THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: ARREARS

When I get the call, I have no fucking idea who it is. The number is from New Haven, and I answer it on a whim. I don’t usually answer my phone anymore. Not in years. I haven't been back since? 2003? Don't plan to go back.

No one I want to talk to is ever on the phone.

“Yeah,” I say, and the guy is looking at me. I put the bill down in the security opening and point at the American Spirit pack, tapping on the plexiglass when his hand sweeps over it.

“Is um…Deanie there?” The voice is a woman, small and overly polite, but confused. Telemarketer? 

Wait. Deanie? What the fuck. How the fuck does she know about Deanie?

The guy’s holding my cigarettes for a long time while I scrunch up my face and turn around. Hunching down on the phone.

“Who…” I reach back and grab the cigarettes, “is this?”

“Am I speaking to…is Deanie there?” 

Change clatters, I crook the phone in my neck and scrape it out with both hands.

“This is not Deanie.”

She starts into a speech and I almost hang up, “hello, well, I am calling from New Horizons psychiatric in New Haven and I’m looking for um…Deanie… I’m sorry. Just Deanie, that’s all it says here and that’s well, that’s just really…” she trails off.

Jumpcut. I’m outside. What?

“This isn’t Deanie.” 

“That’s just really unusual,” she says, almost to herself.

Is this a panic attack? Is this what a panic attack feels like? This is what a panic attack feels like.

“Yes. Well, um, I’m at a loss. I called the emergency contact number on his…um…intake sheet and I talked to a mister Strego, at…” she’s checking something, “New Haven Muffler, and he said that someone at this number could put me in contact with Deanie?”

I don’t want to talk to Deanie. Jesus. Okay. Best to just crush this dead, here and now. I sound like I just ran up ten flights of steps. I’m sweating. Where did I put those cigarettes? Fuck. My voice emerges from my mouth like someone was pulling on a string that ran down my throat. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. 

“OK. Well, she’s my wife. What’s this about?” 

I haven’t seen Deanie in 8 years. We were never married. Fuck, I don’t even know her real name. I have no idea why I said that. 

“I’m very sorry, but Michael Kurtz’s bill appears to be in arrears? For the last year, two bills for $17,650 have…” 

Hammering. Thumping. Slamming noises. It’s my heart in my ears. My sight unfocuses on the blue sky. Cars — muted — rush by on the highway. 

Kurtz? Don’t know a Kurtz. But then I get a bad feeling. Something…Something.

The last time I saw Deanie, it had been some weeks since she got rid of the kid, and she was already in a bad way. Drinking and smoking too much. Getting fucked up on pills. No way for a cop to be. But I should fucking talk, right. Me too. 

Everyone with a substance abuse problem raise your hands and then your feet because you don’t have enough hands to raise. 

Kurtz. Something. There’s something... 

The last op before the group blew up, 2001 was it? Before the world blew up too, I guess. 

That kid. That fucking five year old kid who could make you do things. Don’t remember his name. Mike something? He could look in your head and make you think the way he wanted. But Deanie figured it out. Deanie put some fucking magic on him or something, and then she took him to the marshland at the end of the river to get rid of him.

Fuck her, it was her turn. I had done the wife.

“Mister…um…Deanie?” the voice on the phone says, clearly embarrassed.  An uncomfortable laugh. 

Kurtz. End of the river. She took Kurtz to the end of the river. Where Kurtz...waited.

Arrears. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. I’ll uh…tell her. How, um…”

Attentive silence.

Deanie fucked me. Deanie fucked me.  

“How, um…old is Michael?”

Please don’t say 13. Please don’t say 13. Please don’t say 13...