After I finished my dogs that afternoon I called Channel Eleven to see if Trisha was there. I almost didn't get an answer because I forgot to call her Patrice. The girl on the phone said she'd just gotten there. I hung up and thought about going home to change clothes. After seven hours of wrestling with dogs I didn't look or smell like I was ready to step onto any red carpets, but I knew if I went home, I'd find some excuse to put it off another day. When you put something off once, it's twice as easy to put it off again. It's the exponential law of procrastination.
Besides, God had told me that morning to go clean things up with Trisha, right? I drove across town, my mind mulling the concept of God talking to me through some story about two ancient guys I'd never met. Was he really speaking to me? Maybe and maybe not. I mean, who was to say? Maybe I just thought that was God speaking to me because the situation with Trisha was on my mind. Maybe that’s what everyone did when they thought God was speaking to them. We all just want to believe so much that God gives a flip about the pitiful details of our lives.
I was always curious when everyday people say God told them something. I wanted to know what that sounded like, what that felt like, how they could be so sure. And so far no one had been able to give me a solid answer. It made me crazy.
And if it wasn’t God, if it was my conscience, wouldn’t it be as effective to send Trisha a card? It didn’t have to be face-to-face stuff, did it? Trisha was probably busy and maybe seeing me at work would only make things worse. I'd probably be disturbing her.
I almost had myself talked into a card and a little gift, maybe a gift certificate for a manicure or something, by the time I got to Channel Eleven, but I didn’t go home. I pulled into the parking lot around to the side so Stump would be in the shade. I sat there and debated with myself about going in or going home until I finally turned the key and ground the gears into reverse. I backed out of the space.
Then I pulled back in. I knew that if I left now, I would spend the rest of the day arguing with myself about how I hadn't really chickened out, about how I was being perfectly reasonable. I've argued with myself enough for one lifetime. It's exhausting and gives me a headache and makes me want to drink.
Of course, I wanted a drink right then, too. I killed the motor, climbed out, and flapped my arms around a little to dry out the sweat and let the breeze carry away some of the dog smell. I prayed again for courage, then did a gut check.
Nope, still scared. Hmm. Courage wasn't working. So instead, I dragged up a little bit of outrage.
After all, who did she think she was, putting my picture on the news? Yes, I was there to resolve some conflict, but a part of me said that while I was there I might as well get all that was coming to me, including an apology.
That got my feet moving. I did make a feeble effort to remind myself to stay calm, but truth be told, I didn't try very hard. Righteous indignation is a lot more appealing than approaching someone with hat in hand, begging forgiveness. By the time I got to the front desk, I was practically stomping.
You would have thought I had asked to see the Pope or the President or something. While I was standing there trying to convince the girl behind the desk that I meant no harm – I guess the fury tactic had its drawbacks – three or four people came and went through a swinging door to my left. I figured Trisha was probably through that door.
Finally the girl paged Trisha. “She's not answering her phone,” she said after a second. As if that might make me give up and go away.
I sat on the padded chair across from the desk. “I'll wait.”
She looked at me like she wanted to get her fly swatter and swat me away. Then a guy with white Ken doll hair poked his head out an office behind her. “Amy, can you come in here for a second?”
“I'll be right back,” Amy whispered to me.
“Okay,” I whispered back.
As soon as she was gone I hopped up and hustled through the swinging door.
I followed a narrow hallway until I found a room with people in it. I don't know what I was expecting; maybe the set from All the President's Men, with Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford types running through, dodging desks and waste baskets with their hot scoop that would ignite a national scandal. Then I remembered that was newspaper, and this was television. This placed looked just like any other other big office, with four or five desks and people milling around.
I saw Trisha toward the back of the room, angled toward a bank of televisions that lined the wall.
“Trisha!” I said, not quite a shout but loud enough to get the whole room's attention. I wanted them all to know that Patrice wasn't her real name.
She spun around, eyes wide.
I gave her a goofy grin and a wave. “Surprise!”
