On a drizzly September mornin’, James McMurphy, drug ‘n alcohol counselor, was found face down on his desk. Dead. The tip of his pointin’ finger was glued precisely at the end of the last sentence of the last entry of Irma Nelson’s file. Like a period. Three days before McMurphy’s murder, Irma had brought homemade oatmeal cookies to our therapy group. McMurphy went right off the Richter Scale. Ranted that Irma needed to quit takin’ care of others ‘n deal with her own problems. My opinion: Irma was okay. McMurphy was the one brushin’ at imaginary dust ‘n not wantin’ to shake our hands, like we might contaminate him or somethin’. ‘Course, who’s gonna lissen to Sally Whitewater—call me Sal—half-breed Indian.
The next mornin’, Irma was dead. Booze ‘n pills. McMurphy acted like he didn’ do nothin’.
Soon as smoke break came, all of us stood outside in the parkin’ lot, puffin’ our cancer sticks and bitchin’.
Carol Johnson grimaced, twistin’ her model-perfect face into somethin’ ugly. “I feel like using my daddy’s .22 to shoot old, point-a-finger-in-your-face!”
Rita Anders snarled, but it only made her look like a puppy snappin’ at shadows. “I’d like to take that cushion Irma gave me and hold it over Mr.-Don’t-Touch-Me’s face. All the while I’d chant the Serenity Prayer Irma embroidered on it.”
Carol gave a vigorous nod. “You can do that while I shoot ‘em.”
“Yeah,” Ray Perazon chuckled. “You could chant that line about ‘changing the things we can.’”
“This is no joking matter.” Richard Semafore sniffed, then waved a hand to chase cigarette smoke from around him. “Irma was a good woman, a decent human being. McMurphy kept harassing her until he pushed her over the edge. I don’t care what the cops say, McMurphy killed her the same as if he’d poured that alcohol and those prescription drugs down her throat.”
Me ‘n Jeff Georges, my best friend, glanced at the little tax man. Everything ‘bout Semafore drooped, like a newspaper left out in the rain. he pinched a piece of lint from the lapel of his suit jacket. Between thumb ‘n forefinger, he carefully rolled it into a tiny ball that he pocketed.
Carol laced an arm through his. “Maybe someone will give McMurphy what he deserves.”
Rita agreed with a firm nod.
“Now that’s a dream, if I ever heard one.” Bitterness edged his next words. “There isn’t any justice unless you have bookoo bucks. That leaves out all of us as well as Irma.” He glanced at his watch then stomped his cigarette butt into the parkin’ lot. “Break’s over. Best get back before McMurphy calls my probation officer.” Hands in his jean pockets, he left.
****
Walkin’ home after our AA meetin’ the next evenin’, me ‘n Georges noticed Semafore’s brand new Volvo parked in front of Carol’s rundown apartment buildin’. “Huh, I didn’t know they were seeing each other,” Georges said.
I shrugged. “Me neither.”
The followin’ mornin’, someone pounded on my door at seven-thirty. Leavin’ my coffee sittin’ on the kitchen table, I stomped across the livin’ room, ready to read someone the riot act. I yanked open the door and my lip curled. “Whatcha doin’ here, Simons?” Arms crossed, I glared at him.
He stared down his long nose at me like I was some kinda bug he was thinkin’ of squishin’. “I need to come in and ask you some questions.”
“You ain’t spreadin’ your stink in my house. Ask where you are. An’ make it quick. My coffee’s gettin’ cold.”
His eyes squinched shut ‘n I knew he’d whap me a good’n if he could get away with it. Last time he did though, Georges’ attorney friend got me a nice lil’ bit of money from the cops. “Why’d you skip your one-on-one session with McMurphy last night?”
While his beefy shoulders gave a who-cares shrug, his pasty-white face turned red with anger. “You can answer my questions here or at the station.”
“An’ I could sit there waitin’ for my attorney to hand your ass to you again. This time for harassment.” I dished his shrug back at ‘im. Only mine was real. I didn’ give a crap what he thought. “But, hey, I’m reasonable. Judge only sentenced me to four months. Night before last was my final required session.”
He flipped his notebook open ‘n pretended to read. Lookin’ up, he said, “A week after you entered McMurphy’s group, you threatened him. You said, and I’m quoting you, that ‘if he didn’t back off, he might become one of the ghosts of the past.’ What did you mean by that?”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I was gonna drop outta his group.”
“Yeah, sure.” Simons snorted. “Where were you last night?”
Arms folded across my chest, I said, “What’s all this ‘bout?”
“Just answer the question,” he snapped.
One brow lifted, I sneered. “Depends what time ya talkin’ ‘bout.”
Forehead wrinkled in a scowl, he growled, “Between midnight and five-forty-five this morning.”
“In bed. Asleep. By myself.” My spine stiffened, but I carefully kept my slouch. “Why?”
Eyes locked on my face, he said, “McMurphy’s dead.”
With a shake of my head, I grinned. “If ya waitin’ for me to cry, you’ll be waitin’ ‘til Hell freezes over. All I gotta say is good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Nostrils flared ‘n his cheeks flushed redder than ever. “We found the weapon. A .22, just like the one you shot your ex with.”
“That’s nice.” He’d finally given me what I needed. “So, go question whoever it belongs to.” I shoved away from the wall ‘n let my arms fall to my sides.
“She reported the gun stolen day before yesterday.”
I stepped to the side ‘n took hold of the edge of my door. “Your prob; not mine.”
Eyes narrowed, he held my glare. “We also found a throw pillow with McMurphy’s blood on it. It had the Serenity Prayer on it.”
