To Sleep Gently Read online

"And what happens when they find out it isn't? They're bound to read about it or see it on the news."

  "Information leaked out," Freddy told him. "That's why we're not doing the job anymore. If the hotel is robbed now it wasn't us, it's whoever got this privileged information. They built upon our plan and pulled it themselves. I explained everything to them. They understood just fine. Nothing to worry about."

  "I still say it's a big risk, especially if this Campion guy is as nuts as you're making him out to be."

  "Don't worry about it. Really, everything will be fine. The only difference now is that you take the goods to Frazier in Corrales instead of to Kolata in Albuquerque. You'll actually save about twenty minutes driving time. Don't get too concerned. It's not like this kind of thing hasn't ever happened before. And of course Charlie and I will be there when you guys show up. You just worry about your end of things. Make sure you take care of those boys."

  They talked for a couple more minutes and when they hung up Dempster felt a little better. Not terrific, but better.

  Sometimes you have to do the best with the lot you're given, he thought, and his mind cranked back to his days in his 70 square foot cell, reading books and out-of-date magazines, doing push-ups and sit-ups until his body numbed. Cheating at Solitaire when he was feeling down. Writing poetry and listening to music in his head. Trying, even in the pitch-black darkness of night as he lay in bed, to see a flicker of light at the end of a long and lonesome tunnel. Telling himself over and over again that it wouldn't last forever, someday he would be free again. He'd see blue skies without being encircled by forty-foot walls. He'd see rivers and oceans and lakes with ducks, and they would be real, not just in his mind, not something on the television when he was good, but real life, swimming all around him, smothering him with more than he could stand.

  Some people say a duck's quack doesn't echo.

  What?

  Yeah, but it's not true.

  Being locked away so long, surrounded by his solitude, other than his confining cell and a few privileged areas, life had become an illusion, something that passed before his eyes as he faded off to sleep, or just before he woke up in the morning. And in between these moments, even when he couldn't remember exactly, he knew he was trying to find his way back to anywhere that wasn't where he was; and he hoped he could last long enough to find it. Prayed he would still be around the day that they opened the door and let him out.

  On the darkest of days, he wondered where his hope had gone off to, and he scrambled around desperately to find it again, before he could find him saying goodbye to himself.

  That's what kept him going. That's how he made the best of it. The hope of returning to real life, but hopefully not the same life—hopefully something a bit different than before. Hope, maybe, to eventually make things right.

  And then the day had finally come. He'd walked through the gates and seen the world again, real as real could be. Too real to even want to touch. And now, though maybe it wasn't exactly as he'd hoped it would be, he'd been given something, and he was still making the best of it. He had no choice but to make the best of it.

  3

  Angela had made Chicken Scaloppini with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables. It was served on the same plates Dempster remembered them having last time he'd had dinner with them seven or eight years ago. Olive green with faint criss-crossing lines and tiny brown dots. Not only had Angela not lost her ability to cook, she had actually improved considerably, which was something Dempster had thought impossible. The food, simple as it was, was exquisite.

  Dempster had brought along two bottles of wine, one red and one white, as well as a six-pack of beer. As promised, they sat informally in the living room, Angela on the couch, Mike in his barcalounger, and Dempster in a surprisingly cozy high-backed office chair. They sat in a semi-circle, plates on their laps, glasses of red wine within easy reach.

  It wasn't exactly like the old days but it was a fair enough simulation that everyone, for the most part, was relaxed. Dempster felt they almost could have been back in Ohio, before he'd been revealed for what he was, before Mike and Angela had decided to make a go of New Mexico and seriously pursue art careers. It almost felt like the simple beauty of long-time friends catching up. But it wasn't quite. He could see reservation in Angela. Friendly and natural as she was, she was keeping something hidden. Dempster was pretty sure he knew what it was, though he had no intention of bringing it up—not unless she did first.

  "I remember when we went and saw the school production of Romeo and Juliet," Mike said. "We must have been in the ninth or tenth grade."

