Mystic River

It was official: Celeste had never been more terrified in her life.

"Ha-ha-ha-Henry," he said, the laughter finally trailing off into chuckles.

"What?"

"Henry," he said. "Henry and George, Celeste. Those were their names. Isn't that fucking hilarious? And George, lemme tell ya, he was curious. Henry, though, Henry was just flat-out mean."

"What are you talking about?"

"Henry and George," he said brightly. "I'm talking about Henry and George. They took me for a ride. A four-day ride. And they buried me in a cellar with this old ratty sleeping bag on a stone floor, and, man, Celeste, did they have their fucking fun. No one came to help old Dave then. No one burst in to rescue Dave. Dave had to pretend it was happening to someone else. He had to get so fucking strong in his mind that he could split it in two. That's what Dave did. Hell, Dave died. The kid who came out of that cellar, I don't know who the fuck he was? well, he's me, actually? but he's sure as shit not Dave. Dave's dead."

Celeste couldn't speak. In eight years, Dave had never talked about what everyone knew had happened to him. He'd told her he'd been playing with Sean and Jimmy and he'd been abducted and he'd escaped and that was all he was ever going to say. She'd never heard the names of the men. She'd never heard about the sleeping bag. She'd never heard any of this. It was as if, right at this moment, they were awakening from a dream life of their marriage and confronting against their wills all the rationalizations, half-lies, submerged wants, and hidden selves they'd built it on. Watching it crumble under the wrecking-ball truth that they'd never known each other, they'd merely hoped they would someday.

"The thing is, right?" Dave said. "The thing is, it's like I was saying about the vampires, Celeste. It's the same thing. The same goddamned thing."

"What's the same thing?" she whispered.

"It doesn't come out. Once it's in you, it stays." He was looking at the coffee table again and she could feel him fading away on her.

She touched his arm. "Dave, what doesn't come out? What's the same thing?"

Dave looked at her hand like he was going to sink his teeth into it with a snarl, rip it off at the wrist. "I can't trust my mind anymore, Celeste. I'm warning you. I can't trust my mind."

She removed her hand, and it tingled where it had touched his flesh.

Dave stood up, wavering. He cocked his head and looked at her as if not sure who she was and how she'd gotten there on the edge of his couch. He looked over at the TV as James Woods fired that crossbow into someone's chest, and Dave whispered, "Blow 'em all away, Slayer. Blow 'em all away."

He turned back to Celeste, gave her a drunken grin. "I'm going to go out."

"Okay," she said.

"I'm going to go out and think."

"Yeah," Celeste said. "Sure."

"If I can just get my head around this, I think it'll be all okay. I just need to get my head around it."

Celeste didn't ask what "it" was.

"So, okay then," he said, and walked to the front door. He opened the door and had crossed the threshold when she saw his hand curl around the wood and he leaned his head back in.

Just his head, tilted and staring at her, when he said, "Oh, I took care of the trash, by the way."

"What?"

"The trash bag," he said. "Where you put my clothes and stuff? I took it out earlier and threw it away."

"Oh," she said, and felt the need to vomit again.

"So, I'll be seeing you."

"Yeah," she said as he ducked his head back out onto the landing. "I'll see you."

She listened to his footfalls until they reached the bottom landing. She heard the front door creak open and Dave step out onto the porch and descend the steps. She went over the stairs leading up to Michael's room and she could hear him sleeping up there, his breathing deep. Then she went into the bathroom and threw up.

* * *

HE COULDN'T FIND where Celeste had parked the car. Sometimes, particularly during snowstorms, you might drive eight blocks before you found a parking space, so Celeste could have buried the car as far away as the Point for all Dave knew, even though he noticed some empty spaces not far from the house. It was probably just as well. He was too hammered to drive in all likelihood. Maybe a good long walk would help him clear his head.

He walked up Crescent to Buckingham Avenue and took a left, wondering what the hell had been going through his head that he'd tried to explain things to Celeste. Christ, he'd even said those names? Henry and George. He'd mentioned werewolves, for crying out loud. Shit.

And now it was confirmed? the police suspected him. They'd be watching. No more thinking of Sean as an old long-lost friend. They were past that, and Dave could now remember what he hadn't liked about Sean when they were kids: the sense of entitlement, the sense that he was always sure he was right, like most kids who were lucky enough? and that's all it was, luck? to have both parents and a nice house and the newest clothes and athletic equipment.

Fuck Sean. And those eyes of his. And that voice. And the way you could see the women in the kitchen all but drop their panties when he came in the room. Fuck him and his good looks. Fuck him and his morally superior attitude and his funny/cool stories and his cop's swagger and his name in the paper.

Dave wasn't stupid, either. He'd be up to the challenge once he got his head straight. He just needed to get his head straight. If that meant taking it off and screwing it back on tight, then he'd figure out a way to do even that.

The biggest problem right now was that the Boy Who'd Escaped from Wolves and Grown Up was showing his face too much. Dave had hoped that what he'd done Saturday night would settle that, shut the fucker up, send him back deep into the forest of Dave's mind. He'd wanted blood that night, the Boy, he'd wanted to cause some fucking pain. So Dave had obliged.

At first it had just been minor, a few punches, a kick. But then it had gotten out of control, Dave feeling the rage welling up inside of him as the Boy took over. And the Boy was one mean customer. The Boy wasn't satisfied until he saw pieces of brain.

But then, once it was over, the Boy receded. He went away and left Dave to clean up the mess. And Dave had done that. He'd done a damn good job of it. (Maybe not as good as he'd hoped, sure, but still pretty good.) And he'd done it? specifically? so the Boy would stay gone for a while.

But the Boy was a prick. Here was the Boy again, knocking on the door, telling Dave he was coming out, ready or not. We got things to do, Dave.