Perspective
“I got another question.”
He said it like it was the first.
“I don’t care.”
The old man flicked a cigarette butt into the bullseye left behind after the dishwasher was looted. There was no more room in the Hamm’s can that had been their ashtray.
The kitchen was derelict, so they’d brought the chairs, table, spotlights, and other supplies with them. They’d parked somewhere else, too.
They weren’t here. That was the point.
The Kid persisted. “No, this is a good one. I been thinkin’ ’bout it a bit now.”
“Oh, so it’s moldy now.”
“Huh?”
Harvey chuckled. “Aren’t you tired of thinking?”
“… no? Does thinking make you tired?”
Now he frowned.
“Kid, normal people don’t make thinking a pastime. You know?”
“I dunno about that. People just always told me I was no good at it.” The Kid looked down at his hands. “I was just practicing.”
Harvey raised an eyebrow.
“Okay. What’s your question?”
The Kid smiled and sat forward.
“Well, I was down in town a while ago, and there was this man at the bank. I was walking by him and he stopped me.
“He was telling me about these ‘savings’ accounts. About how you can get paid to store your money…”
Harvey laughed.
“Get paid, you say?”
“I guess so. That’s what I been thinking about.
“Right now I been storing my money in a few spots I know about. Here and there so no one can get it all at once.
“It’s hid real good. But there’s just something satisfying about a big brick building and a guard looking out for your money.”
Harvey looked out the heavily fogged window at the moon high in the night sky.
“Kid. We’ve taken that money. You’ve held guns on those guards. You’re going to put the money back?”
The Kid grinned and leaned back against the wall in his dining chair, sucking his tooth loudly in satisfaction.
“Why not? Now that it’s got my name on it, if I take it again, the government pays me back.”
Harvey wanted to throw the ash can at him, but he settled on a snort. The Kid laughed in return and drained the rest of his beer.
Then he got up again and walked around.
“When are those fuckers gonna get here?”
“Don’t know. Depends on how long it takes to nab him.”
Silence for a moment, as their eyes wandered independently only to eventually settle on the table in the middle of the kitchen, covered with tools.
And the empty third chair bathed by spotlights.
“We’ll find out when we find out.”
“You said that last time I asked though, Harv.”
“And nothing’s changed. If you’re bored, go to sleep and gimme peace.”
“Nah. I can’t sleep no more…”
Harvey thought for a moment.
“You know I was a schoolteacher, once upon a time?”
“No?”
“For about five years. Back home in Danville. Humanities.”
“What happened?”
Harvey surveyed the destroyed mobile home which he, the boy, and the roaches had called home for the past few days. He thought about how to answer, choosing his next words carefully.
Harvey began to lie to the Kid.
“Well, I was married too. We had met in school. She was studying to teach primary school.
“Allison.
“She had the most beautiful lashes. Of all the things to remember, that’s what I conjure up first. I knew immediately I would be with her forever. We were married before we were teachers.”
“Oh wow. You could teach at the same school.”
“We thought so too,” Harvey continued. “I convinced my Allison to come home with me. Convinced her to move up to Pittsburgh for a chance at change. We got a place and everything was peaches for a while.”
Harvey paused, unable to continue for a moment. He turned from the Kid.
“Take your time,” the Kid said, holding his hand out softly and nodding his large head.
Part of the old man wished he could feel it.
“Thanks, Kid. I’m fine.” He wiped his face quietly and continued.
“She was alone one night in her classroom.
“We had been having issues with a student and the father for a few weeks.
“Phone calls. Vague messages on the answering machine. Threats.
“So I decided if she was going to stay late, I would too.”
“I had only stepped out for a moment to make copies…”
The Kid only moved to breathe.
“Harv.”
“… I was too late. He’d stabbed her in the back with a pair of scissors.
“Then those bastard cops tried to blame me for it. I just ran.”
He saw the familiar vision of blood running down his forearms.
Her face.
His hands.
“I’m sorry, Harv. Did you get to say goodbye?”
He had.
“No. She was gone before I got there. I checked for her heartbeat. I knew how it looked. The pen, all the blood, our history… er. I just got out of there.”
Harvey saw nothing on the Kid’s face.
“You had to. You’re smart like that. You always know.”
