You Say Goodbye

by Keith Steinbaum

  The woman continued to stare at Sean. After several moments, he saw the hardness retreat from her face, replaced by a sudden calm. She grasped Kayleigh by the sides of her head and dislodged the girl’s face from the burrowed depths of the red sweater. “Is that true, honey?” she asked, looking in to her eyes. “Should we forgive your friend this time?”

  Sean lowered his right knee to the ground, ignoring the twinge of pain in his hip as he placed his face close to hers. “Isn’t that right, Fourteenth Laker?” he asked. “You and Mr. Music are pals now.”

  Sliding her hand under her wet nose, she nodded.

  “Look, Aunt Jenny,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “Mr. Music gave me a whole dollar for his cup of lemonade!”

  Sean offered a small smile. “If I hadn’t forgotten to pay my debt yesterday, none of this would have happened.”

  “He owed me fifty cents so I wanted to come get it,” Kayleigh said.

  “But you can’t just disappear like that, honey,” her aunt replied, brushing her fingers across Kayleigh’s cheek. “It’s just you and me in that house, and I didn’t know where you were.” She turned from Kayleigh to look at Sean. “I’m looking after her right now and I panic easily, I guess.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, Aunt Jenny.”

  Placing her hand over Kayleigh’s face, she pinched her cheek. “Now you know better, all right?”

  As Kayleigh stood, Jenny and Sean rose simultaneously.

  “Jenny,” she said, extending her hand.

  “And I’m Kayleigh’s diabolical neighbor, Sean.”

  As Jenny laughed, Sean observed her features for the first time, recognizing her attractiveness in, appropriately, a girl-next-door way. Specks of green flirted in her light brown eyes, offering a soothing kindness within their almond shape. Her nose, starting thin between the eyes, widened a bit heading downward, but worked in harmony with her wide mouth. Angular dimple lines extended from both sides of her nose, highlighting her light pink cheeks. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail, Sean viewed the wide, smooth forehead and dark brown eyebrows that followed the curve of her upper eye area. As they stood facing each other, her head reached two or three inches below his chin.

  “My sister told me you were living here,” she said. “You were one of her favorites. I was the nerd of the family. Give me Mozart, Bach, or Telemann and I’m happy.”

  “Are they on your basketball team, too, Mr. Music?” Kayleigh asked.

  Jenny smiled and narrowed her gaze in apparent confusion. “I heard about your new name for Sean,” she said, “but what do you mean, his basketball team?”

  Sean smiled at Kayleigh. “Just something we talked about yesterday,” he replied.

  “Well, young lady,” Jenny said, glancing at her watch, “you’ve avoided your homework long enough. Time to study your arithmetic.”

  Closing her eyes, she tightened her mouth in obvious displeasure. “I know,” she mumbled. As they walked away, Kayleigh turned back to wave. “I’ll see you soon, okay, Mr. Music?”

  “For sure,” he told her. In a louder voice, he added, “And talk to your parents about when we can start your guitar lessons.”

  Kayleigh stopped. Inch by inch, she rotated back toward Sean. “What did you say?” she asked, her one good eye widening as the other struggled catching up.

  Jenny’s expression seemed troubled as she took several long strides toward Sean. “Her parents can’t afford it.”

  “There are three conditions you have to follow if I’m going to teach you how to play,” he said, ignoring Jenny’s comment while maintaining his focus on the girl.

  Rocking back and forth like a metronome, she scrunched her nose, looking worried. “Three?”

  “Yep,” Sean said. “And here they are. Number one, you have to get your parents’ permission, okay?”

  Kayleigh’s worried expression remained unchanged. “Okay,” she said, not sounding confident.

  “Number two, you have to make sure all your homework is done before you practice your guitar.” Glancing at Jenny, he added, “Including your arithmetic.”

  Kayleigh looked confused. “But I don’t have a guitar.”

  “I’ve got one you can borrow.”

  “Really?” she shouted. “Oh, boy, oh boy, oh boy! You’re the greatest, Mr. Music!”

