Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  Dutch. He needed Dutch at his back.

  Dutch was dead.

  He couldn’t do it alone, even if that had been his plan in the first place. He had intended to have a drink, to get stinkin’ drunk, but had opted for the pool table instead, beating one player after another with uncanny accuracy. It hadn’t been enough to ease his soul-deep hurt.

  “Okay. I know where I’m not wanted.” Sliding off the stool, he glanced around the smoky room. Several sullen faces glared back at him. Not good, not in this part of town. He’d intruded and he knew it now. He’d won a great deal of money, too. Enough to get him jumped outside the door. So he dumped it on the bar.

  “Drinks on the peckerhead,” he called out as he left.

  The young toughs went back to their beers and someone racked up the balls once more. The bartender spoke softly to one of the older patrons. The man nodded and followed John out the door.

  Once on the main street, the man quickly turned back to get the drink he’d been promised for making sure the white guy made it safely out of the west side of town.

  John filled his lungs with the cold February air. He kept walking, automatically passing the shops and boarded up storefronts without looking at them or his reflection in the windows. He didn’t want to see himself. He didn’t want to see any trace of the man who should have been the one to die. Not Dutch. Dutch had pushed him out of the way after the first bullet had blown into his shoulder. It was Dutch who had taken the second shot in the neck. The one that had blown apart his spine.

  John could have died then. Dutch shouldn’t have been hit, but he was, and even if he’d stayed concealed, he could have been shot by any of the other wiseguys in the warehouse that night.

  Maybe it would have been better all around if the bullet had hit just a little lower and he’d died right there. Stupid. He’d been stupid. He’d left his vest in the car. How stupid could he be?

  But Dutch had worn his vest.

  Dutch never screwed up, except when he married Barbara. That witch. God, he hated her. Almost as much as he hated himself.

  Nearly three o’clock. He didn’t feel the anger much after his long walk home. As he approached his apartment, he noticed that he’d parked the Jeep sorta cockeyed with one tire on the curb, the other three definitely not parallel to it. He’d only been angry then.

  The ache in his chest hurt worse than his shoulder ever had. If he’d had a drink.... Hell, there’d been times he’d gone up the stairs on his ass, one step at a time very slowly. But that had never really changed anything and never would.

  Dutch was dead.

  Life wasn’t too bad, Carly thought as she rushed down the cracked sidewalk toward the apartment. She wasn’t that far behind at Mary Immaculate—she could easily make up for the two weeks or so. In some classes, she was only a few pages away from the rest of the kids. The kids had been cool but not stand-offish, except for that one girl, but then, wasn’t there always one girl to spoil perfection?

  She’d ignore her.

  The kids at the bus stop had been nice. Father Mike had been there, his hand on her shoulder as he introduced her. Another junior, a girl, had been willing to help her get her bearings. She’d filled her in on most of the layout and which teachers to hope for and which people to be wary of and what she must never, ever do.

  Carly laughed to herself. Bridget was sweet. Tall and athletic in appearance, she made the trip to school interesting. She was nice and full of gossip, but not catty. At least, not that Carly could tell from two conversations with the girl.

  The ride home took nearly an hour. She’d have to figure out a way to do some homework on the bus if she didn’t want to waste all that time. Darkness settled over Asbury Park making it appear even grimmer than it looked in daylight. The sidewalks were nearly empty, though. In deep winter, it would be pitch black by this time. One streetlight shone on the corner in front of the luncheonette, dark inside by now. As she made her way to the side door, she noticed the Jeep and John’s bad parking job. She’d give him grief over it as soon as she got up there.

  She flipped on the light switch at the bottom of the stairs and thundered up them, backpack banging into the walls with its weight of new books.

  No light came through the frosted glass door. John must still be out. She dug into her pocket for the key he had given her a few days ago, but tried the knob first. To her surprise, it gave.

  Creeped out by the darkened office, Carly sensed that it wasn’t empty. She could feel someone else in there as she stepped beyond the threshold.

