Tom Piccirilli: The Last Kind Words

And here I’d despised my brother since I was old enough to walk and get knocked down by him. And here we’d never had a kind word for each other. And here we’d slugged it out and crashed through the porch railing together. And here I was home again, answering the whistle.

The rain overloaded the gutters and poured over theow ed over t edge of the roof in vast sheets. It never rained like this out west. I’d forgotten how much I missed it. The chill spray felt good against my face.

My father said, “You doing okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You look healthy. Fit. Your hair’s a little longer. Suits you. Hard to tell out here but you seem tan.”

“I work on a ranch.”

“When you were a kid you always said you were going to own one someday.”

“I don’t own it, but I help run it.”

He nodded. “Herding sheep? Breaking broncs? Moving cattle through rivers, like that?”

I held back a sigh. When I first got out west I thought I’d be busting broncos too. Sitting around campfires eating beans. Being a hero of the rodeo. What the fuck did I know. I’d ridden one bronc and he threw me off in half a second and gave me a concussion.

And yet I somehow pined for my own ignorance. “Like that.”

He continued drinking and the grin never left his face, but I could feel his brisk inspection of me even though he didn’t turn his head. This was as playful as he was likely to get. We danced around any important topics. Stepped to them, rejected them. The silence was full of our unvoiced conversations.

He understood that I’d never gotten over Kimmy and never would. He consoled me without a word. In the darkness I could hear his fierce heart stamping in his chest.

“Reporters hassling you much?” I asked.

“A little, with Collie’s, with his”-he couldn’t say execution -“with all the hustle and activity surrounding him again. They come in groups. Channel 3, Channel 7, Channel 21, all these vans pulling up out front. And then they stand around whiling the time away, eating bagels, drinking coffee. They put the prettiest girl with the microphone out in front, let her lead the charge. And she stands at the door and says, ‘How does it make you feel?’ She asks it like it’s a real question, with her eyes full of false sympathy. Licks her lips like she’s waiting for an answer.”

“They bother Ma?”

“No, I don’t let it get that far. The lawyers say I shouldn’t slam the door in their faces, but if I try to respond I sound like an idiot. Mal and Grey handle it better, so they field for us.”

“Cops?”

“Same as usual, no more or less. You remember Gilmore?”

I remembered Gilmore.

“He still comes sniffing around. Sits in and plays cards, has a beer or two.”

“How much do you let him win?”

“We rob him blind. He doesn’t much care, figures he’s learning something trying to spot the four-card lift, the third-card bottom deal. He hardly even questions us about stolen goods anymore.”

“He thinks he’s rattling you just by showing up, reminding you that someone’s always watching.”

“That’s something I’ll never forget.”

“He’s making sure.”

“We all have to spend our time somehow. He’s a detect"ju;s a deteive now.”

I nodded. Gilmore had always wanted the gold shield. It made sense that he’d still come prowling around even now. If Collie could cross the line then so could I. It must keep him up, wondering if I was out there, going shitstorm crazy.

“How much pressure does he put on you to tell him where I am?”

“A little in the beginning, right after you left. Not so much anymore. He asks in passing, tries to get someone to confess something out of turn. ‘So, how’s Terrier holding up? You get a Christmas card from him this year?’ It doesn’t amount to anything. I think he’s genuinely curious. He always liked you. He’s different now. Has no real edge to him anymore. His wife left him and took the kids. He’s got too much time on his hands. I don’t know what he does with it all.”

“How’s everybody else?” I asked.

“Old Shepherd is worse.” My father’s grief was under control but it still hung heavily in his voice. “Most days he can’t recognize anyone. He doesn’t really talk anymore. He watches a lot of TV. It’s what fills his days now. He likes cartoons. If you get the chance, I hope you’ll sit with him. He might rouse a bit.”

I knew my dad’s subtle nuances. He had more to say, but he was superstitious. He didn’t want his words to give life and form to whatever he was holding back. I waited. It took him a few more minutes. JFK whined in his sleep. The rain started and stopped again. “I think your uncles have a touch of Alzheimer’s too. I’ve found them out in the yard in the middle of the night a couple of times, looking dazed, like sleepwalking.”

I had to move. I got up and put my hands on the rebuilt rail and hung my head over enough so that the rain fell against the back of my neck. I couldn’t imagine Mal and Grey watching cartoons, drooling, unable to crack wise or shuffle and cut a deck eighteen times in ten seconds and still pull four aces from the bottom. Or would those skills last long after they couldn’t form a cohesive sentence anymore?

As much as I loved my grandfather and uncles, my reaction was as selfish and full of fear as it was anything else. I didn’t want to think that in my DNA I had a predisposition to losing my mind. I didn’t want to believe I might one day end up like Gramp, just as I didn’t want to believe that I might one day end up like my brother.

I turned and my father said, “Dale is doing good in school, spends a lot of time performing in plays. She’s always practicing around the house, puts on a southern belle accent and acts out Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or Streetcar . Your uncles help. Mal does Newman, Grey does Brando. They walk around asking for lemonade and patting their foreheads, talking about how sultry the steamy south is. She’s a natural. She’s always taking the train into the city to see something on or off Broadway. Has a fondness for Albee and Ibsen. Williams. Surprising for her age, I’d say.”

Ibsen and Albee and Williams. Jesus, it had been a long time since I’d read her little vampire fairy tales to her.

“You must be tired. Your room’s the same as you left it.”

I hadn’t expected anything else. “I’ll see you in the morning, Dad.”

“Good night, Terry.”

I started inside but turned before the screen door closed behind me. “Sheme. Have you ever gone to see him?” I asked.

“No. None of us.” I could hear the steel in his voice. “I wouldn’t allow it. You understand that, don’t you?”

I understood my own reasons but I wasn’t sure his or anyone else’s were the same. But I said, “Of course.”

I stepped in and moved through the darkness of my own home the way I’d crept the prison guard’s. With the same strange sense of quelled excitement and personal dominion. I slipped up the stairs into my bedroom.

My old man hadn’t been kidding. My room was the same, untouched except for maybe the monthly sweep of a feather duster. I checked some of my stash spots and found my old burglary tools and a couple wedges of cash that totaled three grand. I counted the bills. Most were fresh, printed within the last year or two. Somebody had discovered my money, taken it as needed, and then later replaced it. For all I knew, every one of them had riffled through it.

It was good to know that a few rules still hadn’t been broken. Chief among them was that we didn’t steal from one another.

I laid back on the bed and listened to the rain and tried to empty my thoughts, but there wasn’t a chance. I turned over and opened the nightstand drawer. It was too common a place for anyone to look for anything of value.