden?

“What did they do to you?” I said, teeth clenched and a bit more desperation in my voice.

“He had a knife,” she said, her voice cracking.

The arthritic poodle limped into the hallway, looking at me with runny eyes. I was trapped in the creaky old house with the sun going down on my life and every bit of stability shaking beneath me.

“Where are you?” she said.

“I'm working on the book, getting some background. Ellen, what did they do to you?”

“I'm okay. But they made it clear I wouldn't be next time. Who are these people, Tru? What have you done?”

“I'll get back to the hospital. Just make it back there and I'll explain everything. Don't worry; it's going to be all right.”

“No, it's not,” she sobbed, and the dam burst on the other end. “It's not going to be all right. Our son is dying, Truman. Your son. He's crying out to you and you act like you can't even look at him. Abigail is floundering. I'm barely holding on here.”

My face flushed and even the dog looked like he was ashamed to know me. Where was Murrow when I needed her? These feelings would send me for a run on the beach, wondering what it would be like to run into the water and not stop until my legs and arms gave out. A peaceful and quiet end. Nothing too dramatic. Just a slow, meaningless slide into the dark. Eventually my body would be discovered and the insurance payment would go out and everyone would mourn and
tsk-tsk
, but my family would finally have some closure and provision. Or maybe the sharks would get me. Even better. At least I would contribute to the food chain.

“I'm sorry, Ellen,” I said. It was the best I could do. “I'll see you at the hospital.”

I flipped the phone closed and tried to shake her words from my skull. Sometimes it helps just to do your job, so I surveyed the front room that led to a small bedroom. A white bed with white bedspread and white walls and white bookshelves. A Bible on the nightstand. Things looked untouched except for a round spot in the middle of the bed. The poodle followed me in, stepped onto a stool at the edge, and curled up on the spot. With those sad eyes, he put his head down and licked his paws a few times.

On the nightstand were a couple of sticky notes with faded to-do messages. There was a receipt from a beauty supply store. I was about to open a drawer when the floor creaked behind me.

“I don't want you going through her things,” Helen said.

“I wasn't going to,” I lied.

“What's wrong at home?”

I pointed to my cheek. “The misunderstanding showed up at my house. I need to get back to the hospital.”

She waddled toward the door and I followed, the dog not even lifting his head from the bed. On the way out, I picked up a framed picture from a shelf on the bedroom wall, a small one of Diana and her mother, their heads tilted toward each other.

“Is it all right if I borrow this while I'm writing?” I said. “This is such a good picture and the newspaper reports all have the same one.”

Helen took the picture and held it at arm's length, studying it like some ancient hieroglyph.

“Just make sure I get it back,” she said. She held the picture for a moment, then finally let go and headed toward the kitchen.

I followed and placed the picture in the bag.

“You want me to wrap up the rest of your dinner for you?”

“I'm good. Thanks for the meal. Maybe I can ask you some more questions along the way. To fill in the gaps.”

She pushed some potato salad with her fork. As soon as it clinked against the plate, toenails clicked on the wood floor behind me.

“The truth has a way of filling in the gaps.”

C
HAPTER
13

As I walked back to the hospital, I gathered myself for the phone call I knew I needed to make. I pictured Mickey Luchesi at his club in Metairie, Louisiana, sitting behind his mahogany desk, his bare feet sinking into the carpet. He kept the room cold enough to store meat.

He would be looking at the parking lot, counting the money he would make that night with each car that pulled in. His personal chef would be serving him salmon, shrimp, and a bowl of gumbo, along with a tub of butter sauce and a couple of longneck beers. Mickey would twist the heads of a few crawfish tonight, sucking out the spicy juice inside.

“Luchesi,” the man said on the other end.

“Mickey, this is Truman Wiley.” I said it with all the confidence I could muster.

His voice turned soft and there was a smile, just enough to get under my skin. “So good to hear from you. How's the weather in Tallahassee?”

“I'm working on getting your money, but you have to call off the dogs.”

“Well, Truman, you've been working on that for quite a while. I'd say paying me back hasn't been a priority. The deadline has passed. We had an agreement.”

“The agreement was you'd get paid. And that's what I intend to do. But I need more time.”

“Did I delay in lending you the money? Did I hold back? No. All I ask is the same courtesy. I am a professional and I deserve to be paid for our arrangement.”

“You're only causing trouble you're going to regret,” I said.

“Oh, really? How have I caused you trouble?”

“I know you sent those guys to my house.”

Mickey paused. Probably wondering if I was recording this. Wondering if I had gone to the authorities. “I don't have any idea what you're talking about. What happened? And what is it exactly that I'm going to regret?”

