Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4) Page 22

“Merodie—”

“I know I have a problem, McKenzie. Okay? I’ve had this conversation before with other people. So many people. And I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard to get straight, but. . . I don’t know. I’m tryin’ to explain it all to this woman and she’s not listening, you know? Instead, she gives me this piece of chalk. I’m like, ‘What’s this?’ And she says, ‘Chalk.’ I can see that, okay? And the woman, she points at this large blackboard mounted on wheels and she tells me to write down my history. She wanted to see my history of alcohol abuse, when I started drinking, how much I drank, the people I met while drinking, the things I did while drinking, the things that happened to me while drinking. And I’m laughing. I’m like, ‘Got a few weeks?’ And the counselor said she did, and so I start writing.

“At first my letters are tall and wide and I fill a whole line with only a few words, but then the letters become smaller cuz I’m trying to squeeze it all in. The counselor told me not to worry about chronological order, just write it down as it came to me, and I did, starting with a party in junior high school when I drank my first beer and the kegger at the river where I got drunk for the first time. And I kept at it, going through half a box of chalk, filling one side of the board and then the other, writing until my hand hurt—and that wasn’t even half of it!

“The first time I had sex I was drunk. And the second time. And the third. And the fourth. I was drunk at the homecoming dance and at my junior prom and on the day I dropped out of high school. I was drunk when I fell down a flight of stairs and broke my collarbone. I was drunk when I drove my car into the fence that surrounded my mom’s house. I was drunk when the doctor told me I was pregnant. . .”

Merodie began to weep. It should have been easy for me to say, “Hey, you brought it all on yourself.” I couldn’t manage it. Instead I found myself wishing I could reach through the phone and wrap my arms around her. That’s what friends are for, right?

“McKenzie, you gotta help me. You gotta help get me out of here.”

“We’re trying, Merodie.”

“I hafta get outta here so I can make it all right. Make it right for Eli. I was drunk, McKenzie, drunk when that beautiful man bled to death in my living room. I coulda done somethin’ if I wasn’t drunk.”

“Don’t say anything more, Merodie.”

I had so many questions for her, but I was afraid to ask them for fear that the attorney-client privilege didn’t extend to me, that anything she said over the phone really could be used against her.

“Please, McKenzie.”

“It’ll be all right. We’ll get you out.”

“Please.”

One question I had to ask—nothing I had learned online had even hinted at it.

“Merodie? You said you were pregnant. When—”

“That’s another reason you gotta get me out. I can make it all right, make it all right for everyone, I know I can. I can make it so no one else gets hurt, but I gotta be out to do it.”

“Merodie . . .?”

“I just gotta be.”

“Tell me about the child, Merodie . . . Do you hear me . . .? Merodie . . .?”

The phone went dead.

G. K. Bonalay kept me on hold for nearly seventeen minutes, which was bad enough. Being forced to endure several Muzak versions of early 1970s bubble gum rock songs while I waited, that was just plain wrong. Trust me, you don’t want to listen to an extended, all-strings cover of “Sugar, Sugar” with a hangover unless you have plenty of Pepto-Bismol at hand. I told G. K. so when she finally returned to the phone. She apologized profusely for making me wait—she was rushing from meeting to meeting. As for the music: “At my law firm, the Archies are considered cutting-edge.”

I thought she might be joking, but since she didn’t laugh, I didn’t, either.

I told G. K. about my conversation with Merodie Davis, and she made a note to tell Merodie to stay off the goddamn phone, but said she wouldn’t be able to deliver it until later. Her firm had saddled her with a number of billable meetings that promised to last until later that evening. However, she did manage to find time to get me access to Merodie’s house.

“Someone will meet you at 1:00 P.M.”

“That’ll work fine.”

“What can you tell me so far?” G. K. asked.

“Not much. We know that Merodie owned the house—”

“How do we know that?”

“I checked with the Anoka County Division of Property Records and Taxation. She’s listed as fee owner. She owns the house, she pays the taxes, only here’s the thing—as far as I can tell, she has no job, and she’s not receiving welfare or unemployment.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked.”

“The county welfare department told you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“They’re not supposed to divulge that information.”