“And you were you in the choir?”
“I was nine. I believe participation was considered somewhat mandatory.”
“Don't tell me: you guys did ‘The Little Drummer Boy?’ ”
“Of course.”
“And your dad? He did a drum solo?”
“Such was the plan. Christmas Eve, I helped my father haul his drums up to the choir loft. Set up the kit. It was all good. At least when we rehearsed.”
“What? He'd started drinking again?”
“He never stopped, Danny. He just told my mother he had. He lied to her. Made me lie to her as well.”
“No way. You lied to your own mother? On Christmas Eve?”
“At the time, I would have told you I was protecting her from the truth.”
“What happened?”
“Midnight mass. Hundreds of parishioners pack the pews. All of sudden, there's this tremendous commotion up in the choir loft. Drums topple over. Cymbals crash to the floor. Microphones squeal. My father was so drunk he slid off his stool and took everything down with him.”
I probably shouldn't laugh. So I just chuckle.
“It only lasted a few seconds. My father climbed back onto his stool and was able to pound out the requisite pa-rum-pum-pum-pums. After mass, my mother asked me about the noise, asked me what happened.”
“What'd you tell her?”
“I told her the choir director tripped on a microphone cord.”
“You lied?” I'm amazed.
“The children of drunks grow very accustomed to telling lies, Danny. It quickly becomes one's hardwired first response.”
“Come on. Give yourself a break. You were just a kid.”
“I know.”
“You didn't want to ruin Christmas for your mom.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe I was afraid of what my father might do to me if I told her the truth. In any event, I am not proud of my actions that evening.”
“You were nine years old!”
“Yes. And it was a minor transgression. However, if I had told my mother the truth that Christmas, perhaps she would have seen my father for what he really was. Perhaps she could have escaped.”
“Man, you're blowing it way out of proportion.”
“Perhaps. But actions, no matter how slight or insignificant, have ripple effects, Danny. Unintended consequences.”
I think I understand where Ceepak's going with this.
“So you think something small we did back in nineteen ninety-six, some ‘minor transgression’ turned into a big, major deal for this guy Wheezer?”
“It's a possibility. ‘You'll never remember. I'll never forget.’ ”
“Yeah.”
“Try to remember, Danny. Try hard.”
Ceepak stands.
“Stay here. Keep an eye on Katie. Get some sleep if you can. Try to remember.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Around seven P.M., Christine brings me a pillow.
Around seven fifteen, I fall asleep sideways on the couch.
Suddenly Christine is shaking my shoulder. It's morning. “She asked for you.”
“Whaa?” I forget where I am, why my breath stinks. Why is Christine waking me up? Are we even dating?
“Katie,” she says and shakes my shoulder some more.
My brain sputters, I blink. It's like the grumpy superintendent inside my skull shuffles over to the circuit breaker box, flicks the switches, lights me up for another day.
“Katie,” I mumble. I remember Katie.
“She asked for you.”
“She's awake?”
“Come on.”
Christine takes my hand and leads me into Katie's room.
Katie's eyes are open. There's a thin smile on her dry, cracked lips.
“Danny.”
“Hey.”
I reach for her hand. Christine nods. It's okay.
I take Katie's hand into mine and would squeeze it but I see they have an IV needle jabbed in near the thin tendons. So, I stroke her hand instead. I rub it gently, like I'm petting some newborn kitten.
There's a bunch of water blurring my eyes. I've got a lump in my throat the size of a meatball. I can't believe I'm seeing her emerald green eyes open and looking back at me.
“Danny.” She sighs, closes her eyes, and smiles like she's having a really good dream.
“Let her rest,” Christine suggests.
“Is she …?”
“Yeah, she is, Danny. She's going to be okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I'll go grab you a chair. You can sit with her.”
She drags a vinyl chair into the room.
“Thanks.”
“She's on the mend,” she says. “But she needs to rest.”
About a half hour later, the doctor comes in and sees me sitting next to Katie's bed.
“How is she?” he asks.
“She, you know, recognized me.”
“So I heard.” He scribbles some stuff on the clipboard hanging off the foot of her bed. “That's very good news.”
The doctor leaves. I resume staring at Katie while she sleeps.
Every now and then, her green eyes flutter open, focus on me, and she smiles. Then, her eyelids flicker shut and she drifts off. I think a couple of those IV bags are pumping down pain medicine, the kind that makes you drowsy. Katie should definitely avoid operating any heavy machinery for the next few days.
My mind is spinning. I wish I'd had one of those dreams last night where all is revealed. A dream where the real Wheezer stands up like in that old TV game show To Tell the Truth. No such luck.
Maybe one of the other guys figured it out. Probably Olivia. She's the smartest. I check the cell phone clipped to my belt. No new messages. The others have probably all gone home with their police escorts. They're sitting somewhere right now like I am, with the word “Wheezer” running around their heads like a hopped-up hamster.
“Wheezer.” I whisper it. “Wheezy, Wheezer, Weasel.”
It's becoming a chant, like saying the rosary, which is something I forget how to do but I remember it involved a lot of mumbling of the same words over and over.
“Wheezer, wiener, weenie, wienerschnitzel, weenie, weasel, wheezy, wheezer …”
“Danny?”
Katie. I must've been mumbling louder than I thought.
“Hey.” I push myself out of the chair and move up to her pillow. I slide a sweaty strand of red hair out of her eyes.
“Don't,” she says.
“Sorry.” I take my hand off her hair. Guess her forehead hurts.
“Don't.”
I'm not doing anything.
“Don't do what?”
“Don't tease Weese.”
Her eyes close. She drifts back to sleep.
I remember.
Weese.
“Wheezer” is George Weese.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
August something-or-other, 1996.
Summer days all kind of blur together in a lazy haze. But that one day, whenever it was, was different. Not hugely different, just different enough.
I think it sent out those ripple effects Ceepak warned me about.
It was almost the end of August, during “Back to School Savings Time.” The TV was already running that Staples commercial about the “Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” The old Christmas song plays in the background while a happy dad pilots his shopping cart up and down the aisles, chucking in paper and notebooks and pens and all the supplies his sad little children need before they head back to school.
What we did to George Weese that day was really no big deal. Honest. It was just one of those stupid things bored kids do, especially kids who are fifteen and sixteen. When you're that age, you never realize that some of what you do is pretty awful. I was, basically, a teenage boy trying to figure out how to become a man-I mean, besides the obvious hormone and hair stuff.
I wanted to be my own man, not just somebody's son.
My friends and I hung out on Oak Beach almost every day. We lived in our own little world. We all had summer jobs and, like the song says, “Money got made, money got spent.” We laughed and listened to music and cruised the boardwalk and chased girls we didn't even know. We were trying hard to be cool and we thought we were.