I’ll have to digest that. I say, “I went running tonight.”
“I saw that. Wasn’t it cold as hell? That’s just an expression.”
“Yeah, but you know me.”
“That I do.”
“I’m not having a lot of luck getting things to turn out the way I want them.”
“You know what they say: if you want to give God a laugh, tell Him your plans.”
“Well, I finally got it about telling the truth to everyone. So far it’s not much fun, but I got it.”
“It’s easier if you tell it in the first place.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got that part, too. You’re not going to tell me how this turns out, are you? Like with Dallas, and my brother?”
“Nope. I told you, I don’t know how it turns out.”
“It would sure make it easier.”
“And more boring. What would be the point of life if you knew how everything turns out? Just remember the more you act out of fear, the less you’ll get done.”
Mid-January
The Malcolm X Avenue idea doesn’t sit a lot better with the voters of our fair county than it does with Lambeer. I think I know why he’s considered such a good teacher in these parts.
“Good morning, Mr. Gardner. I wonder if you’d consider signing my petition to turn a street in our fair city into Malcolm X Avenue.”
“Hey, Ben, how are you? What?”
“Malcolm X Avenue. I’m doing a project for my current events class. I thought Trout would look, like, seriously progressive if we took this diversity bull by the horns. Malcolm X Avenue would be a good start toward that.”
Mr. Gardner looks over his glasses at me from behind the checkout counter at Gardner’s SuperMart. “You talkin’ about Malcolm X the Black Muslim nigger?”
I wince. “There’s only one Malcolm X, I think.”
“Got himself shot by a bunch of his own kind? That Malcolm X? Disrespected his people giving up his last name for an X?”
“That’s the guy,” I say.
“Ben, you made a lot of us proud on the football field this year, you really did. But if I were you, I’d let it go at that and keep this Malcolm X thing under your hat.” He smiles. “Oh, I get it. This is a joke, right?”
“No sir, no joke. So I can put you down as a maybe?”
At the end of my first foray, I have one signature on my petition: Ben Wolf.
Twenty
I’m walking around school in a daze. Dallas is in most of my classes. She comes into homeroom late, leaves early, and somehow manages that for every class. She doesn’t have to; I’m feeling crappy enough not to confront her and make this worse than it is. I’m also feeling physically crappy and I can’t tell if that’s because I’m dying because I’m dying, or if it’s because I’m dying because I’m losing Dallas. I’m gearing up for Cody, which is giving my stomach fits, plus I need to go back and see how Rudy is.
I’m packing big attitude, because when I feel this crappy I’m combative as hell. I also wear my running stuff instead of regular clothes so I can take off any time I want; lunch, after school. Even if I can’t run the way I used to, sanctuary these days comes with accelerated heartbeats.
“Hey, man, how come you aren’t sitting with your honey?” Cody sets his lunch tray beside mine. I’m sitting alone, reskimming the section in Lies My Teacher Told Me that speaks to Woodrow Wilson’s white supremacy. Cody takes the book out of my hand. “If it ain’t subversive, you ain’t readin’ it, huh? Where’s Dallas?”
“I think we’re taking a break,” I say. I meant to prepare him, but every time I started to bring it up, I was afraid to tell him why.
“A break? Who’s dumb idea was that?”
I can’t really lay it all on Dallas. “It was kind of mutual.”
“No such thing,” he says. “Which one of you said, ‘I don’t want to see your ass for a while’?”
I laugh. “She did.”
“You want me to straighten her out?”
“God no.” I say it too quick and too loud. “I mean, no. It was my fault.”
“When did this happen?”
“The other night.”
“The other night? Which other night? And you didn’t tell me?”
Dolven and Glover plop their trays down, and several other guys are headed this way. Dolven says, “The brothers Wolf.”
“Hey, Randy,” I say, then lower my voice at Cody. “I was trying to figure it out for myself. I was embarrassed. You know….”
“Save your embarrassment for the shitheads,” Cody says, smiling and nodding at Dolven and Glover. “You don’t hide things from your bro. Together we’re like a whole person.” He watches me a minute. For some reason I can’t find a way to act, and I’m staring at the table. “Hey, what’s the matter, man? This feels serious.”
“Buddy, we gotta talk.”
Here’s why my brother is going to be the best quarterback ever to pull on a helmet at Boise State. We’re home when I finally tell him, sitting in his room after midnight under posters of Michael Jordan, Brett Favre, and Michael Johnson.
“You used to talk about dying young,” he says.
I nod. “Um-hmm.”
“You just decided on your own to let it ride.” He says it as a statement, but it needs affirmation. I nod again.
“I might have done the same thing,” he says. “I get it, at least. You know what I hate?”
I shake my head, afraid my voice will betray me.
“That you didn’t think you could walk straight out of the doctor’s office and tell me.”
He’s right. You know, you love your parents because they are who they are; maybe because they’re a link to the generations before and most assuredly because if they’re worth a shit they take care of you unconditionally. And you can love a girl almost to desperation. You can feel such a connection and such lust you think you can’t live without her. But that heat cools, probably in order not to kill you. I have loved my brother without condition or consideration for more than seventeen years. There is not a day I can remember when I wouldn’t have laid my life down for him, and that’s not even an exaggeration. And there is not a day I can remember that I believe the same isn’t true for him. I’m not a camo-fatigue kind of guy, but I would go into any war with either of two people: my brother or Coach Banks.
