Richard Russo - Everybody's Fool

The one that troubled him most was Becka herself. In the short time they’d been married had he ever asked about what she was feeling or thinking, whether she was happy? There had been moments, especially toward the end, when he suspected something must be wrong, but she always denied it when he inquired, claiming that she just had a case of the blues, that she’d wake up feeling more cheerful in the morning. And he’d been all too happy to be reassured. Why dig deeper?

As was invariably the case with Raymer, such specific self-doubts and accusations led to other, more global ones. Was it possible to be a good cop, a good husband or a good man when you were disinclined to imagine the inner lives, in particular the suffering, of others? Wasn’t this just basic empathy? Was it empathy she’d gone looking for and found in the man whose name was on the florist’s card? Had he taken the trouble to understand her more deeply than Raymer ever had? Or was empathy just the tip of the iceberg? Raymer supposed he could stand it if the man was taller or trimmer or better looking, but was it possible the fucker also possessed intelligence, wit, elegance and grace? Was he everything he himself was not?

That, then, was what it all came down to: vanity. He simply had to know, even if it cost him his life. That was why it seemed he had no choice but to reach out and grab the florist’s card, which he did just as the wind tugged the green cellophane free of the wire mesh. The information he was after was now literally within his grasp, but in that very instant the sky was cleaved by yet another shaft of lightning, and he felt a searing heat in his right palm, as if the little card had somehow burst into flame. He felt a desperate howl building deep in his chest and knew he would have to cut loose either the howl in his throat or the card in his fist. The howl, then, he decided, and it merged with the thunderclap as if the two had the same source.

He couldn’t tell how long he’d been howling, but when it was over, he felt a profound change to his being, his psyche. An odd sensation, not unlike vertigo, like something essential had been hewn in two. He’d entered the cemetery as Douglas Raymer, a man who for a very long time, maybe his whole life, had been going doggedly through the motions. Now he felt a second presence, as if the skin and bones that had until then belonged to him, and him alone, now played host to another. Douglas Raymer, wholly familiar, was still here, the same boy Miss Beryl had thrust books at, that had been bullied by boys like Roy Purdy and later mocked by scofflaws like Sully and ridiculed from the bench by Judge Flatt. Who had run for public office on the promise that he wouldn’t be happy until those he served were un happy. A fool, face up to it. A fool and a milquetoast who was forever banging on about becoming a better cop, a better husband, a better man.

Strange that he should feel so familiar with the second presence even before being introduced, as if he’d known this “other” all his life. Call him…what? Dougie, Raymer decided, because the presence he felt seemed younger, like a kid brother. A mean one. The thing about this Dougie? He absolutely did not give a shit. Not about Becka, not about duty, not about what people thought of him, especially Douglas Raymer, who, in Dougie’s considered opinion, ate far too much shit on a daily basis. Dougie’s inclination, long held in check, was to kick ass and take names. Get the fucking job done.

It was Dougie who would know what came next. After they looked at the card. After they knew who the son of a bitch was.

ONLY CARL APPEARED disappointed when the game broke up an hour and a half after it started, with all the chips in front of Sully. Jennifer, quickly bored, had fallen asleep on the sofa, and Carl now stood over her with a look of profound sadness. “Have you ever made a rash promise?” he asked Sully.

“Oh, once or twice,” Sully admitted. “I was married, if you recall.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Jennifer purred, when Carl put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not in the mood anymore.” She rolled away from him, under the apparent impression that she was home and in bed.

“Let her sleep,” said Birdie, who had an apartment above the tavern.

“Really?” Carl said, looking for all the world like a man who’d just been granted a stay of execution.

Birdie shrugged. “The register’s locked.”

Outside, in the parking lot, they waved to Jocko, who tooted goodbye. Carl, nudging Sully, said, “A word in private?”

Hearing this, Rub’s face darkened. He was about to be dismissed, and he hated that. Worse, he’d be leaving Sully alone with Carl, who seemed to believe they were best friends and sometimes, like tonight, even said so. When Sully handed him the keys to the truck, Rub accepted them reluctantly.

“It was true, what I said earlier,” Carl told him when they were alone.

“You’re really broke?”

“And then some.”

“I don’t know what you think I can do, but I’ll help if I can.”

“Nah, I think we’re well beyond that.”

“What, then?”

“I am sorry about the rent.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll clear out if you want.”

“What’d I just say?”

Carl shrugged. “Okay.” Then, “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“You mean like we die and then have to do this fucking thing all over again?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Jesus, I hope not.”

“I don’t know,” Carl said. “Second time around we might be smarter.”

“We might be dumber, too.”

“ I might be,” Carl admitted. “I really don’t see how you could be.”

“Would you want to live again?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Carl said, rocking back on his heels. “I mean, what a night. Look at that sky.”

Sully did, and in fact it was beautiful, the air crisp and clean, the sky full of stars and a bright three-quarter moon. He recalled that afternoon at the diner when everything had appeared to stop, and his life had suddenly seemed like the set of a low-budget movie. At the time he’d wondered if maybe that meant he’d had enough, but now he wasn’t so sure. “I hope you’re not going to tell me it’s the stars you’re going to miss when you’re dead.”

“I don’t know why I even talk to you,” Carl said.

“I don’t either. Are we done, or is there more to say?”

Apparently there was. “Why would I do something like that?” he said, genuinely perplexed.

“Like what?”

“Promise that girl.”

“How the fuck should I know? I don’t even understand why I do half the shit I do. I’m supposed to understand you?”

Carl thought about it. “You really never think about sex anymore?” he said. “Because I just find that so fucking hard to believe.”

—

DRIVING BACK TO Rub’s place, Sully handed him the money he’d lost playing cards so Bootsie wouldn’t get pissed off. “How come you didn’t drop when I gave you the knee?” he asked.

“I had three fuh-fuh—”

“Fucking queens, I know. But I had a full boat.”

“Didn’t look like it,” Rub recalled miserably.

“That was the beauty of it.”

“Sometimes you give me the nuh-nuh-knee and I drop and then it turns out you got nuh-nuh—”

“Nothing?”

“—and it would’ve been my pot.”

“Yeah?” Sully said, watching Rub stuff the bills into his chest pocket. “Well, cheer up. The money usually finds its way back to you.”

When they pulled into the drive and the headlights swept over the tree limb, Sully said, “When you get off work tomorrow, come find me, and we’ll cart all that off. Don’t forget, either, because I got a bet with Bootsie, and I can’t afford to support you both.” Then when Rub started to get out, he said, “Hey.”