Her face closed up so fast you could almost hear it slam. She crossed the floor, her lips thin and her nose in the air.
“Can I help you?”
“I don't know, Trisha. Can you? Don't act like you don't know why I'm here.”
“What do you want, Salem?” She folded her arms and smirked, looking up and down my body. “The friends-join-free coupon I just got from Fat Fighters?”
“You know what I want. Do you want to talk about it in front of all these people?”
She shot a look around the room. A couple of people were watching but not exactly staring. I could change that, though, and she knew it.
She pointed back the way she'd come. “Back here.”
I followed her around another corner and into a room the size of a closet, with one wall of fancy looking equipment with a few thousand buttons, switches and knobs.
Trisha closed the door behind me. “Before you begin, you should know I have the station's full support. We have unlimited resources to defend me through any legal action you might try. I was very careful to say only what I knew to be factual. You have absolutely no chance of winning a lawsuit, or of getting the station or our parent company to settle for so much as a penny.” Her eyes flashed as she spoke.
I blinked. She actually thought I was here to threaten a lawsuit. “All I want is an apology.”
She stared at me for a second. I swear she looked almost disappointed. “You're not getting one.”
“Why did you put that horrible picture of me on the news? People think I actually killed that girl!”
Her teeth clenched so that she had to spit every word through her teeth. “I did it because I could. Because I wanted the world to see your trashy face and know what kind of person you are. And believe me, if I ever get the opportunity to hurt you again, I will take full advantage of it.”
Ugh. I really wanted to hang onto that righteous indignation. But clearly the time had come to get to the root of the problem.
I took a deep breath and told myself I couldn't fix it if I didn't know what was wrong.
“What did I do, Trisha?”
Trisha rolled her eyes. “Go to hell, Salem.”
“I'm serious. I need for you to tell me what I did. All I remember is a fight and you pushing me.” She'd been crying then, I suddenly remembered. Red face, red eyes, tears streaming.
I was so scared. My heart thundered and I felt a little queasy. I did not want to hear her answer.
Suddenly I remembered something else. “Was I - was I putting my clothes on?” That had to be it. I remembered her pushing me and I fell because I had one leg inside my pants, trying to tug them on. I remembered scooting across the floor, trying to get my clothes on and dodge all the things Trisha was chunking at me at the same time.
“Give me a break, Salem.” She turned and reached for the doorknob.
“No, wait.” I stepped and put my hand out to stop her. She looked at my arm like she'd chop it off if she had half a chance.
“Listen, Trisha –”
“You need to call me Patrice.”
It was time for another prayer, for patience and humility this time. I obviously needed it. “Listen, Patrice.” The patience and humility came through better than the courage had. I let my mind go back to that time when I was a walking screw-up, when I managed to alienate everyone around me and shame myself. Humility isn't so hard if you really look at yourself. “I was messed up for a long time. I drank a lot. I was a drunk. I did a lot of things I wish I hadn't done.”
“You poor thing.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“I'm an alcoholic.” Man. Even now something in me wants to qualify that, wants to deny it. Even after saying it every week for over a year. “I'm in recovery now. I've been going to AA and I'm sober and I'm getting my life together. One of the steps of AA is to right whatever wrongs you can. I came here today to do that.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was this huff that said she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.
“Trish – Patrice, I know I did something to hurt you. I remember that we had a fight or – or something. But you have to believe me when I tell you, I do not remember what it was about. You'll have to tell me before I can make it right.”
“Make it right? Salem, there is no way to make this right. It's wrong and it's going to stay wrong because you're a complete waste of human flesh who destroys everything around you.”
My heart thudded in my chest and I heard Les’ voice, felt his hands over mine, assuring me that God's grace was big enough to cover any sin.
“Tell me,” I said quietly. “Tell me what I did.”
“You honestly don't remember?”
I shook my head. I was so full of dread I felt sick with it. Whatever it was, it was worse than I thought.
“And you really want me to tell you?”
Again, I shook my head. “No, I don't. Because I know when you do I'm going to feel horrible and want to crawl into a hole. But it's the only thing I know to do.”
