Chapter 3: A Tremendous Fervor
The past reveals...
Mack worked part-time as a photographer at the Sun and part-time delivering pizzas for Romello’s. He listened to NPR as he drove three extra-large pepperonis, two salads, a garlic bread, and a six-pack of Pepsi into Sterling Heights. His car coughed white smoke when he took off from a stop. He frowned as he listened to the host chatter and laugh.
“… when you approach the stand, you think some sense of decorum would be inherent…”
“…there’s no telling how someone’s going to behave. You look at the record of escape attempts made in courtrooms and you’ll see the use of restraints are completely justified…”
His fingers tapped on his steering wheel while his teeth gritted down. He was a newsman, a reporter at heart. But there wasn’t room for him on any news floor. His photos were sometimes picked up, and he’d accept twenty to fifty dollars for each one, depending on the story. But he couldn’t survive on fifty dollars a week. The pizza gig was better for that. He suspected, looking at the houses, that he might get fifty dollars in tips every hour. It was Sunday, and the games drew pizza eaters together.
He pulled into a wide driveway and put the car into park. He left it running. His phone began to buzz in his pocket as he pushed the doorbell. The door camera winked at him.
“Just a second,” said a voice from the camera’s speaker. He rested his arm holding the pizzas on his hip. His other hand had the salads and Pepsi. His phone was spazing in his pocket. He could feel the vibrations in his spine. Pick it up, pick it up, his brain was screaming. Make it stop. But people wouldn’t tip as well for soda and salads that were on the ground. He bit his lip and bared it. The call seemed to ring forever. It stopped as the door opened. A woman in a jersey and nothing else that he could see smiled at him.
“Can you bring it into the kitchen?”
He smiled back and walked into the grand house. She pointed to booties, and he slid his shoes in. He went to a massive counter and looked at a massive TV surrounded by massive men and small women.
“Pizza,” one of the men said.
“I can smell it,” another said. They stood while eyeing the game. One burped, another laughed.
“Here,” the woman in the jersey said, pushing a wad of cash at Mack. He took it and counted it out.
“You’re short.”
“No, keep it,” she smiled at him.
“You’re short fifteen bucks.”
“What?” the woman said. He noticed her eyes. They were glazed with liquor. The men circled the counter. One reached for the cardboard. Mack put his hand on the box.
“What the hell?” the man asked, turning from the screen.
“You’re short. Fifteen bucks short.”
“You’re kidding me,” the man said. “We just paid you two hundred dollars.”
“I don’t set the prices.”
“For three fucking pizzas?”
The man shook his head.
“It’s what it cost.”
“Take you’re fucking fifteen,” the man pulled out a wallet and tossed a twenty to the ground.
Mack picked it up. “Thanks,” he said.
He pulled around his hip bag to make the change.
“Keep it,” the woman said again, smiling the same dreary smile. “Drive safe.” She waved him away.
Back in his car, Mack remembered his phone. Three missed calls were from Dewy, the chief editor at the Sun.
“Shit,” Mack whispered, calling him back.
“MACK TRUCK! MACKINATOR!” the man yelled.
“What is it, Dewy? I’m delivering pizzas.”
“We’ve got a lead on the dog attack story from yesterday. Actually, the Tribune got the lead, but everyone and their mother caught wind of it.”
“What’s the lead?”
“The woman who died. Her mother wants to speak out.”
“Wants to?”
“Yes, you son a bitch! Dickhead and Dumbfuck didn’t answer. Big Wig and Loose Dick didn’t either, sons of bitches. They take their Sundays more seriously than they take their work, for God’s sake.”
“Richie and Savanah aren’t going to cover it?”
“NO! Listen, every news station in the country is trying to get to the address. If you can make it to her first and get her recorded talking about her daughter, it would be one hell of a break for us, boy. Can you do it?”
“Sure,” Mack licked his lips. His heart quickened. A chance. A REAL story. He put his car in reverse and stuffed the cash in his pocket. “Where is it?”
“Sterling Heights, Eight Glenn Lane.”
“I’m in Sterling Heights right now,” Mack whispered. “Where is it from, Twenty-Four Charleston?”
“I’m looking. Fuck! You’re right there! Take two rights, it’ll be on the left. Holy shit, son! Go! Get in, lock the door. Close the blinds. Nobody else can get in. And make sure you fucking record it!”
Dewy hung up, and Mack’s hands slipped as he turned the wheel. The car jerked around a parked car, and an oncoming Lexus laid on the horn. Mack didn’t look back. His worn tires squealed into the first turn. They slid and then skipped on the second. He saw an 8 on a mailbox, in glistening silver. The house behind the mailbox was a 2008 beige Goliath, its footprint consuming every inch of the lawn. The front step was cluttered with flowers in baskets and vases. He parked in the street and took off his Romello’s hat. He ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the seat beside him and stared at the garlic bread. He grabbed it and ran from the car as the headlights of a van turned on the street.
He knocked over a vase of flowers while getting to the door. He rang the bell.
“Who is it?” a woman yelled.
“Uh, Mack, from Romell- er, from the Sun!”
#
Mack locked the door behind him and took off his shoes. The woman crossed her arms, wearing a robe and slippers, smoking a cigarette. Her hair was the same blond as the girl’s had been, but the silver was beginning to outnumber the yellow. Her eyes were set into deep sleeping bags, and her cheeks were beginning to jowl.
“If you don’t mind,” Mack said, going to the window and shutting the blinds. News trucks were peeling in, leaving skids of rubber as they braked. Men hopped from the car with large cameras slung over their shoulders.
“You smell like pizza.”
“I brought garlic bread,” Mack said, holding up the greasy bag.
“You’re from the news?”
“That’s right.”
