No Hiding in Boise Page 8

  “I’m sorry,” she says, suddenly calmer.

  “It’s okay.”

  There is a terribly awkward silence, me still sniveling a bit, despite ordering myself to get it together.

  Finally, she says, “So you saw Cale?”

  I nod. “He was sitting at the bar. I think he got a beer.”

  I know he got a beer, but I don’t want her to think I’ve kept track of this detail about her husband. He got the White Dog Hazy IPA.

  “Did you talk to him at all?”

  “A little,” I say. “We were busy that night, so I didn’t talk to him as much as usual.”

  She looks confused. “As usual?”

  I sense I’ve made a mistake.

  “He was a regular or something?” she presses.

  The truth: I’d seen him at Ray’s a handful of times over the past few months. I don’t know if I should share this though. It’s clear he didn’t tell her about coming to Ray’s; it’s clear I’m in on a marital secret.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I say. “I’d seen him a couple times.”

  “Was he with someone?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Not that I saw.”

  The first time Cale came in, he sat right in front of me at the bar, started making small talk. I could tell he hadn’t been out in a while, that he was rusty. He wore a wedding ring, but I’d seen all kinds of guys wearing wedding rings and meeting women who weren’t their wives. I’d told Ryan once that it was enough to make me swear off men forever.

  That night, I asked him, point-blank, “So you meeting someone?”

  I let curiosity get the best of me, which isn’t a great trait for a bartender who is supposed to look the other way, not notice, not care.

  “Meeting someone?” he’d asked, repeating the question, as if to make sure he’d heard it correctly.

  “Yeah,” I’d said. “Are you meeting someone?”

  And he’d said, with a smirk, “Something like that.”

  But, thing is, I never saw someone show.

  I figured he’d been stood up, thought he deserved that for stepping out on his wife. Normally, I’d have written him off as just another asshole having a midlife crisis that involved online dating, but he seemed nice enough. A bit strange, but nice.

  His wife crosses and uncrosses her legs, like she can’t get comfortable.

  “You think he saved your life?” she says.

  Her tone says she disbelieves this.

  I shrug. “I think he did. I was just standing there, behind the bar, like, frozen, when the shots started. I couldn’t move. He snapped me out of it and told me to find somewhere to hide. That’s when I ran to the storage closet.”

  Even just recounting these details brings goose bumps to my arms and legs.

  Tears begin to fill her eyes. She shakes her head, trying to shake them away.

  “God, it must have been terrifying,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with the end of her sweater sleeve.

  “It was.”

  We sit there in silence again.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I dare to ask.

  She looks at me, her eyes watery. “I don’t know,” she says.

  I want to pry, but know I can’t.

  “Do you mind if I, like, get your number?” I ask her. “Just so I can check in. I mean, if that’s weird, just—”

  She interrupts me again. “Of course,” she says. She paws through her purse, retrieves her phone. “Here, I’ll text you so you have it. What’s your number?”

  I give it to her, and a moment later a text appears. It just says, “Hi.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  She stands to leave.

  “Thank you for telling me what you know,” she says.

  “No problem.”

  “If you think of anything else, you have my number.”

  She is starting to walk away when I say, “Wait, I don’t have your name.”

  She playfully hits herself in the forehead with her palm.

  “You can call me Moron,” she says. “Or Angie.”

  JOYCE

  I NEED TO DELETE my Facebook account. I only have it to communicate with members of my book club and keep in touch with a select few old friends. Facebook was thrilling at first— finding all those faces from the past. Now it’s just a way for people to find Joyce Ketcher, mother of the Ray’s Bar shooter.

  It’s Monday morning, and I’ve made the mistake of checking my messages on the app. There are a slew of them from acquaintances and used-to-be-friends, feigning concern for my well-being. That’s how it seems to me—fake. They say things like, “You are in my thoughts, and I want you to know I’m here if you need to talk” and “These things are never as simple as they seem. If you need a shoulder, I’m here.” They just want to be “Joyce Ketcher’s friend.” They want inside information they can share at their next dinner parties and Sunday brunches.

  There are a few nice messages from strangers, very religious people, telling me they will pray for Jed’s soul. But there are also messages filled with rage, chastising me for my parenting skills (or lack thereof), telling me I could have prevented all this. My first reaction is a rage that trumps theirs. I want to yell at these people that my son was a grown man. He was twenty-eight years old. He had his own life. I suppose this argument would be easier to make if he hadn’t been living under my roof.

  “Just delete it,” I tell Gary, slamming my phone onto his brand-new kitchen island countertop and going to the bathroom.

  “Delete what?” he asks, dumbfounded.

  “Facebook,” I yell from my seat on the toilet.

  Of course, he has no idea how to delete Facebook. He doesn’t use Facebook. He has a flip phone.

  I come back and take the phone from his idiotic hands. “Never mind,” I say.

  “Haven’t I always said there’s nothing good that comes from all that stuff,” he says, motioning toward my phone.

  “Not now,” I tell him.

  I go to the app, delete it. A prompt asks me if I’m sure, and I say, “Yes, damn it.”

  Then it’s gone.

