Signs of Struggle (32 page)

“I don’t blame you, girl. It’s not a very nice party,” I said. I went back outside. I was glad to be alone on my deck in the woods in the country, deserved to be alone on the big deck of the beautiful home.

Why in the name of God, did I have to stop for Wendy that time?

I stood and finished off another Three Philosophers, then decided to put the rest back in the refrigerator. Any more and I would be sick. I didn’t want that. I turned to go back inside, and fell over a chair I had forgotten about. And cracked my skull again. This time it really hurt. I sat down in the chair for just a minute, bottles skidding all over the deck.

When I woke up, it was late twilight. My head hurt through and through. I shuffled inside and went to bed, my last thoughts on the fact that Liv Olson had been shot trying to save my pathetic life.

That was the last day of the Pork Festival.

I awoke in considerable pain a little after noon the next day. Experience got me out of bed and into the shower, blood washed away. I shaved and ingested aspirin. I could feel the crease where the stitches had popped, then shrugged it off.
So what?
I put my bloody pillowcase in the washing machine, cleaned up the blood on the tile floor and the side of the sliding door frame. I fed Gotcha and let her out, went out on the deck and cleaned up my trash, let Gotcha in, then drove to town to buy more beer, my silent, non-judgmental friend.

On the glass door of the Hy-Vee Supermarket, a memorial service for Maggie Rootenbach was advertised. It would be tomorrow at the high school. I went inside, bought a case of Corona and two packages of bratwurst and took them up toward checkout. I expected a dirty look. Rockbluff is a small town.

One of the three cash registers wasn’t busy, so I set my purchases on the conveyer and walked up to the cashier. I got the classic double take. She rang up the total and told me the tab and I paid for it with my debit card. She kept glancing at me as the machine buzzed and spit out my receipt, which I stuffed in my pocket. She tentatively told me to have a nice day.

I drove home and drank all day and grilled and ate one of the packages of bratwurst. I played towel tug-of-war with Gotcha, spinning her until she was airborne, locked onto her end of the towel, but it made me dizzy, so I stopped. I did not turn on the radio, television or computer. I thought about calling Olivia as she had asked. While I thought about that, Ernie called.

“It stinks that I have to have FOX NEWS tell me someone put a bullet in your head,” he said. “Other than that, how ya doin’, man?”

“I had it coming.”

“We all do, Thomas. But if you kill yourself over this, I’ll never speak to you again.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m not going to kill myself.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m too damn tired, and there’s a chance the Hawks will play in the Rose Bowl. Don’t worry, Ernie.”

“Yeah, well, I do worry. I know about the shooting, I know about the local girl who was murdered, I know about your lady friend, and I’m thrilled that you have a lady friend. I know about Horace Norris. That’s a terrible burden for you to take on, Thomas.”

“How’d you know about Olivia and me?”

“Lunatic Mooning, who else?” I raised my eyebrows. “I called him. I told Lunatic who I was and, once he accepted that, he filled me in. Lots of people are worried about you, but also sensitive to your wanting to be alone.”

“A blessing.”

“You want to be alone so you can just drink until things get better?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’d be a lousy friend if I expected you to go through all this alone. Olivia told me you haven’t answered your phone for three days. She’s doing better, by the way, and thanks for asking.”

“You called Olivia Olson?”

“Yup.”

I stood up and walked outside. The day was cooling down, to my surprise, to the point of being comfortable out on the deck. A strong breeze stirred the treetops and filtered down to me. “You’re pushy, Ernie.”

“Tough. So, what’s so important you can’t pick up the phone when a fine woman wants to talk to you? Never mind calling me, your friend and pastor for nearly two decades. That’s okay. No big deal.”

“I hate cell phones, and this one’s going off the deck down to the bottom of the bluff this house was built on as soon as we conclude our conversation.”

“Got a guest room available?”

“I have two guest rooms, but they’re not available to anyone. I need time alone. I’ll be all right. I have not lost faith in God, Ernie, so you don’t need to buck me up. I believe Jesus was a man of sorrows, too. We can relate.”

