coming around, she told me not to talk to them. She told everyone that worked at the club not to talk to them. When they came to arrest me, she told me to tell them I wanted a lawyer.”
”You didn’t mention cutting off his penis, Angel.
Do you remember doing that?”
”I didn’t do it,” she said.
”Are you sure?”
”I didn’t do it. I’d tell you if I did.”
I believed her.
”Telling me what happened was the right thing to do,” I said.
”Am I going to have to stay in jail for the rest of my life?”
”I doubt it. This changes a few things, but it doesn’t change the fact that they don’t have much of a case against you.”
”What about your sister? I never even talked to her.”
”That’s what I thought,” I said. ”You have to trust me. I’ll figure something out. I just need a little time to think.”
After the guards took her away, I sat at the table alone, unable to get up and walk out. The door buzzed twice, but I just sat there. I couldn’t move.
In my mind, I kept seeing a beautiful, fragile young girl, naively walking up the steps in the rain to a motel room. She’s accompanied by a man more than twice her size, twice her age. She closes the door and offers the man a drink from a bottle. He takes the bottle from her hand, sets it down, and punches her viciously in the side of the face. She sees a bright light and falls backwards onto the bed, dazed by the blow.
The giant hovers over her, his drunken breathing foul and labored. He grabs the girl and rolls her like a rag doll. He’s muttering, alternately calling her a slut and praising God for the opportunity to exact some righteous vengeance on a lowly whore. He rips off her panties. He’s excited but too drunk to maintain an erection. He tries to force himself inside her rectum, but she’s small. He spits on his hand to lubricate her and tries again. She’s struggling but he’s much too strong.
He slaps the back of her head and tells her to hold still. He gets inside her and grunts with satisfaction.
The girl goes limp. Beads of sweat drop from the giant’s nose onto the girl’s backside. He isn’t performing the way he wants, and he notices the bottle of scotch she offered him earlier. He shoves the girl down flat against the mattress and steps over to the bottle. He takes a long drink while the girl whimpers on the bed.
I hear Sarah’s voice. .
When I was finally able to move, I pushed the button, waited for the door to buzz, and made my way slowly down the maze of hallways and steel gates. What Angel had described to me was a voluntary manslaughter, at worst. A Class C felony, maximum sentence of six years. But I couldn’t bring myself to recommend to her that we go to the district attorney and tell him what had happened. I couldn’t see her spending time in prison for retaliating against a man who had violated her in the most shameful of ways.
As far as I was concerned, the hypocritical sonofabitch got what he deserved.
July 24
6:05 p.m.
I drove straight home from the jail with Sarah’s voice and Angel’s confession alternately ringing in my ears. As soon as I got out of my truck, Rio peed on me, and instead of laughing or gently pushing him away like always, I drew my foot back to kick the shit out of him. I caught myself, but barely. For some reason, the thought of the dog pissing on me right then made me mad enough to want to hurt him. I swore at him and stepped over him as he cowered in the driveway.
I walked into the kitchen. Caroline was standing over the stove. I could smell broccoli. I hate broccoli.
”Hi, honey,” she said. ”I heard they recessed the trial. What’s going on?”
”I’m going to wring that fucking dog’s neck.”
”I guess it isn’t good.”
”I’m sick of him pissing all over me. I’m sick of everybody pissing all over me.”
”What’s going on, Joe?”
”Nothing.” I marched through the kitchen and into the bedroom to change my clothes. I could feel pressure, a lot of pressure, at each of my temples, and my field of vision was narrowing. I felt a hand on my shoulder, a touch that usually comforted me. It didn’t.
”What’s wrong, Joe? Talk to me.”
”It would probably be best if you’d just leave me alone right now.”
”Leave you alone? Why? What have I done?”
”Nothing,” I said. ”That’s part of the problem.”
I’d spent part of the drive home working up a healthy anger towards Caroline. I had to provide for her, which meant I had to keep working. But I was sick of busting my ass for people who neither deserved it nor appreciated it, sick of people using me and lying to me, sick of worrying about whether what I was doing was right or wrong. I was sick of everything.
”I’m not the bad guy, baby. I love you, remember?” she said.
”A lot of fucking good it does.”
”You’ve been under a lot of strain. How about a hot bath?”
”I don’t want to take a goddamned bath. Now why don’t you do what I asked you to do and leave me the fuck alone?”
”How dare you talk to me like that!” Caroline said.
”I know you hate your job. I know you hate yourself sometimes, but that doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. I haven’t done a thing other than love you and try to help you through a difficult time, and I’m not going to stand here and listen to you degrade me.
All I could feel was the pressure in my head. I was losing it. I pushed past her and walked back into the kitchen.
”What are you doing?” She was right behind me.
I headed for the door. ”Where are you going?”
”Out,” I said. ”I’m going out.”
And that’s what I did. I drove to a bar in Johnson City called Fritter’s. I sat alone at the bar and drank vodka for a while. Then I asked for a shot of Ja germeister. Then another. I was there for hours.
It was raining when I left the bar, but I didn’t give a shit. I’d convinced myself that I had somewhere I needed to go. I drove across town, holding a hand over my right eye to keep from seeing double. I pulled through the gate at the Veterans Administration campus. I turned into the cemetery towards the long rows of white grave markers and made my way slowly, drunkenly, to the section where my father was buried. I got out of the car and stumbled through the rain until I found him.
Then I lay down on his grave and passed out.
I dreamed I was lying in a thicket, above a path in the Grenada jungle. I had somehow become separated from my squad. My face was covered in camouflage paint, and I was aiming a machine gun at the path. A group of six Cuban soldiers was moving towards me. I’d set out claymore mines in a ditch beside the path and concealed the wires carefully.
The point man moved into the kill zone. All that remained was for the rest of the group to get within range of the claymores. Once they were there, I’d open fire. When they hid in the ditch, I’d hit the clackers and detonate the mines. It would be a perfect massacre.
The last man moved in, and I started blasting away with the M60. I sprayed them with short bursts. The Cubans melted into the ditch line. I detonated the mines, and the earth shuddered. The Cuban guns went silent, and I moved in to mop up.
I heard the sucking sound of a chest wound coming from the point man. He was lying on his stomach in the ditch; his left arm lay severed two feet away.
I stuck my boot in his ribs and rolled him. He flopped onto his back, and I found myself staring into the