Trisha looked at me for a long time. Then she shook her head, turned and opened the door.
I stood to stop her, but suddenly she slammed the door shut and whirled on me. “You had sex with Scott!” There was murder in her eyes, and for a moment I thought she was going to slap me.
I took a step back as her words sank in. “Scott? Your boyfriend Scott?”
“Yes, you idiot. My boyfriend Scott. You whore.”
“But – “ I didn’t even like Scott. “When?”
“The night before our wedding. God, you are such an idiot. You ruined my wedding, you damn near ruined my life, and you don't even remember it. That's what pisses me off as much as anything, Salem.” She jabbed her finger at me, stuck it hard into my chest. “You slept with the man I loved, you ruined my wedding day, you took everything that was precious to me and screwed it up just like you do everything else, and you don't even remember it. You are unbelievable.” Her eyes got shiny and her voice tight. “When I think of all the sleep I've lost thinking about you two together, when I think of the hours I've cried over that, and to know you went on your merry way, never giving it a second thought.” She shook her head, her eyes red and full of tears. “Get the hell out of here. Get back out of my life.”
I couldn't move. I remembered then more about that scene. Trisha screaming and crying and pushing me, me trying to get dressed and get away from her, hungover – or still drunk, probably – confused and scared. Scott jumping up, naked and groggy too, hair sticking up, his hands up, trying to calm Trisha down. Telling her, “Wait baby, no baby, don't Trish, don't, I love you, wait wait wait.” Horror and heartbreak in his voice, regret like I've never heard, before or since.
I've done a lot of lousy things in my life. I've lied to people, gossiped to people, driven drunk and wrecked people's cars. I “borrowed” money I never intended to pay back. I let people down. I hurt people.
But I've never done anything I felt as horrible about as I did right then.
The lump in my throat and the shame in my heart were so big I could barely speak. “Trisha,” I whispered, and the word felt like a hot, jagged rock coming up from my throat. “I am so sorry. I am so…sorry.”
She glared at me, eyes full of rage and hot tears. Her jaw clenched, and I thought if she had a knife right then she would plunge it into my heart.
“I came here – “ I had to stop and swallow. “I came here to confront you about putting my picture on the news, for intentionally humiliating me. Now I understand why you did it. I came here to try and put things right. But like you said, I can't make this right.”
“No shit. And if you try you're just going to screw it up, too.”
“I can only tell you how sorry I am. I was messed up. I know that's not an excuse, but you have to know I'd never intentionally do anything to hurt you.”
“Oh, I know that, Salem.” She looked at me like I was a bug. “You never do anything intentionally. You just don't care. And that's all it takes.”
“I didn't care. You're right. I didn't care about anyone or anything, including myself. But I do now.”
“Too late.”
“Please don't say that. I know I can't undo what I did, but…” But what? What do you do to make up for ruining someone's life? I was starting to understand the whole sackcloth and ashes thing.
“Scott always loved you. If he had sex with me, he must have been drunk, too.”
“Of course he was drunk too. He got drunk at his bachelor party and you showed up.”
“He loved you, Trisha. Patrice. Maybe you could… maybe it's not too late…”
Again Trisha shook her head. “You are the stupidest person I've ever known in my life. How do you even make it through the day?” She stuck her left hand out.
Only then did I notice she wore a wedding ring. A really nice one. Scott must have shown his remorse with diamonds. And her name was Patrice Watson. Scott Watson. Scott and Patrice Watson. Mr. and Mrs. Scott Watson. “You married him anyway? Even after I…”
“Two years after. Two years of hell and hurt and betrayal. Yes, I married him. Because he loves me and I love him. We belong together and always have. And even a train wreck like you can't stop that.”
I swallowed. “I'm glad. I really am. You deserve to be happy.”
“I am happy.” The twitch in her jaw and murder in her eyes didn't exactly support that, but I wasn't going to be the one to point that out. “I forgave Scott and we moved on, stronger and more in love than ever. He's completely devoted to me. He would kill for me. I forgave him. But I'll never forgive you. So you can go back to your AA group and tell them this is one wrong that isn't going to be made right.”