  “But you haven’t heard my third condition yet,” he said. “Music lessons cost money, right?”

  “Oh no,” she said, looking dejected. “I forgot about that.”

  “Sean,” Jenny said, taking a step closer, “they can’t afford--”

  “To pay for your lessons,” he said, disregarding Jenny’s plea again, “you’ll take them at my house, and when we’re finished, you’ll play with Hendrix. My dog’s getting fat and needs the exercise.”

  “What?” Kayleigh shouted in obvious disbelief. “You don’t want any money?”

  “So what do you think, Aunt Jenny?” he asked. “Is the price affordable?”

  Kayleigh balled her teacup-sized fists and shook them over her head. “Yes!” she hollered. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  Jenny sidled up to him with an expression one-hundred-eighty degrees different from her angry introduction several minutes before. “That’s very generous of you, Sean,” she said. “Thank you for all three conditions.”

  Alone again with the other half of his microwaved hamburger, Sean contemplated his agreement to teach Kayleigh, knowing the offer stemmed from guilt over his behavior rather than a true desire to teach her. Although he disliked the thought of picking up a guitar again, showing her a few chords seemed tolerable. One thing she’d have to accept, however, centering on an unstated fourth condition, rose above the others as the most determining one of all.

  No Beatles’ songs.

  Chapter 11

  “It’s still tough coming to work,” Sean said, talking to Roger between bites of his turkey sandwich. “I see the windows of the showroom and picture Merissa at her desk.” Offering a tight-lipped smile and a distant gaze, he added, “It’s going to take a while, I guess.”

  Roger Peterson, an ex-collegiate basketball player who still retained an athletic frame and a youthful face, sat arrow straight as he lowered a cheeseburger from his mouth with one hand while the other reached for a Coke. Although a scant eleven months separated their birth dates, Sean acknowledged the appearance of a greater age difference. Roger’s face remained relatively unlined, and his thick, brushed-back, sandy-brown hair with a high pompadour reminded Sean of Warren Zevon’s reference to perfect hair from the song “Werewolf of London.” He sat silent for a moment before placing his drink back on the table. The deep-set intensity of his dark-eyed gaze commanded attention with its expressive sincerity.

  “We’ll all miss her, Sean,” Roger replied. “Your relationship was different, of course, but she was a friend to everyone.” Roger dipped a french fry into the ketchup on his plate and held it aloft. “It must hurt like hell, but you still have a life to live. Merissa would want you to move on from this.”

  Sean wanted to check Roger off the list of potential suspects as soon as possible, just like all the others, but did his you-still-have-a-life-to-live advice sound a bit too clichéd and cavalier? Merissa would want you to move on from this? Was that the best he could come up with? He took a deep, silent breath, his front teeth clenching his lower lip.

  “Just be thankful you didn’t see what I saw that night,” Sean said. He paused, stone-like, flashing back on that recurring, horrific image. “Let’s just say I’m getting better, but there’s a long way to go.”

  Roger nodded in silence.

  “Were you at work when you heard about Merissa?” Sean asked, rubbing his thigh before gripping his knee and holding tight, waiting for the answer.

  “No,” Roger said. “Adam called me before I got in that morning.”

  “How’d he find out?”

  “I don't know, I didn't ask.”

  Sean squirmed in his seat. Looking down at
his half-eaten sandwich, he pushed the bread aside and looked back at Roger.

  “It must have been a pretty surreal sensation, knowing you were at home, relaxing, the night she was killed,” he said.

  Roger finished the last of his burger and took a large swig of his soda, focusing on Sean the entire time. He picked up his napkin and dabbed the corners of his mouth before responding. “Actually,” he began, “I wasn’t home. A couple of my old fraternity brothers were in town and we met for some drinks and dinner.”

