“He gave it to her,” Broder says, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own. He’s not sure where the voice comes from. Somewhere deep in the body, maybe his bowels, sound waves rising through coils of shit. He’s not sure why he’s here. He felt certain of this mission on the Peter Pan bus, mentally preparing the story for Michael. Now it feels futile, impossible to articulate. There’s too much to explain. Nothing’s coming out right.
The smart thing would be to disappear. Broder’s never been particularly smart. There are parts of him, he knows, that operate beyond his awareness. It’s always been the case, waking in strange beds and wondering why this other, evil Broder led him there. Perhaps to be absolved. “He gave it to her,” he says again.
Michael doesn’t indicate that he’s heard, but the woman does, turning her head in Broder’s direction.
She says, “Who gave what to who?”
“Aliana,” says Broder. “He gave her cocaine.”
The word cocaine is so airy with vowels, a word that can’t help but come out a whisper. The woman pokes Michael in the arm. The two share an intimacy that Broder can’t figure out. Michael tells her that Aliana was Broder’s wife.
“She was fifteen months clean,” says Broder.
A man on-screen is identified, by caption, as Detective Aldous Quinn. Microphones point at the man and the man speaks into them. He says he found the bracelet in a laundry bin. Broder imagines reaching into someone else’s laundry, his hand emerging covered in bugs.
“This is my fault,” says Michael. “I told him about the stupid bracelet in the first place. They never would have looked for it otherwise.”
Michael turns to Broder.
“Did you see him?”
“See who?” says Broder. He looks around the room as if there’s someone he should be seeing but, for some reason, can’t.
“Donnell,” says Michael. “The guy on-screen now. Did you see him the night that Ricky died?”
“Not that I recall,” says Broder. He heard someone say this in court on TV. He likes the way it feels in his mouth.
“Because he wasn’t there,” says Michael.
“She would never have done it if it weren’t for Ricky,” Broder says.
For many years, he has believed in this truth. He has relied on this truth to bolster his anger. It has given purpose to Broder’s days. Since the night of the party, he’s felt uncertain. He keeps thinking of the toasts at their wedding, how she may have taken a sip of champagne. Michael’s the only one who might understand.
And Michael isn’t listening. He’s doing something on his phone. Then he’s showing that something to Broder. Another image. A man. Blond hair.
“How about him?” says Michael. “You ever seen him before?”
Broder shakes his head.
“She was fifteen months sober,” Broder says.
The man with the magnets wakes himself with a snore, says sorry, and falls back to sleep. Michael stands and takes his phone into the corner, sticks a finger in his ear. He doesn’t speak into it.
Broder says, “Fifteen months is nothing.”
Michael, phone still to his ear, says, “No one answers their phones.”
“Leave a message,” says the woman. “I’m sure she’ll call back.”
“You’re still fragile after fifteen months,” Broder says. “After fifteen years even. You can’t offer drugs to someone fifteen months sober and expect them to say no.”
“No you can’t,” says Michael. He sits.
The man with the magnets holds a beer in his drooping hand. The man’s arm lowers, and it looks like the beer might tip over, but he rights it and brings the can to his mouth. Liquid passes his lips, then comes spraying out. Beer goes everywhere. The man is still asleep.
“I’ll get paper towels,” says the woman. She leaves.
“It got her started again,” says Broder. “Three months later she was dead.”
Broder holds up three fingers to illustrate. He lowers them, finger by finger. Michael looks very carefully at Broder. Like he used to look in the old days when Broder played Michael a new beat. Broder never knew what Michael was thinking, if he liked the beat or not.
“I’m sorry,” says Michael. “That must have been hard.”
Broder shakes his head. Michael looks back at the TV. Young Ricky’s on-screen again. Michael begins to cry. He says, “I know it’s not the same. Not the same as losing a wife.”
“No,” says Broder.
“I loved him,” says Michael.
“Not the same,” Broder says.
The woman returns with paper towels. Together she and Michael wipe the spill from the floor. Michael wipes the tears from his face. The woman says, “Maybe we should all try to get some sleep.”
“I’ll never sleep,” says Michael.
She says, “You should try.”
The woman wakes the man with the magnets and they leave. Michael says he’ll go to bed too, but doesn’t move. He looks at Broder again. He holds the look for a long time. Broder thinks he’s about to say something about time and how it passes. Michael says, “Goodnight.”
The wallpaper in the bathroom features illustrations of birds and ducks. It’s peeling in places. Broder touches a decorative soap and licks his finger. It doesn’t taste how he thought it would—too soapy, and not particularly sweet. Avoiding the mirror, he takes the gun from his pocket and places it, nose down, in the toilet bowl. He leaves the lid up. He leaves the house.
42.
Kate’s in the precinct waiting room, a cluttered hallway that feels like the set of a period drama about police corruption in nineteen-seventies New York. There’s an
