Gunmetal Blue Read online

  “This is not a thriller, but a brilliantly constructed piece of existentialism that addresses fundamental issues within a distinctly modern American context. Five years after a murder, Topp is still utterly at a loss about how or why he should carry on living, and engaged in friendships which he finds essential but unfulfilling. Yet the themes covered are not simply universal but also reflective of the specific issues which dominate modern America. Many of the characters are struggling financially, hovering on the edge economically, dependent on others and fearful of what awaits them. Yet it is the topic of guns which contemporary readers will find most powerful. Topp’s wife has been killed in the most horrifying way, but Peterson never lectures us or presents a factual debate about gun death. Art’s only form of recreation with his closest male friend is to go to the shooting range, and we are given a beautiful description of a hunter bagging a full-grown caribou. We are brought to the point where we understand the appeal of guns, and it is the sense of power they give combined with the terrible ease with which they are acquired which does most to teach us how terrible this blight is.”

  - Stephen Grant, author of Spanish Light

  Advance Praise for

  GUNMETAL BLUE

  “Joseph G. Peterson doesn’t write books—he builds literary houses out of brick-solid sentences and fills those houses with characters who understand the effort it takes to survive. Narrated by Art Topp, a widower, a hapless father, and the city’s laziest private eye, this is a story of family and guns and murder, and the compassion it takes to overcome all three. Here, women who should be retired still wait tables. Here, daughters can’t stand their dads. Here, a best friend shoots off an Uzi to feel alive but still lives at home with his ancient mom. A bitter husband shows up for coffee with a loaded Glock. A dead wife speaks advice from the other side. I’ve read and greatly enjoyed all of Joseph Peterson’s books but Gunmetal Blue is sadder and funnier and more tender than anything he’s written. Chicago, lock up your guns and open your bookshelves to let Joe Peterson in. Gunmetal Blue is a book that wants every life to matter. Read these pages and you’ll understand why.”

  - Dave Newman, author of The Poem Factory and Two Small Birds

  Other Books by Joseph G. Peterson

  Novels

  Gunmetal Blue - 2017

  Gideon's Confession - 2014

  Inside the Whale: A Novel in Verse - 2012

  Wanted: Elevator Man - 2012

  Beautiful Piece - 2009

  Short Stories

  Twilight of the Idiots - 2015

  GUNMETAL BLUE

  JOSEPH G. PETERSON

  TORTOISE BOOKS

  CHICAGO, IL

  FIRST EDITION, DECEMBER, 2017

  ©2017 Joseph G. Peterson

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Convention

  Published in the United States by Tortoise Books

  www.tortoisebooks.com

  ASIN: XXX

  ISBN-10: 0998632562

  ISBN-13: 978-0998632568

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, scenes and situations are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover image by Christine Peterson

  Tortoise Books Logo Copyright ©2017 by Tortoise Books. Original artwork by Rachele O’Hare.

  For my brothers, Mike & Bob

  Did you kiss the dead body

  Harold Pinter

  Police Seek Clues in Jewelers Row Killing

  By Martin Dorsey

  A 42-year-old woman was found dead of multiple gunshot wounds Tuesday evening in a building in the 200 block of South Wabash Avenue. Police spokesperson Lt. Marc Céspedes says the woman, Adeleine Topp, was discovered shortly after 6:00 p.m. in the offices of the Triple A Detective AAAgency by her husband Art Topp, the agency’s owner. Chicago police are investigating whether the murder was related to Topp’s work as a private detective, but stress that they haven’t ruled out any suspects. Funeral services will be held 10:00 a.m. Tuesday at Drake & Sons Funeral Home, followed by internment at Rosehill Cemetery.

  PART I: SHOT

  I tip the cabdriver and head up the hill to the cemetery. It was such a day five years ago, cloudless and coldish, that we buried my wife, and now revisiting this cemetery puts me in mind of that day.

  What parts of that time do I want to forget? What parts do I want to remember?

  I sincerely want to forget telling my daughter her mother had just been killed.

  I sincerely want to forget the look on my daughter’s face when I told her her mother had just been killed.

  I sincerely want to forget the sound of her book bag dropping in the hallway as I told her her mother had just been killed.

  The sound of her book bag—clunk—and then: What do you mean, Dad?

  Your mother was shot and killed at my office.

  What?

  Your mother’s body was found at my office. She was shot and killed.

  Dad, Mom never visits your office. You’ve got to be joking.

  Shot her not once but seventeen times.

  Daddy.

  I wish I were joking.

  Daddy, where’s Mom? Please.

  They took her away to the morgue.

  I want to forget that my daughter had to live through that.

  I want to forget that my daughter had to watch her mother buried.

  I want to forget that I stood with my high school daughter over her mother’s grave.

  I want to forget that it was a day such as this that destroyed my family life.

  I had a wonderful family life. We had a wonderful family life. We live to have family, to build a family, to live a life within the family. We don’t live to watch the family destruct. But apparently so. Apparently we were put on earth to learn both happy truths and terrible truths. I can’t bear the terrible truths. I can’t bear them.

  Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself.

  And so I am.

  The leaves on the trees are falling. They wiggle on the stem and the wind pulls them away.

  The eternal hearse pulls into an eternal graveyard trailing terrible truths, which are eternal. Who is it today that has come to die?

  You’re just depressed.

  Am not.

  Yes you are.

  A line of vehicles pulls into the cemetery. A freshly dug grave is open, right next to my wife’s. I walk up behind to see who has died this time. Family members, grief-stricken, stumble out of three limos. An assortment of other folks step from their cars. And behind those, a school bus, from which a bunch of high school kids tumble. Young high school girls are crying just like my Meg cried on the day her mom was buried. Boys wearing football jerseys weep openly. Confused.

  Catch them, Meg told me after the funeral.

  Catch who?

  Daddy, this is no time for joking. Whatever you do, promise me you’ll catch whoever did this.

  I didn’t know we raised such an uncompromising person.

  Get who killed Mom. Please.

  I don’t know if I can do this, darling. Honestly, I’m too close to the case. I don’t know if I can catch who did this. It’s too ghoulish. I’m suffocating, if you know what I mean.

  I’m suffocating. It’s me who’s dying here. It’s your daughter. Find out who killed Mom. I don’t trust anyone else to get it right. You must find out who did it.

  But the cops are already on the case, and until it’s solved, I’m one of the subjects of their investigation.

  You are?

  Well they said in the paper they haven’t ruled anyone out. I don’t want to mess it up. Conflict of interest, that sort of thing. Honey, please. L
et the police work it out. I have absolute faith in them.

  Still, Daddy. You must find out who did this. I won’t take no for an answer.

  No.

  Daddy!

  OK, I’ll see what I can do.

  Please.

  OK, but no guarantees.

  And another thing, I hate you so much for taking Mom away from me I promise I will never talk to you again, ever!

  •

  It was in this cemetery, too—Ha! Ha!—I met Rita, all those years ago.

  She was mourning the death of her mom—crying near her mom’s gave, which just so happens was near my wife’s grave.

  From the ashes grows a flower, or so I thought.

  You’re rhyming again.

  Blurt. Blurt.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  •

  Rita’s mom had died in a car accident.

  I didn’t dare tell her how my wife died. I only told her she’d died in an accident, too. Rita assumed from this that I meant car accident and I have never corrected her.

  How did your mom die? I asked her. She had showed up to the cemetery carrying fresh-cut flowers.

  Car accident.

  She wore a veil, which put her in a different era even though she was at least ten years younger than me.

  Pretty veil.

  I didn’t know what else to wear. I’m in mourning.

  How did it happen?

  My mom’s car was hit by a bus while she was waiting for the light to turn. I was at work when they called me to tell me. How did your wife die?

  Accident.

  See, she said. The road is a dangerous place. My mother’s death has taught me this.

  Yes.

  When did she die?

  Three months ago.

  Same with my wife.

  My condolences.

  Same same.

  How are you getting on?

  I miss her. I do. She was all I had. Now I feel orphaned. How about you?

  Numb.

  We stood over our respective graves. Each paying silent respect. I pulled a few weeds that had sprouted up near my wife’s tombstone. Then the two of us found a bench, sat down, and talked.

  Where you from?

  West Loop. How about you?

  Same, as a matter of fact.

  What do you do?

  An assortment of things. How about you?

  I wait tables. Hardest thing though, to wait on people. I have the hardest time serving people now that my mother’s gone.

  Yeah, I know what you mean.

  You do?

  Sure.

  Because I break down two or three times a day crying, for what I don’t know. I didn’t think it was going to be so difficult getting over my mom.

  What’s your name?

  Rita.

  Hi Rita, I’m Art.

  Hey.

  Hey.

  Some day, huh.

  You’d think it spring, only the leaves have just fallen off the trees.

  Does it bode a mild winter?

  Are winters ever mild in Chicago?

  I suppose not.

  If every day were like this, I could take it. It’s the cold that gets me. This is sweater weather.

  That’s a nice one you have on, Rita.

  Thanks. My mom has knitted every sweater I own.

  The one you have on is very lovely.

  Thank you. I’m making a vow with you.

  With me?

  I vow to only wear sweaters my mom has made. That’s my vow. Oh, and another thing. I vow to do nothing in excess.

  She smiled at me.

  I suppose it depends what your limits are, I said.

  I suppose you would be right.

  Perhaps sitting near her that day—three months after my wife passed—made me feel less alone. I don’t know. Perhaps it was the fact that she had suffered some loss of her own which made me feel as if she might understand me. Understand what I was going through. Or perhaps it was that lovely sweater. But after a bit, I asked her if she wanted to get some lunch with me.

  How ‘bout getting a bite to eat, Rita?

  I hope you’re not picking me up.

  Certainly not. Why, are you available?