  "A long time ago," Dempster said.

  Mike looked at Angela. "It was a packed house. Everyone was so taken by the play. On the edge of their seats. Finally it got to the point where Romeo thinks Juliet is dead. He's just about to take the poison and die next to Juliet's body when Jack yells at the top of his lungs, 'She's not really dead, you dumb ass! Go double check with Friar Laurence. How many times are you gonna make the same fucking mistake?'"

  Dempster laughed. "One definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

  "That was pretty funny," Mike said.

  "Yeah, until we got thrown out of the place."

  "No, even that was kind of funny." Mike turned to Angela again. "When the ushers came to our seats and told us to get up, Jack said, 'What must be shall be,' and as they ushered us out through the doors he exclaimed, 'For never was a story of more woe than that of us getting thrown out of Romeo and Juliet'."

  "A fun time," Dempster said. "That wasn't long before I dropped out."

  "You guys were always troublemakers," Angela said.

  "You know we were morons, honey," Mike said, then contemplated his wine. "Hard to believe those days were already so long ago."

  "Yeah, time sure flies," Dempster said. "I remember Shelley was in that play, remember that? She was...oh who the hell was she? Lady Montague."

  The smile faded from Mike's face.

  "Who's Shelley?" Angela asked.

  "Oh, uh, just a girl I dated back then," Dempster said, reaching for his wine.

  An awkward silence passed through the room, fleeting but evident. Dempster exchanged a glance with Mike, and the knowledge that he'd goofed was confirmed. He changed subjects to the sculptures placed around the house.

  "I really like the work you're doing."

  "Thanks," Angela said. "I'm still trying to figure out which pieces should actually go into the show I've got coming up."

  Dempster pointed to one in the corner of the room. It was a tall black vertebrate rising up from out of an open mouth. "I'm quite fond of that one," he said. "Reminds me a bit of Kiki Smith, or maybe Louise Bourgeois. It's totally your own thing, though. Very well done."

  Angela's face lit up. "You know who Kiki Smith and Louise Bourgeois are?"

  "I might be a troublemaker but I'm not stupid," Dempster said, and took a sip of his wine. "Who are some of your influences?"

  Given the opportunity to talk about her work, Angela straightened up in her seat. The hint of concern that had been in her eyes all night was gone. "Well, I am a fan of the two you mentioned," she said. "I was also inspired by a woman named Caitlin Greer, who was doing a lot of work around here for a while. I guess I'm big on a lot of British stuff, too. I really like Reg Butler and Lynn Chadwick a lot."

  "I admire Butler," Dempster said. "He learned how to sculpt without any formal training, from what I recall. Pretty much taught himself how to do it, mostly while working as a blacksmith, I believe."

  "That's right," Angela said, still unable to hide her surprise. Her excitement actually seemed to grow. "I have to admit," she said, "I'm very impressed. I didn't expect you would ever follow something like this."

  "I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm not familiar with Lynn Chadwick," Dempster told her.

  "Oh, he's great."

  "It's a he?"

  "Yeah. He was important
in establishing British post-war sculpture on. Hold on." She set her plate beside her on the couch, bounced up to her feet and disappeared into the other room.

  Mike looked at him. His mouth, chewing chicken, smiled. And with his eyes he said something to the effect of, "Good job, man. You're winning."

  Angela returned with a large book on 20th Century British Sculpture. Dempster joined her on the couch, and for the next fifteen minutes they went through it, page by page.

  4

  Two hours later, the red wine gone, the white wine gone, the beer remaining in the fridge, Dempster and Mike sat in the living room, while Angela tended to the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. Mike stayed in his barcalounger. Dempster had taken over the couch. They sat quietly, groggy from the wine, listening to the clinks and clanks of Angela restoring culinary order.

  Finally Dempster observed, "I don't see any of your paintings on the walls."