“I’m not unpacking my car until I am convinced you’re not going to put that damn shotgun in your mouth and pull the trigger.”

“Job 13:15, Ernie.”

“’Though he slay me, I will hope in him.’”

“You got it. And somewhere in Habakkuk.”

“The Lord God is my strength, and so forth…”

“You must be a preacher or went to seminary, or both. Very good.”

“Okay, I’ll leave you to your ruminations,” Ernie said, “but you’re drinking too much, like you did after you lost your girls.”

“I don’t need the reminder. You know me pretty well, friend, but you don’t
know
me. I’ll be okay. Someone once said that all the world’s problems are caused by, and cured with, alcohol.”

“That alcohol quote is a load of bull. And what have you done, anyway? Where have you screwed up?”

“If I had minded my own business, there would have been a total of one murder, and this town would have continued on believing it was a farm accident. You know the rest. So, any way you cut it my involvement caused a bad situation to expand beyond belief, certainly beyond understanding. And please don’t tell me God will use it somehow for good.”

“You think you should have ignored what looked like a genuine appeal of a hysterical woman for your help? You think you should have kept going, focused on your own pain, your own depression?”

“Indeed.”

“Then I’ll hang up, now that I know you’re not going to kill yourself, and now that I know you’ve decided not to be a human being. I may not know you, as you claim, Thomas, but I mostly know you, and this isn’t right or good or excusable. So stop whining in your beer. Your life is worth more than that.”

“Say hello to the family.”

“I shall, Thomas. We all love you.”

“See ya,” I said, and that was that.

O
ver the next two days I made another beer run, avoided eye contact with people in the Hy-Vee, and began to eat more. Toward the end of that second day, I was fixing myself a nice lunch of bratwurst and potato skins with cheddar cheese and, bless me, a glass of whole milk, when a knock on the door interrupted my preparations. If it was Ernie, I was going to bloody his nose.

I opened the door to Olivia Olson.

“You need to shave, put on a shirt and tie and come with me. Horace Norris, who died for you, is being buried today. Funeral at Christ the King, Carl Heisler preaching, burial at Rockbluff Cemetery. Get going.”

“You look nice,” I said. “How’s your gunshot wound?”

“Get going. I’ll wait out here.”

“It’ll be a long wait. I’m not going with you. I can’t.”

“You skipped Maggie’s memorial service, you’re holing up like some sort of damn hermit, and you’re making Heineken’s stock skyrocket.”

“I’m not drinking Heineken at the moment. Three Philosophers is my beverage of choice.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Come on! Get going. You owe Horace.”

“He’ll never know.”

“That’s rich. Now, let’s go. Don’t be gutless.”

“I’m not going. Run along. I mean it.”

Olivia glared at me, shaking her head. “You are one sorry sucker. You should be ashamed of yourself. And if you don’t show a little respect for a man like Horace, and all your other friends in this town, and for me, I’m not so sure I want to see you again. You’re better than that.”

“No, I’m not.”

“False humility makes me want to spit up.”

“Go,” I said. And I shut the door in her face. She left.

I wasn’t hungry anymore. I felt nauseated. If I stayed home, I would hate myself more than I already did. If I went to the funeral, I would be the object of others’ hate. But at least I could face myself. I strode back to the front door and opened it, but the only evidence of Olivia’s visit was a soft cloud of powdery white dust settling back in the road where her car had sped away.

Back in the kitchen, I got out a juice glass and retrieved a bottle of Myers Rum, only for special occasions, from a cabinet. I filled the glass, downed it, put the bottle away. I brushed my teeth, gargled with blue mouthwash.

I dressed in a pair of dark slacks, white shirt, dark blue tie, and the only jacket I still owned, an old navy blazer I was married in. Sentimental slob.

