EQMM, March-April 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Sorry!” calls the brunette. The blonde's still crouching over broken dishware. “Need any change?"

  Mr. Burke shakes his head. Needs to get after JJ.

  "You gonna be back tomorrow? Coffee's on the house."

  He waves on his way to the door.

  "Promise?” He could swear she's being flirty.

  An old man being ridiculous. He nods and shoots her a little smile and she flashes him a big one.

  * * * *

  Inside the textured-glass brick wall of an off-track betting parlor is the arm of a striped creamsicle shirt.

  Across the street in a little park, Mr. Burke sticks another photo in the day planner. JJ comes out looking tired, shoots his cuff. Sun flares off his metal watch.

  * * * *

  PIZZA D-LITE, same joint Mr. Burke ordered his dinner from. JJ's the only customer inside, eats like he's waiting for someone.

  Two men in black leather stroll in, stroll up to JJ, say a couple things. JJ grins, reaches back under his loose shirttail, pulls a thick envelope from his back pocket, offers it. That thug glances around, points to the other thug. JJ hands the envelope there.

  Black leather. Some things haven't changed. Mr. Burke's across the street in the donut shop. The plastic camera goes click.

  The second thug looks up from counting what's in the envelope, speaks to the first thug.

  The first thug looks at JJ, who explains, still chewing.

  There's a long moment. Then the first thug gives JJ a good-sport whack on the shoulder and everybody smiles except Mr. Burke, who knows what he's looking at even before the two men leave the pizza joint and cross the tree-shaded street for the donut shop, one of them already making the cell call.

  He keeps gazing out the window when they come in. Just a useless old man in a donut shop. Angles the camera on the table.

  "Two,” says the thug on the phone, glancing into the envelope. “No, just two."

  Click.

  "Do it now?” says the one on the phone. His companion raises his eyebrows, does a little two-handed gun shimmy.

  "You got it.” Hangs up, says to the eager one, “If the new one doesn't work out."

  They both look out at the pizza joint, where JJ's eating his slice. They buy coffee and leave.

  Mr. Burke pastes pictures into his day planner. Writes “If the new one doesn't work out.” Thinks about it. Draws a question mark.

  * * * *

  He watches the light in JJ's apartment window until it goes out at midnight.

  * * * *

  The pizza comes back out of the fridge, the box goes on the lace tablecloth. Mr. Burke eats it cold, reviews today's photos, looks at the photos and the words “If the new one doesn't work out."

  Draws a diagonal stroke through the 17. Two days until contact.

  The day planner goes on the dresser. The pistol goes on top of it.

  He unfolds the two sheets from the envelope.

  PLEASE DON'T KILL ME.

  Pulls the second sheet out from under it.

  "If you kill me,” reads Mr. Burke, “I'll never..."

  Drops it on the dresser and brushes his teeth.

  * * * *

  Mr. Burke looks up from the lace tablecloth. Pale flowers float in a small bowl. Sound of water.

  He can't see her, only in agonizing flashes across the table. Beloved blue eyes. Beloved pretty smile.

  Her hand reaches for his.

  * * * *

  Friday, March 18th.

  JJ leaves the same blue building in the same creamsicle shirt and leads him to the same local diner. Mr. Burke waits outside until JJ's got his ham and eggs, then goes in and sits in the same far booth. The brunette waitress comes out of the kitchen and her face lights up.

  "Hey,” she calls across the diner, and his pulse jumps and he ducks under the brim of the cap, but JJ doesn't look. “So tell the truth.” The mug slides onto the table. “Was it the free coffee or did you come for something else?"

  She's a third his age. The blonde ignores them both.

  He smiles and points at the coffee.

  * * * *

  JJ tears up his stubs at the same OTB parlor. Eats at the same pizza joint. The thugs in black leather don't appear.

  Mr. Burke crosses out the 18. Tomorrow is contact.

  Packs his small suitcase. Brushes his teeth.

  * * * *

  Saturday morning and it's cold. Mr. Burke skips the apartment and waits for JJ inside the diner. As he sits, the blonde cruises by with the coffeepot. Late thirties, good age for a woman. A big blonde, tall, the type he used to like. Crucifix necklace and a sweet smile. The soul of the diner. There was a time...