  My mom just died. I want you to know that before I agree to go to lunch with you.

  I’m only offering lunch.

  All right then, let’s go.

  •

  It was the meal after the funeral—the meal to conquer grief—that I most looked forward to on that terrible day we buried my wife.

  This is the one thing I want to remember. The meal after I buried my wife.

  I had been ravenously hungry, though I don’t remember being hungry. It wasn’t until I had started to eat that I realized just how hungry I was. I was ravenous. Gluttonous. I felt like a vampire feasting on the blood of a thousand virgins.

  When I couldn’t eat any more, I continued to eat. I ate myself into a catatonic torpor and passed out in the corner while the other mourners around me caught up with each other. I was surrounded by the funeral crowd: the part of the family that only gets together at funerals. They were catching up on each other’s lives since the last funeral. I couldn’t take it. I thought I would scream. Instead, I sat somberly in the corner eating my meal. My nose down at my plate trying to consume myself into oblivion.

  •

  Go ahead, honey. Have seconds.

  Those were Adeleine’s words. That was her mantra: Have seconds, eat more. Adeleine was hugely appetitive. She loved to cook. She wasn’t one of those who was afraid of food. She ate. What’s more, she loved to watch me eat.

  How about seconds, Art?

  My weight.

  I don’t care about your weight; I married you for your appetite. It’s your appetite I’m here to serve.

  Those were Adeleine’s words. It’s your appetite I’m here to serve.

  Without Adeleine, how was I ever going to eat again?

  She was that rare cook who cooked equally well from a cookbook or from her own imagination. I loved everything she made.

  What’s for dinner tonight? I would say, coming home from work.

  Beef Stroganoff in a vodka cream sauce, Caesar salad with anchovies, cold borscht, mushroom barley soup, pickled herring, sardines, liverwurst, stuffed green peppers, fat pickles and rye bread and chocolate cake with cookies. I’ve two bottles of wine open and that bottle of chilled vodka to wash it down.

  Her Beef Stroganoff—to die for—was from an ancient family recipe. Her grandmother brought it back from Leningrad, Russia. She never passed her cooking down to our daughter, Meg. Meg is a stick. She has never liked eating. She was always fussy; she never showed an interest. As a result, the recipe for the Beef Stroganoff went with Adeleine to the grave, and I haven’t had the likes of it since. I don’t expect to.

  •

  Rita and I went to a quiet Sicilian restaurant, Giovanna’s, just down the road a block or two from the cemetery. We ordered family style: bread, sausage, hand-rolled rotini in a mushroom sauce with speck, gnocchi, veal cutlets sautéed in wine sauce, braised chicken in a lemon sauce with capers, a cheese plate, marinated peppers and a bottle of Chianti.

  We talked about this and that.

  What’s your zodiac?

  You’re not trying to pick me up?

  No. Why would I do that?

  I don’t know. My mom just died.

  How about some more gnocchi?

  Yes. I love gnocchi.

  The gnocchi here is good.

  It is better at Leo’s down the street.

  Yes, their gnocchi is very good.

  I like the pesto better here.

  The Chianti’s good.

  Here, have more.

  Thank you.

  Bread.

  Sure.

  Butter.

  Yeah.

  Olive oil.

  Please.

  More wine.

  Pour it on.

  I filled her glass.

  To
the dead.

  Here here, she said approvingly. May they rest in peace. She promptly made the sign of the cross and I looked on solemnly.

  The waiter stopped by.

  Thanks for coming. I was dying of thirst.

  Can I get you anything?

  Another bottle of wine.

  More bread.

  I’m famished.

  Me too.

  Something about grief makes me eat.

  What do you do, Art?

  All sorts of things. What about you?

  I wait tables. I work part-time at a nail salon.

  I like your nails.

  I did them myself.

  I raised my glass again. Here’s to the living.

  The living, she said.

  Clink, clink.

  The afternoon light began to wane and we were laughing over something or another and then apropos nothing at all, she said:

  Where do you want to go now?

  Let’s go downtown. My office is across the street from a lovely hotel.

  Lets, she said. Why not.

  And so our relationship was born.

  •

  I pull up behind the students who have gathered at the graveside of the world’s latest victim.

  Who died? I ask someone—a pimple-faced student standing next to me. He’s wearing a pink housecoat and slippers.

  A guy named Albert Volares. A football player. He died in a head-on-head tackle.

  How old?

  Fifteen.

  Jesus.

  I didn’t know him.

  Oh?

  I’m just here to get out of school.

  The priest stands reading psalms. Valley of evil, etc.

  The mother weeps uncontrollably. The father holds her with both arms and tries to comfort her. Apparently it was her only child.

  We wait to die. Why else were we put on this earth but to learn truths? Terrible truths.

  Are you talking to me? the kid asks.

  I suppose I am talking.

  Did you know him?

  Who?

  Albert.

  No.

  Then why are you here?

  Same reason as you. To get out of school.

  The boy looks at me like I’m crazy.