Thieving Weasels (11 page)

D
R
.
BRAUNSTEIN
INTERCEPTED
ME
A
FEW
HOURS
LATER
ON
my way home from work. I'd been avoiding my mother's doctor for days because I didn't want to hear how it was all my fault that she had tried to kill herself. I also didn't know what kind of lies she had been telling him in her therapy sessions, and I didn't want to get our stories crossed. That said, my real reason for avoiding Dr. Braunstein was less complex: I was afraid of psychiatrists. To me, they were like brain police who could look into your head and see your darkest secrets. And for a guy whose life was built on a foundation of lies, that kind of scrutiny was terrifying.

Growing up, the worst thing about moving around so much was visiting the school psychiatrist every time I enrolled in a new district. At first, I made up all kinds of crazy stories like how I was part Navajo and that my father was killed in Iraq. But this strategy backfired big time, and I
was rewarded for my creativity with even more trips to the school psychiatrist. After that, I learned that the best way to work the system was to tell the psychiatrists exactly what they wanted to hear.

Except here's the deal. Deep down, I
wanted
to tell them the truth. Because even in grade school I felt ashamed of who I was. I mean, what kind of family rents a hotel room for a week, visits every library within a twenty-mile radius, and applies for fake library cards so they can steal every DVD in town? Want to know what kind of family does that? Mine, of course. And the older I got the more frustrated I became by the sheer stupidity of my day-to-day existence. Take that little DVD caper, for example. How much money do you think we got for those DVDs? Three, maybe four bucks a pop depending on their condition. Subtract from that the money for the hotel, gas, and fake IDs, and we probably cleared less than ten bucks on the whole operation. Think about it. An entire town loses their DVD collection, and we made less than the cost of a single DVD. It was lunacy, absolute lunacy, and the fact that I couldn't tell anyone about it made me feel powerless and alone.

“You have a minute, Skip?”

I looked up and Dr. Braunstein was climbing out of a beat-up Outback in the parking lot.

“I was hoping to catch the S21 bus before rush hour gets crazy,” I said, immediately regretting my use of the word “crazy” within a hundred yards of a psychiatrist.

“This will only take a minute,” he said. “Walk with me.”

Seeing no alternative, I did as I was told.

“What do you think?” he asked as we walked to the O'Neil Pavilion. “The Knicks going to take it this year?”

“Maybe,” I replied, surprised that Dr. Braunstein chose the Sports Opening to kick off our conversation. The Sports Opening—or the SO as I liked to call it—was a technique used by school psychologists to see if you were gay. I had no idea what me being gay or not had to do with my mother's mental condition, but that didn't prevent me from giving the good doctor my standard reply.

“It's a little early in the season to tell,” I said, pretending to think about it for a moment. “But they've got a pretty good bench, and as long as their shooters stay healthy I'd say they've got a decent chance.”

Dr. Braunstein nodded, and I watched him check off the little Straight box in his head. I was pleased with my response, but also a bit disappointed that he'd opted for such a pedestrian opening. After all, his fee had cost me a Mustang.

“So, how do you think my mother is doing?” I asked.

“How do
you
think she's doing?” he replied in perfect shrinkly fashion.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I've been away for so long it's hard to separate the mother in my memory from the person I see today.”

“Then let me be the first to tell you. She's making real progress.”

“That's terrific news,” I said. “When do you think she can be released?”

“It's still too early to say.”

“I'll put it another way. Spring break starts the first week of March. Do you think she'll be okay by then?”

Dr. Braunstein scratched his beard and said, “If things continue the way they're going, March is not out of the question.”

“And she won't try to kill herself again if I go back to school?”

He stared at me. “Your mother didn't try to kill herself because you went away to school.”

“But that's what my uncle said.”

“That's ridiculous. And even if it was true—which it's not—it would be completely irresponsible for him to say that.”

“So why did she try to kill herself?”

“It's not really my place to discuss these things with you, Skip. Although I will say, she has a lot of unresolved guilt about her father, and her marriage, and the loss of her first child.”