I arrived half an hour early, in searing heat on August 2nd, big surprise, but the parking problem replicated Hugh Soderstrom’s funeral, a ceremony that seemed like five years ago. I parked as close as I could and walked quickly to the church, up the steps, and into the narthex. A man I didn’t recognize looked at me, handed over a program, and continued to look at me as I slouched inside and sat in the last row. In five minutes, there were people standing in the back. Timing is everything.

I couldn’t see Olivia, but I knew she was there. Her force field is obvious.

The closed casket waited in front of the altar. The church choir filed in and settled themselves. I looked around and recognized everyone I knew in Rockbluff. I offered up a silent prayer of gratitude for the rum.

A few minutes later, Carl Heisler, dressed in a dark suit and tie, entered and took a seat next to the pulpit. The choir sang, “Shall We Gather At The River,” and several people in the congregation were nodding their heads and smiling, no doubt thinking of Horace, as did I, in his inner tube, floating down the Whitetail.

Carl rose, then read: “For I am already being poured out as a drink offering, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith.”

I liked the part about a drink offering.

Carl went on to say, “Our friend, our brother, has fought the good fight, literally dying during a fight, giving up his life for his friend, my friend, Thomas O’Shea.”

I felt like someone jabbed me with a cattle prod. Carl could not see me, so what he said was not meant for my ears. He went on, “I am confident that Horace, who died a hero’s death, would have preferred it this way, rather than wait out the ravages of cancer. Horace loved life, and he loved it so much he gave up his life for another’s.

“But the Devil is a liar, and I believe, I
believe
, he is telling Thomas O’Shea that Horace’s death is Thomas’ fault. It is not. Don’t believe that, if Thomas O’Shea had not come to Rockbluff, everything would be fine, that there would not have been so much death and heartbreak. I tell you, do not go down that path. It leads to bitterness and destruction.

“I implore you to reach out to Thomas. He is a man who does the right thing. He has done nothing for you to forgive. And that is all I will say about the man Horace Norris gave up his life for.”

Carl started, stopped, swallowed hard, struggling. And then, thankfully, he moved on to a stirring eulogy. He spoke of Horace’s faith, his commitment to the children and youth of the community, his zest for life that manifested itself in tubing down the river, sky diving, roller blading, and helping others.

People wept. I did not. Dry well.

The ceremony ended and the pallbearers moved to the sides of the casket on the rolling platform. Lunatic Mooning, Mike Mulehoff, Arvid Pendergast, Gunther Schmidt, Harmon Payne, and Chuck Aldrich. They rolled the coffin down the aisle and outside to the hearse waiting to take Horace to his grave. I slipped out behind them, drove to the ABC store, bought three bottles of Kendall-Jackson Pinot Grigio, and went home
. I am not man enough to stand by and see Horace lowered into the rich, black earth of northeastern Iowa. I am not.

I hit the Drive-Thru at McDonald’s, behind which they found the murdered Maggie Rootenbach’s body, and ordered two double cheeseburgers, a giant order of fries, and a fried apple pie—all gourmet delights especially created for chilled Pinot Grigio. You can look it up.

I headed home, nibbling on the hot fries. I drove over the double arched limestone bridge, remembering my confrontation with the amateurs from Dubuque, remembering how much I enjoyed beating the hell out of them, wondered about that. I drove by Arvid’s house, its inhabitants at the burial. I doubted Arvid would fake his death there, urging of the muse or not. I drove out of town, toward the house, eventually motoring up the white gravel driveway to the front door.

Inside, I gave Gotcha half of one of the double cheeseburgers, then took out a big tumbler, decanted one of the bottles, and poured the glass nearly full, then dumped a handful of ice cubes to top it off, spilling a little. My gauche treatment of a fine wine would horrify some people, but I don’t care.

I am a sorry sucker most of the time, and I accept that. Like Horace, we are all afflicted with a terminal disease. It’s just the playing out of the details that is different for each of us. I glugged down some wine and found myself envying Horace, instantly dead in the midst of his heroism. Does it get any better than that?

