Drew Davies stared into his coffee and exhaled, swirling the thin
tendrils of steam that rose from the hot drink. He put both hands
around the mug, feeling the warmth, and sighed. “I already told
you everything. I don't know what else you want me to say.”
Officer Antione Gates wrote in his notebook and took a sip of
coffee. “I'm sorry, Drew, you know I'm just doing my job.”
He stood up from the table and brought his mug over to the kitchen
counter, poured the rest of his coffee down the drain and rinsed his
glass. He looked out the window and stared quietly for a minute.
“Steve's motorcycle, right?” Officer Gates pointed to the
driveway, where two wheels poked out from under a dark green storage
cover.
“Yeah.”
“Doesn't look like it's been used for a while.”
“It's been at least two years.”
“Did he ever make it to Sturgis? I remember he always talked
about that in high school.”
Drew walked over to the fridge and slid a picture out from
underneath a magnet. “Five years ago.” He handed the
picture to Officer Gates. A young man, black jeans and black t-shirt,
dark sunglasses, sat on a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy motorcycle, its
chrome glinting in the sunlight. Hundreds of bikes stretched out
behind the man, clogging the wide street.
“Good for him.” Officer Gates headed towards the door,
then stopped and turned back towards Drew. “Oh, yeah, one quick
question. I talked to a couple of people who thought that there was
no way Steve could have done it. What do you think about that?”
“I talked to Brad yesterday. He warned me that you were
fishing for something. You saw the same thing I did, I don't know
what you're hoping to find. My brother did it, all by himself. What
other explanation is there?” Drew shoved his hands into his
pockets and stared into Officer Gates' eyes.
“You're right. I saw it, too. Oh, I think this is yours.”
He pulled a plastic yellow ball from his pocket and tossed it to
Drew. Officer Gates turned and walked out the door.
“Yeah, this is mine.”
* * * *
* * *
“Thanks for coming,” Drew said, shaking hands with Brad
Stenson, Steve's business partner.
“Of course. I still can't believe what he did. I swear, I
never thought he would do something like that.” Brad ran his
hands through his hair. “Have you talked to Gates yet? He was
in the office this morning for almost an hour. I think he's looking
for something, but won't come out and ask it directly.”
“No, we haven't talked yet. He's going to come over tomorrow
morning for coffee.”
“I'm sorry, this isn't what we should be talking about now.
There are lots of people who want to talk to you. I'll see you
around.” Brad shook Drew's hand, gave him a pat on the
shoulder, and walked away.
Drew looked at the group of people milling around, dressed in somber
black suits and conservative dresses. He nodded to men that he knew
and endured hugs from older ladies as he crossed the room. Soft piano
music filtered into the room from overhead speakers. He stopped,
placing his hands on top of the casket.
“Steve was a good man.” Drew turned to see Vanessa,
Steve's high-school sweetheart and one-time fiance. “I can't
believe he's gone. He's too young.”
Drew tensed, his fingers pressing hard to the top of the oaken
casket.
“I know you're mad at me,” Vanessa continued, “I
know you think I shouldn't have left him. You probably think that I
should have supported him more. I'm sorry. Please forgive me.”
She placed her hands on top of Drew's. “Please, I can't stand
to have you mad at me, on top of all this. I know how hard it's been
for you, I've felt this loss, too.”
Drew lifted his hands away and looked her directly in the eyes. “You
have no idea how hard it's been for me. You don't know what he was
like to live with. You don't know what I had to do. You left.”
“I know. But I had to think about myself. He was so difficult
to live with. I needed freedom.”
“Well, you got it.” Drew turned and walked away, facing
straight ahead, ignoring the dull murmer of the crowd, focusing on
the door.
* * * *
* * *
“215 Ash Street! My brother is dead!”
Drew threw the phone down and ran into the bathroom. Steve's body
was on the floor, eyes open, staring blankly into the pool of blood
around his head.
“Dammit, Steve! Why couldn't you have been stronger?”
Drew slowly sat down on the floor next to his brother's body, gently
lifting Steve's head onto his lap. Wiping the blood from his hands
onto his pants, he used his thumb and forefinger to close Steve's
eyes.
Drew didn't notice when the sound of sirens got louder, or when his
front door banged open. He was still staring at his brother's quiet
face and stroking his brother's hair when the first paramedic entered
the room. The paramedic knelt down and felt Steve's neck for a pulse.
“Are you hurt at all, sir?” he asked Drew.
“What? No. I'm fine.”
Officer Antoine Gates stepped into the bathroom with another
paramedic. “Jesus Christ, Drew, what happened here?”
Kneeling down, he pulled a cloth from his pocket and used it to pick
up a black pistol.
“He wasn't strong enough. He just wasn't strong enough.”
