The Nobody Page 6

  It was all a little more theatrical than he was expecting. Some of the folks had clearly refined their personal tales and learned how to tell them well, with proper dramatic flair, timely pauses, and solid punch lines.

  Larry got back up there and said they’d be taking a short break before continuing on. The folks instantly drifted for the cookies and the former prostitute. She’d excited a hell of a lot of the men talking about sex and liquor and celebrities. Cryer suspected that turning the whole group on had been her real reason for going before the others to begin with.

  Father Bruno stood only when Cryer did. The priest was still watching him, making sure he wasn’t going to tackle somebody, start screaming he was possessed and puke split pea soup on the walls.

  They headed for Larry, who was trying to clear some of the pushier guys away from the ex-hooker. He wasn’t doing a good job of it.

  Father Bruno stepped up and said, "Larry, can we talk privately for a moment? I’d like you to meet this gentlemen. He’s in need of some...assistance."

  "Sure, sure, that’s fine," Larry said, holding his hand out. Cryer took it. He held on an extra second, thinking, Maybe this is the hand that held the knife. Maybe here is the Chatty Kathy who knew my routine well enough that he could zip over to my house with his roll of duct tape.

  They moved to the far side of the recessed basement, where the three of them stood off from the rest of the group. Everywhere Cryer looked he saw representations of pain. Christ at the stations of the cross. Portrayals of saints and martyrs getting wiped out in nasty ways. Nobody having any fun. Well, wait, over there was a paint-by-numbers of Jesus and some kids petting a lamb.

  If you saw that today, a bearded guy in a white dress kneeling with several blue-eyed children and some barnyard animals, you’d have the guy strung up as a pervert.

  "What can I do for you?" Larry asked.

  He’d addressed Cryer but Father Bruno responded. "It’s a rather unique situation. You see–this man here, he’d like to ask you some questions about–"

  Cryer said, "A little over a year ago a man was attacked in his home and stabbed in the head. His wife and daughter were slain. Slaughtered by an intruder. The killer was never caught."

  "I think I read about that," Larry said. "It was big news for a while. Worst crime to hit town in years."

  "The man attended meetings here. His routine was set and the murderer knew it. I’d like to know if you recall anything out of the ordinary at the time."

  "What was the man’s name?" Larry asked. There was a light mist of sweat on his bald shining head. Was he nervous? Had he recognized Cryer? Was he getting worried now?

  "I can’t remember my name."

  "So we are talking about you," Father Bruno said.

  "Yes."

  "Why did you say a man was dead?"

  "He is dead. I said he was murdered. And I was. I said I couldn’t remember his name. And I can’t. I was very different then. I was obese. I was probably starved for companionship. I worked at home on a computer, and I think I probably enjoyed these meetings just so I could get out of the house for a while. I don’t know much more about the person I was."

  "Jesus Christ," Larry said, peering intently into Cryer’s face. "I do remember you. Between your eyes, that scar, Christ, you really did get stabbed, didn’t you. Jesus, you’ve changed." Then, sort of nodding to the priest, showing him he was sorry for the whole taking the lord’s name in vain bit. "Let me think for a second. Yeah, you were a big guy then. You were shy, didn’t like talking in front of the group, but when you did you were pretty funny. Talked about–about–" Took Larry a minute to get it. "Your kid. A champion, was always winning awards, best in state, all kinds of stuff like that. I didn’t realize it was you, when I read the paper. Your family. I’m sorry to hear all that."

  Nodding, Cryer shifted to look back and forth between Larry and Father Bruno, turning slightly from left to the right and then back again, studying their expressions.

  Which one of them, if I had to choose right now?

  Which one of them had sat out there in his folding chair learning to refine and hone his hatred?

  Larry said, "I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary back then. You never looked, you know, worried or anything. Nobody troubled you. I’ve been heading the meetings for almost two years but I don’t attend every one, of course."

