No Sleep till Wonderland Read online

  Jody and Rachel sit on a couch in the middle of the living room. The couch is askew. No one has cared enough to adjust it. A dingy white sheet covers the cushions; two pillows are smooshed into the armrest. The couch as a makeshift bed reminds me that I didn’t sleep at all last night. Not that I need any reminding.

  Jody wears cutoff sweatpants and a white T-shirt. She rewraps herself in a blanket, cold when the outside world is cooking. There’s wisdom in there somewhere. Jody stares at the TV screen, at the muted daytime talk show. She stares at it like she’s looking at the future. Rachel stares at me like there is no future.

  Rachel says, “Jody, this is Mark. He’s the first guy who ran into the building.”

  Jody looks up and says, “What happened in there?” Her voice is ragged, broken, a scratchy record continuously ignored in a world of digital recordings.

  I tell her what happened in there. I tell her I did what I could, which was helping her son down the stairs before stumbling out of the building empty-handed and passing out. At least, that’s how I remember it.

  Jody says, “Is this true? No one told me that.”

  Rachel says, “No one told me that either.”

  I adjust my hat. “Yeah, it’s true.” I try to adjust my beard by rubbing my face. “Sorry I wasn’t able get him all the way out of the house.”

  Jody pulls the blanket tighter around her and says, “Thanks for doing that, then. Thanks for trying.”

  Her uncertain, pseudo-acknowledgment will have to do for now. I say, “Is it all right if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Don’t think I can help you any.”

  That’s not a no, so I start off slow by asking each woman what she does. Jody works at the chain supermarket on Broadway, in the deli. The managers give her only thirty-two hours per week, and she’s currently on unpaid leave. Rachel washes hair at a salon and takes classes at Bunker Hill Community College. Not quite sure how either supplements her income for the luxuries of food and rent, and I don’t ask.

  Instead it’s time to get more personal. I ask, “How’s your son doing, Jody?”

  “Aw, fuck, I don’t know. They tell me how he’s doing, but I can’t go see him, won’t even let me talk to him until after the hearing, maybe, so I don’t really know.”

  “Has he said anything to the cops? Did he see anything?”

  “No, they told me he won’t talk about the fire.”

  I say, “I’m sorry that this all happened, Jody.” And I am. Despite spending the better part of two afternoons reading about her and the DSS, about her utter and spectacular failings as a mother, I am sorry. No one deserves this.

  “Yeah.” Jody’s in her midtwenties, but her extra weight makes her look older, carrying the pounds like outed secrets or sadness. Maybe there’s no difference. She has a small silver ball stud that pokes out just below her bottom lip, not centered, but on the left side. A robo-dimple. The stud is too small and is being swallowed by her skin. Her face is red and puffy and breaking out. She’s been crying, and I’m guessing she’s on Valium or using antidepressants, prescribed or not. Her hair is dark brown, almost black, and greasy. Like the apartment, she’s in a similar state of fresh neglect. Her nose is short and squat, pushed in, a button that doesn’t work. Her eyes are a bright, severe blue. Her stare is a challenge, one that I can’t meet.

  I’m too nervous for my own good, and I’m getting a bad feeling. The kind of feeling that might grow into a sweep-the-leg moment. Eventually always becoming inevitably.

  I have so many questions to ask. I’m just going to let them loose and hope order sorts itself out, my personal chaos theory. I say, “The night of the fire, what time did you leave your apartment to come here?”

  Jody tilts her head to her left, half a shrug. “Ten. Ish. It doesn’t matter. It was way past JT’s bedtime. He’s a heavy sleeper, never wakes up for nothing once he’s out. Doesn’t matter if someone’s yelling or poking him. I left him like that all the time, and he was fine; nothing ever happened. It wasn’t a big deal. Nothing should’ve happened to him. It wasn’t my fault. Me being in the apartment wouldn’t have changed anything…”

  Jody trails off, talking into her blanket, smothering her quiet words of regret. Rachel grabs the faltering baton and says, “It wasn’t a big deal. JT would’ve been fine.”