“You’re right, Kid. That’s how you stay…”
Two car doors shut loudly outside.
“Check, Kid.”
The hulk glided to the window and peered out.
“Looks like Chimp and Lucky. I guess they got ’im. I see a big-ass bag.”
Harvey wondered whether they had remembered to bolt the chair down, then dismissed it.
“Don’t let them in. Stop them at the door, Kid. Showtime.”
“You got it, Butcher.”
He stepped outside and shut the door softly behind him. There was mumbling, then it got loud for a moment, then the crunch of footsteps signaled the handoff.
The door opened and the Kid walked through with a burlap sack on his back. Gently, he laid it down on the linoleum.
Then he closed the door and bolted it shut.
“Edward Allen Teller. Tough to be you right now.”
The bag whined and squirmed.
“Get him a bit more comfortable, would you, Kid?”
The Kid untied the rawhide strap that bound the top of the bag, spilling its contents carefully onto the patterned floral kitchen floor.
Edward, a portly man in a torn collared shirt, one loafer, and stained white briefs, lay in the fetal position. He struggled to pry his arms from his knees.
“You can untie him,” the Butcher said. “He’s not gonna run. Give him one of the Hamm’s too.”
The Kid obeyed, cut the man’s bonds, and placed him on the chair. The Butcher stood in front of the lights to shade him as the broken man tried to drink a beer.
“I wish they hadn’t hit your mouth.” The Butcher shook his head. “It’s very unprofessional. I’ve got some whiskey if that’s better for you.”
The man only made choking noises. It could have been crying.
“Whatever they want you to do to me, you don’t have to.
“I don’t know anything.
“I don’t mean anything.
“I don’t know anything.”
“We know,” the Butcher said.
“I don’t understand. I’m just a psychiatrist.”
“How ironic.”
“You see irony?”
“Yes.”
The Butcher smiled pleasantly.
Edward looked around and saw the trailer, the men, and the table full of tools.
“Oh my god. I have money. What do you want? Please. God. What’s all that on that table right there?”
He rattled around in the chair.
The Kid laid a big hand on his back and soothed him while he hyperventilated.
“I’ll get you another beer. Chugalug. It helps.”
The Butcher moved away, unleashing the spotlights and blinding the man.
“I’ve always been fascinated with how people think,” he said, “like you, I’d imagine. I figured knowing people would give me an advantage.”
He thumped the table with his knuckle.
“People like me need the advantage, you know? It’s how you stay alive.”
The Kid looked at the Butcher.
“Think about it. Psychology today. Everyone has an armchair and a diagnosis.
“Would you agree?”
The Butcher waited.
Edward had missed it.
“Okay. Say you ask some random dick on the street, ‘What do you think executioners were like?’
“What do you think their first guess would be?”
The Kid cracked a beer for himself and the man, then tossed a third to the Butcher.
“Sadist, I bet they’d say. Something perverted,” the Butcher continued. “As if the man himself were the one to cast judgment.”
Edward looked at the table, its tools, and its possibilities, and asked the only question that mattered.
“… executioner?”
“Exactly,” the Butcher said. “A completely man-made concept, like murder.”
The Kid stood silently watching.
“It’s just called killing everywhere else.”
Edward sat, waiting for whatever was to come. He hoped uselessly that this would be the worst of it.
The Kid said, “You can’t just strip away words though, right?”
Edward’s head snapped to the Kid.
“What do you mean?” asked the Butcher. “Why not? We created them.”
The Kid sat down again with his beer and spoke freely.
“Sure, but for a reason. If you feel really bad, the first thing you do is name it. When you’re young, you learn things like that.
“A monster is more scary than a wolf.”
The Butcher squinted.
“Fair. Consider this, then. What if I told you executioners worked as healers more often than killers? Would you believe me?”
The Kid looked at him.
“I’ve learned to believe you, Butcher.”
Edward could see it now, and it horrified him, because he knew exactly how to classify it.
“Apprentice,” he whispered to himself.
The Butcher dismissed him and spoke to the Kid.
“Who else knows the human body better than an executioner?”
There was no answer, so he continued.
“The torturer. The man who can beat you bloody for days on end.”
“Holy shit,” said Edward.
“That’s the part you never consider. The man stretching your arms massages your joints at night. He breaketh, he maketh.”
