Morton Petes started everything the day he pushed the blade against his wrists. As the blood drained from him, pluming into the bathtub water, it began to drain from my life as well. Morton Petes started it, but I was probably due. I had a beautiful wife. I had a promising position at MIT. My research was going well, and I was special. I had something that made me different, and in a good way. And I thought I could control it. I wasn’t throwing bottles down staircases. I thought I was doing fine. Then, with Morton’s cut, probably diagonal and toward the body, it all began to unravel. He showed the loose bolts in the machine, and then they began to spin and work their way free until the whole thing just lay in pieces. Me. Alone. Pulled deep into myself on the floor of an unfurnished apartment that was in a neighborhood pulled deep away from other houses. That’s how the fall began.
“Theo, it’s Mike. How are you?”
“Mike? I’m sorry, who is this?”
“It’s Mike Vestal from Detroit. We talked in my office about the death that you were close to.”
“Oh, hi Mike. I still have your number, I was considering calling you soon. I’ve had a bit of a rough time since I left Detroit, but I think that I’m doing a little better now. I’m in Colorado, if you can believe that. What’s up?”
“Well, I was just reviewing our caller records and I found something that reminded me of you. One of our operators had a similar case to yours. Her name was Polly Simms. She worked here for a little while after the case, but then she moved on to Portland, Oregon. The case was a failure. She blamed herself.”
“Portland. I’ve never been, but statistically speaking, suicide prevention must be a harder battle in the Northwest.”
“It is. Maybe you should give her a call, the case I mentioned. The one like yours, it really shook her up. I’m a little worried about her.”
“Mike, I was actually considering heading back to Boston.”
“Theo, I think that talking to Polly could help you. You may find that you have more in common than you think.”
“I’ll think about it Mike. Thanks.”
“Sure, Theo, be careful. Tell Polly I said hello, if you see her. Here’s her number …”
When I was a kid, every summer, my dad insisted on dragging the family to Dixieland music festivals as our summer vacation. The only thing that could look more unlikely at a Dixieland music festival than my awkward father were his wife and child standing behind him. Mom swore that the music was just silly, but she secretly tapped her toes as the banjo and bass guitar played. I waited patiently for the band to make mistakes, then I, usually alone in spotting the mistakes, smiled at the break in their musical pattern. Charming kid. These were our summer vacations, but the Dixieland festivals pretty much stuck to the eastern United States. As such, I hadn’t seen the West or West Coast at all. Ever. Now, in my recent Boston exodus, I had driven about seventy-five percent of the way across the USA. Why should I stop so short of crossing the country? I dialed Polly’s number into my phone and then headed the car toward Portland.
The drive from Colorado to Oregon is a beautiful one. The world around you is like a giant rumpled green carpet, the hills look soft and touchable. And in a trick of perspective, they seem to be just about at arms length. I couldn’t make it all the way to Portland, so I stopped to sleep in Boise, Idaho. Boise is a town that keeps you waiting for its arrival. As you drive along the interstate, the signs say that it is fifteen, then ten miles away, but still there is no sign of it. Just rolling green hills. At about four miles from downtown, you start to see some city, then you’re downtown. I checked into a hotel, got a good night’s rest on sheets that were softer than any I’d felt since I was married and Chloe took care of things like that.
Fresh as I was in the morning, I headed out for breakfast. A pleasant fellow, sitting beside me, without warning, began explained the weakness of gun laws and the nature of human violence. He looked at me with a sincere smile from beneath a baseball cap. It was unexpected and I enjoyed the conversation. He ended with him offering his card.
Shawn Nelson, Sheriff’s Deputy, Boise, Idaho.
“Being a mathematician, as you say you are, if you are ever interested in the numbers behind guns and ballistics, just give me a call.”
“I will,” I said expecting never to make that call, but then I remembered the way that the past few weeks had gone and placed the card in my wallet. “I will,” I repeated.
Portland Oregon was a city that defied all the patterns I’d seen in other cities. I loved it. Neighbors modeled their yards in any way they want: from beautiful gardens that extend to the sidewalk, to gravel centers for car repair. Anything seemed to go. Expensive homes bumped up against smaller ones and neighborhoods changed dramatically in the space of a few blocks. If the town were to be famous for anything, I would guess that it would be its defiance of convention. I expected to enjoy my stay.
While driving through the Northeastern edge of town, I noticed a sign that advertised “Camping in the City, Ten Dollars a Night.” Curious, I inquired. A young artist named Ben, allowed people to sleep in the 1950's era camper that he kept along the side of his home. The back door to the house was never locked and the shower was on the second floor. He was an athletic fellow with lively blue eyes, a tattooed arm and consistent smile.
“Help yourself,” he said and then wandered off. I made my way to my small and cozy camper and called Polly.
“Hello, is this Polly?”
“It is, and who is this?”
“My name is Theo Burnkey, I’m an acquaintance of Mike Vestal in Detroit. He suggested that I talk to you.”
“I see. About anything in particular? Sports? The unfair treatment of children? Sex?”
I felt my face pull into a smile, “Well, how about we talk a little about your job, first, and then you can pick from the other three topics as you feel comfortable.”
“You’re a fair man, Mr. Burnkey, but I quit my job today. Portland is a town where most people have had more jobs than bumper stickers on their car, and that’s saying something. If you’re a friend of Mike Vestal, though, I’ll talk to you tonight. How about 7:00 at a place called Pasta Bangs on Mississippi.”
“Sounds good, Ms. Simms, sounds good.”