I gave him a sigh. “I've got multiple situations here. You know I have a sick kid. I just lost a house—”

“Yes, the little beach home you failed to mention. You know, Truman, I'm having a difficult time dredging up sympathy for someone who's had two homes, a boat—”

“I sold the boat.”

“Wonderful! Then you can use the proceeds to pay your debt. Unless you've already used that money for something else. Tell me, what happened to the money from the boat sale?”

“It's gone. But I'm going to get your money. I just need more time.”

I heard him chewing now, his mouth smacking. “Hmm. That's twice you've mentioned needing more time. You know, you have assets that could be used. Your automobile, for example.”

An ambulance passed and I had to wait to talk. Mickey jumped on the opportunity. “I would have taken your car or your boat. Maybe both would have paid down a significant portion of your debt.”

“You're a terrorist, you know that?” I said. “A terrorist with nice shoes and all the coke you can snort.”

“Truman, why the pejoratives? I've always treated you with the utmost respect.”

“I can cause you problems, Mickey. A lot more than this is worth.”

“If this is penitence, I can assure you it is not moving me.”

I gritted my teeth and stopped walking, turning my face from the street. “Leave my wife out of this. She had nothing to do with it. She doesn't even know.”

“Ignorance may be bliss, but it's no excuse. She's part of this whether you like it or not. Now, the last thing I want is to see someone get hurt—”

I laughed. “Too late.”

“But I do have my business interests to consider.”

“My debt to you is chicken feed and you know it.”

“It's not the amount, Truman. It's the principle. A high-profile client such as yourself who is allowed to simply walk away? What would my other clients think? That's not good business. No, you and I have a deal and I expect you to follow through.”

“I have enough information to blow you out of the water. I still have contacts with the DA's office.”

“Well, join the club. Who do you know? I'm probably friends with them as well.”

I didn't answer.

“You're being rather vague,” Mickey said. He lowered his voice and imitated me. “
I know what you're doing and I'm going to tell.
Everything I do is aboveboard; you know that. There's nothing you can say to the authorities that they don't already know. Some of them are my clients.”

“Like the governor of my state?” I said, fishing, hoping there might be something there. “I know everything.”

Mickey laughed from the gut. “So that's what you've been doing? Trying to ferret out information about your political friends? That's priceless. The journalistic bloodhound has his nose to the trail. Well, keep sniffing. You won't find anything between the two of us, unfortunately.”

Gritted teeth again. “Call off your goons. I'll get your money. But if you so much as look at my wife from across the street, the whole thing falls apart. I'll go to the Feds and tell them everything. You'll be running your operation from Angola.”

Mickey paused. “Thirty more days. That's final, Truman.”

“I can do thirty days.”

The phone clicked and I was alone with my thoughts as the hospital came into view.

C
HAPTER
14

Hearing Luchesi's voice was like seeing that a former college flame has gone on a multistate crime spree. That's never happened to me, but I've heard of such things. You can't help thinking about what life would be if you had made that choice, if you had chased that dream.

The problem was, I
had
chased a dream, and Mickey and I were entangled even deeper than two old flames. What would my life be like today if I had stayed away from the casino? That epic losing streak would have no power over me. Instead, it does have power and follows me every waking moment.

Mickey was right. I hadn't spent my downtime in self-flagellation and pity. My nature is not to wallow or despair; it's to pull myself back up to a sitting position and then, in some way, to stand. I had spent my downtime looking for leverage. My strength has always been an ability to discover information others wanted to hide. That makes me good at what I do. My problem is a lack of ability to use that for my own life. I was consumed with the debt I was in with Mickey, while ignoring the epic loss of relationships. I believed I could somehow pay back the mountain of money I owed, but I had given up on the hearts of the woman and the children I loved.

One thing at a time, I told myself. One compartment of my life to clear up before I go to the next.

The scene at the hospital was not good. I was hoping some of that gooey Christian love would seep into the conversation. The gentleness and humility and concern. But I drew the tough-love ace of spades. A spurned woman brought forth her fangs. She had sharpened them since last we'd seen each other. And how could I blame her? I was accused of being heartless. Guilty. Uncaring. Pathetic. More concerned about myself than any other human on the planet. You bet.

“How do you live with yourself?” Ellen said. “How do you get so close to your only son and then just walk away?”

I made the mistake of pointing out that she was the one who wanted me to work on the Conley book. The fangs had extensions.

“I should never have married you,” she said.

Of course, I agreed with her wholeheartedly there in the main lobby of the hospital. Everyone nearby tried to act as if they were more interested in back issues of
Popular Mechanics
and
People
but I could tell they were listening intently and cheering Ellen on. It was only when the security guard approached us and asked if we would take our disagreement outside that I could see the others look a bit disappointed that they weren't going to see how all of this would end.

She threw the car keys at me. Slider, low and inside. A passed ball.

