Devils in Exile

Retreat

Maven drove the Parisienne north into the Vermont mountains, Ricky sleeping fitfully next to him. No radio, no conversation, no stops. The stillness of the frozen terrain suited his mind-set.

The sign read MOUNTAINSCAPE RETREAT. The main building looked like a small ski lodge. The branches of the surrounding trees were coated with sun-reflecting ice, like trees made of glass.

The inside was alpine, peaceful. The admitting director’s lips appeared very pink within his salt-and-pepper beard. “The VA has its own residential detox and recovery,” he said.

Maven said, “They’re not top five in the country. I looked you up.”

“There is currently a three-month waiting list for a bed, and even then, his insurance would cover very little of it.”

Maven lifted the duffel bag onto the counter. He ran the zippers down each end.

The admitting director looked at the cash inside.

“Enough for a full six-month program,” said Maven. “He’s a disabled army veteran. You can move him to the front of the line.”

Outside, Maven helped load Ricky out of the car and into A wheelchair. Ricky looked over at the admitting director, watching them from the building.

“You can do this,” said Maven, kneeling in front of Ricky. “You have to.”

Ricky winced, the thought of a six-month stay worsening his headache. “You’ll take care of my car?”

“I will.”

“You gonna visit?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna visit.”

Ricky looked down into his lap.

Maven said, “Ricky. I know I fucked up a hundred different ways. I’ll carry that with me forever.”

Ricky looked at him — really looked at him — and said, “What about you? What do you do now?”

Maven straightened. “One more thing I gotta do. One last guy I gotta see.”