“I understand,” I said, and this time I really did. Not that my mother harbored guilt over a dead child or failed marriage because those things never happened. What I understood was that she was spinning fairy tales for her doctor.

Dr. Braunstein opened the back door of the O'Neil Pavilion, and as we walked inside I almost felt sorry for the guy. He might have been a rube, but he was still trying to
get to the bottom of my mother's problems. Unfortunately, none of them were real. Way to go, Mom.

We stopped at the reception area, and Dr. Braunstein pulled some letters from the mailboxes behind the desk. He thumbed through the envelopes and said, “I hope you're also making time to visit your father while you're home. It must be strange having both your parents here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your mother and your father. It must be strange having both of them here at Shady Oaks.”

“My father's here?” I sputtered. “Where?”

“At the Williams Pavilion.” Dr. Braunstein looked up from his mail. “You mean, you didn't know?”

“Of course I knew,” I replied as nonchalantly as my pounding heart would allow. “I'm just so tired from working all night my brain isn't functioning properly.”

Dr. Braunstein nodded. “I had the same problem when I used to work twenty-four-hour shifts as a resident. It was a miracle I was able to drive home sometimes.”

“Have you spoken to my father much?” I asked, trying to pump Dr. Braunstein for more information.

“Just in passing. The Williams Pavilion has its own therapists on staff.”

“He's quite the character, huh?”

“You can say that again.”

Dr. Braunstein's phone rang and he checked the number. “Sorry, Skip, but I have to take this.”

“Sure thing, Dr. Braunstein. It was nice talking to you.”

“Right back at you, Skip. Don't be a stranger.”

I left Dr. Braunstein to take his call and headed down the hallway to my mother's wing.

I visualized every male patient at the Williams Pavilion, and the obvious choice was Mr. DeNunsio. True, I could almost hear my Intro to Statistics instructor screaming “Correlation does not imply causation,” but it didn't matter. My mother said she and Mr. DeNunsio were old friends, he occasionally called me son, and we kind of looked alike if you ignored my hair, nose, and lack of a mustache. But most of all, I
wanted
him to be my father.

I burst into my mother's room and found her in the bathroom brushing her teeth.

“Is Mr. DeNunsio my father?” I asked.

“Where'd you get that idea?”

“From Dr. Braunstein.”

She spit out her toothpaste. “He wasn't supposed to tell you that.”

“Is he?”

I could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes. “No.”

“Then why does Dr. Braunstein think so? And what's all this nonsense about having a baby who died?”

“Let's sit down.”

“I don't need to sit down.”

“Well, I do,” she said, shuffling out of the bathroom and sitting on the edge of her bed. She took a cigarette off her nightstand, remembered she didn't have any matches, and put it back in the pack.

“I'm waiting,” I said.

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “Three afternoons a week we have these group therapy sessions where we're supposed to talk about our problems and discuss them with the other patients.”

“I know what group therapy is.”

“So the other people in the group have these really boring stories about how their sisters took their favorite doll when they were girls, or how their husbands are more into golf than taking them to the symphony. Completely boring stuff. And all the while I'm saying to myself, ‘This woman is an anorexic because of this?' Or, ‘This guy had a nervous breakdown because of that?' And the worst part is they think these things are like earth-shattering events.” She laughed. “If they knew half the stuff I've done they'd die of heart attacks right in their folding chairs. Except I can't tell them the truth, so I started making things up. First about this baby who died, then about Sal DeNunsio being your father.”

Disappointment washed over me, and I felt like crying. Of course the story about Mr. DeNunsio was a lie. It came out of my mother's mouth. But instead of feeling angry at my mother, I felt sorry for her because I had done the same thing at Wheaton a thousand times over. Granted, my mother lied for weasely reasons, and I was just trying to live a normal life, but lying eats away at your soul no matter why you do it.

“C'mon, Mom,” I said, “how do you expect to get better if you keep telling people stories?”

