Suffer the Children (3 page)

“Almost a year ago. There was an accident.”

She stared at the photo. Tears welled in her eyes. “I am so sorry.”

“No, I’m the one who should apologize. You came here for medical advice, not to become upset.” He cursed his stupidity. The idea of death was infectious; it wouldn’t take long for Shannon, her body raging with hormones, to imagine her own child dying. After taking the photo back, he picked up the phone, punched Nadine’s extension, and asked her to bring a package of public health literature. “I’ll get you some brochures to take home.”

“I was judging you in my head, wondering why you don’t smile,” she said. “You looked so grim. I had no idea this happened. I am
such
an idiot.”

“Not at all.” He opened a drawer and produced a box of tissues.

“Can I ask what happened?”

Blinding light filled the car and winked into dark just before the
BOOM.

“It was . . .”

The world spun and glass shards splashed up the windshield.

“Dr. Harris,” a familiar voice said.

He woke to a hissing sound, his wife still holding the wheel, looking dazed, his leg pierced by a barbed tongue of metal.

“Paul?”

He tried to twist in his seat to look behind him, but his leg exploded in agony.

He gritted his teeth and tried again—

“Paul!”

“David.”

He looked up in surprise. Nadine stood in the doorway of his
office. She entered and slapped a handful of brochures onto the desk, glaring at him before turning to Shannon.

“What happened to the doctor is none of your concern,” Nadine said. “It’s a private matter.”

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the office.

“I’m really sorry,” David said, reddening. “She shouldn’t have said that to you.”

“What did I do?” Shannon wondered. “What was that all about?”

“That,” David answered, “is Nadine Harris.”

“Harris? You mean she’s—”

“My wife. Paul’s mother.”

Might as well put it all on the table at this point
, he thought.

He doubted, after this visit, that Shannon Donegal’s son was going to become a patient of the grim Dr. David Harris.

20 hours before Herod Event

Doug Cooper liked that it wasn’t as cold as yesterday. He liked that the trash he picked up today didn’t contain any broken glass or disposable needles. He liked that the bags didn’t rip open and spill rotten meat, asbestos, or shit-filled diapers all over his boots. He liked that no homeowners yelled at him, no cars came close to hitting him, no dogs tried to bite him.

And still it was a shit day, just like all the rest.

When Otis called him into his office after he’d changed out of his work clothes at the end of his ten-hour shift, Doug had a feeling it was about to get a whole lot worse.

He scowled under the grimy brim of his red L
OVIN’
L
ANSDOWNE
baseball cap, which the Plymouth County Department of Solid Waste Management handed out last year to all its employees who worked in the city. Broad-shouldered, standing at an imposing six feet two inches, he towered over his supervisor. His stubbled jaw and handlebar mustache made him look comical when he laughed and meaner than a dog when he got angry. Right now, he wore his mean face.

“Grab a seat,” Otis told him, and took a seat himself, leaning back in the creaking chair with his hands folded on his massive belly.

Doug sat and dipped his head to light a Winston. They weren’t supposed to smoke in here but did so anyway when the long, hard day was done. The old office smelled like an ashtray. Doug recognized stacks of yellowing paper on Otis’s desk he’d seen months ago. Nothing ever changed in here except the months and years on the calendar hanging on the wall.

Whatever was on the man’s mind, Doug hoped the conversation would be quick. He had no time for small talk or pictures of Otis’s grandchildren. Joan was putting supper on, and he wanted to get home and see his kids.

“So how are you, Doug?”

“Peachy,” Doug answered.

“Good to hear. I got some news from the County. Some pretty major news, actually.”

“Oh boy, here it comes.”

“Why do you always think the worst? I’m trying to tell you they approved the contract for the Whitley rigs.”

Doug felt a surge of heat in his chest, like heartburn. “I thought that was dead.”

Otis lit his own cigarette and waved the match. “It’s alive, and it’s here.” His face turned an alarming shade of red as he coughed long and hard into his fist. “Better get used to it, Doug. They’ll be delivered in the early part of the year. We should be seeing the first vehicles on the road by springtime.”