  Sean envisioned Maldonado’s suspicious expression after hearing Roger’s answer. But why should a straightforward explanation like that raise skepticism? “How’s Anita doing?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

  Roger reached for his glass again, despite having put his drink down mere moments before. Leaning forward a bit, he placed his elbows on the table and offered a wide-eyed expression that seemed almost childlike. “I’ve got a confession to make, Sean,” he said. “What I just told you about where I was that night is bullshit--but I’m telling you this for a reason.”

  Sean’s stomach tightened and his skin felt a sudden rush of heat.

  “I guess it was an open secret why Anita and I separated for a while,” he said, eyeing a passing waitress. “I played around on the side and finally got caught.”

  “What’s this got to do with where you were that night?” Sean asked.

  Roger held up a hand and stared for several wordless moments. “Like I said, I’m bringing this up for a reason. When we got back together, I truly believed my cheating days were over, and up until the night of Merissa’s murder, I was the perfect husband. But that night...” He raised his hands, palms up. “My dental hygienist, can you believe that?” As Roger looked down to pluck another fry, Sean caught a slight upward motion from the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, what I told you about meeting a couple of college buddies is the excuse I gave Anita.” In a sudden rapid motion, Roger threw his hand out toward Sean. “But,” he said, almost shouting, “my conscience caught up to me after a while. I only screwed her one time and was back home by eleven.”

  Sean’s legs bounced up and down under the tablecloth as his mind raced. Roger’s philandering seemed to show no signs of abating, continuing to make a victim of poor Anita, but that didn’t mean Sean had a right to think anything more than that.

  “Now everything’s different,” Roger said. “I realize how quickly something can be taken away, how fast things can change.” Balling his hands into fists, he brought them down on the table with a degree of force before leaning in toward Sean. “I appreciate Anita more than ever before. It took a tragedy, Sean, your terrible, terrible loss, to slap me in the face and give me the perspective I needed.”

  Sean took a sip of water and felt the glass shake in his hand. The pain of revisiting his nightmare left him devoid of anything to say.

  Remaining silent, he glanced at his watch. “I’m happy for you, Roger,” he said at last, his voice low and feeble. “Come on. It’s time to go.”

  “Hey,” Roger said, reaching for a final french fry, “admittedly I was a hound when it came to hot women, but tell me you weren’t shocked when you heard what happened to good ol’ monogamous Adam.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Roger looked surprised, his eyes opening wide. “You don’t know? Haven’t you noticed he hasn’t been around the last couple of weeks?”

  “I just figured he was on vacation.”

  Roger’s shit-eating grin preceded a slow shake of his head.

  “A woman accused Adam of touching her tits during the test drive,” Roger said, laughing. “Adam swore he was only helping her adjust the seat belt, but the bitch threatened to sue for sexual harassment until disciplinary action was taken.”

  Sean stared at Roger, expecting a stupid punch line to a joke.

  No punch line. No joke.

  “I can’t believe it,” he muttered. “Saint Adam was fired over one person’s accusation?”

  “He wasn’t fired,” Roger replied, “at least, not for now. Maybe his years at the dealership and his pristine reputation gave him the benefit of the doubt. They transferred him to Van Nuys.”

  Sean looked away for several seconds and shook his head in reflective gratitude that he worked a couple of miles from the beach instead of the furnace at the Van Nuys location.

  “Well, that sure sucks, doesn’t it?” he said. “From the ocean breezes of Santa Monica to the sweatbox of Van Nuys.”

  Roger leaned back and placed his hands in his lap. His eyes narrowed as a tiny smile appeared, frozen in place as he stared into Sean’s eyes like a soothsayer possessing unforeseen knowledge. “I don’t find the allegation surprising at all,” he said. “How many evangelicals have been busted through the years for sexual shit? Or those conservative, holier-than-thou politicians with all their affairs? Hell, some of them get caught with another man!” Roger chuckled to himself as he rolled his eyes. “Some of those guys make anything I’ve ever done look tame. And do I even need to mention the sleazy-ass history of all those priests in the Catholic Church?”

  “Oh, come on, Roger, give me a break,” Sean squawked, his face scrunched in denial. “Don’t start equating Adam with any of those assholes. There’s no way he’s capable of that shit!”