“I know, I know. It was fun at first, but now it's all anybody wants to talk about. I can't tell you how hard it is keeping all this stuff straight in my head. It's worse than being questioned by the police.”

“At least you have some experience in that department.”

“That doesn't make it any easier. Sometimes I feel like Sasquatch having to tell a new story every night.”

“You mean Scheherazade.”

“Whatever. It's still exhausting.”

“You could try telling the truth.”

She looked at me like I was the crazy one. “And what fun would that be?”

“Just a suggestion. And speaking of Dr. Braunstein, he said that it would be okay for me to go back to school next week.”

“Oh really? And when did Dr. Braunstein become your mother?”

“About two seconds before Mr. DeNunsio became my father.”

“Touché.”

I joined my mother on the edge of the bed and took her hand. “Look, Ma, going back to school is really important to me, but this isn't going to be like last time. Spring Break is just a couple of months away, and I promise I'll come back and visit.”

“All right.”

“And now there's something else I want to talk to you about.”

“What's that?”

“If you ever, I repeat,
ever
think about killing yourself again I want you to call me. I don't care where I am, or what time it is. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Say, ‘I promise.'”

“I promise.”

“Good,” I replied, not knowing which was worse: If my family was scamming me, or if my mother had actually tried to kill herself.

T
HREE
NIGHTS
LA
TER
I
FOUND
MYSELF
H
IDING
IN
A
RED
Lobster parking lot a mile from my house. It was two in the morning, and there was only one car remaining, which I assumed belonged to the night manager. I'd been crouching in the damp gravel since midnight, and my legs were cramped and throbbing.

“C'mon,” I whispered. “Shut off the lights and go home already.”

The back door opened, and a man in a rumpled suit walked out carrying a black garbage bag. He tossed the bag in a dumpster, slammed the lid, and climbed into his car. I watched as he drove away and counted to a hundred to make sure he was gone for good. It was super quiet outside, and as I tiptoed across the parking lot the gravel crunching beneath my feet sounded like thunder. I lifted the lid of the dumpster, and the first thing that struck me
was the smell of rotting fish. It was overwhelming, and I had to put my hand over my mouth to keep from gagging. Next came the flies. Millions of them. In my eyes. In my hair. All over my skin. It was a good thing my mouth was closed, or I would have inhaled a dozen of them. My stomach lurched, and I had to jump back and rub my hands all over my body to get the sickening feeling of them off of me. I was surprised I didn't vomit.

It took me a few minutes to recover, but I gathered up my courage and approached the dumpster again. I sucked in a deep breath, put a hand over my mouth, and raised the lid. This time I was ready for the flies and turned my head away as they swarmed all over me. When most of them were gone, I switched on my Maglite and peered inside. The dumpster was filled with trash bags, cooking oil containers, and enough fish guts for five restaurants. I lifted a bag, and a fresh wave of flies washed over me. The tingling on my face and lips was the most disgusting sensation I'd ever experienced, and it seemed like forever before the flies finally buzzed off. It took two more fly-infested bag liftings before I gave up and accepted the sad fact that I'd have to climb inside the dumpster. With the exception of having my spleen removed with a lacrosse stick, this was the last thing on earth I wanted to do.

What's the big deal?
my inner O'Rourke asked. It's only flies and garbage. It won't kill you.

Except some things are worse than death. Or at least that's what I thought as I climbed into the dumpster and
my sneakers filled with goo. Words can't describe what it was like in there. Imagine your worst nightmare, super-size it, then add a double helping of gross. It was that bad. My lungs were bursting, and I was about to climb out to catch my breath when the beam of my Maglite crossed something that looked familiar. I kicked away some crab legs, pushed aside an oil tin, and there he was: Elmo! I put the Maglite in my mouth, reached into the muck, and pulled out a brown paper package covered with Sesame Street stickers. Success! I stuck the package under my arm and climbed out of the dumpster with my lungs about
to explode.

Damn
, I thought as I scraped a dozen shrimp shells off my legs. I'd rather pretend to kill ten ex-mobsters than have to do that again.