  "The few I've done lately," Mike said, "are stacked haphazardly in the closet." Before Dempster could speak he added, "And that's where they stay."

  Again, they were quiet a moment. Dempster regarded Angela's sculptures around the room. It was a shame that Mike was allowing his work to be overshadowed by his own frustrations, while on the other hand Angela still trudged ahead, seeming to work at her craft harder than ever before.

  "Well," he said, "I'm pissed that I don't get to see the kind of stuff you're doing these days."

  "It's nothing special," Mike said. "Wasted time, wasted materials."

  "What, are you painting pictures of dogs shooting pool, or sitting around a poker table with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths?"

  "No, but I've come to realize that everything I do is pointless." He sneered. "I might as well be painting that kind of crap. At least someone with a low I.Q. and a beer gut would buy it."

  Dempster inched up a bit, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his fingers. "I don't think you understand the work you do," he said. "Your technique is amazing. Hell, it was great even in grammar school. And once you found your way, your concepts were fantastic."

  "I've never painted about anything," Mike said, his eyes staring at the floor but not seeing it. He was looking into himself, torturing himself for no good reason.

  "That's bullshit," Dempster told him. "You paint about fundamental issues. I've seen it. Angela's seen it. Others have seen it and I know you've seen it too. You have plenty going on in your work—life and death, violence, healing, loss. Even when your work is vague, there's always a powerful invisible presence, and the point, whether you want to see it or not, is there."

  "What I see is a man well-versed in the art of wasting time and fucking up," Mike said. His eyes shifted from the floor to the sculpture Dempster had pointed out earlier. "A couple years ago, just as I was about to change jobs, this couple from New York came in. They had just moved here, and they were going to open a gallery. They came to us to design their logo, which I thought was kind of funny, given that, supposedly, they were surrounded by artists. The two of them fell in love with me. It seemed that, in their eyes, I could do no wrong. This girl I worked with, Melissa, mentioned that I was a painter, and George and Pooky—that's right, her name was Pooky—demanded to see my work." Here his eyes flicked to Dempster, then quickly retreated back to the sculpture. "They praised me like mad," he said. "Compared me to some pretty impressive names, ranked me up there with the best and said that I was without a doubt an up and comer. I was going to be big. They told me that I had to show in their gallery, and said they would promote me like crazy."

  "Sounds pretty good."

  "I'm not through yet. I said yes to the invitation, of course; and then a week later, over dinner at their house, I said no to a different type of invitation. I'm sure you know the kind I mean. After that I never heard from them again. The gallery never opened. I assume they either moved back to New York or they're still here and we just haven't crossed paths, which is fine with me."

  Dempster watched him for a long time, not knowing what to say. He felt he should say something. What that something was, he didn't know, but he knew the right word or phrase had to be lingering somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

  Before he located anything, Mike shrugged and said, "Fuck it." He looked at Dempster. "From what I understand now, that's pretty typical for around these parts. For all I know they never planned on opening a gallery in the first place. Or maybe they were just lunatics with some big ideas." He shook his head.

  It was hard to believe that something like that would deter Mike from ever wanting anything to do with it again. The same guy who, in the fourth grade, was already making his own comic books, who won the Regional Art Competition when he was thirteen and then again four years later. Someone who had always had such a burning desire to create. Someone so deeply trapped by his own passions and so utterly lost without them. It couldn't be as simple as one bad experience. That never would have stopped him.

  Dempster told him this.

  And Mike told him: "You're right. It's not just one experience. It's many years of them. Guess maybe my batteries are running low or something; but like I told you, everyone in this town has their head shoved up their ass. They're all manipulative elitists who don't know what the hell they're talking about. I just eked out of that situation with George and Pooky. Angela got lucky—or maybe I'm the lucky one. Someone else slept with whoever it was that got her that show." He pantomimed wiping his brow like a cartoon character and the sadness disappeared.

  A minute later they were laughing again.