Officer Gates set the gun back down and walked over to the sink.
Bending down, he picked up a ball, yellow and slightly squishy, and
placed it in a plastic baggie. “Drew, these men need to do
their job. Let me help you up.” Drew carefully placed his
brother's head back on the floor, and took hold of Officer Gates'
hand.
Officer Gates' nose wrinkled as he lifted Drew off the floor. “Drew,
do I smell gunpowder on you? What happened?”
“I tried to stop him, but I was too late. I had my hand on his
when he pulled the trigger. I couldn't stop him.” Drew held up
his hands, shaking and blood stained.
“I'm so sorry, Drew. I know this has been a tough time for you
guys, but I never expected it to end like this.”
“I didn't either. I honestly didn't.”
* * * *
* * *
“Steve?” Drew walked through the house, looking for his
brother. He went into Steve's room, and saw the door to his private
bathroom closed. Putting his ear to the door, he heard quiet crying
from in the room. He opened the door and entered. “Are you OK
Steve?”
He saw Steve on the floor, his wheelchair next to the shower. Steve
was leaning against the wall, and a gun was in his lap.
“I can't.” Steve said, the words slow and slurred. He
looked up at Drew, tears streaming down his face. “I can't.”
“It's OK, Steve. It'll be OK.” Drew sat down on the
linoleum floor, slowly reached out and took the Glock 21 away from
his brother. The black polymer body of the gun was cool to the touch,
and Drew carefully removed the magazine from the handle of the gun,
then set them down on the floor, away from his brother.
“No!” Steve's shout was low, and followed by a slow
wheeze. “I can't.” He reached to his side and
picked up a bright yellow ball from the floor. It was made of squishy
plastic, the size of a tennis ball, with a smiley face on one side.
Steve attempted to squeeze the ball, but his fingers only made small
indentations in the plastic. “Too late.”
Steve let go of the ball, and it bounced off his knee and rolled
underneath the pedastal sink, resting next to the white marble base.
He slumped over, his head resting on the floor, and began to sob.
“Steve, I'm so sorry. Come on, stop it, we'll get through
this. There's still that clinical trial I told you about, remember?”
Drew slid over to Steve, lifted up his head and put it in his lap.
“We'll keep fighting, right to the end.”
“I want to die. You promised.” The words were slow, and
muffled, and slurred, but Drew heard them clearly. When Steve was
newly diagnosed, they had talked at length about how vigorously to
fight the disease. Steve was a fighter – a strong, bold young
man who tackled problems the same way that he took down opposing
players as an All-Conference linebacker at Central High. Steve made
it clear that the thing he feared the most was wasting away, a
prisoner in his own body.
“I'll fight this as long and as hard as I can, but once I
start to lose, I'm going to end it.”
The brothers were sitting in a waiting room at Memorial Hospital. A
coffee table was in front of them, plastic covered copies of Good
Housekeeping and Sports
Illustrated scattered on top.
“What are you talking about? We're going to beat this thing.”
“Come on, Drew, you and I both know what's going to happen. At
some point I'm going to be stuck in a wheelchair with a tube in my
throat. I won't be able to eat, or breathe, or wipe my own ass. I'm
not going to end up like that. When I start going downhill, I'm going
to use the Glock. Screw it.”
Drew put his head in his hands. “Stop it, Steve, don't talk
like that. You can't kill yourself.”
“I will. And don't even try to stop me. It's happening already
- I couldn't even use the twenty pound weights this morning. I could
pick up fifteen, but not twenty.”
“Yeah, but there's exercises you can do to help strengthen
your hands. And there's all kinds of new research and medicines
they're developing. You don't need to talk about killing yourself.”
Steve grabbed Drew's head in both hands and pulled his face towards
him. “I will try all the exercises and drugs that I can,
because I am scared to death of dying. But it absolutely freaks me
out to think of being trapped in a body that can't do anything. I
would rather be dead. You have to promise me, brother to brother,
that when I decide to do it, you won't stop me.” Steve panted,
taking a deep breath. “Promise.”
“OK, I promise. It's your decision to make. I promise.”
Drew picked up the Glock, and slowly clicked the magazine into
place. “I promised.” He placed the gun in Steve's right
hand, curling his forefinger around the trigger. “I promised.”
He covered Steve's hand with his own, lifted the gun and placed the
barrell to his brother's temple.
Steve looked into his brother's eyes, blinked away tears, and
nodded, slightly. He closed his eyes and tensed, and Drew squeezed
his hand. The sound of the gun resonated in the small room, and it
was all Drew could hear, even as the gun clattered to the floor and
Steve's body collapsed in a heap. Drew stared at the wall, looked at
his hands, and closed his eyes.
“I promised.”