“I'm going back up to him,” she said.

“Let me go,” I said halfheartedly, weakly, with a certain amount of guilt mixed with hope, expectation, and dread. A toxic soup of internal angst.

She shook her head and walked to the elevators. I picked up the keys and followed but was stopped by the security guard. Not so much stopped as I was blocked. He looked a bit like the linebacker who was the subject of my first book. A brick of a man, solid and unmoving.

“Why don't you let things cool off?” the man said. “It was getting pretty heated over there.”

He studied my face. I guessed the hospital had provided training in de-escalation of conflict or perhaps knowing how to spot trouble in the lobby before it headed up the elevators. What could he see on my face other than the gauze and tape? Maybe he saw fear. Maybe he just wanted to make it to midnight, when he could go home.

I smiled. “She's upset because I haven't been there for my son. Or for her. He's dying.”

“Why don't you go home and give it another try tomorrow?” he said, cracking his gum and putting his hands on his belt.

“I want to give it one more try now. I want to see my son. I promise I'll head back down if it falls apart.”

A radio squawked at the desk and he lifted both hands as if in acquiescence to his inability to stop me. “What room is your son in?”

I could only remember his floor and I gave it to him. “Heart problem?” he said.

I nodded and walked to the elevator.
Yes, we both have a heart problem. We all do in some way,
I thought. I wax eloquent in lonely elevators. Ascending gives me a feeling of how far I have to go.

When I saw Ellen weeping at the nurses' station, I wanted to get right back in that elevator and visit the security guard again. But I fought that impulse with everything in me and walked past them carrying my Piggly Wiggly bag. With resolute aimlessness I meandered the brightly lit corridor, peering into rooms, searching for vestiges of my son. Older men with tubes in their noses, their veins hooked up to IVs, their eyes filled with the flickering images of flat-screen TVs. Averted glances. Furtive stares of exhausted family members who needed a shower, a change of clothes, and three days of sleep.

Toward the end of the hallway I finally noticed the little plastic holders mounted beside each room with the patients' names. Another observation from a crack reporter. Two doors from the stairwell, I saw
A. Wiley
.

I turned, thinking Ellen would be back there, her arms crossed, her hopes high, but she wasn't. Just the empty hallway.

I moved to the stairwell exit to see if there was an alarm if I needed to bolt. Sometimes you just have to have an out. Of course that's not something I look at when I walk into a casino. I only look at how many ways there are to get in the place.

Aiden's room was the edge of something, a ledge of sorts, and I knew this was my last chance. I would never get this opportunity again. Likewise, if I went forward, there was no turning back. Funny how you can walk up to a total stranger and have a deep conversation but to do the same with a blood relative seems like such a frightening prospect.

I gathered myself outside the door. The TV was on and I could hear the familiar rise and fall of the play-by-play announcers trying to fill in the gaps of nine innings of relative inactivity punctuated with bursts of action.

I closed my eyes and put a hand on the door and it all came flooding back. The nights in the hospital, not knowing if Ellen and I would go home alone, if Aiden would be in the morgue or on the playground the next day. The distance that the illness of a child brings to the parents. The isolation of the one who bears the brunt of the work. The guilt the provider feels, the one who keeps going with his life out of necessity or obligation or the inability to deal with reality. High walls were erected in those days, haphazard edifices that grew thicker with each new day as Aiden languished.

I pushed the door open with a final burst of will and found an empty bed with Ellen's purse at the side of the rumpled pillows and covers. The curtain was drawn on the other side and the familiar blip of the heart monitor comingled with cheers of a crowd.

“Bottom of the ninth, Mom; you'd better hurry.”

His voice had grown deeper. A guttural, raspy depth that could have come from hormones or just the trauma of all those tubes and respirators. His feet stuck out from the covers, bony and pasty white. Like a skeleton's feet in some professor's biology classroom. I wondered about his face. Was he past the stage of pimples?

“Did you hear from him?” Aiden continued.

The Cubs were playing the Brewers, probably a meaningless game at the end of the season but vitally important to the standings now. At least, that was my professional opinion. I pushed the curtain back a little and stuck my head in, as if I were a magician pulling my own head out of a hat.

“Dad!” Aiden said, and his face lit up.

I was struck first that the wavy, thick mane that had been his trademark was gone. Instead, the lion had been shaved down to the scalp. His eyes were sunken and there were dark circles underneath as he sat up and fumbled to find the Mute button. His smile stretched over his jaws and I wished I could loan him a few excess pounds. But I didn't have any. The stress of the past few months hadn't made me the picture of health. Phone calls from creditors, the foreclosure and repossession, all the bills surrounding Aiden's hospitalizations—it was a weight loss program that worked for me but I couldn't recommend.