“Using the same hands,” The Kid added.
Now the Butcher turned down the spotlights and sat across from Edward. He took another sip of Hamm’s.
“Edward Allen Teller. Are you feeling any better now that you’re out of that sack?”
“Does it matter?”
“To us, no,” the Butcher said. “Society doesn’t care about men like you.
“They act like you don’t exist. Conveniently forgotten to exploit the world, until it becomes too inconvenient to ignore and someone makes the call.
“You know why you’re here with us, don’t you?”
The Butcher lit a cigarette.
“You would never say it out loud. You’re not like that.
“But you’ve laid awake thinking about it, worrying out a plan and knowing this day would come.”
It took a moment for Edward to reply.
“Exploit? Jesus.
“I help people. I help them understand themselves. I give them a chance at stability, no matter what twisted philosophy you’ve crafted.”
He panted a few times after finishing.
“Delusions of grandeur,” the Kid said eventually.
“Delusions? I help my patients every day. Not a delusion. It’s a verifiable fact.
“Every child that comes to see me, I helped them.”
The Butcher smiled. He was sure it was true.
Pure evil didn’t exist. As far as he was aware, Dr. Teller was a fantastic psychiatrist. He had made a difference.
The Kid stood up, all six foot seven inches. He paused a moment as he walked to the cooler.
“Delusions that you were in control.
“None of us are in control.
“Only reaching.
“We all play the game we know until someone else ends it for us.”
He flipped the cooler shut again.
“We’re out of beer.”
“Good thing Ed passed on the whiskey,” the Butcher said. “Tomorrow we’ll do a run.”
The Kid stood over Edward for a moment, rather than return to his seat.
“What I don’t understand is how you could do this to your wife,” the Butcher said. “Once everything comes out, she’s going to be obliterated by the press.”
“My wife?”
“Oh, now you consider,” the Kid said.
Edward blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Elizabeth Teller,” added the Butcher.
Everyone saw Edward wince.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Her daughter,” the Butcher reminded. “You know.”
“Your daughter,” the Kid understood.
He moved in front of him now, unsure of what to do with himself.
“Andrea,” Edward said quickly, but they saw. “She’s my stepdaughter.”
Edward no longer recognized the Kid. He looked at the door and remembered he was unrestrained.
“So you picked her then,” the Kid said with no room for question.
“Yes, I guess so. It was a package deal, you know.”
It wasn’t, thought the Butcher.
“How old is she now?” the Butcher asked.
“She’s… uh.” Edward cleared his throat. “She’s in fourth grade now. I married her mom when she was still an infant.”
“That’s young. What happened to her dad?”
Edward could hear the Kid’s breathing now.
“He…” The doctor hesitated. “He took his own life.”
“That’s sad,” the Butcher said. “Did you know him?”
“Yes.”
Now the Butcher could hear the Kid’s breathing, too.
“Kid, please. I need you to focus. Take a step outside if you need to.”
“Butch, I know.”
He paced while his big chest heaved, but he did not move to leave. He stared at the man sitting in front of the dimmed lights.
“I can just see it.”
“See what?” Edward asked. “What?”
“Brain doctor. Suicide. How’d you meet him?”
“He had already seen three other doctors before me. I helped him the best I could.”
“I’m sure,” said the Kid. “How long was he your patient?”
“Two years. We were making progress before it happened.”
“Good job, Doc,” said the Butcher, “but that story doesn’t make sense.”
“But he helped kids?”
Edward looked at the door again.
“Pretty close, Kid. Dr. Teller specialized in domestic violence cases.”
“My. My. My wife’s first husband.” Edward swallowed. “My wife’s first husband was a very violent man.
“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but she was so relieved after.
“I’m sorry if this story hits home for you, Kid.
“It’s a terrible thing to experience domestic violence.”
“Careful, Doc,” the Butcher said.
The Kid was mumbling to himself now.
“Boyo. Hey.”
The Butcher snapped his fingers twice and tossed the flask from his pocket to the giant.
“Save it. You’ll get a turn.”
The Kid took a few deep swallows. It helped, but he needed something else.
“Okay, bud. You can pop him one. Just to get it out of the way,” the Butcher said. “We got more talking though, so don’t let it rip.”