  The priest looked ashamed. "I’m so sorry I don’t recall. I should, of course, but–"

  "Anybody else here who might remember me?" Cryer asked.

  Larry scanned the group. "There’s maybe three or four guys who’ve been coming around here for at least a year, wouldn’t you say, Father?"

  The priest nodded. "Yes, I think so."

  Turning back to Cryer, Larry said, "Okay, so why don’t you sit through the rest of the meeting and after it breaks up tonight, I’ll introduce you to them and we’ll see if we can help you out with your troubles. Maybe they can remember something I can’t. Maybe they’ll know your name. Who knows, could be one of them was a close friend of yours, right? Close enough to give you some answers. So how does that sound? Father, you think that would be all right?"

  "Yes, I believe it would be," Father Bruno said.

  Cryer said, "Terrific."

  He turned his back and sat again, and waited for everyone else to finish their small talk chatter and to yank themselves away from the prostitute and finish their cookies.

  People were feeling a little looser now, the heavy mood of the tragic alcoholic figures having shifted now to a more party-like atmosphere. No wonder it was so easy to fall back into the bottle. Even A.A. meetings became social affairs. He could just see folks leaving, and then meeting up again at a nearby bar just to keep flirting and bullshitting.

  Larry got out there again in front of the crowd and said, "Who’d like to speak next?"

  Cryer said, "I would," and marched up.

  25

  He stepped to the podium and said, "Do any of you people know me?"

  No one responded.

  "Take a good long look. I’m not the same as I once was. When you knew me, if you knew me, I was much fatter. I didn’t have any silver in my hair. I was probably smiling. Larry just told me I was funny. Even with my faults I believe I was happy. I had a loving wife and daughter. I was probably here for at least a few meetings more than a year ago. So, think about it for a minute. Do any of you know me?"

  There were murmurs and some men twisting in their seats. Cryer tried to focus on each face but there were too many of them. He hoped to see something in any one of them that might generate his memories, his hate, his pain. Anything.

  He’d been someone of small vices. Maybe he’d hit on the ex-hooker too. Cryer gazed at her, trying to see if there was any recognition. She showed nothing.

  The men settled and watched him.

  "Well, it doesn’t really matter," Cryer went on. "I’m not talking to you as a group. I’m really just talking to one man. Maybe he’s here tonight, maybe not. In case he is, I just want to say to him: I’m back. I’m here. I’m alive. You cut open my daughter and left her dying in agony in her own steaming shit. You cut my wife’s throat and bled her in a bathtub. She was strong, much stronger than me. Both of them were. But for some reason I lived. For some reason, you couldn’t finish me. I hope you’ll try again. I hope I see you again, because when I do, I’m going to kill you."

  So then here came Larry, trying to throw himself at Cryer and get him to shut up. Cryer pressed a hand to Larry’s chest and shoved. Not a particularly hard push, but Larry flew from the podium and tumbled away, rolling over and over. Father Bruno ran to him and just stared at Cryer, no longer showing teeth.

  "There’s only one reason why I’m still alive, and that’s to find you. And I will. If you’re here. If the killer’s not, well then...sorry to bother you all. Have a good night."

  He walked away and no one got in his way or tried to stop him.

  Out in front, the drunk heckler was a
sleep in the garden, covered in vomit. The guy roused, settled his gaze on Cryer, and said, "Tis ont."

  Cryer stopped and asked, "What?"

  "Tis ont."

  "Say that again."

  "Tis ont."

  "What the hell’s it mean?" Cryer asked.

  "What’s what mean?" the drunk said.

  "Tis ont."

  "What?"

  "Tis ont," Cryer said.

  "Tis ont?" the guy asked. "What?"

  "It’s what you said."

  "What I said? I didn’t say anything."

  "You said it. You said it twice."

  "Get the fuck away from me, you idiot," the drunk said, and laid his face back down in the dirt and retch and went back to sleep.