  I can’t tell if she believes that or if she’s acting as Jody’s chorus. I’m not here to contradict her. I’m not here to tell her the truth, only to find it. There’s a difference.

  “How come Rachel was at the fire before you were?”

  Jody covers her head and growls. Rachel clucks her tongue. Then the women speak at the same time, voices and words overlapping.

  Jody says, “I’ve already answered these fucking questions a million times.”

  Rachel says, “I was just running to Jody’s apartment to get my iPod that she forgot, left on the kitchen table. The building was burning when I got there. I panicked and just started screaming for help.”

  I remember her screaming and grabbing me. Her emotions from that night are so alien to her flatline response to my question. Sounds like she’s giving me an excuse. I don’t trust the scarecrow anymore.

  I say, “And you didn’t see anyone coming out of the building? Anyone there?”

  “Just you. Then Fred, the neighbor who saved JT.”

  I say, “Of course. Fred.” I have a bad feeling that is getting worse, bullying me around, kicking Mr. Sandman sand in my face. I push a small stack of magazines off a wooden chair that doesn’t seem to be part of a set, and say, “Tell me about Aleksandar Antonov.”

  Jody says, “Nothing to tell. He’d only been living there for a few months. Kept to himself. Quiet guy. I hardly saw him. Sorry he died. Sorry he died like that.”

  Jody sinks deeper into her blanket. Her body language isn’t good. But neither is mine. I slouch and slide into the chair, my skin and bones wanting to weave into the fiber of the wood. I sit up too quickly and almost topple over.

  I ask Jody if she ever saw or heard any of Aleksandar’s friends or anyone who might’ve visited his apartment, and Jody shakes her head no and stares at the muted TV. I turn and watch the pointing fingers and wide silent mouths and clapping hands and know that everyone is only pretending to be angry or righteous, or pretending to be laughing. They’re all just scared because no one knows what the hell is going on.

  I ask Rachel the same questions about Aleksandar. She gives me the same no answers, then gets up, leaves the couch, and disappears into a bedroom. I’m losing both of them. I’m losing myself too.

  It’s too cold in here. My damp shirt is a clammy fish on my skin. Wish I had my jacket, should’ve been prepared for anything. I say, “How long have you known Eddie Ryan?”

  “Just about all my life. Unfortunately. We’re both from here. Grew up together. Same project.” She’s giving me the typical Southie story, although I’ve never understood it: proximity and place as a badge, as an identity that determines loyalties, relationships, and destinies. So kiss me; I’m from Southie, where friends protect friends and sometimes fuck them over too. Yeah, everyone’s friends here, friends of convenience, as if there were any other kind.

  Time to shake things up. I twist and lean back in my chair and paw at the TV’s power button. I hit it, but there’s also a loud crack coming from behind me. Nothing falls off the chair, but I think I’m dealing with a stool now.

  I know the answer to my next question, and I know the question will be as comfortable as this broken chair. “Is Eddie the father of your son?”

  Jody looks at me like I tried to throw a punch at her but missed and now she’s going to hit me back. One for flinching. She says, “No! Is that what he’s saying? Is he telling people that so they’ll think he didn’t do it?”

  I shrug, and it’s a lie, but I don’t care. It’s clear she needs and wants to hate Eddie.

  “That motherfucking son of…” Jody growls out obscenities, squeezes out some tears, and it’
s all too much of a reaction. I wanted to push her but not get an eruption.

  I say, “Slow down. He didn’t exactly tell me he was the father, but that he was like a father to your son.”

  Rachel comes running out the bedroom. She’s a wisp and might be incinerated by Jody’s volcano. “Just tell him to leave, Jody. You don’t have to talk to him.”

  I shoot Rachel my that’s-bad-advice look. A look that is often confused with I’m-goddamned-tired look.

  Jody says, “What, are you and Eddie friends? You can go fuck yourself.”

  “Would that I could, but I’m not Eddie’s friend. I asked him some questions last night, that’s all. Like we’re doing now. He wasn’t exactly cooperative. For what it’s worth, I kicked him in the balls at the end of the interview. He wasn’t singing ‘That’s What Friends Are For’ when I left him.”