Every day, Doug worked his ass off as part of a two-man sanitation crew—one man driving the truck, the other dumping trash into the rear
of the rig, where it was compacted. The new Whitley trucks that the County wanted side-loaded waste using automatic lifts. The rig had a mechanical claw that grabbed the garbage can and dumped its contents right into the hopper.

It sounded great—unless you were a sanitation worker hoping to keep your job during a time of shrinking budgets. The automatic rigs needed only one man to operate them.

When Joan had gotten pregnant with Nate, Doug had sworn he’d do anything to provide for his family. He became a waste collector. At the time, he’d thought it was one of the safest professions on the planet. Sure, it was a tough and dirty job, but everybody needed it done, a good union protected it, and it couldn’t be offshored.

He’d never anticipated that a new type of garbage truck might make him obsolete.

Spring was only four months away.

He stood, suddenly filled with nervous energy that he didn’t know what to do with. “Shit, Otis. What about my job?”

“Sit down, Doug. Nobody’s going to lose his job. The County will reduce head count through normal attrition. Guys move, others retire, and they won’t be replaced. That’s it.”

Doug expressed his skepticism for that news with a snort. Whatever the politicians had told his boss, when it came to budget cuts, they had a way of changing their minds once they smelled blood.

Otis planted his elbows on his desk. “Look, that’s what they’re saying, okay? Don’t go telling people otherwise, Doug. I don’t need a goddamn panic.”

“I don’t gossip like some schoolgirl, Otis. But I will be checking with the union to see what kind of guarantees the County is offering in writing. I got mouths to feed at home.”

“You’re not seeing the big picture here. Why is there always a conspiracy theory with you? You got to look on the bright side.”

“Yeah?” Doug asked, mean face in full effect. “And what’s that?”

“Sanitation is being revolutionized,” said Otis, as if it were a fast-moving, glamorous field. “Faster, cheaper, better. Trash pickup at a
thousand homes a day, and the driver never leaves the cab. If the garbage isn’t in the bin, it stays where it is. No rain, no rats, no stink.”

Otis looked almost wistful about it. Doug guessed the man wished he had these rigs during the thirty-five years he’d spent hauling garbage in the rain and snow.

It was sad to witness. Otis had been a hairy son of a bitch back in the day, a hard drinker and a bar fighter, but now he just looked worn out, ready to retire himself. Doug always thought he’d end up just like him, marking time on a calendar in some crappy office and managing the next generation of hairy SOBs. He wondered now if he’d even get that privilege, thanks to the Whitley trucks.

What was he going to do if he lost his job? How would he face Joan and the kids, who depended on him? The very thought made him grind his teeth. What good was a man who couldn’t provide for his own?

Doug had grown up in hard times. He’d known hunger as a child—not the I-wish-I-had-more-treats bullshit but real, gut-gnawing hunger. His biggest wish was to give Nate and Megan the childhood he didn’t have and, he hoped, a chance at a decent future.

His kids came first. They would always come first.

“See?” Otis asked. “Change isn’t all bad. There’s a huge upside to this.”

“Yeah, it’s a bold new era in picking up other people’s shit,” Doug said with mock enthusiasm. He stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray on the desk. “Good night, Otis.”

Minutes later, Doug drove his truck out of the lot and onto the long road home. Snow swirled in his headlights; it was already shaping up to be a crappy winter. The roads were thick with snow, but he drove nice and slow and trusted his four-wheel drive, one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other rooting for his lighter in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. The orange glow of the sodium streetlights marked the way home. Leo Boon, his favorite country and bluegrass singer, crowed on the truck’s CD player:
The buck stops here.
Yes, sir.

Otis had accused him of always thinking the world was out to get
him, but it really did seem that way sometimes. Nobody was looking out for Doug, that was for damn certain, and he sure as hell was the only guy looking out for his family.