  26

  Miss Avery turned out to be a remarkably attractive woman. Not harried at all, although she looked a little tired and overworked. Her smile was authentic and endearing. They sat at the kitchen table and Cryer had the very odd notion to offer her a glass of milk.

  Her briefcase was so packed that she grunted and the fake leather creaked when she hefted it onto the table. He wondered if all the reams of paper inside were devoted to him or if she carried the entire histories of all her cases.

  "You continue to suffer from psychogenic amnesia, is that right?" she asked.

  "I’d answer you but I forgot the question."

  She let loose with an amiable laugh from the center of her well-endowed chest. "Ah, so you’re one of those. Got a wise line for everything. That sense of humor must’ve gotten you through some tough times."

  "You have no idea," Cryer said.

  "Psychogenic amnesia is defined by the presence of retrograde amnesia or the inability to retrieve stored memories leading up to the insult."

  It perked Cryer up in his seat. "The insult?"

  "The event that triggered the amnesia in the first place. I understand that in your case it was severe head trauma."

  An insult. Sure, he supposed you could call it that. Guy slams three inches of steel into your skull, it’s pretty fucking discourteous.

  She continued. "And yet you’ve been capable of forming new long-term memories in the face of the insult. So you ought to be fine for just about any type of employment. Is there something in particular you might want to do?"

  He tried to think around the all-consuming mission. After that, what was he supposed to do? Was he going to try to live a normal life? Find another wife, father more children? Would Annie leave Phil for him? Should he hit on Miss Avery?

  "I haven’t thought about it," he said.

  "No? Well then, I think you should!"

  Again, the disarming and friendly smile. He saw now that it wasn’t only adorable but also extremely naive. She’d been sent here with absolutely no understanding of who she was dealing with, of what he might be capable of. It bothered him that they’d do that to her. She was already as lost in the system as everybody else was.

  She scanned a sheet of paper. "Would you be interested in factory work?"

  "I don’t think so. I bore easily."

  "Employment in the fast food industry?"

  "Grease traps give me hives."

  "Okay. Ah. Landscaping?"

  "Although I’m fond of gardening, I’m allergic to grass clippings."

  It didn’t deter her. "Ah, let’s see, what else do we have here? Oh, how about...do you like pets? There’s an opening for a dog groomer. You’ll have to take classes to learn how to handle the animals. You know, clip their toenails, empty their anal sacs."

  "Empty their anal sacs?"

  "Yes, it’s an important part of keeping a dog healthy."

  "I wasn’t aware of that."

  "Oh yes," Miss Avery asserted, radiant now. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five and Cryer was already regretting the day when she would finally be crushed down by dealing with the lunatics and the asylum keepers. She was a genuine person. "I have three chocolate labs."

  "I’m afraid I was attacked by a dog as a child. I have an overwhelming fear of them."

  "That’s terrible. I don’t know where I’d be without my dogs. They’re my best friends."

  "I bet they were shelter dogs too, weren’t they?"

  She reached out and touched the back of his hand. "How did you guess?"

  "I could see that about you, Miss Avery. That you try to take care of the helpless and vulnerable."

  "I do. I’ve been very blessed in my life and I think it’s important to never take that for granted. I feel it’s my duty to help others."

  "In just the brief time I’ve known you, I believe it is too. I can see that about you. You’ve a higher calling."

  "I think we all do."

  "It’s more prevalent in you."

  She glanced down at his file again, made some notes, extended her hand and said, "Well, let me get back to you in a few days with some other possibilities. We’ll talk then about moving you to a shared apartment."

  "Thank you for all your efforts, Miss Avery. I already feel like a new man."

  27

  Boss walked in and leaned against the counter, holding his cast up in front of his chest like a boxing glove. "Nice looking woman."

  "She ever been here before?"