Despite the gaunt look, the old Aiden light was there. Somewhere in his eyes, his face, it shone. That was one of the reasons it was so hard to look at him. As sick as he was, as sick as he'd always been, there was an irrepressible light, a glow inside that couldn't be killed. At least not yet.

“How you doin', Tiger?”

“Better now. Mom said you were in town.”

I wasn't sure whether to shake his hand, hug him, or keep my distance. He reached out and gathered me tightly in the embrace of a desperate son. He patted my back a couple of times and wouldn't let go.

“Missed you, Dad,” he whispered.

“I missed you too.”

When I stood again and looked into his eyes, I could tell he was captivated by my cheek.

“Didn't get that in Afghanistan, did you?”

“No, closer to home. Your mother has a vicious right hook.”

He smiled and looked at the floor. “I like your new briefcase. Stylish.”

“And better for the environment. Fewer trees and endangered animals are hurt when you carry your vital papers in a Piggly Wiggly bag.”

His teeth had gone the same way as the rest of his body. You can always see it in the teeth. In Africa, Asia, the Middle East, Appalachia—the teeth go bad first. There's a reason you look a gift horse in the mouth.

I pulled a chair from the foot of the bed to his side, where I could see the game. Why had it taken so long just to come in the room? This wasn't so bad.

“Nice to have the room to yourself,” I said.

“There was an older man here when I came in the other night, but he didn't make it.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“He had a nice family. And a cute granddaughter.”

“That's my boy. Using a problem as a stepping-stone to the ladies.”

He snickered. “Is that how you attracted Mom?”

“No, you have to have a heart in order to have a problem with it.”

We focused on the game and watched it slip into extra innings where one error, one passed ball, one wild pitch could manufacture the winning run. The future hangs on small things.

I stared at the machines around Aiden's bed and recalled how ominous they'd looked when he was young. Back then, he was just a kid in Winnie the Pooh pajamas in a sea of cords and cables. The hospital had to bring in extra power strips to plug in all of the devices to monitor him. Now they at least seemed more proportional to his frame.

“So you heard about Mr. Conley and what he wants to do,” Aiden said.

“Yeah.”

“You're going to write his story?”

“I'll try. Me and Mr. Piggly hold all the information in the universe about him.”

“Kind of sad to think somebody has to lose their life in order for me to have one,” he said. “What do you think the chances are? I mean, of it all actually happening?”

I knew he was looking for something more than Vegas odds. But I didn't feel competent to answer. “That's a tough one. You've got a political hurdle with the governor and the legislature. Then there are the religious nuts who want Conley to either fry or have his sentence commuted to life. If they don't throw wrenches and if the other authorities don't raise a stink, then your chances are good.”

Single to left and the runner took a wide turn at first, then scrambled back when the throw came in behind him. Aiden wasn't paying attention to the game anymore and I could tell that wasn't the answer he wanted.

I put a hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him. “A lot of people are pulling for you, big guy. Hang in there.”

He turned away.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, your breath stinks.”

We both laughed and a nurse came in and pulled back the curtain. She looked at me with the quick glance of someone who knows too much but is trying not to let on. He had meds to take and she had some nursely things to do and asked me to wait in the hall.

“Come on, it's extra innings,” Aiden said playfully.

“Obey the nurses,” I said. “That's in the Ten Commandments somewhere.”

“You'll be back, right?” Aiden said.

“Wild horses couldn't drag me away.”

I walked into the hall and looked into the moist eyes of a wild horse. My wife. “How did it go?” she said.

“Fine. He looks good. Better than I expected.”

She stared daggers. “You know this is as bad as it's ever been. He doesn't have much longer.”

“You missed your Zig Ziglar conference. That's not the positive thinking he needs.”

Wish I could have that one back.
Start over. Breathe.

“What's up?” I said, using one of my best journalistic questions.

“There are problems with the governor. He wants to meet with one of us.”

“Well, I promise you he's going to be disappointed if I show up.”

“Tru, this is no time for petty jealousy.”

“You're right; I should stick to plain jealousy with nothing on the side.”

“Can you be serious?”

“I'm just saying that given the choice, I think he would listen to your request over mine.”

“Both of us can't go and this might be your only shot at the governor for the book.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

“He's going to take a political hit for this either way. I think he wants to know what we can offer in the way of support after the surgery.”

“What we can offer? You mean to his campaign? As if he needs us. I couldn't care less about his run at the White House, and frankly I think it could be the worst thing to happen to this country since . . . I don't know, Katrina? The Bangles?”

“Keep your voice down.” She leaned her shoulder against the wall. Her hair was a mess, eyes bloodshot; she wore no makeup and her clothes were rumpled. She was still the most beautiful thing on the planet.