She turned to go, but then turned back one more time. “And another thing. This getting your life together crap. I don't believe it for a second. People like you don't change. You can go to all the AA meetings you want. But you're always going to be trouble. This morning just proves it.”
“This morning?” Good Lord. What had I done this morning?
“This morning Tony Solis was arrested for the murder of Lucinda Cruz.”
I collapsed into the seat of my car and closed the door. I knew it was going to be bad. But…man! This level of bad didn't even have a name. This was a level where mere depression and low self-esteem would be a giant step up.
And to top it off, Tony had been arrested for murder. Tony. My mind flashed to Tony, whirling with questions as to how he could possibly be involved.
Stump crawled into my lap and licked my arm, her little feet digging into my leg. I wrapped my arms around her and rested my forehead on her big square skull, her body warm against mine and her heart beating steady beneath my hand.
I was a sorry screw-up who ruined everything and everyone around me. I was a mistake. The very substance I was made from was tainted.
In the entire time I'd been sober, I had never wanted a drink so bad. To feel that first warm gush down my throat, feel the heat spread down into my arms, into my legs, spread out till I didn't care anymore.
I needed to not care for a while. I needed a break. Trisha was right. People like me didn't change. What was I fighting for? It was a losing battle. I was an idiot to even try.
It took everything I had to turn the key in the ignition, but I already knew where I was going. I wasn't supposed to go into a bar, but so what? Was someone going to stop me? Of course not. No one cared. I was the only one who thought this was a battle that needed to be won.
I drove with Stump on my lap, her head out the window, her tongue the size of a Saint Bernard's hanging out of her mouth. Hell, I'd take her with me. I knew a little bar over on the north side of town where they wouldn't care if I brought her inside. Someone would probably give her a beer.
I couldn't get Scott and Trisha's voices out of my head. Two people in agony. Two people whose lives had taken a horrible, painful hit. A hit from me.
I barely noticed the rest of traffic as Stump and I made our way down surface streets. I couldn’t see how fast I was driving because Stump was blocking the dash with her big head. And I didn't care. Let a cop pull me over. Let me have an accident.
Go ahead, God. Punish me. I asked for your help on this and what do I get? This is your idea of help? What the hell? Why do I have to be dragged down like this? When am I going to get a break? Never, that's when. I get it now. You created me so I could be miserable and try to claw my way up and get knocked back down again. Thank you. Thank you very freaking much, you mean jerk.
I actually thought that. I actually thought the words “You mean jerk,” to God. I didn't care. So much for trying to straighten my life out. God was a jerk who'd made me so he could get his grins dragging me through hell. He was a jerk and I was tired of playing this game. I was done. He could either kill me or get out of my way, but I wasn't going to jump through hoops for him anymore.
I waited for a lightning bolt to strike me. It didn't. Instead smoke billowed up from under the hood of my car and it lurched to a stop in the middle of the street, coughing and jerking like it was having some kind of fit.
That’s when I noticed the temperature gauge, solidly into the red. For a second I considered sitting there until someone rammed into the back of the car and sent us all up in flames. But then a big dually pickup almost did rear end me, honking, tires screeching, driver leaning out to shout cuss words at me, and I screamed and shoved Stump into the passenger seat, put the car in neutral and jerked open the door so I could push the car to the side of the road.
I guess I wasn't quite as ready to die as I thought.
“I take it back,” I huffed as I pushed. “I don't really want you to kill me.” Although I didn't know what I could possibly have to live for. Still, I'd kind of had something less painful in mind than being flattened by a dually.
I got the car to the side of the road and the flashers on, pushing with my shoulder so hard I was practically knees to the ground. Good thing I had a small car. Stump jumped back into the driver's seat, her front paws on the wheel, and licked my arm. It got on my nerves but I didn't have the initiative to tell her to stop. I just pushed as hard as I could and thought about how great that first drink was going to taste.