  One thing accomplished.

  “I’m going to put the second coat of paint on your garage today,” Gary says, trying to calm me with evidence of his helpfulness.

  “Okay, fine, great,” I tell him. I’m well aware I’m taking my anger out on him. He is a good, cooperative punching bag. He just sways about, awaiting my next outburst.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” he asks.

  “The mortuary. The service. Have you done that yet?” I ask him.

  I can’t control the bitchiness in my voice; I just can’t.

  “I’m working on it,” he says.

  He goes to the sink, rinses our cereal bowls.

  “What do you mean working on it?”

  It should be a simple task, after all.

  “Just trust me. I’m working on it,” he says.

  He’s being strange, evasive.

  “What is it?”

  He lingers at the sink, now drying the dishes he’s just washed, instead of just leaving them to drip-dry on the rack like he usually does.

  “Joyce, I don’t want to add to your plate, okay?” he says.

  He is looking at me now, his eyes pleading. He seems tired. I’ve brought this mess of my life to him and exhausted him.

  “What? Is it the cost? You don’t have to protect me from that. I know funerals are expensive. I have money, Gary. You don’t have to treat me like—”

  He interrupts my defensive tirade: “It’s not the fucking cost.”

  That shuts me up. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say “fucking.” He is the type to say things like “Dang it” and “God Almighty.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  I see the frustration leave his face as his skin turns from red back to white.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m sorry too.”

  “I’m not myself.”

  “How could I expec
t you to be?”

  I take a final sip of my now-cold coffee.

  I bring my mug to the sink, where he’s still standing. I squeeze his forearm, which is the most we’ve touched since he first came to my house and wrapped his arms around me. He removes my hand from his arm, which I take as rejection until I realize he wants to hold my hand in his. Our fingers interlace. He lifts our hands to his face, kisses my knuckle gently, then lets go. My nose tingles, a precursor to tears, in response to this unexpected show of affection.

  “I’m having trouble finding a place,” he says. “That’s the thing.”

  I’m still thinking about holding his hand. I’m not sure what he’s talking about.

  “A funeral home,” he clarifies. “I’m having trouble finding one.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Really? There’s the one over on Fairview, and I think there’s one by the mall, and—”

  “It’s not that,” he says.

  I still don’t understand.

  “When I tell them who the service is for …”

  He waits for me to get it.

  Finally, I say, “Oh.”

  Nobody wants to host a service for my son. That is the crux of the matter.

  “The one on Fairview, the one by the mall, they’re working with victims’ families and there’s a conflict of interest there. It’s not that they think Jed is …”

  “Evil?” I say, knowing that is exactly what they think. It might be what Gary thinks.

  “Joyce, I don’t think it’s that. They’re just trying to be good businesspeople for their other clients.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “Like I said, I’m working on it,” he says. “I have a few other places to contact. We will find one. Don’t worry about it. Please.”

  I nod.

  “Should only take me an hour or so to paint the garage. You going to be okay here?” he asks.

  I nod again.

  Then he is gone, busying himself with the tasks of this new life of mine.

  I suppose I need to consider how long I’ll be staying with Gary. I’m sure he expected just a couple days. I don’t want the embarrassment of being asked to leave. But I can’t imagine going home at this point, being alone there, noticing the absence of Jed.

  I called the lead detective yesterday, Detective Kinsky, asking for any information about what they found in Jed’s room. He said they are still poring through everything, but that he could confirm that Jed had a private journal online that “shed light on his mindset.” I don’t know what that means, exactly. I’m not sure I want to know.

  When Jed was a toddler—two or three—he would have such horrible tantrums. He would scream and pull out tufts of his own hair. There was no calming him. It scared me, but Ed said it was just the age. I read all kinds of books on toddler behavior, deciding that we just had what one book called a “spirited” toddler. There were three categories of temperaments according to this book—easy, shy, and spirited. I chose to put a positive spin on Jed’s tantrums. He was passionate, I told myself.

  Maybe I was delusional.

  When Jed was six, Ed and I took him to see a child psychologist because his kindergarten teacher said he was having problems with “impulse control.” We saw this at home too. If something didn’t go his way, he would get so angry, often resorting to hitting whoever (or whatever) was closest to him. We did time-outs on a bench in our front entryway, and he complied, flaring his nostrils and staring daggers the whole time. The time-outs didn’t seem to curb the behavior though. This was the age of gentle parenting, and we were probably too easy on him, thinking it was our job to walk alongside him as he discovered his “passionate” self. The psychologist seemed concerned when we mentioned that Jed often banged his head against the wall or on the hard tile floor in the kitchen. He said something about “early signs of self-injury.” I remember Ed laughed at this. I remember Ed saying, “Self-injury? He’s six!”

  Maybe Ed was delusional.

  I thought he grew out of all these things. It’s not like he was still banging his head on walls and pulling out tufts of hair when he was a teenager. But maybe those behaviors turned into something else, something hidden, something I didn’t see.

  Detective Kinsky said he would release the online journal to me “soon.” I don’t know if I can read it though. There is comfort in delusion.

