Wrong Question, Right Answer Page 7

I want to forget the whole conversation that happened between May and me, but it’s impossible. Snippets float along currents in my mind, still haunting me as I pull up to the warehouse. When I stop the van in the spot where Jenny was accosted by Charlie’s brother Rowdy, my stomach churns. Ugh. When will this shitstorm end?

  After spending four hours cruising the neighborhoods marked out on the maps we were given, we now have enough intel to sift through over the next couple days. Hopefully, Thibault got some information from the detective in charge of the case so we can get started with placing our surveillance. I definitely need something to occupy my time and mind.

  Flashes of Lucky’s face and the expression he’s been wearing lately carry new meaning for me. Has he been asking for help this whole time, and I’ve been ignoring it? Too focused on myself to recognize someone else’s pain? I feel selfish and self-absorbed.

  The crazy thing is, I think I could actually be better at managing someone else’s pain than my own. Maybe getting a little more involved in Lucky’s life might not be the worst idea in the world. It doesn’t have to be about sex or a relationship; it could be about our friendship, something that’s been there for as long as I can remember.

  A tiny piece of my heart is telling me that it’s possible May and Jenny are right. Maybe I should call Lucky, push him a little harder. Whenever someone offers to help me, I always say no, just like Lucky does. The only one who’s ever gotten through my defenses is Ozzie, and only because he pushed through. Like a steamroller, he drove right over me, giving me no choice but to let him in. I thank God for that; otherwise I’d probably be dead by now. He saved me.

  The question is, does Lucky need saving? And am I the right person for the job? Or am I just saying all this to convince myself because I want to sleep with him again? I can’t trust myself to do the right thing. I’m horrible with men, and not just regular old horrible. I’m the worst. My relationships end in murder.

  But Lucky deserves at least an attempt; that much I know. If I’m wrong, I’ll look like an ass for a few days, max. I can handle that. And if I’m right, and Lucky does need someone, maybe I can save him like I got saved. That would help my karmic balance, right? Take a life, save a life?

  I feel energized as these thoughts come to their logical conclusion: I need to call Lucky. I need to make him listen to me. Maybe I’ll even go over to his place, take a look at his goldfish, and tell him how pretty it is. Or handsome. How does he even know it’s a boy? Do goldfish have penises? I picture myself standing in front of the tank. “That’s a nice goldfish you’ve got there, Lucky. He’s so . . . gold.”

  Whatever. I’ll figure it out when I get there. I press the button that will open the warehouse door and wait the few seconds it takes for it to open wide enough to admit the van.

  “So, what are we going to do now?” May asks.

  “Go upload your photos and trash the bad ones. I’ll write down my thoughts about what we saw in a report for the team.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I wait until May has gone off to her cubicle before pressing the speed dial for Lucky. He’s number seven on my phone, obviously. Lucky seven, I think to myself as I wait for the call to connect.

  His voicemail picks up, and I disconnect. Then I dial again. He thinks he can turn me over to voicemail? Uh, no. He can definitely kiss my ass on that.

  My next call goes to voicemail too. This time I don’t hang up. “Lucky, it’s me,” I say into the recording. “Answer your phone.”

  I disconnect and then hold down the seven key again. This time the call goes directly to voicemail without a single ring. I bang my closed fist on the doorframe of the van, trying to decide what to do next.

  “Hey, you!”

  I look up and see Thibault standing at the top of the stairs. “What’s up?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like I’m all tied up in knots.

  “You got a minute?”

  “Maybe two.” I don’t like the tone I hear coming from Thibault. It’s got that older-brother-lecture timbre to it.

  “Stay there. I’m coming down.”

  There’s a small piece of me that wants to turn around and run out the warehouse door, which is ridiculous because I’m a grown woman and I could take my brother down if I really wanted to.

  “Come on.” He gestures for me to follow him over to the exercise equipment. He takes a seat on the bench press, and I grab a spot on another machine nearby.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  His voice is soft and there’s a hint of compassion there, which immediately pisses me off. It’s like there’s some kind of conspiracy to get under my skin by giving me advice today. I steel myself for the onslaught of good intentions.

