Tom Piccirilli: The Last Kind Words

“I will be.”

“Come home.”

I went home. A couple of news crews were out in front. They jumped in my face. JFK barked his ass off. I said nothing. It was three in the morning.

I walked in. They were sitting in the kitchen. My mother had prepared food. It seemed right. We all took our usual places. The three empty seats seemed not to be empty at all.

No one said anything. No one asked me anything. Dale almost got up the nerve at one point but backed out. I was glad. My mother fixed me a sandwich and I ate without tasting. I helped with the dishes. She’d bought a crumb cake. It was Collie’s favorite. Dale cut us each a piece and put them on plates and we sat and stared. Eventually my mother cleaned the table again.

I was her only son now. I thought I should make some kind of grand familial demonstration. I didn’t know what it should be, so I did nothing.

My father took his beer cooler out onto the porch. The news vans were gone. I sat with him. We drank in silence. JFK circled the yard restlessly, cutting in and out of the brush and prowling the property line. My father got drunk enough that he nearly passed out. I helped him to bed. My mother feigned sleep as I laid my old man beside her.

I passed Dale’s door and heard her crying. I knocked softly and she quieted. I walked in and sat on the edge of her mattress t;

I laid down beside her but couldn’t keep my eyes closed. I stared at the ceiling and thought of everything and thought of nothing. I got up at dawn and went for an easy run around the college campus with JFK. My staples pulled and bled a little but there was no major damage. When we got back I showered, got dressed, and went shopping.

When I returned home, my parents were sitting in front of their cold, untouched breakfasts.

I handed them an envelope.

“What’s this?” my old man asked.

My mother pulled out the tickets. “A cruise?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What are we going to do on a cruise?”

“I don’t know what anybody does on a cruise. Drink piña coladas and visit tourist dives. It goes all over the Caribbean. Two weeks.”

“I think I’d be afraid to be out there on all that water. This is very thoughtful, Terry, but really-”

“You live on an island, Ma. You’re always surrounded by ocean. You’re going on a cruise.”

“This isn’t a good time,” my father said.

“Why isn’t it a good time?”

“It just isn’t.”

“It’s a good time. It’s the only time, Dad.”

“What about Gramp?” my mother said. “What about Dale? I need to cook for Grey.”

“Dale can handle herself. Gramp is getting a nurse. You don’t need to cook for Grey.”

“There’s no insurance for a nurse.”

“There’s money,” I said. “There are caches and cubbyholes stuffed with money. We’re cleaning them out. Old Shep is getting a nurse and you two are going to the fucking Caribbean if I have to row you there in a goddamn kayak.”

“What are you getting so angry about?”

“I’m not angry!”

“You seem angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“A cruise,” my mother said.

“What the hell,” my father said.

I parked in front of Kimmy and Chub’s house. JFK was curled up in the passenger seat, relaxed but watchful. He’d hopped in and I needed a friend. There was no reason for me to be here. I wasn’t family. I wasn’t even a friend anymore. Three of the men closest to me in my life were gone, all within the last week, one by my own hand. My blood had thinned considerably. I climbed out and JFK stepped along with me. The weight of what I’d done hit me all at once and I bent over, holding my arms across my guts and fighting down the urge to scream. I clamped my teeth shut and made noises that no sane man should ever make. When the moment passed, I was covered in sweat and my driver’s-side window was flecked with my tandy passed Dears. JFK had his nose pressed against my knee. I stood at the bottom of the driveway. I didn’t go any farther. JFK waited and finally laid down. I almost turned around. The front door opened. Kimmy said something about the drive-in and Chub said it might rain.

Scooter ran a few cantering steps down the walk. She didn’t watch where she was going and was headed right toward me. I thought, This is not my daughter, she’s not my girl. Kimmy’s smile dropped and her eyes widened. I couldn’t read what was in them. Chub stood beside her, a little out in front in a protective manner. They really were a good match. Strong and partnered, tight together. I wondered if I was going to weep or rage or run away again. I wondered if I would even remember this scene a few years from now when it was my turn to disappear into a dark corner.

There were names set against my tongue. I would say them on my deathbed even if I didn’t know what they meant anymore. Mal. Grey. Cara. Becky. Collie. Scooter. Kimmy. She tilted her head at me as if I’d spoken aloud. I thought she would ask, What do you want? And I would say, Kiss me like I’ll die tonight . Perhaps those would be the last kind words. I was a man of vivid dreams and wondered if this was one of them. I bent as Scooter ran to me. I wasn’t insane yet. I could keep control. She rushed into my arms, laughing. I hugged her for an instant and her face fell at the sight of a stranger. She backed up and looked as if she might cry. I suspected I looked the same. She turned around and ran back to her parents and hid behind Chub’s legs. One of these days the cops would crush him and he would howl for his girls. Scooter spotted JFK and let loose with a giggle and some chatter I didn’t understand and peeked out from around her father’s knee. The dog yawned and sniffed. I didn’t smell the storm anymore. Kimmy said, “Terry.” It was still my name, and to hear it on her lips loosened my chest and let me breathe deeply in a way I hadn’t for weeks. Maybe not in years. I stood and waited for the dream to end or for the world to move me once again to where I needed to be.

I’m indebted to Bill Pronzini, James Grady, Max Allan Collins, Brian Keene, Alethea Kontis, Linda Addison, Gerard Houarner, and Dean Koontz for giving much-needed encouragement during a particularly difficult time.

My editor, Caitlin Alexander, for her wise editorial reading, sage advice, and astute guidance (but no salty bagels this year, wtf?).

My agent, David Hale Smith, who talked me off the ledge a few times (and actually talked me onto it at least once or twice).

Finally, thanks to Ed Brubaker, Ken Bruen, Norman Partridge, Eddie Muller, and Ed Gorman, my brothers in noir.

Tom Piccirilli is the award-winning author of Shadow Season, The Coldest Mile, The Cold Spot, The Midnight Road, A Choir of Ill Children , and many other titles. He’s won two International Thriller Writers Awards and four Bram Stoker Awards, as well as having been nominated for the Edgar, the World Fantasy Award, the Macavity, and Le Grand Prix de L’imaginaire. A native of Long Island, he lives in Colorado, where he is at work on another novel about the Rand family.