I heard The Entertainer and looked over my shoulder to see an ice cream truck behind me.
Les. I stood up straight, breathing hard. I'll be damned. My knight in shining armor. At least the truck was white.
He parked behind me and got out. “Car trouble?”
I thought I should at least nod. But I just stood there, feeling like I had been run over by a car. God sent Les. I called Him a jerk and decided to get drunk so he sent Les. And now Les was going to go on and on about how good God was, and he sure as heck wasn't going to let me get a drink.
I felt like a rat in one of those lab mazes that can never be solved. I'd finally figured out that I had no real shot of ever beating the maze, so I escaped. Except here came the lab technician, picking up my fat white rat body and scratching the back of my tiny little rat head before putting me back in the maze with an indulgent smile. I had no chance at all.
“Isn't God amazing?” Les said with that huge goofy grin. “I knew there was a reason the routes got switched around today. So I could be here when you needed me. It's a miracle.”
“Yeah,” I said. “A freaking miracle.”
“Bad day?”
“The worst. Do you have a lighter? I'm going to set the car on fire.”
“I have a tow chain in the back. We'll hook you up and tow you home.”
He lifted the hood and poked around with a smile on his face, like he was rummaging through a box of possible treasures at a flea market. “There's your problem. Busted block.” He pointed under the car, then back toward the middle of the street where I’d just stopped. A line of water – I assumed it was water – left a wide trail. It looked like my car had some pretty serious bladder control issues.
“Are blocks expensive?” I thought with a vague sense of hope of the little wooden blocks with letters on them.
“Oh yes,” he said cheerfully. “Very.” He slammed the hood and dusted off his hands. “Let's hook up the chain.”
He pulled in front of me, hooked the chain to his rear bumper and my front bumper. Then the ice cream man towed me and Stump home, playing The Entertainer the entire way.
Les unhooked the chain from my car. “You're going to be stuck here for a while. Do you need anything? I have time to take you to the grocery store before I head back to the shop.”
I shook my head. A trip to a bar was out of the question with Les, and a trip anywhere else held absolutely no appeal.
“You have anyone to look at your car?”
I shrugged. “There's a guy who lives out here, he works on cars. I can see if he'll come over this evening.”
Les nodded. “Won't do you any good, it's busted beyond repair. But it's good to get a second opinion. I'm just an ice cream salesman.”
“I don't have any money for a new car.”
“The Lord will provide.”
“Yeah, I asked the Lord for the money to fix this one and he didn't provide that.”
“He obviously has something else in mind for you.”
“I hope He sends it before I have to be at work in the morning.”
“He will.”
“How come you're so sure?” I asked, hot and tired and irritated.
Les shrugged. “Just am.”
“How come you were over on that side of town this afternoon?”
“Lord sent me.”
“How? How did He send you?”
“Actually the girl who does that route had a sick kid today, so I took her route after I finished mine.”
“But how did you know that was God, Les? That it wasn’t just chance?” I wanted to believe that God was good, I really did, but the evidence was just not pointing that way for me. “What did it sound like?”
“It didn't sound like anything, Salem.” He took a deep breath. “He doesn't talk to me with an audible voice. He just puts thoughts in my head, and I know it's Him.”
“I thought he might have been talking to me this morning when I was doing my quiet time.”
“I'm sure He was, then. That's what quiet time is for.”
“He told me to do something I already planned on doing, though.” He hadn’t exactly come through in a big way with that peace and courage request.
“That's good. He was probably confirming that you were on the right track.”
“Maybe. Feels like I'm on the track of a runaway train.”
“Want to talk about it?” He reached into the freezer and drew out a Push-Up for him and a Drumstick for me.
I remembered standing in front of the mirror that morning and wishing I could lose a quick forty pounds. A Drumstick was not going to help me.
On the other hand, I also wanted to feel better. And even though it wouldn't do the job a Jack and Coke would do, a Drumstick would make me feel better than no Drumstick.
