Past Due - Past Due Part 49
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Past Due Part 49

"Okay," he said as his laughter dissolved into a fit of coughs. "Yeah, I'm kidding."

"It was just a joke?"

"Got ya, you little bastard."

I did a little shaky thing, like I was skived to the bone. "What the hell's gotten into you?"

"You know, life would be an all right thing if they could pull a plastic snake out of your throat every night."

"But just remember," I said, "no matter how good you feel right now, things will eventually turn to shit."

"I know it."

"That's just the way of it for us."

"You're preaching to the converted."

"Good. Just so long as we're clear."

"We are. So" - he again put his hand on my arm, gave me a wink - "how's the love life?"

"Stop it," I said, even as his laughter began again.

It only took the dinner tray to sour his mood. Salisbury steak, overcooked peas, something blue. He dropped his fork with disgust.

"I can't stand it in here no more," he said. "They should just sharpen their damn knives and get it over with."

"Don't worry, they will."

He let out a hearty curse. Now that was my dad.

"So what happened?" I said.

"I told you. The drug."

"No, with the girl. In that room. With the old guy."

"Curious, are you?"

"Yeah. You know. I've been thinking about it."

"So have I. For a lot longer than you."

"Okay. So what happened?"

"I told you," he said. "She kissed me. She put her hand on the back of my neck, pressed me toward her, and she kissed me. And, son of a bitch, I kissed her back."

He kisses her back. Her hand at the back of his neck, his eyes closed, the softness, the wetness, the warmth of her mouth. He lets the electricity slide through him, numb him, he loses himself in the moment and lets the moment expand until it stretches out in four dimensions and he is adrift in the sensation, no here nor there, no then, just now, just her, just the feel of her hand, the pressure of her lips, the silvery slickness of her tongue. Until she pulls away, and he opens his eyes, and he falls back into the bloody hell of that treasure room, with the old man dead at his feet.

He sees it all again, the confrontation, the box of coins slamming into the old man's scalp, the old man dropping to the floor. My father is in a panic, his mind races out of control. What to do? Where to run? Who to tell?

What have you done? he says to her. What are we going to do?

But he slows down when he sees her pretty face, the sharp blue of her eyes, the calm of her features.

"It was like she was taking a walk in the park," he said. "It was like nothing had happened."

I know where the jewelry is, she says.

What are you talking about?

I know where everything is, she says.

Do you realize what you've done?

It was an accident, she says. You know that. Jesse, it was an accident.

They're going to catch us and kill us, he says.

No they won't.

They will.

They can't. We were never here. We have alibis.

Who?

Each other. Jesse. You and me. You promised we'd be together forever and now we will. Now we have no choice. Darling.

She steps toward him and he steps away. He stares at her, this woman, his love, this stranger. He stares at her even as she reaches out to him.

"It was like I never seen her before. 'Who are you?' I said to her."

Who are you? he says.

Jesse, she says, her eyes brightening. Listen to me. Pull yourself together. Jesse. Listen. I know where everything is.

I don't want anything from here, he says.

But of course you do, she says, reaching down to take hold of the box of coins, which she clutches to her chest. We deserve this, she says. Still holding on to the box she reaches up and grabs a fistful of pearls. He owes us this. We can't begin with nothing.

Stop, he says.

We need this to get started with our lives. We can't begin with nothing.

No, he says.

I can't begin with nothing.

Don't, he says.

But she does. She pulls down more pearls, she grabs a handful of diamond-encrusted broaches, jade figurines, beautiful ivory carvings. Her arms are filled with the old man's treasures, all of it smeared now with the old man's blood.

Stop, he says. But she doesn't stop, and with each piece of treasure she pulls from the shelves it is as if she is yanking the dreams straight from his chest, handful by handful.

He finally stops her physically, takes control of himself and then control of her, grabs her by the shoulders, spins her around so she is facing him.

Stop, he says again. We can't take anything. We have to clean everything. Do you understand?

And maybe she does, or maybe she is just frightened by what she sees in my father's eyes, for her face turns as pale as the old man's and, still with all the treasures in her arms, she backs away.

He looks around, grabs a throw from off one of the chairs, begins wiping the room, cleaning what blood he can off the shelves, the chairs, the table. He takes the objects from her arms, one by one, wipes them, replaces them, one by one, while she looks on, quiet and pale, as if the shock of what she has done has finally hit her. He takes the objects from her one by one and she lets him.

But when he tries to take the box, she holds fast, clutches it to her chest and won't let go.

We need to leave, he says.

Okay.

We can take nothing, he says.

Okay.

Give me the box.

Okay, she says, but she won't let go, she holds tightly to the box, the very box with which she shattered three lives, and he doesn't have the heart to wrench this final scrap of wood from her grasp.

He takes a last look around, a last look at his dearest dreams lying shattered on the bloody floor, and switches off the light.

"We stepped outside the room," he said, "and closed the door behind us. I used the throw to wipe away our fingerprints as we went. We slipped out the mud room window, out into the night. And we went home."

Home, home to his one-room apartment in North Philadelphia, where just that morning he had felt the infinite promise of the future pour through him. He lies in his bed, with his love asleep by his side, her head resting on his chest, feeling the tickle of her hair as he prayed he would feel each night for the rest of his life. But now the room feels small, cramped, the walls are closing in on him.

She groggily opens her eyes, she smiles at him, that same lovely smile that just hours before had been able to light the darkest corners of his heart. Together forever, she says. Just like we promised. And then her eyes close and she falls back to sleep and in her slumber she looks so much like an angel, his Angel, that to look at her physically hurts.

"But the box," whispered my father, his eyes now closed, his voice faint. "The damn box."

It is still there, the wooden box with Atlas on the lid. It sits on the bureau, atop the bloody throw, the box glowing in the moonlight. And it is as if the box itself is sucking the promise from the room, and, along with the promise, the very air. The weight of her head on his chest is constricting his breathing. He's having a hard time breathing. He coughs, he fights for breath.

"Are you okay, Dad?" I said, as my father struggled to catch his breath.

He didn't answer, he was lost in the memory, his heart rate soared.

I shook him softly. "Dad?"

His eyes popped open. He startled at the sight of me. "What?"

"Dad? Should I get a nurse?"

"No," he said, coughing again. "I'm all right," he said, gasping still for breath.

"Dad?"

"I was just remembering," he said. "Remembering the way I felt that night in my room. The way I felt ever since."

"And how was that?"

"Like an animal," he said. "Like an animal caught in a trap. Waiting to be put out of my misery. Waiting for the blessing of a shot to the head."

Chapter.

58.

A DARK BLUE Taurus was parked outside the entrance to the hospital. As soon as I stepped through the hospital doors, the car's lights turned on and it started ominously toward me.

I backed away.

The car kept coming.

I thought of turning and running, of loosing a high-pitched squeal and then fleeing for my life, but I fought the urge. Whatever end fate had in store for me, I doubted it involved being run over by a Taurus. An Eldorado maybe, a Lincoln Town Car, even a Lumina, sure, but not a Taurus.

I stepped back. The car slid to a halt beside me, the front window hissed down.

Slocum.

"What happened to the Chevette?" I said.

"I'm a supervisor now, higher pay grade."

"K. Lawrence Slocum, living large in his Taurus."

"You want a ride home?"

"Not in a Taurus."

"Get in."

"My car's in the lot."

"Get in anyway. I'll bring you back after."

"After what?"