I slipped the package under my coat and headed home. The streets were quiet, and as I squished past the houses and yards, I wondered if any of my neighbors were awake and peering out of their windows. Where would they think I was coming from? From 7-Eleven? From seeing some girl? Certainly not from fishing a gun out of a garbage dumpster. Not me. Not the honors student, nationally ranked lacrosse player, and future graduate of Princeton University.

You wanna bet?

I glanced at the houses around me and tried to imagine what was happening behind their windows which were now so dark. After all, if Skip O'Rourke was a thief and make-believe killer, what did that make Betty Brown or
Johnny Jones? Drug dealers? Eco-terrorists? The possibilities were endless, and if there was one thing I'd learned during my Christmas vacation, it's that it doesn't matter how moral you think you are, once someone takes away what you love most in this world, you'll do almost anything to get it back.

Wasn't I the perfect example?

When I got home I took the longest and hottest shower I could stand then doused my clothes with kerosene and set them on fire. Okay, so maybe I didn't burn my clothes, but I totally would have if I had access to a blast furnace. Instead, I stuffed them in the washing machine and dumped in enough laundry detergent to sanitize the entire South Shore of Long Island. And when that was done, I planned on doing it again. In the meantime, I tore open the package and inspected my new gun.

It was a Walther PPK, and according to Wikipedia it was the same model pistol Adolf Hitler used to kill himself. This was an excellent recommendation for any firearm, but way more important for my purposes, it was the same make and model as the gun in Uncle Wonderful's closet and thus the only type of gun I was familiar with.

I picked up the Walther, and the first thing I noticed was a patch of freshly scraped metal where the serial numbers were supposed to be.
Okay
, I told myself. I have now officially broken the law. Everything up until now has been talk and easy to deny, but this was real. In my possession was a gun that was more than likely stolen and which the
serial numbers were filed off. I was guilty of two crimes and I hadn't even left my bedroom.

A Walther weighs about two pounds, but this one felt lighter than expected. I pressed a button near the grip, and the ammo clip popped out and fell to the floor. I double-checked that it was empty and pulled back the action to inspect the chamber. Also empty.

It was time to play.

I clicked off the safety and held the gun in front of me. There was a metal bead at the front of the barrel and a metal
V
in the back. I lined up these two points and was pleased to see how little my hand shook. This was important. I looked around for something to shoot, and my eyes came to rest on a ribbon I'd won at the Neil Armstrong Elementary School science fair. My project had been a volcano made out of papier-mâché, and I would have won first place if my mother had remembered to buy baking soda for the lava. As luck would have it, she bought baking
powder
, and first place went to a girl named Kimberly Kim who had made a caveman diorama out of Barbie dolls and pictures from
National Geographic
. I still haven't forgiven either of them.

I lined up the sights on the ribbon, squeezed the trigger, and—
Click!

Is that it?
I wondered, dropping my hand to my side. Is that the difference between life and death? Just a little click that takes about as much effort as tying your shoe? I sat on the edge of my bed and thought about all the people that
click had taken from the world—Abraham Lincoln, Mahatma Gandhi, John Lennon. Add to that the millions more who'd died for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The numbers were overwhelming. So much suffering, so much death, and all so pointless. I stared at the gun and was struck by the absurdity of my situation. While my fellow Wheatonians were off enjoying the slopes of Aspen and the beaches of St. Croix, I was digging through piles of fish guts and target practicing with an illegal firearm. It felt stupid even thinking the words, but it just didn't seem fair.

There's still time to get out
, I told myself. You've done nothing irreversible. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and if you lose possession of the gun, you lose possession of the crime. You can go back to being an honors student and lacrosse star again. It's not too late.

But it was, and I would have been foolish to think otherwise. As long as my family believed I had stolen Grandpa Patsy's money, they would not leave me alone until they got revenge. Any way I looked at it, the Mr. DeNunsio job was my only way out.

Of course, the real question was would my family leave me alone
after
the Mr. DeNunsio job? That was anyone's guess, and I held the gun tighter and tried not to think about it.