I pulled the top off and peeled the wrapper back. Did I want to talk about it? I talked to Les a lot, mostly about how much my life sucked and all the things I wished could have been different; that I could have had a normal family and my dad was really my dad, and my mom was nice, and that I was one of those people who liked to clean when they got nervous, instead of the type who liked to get drunk and start trouble.
I didn't so much like to talk about the things that were my own damn fault. But Les is fond of pointing out that I can't change what I don't acknowledge and keeping it bottled up doesn't mean I'm controlling it, it means it's controlling me. I think Les watches too much Dr. Phil.
“I might as well,” I said. Stump was about to give herself a stroke, trying to get to my ice cream, so I tore off a little bit of the cone and let her have it. “I took your advice and talked to my friend at Channel 11.”
“Pray before you go?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I prayed – a couple of times.” I didn't want to admit it hadn't worked. Les was so convinced God would do whatever you asked, and I didn't want to be the one to break it to him that it wasn't always so. “I found out what I did to make her so mad, and why she hates me so much. The night before her wedding I –” Man. This was hard. Saying it out loud. Les was used to ministering to people in jail and he'd probably heard a lot worse. But not from me. “The night before her wedding I slept with her husband. Fiancé.”
“That's heavy.” Les licked sherbet and leaned against the truck. “Did you know he was her fiancé?”
“I don't remember. I knew she and Scott dated in high school and back then she was crazy about him. He was totally in love with her. They dated all through our last two years of school.” I had been so jealous. Trisha and I had been joined at the hip since 6th grade, and suddenly she was in love with Scott and too good to be seen with the likes of me. I supposed that's probably why I did it. “I don't remember much about that night except flashes. Scott, drunk and laughing, while these two guys tugged him across the floor toward a bedroom. He was saying, “No, no, seriously, no way.” But he was way out of it. I remember some guy whispering in my ear that it was just a joke, just one of those practical jokes buddies play on each other when they get married. Hey, that was Ricky Barlow. I just remembered that. I didn't say this to Les, but I'd also had sex with Ricky Barlow, too, a couple of times.
“And that's when she came in?”
“No, this all happened during the nighttime. I remember because I was standing out on the balcony watching it all through the open patio door. Trisha came in the morning; late morning, I guess, because it was already hot. I remember her chasing me outside and my feet were hot on the sidewalk.”
“You haven't spoken to her since?”
“I don't think so. Not until today.”
“Did you ask her forgiveness?”
“Of course.” I bit through the thin cone and dropped another piece for Stump.
“Were you truly sorry?”
“How could I not be?”
“Then there's not much more you can do. Keep your heart open for opportunities to show her how truly sorry you are, but other than that you have to just let it go. She has to come to terms with things on her own time. But you can't undo it, Salem. You can't turn back time, and crawling into a bottle now won't help as much as you think it will.”
“We're going to have to agree to disagree on that for the time being. Right now a Jack and Coke seems like just the thing.”
“It's the wrong thing.”
“So is this Drumstick.”
“But you're not out of control with a Drumstick.”
I held my arms out wide. “Hello? I'm as big as a house.” Right now that seemed like a minor worry in light of the fact that I'd ruined so many lives.
Tony.
Man. What was going on with Tony? Was that my fault too?
“Do you have a Drumstick and pass out? Do you have a Drumstick and sleep with your friends' boyfriends?”
“I don't know.” I stuck the bottom of the cone in my mouth and bit down. It was the best part because it had that chocolate plug that keeps the ice cream from dripping out. “I guess we're about to find out.”
Frank rounded the corner of my trailer. He looked at the tow rope between my car and the ice cream truck. “Car trouble?”
I wanted to say something smart but I just nodded. “It was low on oil, and I forgot to put any in because I was preoccupied with all the people asking about my arrest for murder.” I glared at Frank like it was all his fault.
Frank, as was his custom, nodded obliviously. “Bummer.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at Les. “You got any Nestle Crunches?”
Les licked his sherbet and reached through the window to hand Frank a Nestle Crunch.
“I saw on the news that they arrested the guy who killed that dead body you found.”