  “What happened with you and Lucky on Friday?”

  I stand, deciding it’s better to take off rather than get into a wrestling match with a guy who’s got fifty pounds on me. I’m not quite mad enough to overcome that. I need a really dark, righteous anger to pull that off.

  “Just sit down,” he says, gesturing with his hand for me to take a seat, like he’s annoyed with my completely normal, emotional reaction. “I’m not busting your balls. I really need to know. There’s something going on.”

  I do as he says, my suspicions not completely gone, but my curiosity engaged. “What?”

  “First, tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I know Lucky was at the house and that he went home with you.”

  I hiss out my annoyance, hoping he’ll take the hint, but he doesn’t. Of course. He stares at me, fully expecting me to spill my guts.

  “He didn’t go home with me, okay? I got in the cab and he jumped in without my permission. Then he said he had to talk to me about something, so he came inside for a little bit.”

  “What did he say after he came inside?”

  I’m caught in a trap I laid for myself. Awesome.

  “Nothing. Much.”

  Thibault leans in, resting his forearms at his knees. “I need you to be honest, Toni. I’m not here to judge.”

  I stand, too antsy and pissed to remain seated. I feel vulnerable and attacked. “Judge? Judge what? It’s my life, and I live it how I want. I served my time, okay? I don’t need a parole officer anymore.” I finished that nonsense six months ago, thank you very much.

  Thibault drops his head, shaking it and sighing.

  “What?” I’m pissed at him for acting like I’m the asshole.

  He looks up at me, his expression almost tortured. “Why does everything have to be so difficult with you?”

  My heart feels like it’s cracking again. I’m a burden; I know I am. I always have been. “Difficult? Fuck you.”

  Thibault stands all of a sudden and gets in my face. “Fuck me? No, fuck you, Toni. I asked you to talk to me, as your brother, as the guy who nearly lost his mind when you got taken to jail, and you can’t come down off that high horse of yours for a single fucking second to show me a little respect and to show a little compassion for a friend!”

  My mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. I had no idea that my brother was so disappointed in me. He’s never said a word before. It’s like a pit has opened up in the middle of my heart and it’s sucking the beating muscle right into it. Pretty soon, I’m not going to have any heart left.

  He turns away and runs his fingers through his hair. “Shit. Sorry. That came out all wrong.”

  I walk backward, needing to put space between us. “No, man. It came out just right. I get it.” I have to leave. I can’t stand here and tell him I’m sorry that I am who I am. That I fucked up. That I don’t deserve to be here. He already knows all that, apparently. And I definitely don’t want him to apologize for how he feels. That’s not fair to him. I’d feel exactly the same way if it were me in his shoes.

  “Where’re you going?” he asks as I walk quickly across the floor.

  “I’ve gotta go do something. See you later.” I can barely get the word
s out, my throat is so damn sore from holding back tears. I’m not going to let them fall, though. This is life. These are the breaks. I just need to suck it up.

  I hop into my car and reverse out of the warehouse as fast as I can without laying rubber on the floor, because Ozzie hates that. I’m down the road a mile or two before the dam breaks. By the time I get home, the front of my shirt is soggy and my face looks like shit in the rearview mirror.

  I don’t even realize I’m not alone until I’m halfway up my front walk. It’s then that I see a shadow on my front porch. As I draw closer, I realize it’s Lucky sitting on my porch swing, and he’s holding a clear glass bowl in his lap.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I go slowly up my front walkway, trying to gauge Lucky’s mood as I quickly wipe remnants of smeared makeup from my face. His head is down, and he’s staring into his goldfish bowl. He could be asleep, he’s sitting so still.

  I clear my throat as I approach the porch, but he doesn’t lift his head.

  “Hey, Lucky. What’s going on?” I walk up the three steps and angle myself toward the porch swing.