“You look like you’re delivering pizzas.”
“I do a lot of things,” Mack said. He pulled out his phone. “You mind if I record this?”
“Maybe I should talk to one of them,” the woman said. She peeked out of the blinds at men in suits running across her driveway.
“Those guys are no good. We’re the Sun, the local paper. We care more about this than those guys. They’re just in for the scoop. We’re in it for her.”
“For her? You mean for Christie?” the mother dragged her smoke and let the blinds shut.
“For Christie,” Mack nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Mack. Mack from the Sun.” He extended a hand. She put her smoke in her mouth and grasped his fingers.
“Okay,” she said, exhaling.
“They’re going to go nuts on the door. Is there somewhere out of the way we can talk?”
“Nuts?”
“Nock, shout, ring the bell a hundred times. They’re animals, you know.”
“And you’re not?”
“No ma’am,” Mack shook his head, “I’m as human as they come.”
The reporters hit the door like a wave. They shouted and knocked and rang the bell. A bright light flashed into the house from a side window, where a woman in a suit knocked on the glass. Mack went over and shut the curtains.
“Are we under attack?” the woman whispered.
“It’ll die down,” Mack said to himself as well as her. Someone cranked the doorknob, twisting it against its lock.
The woman jumped when they threw their shoulder into the door.
The sound of breaking glass vases rang out.
“Is there somewhere out of the way?”
“I- I guess the basement,” she said.
“Lead the way,” Mack said, “I’ll bring the bread.”
#
The basement was unfinished and cluttered. An old card table was pushed up against the wall. Mack pulled it out and put the garlic bread on top. He turned on all the lights and set his phone up against a worn-out puzzle box, the screen facing out so that he could line up the picture with the woman. She adjusted her robe and ashed into a can that had once held Jenga blocks. She looked at herself on the screen and ran her free fingers through her hair.
“Can you introduce yourself?”
“What? You don’t know who I am? I talked with a man at the Tribune on the phone. Maybe I should-”
“I know who you are,” he lied, “I just need to check the audio levels.”
“Okay,” the woman put down her smoke. “Should I look at you or the camera?”
“At me.”
“Alright. I’m Kacky Fallwise. I’m the mother of Christie Fallwise, who died two days ago. Does the audio look good?”
“Perfect,” Mack said, nodding. “Tell me more about Christie.”
“Christie… Christie was a good girl until she was about twelve. Then she started…” Kacky waved her hand in the air. “Started in with the wrong crowd. She was missing school and doing drugs. Not that I caught her with anything other than cigarettes, but a mother knows. A mother knows. But she was a good girl when she wasn’t with them.”
“What did you know?”
“She was hurting then. Cutting.” The mother’s mouth tightened into a line. “We- I tried to get her help. She didn’t want it. Eventually, it worked itself out, I liked to think. She left home two years ago. She went to college but left after a semester. She was going to be a veterinarian, but couldn’t stand the crowd. That was four years ago.”
“So, she’d been out on her own for two years.”
“No. I didn’t say that. She had been living on her own for the past ten. Just living in our- my house, but living on her own. She never talked to me. Wouldn’t even look at me.”
“She wouldn’t talk to her own mother?”
“She resented having to live here. Having to drop out of college. Washing dogs for a living, always smelling like dog shampoo. She was lonely. Her wild friends all moved away. I told her that people liked the smell of clean dogs. But that didn’t help. She wasn’t cutting anymore, but it didn’t look like it. She had to cut the dog’s nails, and she wasn’t good at it. She’d come home bleeding. I was worried she was going to catch something. Rabies or something. You never know with dogs. She never got better at it. Any time I saw her arms were covered in bandages.”
“So, she’s washing dogs, trying to find her way in life…”
“She’d given up on trying to find a way. She wanted to be ignored. She couldn’t be bothered.”
“When did you see her last?”
“A few weeks ago. Her father had a barbecue for Labor Day. Nobody expected her to show up, but she did. She looked great. She was smiling, happy.” Kacky looked down and smiled at the table. She picked up her cigarette, ashed it, and took a drag.
“What made her so happy?”
“A man,” the woman looked up and nodded. “There was a man. One of her cousins wrangled that much out of her. She was always pretty and knew how to put it on. She was raised well, you know. You just can’t control what happens outside your home. She had found herself a man who liked her. She had come from his place.”
“I’m sure she was raised well. She is very beautiful.”
“She was. Was beautiful.”
“Any idea who the man was?”
“He was wealthy. She pulled up in one of his cars. A Mercedes. A black new one.”
“But no name?”
“No, no name. But it seemed serious. She didn’t get wasted drinking. She ate food. She laughed.” The woman looked up and took another drag. She coughed, blinking at the bright light above her. “I thought that things would go back to normal. That this man she met would straighten her out. Give her something to live for.”
“Was Christie… suicidal?”
“Yes. It comes with the depression, I think. With the… the cutting and the pain. She didn’t want to be around. But she turned the corner. It looked bright for her. For the first time since she was twelve. It did.”
“Would anyone know who the man was?”
“Would anyone know…” She looked away. “I can’t say. Maybe one of her so-called friends.”
“Do you have any of their numbers?”
“I have the numbers of their parents.”
“Would you mind getting those for me? I’d like to call and figure out where this was going.”
“You think this has something to do with her death? She was bitten by a dog, for Christ’s sake!”
“Who knows? I’d rather make sure there’s no foul play going on.”
“Foul play? They need to catch the dog and put it down. Who cares who she was seeing?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know? I mean, maybe he would want to meet you. Or go to the funeral.”
“The funeral.” Tears began to fall down the woman’s cheeks. “Christ, the funeral,” she said. She buried her head in her arm.