Cody says, “I’ve got your back. Hell, I’ll even help you get the Malcolm X thing done. Too bad it’s not still football season; we could threaten to throw a game unless they voted for it.” He’s sitting on the edge of his bed; I’m standing in the doorway. He pats the bedspread beside him, and I sit. He puts that big ol’ football throwin’ arm around my shoulder and I just lean into him. I can feel his cheek on top of my head. “Man, I can’t wrap my mind around this, and who knows, I might beat you half to death when I do, but we’ll get through it. What are you gonna do about Mom and Dad?”
“I gotta sit on it a while,” I say.
“I’ll follow your lead,” he says. “It’ll be like football.”
Cody and I sit longer while I swim in regret for not telling him right away. He’s right: together we make a pretty good man. It’s always been like that.
We talk for a while about the nuts and bolts of it; that I’ve felt pretty good all along; though I think I’ve had some drops, it might just be paranoia. I don’t describe the one bad night run. I swear I think if I don’t talk about it, I can make it disappear. I’ve been eating right and taking all these nutrients; keeping my body high on pH and low on acid, working out. If I’m around this time next year, I’ll be at BSU with him.
“Man, I’m going to miss you in football,” he says. “I can’t believe this.”
“Just listen for me in your head.”
He hits his chest with his fist to let me know where he’ll listen for me.
I am getting zero sleep, which can’t be good for the terminally ailing. But I’ll feel like I can’t keep my eyes open five more minutes, like a while ago with C
ody, and three hours later I pop awake. I know it won’t last all that long, but I also know I won’t be able to sleep until that tiredness hits me again, so I might as well make use of the time.
“Hey, Rudy.” It’s three A.M.; pitch-dark. I can come here at any time of day or night and find him puttering somewhere in the garage or reading in his little room, or doing whatever keeps him from going back to the bottle, but there’s not even light through the crack. I feel along the walls for the switch and turn the overheads on long enough to draw a bead on the small lamp sitting on the workbench. I flip them off quickly and feel my way to it, screw in the small bulb, casting the inside of Halls Garage in a dim, eerie glow.
“Hey, Rudy,” I say again.
I should let him sleep—he gets so little—but I’m feeling urgent lately, so I knock lightly on his door. “Rudy. Hey.”
The door opens into blackness and I reach around the corner and flip that switch. The 40-watt bulb flickers on and there’s Rudy, lying on the bed fully dressed, eyes closed, hands folded over his chest. He’s not breathing. There’s a small stack of books by the cot, The Autobiography of Malcolm X on top, with an envelope sticking out just inside the front cover.
I don’t wonder even for a second, just step over and take the envelope. It says BEN like I knew it would. I touch his hand, which is cold. He’s been like this awhile.
Rudy’s my first dead guy. My first thought is I’m gonna look just like this soon. It’s not so bad; he took pains not to look ghoulish, I think. Eyes closed. He looks calm and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen that. His face is dead, but it’s not tortured. Man, I am walking through shit I have never walked through before.
I could leave; slip out with the envelope and the books, and let the Hall brothers find him later this morning, but that doesn’t seem right. I set this in motion, so no point in giving them the big surprise.
I switch off the light in Rudy’s room, leave the workbench light on, and take the books to my pickup, where I call 911 on my cell. That gets me Ed Sorensen over at the firehouse.
“Nine-one-one.”
“Hey, Ed. It’s Ben Wolf.”
“Hey, Ben. Trouble?” His voice is scratchy, like the call woke him.
“Yeah, kinda. I think Rudy McCoy committed suicide. He’s over at Halls. I stopped in to see him and he’s lyin’ there on his bed. I think he’s been dead awhile.”
“What makes you think it’s suicide? He probably drank himself to death.”
I’m about to start into a long explanation, but I don’t have the energy. “Maybe,” I say. “It’s just a guess. There was no bottle. Anyway, he’s there.”
“I’ll get someone right over there.”
“Do I need to stay? I mean, I found him but I’m not going anywhere and I need to grab an hour or so of sleep before school. It would be a lot easier if I could talk about it later.”
“Get some sleep, Ben. What the hell are you doing up at this time, anyway?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Stop by the courthouse later and talk with the sheriff. I don’t guess there’s much to this. Ol’ Rudy never did have much but his books and his drink.”
He had a lot more than that.
It’s a couple hours before the sun comes up and I’m just not sleepy, but as crazy as things have been and as crazy as they’re going to get, it would probably be good if the members of my family woke up and found me where I’m supposed to be.
I fall into bed in a heap, but no way do I try to rest before reading his words.