  "No, man, she’s brand new, and you’re her one and only in this house. The other case workers, they’re mostly old men with irritable bowel syndrome. They show up drunk before noon and then spend the next forty-five minutes in the bathroom. Hardly even talk to the freaks out there. They’re some of my best customers, always looking for some weed to mellow their wrinkled asses out. Got one lady patient been here for over two years, and nobody’s ever come to see her. I’m not sure anybody even knows she’s still alive. Some wrong piece of paper probably got filed, said she was deceased. Who the fuck knows, maybe they already had a funeral, divvied up her property. One day she might walk out of here and go visit her kids and scare the shit out of them. They’ll think she’s a zombie and shoot her in the head."

  "But you still take care of her," Cryer said.

  "Yeah, man, it’s my job."

  So even Boss had something unseen going on in his depths. A drug dealing hardass who made sure little old ladies took their medication.

  "Listen," Boss said. "About what we were talking about the other day? I think I can get you something tomorrow. Like I said, I do this, and you’re gone. So make sure you go find an underpass or a sewer grate somewhere to bed down on from here on out."

  "No need, I’ll be staying on for a while longer. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want a gun anymore."

  Boss lurched forward and squared his shoulders. "What’s that you say now?"

  "I don’t need a gun."

  "Hey, hey, this guy I’ve been talking to, he expects to make a sale."

  "He’ll get over it. Give him a cut rate on his next baggie of coke."

  Cryer reached into his pocket and took out half the cash he’d stolen from Boss the other day. "Here, give him this if it helps to smooth things over between you."

  "You’re paying me off with my own money?"

  "No, I’m paying you off with the money I stole from you."

  "That’s cold-blooded. So why don’t you want a gun anymore? Because I was going to kick you out?"

  "No."

  "Well, you seemed pretty set on going up against somebody."

  "I still am. But now I want a blade."

  That got Boss lifting his chin and giving Cryer a slow once-over, like he might see something new all of a sudden. You could stare at somebody for years and not know them. You could stare into the mirror for years and still not know what you really looked like. Boss rubbed the side of his chin with the cast. "Why do you want a knife?"

  "Because it’s what he uses," Cryer said. "And it’s what he couldn’t kill me with."

  28

  Back to Annie’s list.

  Boss was heading across town to sell some coke and offered to give Cryer a lift to the middle school.

 
"You scoping the baby chicks?"

  "I continue to suffer from psychogenic amnesia, I’m not a pervert."

  "If you say so."

  "You’re not dealing to junior high kids, are you?" Cryer asked.

  "No, man, although some of their security guards they got here toke a hell of a lot. But my real sales are down the block at the VFW. I’m telling you, the elderly are an almost untapped source of buyers. They got nothing to spend their pensions on except getting a little wasted. I’m providing a valuable service, just ask any of them."

  "I’m sure they’d agree. Thanks for the ride."

  "You get picked up by the cops for flashing your pecker, then I don’t know you."

  "You don’t know me anyway."

  "Truth."

  Cryer climbed out and was a little surprised at the lack of any kind of security at the school. There was no guard in the little booth at the front gate. Was the guy off getting high on Boss’s weed? Cryer walked in through the front doors and saw that no one was monitoring the halls. He’d been in a mental facility for months, been dropped off at the curb by a drug dealer, and now he was wandering around freely, with no one to say a word to him.

  Outside of the cafeteria was a glassed in case full of photos and trophies. He spotted his daughter and Milly and a couple of other faces he recognized from Milly’s pictures. He pressed his hand to the glass as if reaching for his girl and a spider-web crack appeared. Cryer kept moving.

  He found himself outside of the gymnasium and took a peek inside. Boys and girls were rushing around playing basketball, a few of the best players bogarting the ball, passing it back and forth and leaving the others out of the game. Kids were screaming and the sound of it tightened the muscles in Cryer’s back. He moved on up the hall and came to the pool.

  Time meant little. He sat in the stands surrounding the pool and found a strange solace to the place. His eyes fell shut. He felt the other Cryer he’d once been still waited within himself, eager to return to his weakness and ineffectuality. The fat happy oaf who wasn’t strong but who loved and was loved.