  The women look at each other, look at me, and I look at them. We don’t want to believe in our own eyes.

  Jody smiles, but it goes away, like hope. She says, “Good. Even if you’re lying to me.”

  “When was the last time you saw Eddie?”

  “The goddamn night before the fire. I went down to the Abbey. We got into a big fight. Didn’t like the way he was talking and looking at some little red-headed bitch. And I told him all about it.”

  “You guys are always fighting,” Rachel says. She adjusts her earplugs. They’re big enough to be plates for Mrs. Tittlemouse. I can’t help but stare and wonder what it feels like to actively change your skin like that. If only…

  Jody says, “It’s his fault. He treats me like shit, like I’m nothing. Worse than nothing, like I’m a pet, need to be kept and told what to do all the time. You should hear how he talks to me in front of JT, like I’m dumber than a plant. JT has started mouthing off to me just like Eddie does. Eddie’s teaching him to do that shit. I fucking hate it.” She pauses, then adds, “Should’ve burned down Eddie’s place a long time ago.”

  Her last sentence is a direct challenge to me, to see what I’ll say. I’m not going to say anything. It’s an easy answer for me, but I don’t know if it’s the right one.

  I take out my pocket notebook and flip it open to an empty page, which isn’t difficult to do as all the pages are empty. Maybe I should keep a journal. I pretend to read my staggering list of clues and information.

  I say, “Do you know a guy named Gus, works at Eddie’s bar?”

  “Yeah, I know Gus.” Jody pokes more of her head out from underneath her blanket, but the sky is still falling. “Can you turn the TV back on? It makes my head hurt less.”

  “I’d rather not. I think we need a little focus here. Tell me what you know about Gus.”

  “He’s like everyone who lives in Southie. He talks too much. He’s full of himself. A smart-ass, smartest-ass-in-the-room type of guy.”

  “Did Gus help Eddie sell drugs?”

  Jody coughs, and it sounds purposeful. She says, “I’m not saying anything about that. Don’t know nothing about that.”

  “And you wouldn’t tell me if you did know anything about that, right?”

  Rachel laughs. The outburst of merriment so unexpected, it’s hard for me to not take it personally. I’m so sensitive. Rachel says through lingering giggles, “I’m done. I’m taking a shower, Jode. Come get me if you need me.”

  Jody says, “I won’t need you.”

  Great, we’ve established no one needs anyone. I ask, “Did Gus know Aleksandar?”

  “I have no idea. Never saw Gus anywhere near my building. Only saw him at the Abbey. And like I said, never really saw Aleksandar either.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “I don’t really care if you do.”

  I ask the next question while she’s in mid-denial. “Do you know a woman named Ekat?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “You sure? She’s a good friend of Gus’s, and from what I gather”—I make a show of flipping pages in my handy-dandy notebook—“a real good friend of Eddie’s.”

  Yeah, I’m lying again. It’s not that I think I can push her or manipulate her because she’s dumb. She’s not dumb. She’s smart, too smart to be hopeful. She knows exactly what’s in store for her with the DSS and the custody of her kid. She knows who and what Eddie really is, and who and what I am for all I know. I can push her only because she wants to be pushed, wants to be manipulated, and expects it. It’s what she’s used to, and despite the bluster she needs it. She’ll go back to Eddie to get it. Wouldn’t be surprised if she calls him right after I leave.

  “So what? I’m supposed to know all of his girlfriends? I know I’m not the only one. Fuck him and fuck her and fuck you.” Jody is done crying and has been done for a while.

  Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m projecting her into the role of hapless victim because I’m conditioned to think that way. I’m as weak and easily manipulated as anybody else.

  I stand up too quick and hello dizziness, my old friend. I recalibrate but still feel like I could end up with my nose pinned to the floor at any moment. The back of the chair falls off and dies angrily on the hardwood. “Sorry about that.” Then I mumble something about knowing a guy who can fix it when it’s obvious I don’t. I turn the TV back on but leave it muted. It’s a commercial. Some group of people wants me and Jody to buy a product that’ll make us as happy as they are. I’ll take my crooked face over their smiles.

