Russell Andrews - Hades

Justin glanced down as he felt a throbbing in his hand. He wondered if he should put some cream on his blister, maybe a Band-Aid, then he thought, Fuck it. His thoughts turned next to one more bottle of beer. He decided against that, too. Then he looked at the half-full bottle sitting on the table next to him.

The bourbon was a different story.

The first twenty minutes Justin spent at his parents' house was not conducted amid great chatter. In fact, Justin thought he'd been to substantially noisier and more entertaining morgues.

The subdued silence wasn't just due to the shock of dealing with Ronald's death. His parents had also seen the papers. While the burgeoning Harmon scandal and murder was not quite the front-page, explosive story it was in New York and on the east end of Long Island, it had enough juice to draw a reasonable amount of attention in New England. The headline-way more tasteful than any of the New York tabs-on page five of the Providence paper read: ex-providence hero involved in sex scandal, murder plot. There was a photograph of Justin from several years-and twenty-five pounds-ago, when he was with the Providence PD. There were some damaging and pointed quotes from DA Silverbush, and there was a typical Billy DiPezio defense of his old protege, the Providence police chief saying that Justin was certainly capable of having an affair with the wrong woman, but he was incapable of doing anything morally wrong. Billy reminded everyone that neither of the two people arrested-David Kelley and Abigail Harmon-had been convicted, and that Justin had not even been accused of anything except by snide innuendo.

When Justin walked into his parents' massive house, he had that sinking feeling he remembered having for most of his teenage years: that, despite his bulk, he was too small for his surroundings. He felt as if he'd just walked in the door at 3 a.m., and his parents were waiting up to punish him for staying out past curfew. Justin wondered if one ever got too old to believe in one's mother and father as an intimidating pair of moral compasses. In a way, he hoped not. There was something reassuring in that unchanging and rock-solid superiority. On the other hand, he was confident in his own choices, in his own morality. He'd killed people and felt no guilt. And he'd befriended people who had done far worse things than he'd ever dream of doing-and made no judgment on them or at least did not let his judgment interfere with the relationship. He'd also ended relationships with people who did not live up to his standards. He'd done the same with others who couldn't deal with the complexity of the way he saw the universe. Perhaps the key was that complexity. In some instances, he saw the world in crystal clear terms of black and white, right and wrong. But many areas were also varying and distressing shades of gray. He did not believe in authority that demanded trust without proof of being trustworthy. He did not accept rules and regulations simply because they'd existed for decades or even centuries. He did not take kindly to anyone telling him what to do without an explanation for his actions. So usually he just wouldn't do it. As a result, he had over the past twelve or thirteen years been beaten, shot, hunted, and tortured.

Hey, nobody said he was a genius. But it came with the territory and he accepted that.

It came with the choices one made.

The thing is that he himself was an authority figure. And he often demanded the same blind obedience he abhorred. The problem there was that he was too aware of his own fallibility. He knew how wrong he could be. But when a decision had to be made-either for his own good or for the good of others-there was no one he could imagine making it other than himself.

No one.

Contradictions. Maybe that was why his view of life was so complicated. He saw so many wrong things done by so many people who thought they were right.

Justin shook his head at the meekness he felt in his own home. He did not have the need to conform to anyone else's code-and yet he did want his family to take his side. Or at least wait a reasonable amount of time before jumping over to the other side.

So he sat now with both parents, sipping iced tea in the den-the wood-paneled room that was nearly the size of Justin's entire East End house-waiting for Louise, their longtime housekeeper, to serve lunch. After perfunctory hugging in the entry hall, the silence had come quickly. Justin thought he might as well cut to the chase after his second sip.

"Look," he said, "maybe we should talk about my situation. I'm sure it's embarrassing for you."

"Is that what you think we're upset about," his father said, "that you've embarrassed us?"

"Not entirely. I know what happened to Ronald is shocking… and something you're not used to."

"Used to?" This was Justin's mother. Lizbeth's voice was higher pitched than normal, as if the tension in the room had grabbed her by the throat and didn't want to let her speak. "No, Jay, we're not used to people we know being murdered."

"I understand. And there's no way to make that any easier or more palatable. We'll talk about Ronald-of course we will, it's why I'm here-because I can help everyone deal with that. But what's going on with me is going to continue. What happened to Ronald is-"

"Over?" his mother asked.

"I know it sounds callous."

"Yes, it does," his mother said sadly. Justin couldn't tell if she was sad because of the finality of death or because her son was someone who was able, so easily, to move past that finality. He thought about telling her it wasn't ease, it was necessity, but he didn't have time because his father was already speaking.

"It might be callous but it's true," Jonathan said, and turned slightly to directly face Justin. He took a long sip of iced tea. Justin had a feeling that his father wasn't all that thirsty; the pause was very effective punctuation. "So what is it you want to say about things that aren't over?"

Justin exhaled slowly. He also knew how to punctuate for effect. "Look, you read the paper. I'm involved in something messy. But what they're saying isn't true. I don't think that Abigail Harmon had anything to do with her husband's murder. And believe me, I certainly didn't."

"We believe you."

Justin rubbed his eyes. This wasn't for effect; it was to try to ward off the beginning of a headache that was rapidly approaching. "Thank you. But look at the two of you. I've never seen two people so tense-your entire bodies are clenched."

"And you think it's because we're embarrassed? Or because we don't believe you?"

"Dad, we don't have to go into this. It's a lot of things. I know that you blame me for certain things… for Alicia and Lili… We've never truly had it out about that-"

"We've dealt with that," Jonathan Westwood said.

"Sure we have. And I appreciate it. I know you've really tried to make it work between us over the past couple of years. But dealing with something doesn't always make it go away. I've dealt with it, too, I've dealt with it in every way I possibly can, and I still blame myself."

"Justin…" This was his mother now, and her voice was no longer high-pitched. She sounded calm. Still sad, but calm. "You're wrong about us. Both of us. We're not acting this way because we're embarrassed. And we're not acting this way because-because of what happened in the past. What happened with Alicia… what happened to Lili… However terrible it was and is for us, we know that it's been much more terrible for you. But that's not… that's not…" She didn't seem to know how to finish her thought, so her husband finished it for her.

"That's not why we hate what you do, what you're doing."

"Then what is it?" Justin asked.

Jonathan Westwood spoke slowly now. And, Justin couldn't help notice, rather kindly. "You could have been many other things, Jay. We don't have to rehash what your life could have been like. It's what it is, you do what you do. But knowing you've made this choice doesn't make us any less afraid."