The truck rattled as he picked up speed. He glanced at his speedometer; sure enough, it read a little over forty-five. His pickup needed an alignment, another hundred twenty bucks he didn’t have. He tapped the brake with his foot until things stabilized. An old rage burned in Doug’s chest. Every time he got paid, something needed fixing or replacing. His life seemed like one big race to earn as much money as he could as fast as possible to replace everything that was always breaking.

“Goddamn it,” he said quietly, still thinking about the new rigs.
Damn everything.
He wanted to punch something. He wanted a drink. He lit another Winston instead and counted to ten. No way he was bringing this shit home with him, not again.

The cab filled with dry heat and cigarette smoke, oddly comforting smells. He soon recognized the houses flanking the street, each drenched in Christmas lights and decorations. Lansdowne was a midsized city comprised of sprawling cookie-cutter housing communities surrounding an old industrial core. After the latest revitalization effort had failed, housing became its major industry for a while, which had struck Doug as a starving man eating his own foot to sustain himself a little longer. When that failed, the city suffered waves of foreclosures and discovered it had an even bigger homeless problem. Most people here worked low-end jobs at gas stations, supermarkets, big box stores, fast food joints, and the like. They still believed in America, even though they’d been betrayed by its failure to live up to its promises.

Like Doug, all they wanted was to give their kids a chance at a good life.

He pulled into his driveway and parked in the garage. Major, the Cooper family dog, sensed Doug’s arrival and launched into his welcome-home barking ritual in the backyard.

Shucking his jacket in the entry, Doug felt warm for the first time all day. Hank Williams was belting out an old song from the kitchen.
He heard zany cartoon voices on the TV in the living room. The smells of Joan’s homemade spaghetti sauce made him feel human again.

After washing up, he found her in the kitchen wearing an apron with her hair done up in a ponytail. He watched her dance as she stirred a pan of frying meat on the stove. Doug remembered the night they first met at Cody’s Bar. AC/DC had roared from the speakers while Joan stood in front of the jukebox picking the next song, slim and curvy, her hips swaying to the beat and driving every man in the place crazy. Including, of course, Doug.

He blinked, and the memory passed.

He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her. She melted into him with a smile.

“What’s for dinner?” he said.

“Spaghetti and meatballs. How was your day?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Join the club.”

“I’m going to shower and change. All right?”

“Try to make it a quick one. Supper’s ready in fifteen.”

Doug entered the living room, which looked perfect. Joan constantly fussed after the kids, snatching up books, toys, and cups. Keeping things nice and neat. Nate hung off the edge of the easy chair with his head resting on the carpet, watching the TV upside down. Megan sat cross-legged about two feet from the screen.

“Anything good on?” he said.

“Hey, Dad,” Nate said vacantly, his eyes glued to the TV.

Megan jumped to her feet and ran at him, screaming, “
Daddy!
”

He caught her and twirled her laughing through the air.

“Hey, princess.”

“I missed you today, Daddy.”

His heart warmed to hear that. It always did.

It was always good to come home after a long day. He swallowed his anger and his worries. Swallowed them hard. Everything he did in his life, this was the reason.

Sometimes it was too easy to lose sight of that.

11 hours before Herod Event

Joan awoke during the night. Her heart pounded. She stared into the dark.

The clock read 3:02.

She’d been here before. A random creak, and she’d wake up glaring fiercely at the hazy outline of the bedroom door, ready for battle.

Next to her, Doug snored softly on his stomach. Joan took comfort in his presence. The man could sleep through the Rapture, but if she managed to wake him up, he’d get the baseball bat he kept under the bed and lumber downstairs to check things out.

There was never anybody there, but Doug always went anyway. Sometimes she thought he wanted to find a burglar on his property, just so he’d have the legal justification to beat somebody to a pulp. Whatever his motives, she was glad for it.

Joan considered herself a practical woman with her head screwed on straight. Doug periodically obsessed about things like avian flu and global warming, but she had no use for such worries. Nonetheless, she sometimes wondered if she’d left the stove on while out shopping, worried over whether the doors were securely locked, and thought she heard her children crying for her when she was in the shower or drying her hair. And once she heard something go bump in the night, she couldn’t return to sleep until Doug pronounced the house secure.