We Were Beautiful Once
Page 35
Nick felt Julie was rambling now, but he let her get it out of her system. She started to sniffle, and the two sat quietly until she regained her composure. “I learned that Trent took the train from Washington to Bridgeport twice a month. I also learned that he’d arrive Friday nights at around eleven. I went to the station on at least a half-dozen occasions after dark and found it completely dead—except for this blind vagrant who sat on the ground, knees drawn up, arms crossed, head down. But lost my nerve every time I went, and never stayed long enough to meet the train. And so, one day, figuring I needed moral support, I talked Father Ryan into walking me to the station to meet the train—the one from D.C.”
“For what reason?” Nick interrupted, although he was afraid he knew where this might be headed.
“I wanted to talk to him about what he knew. Maybe give him a piece of my mind. Truthfully, I don’t know now.”
Nick added, “Trent was a dangerous man—that’s what I’d been told.”
“Yes, I know. But in any case we waited, Father Ryan and I, ’til the train came. He got off. We waited along the ramp leading to Asylum Street not far from the blind man. It was December, one year or so after Jack died. Here he came, long cashmere camel coat, a brief case. When he got about ten feet from us, Father Ryan yelled, ‘Trent Hamilton!’ He stopped, startled. ‘What do ya want?’ he shouted. And I shouted back, ‘Answers.’ Then he took his brief case—you know, he held it by the handle and swung it over his head—and charged Father Ryan. He was a big man. I was scared and went back and fell down. And the next thing I knew he was beating him with the case, when all of a sudden... ”
Nick interrupted again, “He was shot!”
“Yes, I took out a small gun that belonged to Jack. I heard this shot. He fell back. Father and I ran.”
Nick knew Trent had died the year following the trial, but had suspected it was a professional hit, connected to his illegal export operations. But Julie? Father Ryan? He was stunned.
“I threw the gun over the bridge,” Julie added matter-of-factly, as she stared beyond Nick. Next day, I read in the paper that the police thought Trent was murdered by some toughs. Father Ryan and I kept quiet. I never told anyone. ’Til now.”
Julie walked to the fireplace mantle and lifted the tin picture frame that held the photo of her and Roger, taken the last time she had seen him. She studied the photo. The greyed-out coat she remembered was navy blue. His arm wrapped tightly about her waist. Her hand, still good, was wrapped between his fingers. She turned to Nick.
“Roger and I,” Julie said, her voice low, rasping. “We were beautiful once. Weren’t we?”
Acknowledgments
I want to express my gratitude to those individuals who have helped make this book a success through their inspiration and suggestions: particularly to my wife, Susie, for her insights and to Cara Morris and Lynn Hargrove, discerning reader/critics; to editors Eugenia Kim and Rosvita Rauch who patiently plowed through many drafts; to tireless copyeditors Elizabeth Renfrow and Allyson Gard; to the dedicated team at Sunbury Press for all their thoughtful expertise, including Lawrence Knorr, President and Publisher and Tammi Knorr, VP of Marketing & Author Relations.