Wireman

CHAPTER 26

“I NEED SOMETHING stronger than Valium,” Nick said, avoiding the penetrating stare of Sidney Rubens.

“All right, Nick. I can do that for you.”

“You can?” Nick looked at the psychiatrist in surprise.

“Sure, it’s no problem. I’m glad you came back to see me. Yesterday was a misunderstanding. I think we can talk about it, can’t we?”

“I don’t know. I just flew off the handle and I didn’t mean what I said—about my brother and all.” The young man seemed genuinely sorry.

“I understand.”

“You don’t understand!” Nick shouted.

Rubens held up his hand for peace, but he saw the sullen look creeping over Nick’s face. In his estimation it would take months, maybe years of therapy to reach Nick Ringer—and even then they might not be successful. They did not have time for that. The most he could hope for was reconciliation with the patient.

He must not alienate him again.

Rubens took a prescription pad from his desk drawer. “I won’t keep you from your work. I’ll give you something for your nerves and you try to see me again tomorrow. Is that fair enough?”

“Yeah, that’s okay.” Nick was obviously relieved the questions could wait for another time.

Rubens watched him leave the office and knew he was going straight to the hospital’s pharmacy to have the prescription filled. He wondered if Detective Bartholomew had made it on time and found out Nick’s name in some way, The psychiatrist wondered too if he had done the right thing or if he had violated his patient’s privacy. The only thing he did know with any certainty was that his conscience was clear. Now it was up to the authorities to do the rest. God knows he couldn’t do much more.

Moments later Nick bent over the water fountain downing two Librium capsules. As he drove through the Houston noon traffic toward home, he felt the relief flood through him. He cursed himself for not taking Stevie Hagstrom up on his offer of a little dope. If he had, he would not be reduced to crawling back to a two-bit shrink at the V.A. hospital. But God, he hated that little twerp, Stevie. What kind of name was that for a grown man— Stevie? He could at least call himself Steve, the little asshole.

Nick thought about Daley’s name and laughed aloud. So maybe he was wrong. Daley sure did not look like a Dale. Then people might have called him “Chip” and they would be tagged like a couple of beavers from comic books.

Nick tried to think, but found his mind totally out of control. He could not remember if Chip and Dale were beavers or chipmunks. God bless the comics. He and his brother’s only entertainment all through childhood. That and TV. And the secret things they did on Ma’s ten acres. But not to think of that, not today, not now when he was on the way to face more of Daley’s music. Christ, but he was crazy since that old cop and his buddy showed up at the house!

Thinking I fucked up because I told ’em to get lost. Thinking I’m up to something all the time, following me around…

Nick quickly looked in the rear view mirror to check the cars behind him.

Following me around to see what I’m doing, giving me hell because I didn’t go to work this week.

Nick saw a black car go into a slow-motion skid in front of him and pulled into the right lane to avoid crashing into the rear-end.

How can I go into work anymore? That’s what I fucking want to know. I’m too tired to work, always too tired, and I don’t care, can’t he see that? What am I gonna be, district manager or what? Fuck no. I’ll never be anybody, but a gofer. And where’s he have room to talk? Missing exams, skipping classes, hanging round the house grieving over Madra moving out and how the cops think maybe he’s not telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but…

The streetlight changed to yellow and was red before Nick sped through it, narrowly missing a collision with a truck turning left.

“Asshole,” he shouted, looking in the rearview mirror for a patrol car.

And the cops coming to the house, damn. What were they up to anyway? What fucking trap were they trying to set? It was all a trick, asking about Monday, March the first. They wanted to pin something on me, always me, it never matters what happens, Ma and Daley and the V.A. and the cops—everyone’s always convinced it’s me!

He pulled the car to the curb and parked. He could feel the drugs taking effect, but his anxiety was not lessening. Unlocking the front door, he yelled, “Daley, you home?”

“In here,” came a muted reply.

Nick closed the door and stumbled on the hall rug as he went toward the darkened living room. “Shit!”

“More pills?” Daley asked sarcastically from the gloom. He looked like a lumpish old man with rounded shoulders hiding in the shadows.

“Fucking A.” Nick plopped into a chair across from Daley and with one hand rolled the vial of pills in his coat pocket.