“Hooray for you.” I began to ease the door shut. “Now all you gotta do is find the owner of the pillow.”
Simons slapped his hand against the door, keepin’ it from closin’. “Your rap sheet has a B and E on it.”
“I was drunk ‘n it was my ex’s place. ‘N I only took what he stole from me first. ‘Sides, I did my time on that ‘n finished up that stupid group thing. You got nothin’ on me.” I cocked my head. “Why you messin’ with me? I wasn’t the only one in that group who hated McMurphy.”
“You’re the only one with a record of real violence. Hell, even Georges’ only knifed a guy. Besides, the crime scene is way too neat to be a man’s work. Men just aren’t that neat. ”
Thinkin’ ‘bout my apartment, I had to swallow hard to keep from laughin’ in Simon’s face. I’ve been accused of lotsa stuff in my life, but neat ain’t never been one of ‘em. With my laugh finally swallowed down, I said, “I was drunk when I shot my ex. He figgered I was the one who broke into his house. He come here ‘n kicked in my door ‘n then beat the Hell outta me. He woulda killed me if I hadn’ shot ‘im. You cops ‘n the judge didn’ seem to care ‘bout that lil’ fact. So, he walked ‘n I went to jail. ‘N you cops took my gun. End of story.”
Simons started to say somethin’, but his radio crackled. Most folks can’ understand the garbled junk that comes from cop radios—especially with all their silly codes—but I’ve lissened ‘nuff in my life that I got it as good as the cops.
Simons mumbled a reply then turned back to me. “I’ll be back to talk to you some more.”
“Yeah, right.” I made sure he saw me roll my eyes.
Georges ‘n me had dinner at his house that night. I told him ‘bout Simons’ visit.
“Hmmph!” Georges grunted. “Was over here early this morning, even before my first cup of coffee. Claimed he knew I’d threatened McMurphy.” He wiped the clean stove top for the fifth time. “Told him that threats go with the territory.” Neatly foldin’ the dish towel into three equal sections, Georges hung it over the towel rack next to the cupboards.
****
It’s been a year now since McMurphy killed Irma. A friend of mine at the cop shop said the cops’ve stuck McMurphy’s murder into the cold case files with a jillion others.
Georges ‘n me went over to Italio Ristorante. When Georges ‘n me got thirty days sober, Irma took us there even though she didn’ have no more money than us. She looked at us so proud; like she was our momma or somethin’. This night we toasted Irma’s life with good food ‘n four pots of coffee—the way most sober drunks celebrate. In the candlelight, I looked across at Georges. “You been pokin’ at McMurphy’s killin’ all this time I was out learnin’ how to be a landscaper.”
“Couldn’t resist.” He refolded the linen napkin then placed it precisely next to his empty plate.
“Let me see if I got this right. Carol reported her gun missin’ but really gave it to Semafore. So, why use Rita’s embroidered pillow?”
Georges moved his plate aside ‘n folded his big hands on the table. “Semafore pulled the trigger, but they all killed McMurphy.” He leaned over his hands. “They increased their risk factors, but they decreased their guilt factor and bolstered the courage factor. The one thing we all learned at AA meetings is that, with a group’s help and support, we can do what we can’t do alone. It’s the premise of getting sober through AA.”
I slowly shook my head. “Why? Why take that kinda risk at all?”
Georges leaned back against the soft leather of the booth. “To stay sober.”
“What!”
“Despair and helplessness inevitably lead to alcohol and drug use. We were all feeling that when Irma died; and, we all knew beyond a doubt that McMurphy would never pay for his sins. He would continue twisting lives and more people would die. They took control of the situation. In their own way they said, ‘we found the courage to change the things we can’ and by doing that, they overcame their despair and conquered their feelings of helplessness. ”
I fell back against the booth. “Why didn’ Ray try to find a way to kill McMurphy? You said we all felt the same kinda feelin’s.”
Georges shook his head. “I wasn’t including Ray. His narcissism is such that unless something directly and negatively impacts him, he will not respond emotionally. He’s all about Ray.”
“What about us?” Sadness clouded Georges’ eyes as he got that thousand mile stare that he sometimes had. I waited, knowing he speak when he was ready.
He blinked then looked at me. “We didn’t lose what they lost. Carol was a throwaway kid. Irma was the mother she never had. For Rita, Irma filled the ache left by Rita’s older sister dying from cancer.” Georges fell silent.
I prodded. “How ‘bout Semafore? He wasn’t even an alky. Just had one too many ‘n got caught drivin’. He shouldna’ve even been in our group.”
Georges gave me a long look. “What have I told you about judging others from their outsides rather than their insides?”
I frowned.
“Semafore lost the most of all of us. I found a photo in Irma’s house. A boy and a girl. Obviously, siblings.”
“You sayin’ Irma was Semafore’s sister?”
He nodded. “I also found a diary. Semafore’s.”
“He kept a diary? I thought that was a girly thing.”
“There you go again, judging someone based on appearances.” He smiled at me though.
“Okay, you found Semafore’s diary and Irma’s photo. Do I want to guess how you found those things?”
With a chuckle, Georges said, “I am a P.I., you know.” He sipped his coffee before he spoke again. “When Irma was nine and Semafore was seven their parents died in a suicide pact. According to Semafore’s diary, he worshipped his big sister, and she loved him just as fiercely. At first, Family Services kept them in the same foster homes. Eventually, however, they were separated and lost touch. Though he’d been searching for years, he never found his sister. Not until he entered alcohol treatment.”
“Holy Goddess,” I breathed out. “If anyone ever finds that photo and that diary….”
Georges smiled. “What photo? What diary?”