Jim Shepard - Kiss of the Wolf

When he wanted to piss me off, he called me Uncle Bruno. He’d go, So you think I should go easier on ’im, Uncle Bruno? You think I should be more patient?

I’d say, Hey, a cavone like you, you’re gonna do what you want, whatever I tell you.

Lot of people are curious as to what happened to Tommy Monteleone. Let me tell you: a lot of people.

The police, they’re like having Andy of Mayberry on the case. They come into the house: Did anybody threaten your son’s life recently? Okay, fine, and that’s the end of that. They look at this, they look at that, have a nice day, thank you very much.

Old man Monteleone still in his bathrobe; he lost the remote, so he’s poking the channel buttons on the TV from his chair with the other end of a broomstick.

One cop actually got interested in the show while the other one was talking to Lucia.

I told Lucia I was gonna find out what happened. She said, “You been a good friend a his all along, Bruno.”

That’s all true. Though as Tommy would say, So what?

Friendship’s friendship and a wonderful thing. But this is money we’re talking about. This is me.

The happiest I’ve ever been was in fourth or fifth grade. The sisters were always looking out for you, always believed in what you could do. I placed high on an achievement test and instead of moving me up a grade, which I didn’t want, they tutored me on my own when things were too easy. That was on their own time. They brought books in extra, and when I finished them, they’d just feed the shelves. I’d do my exercises and then go over and pick out something and sit quietly while everyone caught up. I read most of Dickens that way, and a lot about the Maryknoll missionaries.

They also got me a little encyclopedia I could keep in my desk. I worked my way through it, A to Z .

They thought I was artistic, so they let me design the bulletin boards. That was a big thing, because the bulletin boards went all the way around the room on top of the blackboards. I had to keep to the basic theme, but other than that I could do anything. In December, we had Advent; in May, something blue with the Blessed Mother in it. In June, the Sacred Heart. They were so nice to me, when I think about it. I’d go to a separate room during subjects I was way ahead in and sit there by myself, drawing pictures and cutting and pasting colored paper.

I won seven straight spelling bees. I was the girls’ champion. It was always arranged boys against girls, and the girls would root hard for me. You could see even then that we figured we didn’t win many things, so it was good to win those.

I still have the crucifix I got from the seventh one over my old bed at my mother’s house. The cross is that fake marble: white with blue swirled through it. The Jesus on it is gold.

Because I was advanced, I was big in the festivals. I loved the Feast of the Blessed Virgin: we all dressed in our white dresses and got to carry flowers. Three or four of us had special parts to say for the congregation. Mine was always “Mary, intercede for us”—three years in a row, “Mary, intercede for us.”

I think they connected schoolwork with spiritual grace. If you were advanced in one, you were advanced in the other.

They used milk bottles in the catechism books to illustrate the various states of grace, like our souls were little refrigerators. Mortal sins looked like bottles of chocolate milk. Saints would have, like, cases of regular milk. I remember I imagined venial sins as pints.

I imagined our souls like white bedsheets instead, with chocolate milk spilled on them. And I remembered my mother saying that after you washed something so many times, it never got so white again.

But making a good confession: you walked out of that church with such a lightness, such a beautiful feeling.

As I got older I got along better with the priests, because I was a wiseass and I was not demure. There were priests who’d like you for that, but the sisters usually didn’t.

I’m sorry, now, I didn’t get along better with the sisters.

The Monteleones follow me around the house. At night, when I close my eyes, I see the road and Tommy coming out of nowhere.

It’s like Nancy asked me once, when she was sleeping with a guy she didn’t like, “How’d I end up here? At what point did I end up here?”

I blame Gary. If he hadn’t left us, I wouldn’t’ve been driving. It’s not fair, but neither is what happened to me. Lying there in the dark, I think all this should be dumped on him. But then I remind myself that he didn’t kill anyone and I did.

In every possible situation, now — just standing around, while other people talk — I worry about giving myself away. Behind everything, there’s this other life.

This morning I sat on the floor in the kitchen before Todd got up and thought, Hypocrite. Hypocrite. Hypocrite. Hypocrite.

And then at other times — I can already feel it — the guilt goes away. That simple. And I can feel myself living with it the way people learn to live with not being taller, not being more beautiful.

In bed at night I say to myself, I’m not like this. I’m the same as always inside. And that’s not true.

So I tell myself, You’ve got to tell somebody. You’ve got to go to the police. Tomorrow — tomorrow you’ll go to the police.

And then I think about Todd upstairs and think, Will he go to the police?

And I remember the way he looks now when I do something for him: the way the dog looks off to one side when you put her food down, like she’s not going to be swayed that easily by something like that.

I called the police three different times in the last two days and I haven’t stayed on the phone yet. The guy answers and I hang up. The phone’s busy and I hang up. The phone’s ringing and I hang up.

I called Information in Seattle, Tacoma, and Sacramento, trying to find my father. They found a G. Muhlenberg in Tacoma, but no Muhlberg. I called it anyway.

The guy who answered told me there was no Gary Muhlberg in a three-hundred-mile radius. I musta woke him up.

I called Father Cleary back. I figured I could stay anonymous. Then, when he answered, I hung up, because I figured I couldn’t.

I called another parish. I called St. Ambrose in Bridgeport. The woman at the rectory told me that their Father didn’t have phone-in hours, and I said what if it was a spiritual emergency, and she said I could come in. I said I couldn’t come in, because I was a handicapped guy and the motor on my wheelchair was broken. She said Father could come out to me, what was my address. I told her I lived in another parish. She asked why I didn’t go to the priest in my parish. I hung up.

My mother had no idea I made these calls.

I gave up calling. I couldn’t think of anyone else to call. I couldn’t think of a single other person to call. There was a radio advice guy, but that was long distance and would cost money and my mother would see the bill. There was no one to talk to. I felt like putting a note in a bottle and dropping it out my window. I started writing letters to my dad.

Dear Dad,

How are you? Things here could be better. Mom and I ran over and killed a guy.

Dear Dad,

How are you? Things here could be better. Do you remember Tommy Monteleone?

Dear Dad,

How are you? Mom and I have had a rather rough time lately.

Dear Dad,

How are you? Mom and I need help.

Then I scratched that out, too. It sounded too desperate. Maybe that was why he left us, because we needed him so much.

I ended up staying up all night. At about two, I snuck downstairs and watched cable. I watched for about an hour. The TV screen was the only light in the house.