  They spent the next half-hour chatting away, reliving old times. Then, with a yawn, Dempster said, "I should be getting out of here, it's late."

  "Yeah, all right." Then to Angela, now in the bedroom, "Angie, Jack's taking off."

  "Goodbye, Jack," she called out. "I'd come out and give you a hug but I'm indecent."

  "No problem, good to see you. I'm sure we'll see each other again before I leave." And with that he made his way out, Mike following behind.

  "Thanks for coming over, man."

  "Thank you for dinner. Hard to believe, but Angela's actually become an even better cook."

  "She took this cooking course at the Community College about a year ago. The instructor told her she was brilliant."

  "She is. I'll eat her cooking anytime."

  "Then maybe we can do it again before you take off."

  "That would be great, count me in."

  "All right." A pause, then, "I'm sorry about this afternoon."

  "What about this afternoon?"

  "Well, you were asking me about Carly and I was less than helpful."

  A nauseating sort of buzz fluttered through him. "You didn't know anything. Hell, you told me her name."

  "Yeah, well, I'm sorry."

  "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

  "You should talk to her if you wanna talk to her. I mean, if you want, I'd even be willing to mention something to her in my own very cool, suave, half-assed way."

  "No, don't worry about it. I don't have time for that kind of crap right now anyway. It was just a momentary crush, that's all."

  And no more, he thought—no more of that.

  5

  When he got back to the house, the guys were still out. He had debated going to the Eldorado for a drink himself, but was too tired and had already had more alcohol than he should have. As much as he enjoyed drinking, he preferred being clear-headed, especially when leading up to a job.

  He went to his bedroom and closed the door, stripped down, and then went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. As he waited for the water to heat up, he looked at himself in the mirror. The reflection was strange to him, almost as though he was looking at a ghost. There seemed to be a part of him missing. He didn't know which part, but something wasn't there, and it was something near and dear to him. And now, all of a sudden, like a dormant virus finally awakening, the knowledge that some crucial aspect of himself had vanished made him sick. Or it ha
d never been there at all and he just hadn't realized it before.

  He climbed into the shower. The hot water glazed over him, relaxing his body, mitigating his mind. He kept his eyes closed, and allowed himself to wander around the niches, nooks and crannies of his head. Wheels turned in random directions and at various speeds, chopped film erratically spliced without thought, some of it backwards, or upside down. One moment he was on his grandmother's living room floor with a coloring book, the next he was watching Donald and Lawrence Wycza in the cellar with shovels. He turned and walked away up the stairs and to a beat up Mazda truck at the Sam Wharram Natural Reserve, and stared at a beautiful, young fairy tale, which disintegrated, changed, and reintegrated into a gas station two hundred yards down the road, rippling under intense heat waves. He walked along the road towards it, beside him a beautiful conversation and a lovely soul that he didn't want to leave, even though he knew there was a good chance that every exertion might be used to get rid of it; then he slipped away into a car seat, where a hand jerked him off and sweet hot breath whiffed his face, as a recitation of calculated words clocked him like a hammer, telling him how some people say that a duck's quack doesn't echo, and he had no choice but to get out of the car and walk into a cell, where he would lie in bed at night trying to see light at the end of a long dark tunnel.

  Darkness can be harsh, a voice inside his head told him, and some days never come.

  #

  God, it was so many years ago now. Dempster hadn't worked in over six months, and having overestimated his finances, was running low on funds. So when Frank Bourland called and told him about the job, he didn't see what choice he had.

  Frank Bourland was a strong man with attractive, chiseled features. He was a smart man too, and had been doing this kind of work since he was sixteen. He and Dempster had known each other on and off for some time, and had pulled a job together two years earlier. Knocked over an independent video rental store in Muskegon that also held cash and handled betting for a group of independent bigwigs out in Grand Rapids, who liked to dabble more than a little in the races at the Great Lakes Downs. Without much fuss and only a couple of threats, they had managed to walk away with a little over $30,000.