I didn’t bother to mention that I hadn’t talked to Fisher in years, or that the last time I had, I vividly recalled the dude hated my guts. I could hardly refuse the offer.
Our trip to that shop had made one thing abundantly clear: my brother had sunk too deep into the muck this time for me to go wading in to pull out his ass on my own.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Next day, the murder was all over the front page of the Herald. The paper didn’t speculate on motive, nor did it delve too much into specifics beyond what Turley had already told me. The article didn’t come right out and say my brother was a suspect, only that he was wanted for questioning. Pretty much the same thing. The piece mostly broached hot-button peripherals like prostitution and dealing drugs at the TC, with several quotes from town officials proselytizing what needed to be done to eradicate the problems, including an impassioned plea from Adam Lombardi, who said he “hoped this senseless killing would be the wake-up call Ashton needed” to close down the truck stop, which he called “a bad influence and an eyesore.” Which was the response you’d expect. It was no secret what took place at the truck stop, but that didn’t mean folks wanted it shoved in their faces, either.
I fielded phone calls and questions for the rest of the morning and on through the afternoon. Turley bugged me a couple times. Charlie rang to see how I was holding up. Word had even drifted down to my aunt and uncle in Concord. Though they’d distanced themselves from Chris a while ago, they were still concerned. The only person I wanted to talk to was Jenny, but it was never her on the line, and I was still too angry and prideful to call her. When I went to the market around lunchtime to stock up on beer, I felt everyone staring at me, probably due to my own paranoia. I was anxious to get back to my place and hole up, which made me feel like a prisoner. Finally, I powered down my cell, took the landline off the hook, pulled the blinds, dragged a six-pack to the couch, and cracked open a cold one. I glugged it down. Then I cracked another.
Ashton wasn’t some hick town. We had two supermarkets, a movie theater showing up to three new releases at a time, four pizza and grinder shops, a McDonald’s and an Arby’s, two banks, a credit union, a barber, a stylist, two dentists, and a Dairy Queen that closed every fall. Plus several liquor stores. Even a football field for the high school. But Ashton was still small enough that everybody knew everybody’s business, which made life a lot rougher when you had a brother like mine.
I was eight years old when my parents died. I should’ve had more than enough time to put the loss behind me. Only I hadn’t. The tragedy was woven into my very person, like cigarette smoke on a cable-knit after a long night at the bar. I couldn’t put the accident behind me because small-town innuendo wouldn’t let me, and I knew this latest fiasco with Chris would only grease the rumor mill wheels. Turley wasn’t the only one. Everyone had heard that goddamn story, and even when people didn’t bring it up, you could still tell they were thinking it, which made it just as bad. Sometimes what isn’t said can be every bit as damning as what is.
For a while, it was just Chris and I living in the house. He had a good job at Hank Miller’s garage. Chris was a pro when it came to fixing cars. Wasn’t a motor he couldn’t put back together blindfolded. He’d had a shot to attend college on a wrestling scholarship, but he stuck around. He stuck around, in part, to help take care of me, which is something you don’t forget, no matter how bad someone turns out.
That Chris and our father had fought so much publicly didn’t help the situation. They were always at each other’s throats. Once, at a wrestling meet, they had to be physically separated. Another time, they got into a shoving match in the DQ parking lot. Chris was messing with drugs even then. Mostly pot, I think. Hash. Acid. I hated being in the middle of it. Like our mom, I steered clear and tried not to pick sides. Maybe I was a coward. What did I really know? Like the drowning story, I couldn’t trust my own memories. Chris never wanted to talk about it, except to call the old man an asshole, and there was no point poking that dog now. We were way past the talking stage.
All kinds of shit happens when your parents die and you’re still a kid-executors, creditors, social services, mortgages and banks, court orders, insurance claims-a bureaucratic nightmare that neither Chris nor I had been equipped to handle, not that it should’ve been my responsibility at all.
I didn’t blame my brother. He’d done his best. He was just a kid out of high school, and he’d always been off somewhat, head screwy, easily rattled. Chris began drinking more, getting high more, fighting with everyone. Honestly, it was almost a relief when the bank finally tacked up that notice. When my Aunt Dee Dee brought me down to Concord, I worried about leaving Chris behind.
They never talked about Chris living with us in Concord. The police had spoken with Dee Dee plenty, and already people were regarding my brother as a lost cause. I doubt Chris would’ve accepted an offer anyway. Dee Dee was our father’s sister and the spitting image of him, and Chris hated her too. Chris still had his job, girlfriends; he got an apartment in town. He liked living in Ashton. How could I know he’d end up on the street?
Every time I came back, he seemed further gone. I worried about him constantly, which made it hard to concentrate on my future. I’d always been good at school, got straight As, just came naturally, didn’t need to study much or anything. Guidance counselors and my aunt pushed me to apply to colleges. I even flew to check out a couple. In the end, though, I felt I needed to get home.
When I moved back after graduation and saw how bad Chris had gotten, I did everything I could to make it right. I could still talk to him then, and I thought I could fix him. I’d convince him to try and sober up. I’d drag him into detox units, plead with rehab counselors, begging them to help him. They’d calmly explain that you can’t help someone who isn’t willing to help himself. I’d get so angry, screaming, accusing them of callousness and not doing their jobs. Of course, they were right.
I woke in a cold, dark place, empty cans and plastic rings littering my lap, head clogged like I’d just landed after a long, turbulent flight and had forgotten the chewing gum. I thumbed on my cell. 10:41. A few lousy beers shouldn’t have been able to knock me out like that. Probably the stress. These last couple days hadn’t been easy.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I set the landline on the hook. A second later it rang.
“What the hell?” Charlie said. “I’ve been calling for two hours. Who you been talking to this long?”
“Nobody.”
“Listen, what are you doing right now?”
“Going to sleep.” From the background chatter, I could tell he was calling me from the bar. I knew he was going to try and drag me down there.
“Any luck finding your brother?”
“No.” I dug my cigarettes from my jeans pocket. My nameless cat rubbed against my leg. I took a drag. “Honestly, he could be dead in a ditch like Pete. Wouldn’t even know it.”
“Come down to the Dubliner, meet me for a drink.”
My head throbbed. My bones ached. The biting north winds swirled outside, rattling the windowpanes. No way was I going out in that cold.
“Not tonight, man.”
“What?” Charlie scoffed. “You got something better to do?”
“It’s late. It’s been a long day. I need to get some sleep.”
“C’mon, one beer,” Charlie pleaded. “I’ve been working on how to solve your problem.”
“What problem?”
He paused for an exaggerated moment. “Chris! What do you think I’m talking about?”
“I don’t know, Charlie, you called me.”