The Simple Truth (11 page)

“You’re the man of the house now, Lucas. You have to look after your family,”
said Fiske.

Sara studied the teenager. The anger in his face was painful to see. How could someone so young have all that hostility inside him?

“Uh-huh,”
Lucas said, staring at the wall. He was dressed for gang work, a bandanna covered his head. He wore clothes one could not afford flipping burgers at McDonald’s.

Fiske knelt down and looked at the other son. Enis was six years old, cute as the devil and usually bubbly.

“Hey, Enis, how you doing?”
Fiske asked, holding out his hand.

Enis warily shook Fiske’s hand.
“Where’s my daddy?”

“He had to go away for a while.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause he kill — ”
Lucas started to say before Fiske cut him off with the sharpest of looks. Lucas muttered an expletive, threw off his mother’s shaky hand and stalked away.

Fiske looked back at Enis.
“Your daddy did something he’s not too proud of. Now he’s going away to make up for it.”

“Jail?”
Enis asked. Fiske nodded.

As Sara observed this exchange it occurred to her that today Fiske, and adults in general, probably felt foolish and inadequate in these situations, like sitcom characters from the 1950s trying to deal with a second millennium child. Even at six years old Enis probably knew a great deal about the criminal justice system. In fact, the little boy probably knew far more about the evil parts of life than many adults ever would.

“When’s he getting out?”
Enis asked.

Fiske looked up at the wife and then back at the little boy.
“Not for a real long time, Enis. But your mom’s going to be here.”

“Okay, then,”
Enis said with little emotion. He took his mom’s hand and they left.

Sara watched as Fiske looked after the pair for a moment. Again, she could almost feel what he was thinking. One son perhaps lost forever, the other casually leaving his father behind, like a stray dog on the street.

Finally, Fiske had loosened his tie and walked off.

Sara wasn’t exactly sure why, but she decided to follow him. Fiske kept a slow pace, and she easily was able to keep him in sight. The bar he entered was a little slit in the wall, its windows dark. Sara hesitated and then went in.

Fiske was at the bar. He had obviously already ordered because the bartender was sliding a beer across to him. She quickly went to a back booth and sat down. Despite its dingy appearance, the bar was fairly full and it was barely five o’clock. There was an interesting mixture of working class and downtown office dwellers in here. Fiske sat between two construction workers, their yellow hard hats on the bar in front of them. Fiske slipped his jacket off and sat on it. His shoulders were as broad as the burly men’s next to him. Sara noted that his shirt was untucked and fell over the back of his pants. The way his dark hair covered the back of his neck and touched the white of his shirt held her gaze for some time.

He was talking to the men on either side of him. The workers laughed heartily at something Fiske had said, and Sara felt herself smile even though she hadn’t heard it. A waitress finally came over and Sara ordered a ginger ale. She continued to watch Fiske sitting at the bar. He was not joking around anymore. He stared at the wall so intently Sara caught herself looking at it too. All she saw were bottles of beer and liquor, neatly arranged; Fiske obviously observed far more. He had already ordered a second beer, and when it arrived he held the bottle to his lips until it was empty. She noticed that his hands were large, the fingers thick and strong-looking. They didn’t look like the hands of someone who spent all his time pushing a pencil or sitting in front of a computer screen.

Fiske slapped some money down, grabbed his jacket and turned around. For an instant Sara thought she felt his eyes upon her. He hesitated a moment and then pulled his jacket on. The corner she was in was dark. She didn’t believe he had seen her, but why had he hesitated? A little nervous now, she waited an extra minute or so before she rose and left, leaving a couple of singles behind for her drink.

She didn’t see him as she came back out into the sunlight. Just like that, as though in a dream, he was gone. On an impulse she went back into the bar and asked the bartender if he knew John. He shook his head. She wanted to ask some more questions, but the bartender’s expression signaled that he would not be communicative if she did.