  He glances out the window, catches the eye of a transparent old man lying to himself. There was never a time. There was just the one sweet woman.

  "Hey, you.” Smile in the voice. “I need advice from a man of the world.” The brunette waitress slides the mug onto the table. “It's for my girlfriend. She's got this guy who won't talk to her.” Arches an eyebrow. “She says she's not going to force him to talk, and it's his loss.” She leans close, looks him straight in the eyes. “What do you think?"

  There's energy in this one. She intends grander things in other places. This town won't get her; she's young. A few tables over, the blonde is listening. He glances over; she glances away. Personal dramas are interesting. JJ could walk in and get interested too.

  He's thinking how to end this when outside, JJ walks past and keeps going.

  Mr. Burke fumbles in his pocket for a few bills, throws some on the table, grabs his small suitcase. Doesn't know how much he's put down—has a vague impression of a couple of twenties in the pile. Rushes past the brunette, hears an incensed “Hey!” behind him.

  Bright outside. JJ's gone, but there's only one side street he could have taken. Mr. Burke glances back as he reaches it. Both waitresses are outside the diner, the blonde still holding the coffeepot, a clutch of bills in her other hand, tilted on one foot. Both looking the wrong way.

  He takes the corner. A cul-de-sac: the local dry cleaner's, local hardware store, local liquor store. No outlet.

  No JJ.

  He whirls. The small suitcase hits his thigh. But no JJ behind him. No ambush.

  If he's in one of these shops, he's going to come out and see Mr. Burke. That can't happen.

  Cover, soldier.

  He steps back to the corner, peers quickly around. The waitresses aren't outside anymore. He can see the brunette's back and hips inside, near the register.

  JJ comes out of the dry cleaner's with a gray suit in plastic wrap. It's draped down his back, his thumb in the metal crook of the hanger.

  Mr. Burke stands staring into a nearby window, not seeing anything. It's only JJ's switching the suit to his other hand, blocking his own vision, that takes him past Mr. Burke without eye contact. Inside the plastic, the hanger paper crinkles. Mr. Burke feels the breeze from it on his neck.

  * * * *

  A barbershop near the pizza joint. The suit hangs in plastic from a coat rack. Old barber pole. Old barber. JJ gets a haircut and a shave, the haircut bringing his cheekbones into prominence, sharpening his whole face.

  Across the street in the same donut shop, Mr. Burke throws away his wadded napkin, walks out with his small suitcase, checking his watch.

  * * * *

  He boards the Long Island Rail Road toward the city, rides one stop and gets off. Crosses to the other side of the track. Opens the small suitcase, takes off the cap, puts on his hat. Waits for the next train going back where he just came from.

  Ten minutes to contact.

  * * * *

  The old man steps off the train, peering up from the photo in his hand at the big, clean-cut man waiting on the platform.

  The big man smiles. “Mr. Burke.” He lopes forward. They shake awkwardly. The points of JJ's shirt collar sit over his gray jacket lapels. The jacket lining is pink. He takes Mr. Burke's suitcase.

  They walk to a
blue pastel apartment building, where a gardener unloads a lawnmower from his truck.

  * * * *

  No clutter, warped baseboards. Bleak light from a thin-curtained window.

  JJ sets the suitcase near the kitchen door. “You'll take the bed. I'll sleep on the sofa. Next time you visit, I'll have better accommodations. Dine out, or order in?"

  "Let's stay in.” Voice husky. Mr. Burke hasn't used it in a while. He sets his hat on one of two armchairs bracketing a little table under the window.

  "We got a decent diner.” JJ gestures at the chairs, goes into the kitchen. “Been here forever. Are you really hungry? The food's good, but they're the only game in town and they only got one delivery guy."

  "That's fine."

  "Great cheeseburgers."

  Hesitation. “Good."

  "Yeah,” JJ says into the phone. “I want to order for delivery."

  He turns, phone to his ear, to see Mr. Burke adjusting his coat and sitting. The pocket gapes open briefly.

  Pistol.

  He turns back around, faces away from the old man. “Yeah, two cheeseburgers.” He gives the address and hangs up, comes back in, sits in the other chair. “About an hour and a half,” he says.

  Mr. Burke nods.

  "So I guess you're my dad,” JJ says.

  "So they tell me."

  "So they tell me too."