“You make me sick,” Daley said.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“You’re a goddamned junkie.”

“And you’re Mama’s little bright boy and never do anything wrong,” Spittle came from Nick’s lips, he was so vehement.

“They’re going to come back,” Daley said solemnly. “And you’re not going to be ready for it.”

“But you’ll be ready, won’t you, Daley? You’ve got it all worked out, right?”

“You don’t know what’s happening…” Daley began to plead.

Nick stood up unsteadily. “Why do you have the damn shades pulled down in here? It’s too dark.”

“It’s going to stay dark.”

Nick turned before he reached the window. “Where’s the garrote, Daley, will you tell me that?”

Daley smiled without humor.

“Wipe that fucking smile off your face and answer me.”

“You know where it is, Nick. You’ve been using it,” Daley said softly.

“Me! Me! You want me to believe that, don’t you?” Nick’s face turned red.

“It’s impossible to save you anymore, Nick.”

Nick’s complexion suddenly paled, and his jaw tightened. He crossed the room, and stared Daley in the face. “You never fucking saved me.” Nick was so intense there seemed to be a vibration thrumming through the room. “In Nam I saved you. I saved you.”

Time stood still in the silent darkened room. Suddenly the antique clock on the wall struck the noon hour and both men flinched, but their eyes never flickered from one another’s faces.

“I have always been the one who saved you,” Daley said, his hand moving to his brother’s shoulder.

Nick jerked away and the scream that came from his throat was one of agony and betrayal. He kicked the coffee table across the floor into the brick fireplace, its glass top shattering.

“I want the garrote,” Nick screamed, tearing around the room, upsetting lamps, knocking ashtrays and books and dirty glasses to the floor.

“Stop it, Nick!” Daley commanded sternly.

Nick climbed the stairs, banging the wall with his fist in outrage.

“I’m going to find it!” he howled.

“Nick…”

In Daley’s bedroom Nick tore the covers and sheets from the bed, upset the mattress, lifted the box spring and let it fall with a crash. Daley tried to grab his arms but was flung back against the wall.

“I’m going to get rid of it!” Nick shouted.

“Nick, I want you to calm down…”

All the drawers in the chest and dresser were yanked out and turned upside down on the floor, clothes and socks spilling around the two brothers.

“Where is it? I want to know where it is!”

“Nick, you’re deluding yourself. You have the garrote.” Daley stood apart from his brother.

The dresser was pulled away from the wall and tumbled forward, the mirror cracking on the foot-board of the bed. Nick threw open the closet door and furiously jerked clothes off hangers.

Nick rushed down the hallway to the workroom.

“Where are you going?” Daley asked, trying to stop his brother.

“You’ve got it hidden in here,” Nick said, pounding on the locked door.

Nick looked at Daley, then without hesitation stepped back and ran into the door with his shoulder. The door burst open and smacked the wall behind it.

“Don’t break up this room, Nick. You’ve lost your mind.”

“It’s here somewhere. I know it.”

Daley stepped back into the doorway, and watched sorrowfully as Nick methodically demolished the antique pieces that would have been worth thousands when refinished. Before Nick was through, Daley turned away and went down the stairs, his shoulders drooping. There were no solutions, no help.

In Nick’s bedroom Daley got the wooden box from beneath the bed and opened the lid. The garrote lay coiled on the velvet inside.

The destruction upstairs finally ceased. The house filled with silence. Daley sat waiting, holding the box.

Nick appeared at the bedroom door. His face glazed over when he saw what his brother held in his lap. It was as if a film of clear, tough plastic suddenly coated Nick from head to foot. He was frozen in the doorway for long moments while the two brothers stared at each other in silence.

Finally Nick spoke. “You put it there,” he whispered in total disbelief.

Daley shook his head slowly. Nick was totally mad. His mind was shattered.

“You did,” Nick insisted. “You put it in my room.”

Again, Daley shook his head. Still without expression, Nick crossed the space between them, reached out both hands, and took Daley’s throat in his hands.

Daley looked up into his brother’s eyes with a silent plea.

The box fell to the floor and the garrote dropped from Nick’s hands into a spiraled loop, one of the handles resting on Nick’s shoe.

Outside thunderheads covered the sun and a shivering cold rain deluged the city.