I dressed in my nicer pair of corduroys. The pair that hadn’t yet worn smooth on the butt. I splashed some Old Spice aftershave on my face in the upstairs bathroom of Ben’s Camp and Shower Community then looked at myself in the mirror. I saw my smiling face, with a towel draped around my shoulders. The smile dropped. What business did I have in a flirty conversation or with 7:00 dinner plans? I had had a perfectly great woman in my life and now she was gone. I had blown it. Now I stood in front of my mirror, smelling of Old Spice and thinking that things were somehow going to be different. I looked down to the sink and for a second thought about balance. Chloe hadn't been perfect. We had both made mistakes. I wasn’t all-bad, and she wasn’t all-good. Life and people rarely break down as easily as TRUE and FALSE or one and zero, I told myself. Then someone knocked on the door and asked if the bathroom would be free soon. I responded that it would and then hurried down the stairs. It was nearly 6:30.
Polly Simms had long blonde hair and a smile that easily moved into a smirk. She had a nicely curved body that made a man my age think of nothing he was proud of, nor that he'd deny. Her eyes were bright and animated, but something in the way that they darted around the restaurant suggested an unease and possible sadness within. She was an attractive girl and I wondered if Mike had concerns for her that extended past their work.
As I walked up to the outdoor seating of the restaurant, she was talking to a man who had been rolling by on the sidewalk in an electric wheel chair.
“Do a three-sixty!” she said to him.
The man smiled, then turned the motorized chair around.
“That was great,” she shouted. The man returned the smile and rolled on.
Unsure how to top what I’d just seen, I introduced myself and sat down. Polly immediately began entertaining me with stories about herself and her new life in Portland. I noticed, though, that she never mentioned the work at the suicide prevention hotline or any gloomy topic for that matter. I also noticed that she smelled nice and that her skin was soft as she shook my hand. The softness, I figured, went deeper and potentially so did some pain.
“So, I don’t get it. You’re friends with Mike Vestal, but why are you here?”
The while truth, in this case, seemed like a bit more than I’d like to present or than was smart to offer. “I’m on vacation,” I replied.
“Welcome to PDX, home of coffee and the hippie dream.”
“Thanks, I like it here so far, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about what happened in Detroit, with your work in suicide prevention. Mike said that there was a particular case that led to you leaving Detroit. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“I understand, but that’s a big part of why …”
“But I will. He called himself Jake. At first I thought that he was for real. You see, we get people that call just because they are lonely. We need to limit the time that we give them because they can become addicted to the conversation, and we aren’t a friend service. We are there to help people that really need help.”
“And did Jake really need help?”
“I thought so at first. He would call in every Tuesday when I was on my night shift and talk about his life. How he was single and lonely, and how he was considering suicide.”
“Do people usually just come out and say that?”
“Sometimes. We have to treat every caller as sincere, at least at first. But there was something about Jake that, over the weeks that he called in, made me think that he was more of the type that needed attention. I didn’t think that he was serious, but he was.”
“What was the thing that made you think he wasn’t serious?”
“It sounds weird, but it’s because he often mentioned his pet cat. Its name was Linc. I remember that, like the guy from that old cop show. Anyway, the way that he talked about Linc was just too fond. Too loving. I don’t know. It didn't seem like he was ready to go. It didn’t work for me.”
“The reason that Mike suggested that I call you, is that something very similar happened to me. I was a teacher’s assistant at MIT and I had a student named Morton.”
I went on to tell her about Morton, the resulting suicide, and life afterward. She sat and listened and I noticed her patterns before long. Every sip of wine was followed by a crossing of her legs. Every sentence that ended with a noun had to be started with a sentence that started with a verb. Little things.
“What was your wife like?”
I produced a nervous laugh, “I’m not sure that I’m comfortable talking about …”
“Was she pretty?”
“Yes. In an unconventional way, but pretty. To me. I guess that she was beautiful in a way that my eyes liked beauty to be projected.” I looked up and she was smiling. “But that was years ago. How about you? Drive anyone away with your personal failures?” I asked.
“By the hundreds.”
Then we ordered a bottle of wine and talked about other things. I realized before long that I’d stopped noticing her patterns. The Portland rain began to fall, and the night slipped by.
Later, after we’d said goodbye, I impulsively called her from her trailer.
“You know Mike is worried about you.”
“Mike is a sweet guy, he worries about a lot of people.”
“Does he have reason to worry about you?”
“Well, he thinks that I’ve become obsessed. Obsessed with Jake.”
“Is he right?”
“He may be. He thinks that I’ve gone to far, now that I’ve requested an exhumation.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I need to see him. I need to put a face, morbid as I know it is, to the name. Jake won’t be able to rest in my mind, and I won’t be able to get a decent night rest until I dig the bastard up. I am going to try to convince the Medical Examiner that there was foul play in the case. That’s why I’m going to Seattle tomorrow. Wanna come?”
“Ask me in the morning.”
“I will.”
I lay in the camper looking at all the little ways that Ben had decorated it. A string of cowboy-themed lights were strung along the wall. Glowing cowboy boots, hot peppers, hats and cows. I thought about the things that people accumulate in life. I had accumulated Morton. Morton had accumulated Heaven and Hell. Polly had accumulated Jake. Jake had accumulated Linc.
The image of Morton came to me again, the one that I saw outside of the missile silo. It came to me from memory, though, not in a vision. He was laying the bathtub. His eye opened. Maybe I should have had Morton exhumed as well, I half joked to myself. I wondered where he was even buried. Why didn’t I find out? Maybe Polly’s version of obsession was, as morbid as the outcome, more healthy than my own. At least she was trying to find answers in the world. I had just sought blame within.
The phone woke me the following morning as I rolled over in my camper bed. I reached onto the mini-refrigerator, next to the mini-stove and grabbed the phone.
“Are you coming to Seattle?”
“Yeah. Just, let me brush my teeth first.”
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