The Last Tomorrow

TWENTY-FOUR

1

Next morning, the thirteenth of April, Carl finds himself in a chair in the corner of his room at the boarding house in nothing but tattered gray underpants. His soft white belly bulges out over the elastic waistband as he slouches before a small table on which rest the accouterments of what is quickly becoming the point around which his life orbits: a glass of water, a small paper bindle, a shining spoon he took from the kitchen downstairs, a syringe, a pocket knife, cigarettes, a lighter. His forehead is covered in sweat, his legs are cramping. His stomach and liver hurt. His eyes itch.

He stares at the syringe. He told himself he’d never do this. He told himself he’d never shoot up. But he can no longer afford not to. Smoking wastes too much. It burns away, unused and useless.

Candice said her husband’s funeral was yesterday. She told him on Friday, tomorrow’s the funeral, and it occurs to him now that her saying that might have been her shy way of asking him to attend, might have been her way of asking him to sit beside her during a difficult moment. He should call her and see if she’s okay.

She needs a friend.

But his legs are cramping badly. He won’t be able to focus on the conversation if he calls her now. He’ll do this, then call her. That’s the correct order of things.

He picks up the syringe and brings it to the glass of water and pulls back the plunger, drawing in a few cubic centimeters of liquid. He sets it on the table. He knifes powder from the bindle into the spoon, then carefully squirts the water from the syringe onto it. His stomach is cramped, a painful knot. He’s sick. He picks up his lighter and makes a flame. His hand shakes involuntarily. He moves the flame back and forth beneath the convex surface of the spoon’s underside until the brown powder has dissolved. The flame blackens the spoon. He sets down the lighter. With the tip of the syringe he mixes the liquid, then draws it into the glass tube by pulling back the plunger. He sets it down on the table.

He reaches down to his pants to remove his belt, but finds he has no belt, because he’s not wearing pants. The pants he last wore lie in a pile on the floor and within the belt loops is a narrow strip of leather. He needs that strip of leather. He gets to his feet, grabs the belt, walks back to the chair. He puts the belt around his arm, pulling it taut, grips it in his aching teeth. He wonders if his gums are bleeding. He makes a fist and picks up the syringe.

He told himself he’d never do this, told himself he’d only smoke it, like they do in China. He wasn’t going to use the needle, had seen too many burned-out hipsters and jazz musicians to fall into that trap, and had been told that if he smoked it like opium he wouldn’t develop a dependency.

He believes he was lied to.

He shakes his head. He isn’t addicted. He isn’t. He’s just being smart. It’s wasteful to smoke it. This means nothing. It doesn’t mean nothing, it means he’s smart. It means he doesn’t want to waste the stuff. It isn’t free, you know.

He brings the needle to his arm, holds it mere centimeters above the flesh. A few drops splash onto the pale skin on the inside of his elbow. He pierces the skin, feels a sting of pain. He finds a vein on the first attempt. He believes so, anyway. He draws back the plunger, bringing blood into the needle, watching a cloud of it dissipate into the heroin. He thumbs down the plunger, opens his hand, lets go the belt from his teeth.

An indescribable feeling swims through his entire body, liquid emotion washing over him like a great wave, and his head drops down — just for a moment, or five minutes, or an hour; it doesn’t matter — and the world goes gray.

Then he’s back, back but better, back but perfect.

He looks down at the syringe hanging from his arm, stares at it for a long time. Finally, after some indeterminate period, he pulls it away, sets it on the table.

Blood leaks from the hole in his arm. It’s very red; it’s beautiful. No one ever thinks about what a beautiful color blood is.

He should call Candice. He will. Of course he will. But first he’s just going to sit here. It’s nice to just sit somewhere. It feels good to just sit somewhere.

So that’s what he’s going to do.

2

He stands in the hallway for a long time, unmoving, and stares down at the telephone. It sits on a stand. A notepad lies beside it, ghost-writing visible from whatever was scrawled across the top sheet before it was torn away. Rain pounds down outside. He doesn’t remember it starting, but it’s going full-force now.

He came out here for a reason but can’t remember what that reason might have been. Then he sees the rectangle of paper in his right hand, pinched between the pad of his thumb and the side of his index finger. He looks at it. A telephone number. He picks up the telephone and dials.

After some time, an answer: ‘Hello?’

‘Candice.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Carl.’

‘You sound funny.’

‘I think it’s allergies,’ he says. ‘But listen: I was calling to see how you were doing. I remembered you saying that. . well, I guess yesterday was hard on you.’

‘Oh. The funeral.’

‘You holding up?’

‘I want my son back.’

‘What kind of deal did you make with Markley?’

‘It’s not settled, the lawyers have to work it out, but it looks like after Sandy testifies he can come home on weekends at least. He’ll probably have to stay in reform school a while, though.’

‘That might be good for him.’

‘He doesn’t handle that type of discipline well.’

‘The walls that keep him in also keep trouble out. Somebody who was supposed to testify before the grand jury got murdered yesterday.’

‘What?’

There’s panic in that word, that what, and the fear in her voice makes him wish he hadn’t said anything. He thought it would be comforting, your son’s being protected by those walls, so don’t you worry, but as soon as it was out of his mouth, he knew he’d said something he shouldn’t have. By then, however, it was too late: you can’t unsay a thing.

‘It doesn’t mean your boy’s in any danger.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘It means-’ He scratches his cheek. ‘I don’t know. He’s in a secure location. He’s safe. That’s what I was trying to say.’

‘He’s coming into the city tomorrow to go over his testimony with Mr Markley.’

‘The Sheriff’s Department will be driving him, his name hasn’t been released to the public, nobody knows where he’s being held. He’ll be fine. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry I scared you.’

‘I would have read it in the paper anyway. Do you know who killed him?’

‘Who killed who?’

‘The man who was killed.’

‘Oh. We think we got a pretty good idea. We have police out looking for him.’

‘Good.’

‘Do you want to get dinner tonight?’

A long silence on the other end of the line, a palpable hesitation, and then finally: ‘Okay.’

‘Yeah?’

‘But you should know I can’t get into a relationship right now. I just lost Neil. I won’t pretend he was the love of my life, but I cared for him, and I feel something like hatred when I think of my son, even though I love him more than I ever loved anyone. I hate him for what he did. I can’t get involved with someone else. It would be too complicated. Everything is confused right now. I’m confused right now.’

‘It’s just company.’

‘So you understand?’

‘I have to work today, but I’ll pick you up at eight.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay. See you then.’

He drops the phone into its cradle.