The construction workers eyed her with a great deal of interest. She decided to leave before things turned uncomfortable for her. Sara walked back to her car and climbed in. Half of her had wanted to run into Fiske somehow, the other part of her was glad that she hadn’t. What would she say anyway? Hello, I work with your brother and I’m sort of stalking you?

She had driven back to northern Virginia that night, had two beers herself, and fallen asleep in the glider on her rear deck. The same one she was sitting in right now as she smoked her cigarette and watched the sky. That had been the last time she had seen John Fiske, almost four months ago.

She couldn’t be in love with him, since she didn’t even know the man; infatuation was far more likely. Maybe if she ever did meet Fiske it would destroy her impression of him.

She wasn’t a believer in destiny, though. If anything was going to happen between them, it would probably be up to her to make the first move. She was just totally confused as to what that first move should be.

Sara put out her cigarette and stared at the sky. She felt like going for a sail. She wanted to feel the wind in her hair, the tickle of water spray against her skin, the sting of rope against her palm. But right now, she didn’t want to experience any of those things alone. She wanted to do them with someone, someone in particular. But with what little Michael had told her about John Fiske, and what she had seen of the man herself, she doubted that would ever happen.

* * *

A hundred miles south, John Fiske too gazed up at the sky for a moment as he got out of his car. The Buick wasn’t in the driveway, but Fiske had not come to see his father anyway. The neighborhood was quiet other than a couple of teenagers two doors down working on a Chevy with an engine so big it looked like it had ruptured through the car’s hood.

Fiske had just spent all day in a trial. He had presented his case, warts and all, as best he could. The ACA had vigorously represented the commonwealth. Eight hours of intense sparring, and Fiske had barely had time to go to the john to take a leak before the jury came back with a guilty verdict. It was his guy’s third strike. He was gone for good. The ironic thing was Fiske really believed him innocent of this particular charge — not something he could say with most of his clients. But his guy had beat so many other raps, maybe the jury was just unconsciously evening the score. To top it off, he’d die of old age waiting for the rest of his legal fee to come. Prisoners for life seldom bothered about settling their debts, particularly debts to their loser attorneys.

Fiske went into the backyard, opened the side door to the garage, went in and pulled a beer from the fridge. The humidity still lay over them like a damp blanket, and he held the cold bottle against his temple, letting the chill sink deep. At the very rear of the yard was a small stand of bent trees and a long-dead grapevine still tightly wrapped around rusty poles and wire. Fiske went back there and leaned up against one of the elms. He looked down at a recessed spot in the grass. Here was buried Bo, the Belgian shepherd the Fiske brothers had grown up with. Their father had brought the dog home one day when Bo was no bigger than his fist. Within a year or so he had grown into a big-chested, sixty-pound, black and white beauty that both boys adored, Mike especially. Bo would follow them on their morning paper routes, taking turns with the two boys. They had had almost nine years of intense pleasure together before Bo had toppled over from a stroke while Mike was playing with him. John had never seen anyone cry that hard in his whole life. Neither his mother nor his father could console Mike. He had sat in the backyard bawling, holding the dog’s bushy coat, trying to make him stand up again, to go play with him in the sunshine. John had held his brother tightly that day, cried with him, stroked the still head of their beloved shepherd.

When Mike had gone to school the next day, John had stayed behind with his father to bury the dog here. When Mike had come home they all had attended a little service in the backyard for Bo. Mike had read with great conviction from the Bible and the brothers had placed a little headstone, actually a chunk of cinder block, with Bo’s name scrawled on it in pen, at the head of the simple grave. The piece of cinder block was still there, though the ink had long since vanished.

Fiske knelt down and ran his hand along the grass, so smooth and fine in this shaded spot. Damn, they had loved that dog so much. Why did the past have to recede so quickly? Why did one always recall the good times as being so brief? He shook his head, and then the voice startled him.

“I remember that old dog like it was yesterday.”

He looked up at Ida German, who stood on the other side of the fence staring at him. He rose, looking a little embarrassed.
“It was a long time ago, Ms. German.”