  Last night, I found a message board online about the shooting—a disgusting thing called “Shooting the Shit.” There are pages and pages of people talking about Jed, about the gun he used, about the victims. It’s quickly become a train wreck I cannot turn away from. I was up until dawn reading, feeling nauseated.

  They say he got the gun legally a year ago. Whoever he bought it from must have come forward with a receipt or something. Had he been planning this for a year? Did he keep the gun in my house?

  I log on to the message board again, surprised to see there has been more conversation since I logged off a few hours ago. I know the frequent posters now—JR2018 seems to be the ringleader, obsessed with mass shootings. I should probably mention him to Detective Kinsky, before he shoots up a bar himself and his poor mother is shocked, unaware of this message board, of her son’s fascination with violence.

  TessWasHere has just posted a question. I’ve seen her post only a couple things—asking about the victims, mostly.

  Does anyone know about the funeral services for the victims? Are any of them open to the public?

  Another frequent poster, Boyseeeee, responds:

  No info on funerals yet. Prob too soon. Candlelight vigil at the capitol building tonight tho. I’m gonna go. U going?

  TessWasHere doesn’t respond. That’s the last of the conversation for now.

  I would like to go to the vigil. It’s public, seemingly open to everyone, even the mother of the killer. It’s not like I’m going to be welcomed at any of the funeral services. This may be my only chance to pay my respects.

  Of course, I have to assume loved ones of the victims will recognize me, thanks to social media. My Facebook profile picture was on that damn message board, after all. I have to assume they will want to direct their anger at me, because Jed came from me. I created him.

  Maybe I can go, wear a ball cap to disguise myself, watch from a distance, then leave flowers when everyone has gone. It will make me feel better, I think. I can almost hear Jed scolding me: Mom, this isn’t about you. And I know he’s right. It’s not about me. But I can’t just sit here, in Gary’s kitchen, too full-up with guilt to even eat my damn breakfast. I have to do something. I have to buy the prettiest lilies I can find and pay my respects. I can hear Jed scoff.

  “Jed,” I whisper, “stop.”

  ANGIE

  SAHANA THINKS IT’S STRANGE that I want to go to work on Monday morning. She keeps texting, asking if I’m sure. It’s not like there is paid leave for employees with spouses in comas. I have some vacation time built up, about a week. I figure I should save that for when I really need it—like when Cale comes home … or when he doesn’t.

  I can’t just stop working. There are bills to pay—the regular ones, as well as the medical ones that I expect to start arriving soon. I figure I can visit Cale on lunch breaks; Madison & Brightly, the ad agency where I work, is about a ten-minute drive from the hospital. If I’m honest, I want to go to work. I want to pretend like it’s any other Monday. I don’t know how to accept that it’s not.

  Evie usually wakes around six in the morning, but today she sleeps until seven, giving me time to shower and dress and make my own breakfast and hers. It’s as if she understands I am alone. There is only one pair of hands to tend to her, to feed her and get her ready for day care and play with her on the kitchen floor. Then again, it’s usually my hands doing this work most mornings. Cale makes himself present—usually standing at the kitchen island, doing something on his computer. He acts as if this presence is enough. He is there, but not there. He is with his family, physically, but only physically. Whenever I’d ask w
hat he was doing on his computer, he’d claim he was getting a head start on his work day. But usually, when I dared to glance, he was just looking at sports scores. It angered me, but I didn’t say anything. His silence, his detachment, was hostile enough; I didn’t know if I could handle an actual fight.

  Sahana texts me again as I sit Evie in her high chair and turn on an episode of Sesame Street. She will sit there, watching, content and quiet, for a half hour. I can count on this. I used to say things to Cale like “We are so lucky to have an easy kid” and “Kids like this are the reason people have ten kids.” It was my way of trying to get him to be happier as a father. But now I think comments like this drove him away, made him feel unallowed to be unhappy.

  Does Cale’s boss know?

  I hadn’t even thought of that.

  Shit. I’ll call him.

  I know Cale’s boss’s name, but I don’t know his number. I look up the company online—Gingham Funds—and scan for Cale’s boss’s name. Nathan McClintock. I clear my throat and dial the number. He answers, sounding rushed and formal.

  “Hi, Nathan, this is Angie Matthews, Cale’s wife,” I say.

  It’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Oh, yes, Angie. Right.”

  I’ve met him several times, never liked him. There’s something slimy about him. His hair is always shellacked into place. I told Cale he looked like a Ken doll—plastic, phony.

  “I wanted to let you know that Cale’s in the hospital,” I say.

  “The hospital? What happened?”

  I realize I’ll have to get used to telling this story. The names of the deceased are in the news, but the names of the injured are not. Nobody has any idea Cale was shot.

  “Well, did you hear about the bar shooting?” I ask.

  He’s quiet again. I don’t think someone like Nathan pays attention to anything but the stock market.

  “My wife said something about that,” he says.

  “Cale was shot,” I tell him.

  “You’re serious?” he asks.

  “It would be strange of me to make this up,” I say, getting irritated.

  “Man, wow, I’m so sorry. He gonna be okay?”