  Roger lifted his arms from the table and threw his hands out in apparent frustration. “And how many times did those assholes get away with that shit because they were supposedly incapable of it?” Maintaining his focus on Sean, he leaned in again, placing one hand on top of the other at the edge of the table. “Take it from someone who’s gotten away with lots of things, Sean,” he told him. “If you really want something bad enough, you do whatever it takes to get it.”

  Chapter 12

  Kayleigh’s family invited Sean to watch the first game of the NBA Finals between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics. As he waited in line at the bakery counter to order a dessert to bring, a sudden voice from behind startled him.

  “I thought I saw you, Sean.” Looking back over his shoulder, he stared into the self-assured eyes of the center’s director, Elliot Hayden.

  Sean’s jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers matched most of the casual Sunday afternoon attire in the market, but Elliot looked debonair in his khaki-colored slacks, open-collared polo shirt, tan sports coat, and brown leather loafers.

  “Hello, Elliot,” Sean said, hoping for the social version of a twenty-four-second clock.

  “I must say you look a lot healthier than the last time I saw you,” Elliot remarked, extending his hand. Pointing at the various pastry selections on display, he chuckled. “If that’s your secret, maybe I should forget all those fruits and veggies I eat and go for the sweet stuff.”

  Sean smiled before turning back toward the counter.

  Elliot took another step closer. “Got any shows coming up?”

  “Nope,” he replied, a single turn of his head to left and right. “Those days are over.” He continued fixing his gaze on the women working behind the pastry counter, well aware of Elliot’s desire to continue the conversation.

  “From what I figure, Sean, it’s what you love to do. I mean, look at your history. No matter what nonchalance you displayed at our shows, I knew better.” Elliot approached from the left side to resume eye contact. “The way I see it, the sooner you get out there again, the better.”

  Sean took a deep, silent breath, wondering how people like Elliot convinced themselves they knew what was best for everyone else. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The petite uniformed Latina with dark-rimmed glasses and expressive eyes called Sean’s number. As he ordered the cookies, Elliot remained by his side. Removing his cell phone from his pocket, Sean pretended to read and respond to a text, hoping that might cause the man to move on and take care of his own marketing needs.

  “You haven’t stopped playing completely, have you?”

  Sean tightened his grip on the phone, working to remain calm, sub
duing the itchy sensation pin-pricking the back of his neck. He remained quiet, taking longer than usual to place the phone back in his pocket. Looking up again, his eyes narrowed. “You just said a minute ago I look a lot better, right?”

  “Yes,” Elliot answered, “and it’s true.”

  “So that should tell you whatever I’m doing lately must be okay. I’m fine and getting on with my life. The only time I pick up a guitar is to give occasional lessons to a girl next door. That’s it.”

  Elliot’s eyes widened. “Private lessons from someone with your background? That’s a lucky girl.”

  “Sure, if you call having cancer lucky.” Sean felt an empowering sense of satisfaction deriding the remark, but Elliot just nodded. Sean handed money to the woman, anxious to finalize the transaction as he watched her head for the cash register. “What time is it?” he asked, knowing the answer from his cell phone.

  Elliot glanced at his shiny silver watch. “Four twenty-seven.”

  “Really? I better get home and shower. I’m invited to the girl’s house to have dinner and watch the Lakers game with the family.” Returning at the perfect time, the woman handed him his change. “Take care, Elliot,” Sean said, turning away.

  With the freedom of a parking-lot escape within reach, Elliot caught up to him as he took his first step outside.

  “You gave me an idea,” he said. “Could I run something by you before you go?”

  The only running that interested Sean concerned escaping from Elliot. “Another time, okay? I’m in a hurry.”

  “You know I also deal with unlucky kids,” he said, positioning himself between Sean and his car. “I’m not saying they have cancer, but a number of them come from abusive backgrounds. When we can bring a little sunshine into their lives, it’s the greatest feeling in the world.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Sean asked, resigned to Elliot’s persistence.