Free The Life We Bury by Allen Eskens Page A

you're interrupting, he'll let you know. Carl may be dropping weight like a snowman in a skillet, but don't underestimate him.”
    I made my way back to Carl, who was now chuckling over something the other man had said. Carl had never smiled in my presence, and the lift it brought to his face shed years. He saw me coming and his smile withered as if he were a child being brought in from play. “There's the pup now,” he sighed.
    The man with Carl looked up at me with an odd indifference, holding out his hand for me to shake. “Hey, Pup,” he said.
    â€œSome folks call me Joe,” I said.
    â€œThat's right,” Carl said, “Joe the writer.”
    â€œActually, it's Joe the college student,” I said. “I'm not a writer, it's just an assignment.”
    â€œI'm Virgil…the painter,” the man said.
    â€œPainter, as in Dutch master or Dutch Boy,” I asked.
    â€œMostly Dutch Boy,” he said. “I paint houses and such. But I do a little canvas work for my own enjoyment.”
    â€œDon't let him buffalo you, Joe,” Carl said. “Virgil here's a regular Jackson Pollock. Too bad that's when he's trying to paint houses.” Carl and Virgil laughed at that, but I didn't understand the reference. Later I would look up Jackson Pollock on the Internet to see his paintings, which resembled something a toddler could have concocted with a plate full of spaghetti and a temper tantrum; I got the joke.
    â€œMr. Iverson—” I started.
    â€œCall me Carl,” he said.
    â€œCarl, I was hoping I could get you to sign this for me.”
    â€œWhat's that?”
    â€œIt's a release. It'll let me see your trial file,” I said hesitantly. “I need two collateral sources for the biography.”
    â€œAh, young pup here doesn't believe I'll be truthful with him,” Carl said to Virgil. “He thinks I'll hide the monster that lurks inside of me.”
    Virgil shook his head and looked away.
    â€œI don't mean any disrespect,” I said. “It's just that a friend of mine…well, not so much a friend as a neighbor, thought I could get a better understanding of you if I took a look at the trial stuff.”
    â€œYour friend couldn't be more wrong,” Virgil said. “If you really want to know the truth about Carl here, the trial's the last place you'd look.”
    â€œIt's okay, Virg,” Carl said. “I don't mind. Hell, that old file's been collecting dust for thirty years now. Probably doesn't exist anymore.”
    Virgil leaned forward over his knees then stood up slowly, using his arms to raise himself off the chair, like a man far older than he appeared to be. Brushing the wrinkles out of his slacks, he grabbed the worn handle of a hickory cane that leaned against the wall near him. “I'm gonna grab some coffee. Want some?”
    I didn't answer, as I figured he wasn't talking to me. Carl pursed his lips, shook his head no, and Virgil walked away with a practiced but unnatural gait, his right leg bending and snapping straight with mechanical rigidity. I looked closer at the rustle of his pant leg just above his shoe and saw the unmistakable glint of metal where his ankle should have been.
    I turned back to Carl, feeling as if I owed him an apology, as if I had called him a liar by wanting to check his story against the file—which is exactly what I planned to do.
    â€œI'm sorry, Mr. Iver—I mean, Carl. I wasn't trying to insult you.”
    â€œThat's alright, Joe,” Carl said. “Virgil can be a bit overprotective of me. We've known each other a long time.”
    â€œAre you related?” I asked.
    Carl thought for a moment and then said, “We're brothers…by fire, not by blood.” His eyes turned back to the window, his gaze lost in a memory that robbed his cheeks of their color. After a moment he said, “Got a pen?”
    â€œA pen?”
    â€œTo sign that paper you