  "DNA tests don't lie."

  JJ shrugs. “Sometimes they do."

  "Not usually twice."

  "That's true,” JJ says. “Not usually twice.

  Nearby, a lawnmower coughs, then drones like a plane going down.

  "Scotch?” JJ rises.

  "Yes."

  From the kitchen, JJ says, “Rocks?"

  "Neat."

  The clink of cubes on glass. JJ returns with two square tumblers, gives the one with no ice to Mr. Burke. He sits. “I have to say, I'm still not used to this."

  "I know what you mean.” Mr. Burke inhales the vapor.

  "I didn't even know they had that kind of service. Did you?"

  "No."

  "Two little tests, here we are.” JJ raises his glass, waits.

  Mr. Burke lifts his own. “Sweet women."

  JJ smiles. “Sweet women."

  "There is nothing sweeter."

  They sip. The single-malt hits bottom and burns.

  "'Our mobile testing lab comes to you!'” JJ quotes. “'Reunite with estranged...’ something. It's truly amazing, isn't it? That you saw the same ad. Kind of coincidental."

  Mr. Burke nods, sips again.

  "Expensive service,” JJ admits. “But ... hey, compared to never knowing your family, what's two grand?"

  Mr. Burke looks straight at him and nods briefly.

  "Listen...” JJ pauses. “I know I said this already in my e-mail, but I don't want anything from you. I don't. That's not why I spent the money. I just wanted to know my people. Truth be told, I guess I didn't really believe they'd find a match."

  The lawnmower cuts out. Suburban silence. Birds and dogs, the bang of a lawnmower basket against a dumpster, the scratch of a rake. The fall and echo of a train horn—the Long Island Rail Road scours through without slowing.

  "Anyway, I was reading your e-mail again,” JJ says. “You were on leave when you met my mother?"

  "No. I was here for college. Just before I was called for duty.” Mr. Burke puts his drink down, looks JJ in the eye. “I didn't know she was pregnant."

  The lawnmower coughs again, drones again, moves away.

  "After my discharge, I came back here. Her parents—your grandparents—they told me she was dead and they'd given my son up for adoption. They said I'd never see him."

  "Did you love her?"

  Eventually Mr. Burke raises his empty glass.

  When they're both holding fresh drinks, he says, “Sweet women."

  They sip. JJ says, “So you don't have any pictures of my mom?"

  "No."

  "But you did."

  Mr. Burke shifts in his chair. The words have to be uprooted. “One day. We took the train to the old carousel. In Forest Hills. We wanted to take snapshots before I left for Basic. But it was cold. There was no one to take our picture. She took one of me and I took one of her. We had copies made. So we'd both have both."

  "But you don't have them anymore."

  "The one I took of her...” Shake of the head. “Been twenty years. I had it all through my tour of duty. Then Comanche, Iowa, a water pipe breaks."

  "What about the one she took of you?"

  Mr. Burke points at the small suitcase. JJ rises and brings it over.

  The photograph shows Mr. Burke in his twenties. Dark hair, slender, a boy looking tough.

  Holding it, studying it, JJ murmurs, “My mom took this."

  Pain stabs Mr. Burke's chest. He winces, considers his glass.

  Hell with it.

  Sips the fine single-malt. “I'll tell you my picture of her. She's sitting across a table. It's little scraps, little images. Her hand, her eyes. She had pretty blue eyes.” He glances at JJ's. “There's a lace tablecloth she was proud of."

  JJ places the photo on the little table. “So you were in the service?"

  "Army Corps of Engineers."

  "Nice gig,” JJ says. “All the pay, none of the bullets."

  Mr. Burke's eyebrows twitch. “Oh, you think so?"

  "Yeah, pontoon bridges, right? Not warriors."

  JJ picks up the photo again. He's looking at it when Mr. Burke says:

  "You'd see a helicopter flying in. Dozer slung under it. Two seats on the dozer. One for the driver, one for a guy with a rifle. They'd start pushing dirt. Just these two guys, some infantry around the perimeter. A firebase was overrun, you'd have bodies everywhere. We'd push them into mass graves. The rats would swarm into the graves and feed. You're away from home that long, anything starts seeming normal. That's why they didn't let you go home on leave. You could go to Tokyo, but not back to the world. See anyone you loved. See anything normal."

