Page 17 of The River Is Waiting

“Hullo?”

“Terrible. Just terrible, Corby. Natalie and I can’t even imagine.”

It’s Dad, offering his version of condolences. He sounds drunk or on his way. “Your mother says the police questioned you and they want to talk to you some more. I hope you didn’t say too much, butdo notagree to any more questioning without your lawyer being present.” When I tell him I don’t have a lawyer, he says yes, I do. “You got a pencil? Take this name and number down. Rachel Dixon, eight-six-o-seven-seven-nine-four-six-eight-nine.” He repeats the number, spells the name. “Her father, Bob, runs a charity golf tournament at our club and we write him a pretty nice check every year. Natalie knows him better than I do from Rotary, so she called him and he called her right back. Got you an appointment for eight a.m. tomorrow morning before she goes to court. Her dad says she’s such a ballbuster in court that the prosecutors are practically in tears by the time she’s through with them. Course, that’s her father talking, so he’s going to crow about his own kid.”

Some do and some don’t, I think. And some sons don’t give their fathers anything to crow about. “Yeah, but hold on, Dad. How much is this going to cost?”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure it out. First things first. Her officeis downtown, across from the post office. Upstairs from some bakery,” he says. “You got all this? Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. And don’t be late. She’s doing us a favor by squeezing you in. She told her father she’s got a heavy docket tomorrow.”

I know we have that appointment at the funeral home but can’t remember what time of day, so I don’t mention it. Plus, I’m supposed to go to the police station at three o’clock. I feel ambivalent about accepting his help but thank him anyway. “Least I could do. Hang in there, Corbin. Get some sleep.”

He hangs up.

Now that I’m awake again, I’mgoodand awake. I look out the front window. No lights on across the street now. I go down the hall to our bedroom. I can still see the light beneath the door, but it’s quiet in there. I go to knock but change my mind. If she’s gotten to sleep, I don’t want to wake her. Or Maisie. Niko sleeps—slept—through thunderstorms, but his sister will sometimes wake up scared, needing reassurance that we’ll keep her safe. Needing to have us put on the light to show her that her brother is safe, too—asleep in their crib. How the hell will either of us be able to reassure her now?

I walk back down the hall and pace, from the kitchen to the living room, back and forth, back and forth until I stop to look at that framed photo of the twins in the bookcase—one of the gifts I’d given Emily for her thirty-fifth birthday. JC Penney was running a special at their portrait studio. I dressed the kids in their matching Carter’s overalls that Betsy had bought them and bundled them up against the cold. We were early for our appointment, so I wheeled them to the food court to kill some time. Got myself a coffee and opened the bag of Pirate’s Booty I’d brought along. A woman saw the double stroller and came over to have a look. “Twins?” she asked. I nodded, smiling. This happened a lot when we were out in public; strangers who otherwise would have walked right past would stop because they were twins.

“Boys or girls?” she asked.

“One of each. Girl on the left, boy on the right.”

“Well, they certainly aren’t identical.” She leaned in and spoke directly to the kids, addressing Maisie first. “Sweetie, you must take after your mommy with that dark hair and those big brown eyes.” Maisie watched her warily as she continued eating her Pirate’s Booty. Turning to Niko, the woman said, “And you, young man, look just like your daddy. And I bet when you grow up, you’re going to be just as handsome.” I scoffed and said I wouldn’t wish that on the poor kid. “Aha, handsome and modest,” she said. “You tell your wife she’s a lucky gal.” Silvery gray hair, midfifties maybe. Compliments always fluster me so I was grateful when Niko started shouting “Bah! Bah! Bah!” and grabbed the Pirate’s Booty bag, upending it. As I squatted down to scoop the mess off the floor, the woman said, “Daddy’s got a nice behind, too.” I didn’t look up until I could feel my blush subsiding. By then, she’d walked two or three stores down and was looking in the window of Godiva Chocolates.

Holding the photo that was taken that day, I study Maisie’s expression first. The photographer and I got a half-smile out of her, but I’m struck by the sadness in those big brown eyes. It’s almost as if, at that instant, she foresaw her future as the surviving sibling, the solitary twin.

It takes me another couple of seconds before I can look directly at Niko. Other than our chestnut-colored hair, I’ve never been able to see that my son looks much like me, but now the resemblance is obvious. Despite the fact that I have no belief in an afterlife, I indulge myself with a little magical thinking. Imagine that when he died, his spirit rose from his broken body and escaped into the ether. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper to his image. Choking back sobs, I tell him it’s Daddy. “Where are you, silly head? Where did you go?”