The Kid’s left hand flashed out, breaking Edward’s nose effortlessly. Blood flowed down the front of him as he stared emptily at the ceiling.
“Good one. Gonna take a bit for him to come back online, though.”
The Butcher took a swig from the flask.
“I used my off hand,” the Kid said. “I was really mad, though.”
“Yeah. I saw, bud. It’s okay. You’ll get there.”
The man lay motionless for long enough they began to worry. The Butcher whistled at him.
“Ed. Ed. Come back to my lights. We’ve got stuff to do.”
Eventually his eyes regained focus, and Edward was with them again.
“Please don’t hit me again. Oh my god.” His mouth was a mess.
“Did you convince him to commit suicide?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“Kid.”
“Wait. Fuck.”
The Butcher flicked his dead cigarette.
Edward said quickly, “Janet Knox was thrown through a second story window by her former husband. I talked with her for over seven hundred hours.
I went to her son's high school graduation last year. Her husband is in prison because of my testimony.”
The Butcher stopped for a moment.
“This is a trailer, not a court. And I already know the answer.”
Edward cried silently.
“Yes,” Edward said. “I did.”
“Good job. I’m impressed. Not many men can kill without lifting a finger.”
The Kid watched the Butcher.
“You would know,” Edward said.
“Oh? How so?”
Edward turned now.
“Kid. Please. Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s using you. You don’t have to listen to him.”
The Kid kept looking at the Butcher.
“Shut up, Ed.”
Edward pressed, watching the Kid as he stared at the Butcher. He no longer thought about the door.
“I helped that little girl. I gave her a home. I cared about her. I protected her.”
Edward took a moment to breathe and said: “I loved her. Help me, please. Do the same for me, Kid.”
The Kid’s gaze did not waver from the Butcher’s face.
“Hear that, Kid? He’s a savior.”
Edward shook his head. “You’re right, Kid. Labels matter.
“I’m not a monster. I killed a bad man. But I did it for the right reason. I did it for the love of a little girl.”
The Butcher chose to say nothing.
They held a long, thoughtful silence.
“Love” was all the Kid said, while looking at the Butcher.
“That’s right,” said the Butcher. “He loved her.”
“With all my heart,” Edward said. “Please let me go back to her.”
“Your daughter?” the Kid asked Edward.
“Stepdaughter,” said the Butcher.
“I raised her. If I hadn’t done what I did, her life would be…”
“That’s who he’s really thinking about,” the Butcher said.
“Andrea. From the moment she was brought into your office. A helpless little girl in need of shining armor.”
“You’re trying to pollute me,” Edward said. “She was a helpless little baby with bruises. How dare you.”
The Butcher said nothing for a moment, then continued.
“He breaketh, he maketh, huh Doc?”
“Sometimes you have to hurt to help,” the Kid said.
Edward said nothing.
“And sometimes you have to help yourself. Right, Doc?” said the Butcher.
“Don’t let him talk you into something, Kid. I know you’ve heard it. Little holes in his stories. Past memories that don’t match up right.
“Think about it.”
And the Kid did.
“He was a teacher.”
The Butcher watched.
“I bet he was,” Edward said. “Teachers know which ones need the most attention. The special ones.”
The Kid looked at the Butcher.
“He was married too…”
The Butcher took another sip.
“What did he do to her, Kid?” Edward asked. “Why isn’t he with her right now?”
The Kid thought.
“You’re not him. You’re not a monster,” the doctor said.
The Kid said, “I’m pretty sure he killed her.
“Sometimes it’s with scissors. Sometimes it’s with a pen.
“One time she wasn’t a teacher either.
“I’m not sure. Most of the time it’s the same, though.”
No one said anything.
“Keeping the story straight can be tough,” the Butcher offered finally. “But intention is seventy-five percent of the lie.”
Edward watched the Kid.
“You were brought to us for a reason, Ed,” said the Kid. “We take orders. We sit, smoke cigarettes. Drink. We wait for the delivery, then…”
“Bingo, bango,” said the Butcher.
Edward looked at the door again, but the Kid was there.
“We all play the game ’til we don’t,” the Kid said.
“This isn’t a game. It’s my life.”
The Kid looked at him for a long moment.
“Do you think Andrea would call me a savior too?”
The Butcher looked away as the Kid reached for the table.