  “Don’t turn on the light.”

  She started at the sound of John’s voice.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I need to be in the dark.” His words were slightly slurred as if it hurt to use them.

  She refused to respond, fearing he’d kick her out into the night for good.

  “Take your stuff and go stay with Flo and Liz.”

  “Why?”

  He grunted, sounding more like a pig than a real pig. Carly gritted her teeth and stepped farther into the room. He sat at his desk. She could see him, covered in shadows, his dark hair fallen across his forehead, eyelids lowered. She could feel . . . something. Something was really wrong, but she dared not ask. Risking her precarious position now wouldn’t be good. Things had been going too well. It had to come crashing down all around her like this.

  Her luck sucked.

  “Life is shit, kiddo.”

  With slow, deliberate movements, he folded up the laptop and wrenched the plug from the wall. “Here. Take this downstairs with you.”

  She stood, helpless and hopeless. As much as she wanted to ask him what had happened, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  With the thin laptop under one arm, she grabbed some clean underwear and socks from the bag inside the closet. She paused at the door, giving him one last chance to explain, to tell her what had gone so terribly wrong. As if to push her out the door, John covered his face with his hands. Carly left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Tears stung her eyes as she knocked on Flo’s door.

  “It’s me, Flo. Carly. Can I come in?”

  Footsteps shuffled toward the door from the other side. “Sure, Carly. Come on . . . what’s wrong, dear?” Flo stepped aside, allowing Carly to slip into the room.

  Carly dropped her backpack, the clothes in her hand, flipped the precious laptop onto a chair and struggled against the tears. When Flo opened her arms to her, she stepped in and welcomed the warmth of the old woman’s hug.

  “There, there, child, what’s wrong? Is it school? Were they awful to you? Did something happen?” Flo looked her up and down, a wrinkle of deep concern creasing her forehead.

  Snuffling, Carly wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. “No, no, school . . . school was good. I liked it. But when I came home . . . John, Mr. Preshin . . . he’s up there in the dark . . . and he kicked me out. His voice sounded all wrong. He’s sitting at his desk and I don’t know what’s going on, but it isn’t good. I’m scared. He told me to leave!”

  Still holding Carly’s arms, Flo shook her head. “Things like this happen sometimes, Carly. John hasn’t had it too good for a lot of years, not since he got shot. Men aren’t good at handling their emotions or talking about what’s bothering them. Whatever is going on, he’ll work it out. But he’s used to being alone. It’s best you stay here tonight.

  “Probably by tomorrow morning, he’ll be over it, but you can stay with me and do your homework and get ready for school in the morning. I’ll send Liz up with some food for him later, but in the meantime, why don’t you get changed and—do you have any homework?—do your homework down here and tell us all about the kids at school and what you did.”

  “Is he going to be all right in the morning?” She sniffled, reached for a tissue in her uniform pocket.

  Flo shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s a man. Men do stupid things all the time we women can’t understand and wake up okay.
My guess is he needs to sit in the dark and think long and hard about something and nobody can help him. But he’s a smart man. He’ll figure out whatever he has to and by tomorrow he’ll be back to normal.”

  “Do you think so? I mean, he wouldn’t kill himself or anything, would he?”

  Flo stopped Carly from going any further on that line of thought. “Don’t go there, kiddo. It’s not John’s style. Besides, he’s too smart to do anything that stupid.”

  Carly looked at the older woman through tear-starred lashes. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Flo said firmly. “Say, I was just going to have some cake. Chocolate. And a big glass of milk. Care to join me?”

  Wondering if things would be back to normal ever, Carly followed the old woman into the kitchen. No use wringing her hands over this, but she couldn’t push the worrying thought away.

  The waves crashed and crumbled against the dingy sand as Liz watched through the distortion of her tears. Night came suddenly, enclosing the world in the relative safety of the dark. All good souls were on their way home, to the lights and brightness of their families.

