One spring afternoon Hoskins drives out to Sterling Correctional Facility. Seever is in the hospital wing, confined to his bed—he had a heart attack not long after getting the news about Gloria, and about Secondhand, crimes that had nothing to do with Seever but had everything to do with him, and he’s been bedridden ever since. It’s still about a year until his execution, if it doesn’t get caught up in legalities and pushed back, but Hoskins has a feeling Seever won’t be making it to his own execution. Seever’s a man on his way out, his heart getting one beat closer to finally bailing. In his hospital bed Seever looks more like one of the victims they’d pulled from his crawl space than his old self.
“Hey, you fat fuck,” Hoskins says, and Seever’s head turns on the pillow to look at him, but there’s no flare of recognition, no answering gleam. This man in the bed isn’t Seever—this is a pale specter, a man who’s been giving bits of himself away—to Hoskins and Loren, to Sammie, and Ethan, little slivers that stuck with them like rusty needles, jammed in their hearts and wouldn’t let go—and there’s not enough left here to make a whole man. Not anymore. “This is it. I came to say goodbye. I’m never gonna waste my time thinking about you again.”
Seever’s lips are moving, he’s trying to say something or maybe he’s delirious, but Hoskins doesn’t stop to listen, because he doesn’t care. He’s wasted too much of the past few years dealing with the damage Seever has done to his life.
He leaves the prison, points his car back toward Denver. He needs to check on his father, but Joe’s adjusting well to the old folks’ home, he’s better than he’s been in a long time, he’s happy. Hoskins’ll stop in and see him, then he’ll go home, put his feet up, and watch some TV. Take a nap and meet Ted for drinks, do some work. He wishes he could forget Seever, forget how Sammie looked on the floor of that house, her eyes distant and shiny as Dean screamed, and Ethan Hobbs, on his side, a single runner of blood leaking from his nose. Hoskins wants to forget it all, but he’ll be happy enough if it would blur and fade, like a photograph left out in the sun. That would be enough.
FADE TO BLACK
JACKY
Summer 2007
He throws one big party during the summer, holds it in his backyard, a place he’s made perfect for people to gather. When they first moved in, the backyard was nothing but rocks and sand, and it took years and a goodish amount of money to level things out and put down sod and plant trees and have the pond dug, but anything that looks effortless is always expensive. But even with the perfect backyard, it takes time to get set up for the annual summer barbecue. Tables have to be set up on the lawn, fairy lights strung through the branches of the shrubs, tiki lanterns plunged into the ground, floating candles set loose on the pond. And the food—there’s always more than enough, because if there’s one thing Jacky doesn’t like, it’s the thought of people not having enough to eat, of having anyone walk away from his house and not be bursting at the seams.
The barbecue invitations go out three weeks before, and this year it’s a luau theme, and Gloria is wearing a grass skirt and passing out those flowered necklaces at the door. And there’s a pig, an actual pig with a metal pole jammed right down its mouth and poking out its ass, and it seems to be grinning, pleased as punch to be included in the ceremonies. But there’s a grill too, for anyone who doesn’t care for pork, where Jacky stands and flips hamburgers and hot dogs, chicken legs soaked in BBQ sauce. Everyone stops by to speak to him, at least once, because Jacky’s the master of ceremonies at these things, he’s the man of the hour, the Grand Poobah. They tell him how much they appreciate the party, how much everyone looks forward to it all year long. They hug Jacky, clap him on the shoulder, slap him on the fat of the arm. And Jacky glows from the pleasure of it, of all these people having a good time because of him, what he’s done, and he stands at the grill with a spatula in one hand and a cold beer in the other, looking out over the crowd, watching the pretty girls spin to the music and the men put their heads close together and laugh, and he’s not thinking how low he’ll be tomorrow, how he’ll shut himself in the guest bedroom and lie in the dark for two days straight, how he’s already hidden three bags of potato chips and boxes of malted balls under the bed because that’s all he’ll want, he’s been through this before, he knows what to expect. He’s not thinking of that now, because right now the sun is out and the breeze is cool, and nothing smells bad, no one’s going to complain today, the only thing anyone can smell is the roasting meat, and Gloria is waving at him, smiling, her wedding ring catching the light. And soon it’s late in the afternoon, the sun is low and the wind has picked up but people still keep showing up, parking three blocks over, sometimes more, but Jacky doesn’t mind, he waves everyone in, saying that everyone’s welcome, there’s always room for one more.