.
Vicodin.
When Archie had agreed to check himself into rehab, Henry had gone through his apartment, gathered up every last painkiller he could find, and flushed them all down the toilet.
Henry knew Archie, knew to go through all of Archie’s pants pockets, his jackets. But Henry had never thought to look for Vicodin in Archie’s other pill bottles. Where better to hide
them?
Now Archie eyed the Vicodin in his hand. He still ached for them, for the bitter chalky taste, for the flush of pleasure that came ten minutes later.
He liked to take them out and look at them. Sometimes he lined them up on the back of the toilet tank, counted them. He liked knowing they were there. But he was already letting the pills drop
from his fist back into the Prilosec bottle when he heard his phone.
He screwed the cap back on the bottle, put everything away in the medicine cabinet, and returned to his bedroom, where his phone was ringing insistently on the bedside table.
When he’d broken it, he’d knocked out the battery and split the casing into two pieces. He’d put the battery back in and secured it all together with duct tape.
Apparently, it still worked. There were some advantages to not having a smartphone.
He picked it up and sat down on the bed.
“Hello, Patrick,” he said.
“Did I wake you up?” Patrick asked.
“No,” Archie said, rubbing his eyes. “I was already up.”
“I’m seeing that counselor again,” Patrick said.
“I’m glad,” Archie said.
“Can I come visit you?” Patrick asked, and Archie could hear the pleading in his voice.
“Not right now,” Archie said.
“Are you mad at me?” Patrick asked.
It broke Archie’s heart. “Look,” he said, “even if your parents agreed, I can’t take care of a kid right now.” He couldn’t even take care of his own
kids with his schedule. If he got a homicide call in the middle of the night on a weekend he had the kids, he had to bundle them up and take them back to their mom’s. They’d go to bed
at his house and wake up at hers, which wasn’t ideal for anyone.
“Archie?” Patrick asked.
“What?”
Archie could hear Patrick breathing.
“I think my parents are scared of me,” Patrick said.
“They’re just scared,” Archie said. “Not of you. Just generally. They’re worried about you. And they’re worried about saying or doing the wrong
thing.”
“Really?” Patrick said.
“Yeah,” Archie said.
Archie heard Patrick yawn. “I’m tired,” Patrick said. “I’m going to say good-bye now.”
“Talk to your counselor, Patrick,” Archie said. “Okay? Tell him what you told me. It’s okay. He can help you.”
“Uh-huh,” Patrick said, and then he hung up.
Archie set his phone back on the bedside table.
His knuckles were still raw, the fresh scabs ringed with pink. His hand had been wet when he had poured the Vicodin into it, and the pills had melted a little, leaving a white chalky
residue.
Archie lifted his palm to his mouth and licked it.
The next time Archie’s phone rang his bedroom was filled with the milky light of early morning. He was still half asleep when he picked up the
phone.
“Look out your window,” Henry said.
Archie sat up and wrapped a sheet around his waist. “Which one?”
“West.”
He walked to his bedroom’s westward-facing window. A warm breeze came in through the open window, along with the sour scent of rot from the flood. The west side was ablaze with morning.
The jagged tree line of the West Hills was bright against the sky. Windows winked at him. The river sparkled. It took a minute for Archie to register the smudge of gray against the sky to the
north, and then trace it back, to the west side of the Burnside Bridge, where several fire trucks and at least five patrol cars were parked, emergency lights blinking. Traffic was backed up across
the bridge.
“Can you see it?” Henry asked.
Portland didn’t have many visual landmarks. Its blush skyline. Mount
Vicodin.
When Archie had agreed to check himself into rehab, Henry had gone through his apartment, gathered up every last painkiller he could find, and flushed them all down the toilet.
Henry knew Archie, knew to go through all of Archie’s pants pockets, his jackets. But Henry had never thought to look for Vicodin in Archie’s other pill bottles. Where better to hide
them?
Now Archie eyed the Vicodin in his hand. He still ached for them, for the bitter chalky taste, for the flush of pleasure that came ten minutes later.
He liked to take them out and look at them. Sometimes he lined them up on the back of the toilet tank, counted them. He liked knowing they were there. But he was already letting the pills drop
from his fist back into the Prilosec bottle when he heard his phone.
He screwed the cap back on the bottle, put everything away in the medicine cabinet, and returned to his bedroom, where his phone was ringing insistently on the bedside table.
When he’d broken it, he’d knocked out the battery and split the casing into two pieces. He’d put the battery back in and secured it all together with duct tape.
Apparently, it still worked. There were some advantages to not having a smartphone.
He picked it up and sat down on the bed.
“Hello, Patrick,” he said.
“Did I wake you up?” Patrick asked.
“No,” Archie said, rubbing his eyes. “I was already up.”
“I’m seeing that counselor again,” Patrick said.
“I’m glad,” Archie said.
“Can I come visit you?” Patrick asked, and Archie could hear the pleading in his voice.
“Not right now,” Archie said.
“Are you mad at me?” Patrick asked.
It broke Archie’s heart. “Look,” he said, “even if your parents agreed, I can’t take care of a kid right now.” He couldn’t even take care of his own
kids with his schedule. If he got a homicide call in the middle of the night on a weekend he had the kids, he had to bundle them up and take them back to their mom’s. They’d go to bed
at his house and wake up at hers, which wasn’t ideal for anyone.
“Archie?” Patrick asked.
“What?”
Archie could hear Patrick breathing.
“I think my parents are scared of me,” Patrick said.
“They’re just scared,” Archie said. “Not of you. Just generally. They’re worried about you. And they’re worried about saying or doing the wrong
thing.”
“Really?” Patrick said.
“Yeah,” Archie said.
Archie heard Patrick yawn. “I’m tired,” Patrick said. “I’m going to say good-bye now.”
“Talk to your counselor, Patrick,” Archie said. “Okay? Tell him what you told me. It’s okay. He can help you.”
“Uh-huh,” Patrick said, and then he hung up.
Archie set his phone back on the bedside table.
His knuckles were still raw, the fresh scabs ringed with pink. His hand had been wet when he had poured the Vicodin into it, and the pills had melted a little, leaving a white chalky
residue.
Archie lifted his palm to his mouth and licked it.
The next time Archie’s phone rang his bedroom was filled with the milky light of early morning. He was still half asleep when he picked up the
phone.
“Look out your window,” Henry said.
Archie sat up and wrapped a sheet around his waist. “Which one?”
“West.”
He walked to his bedroom’s westward-facing window. A warm breeze came in through the open window, along with the sour scent of rot from the flood. The west side was ablaze with morning.
The jagged tree line of the West Hills was bright against the sky. Windows winked at him. The river sparkled. It took a minute for Archie to register the smudge of gray against the sky to the
north, and then trace it back, to the west side of the Burnside Bridge, where several fire trucks and at least five patrol cars were parked, emergency lights blinking. Traffic was backed up across
the bridge.
“Can you see it?” Henry asked.
Portland didn’t have many visual landmarks. Its blush skyline. Mount
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