Goodnight Beautiful(56)

I take the Kleenex box from the table and extend it to him.

“My mom and I devised a foolproof plan,” Sam continues, pulling a tissue. “My dad and I would leave our seats at the top of the ninth. Get there in time, but not so early that we’d miss a lot of the game.” He falls silent.

I clear my throat. “And?”

“And then this girl shows up in the seat in front of us, and I knew right away I was fucked. ‘His weakness,’ that’s how he’d describe a pretty woman any time the two of us were together.” He swallows back more tears. “Top of the ninth rolls around, and my dad’s got his fingers hooked around her belt loop, whispering something in her ear. I couldn’t pull him away. He told me to go by myself, and I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” I ask, gently.

“I was afraid of what would happen if I left the two of them alone. I was afraid he’d cheat on my mom if I wasn’t there to watch him.” He starts to cry again. “And so I stayed. Missed the one chance I’d ever have to meet my hero.” He blows his nose. “I don’t know what’s worse. That my dad cheated anyway, or the sight of my mom standing in the living room window when we pulled into the driveway the next morning. ‘So?’ she asked, all excited. ‘Did you get his autograph?’”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. “I just held up my bat and showed her the black scrawl of Cal Ripken’s autograph, which I drew myself in the car ten minutes before we got home.”

“Oh, Sam,” I say. “You’re such a good man.”

He smiles. “And you’re a good clinician.”

“What?”

“You have a mind for this work,” he says, blowing his nose. “I’ve never shared any of this before. It feels good to talk to you.”

“That’s like Van Gogh telling a street painter he has talent,” I say, blushing.

Sam laughs and then presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Good lord. I need a nap.”

“Of course,” I say, standing up and returning to the cart. “You should rest.”

“Thank you, Albert,” Sam says as I hand him the pills. “And you know what? I’ve been thinking about something.” He hesitates. “You want to have that drink?”

“Drink?” I ask.

“Yeah, the one I turned down the night of the storm. I don’t know about you, but I sure could use a stiff cocktail.”

“Sure,” I say, exhilarated. “When?”

Sam shrugs. “I’ll have to check my calendar, but I’m pretty sure I’m free tonight. Six p.m. work?”

“Six p.m.,” I repeat, as I watch him toss the pills into his mouth. “I’d like that very much.”





Chapter 39




Sam checks the clock on the table beside him—three minutes to six—and then taps the waistband of his sweatpants one more time, making sure the pills are still there. Six of them, which he’d spit out after Albert left the room over the past two days, hiding them in his pillowcase. It hasn’t been easy. The pills put him to sleep almost immediately, and given all his options, sleep consistently ranks high on the list, but it’s all been worth it for this moment.

He closes his eyes and imagines it again: slyly dropping the pills into Albert’s drink. Two sips, and Albert’s speech will slur. Three, confusion and drowsiness will set in. By the fourth he’ll be unconscious, at which point Sam will strangle him and then, for good measure, stab him with the putty knife tucked under his thigh. His beloved four-inch putty knife, which he’s kept hidden under the mattress, carefully smoothing away every remnant of wallpaper paste, polishing it until it glows. He envisions it piercing the soft spot on Albert’s temple, again and again, watching that sad, deranged brain unspool all over whatever dumb college sweatshirt Albert will be wearing tonight.

Sam closes his eyes and sighs. Freud was right. Aggression really is as satisfying as sex.

The clock strikes six, and Sam hears the key in the lock.

“Hey there, heartbreaker,” Albert says, sticking his head into the room. “You ready?”

Sam smiles. “Sure am.”

Albert steps inside, leaves the door open, and parks the cart near the wall. It’s set with two glasses and something hidden under a yellow dish towel. “I have a surprise for you,” Albert says, excited. He pulls the towel off the bottle with a flourish.

“Johnnie Walker Blue.” Sam is stunned. “How did you know—”

“That this is your go-to drink on special occasions? You said so, in the interview with the newspaper. Question number twelve.”

“Didn’t know you saw that,” Sam says, surprised.

“My mother instilled me with an appreciation for local journalism,” he says, turning his back to Sam. “I read the paper religiously and remember you mentioned this drink.”

“Lucky for me,” Sam says. And he means it, too. Not only is it the world’s finest scotch, it’s also going to deal quite a blow when mixed with a gazillion milligrams of whatever the hell these pills are.

“You sure do have expensive taste,” Albert says.

Sam nods and keeps his eyes on the bottle in Albert’s hand.