What Have We Done (56)

Reeves has only taken a couple bites and seems lost in thought. Maybe he’s outlining the book.

Taking all the material Donnie has given him so far and organizing it into some semblance of a story.

Or maybe he’s still processing the conditions Donnie grew up in. The bartender asks if they want another round and Reeves and Donnie respond simultaneously: Reeves shaking his head, Donnie nodding. Donnie laughs and says, “Okay, I’ll take his drink too, darlin’.”

The bartender—she looks like a weather-beaten New Englander—cackles.

Reeves says, “Anything reminding you of what Boo Radley means? Or what Ben was trying to tell you?”

“Nada.”

Reeves seems to be caught up in the mystery.

Donnie says, “I’m sure Benny read that mockingbird book, but I don’t remember him mentioning it. He read a lot of books. He’d get a pile from the library or Goodwill. I’d sometimes pinch him a new one from the drugstore.”

Reeves gives a nod like he’s someone who understands the love of reading. “Did he have a favorite book? I sometimes think that says a lot about a person.”

Donnie thinks on this. “He liked Hemingway.”

This elicits a crooked grin from Reeves, perhaps tired of the nickname.

“Benny read a book about Hemingway, and told me that the guy had said some racist and fucked-up shit, but Benny still loved his books.” Donnie thinks more. “He also loved lawbooks. In Philly, we used to sneak into the law library at Temple and he’d ask the law students what they were reading and track down copies on the shelves. When Ruth arrested us for stealing food, she asked us a bunch of questions. Benny gave her a hard time about not reading him the Miranda warning, and how we could tell her that we murdered someone and they’d have to throw the whole case out. He said the ‘fruit of the poisonous tree, shall set us free.’ He loved to rhyme. It made him sound like a famous lawyer he worshiped.”

“Ruth was the cop who ended up adopting him?”

Donnie nods. “She passed a few years ago.”

“How about you, Donnie?”

“How about me what?”

“You have a favorite book?”

“Damn, Hemingway, you’re still trying to get inside this head? Let me spare you the trouble, boss. I ain’t that deep.”

Reeves offers a reproachful smile.

“I went to Chestertown High, and didn’t finish ninth grade,” Donnie adds. “The last math class I had was called ‘consumer math,’ where they teach you how to add up groceries and things like that. I failed Algebra One three damn times.”

“But I’ve read the lyrics to your songs, Donnie. Some of them”—Reeves smiles—“and I mean some of them, are like poetry.”

“Why, thank you,” Donnie says, with a hint of sarcasm combined with genuine appreciation at the remark.

“I’m being serious.”

“Okay, you wanna know my favorite book? I’ll tell you the only books I ever read for fun—and I’m gonna regret telling you because if you put this in the book I’m gonna look like an idiot.”

Reeves raises his eyebrows and waits for him to continue.

“Benny used to get me these books that were collections of Calvin and Hobbes.”

“The comic strip?”

“Yeah, the one with the kid whose best friend was a tiger, but everybody else sees Hobbes as a stuffed animal. I loved those.”

“I get it.”

“How’s that?” Donnie asks, thinking Reeves may be patronizing him.

“There’s something about seeing the absurdity of the world through the eyes of a mischievous six-year-old that’s appealing.”

Donnie is impressed that Reeves didn’t turn up his nose.

Reeves continues, “I read a piece once about how Calvin and Hobbes is great literature. The comics parodied the artistic world, pondered the meaning of life, the existence of God, and the perils of mankind’s self-destructive ways.”

Donnie chuckles. “I don’t know about all that. But Calvin had this tree fort that gave me the idea for ours.” He raises a hand preemptively. “I’m not taking you there, because those woods are even scarier than the streets after dark.”

Reeves doesn’t debate him on that.

Donnie looks out the window of the bar into the gloom. “Actually, the last thing Benny ever gave me was about Calvin and Hobbes.”

Reeves looks at him, interest piqued.

“On my last visit to Philly, he gave me a magazine to read on the plane home. One of those ones fancy people read. Hell, I bet your bathroom at home is full of ’em. The New Yorker or one of those.

They ran a short story some fella wrote, fan fiction I think they call it, about Calvin on his deathbed.

In the story, Calvin’s an old man and he’s dying and his wife, the girl he always battled with in the comics, brings him his stuffed tiger to the hospital to say goodbye. It’s been years since Calvin has seen the real tiger anytime he looks at the stuffed animal. But in his final moments, his best friend

comes back to life when he needs him.” Donnie’s voice catches. It’s hard to swallow. He notices Reeves staring at him. Donnie shakes it off. “I tell you what, I was bawling my eyes out on that Spirit Airlines flight. Dude next to me thought I was crazy.”