Holding on to that framed photograph, I pace some more. Later, face down on the sofa bed, I twist, turn, and try to fall back to sleep. It’s no use. As exhausted as my body feels, my mind is still wide-awake, replaying the events of the day just past and imagining all the shit that will be happening in the days to come: the appointment with that “ballbuster”lawyer, the continuing investigation, the dreaded decision about whether to bury or cremate his body, and how much everything is going to cost. I meant to avoid taking something to get to sleep, but I have to get free of the spinning hamster wheel in my head. A couple of those Ativan will knock me out for several hours. I can set the alarm on my phone so that I wake up in time to get to that lawyer’s office. The SUV isn’t here, so I’ll have to take Emily’s car. She’s left her purse on the kitchen counter, so I get up, grab it, and fish around until I feel her keys. The problem is that my prescription bottle is in the nightstand on my side of the bed. When I go back down the hall, there’s no light seeping out from under the door. Good. I’ll tiptoe in, grab my prescription, and tiptoe out again. But the knob won’t turn. She’s locked me out.

I go back to the kitchen. I hadn’t put the rum back yet. I fill my mug half-full. Take a couple of long gulps. Pour some more and drink that. I pull out my phone and set the alarm for quarter to seven. That will give me enough time to get cleaned up and dressed and drive to the lawyer’s office. I’m already beginning to feel the booze’s soothing embrace—the opening of the escape hatch that sleep will give me. As I begin to doze, I wonder what Mom thought when she saw that I’m hiding my liquor. She’s in on my secret now, I figure, but I’m glad she didn’t say anything.

CHAPTER EIGHT

April 28, 2017

I don’t remember going into the twins’ room, but that’s where I wake up—a failed sentry face down on the carpet alongside the empty crib. That picture of the twins is on the floor beside my head and my cell phone is next to it. I grab the phone, squint at it, then realize the alarm hasn’t gone off because I set it for six forty-fivep.m.Goddammit, I heard my father say.She’s going out of her way to help you and you stand her up? You know something, Corbin? You could fuck up a wet dream.

I stagger onto my feet, grab the crib rail to regain my balance. Hurry into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and take a big swig of Listerine. Tasting the burn of the alcohol, I swish and spit. Our bedroom door is still closed, but I don’t have time to change anyway. No time to make myself a cup of badly needed coffee either. Out in the kitchen, the first thing I see is the empty rum bottle and the mug beside it. I retrieve Emily’s car keys, scrawl her a note that I’ve got an early appointment with a lawyer. I rinse the mug and grab the bottle. Take it with me.

I know I’ll be late, but she’s allotted me fifteen minutes, so I might make it for the last six or seven. My hands on the steering wheel won’t stop shaking and my headache is banging away like a jackhammer. When I’m about halfway there, the houses and stores give way to a wooded area. There’s no one in back of me and no cars coming the opposite way. I pull over, grab the bottle, and fling it as far as I can into the woods. Hear thesmash, then get back in the car. I’ve lost maybe a minute but figure it’s time well spent.

I find her building, park down the street, and take the stairs two at a time. When I get to her office, I barge right in on her. Overweight, oversized glasses, fortyish. Her spiky hair is pink on top, shaved close on the sides. “Mr. Ledbetter,” she says. She looks down at her watch. “You’re late.”

In the middle of my rambling apology, I become aware that she’s checking out what a mess I am: slept-in clothes, crazy hair, shaky hands. “And then when I finallydidget to sleep, it was like I fell into a coma or something.” I don’t mention that I got plastered and woke up on the floor in the twins’ room.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Ledbetter, especially under such tough circumstances. You must be going through hell right now.” She’s slipping manila folders into her attaché case as she speaks. “Unfortunately, I can’t talk with you now. If you want me to represent you, we’ll have to carve out a good hour, minimum, for an initial consultation. But did I hear that the police are questioning you about the circumstances of your son’s death?”

I nod. Tell her I spoke with them yesterday and agreed to meet with them at their headquarters later today. Tell her, too, about how they had my blood drawn while I was at the hospital.

“Oh, shit,” she says. She glances again at her oversized watch. Is that Wonder Woman on the dial? “So what are those test results going to show, Mr. Ledbetter?”

“Not that much. I had poured a couple of shots of rum into my morning coffee—just to take the edge off, you know? And I’d taken an Ativan. Which I have a prescription for. For anxiety.” I’d taken two, actually, and just lied automatically.

“Why is it that you had to take the edge off first thing in the morning?”

“Why? Well, I’ve been out of work for about a year now so we’ve been getting by on one salary. And I—”

“Any DUIs in your history?”

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