  He looks up. His face is completely expressionless. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

  I gesture at his pet. “Looks like you brought somebody over for a visit.” May’s advice comes back to me, especially that part about seeing things through Lucky’s eyes and not my own. It’s not a little puppy he’s got in his hands; it’s a cold-blooded piece of bait for a dinner-sized fish from what I can see. But to him, it’s everything. So, I guess for today Sunny the goldfish will be my everything too. I can fake it for a friend.

  “He’s not doing so good,” Lucky says.

  “Why don’t you guys come inside? I’ll make you some coffee. Or we can have a beer.”

  “Beer sounds good.” Lucky stands, careful not to splash any water out of the bowl. He does such a good job of it, I imagine he’s probably had a lot of practice. An inane vision of him taking his fish for a daily walk pops into my mind.

  I push the image aside, knowing it will unfairly influence how I see him right now. He needs a space that’s judgment free, where he can just be his fish-freaky self and not worry about what someone might be thinking. I can step into his shoes and see this fish like he does. I think.

  I open the door wide so he can walk through with his fish and not bump into anything. I lock up behind him, all too aware of the fact that there are people out there who would love to find me at home and come at me with an unpleasant surprise. Charlie had several brothers and cousins, and every last one of them harbors a mean streak a mile wide. Aside from Rowdy getting stupid with Jenny a few months back, they’ve put off messing with me for over two years, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there biding their time. Most of them are smart enough to know that the more distance there is between Charlie’s death and any accident that might befall me, the less chance there is that they’ll be looked at as suspects. Rowdy jumped the gun on that program, though I’m not surprised; even Charlie used to joke that his little brother was one pork chop short of a mixed grill.

  “Where do you want me?” he asks, standing in my front hallway, looking lost and ridiculous. He’s got that leather jacket on again, the one I love so much, but near his waist in both hands is the fishbowl. And he’s right; Sunny doesn’t look so good. The fish is sharing time between floating and swimming weakly in circles.

  “Go into the living room. You can put Sunny on the table and we can watch him from the couch. I’ll be right there.”

  I keep it cool, walking at a regular pace into the kitchen, even though I feel like running. What if Sunny floats before I get back? Will Lucky leave? I don’t want him to go. I want him to stay. The thought makes me nervous as hell.

  I don’t know what he really wants to drink, even though he said a beer. I start a pot of coffee, thinking it might be good to stay sober for this, but grab two beers from the fridge too. Holding them in one hand, I reach up and grab a bag of chips and some pretzels from a bowl on the counter before joining him in the other room.

  I sit down next to Lucky, busying myself with the refreshments. He’s in a trance staring at his fish. I’m not sure he even notices I’m back.

  I nudge him, handing him a beer. “I made coffee too if you want.”

  He takes the beer from me, twists the cap off, and swallows half of it in three big gulps, never taking his eyes off his cold-blooded friend.

  I shrug. “Beer it is, then.” I sip at mine, knowing that two drunk people in this house would be a really bad idea. We already made that mistake, and I don’t want to make it again.

  “I took him to the vet,” Lucky says. “They said there’s nothing they can do. He’s just old.”

  “That sucks. How old is he, anyway?” I want to open the bag of pretzels, but I feel like that would be insensitive right now.

  “He’s six. The Internet says they can live for thirty years, but my vet says in his experience they only live a year or two. So I guess six is pretty good.”

  “Yeah, that’s great, especially when you’re kicking it old school.” I smile and point my beer bottle at the bowl.

  “Old school?”

  I immediately feel like an asshole. I didn’t mean to, but I pretty much just told him that he’s killing his fish by keeping it in a little bowl.

  My smile falters and turns into something more like a grimace. “I just meant . . . you know, at the dentist, he’s got that big old rig with all the different fish in it and bubbles going and that little treasure chest and skeleton in the bottom . . .” I take another slug of my beer and go ahead and open the bag of pretzels, figuring if I stuff my mouth full of food, maybe I’ll be unable to stick my foot in there anymore.