  Liz stood at the edge of the wire fence where the sand sifted against her boots. The wind off the ocean blew her hair into her teeth and eyes. Her hand kept going up to untangle it, merely out of habit. She’d been running on automatic since lunchtime. At long last, she felt the anger and loneliness drain from her, leaving her empty.

  Nothing that bastard could have done could have hurt her more, she thought. His remarriage hadn’t hurt. Hell, the divorce hadn’t hurt this much. His accusations—now, they had hurt, and being hospitalized had hurt, but not as much as this blow.

  But she was all cried out now. Reality seeped into the vacuum left by the lost emotions. Being a woman alone on the beach in Asbury Park in the dark was not exactly prudent. With any luck, though, someone would come along and murder her and all her heartache would be over. Now that was a bit rash! A casual glance told her that she was the only person on the oceanfront road. Too bad. I guess it’s even too shitty out here for murderers.

  Hugging her jacket closed, Liz began the short walk back to her grandmother’s. As she passed the huge old houses that lined the street, she saw that most of them were dark, but some of the windows still framed patches of light. There were people inside. Not all of the old hotels and private homes that had been broken up into apartments were vacant. Some even showed signs of repair. There was that one huge skeleton of the old Oceana hotel, bare bones that must have once been something quite beautiful. She remembered it from when she was a kid. It had an elegance even now in its wreckage.

  Your life is in the toilet.

  She snorted a laugh. The voice in her head sounded exactly like Olympia Dukakis in Moonstruck.

  Her grandmother was probably worrying by now and she hated making the sweetheart worry about her. She was supposed to be taking care of her grandmother, not causing her problems. Quickening her pace, she walked past St. Boniface’s, not even daring to look at the stained glass windows to see if anyone was home. God was probably eating dinner.

  The lights on the main street guided her home, but when she got to the parking lot behind the luncheonette, she slowed her pace. She didn’t quite feel like going inside and facing her grandmother just yet. She checked out her grandmother’s car, half hidden in the shadows of the Dumpster and recyclable containers, wary of anyone hidden in the dark. She’d found some kids playing back there one day and had to chase them away, fearing lawsuits. Adults could hide back there, too.

  With a certain caution, she headed toward the small back porch. Overhead, the decking of the second floor porch formed a roof over this, making it almost enclosed and at least safe from rain. She huddled along the back wall of the building, trying to blot out bad memories and gather up courage to go inside and face Flo.

  She noted the blur of something thrown from the top deck just before it hit the empty Dumpster and shattered with a horrendous bang. Shards of glass spewed onto the macadamized lot. Liz’s heart squeezed up into her throat, but that didn’t stop her from grabbing onto the railing and propelling herself upstairs.

  Stopping at the top, she scanned the darkened porch, her eyes falling on the silhouette of John Preshin as he stood looking over the side, examining his handiwork.

  “Jesus! What are you doing?” she panted, gulping in huge breaths to fill her lungs.

  “Oh, hi, Liz,” he drawled.

  She took a step toward him. “You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing out here? It’s miserably cold and damp.”

  John gestured expansively. She could see his white teeth as he grinned at her. “Welcome to my world.” His arms included the whole of the backside of Asbury Park. Funny. She knew exactly what he meant.

  “Are you drunk?” She knew she had no right to ask.

  He produced a bottle of something. “Not yet, but I’m considering it. Care to join me?”

  She walked slowly toward him. If he fell off the porch, they could be in for a lawsuit for sure. “Maybe you ought to get inside.”

  He considered that briefly. “I might do that . . . but then I’d miss seeing the moon rise.”

  Figuring she’d better go along with him, she stepped close enough to see his expression. He didn’t look wasted, just haggard and self-destructive. That was something she recognized readily enough. He probably saw the exact same thing in her face.

  She averted her glance. “Okay, where’s the moon?”

  John indicated a point over the water to the east. “It’ll come up over there, unless things cloud up. My guess is, however, that it will come up over there anyway, but we just won’t be able to see it.”