  I say, “Last question, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Promise?”

  “Do you think Eddie was the arsonist?”

  “Yes, definitely.” Jody is quick to follow up her thumbs-down verdict with “No. I don’t know. I don’t know what to fucking think. He says he was at Murphy’s Law, but I haven’t talked to anyone who saw him there yet. But he hasn’t been arrested yet, either. They’ve been trying.”

  She’s not telling me the whole deal. Her raw deal with Eddie. I could stay and push some more, but I’m already spent. The overwhelming tide of tiredness is rushing back in, and no Dutch kid with a magic digit is going to keep it all behind that rickety dam, keep it from sweeping me off my feet.

  “Thanks for talking to me, Jody. I know it wasn’t easy.”

  She says, “Thanks for trying to help JT, Mark. Really.”

  I turn and walk toward the front door, stepping past the pieces of her previous days. Everything recently broken, and broken beyond repair. The TV volume explodes back on, the noise as regimented and relentless as time.

  I’m at the door, and I’m not sure why, but I have the urge to put my fist through it. If not my fist, then maybe my face. I turn the cold knob and open the door. Nothing but stale warm air in the stairwell. Jody calls out to me before I step out, yelling to be heard over the TV.

  “What about you? Do you think Eddie did it?”

  I stop and hover in the doorway like doubt, like suspicion. The easiest thing to do would be physical, take a step forward, out the door, and start sweating almost instantly, as if the sweat is out there waiting to jump me in the stairwell.

  I throw a “Yes” over my shoulder. It’s casual, irresponsible, and I don’t know where it lands. Then I close the door behind me.

  Eighteen

  Back in my office I have a fist full of cigarette, burning up time. A quick check of my various communication systems yields no return calls, e-mails, or messages. I’m starting to feel forgotten.

  I call the Abbey to ask again for Gus, but no one answers. I try three local bike messenger companies I find in the phone book, but no one admits to having Gus, or any Gus for that matter, on the payroll.

  Next up, I think about calling the Nantucket hotel again to ask about Aleksandar, but I call Ekat instead.

  She says, “Hi, Mark, how are you doing?” Her voice is inflected, the words delivered sing-song. Was she waiting for my call? Is she annoyed because I called her only a couple of hours ago? Is she being ironic, playful, or familiar? Is she flirting? I’m a barely functional illiterate desperate to read too
much into how she answered the phone.

  Her rubber band is still on my wrist. I pluck it, and it snaps back, biting my skin. It beats pinching myself to see if I’m dreaming. I say, “Like always, I’m peachy.”

  “So, you’re like a fruit?”

  I struggle to find clever. What I come up with isn’t it. I say, “Yeah, I’m seasonal.”

  “Who isn’t?” Ekat laughs, and it’s breathless, manic in its euphoria. She’s too happy to be talking to the peach on the phone.

  I tap ash off the glowing tip, and my cigarette plumes smoke and crumbles away like a dying building.

  “You still there, Mark?”

  “Oh, yeah. Still here. Always here.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me if Gus called?”

  “Did Gus call?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t sound worried.”

  “You can get that from a ‘no’?”

  “I’m that good.”

  “I’m very worried.”

  “So am I.”

  I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead. I tap more ash into an old paper coffee cup. The cup doesn’t mind. Yeah, I’m stalling because I’m not ready to ask her what I really want to ask her. I say, “I was out earlier, digging up some dirt on Eddie.”

  “I’m sure that wasn’t hard to achieve.”

  “Trying to figure out what his role was in the fire.” I stop and start, um and ah, and my words are obstacles I can’t traverse. “He’s not a good guy, Ekat. He’s dangerous. And I was thinking. Thinking maybe I should take you out to dinner or something. Or you could come to my office and eat. Food. And I’d make sure that you’re okay. That everything is okay.” My soliloquy is as awkward and desperate as I feel. Christ, maybe I should’ve waited until I was asleep to make this call, and let the narcoleptic me act as a built-in Cyrano de Bergerac.

  “Are you asking me out on a date, Mark?”