  “This is just what I use to transport him around in. Normally he’s in a bigger tank alone. I never wanted him to get sick or hurt. Other fish could be bullies and hurt him or make him sad.”

  I nod, as if this makes all the sense in the world. “I gotcha.” Should I be worried about Lucky’s mental health? He’s talking about this fish like it’s a kid going to grade school or something.

  The room falls completely silent, except for the sounds of me eating. Normally, I don’t notice myself chewing, but it’s like I have a microphone up to my mouth. Every crunch of pretzel I make is like the beginnings of an earthquake. I take another swig of my beer to try to dampen the noise.

  “I could use another.” Lucky puts his empty bottle on the table gently, his eyes never leaving the fish bowl.

  I stare at the empty bottle. On a good day, I would happily get any of my teammates drunk as a skunk, but tonight I’d better not. If there were ever a night for sobriety, this is it. I fear what might come out of my mouth if my lips were loosened by alcohol.

  “I’ve got something better. I’ll be right back.”

  I go into the kitchen and dump the rest of my beer into the sink. Pulling out two mugs from the cabinet, I fill them both with black coffee. I’m pretty sure we’re going to need to be sober for what’s coming next.

  Back in the living room, I find Lucky tapping on the glass. His fish isn’t swimming anymore. I move across the floor quickly, setting the coffee mugs down on the table. I sit really close to him and lean in. “Is he okay?”

  Lucky doesn’t say anything. He just keeps tapping on the glass.

  I take his finger and hold it away from the bowl, enveloping it in both of my hands.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, looking at me.

  “Shush.” I point at the bowl with our hands to get his focus off me. “Let him be. Give him some peace and quiet.”

  “What?”

  I turn my head to look at Lucky. His face is so close, I can literally see lines of pain etched into his skin. He looks twenty years older today than he did on Friday.

  I try to put into words what I’m thinking as I hold his hand in mine. “In my last moments, I wouldn’t want somebody banging a drum next to my head. I’d want peace and quiet. Serenity. Life is
chaotic enough. We deserve something soft in the end.”

  It’s not what I gave Charlie, and that tortures me every day. It probably will for the rest of my life. He went out in a hail of bullets, surrounded by feelings of hatred and anger, revenge and darkness. I don’t want that for the silly fish, because he’s Lucky’s fish.

  Lucky puts his other hand on top of mine and nods. He looks over at the fish again, but not before I see a tear fall. “You’re right. Respect. Sunny deserves that.”

  “We all do. Fish or people.”

  The fish gives a couple more flutters of his fins, and then it’s all over. He goes belly up, and a few seconds later the water stops moving.

  I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know the right thing to say, so I just sit quietly, trying to empty my brain of any thoughts. We stay there, holding hands, until the sun goes down and the temperature drops. When my automatic light timer—set to go off at 6:30 p.m.—flicks on the living room lamp, we’re still on the couch.

  The sudden light coming on seems to bring Lucky out of the trance he was in. He sits back, letting our hands slide apart, his leather jacket making a squeaking sound as it rubs against itself.

  I turn around to look at him, speaking in a hushed tone. “What can I get for you?”

  He shakes his head, staring off into space. “Nothing.”

  I stand. “I’m going to make us some dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I don’t care. You’re going to eat anyway.”

  I feel bad leaving him in the room with Sunny floating there in front of him, but maybe he needs some time alone with the last link he had to his sister.

  I’m way sadder than I expected to be over this. It’s just a fish. But when I see Lucky sitting there on the couch all by himself, tears falling down his cheeks in the dim light, I realize Sunny was never just a fish. Just like Charlie was never just a problem. We all look at things in our lives and give them labels because that’s how other people see them, but that doesn’t mean it’s who or what they really are to us.

  Charlie wasn’t just a boyfriend; Charlie was my darkness. He represented the anger that has been inside me since I was a very young girl, growing up in an abusive and neglectful household. He brought out the worst in me, but he’s not to blame; I let him be that person in my life. I let him control me and use me up when I was at my weakest.