Dear Ben,
I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do it. I know you could have kept me safe around you; hell, I could have kept myself safe. But I couldn’t go on living with this thing inside me, because it’s deadly poison. It took everything from me. If I had done a better job when I was in the church, I might understand better. But I was afraid all the time; in my heart praying for myself instead of others. I looked to God to save me, but He just looked back and shrugged. I’d have done what was right if I hadn’t been so afraid. In the end, it just feels better to be gone. Know that as I write this letter, I feel tremendous release. I don’t know what happens next, but I’ll damn sure guarantee you it’s better than this. I wish I had more courage, but I never had much and it’s all used up.
Go out there and kick some ass, young fella. You’re truly one of a kind. I enjoyed my time with you and that’s saying something, since I haven’t enjoyed much of anything for the past many years. Learn all you can about Malcolm X and all the other tremendously brave people of all colors and run them down your teacher’s throat. Run ’em down the throat of the town. Those who finally get it will thank you, and those who don’t, well, they weren’t gonna get it anyway.
Please understand that I know suicide is stupid and cowardly, and I’m apologizing to you. You’re certainly facing your situation better than me. If it weren’t for you, no one would be affected by my death and no one would care. That’s not me being pitiful; I’ve purposely kept folks away. I didn’t leave anyone else anything to miss. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone what I did; I hate leaving that bad taste in the mouth of the world. If you feel you need to, then go ahead.
And thanks for seeing me.
Rudy McCoy
I read it over twice. Man, it is hard to tell what’s good from what’s bad when you’re in the middle of it. You don’t have to watch too many episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit to know sex offenders are about the lowest thing this society has to offer. In prison they’re rumored to be below armed robbers and murderers, but Rudy didn’t seem like that kind of low guy. He just seemed sad. I should probably feel worse than I do, but it wasn’t an impulsive act. Rudy was done. He looked at his situation the best way he could and opted out. I can’t judge that. Truth is, I feel some release reading the letter. I’ll do as he asks: keep his secret to myself. I’ll keep the letter to read a few more times to see if I missed anything, then make sure I throw it away so nothing comes out after I’m gone.
Twenty-One
On my way to school I stop by the county courthouse to tell Sheriff Osborne what I know about Rudy McCoy.
“Ben Wolf. Great catch in the Horseshoe Bend game. Too bad you guys couldn’t have taken them Indian boys out up at Weippe.”
I say, “Little too much for us that day, Sheriff.”
“So you were the last person to see Mr. McCoy alive.”
“Actually, I’m not sure. I was the first person to see him dead, though. He was gone when I got there.”
“What were you doing there that time a’ night?”
I shrug. “Actually it was that time of morning. I was helping Rudy stop drinking. I’ve been taking him food and supplements for a while.”
“Supplements?”
“You know, vitamins and other stuff I thought might make him feel better.”
Sheriff Osborne smiles. “Quite the little social worker, huh?”
“I guess. Is there anything I need to do? When I called Nine-one-one Ed told me to stop in and see you.”
“You just walked in and found him layin’ there?”
“Yup.”
“Hell, I’ll just write it up and be done with it. Thanks for stoppin’ in, Ben. That really was a hell of a catch.”
“Thanks.”
My catch in the Horseshoe Bend game is a bigger deal than Rudy McCoy’s life.
I drive the three blocks to school and sit in the Grey Ghost, steeling myself to endure, yet one more time Dallas Suzuki gliding past me as if I don’t exist. I’d do anything for a do-over, but, at least in this dimension, time marches on. I blew it and it remains blown.
I sit awhile longer today because I’ve started having these little “episodes” where fatigue just washes over me. They pass fairly quickly, though, so I lean my head against the back window and close my eyes and let my body catch up.
In Lambeer’s class I can’t stop thinking about Rudy, unable to wrap my imagination around his being gone because pretty soon I’
ll be gone, too. I can’t help but think a compassionate universe is giving Rudy a breather. It seems his fate was set back in his childhood when he was molested, and the rest of the shit that went on in his life was going to happen unless somebody stepped in, and no one did. The one place he thought he could go to be safe was a trap. I think about all these Catholic priests who are in trouble today and wonder how many of them scrambled for the same sanctuary. Things can’t be neat and tidy in the way most religions present them. You just can’t get relativity out of black and white.
Dallas sits a few seats away, scribbling in her notebook as Lambeer talks, and I want to run over and beg her for another chance. I hear not one word of his lecture.
I can’t concentrate in class, but I can keep the project going, so after school I grab my petition sheet and go see if I can get a name on it that doesn’t end in Wolf.
“Benny boy, you remind me of my old hippie days,” Rance Lloyd says. “Did some serious peyote. I thought Malcolm X was about the gutsiest black man ever to walk the face of this earth. By the time he got rollin’ you could have just flipped a coin to guess whether another black man was gonna get him, or a white man. He was smart, and my God, could he talk. But here’s the deal, son. I don’t see any names on your petition there, and I’m guessin’ I’m not your first stop. So tell you what. If you get to the place where you just need one more signature to put you over the top, you bring it back and I’ll be happy to sign it. But my name alone on that page could cost me some business.” Rance runs an antique shop and he subs for my dad driving mail and freight when Dad has more on his plate than he can chew. Rance also builds cabinets and remodels houses. It makes sense that politics plays into his decision.
“I got a feeling this first signature is going to be hard to come by,” I tell him. “Thanks, though.”