Councilman Peckham jolted awake, delirious and drenched in sweat. He sat upright in his king size bed next to Brenda, his wife of twenty years.
“Jesus, Brenda, I’m finished.”
“It’s done, Ed, now shut up and let me sleep.”
Brenda Peckham had truly had it. Married to the councilman, who was at one time one of the city’s most prominent public figures and now was one of its most notoriously and unmistakably corrupt, Brenda felt she had pretty much seen it all, and at this point she was tired of seeing it. She had come to expect, as most of the town’s residents who were involved in these sorts of things had, that nine times out of ten if something dirty went down in the town’s political proceedings, her husband had a hand in it.
The councilman had skated on so much thin ice for so long, until he finally found himself with just enough power and influence to keep one step ahead of the game, as he so often called it--one step being a major reduction from his preferred modus operandi of three or four. He was a man who was accustomed to playing the game and to usually winning--via charm, smooth talking, bribery and outright theft. His misdeeds though, albeit not without a few black eyes (both proverbial and physical), had been able to provide he and his family with a very agreeable lifestyle.
But this lifestyle was not without its consequences. As Peckham grew older he found himself also growing closer to mental collapse. There was so much guilt. There were so many horrible things he had done. He began to experience highly intense periods of doubt, self-loathing and trepidation.
The land in question was developed into Marshall Playground, featuring tennis courts, a baseball field, a playground, and about an acre of underdeveloped natural woodlands, that the local kids in the neighborhood took to making their own. A community grew around Marshall Playground, and it was a community of which Ed Peckham, his wife Brenda and their eight-year-old son were an active part. Picnics and baseball games permeated the park’s history and its users’ memories.
But eleven years later it had eventually come out that Peckham and his sub-committee had never actually overseen the park’s cleanup. Until a reporter from the Boston Globe wrote a story about expropriated chemical sites in Massachusetts and their connection to high cancer rates in the area, the group had been regarded in the community as heroes. But the writer’s research eventually led her to Peckham’s sub-committee and their blatant lack of follow-through and regard for public safety; their grossly outlandish display of negligence and misappropriation, as the woman had written it.
When the reporter had called Peckham and asked about the records of the work order for the chemical cleanup, he knew it was the first of many such phone calls. She eventually had obtained his home number, throwing him off his already feeble guard. The reporter’s voice was knowing and crisp through the receiver.
“Councilman Peckham, how is it that there are no public records of the work order for this cleanup? Was your office not responsible for the overseeing of this project and the filing of the associated paperwork, because I can‘t seem to track any of it down.”
Peckham knew he was screwed. He boldly told her that the cleanup had indeed occurred and that he didn’t know what happened to the paperwork but would have his secretary track it down. He also told her he was unaware of a high cancer rate in the area.
“I’ve lived in the area myself for over twenty years and everyone I know in the area is fine,” he heard himself choke out before abruptly hanging up.
The councilman was rattled. He knew he had given the reporter shaky responses at best. Everyone in the area knew about the high cancer rate. It’d be like asking someone in West Virginia if they had ever heard of black lung. He felt transparent, even over the phone.
Since the subsequent article had come out Ed had lost his job and was awaiting his criminal trial hearing in the matter. He slept very little and began to lose weight. His beard grew ragged and unkempt. He couldn‘t bring himself to go down and clean out his office.
He immediately chopped out and snorted another large line and got dressed. He was not exactly sure what was compelling him to do so, but he knew he had to get out of the house. He walked out into the moonlight, and down toward the seawall that guarded his and the other big, ornate homes from the unpredictable winds and tides of the mouth of the river on his left.
Walking along the seawall, he turned right on Perkins St. and up toward Marshall Playground. He knew there was nothing he could do now, as he absently walked through the playground. He remembered teaching his son, who was now off at college in Colorado, to catch a baseball right where he stood.
He found himself pulled toward the thicket of pricker bushes beyond the outfield. He passed through the gap in the sagging chain link fence, overrun with marsh reeds and wildflowers, that led into the neighborhood kids’ homemade BMX trails, a series of winding narrow passages made out of mud and tree stumps, that the local kids stunt-jumped their bikes off of.
He passed through the opening and walked over the muddied trails, a thin stream of mucus dripping from one of his raw nostrils. Snorting furiously, as some defiant act against the drip at the back of his throat. Peckham knew kids drank and partied out here and that the trails were dangerous as hell, but as he carefully navigated the muddy path in his loafers, cocaine dripping from his nose and down his throat, miserable and dejected, he couldn’t help but envy the fun these kids were having.
His shoe sunk deeply into the muddied trail, squishing the roach from some teenager’s joint firmly into the mud underneath his loafer. He missed his son more than ever.