  He realizes how drunk he must be already. “My men were warriors."

  JJ goes a little unsteadily into the kitchen, brings the bottle back, sits and pours. “That where you got the piece?"

  Mr. Burke's glass stops halfway to his lips.

  "It looked old,” JJ says. “I thought it might be your service sidearm."

  Mr. Burke puts the drink down, shifts in the chair to tug the pistol from the folds of his coat pocket. “You didn't keep your service sidearm.” Looks at it lying on his palm. Black and ugly.

  "All the bodies, there'd be weapons scattered all over the place. Pick up an officer's pistol, trade it for two-three cases of scotch. Then that guy brings it home. Like a war trophy. Tokarev T-33. Russian-made VC officer's pistol."

  "You got it off the ground?"

  "No."

  JJ waits.

  "Sometimes,” Mr. Burke says, “a guy you thought was dead. He'd pop up. Take a shot."

  JJ points at the pistol.

  Mr. Burke nods.

  * * * *

  ...realizes how long ago he stopped talking. Blinks up from the Tokarev, unclenches his hands.

  "You killed him?"

  Mr. Burke still blurry. Clears his throat, doesn't answer.

  "This is the gun of your assassin."

  Mr. Burke's chin jerks up. His eyes focus and find JJ. He grins.

  "Why's that funny?” JJ says.

  Mr. Burke shakes his head, takes his sip, smiling. It's funny.

  JJ indicates the gun, a question. Mr. Burke unloads it, slides the magazine into his pocket, hands it over. Waits half a minute while JJ shows reverence, then takes it back.

  "You carry it loaded?"

  Mr. Burke slips it into his other pocket. “I just told a story. Your turn."

  JJ looks away, reaches for his drink. “I don't have a story."

  "Everybody's got a story."

  "Don't kid yourself.” Drinks, rattles the ice. “Do I look like her? You'd
think I would. ‘Cause I sure don't look like you."

  Mr. Burke studies him. “First I don't see it, then I do, then I don't."

  JJ turns his empty glass between his big fingers. “Why'd you wait this long to find me?"

  As he's practiced, Mr. Burke says, “At that time I had no rights."

  "My grandparents lied to you,” JJ says. “When you came back from Basic? No one adopted me. I was bouncing around in foster homes till I was eighteen. After that I was on the street. Finally came back here. Nobody leaves this place."

  "In those days I had no rights,” Mr. Burke says. “I had no rights. I searched for you but I had no rights."

  JJ's eyes narrow. “Why look again now?"

  "You get to a certain age,” Mr. Burke recites. “And now this Internet ... people can find each other. If they want to.” Thinks, nobody leaves this place. Thinks of her.

  JJ studies him. Then relaxes.

  "Which we did,” he says.

  * * * *

  The sun through the closed curtains is a little lower. Mr. Burke takes the lace tablecloth from his suitcase.

  JJ gapes.

  "No,” Mr. Burke says. “It's not the same one. I bought it in Hong Kong, long after I found out she was gone."

  JJ raises the nearly empty bottle and Mr. Burke drapes the folded tablecloth on the little table, watches JJ put the bottle down.

  Pain shivs up inside his chest. His vision blurs, but he doesn't wince. He sits. “It makes me feel like she's been here. It's something I would never do, so she must've been here. In this room. She must be in the next room."

  Across the lace tablecloth, JJ's blue eyes fix him. JJ's hand reaches across with the bottle. Sound of the scotch pouring.

  It's so like his dream that Mr. Burke gasps. Rattled, he blurts, “You're in trouble."

  "What do you mean?"

  Mr. Burke slides his day planner from his inside coat pocket, uses his thumb to point at the photo of two thugs taking JJ's money at PIZZA D-LITE.

  JJ stares at it.

  "I've been here three days,” Mr. Burke says. “I got here early. I saw you with those men."

  "You took pictures."

  "At a certain age they're more reliable than your memory."

  JJ holds the day planner, his eyes flicking from photo to photo too fast to comprehend anything. “I don't..."

  "I'm old. Old people die. In my case, it's a bad liver. Doctors won't say anything you could sue them for. I asked him if he was me and wanted to take a trip, would he wait a year or take it in two months. He said he wouldn't wait two months.” He takes the day planner from JJ's hand.