Johnny is in my room leaning over me, hands braced against my shoulders, eyes wide. Cliff is squatting in my bedroom doorway, hands gripping my feet through my sleeping bag, eyes wider.
My throat is hoarse, my cheeks are wet, my heart is galloping, my muscles are tight, and I can’t catch my breath. The nightmare is dissipating like smoke, fragmenting until all that’s left is my guilt, Nina’s pain, my failure, and Nina’s fulfillment. And the horrible realization that my nightmares now have the power to gain volume, purpose,andan audience.
Suffering should be a secret.
Shame should be a secret.
Guilt should be a secret.
Ishould be a secret.
No.You shouldn’t exist at all.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The fallout
Past,June 1985
Johnny
I spend my life hiding.It’s the reason I spend as much of my day as possible tucked away inside Dan’s Tavern. The windowless interior and dim lighting cocoon me from the outside world, and the steady flow of alcohol divides me from my thoughts—it’s how I cope. And yes, cope is a generous description. Hiding someplace evenIcan’t find me is my approach. Am I embarrassed I can’t function in society? Yes. Am I embarrassed I can’t get over what happened? No. I did unforgivable things in the name of war. Three tours of endless survival-induced adrenaline supplemented with drugs led to paranoia and fear. Tour one, I was a soldier. Tour two, I was a machine. Tour three, I was a monster. Over a decade later, when I close my eyes every night to sleep, I’m haunted by faces. Some I fought beside, some I fought against—but the thing all the faces have in common is death. A hellish death, the result of bullet, knife, explosive, or fire. Their screams all blend harmoniously, because if there’s one thing that’s universally human no matter your nationality, it’s pain and agony. Those screams all sound the same. The unyielding reminder of all I’ve done that’s wrong.
I stay at Dan’s until last call most evenings, because at that time my walk home is quiet and I can pretend I’m alone in the world while most of the city sleeps. It’s after midnight when I step in the front door of the Victorian, the chill in the air flirting with inebriation and urging it toward sobriety. The decibel level of sound coming from inside 1A is enough to urge it a few more degrees, and I’m not happy about that. Raising my fist to pound on the door and tell them to quiet down, I’m stopped short by someone standing on the stairs to the right of me. It’s Chantal from 2B, her arms are crossed over her chest. She’s worrying at a hole in the sleeve of her sweater with her fingertips, and at the corner of her bottom lip with her teeth.
“She’s been yelling like a banshee at him for a while now. I knocked an hour ago and asked her to please quiet down so my grandma can sleep, but she slammed the door in my face. She’s saying awful things to him, Johnny. Just awful.”
My unfocused eyes aren’t my greatest ally when it comes to discernment, but even they can’t deny the fear in her eyes.
I press my ear to the door first—unnecessary given that Marilyn is yelling again. Her voice unhinged and tremoring through sobs.“You stupid, useless piece of shit, you’re dead to me! Do you hear me? You’re dead!”
Silence. Which is helpful because I need a moment to dissect what she’s said. This is the point at which I know I should knock, but my mind isn’t firing on all cylinders and begs me to wait another minute to hear what she says next.
“It should’ve been you, Toby! If you thought a gun was such a goddamn good idea, you should’ve just used it on yourself!”
That’s it, I’ve heard enough. I pound on the door at the same time I look at Chantal and tell her to go back upstairs to her grandma’s apartment. I pound until the soft flesh on the side of my palm begins to radiate bruising pain. When she doesn’t answer, I yell, “Open the door, Marilyn!” while I continue the assault on the hardwood.
When the door finally creaks open, there’s a two-inch slot held from further advancement by a short string of brass chain, and her bloodshot eye rimmed by blotchy, shock-red skin is fixed on me. “This ain’t your concern, Johnny. Leave me be.”
I take a deep breath, because it’s either that or kick the door in, and then I say calmly, “It is my concern.” That’s a truer statement than I would like to acknowledge. “When you’re keeping the whole building awake, it’s my concern. You need to quiet down, Marilyn, or I’ll call the cops.”
She barks out a bitter laugh. “You’ll call the cops? You know they won’t do shit.”
She’s right, they won’t. They’ll come, tell her to quiet down, and leave. And then she’ll start up again before they make it to the curb to get in their car. While I’m thinking through the next step in this mess, I break eye contact with her and look over her head into the apartment. She’s a little over five feet tall and I’m a little over six; I have an unobstructed view. Toby is sitting on the couch, curled up into a ball, his face buried in his arms. His shoulders rising and falling as sobs violently shudder through him.
My eyes still on him, I ask, “What’s going on?” Marilyn has never been the poster child for motherhood, far from it, but I’ve never seen her like this.
I can’t see everything she’s doing due to the limited view the two-inch peek into the room provides, but from what I can make out she’s thrusting a finger accusatorially at the destroyed boy on the couch as she declares, “That little shit killed my daughter!”
The words punch me in the face. “Killed your daughter?” I repeat, in my head or aloud, I’m not sure.
She presses her face tight against the opening, the door and doorjamb pressing deep creases down her cheeks on either side of her mouth, and she screeches in my face, “He fucking killed my Nina!” The tirade is accompanied by spittle that her drunken state and anger can’t contain, pelting the front of my T-shirt.
“Shh,” I reflexively answer, because she’s going to wake up the entire block if she keeps this up. “Open the door and talk to me.” My voice is masking the anger that’s boiling inside me.
Her mouth disappears and she takes a long pull from a bottle of clear liquid, gin judging by her breath. It won’t take much more of that before she’s passed out cold, so I let her take two more swigs before I try again. “Open the door, Marilyn.”
“No,” she whisper-shouts defiantly, like a mouthy child, her lips pressed against the opening again. At least she toned down the volume this time.