Gotcha, having wolfed down her half sandwich, followed me outside, begging silently for nibbles with her large, brown, liquid, intelligent eyes. “No deal, Gotcha,” I said, and she rumbled back inside the house, forgetting to close the door. I love my dog. She is clear and good, devoted to sleep and food and me in that order, a hierarchy we both respect for its honesty. She is brave, and always does her best. I wish I could say that about me.

I finished the wine before I reached the deck furniture, so I set the McDonald’s bag on the arm of the Adirondack chair and went back inside for a refill. I put the two remaining bottles in the freezer, hoping I would not forget about them and be reduced to enjoying Pinot Grigio Slushies later in the evening, or the next day. Sliding the door shut, I went back outside with a full glass.

By now the sun was slipping down through the trees, a red disc taking with it the heat of the day, leaving behind humidity, fatigue, and hope for cooler weather. In the remaining light, I found myself regretting my behavior toward Ernie. I am such a jerk sometimes, but in my own defense, I am a solitary person who prefers to be alone now that my family is long gone. As I told Moon, what I had only happens once, and it died in Atlanta. I sang softly to myself, “Na na na nah, na na na nah, hey he-e-y, say goodbye.”

I took another satisfying sip. Briefly, I wondered why indulging in something pleasurable brought with it a penalty—hangover, remorse, and guilt. Not fair at all.

Guilt overwhelmed me for a while, but I didn’t have the stamina to maintain it for more than a couple of minutes, but while it was in my neighborhood, I felt guilt for dragging so many people into my self-righteous, fervent search for the truth. I felt guilt for sleeping with Olivia. I felt guilt for drinking too much. I felt guilt about everything except the sinking of the Lusitania. I reveled in it. I knocked back more wine. I finished the food.

Once, after being in the Middle East, mostly Israel, for nearly a year, I spent thirty-three dollars at the first McDonald’s I saw upon returning to New York. That was before golden arches sprouted in every country, behind every pyramid, next door to every mosque, and when thirty-three dollars went a lot further.

I went inside and got myself another glass of wine, tossing the empty bottle into the trashcan under the sink. The glass shattered on another bottle.

I am afraid to leave the house, afraid to go into town.
I remembered Carl’s moving appeal for me, that I had done nothing to deserve their condemnation. I will thank Carl someday. But there are serious “reaching out” behaviors I wish he would have mentioned, like sex. I thought about Liv, beautiful in bed—passionate, erotic, sweet, almost innocent. I loved being with her, having her hands on me, the sounds she made, the murmurings and the slumber when the lovemaking was over.

When I was with her, I forgot about everything. Simple as that. I even forgot about Karen, God forgive me. I never expected to have that kind of intimacy again, and then, there it was. I drank some more and wondered if hope had an address that would show up on a GPS.

Oh, pathetic man that I am
, I thought.
I do that which I should not do, and I do not do that which I should. And if that isn’t a legitimate appeal for some more wine, Dolly Parton can see her toes.

I shuffled into my kitchen, refilled my tumbler, and wondered why in the world the doorbell was ringing, and so far away.

Gotcha stayed on her tuffet, boofing briefly, refusing to budge. I answered the door. It was Liv. I stared at her, unable to speak.

“You’re drunk again,” she said.

“I like to think of it as chemotherapy. ‘Drunk’ is a pejorative term that is an affront to those of us who are connoisseurs of the fruit of the vine. Nevertheless, it is a blessing to see you. May I kiss your luscious lips?”

“You may kiss my ass,” she said, sweeping by me into the living room.

“That’s even better,” I said. “Won’t you please denude that delectable surface for my affections?”

Instead of slipping down her slacks and panties, Olivia turned around and said, “I understand you were at Horace’s funeral service this afternoon.”

“Your understanding is founded on fact.”

“Thank you. That was a good thing to do.”

“May I remind you that Horace had no idea I was there. I simply went because my guilt would have been stronger if I stayed away than if I attended. I can thank you for that perspective.”

“You had it coming, Thomas.”