  She smiled, despite herself. “I imagine that’s true.”

  “Yep,” he clipped out. “True.”

  They stood together, silent, for minutes, waiting for the moon to rise.

  “There . . . there it is!” She gasped at its silver beauty in the black sky.

  He moved close to whisper in her ear, “Told you so.” While he was there, he inhaled deeply. Liz felt the air move against her skin and shivered, though not with the cold.

  More minutes passed with the two of them, staring in awe at the rising moon. She could feel the length of his long body radiating heat along her own. Normally, she would have been repelled by the close contact of this stranger. Tonight, well, tonight she didn’t move away.

  “Here,” he said, his voice low and rumbling. “Take a hit of this. It will warm you up some.”

  Reaching for the bottle, she asked, “What makes you think I need warming up?”

  He moved away from her, coming to the wall of the building and folding his long body down until he was seated. “You can see the moon go higher from here,” he pointed toward it, “and it’s safer and more comfortable sitting than standing up.”

  For further emphasis, he patted the wooden deck beside him.

  The seal on the cap ripped as she unscrewed it. After a quick wipe at the top, Liz lifted the bottle to her mouth and sipped at the contents. The bourbon seared all the way down, even though it tasted like burnt rubber. She took another sip in hopes of washing away the initial taste.

  Headlights of a car coming down the road from the beach illuminated her face as she joined John.

  “Hey, what’s this? Tears?” he asked as she settled alongside him.

  She jerked her face away from his hand. “Can’t get anything past you, John.”

  Suddenly he had her chin and turned her to face him. “You’ve been crying?”

  Liz tried to pull away. He tightened his grip, but used his other hand to dab at her cheek. His face softened and his eyes held hers. “Tell me.”

  His tone was compelling. Liz longed to get today’s business off her chest, but it shouldn’t be to a stranger. Not this one. Not him. She bit back words, knowing that if she opened her mouth, she’d tell him everything. She couldn’t do that. Yet her heart needed its burden gone. Instead of speaking, she took
a pull at the bourbon.

  “Hey, that’s supposed to be my outlet,” he joked. “I’m the one famous for drowning his sorrows, not the pretty lady from Cal-i-for-ni-a. Shouldn’t you be downing some granola or sprouts or something?”

  She gave a short laugh and handed back the bottle. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Hell you aren’t,” he said, screwing on the top. “Look at this! I could have sworn it was full when I gave it to you.” Holding up the bottle, he indicated where he thought the level should be, right at the top. It was a good two fingers away from there.

  They both laughed, then. Liz felt the whiskey easing the tightness surrounding her heart.

  “I’m willing to bet I’ve had a shittier day than you,” John said. His eyes flicked over Liz—bedroom eyes, turned down slightly at the outside corner, with heavy lids now and dark, curling lashes. No smile behind them, though his lips were curved a bit as if he wanted to smile but couldn’t.

  “You’re on,” she stated. “How’s this for shitty? My ex-husband, the sonofabitch, remarried and just had a baby with his new wife.”

  John’s hand moved sideways through the air. “Happens all the time. Unless you still have a thing for him, it shouldn’t matter.”

  “Right. You’re right,” she said, “except for one little bitty thing.”

  John rubbed the side of his hand down her jawline. “And that being?”

  Liz passed her hand over her lips. Yeah. One small thing. “We had a baby.”

  “You had a baby?” The awe, the astonished wonder in his voice surprised her. In the moonlight, she could see concern shrouding his eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, she let it come out, said the words that had shattered her earlier. “We had a baby boy. He died from SIDS.”

  Her moon-watching partner said nothing but as she looked at him, his expression softened into something close to sorrow.

  “That’s pretty bad,” he commented.

  Liz squirmed against the wall, unconsciously brushing against John’s big warm body.

  When she settled, she continued. “So, what does the bastard do? He sends me a birth announcement and, guess what. He’s named this baby after our son.”