The woman smelled perpetually of beef and onions, as did her house, Fiske knew. A widow for nearly thirty years now, she moved slowly, her body shrunken, squat and thick. Her long housecoat covered veiny, splotched legs and bloated ankles. But at nearly ninety years old, her mind was still clear, her words crisp.

“Everything’s a long time ago with me. Not with you. Not just yet. How’s your momma?”

“Holding her own.”

“I’ve been meaning to get over there to see her soon, but this old body just doesn’t have the get up and go it used to.”

“I’m sure she’d love seeing you.”

“Your daddy went out a while ago. American Legion or VFW, I think.”

“Good, I’m glad to see he’s getting out. And I appreciate you keeping him company.”

“Isn’t any fun being alone. I’ve outlived three of my own children. Hardest thing in the world for a parent to do is bury their babies. Ain’t natural. How’s Mike? Don’t see him much.”

“He keeps pretty busy.”

“Who would’ve thought that chubby-cheeked little tow-head would’ve gone on to do what he’s done? Mind-boggling, if you ask me.”

“He’s earned it.”
Fiske stopped for a moment. That had just slipped out. But his brother
had
earned it.

“You both have.”

“I think Mike hit it a little higher than I did.”

“Huh. Don’t you go believing that. Your daddy brags about you a mile a minute. I mean, he talks about Mike too, but you’re the king of the hill with him.”

“Well, he and Mom brought us up right. Sacrificed everything for us. You don’t forget that.”
Maybe Mike had, but he never would, Fiske told himself.

“Well, Mike had three fine examples to follow.”
Fiske looked at her curiously.
“That boy worshiped the ground you walked on.”

“People change.”

“You think so, do you?”

A few drops of rain started to fall.
“You better get back inside, Ms. German, it looks like it might pour.”

“You know you can call me Ida if you want.”

Fiske smiled.
“Some things don’t change, Ms. German.”

He watched her until she made it inside. The neighborhood wasn’t nearly as safe as it had once been. He and his father had installed deadbolts on her doors, sash locks on her windows and a peephole in her front door. The elderly carried a bull’s-eye on them when it came to crime.

Fiske looked down once more at Bo’s grave, the vision of his brother crying his eyes out over a dead dog cemented in his mind.

How are you, Mom?” Michael Fiske touched his mother’s face. It was early in the morning and Gladys was not in a good mood. Her face darkened and she pulled back from his touch. He looked at her a moment, deep sadness in his eyes as he saw the open hostility in hers.

“I brought you something.”
He opened the bag he carried and pulled out a gift-wrapped box. When she made no move to open it, he did so for her. He showed her the blouse, her favorite shade of lavender. He held it out to her, but she wouldn’t take it. It was like this every time he came to visit. She would rarely talk to him, her mood always foul. And his gifts were never accepted. He repeatedly tried to draw her out in conversation, but she refused.

He sat back and sighed. He had told his father about this, that his mother absolutely refused to have anything to do with him. But his old man was powerless to change things. No one could control who Gladys was nice to. Michael’s visits had grown less and less frequent because of it. He had tried to talk to his brother about it, but John had refused to discuss it with him. His mother would never treat John that way, Michael knew. To her, he was the golden child. Michael Fiske could be elected the president of the United States or win the Nobel Prize, and in her eyes he would still always be second to his older brother. He left the blouse on the table, gave his mother a quick kiss and left.

Outside, the rain had started to come down. Michael pulled up the collar on his trench coat and got back in his car. He had a very long drive ahead of him. The visit to his mother was not the only reason he had driven south. He was now headed to southwest Virginia. To Fort Jackson. To see Rufus Harms. For a moment, he debated whether to stop and see his brother. John had not returned his phone call, which was no surprise. But the journey he was about to undertake had some personal risk to it, and Michael wouldn’t have minded having his brother’s advice and perhaps presence. But then he shook his head. John Fiske was a very busy attorney and he didn’t have time to run around the state chasing wild theories of his younger brother’s. He would just have to deal with it alone.

* * *