Misisipi

by Michael Reilly

  “She’s good. We’re good. Thanks.” Scott nodded evasively. “Hal. I’m kinda in a bind here. I need to go out of town and none of my cards is working. I hate coming down here and springing this on you outta the blue. I don’t have a right to ask, but could you maybe spot me some cash? It’s a helluva imposition, I know.” Scott looked shiftily back and forth around the lobby, finding it hard to make eye contact with his friend.

  Hal’s face darkened. “Scott, is everything ok? Can’t Julianna help?”

  “Yeah. No. It’s… embarrassing, frankly. It’s just, you know, some screwup at the bank.”

  Scott wasn’t about to disclose to Hal how, 30 minutes earlier, a cashier at the Citizens on Arch Street had revealed the full extent of Julianna’s actions. She had apparently cancelled his Visa card two days ago and cleaned out the savings account of almost four grand and the checking account of all but 40 dollars. Scott had staggered back from the cashier’s window as the concussions rocked him on his heels. “There’s an ATM on the other side of the lights. Please, Hal. Don’t ask me to explain right now. You’ve every right to but… I don’t really know how to myself. Just do… do me this one favor. I’ll pay you back, God’s honest. I just need”—Scott laughed at the thought—“Jesus, a coupla hundred bucks!” He slapped his forehead. “Fuck. What am I doing?”

  “Jesus, Scott.” Hal muttered. “What—”

  Scott locked hard onto the puzzlement in Hal’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. This is so fucking stupid. Forget it. I had no right. I’m just… Listen”—he put his hand on Hal’s arm—“You and Lizzie, it’s gonna be great. Awesome. You guys knock that whole parenting thing right outta Fenway. Give her my best, ok?”

  Scott pushed through the lobby door out onto State Street, fishing for his car keys as he went. Hal caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder. “Come on. Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?” Hal said. Scott nodded, his wet face stony grim.

  Hal lit a cigarette and they crossed Congress, to a covered ATM where Scott stared discreetly away and watched the rain run down the façade of The Old State House while Hal maxed his card’s daily allowance.

  “I can go inside and get at least this again,” Hal suggested. “You sure this’s gonna be enough?”

  “It’s too much to be anything but, Hal.” Scott accepted the $500, feeling profoundly shamed by the gesture. “I don’t want you catching flack at home. You don’t deserve that.”

  Hal stuffed the cigarette in his mouth and dug another $200 from his wallet. He stuffed the bills into Scott’s breast pocket. “I’ll just tell Lizzie I gave it to a Met’s fan so he could buy himself a clue.”

  They walked back to the Sixty State entrance, and as Scott continued walking, Hal called after him. “Hey Scott?”

  Scott turned.

  “We all let it drift after… you know… Vance. How’d that happen?”

  Scott held his hands up, as if hoping the answer might fall with the rain into them. “I dunno, bud. We just did.”

  “Wherever that’s taking you, you’ll be coming back, right?”

  Scott thrust his hands in his pockets and stared at the glossy wet sidewalk. “I’ll be awhile. I guess I’ll see you, Hal.”

  Scott returned to his car and sat watching the rain obscuring his windshield, convincing himself it was the sole reason he couldn’t quite see the world beyond it.

  Chapter 17

  I-90 (Massachusetts Turnpike) Westbound, near Walnut Street

  The pummeling storm was the only thing moving in the midst of the traffic snarl, where Scott became another link in the iron trickle on I-90. On and on he pushed, to the mourner’s pace of the stop-start procession. His body drove mechanically. His car advanced haltingly. His mind prowled endlessly.

  He felt utterly alone, for the first time in his truly adult life. He sensed a bad ending coming, one he was being pushed into, ignorant of the twists and turns which waited.

  Only Jules would know. She was always the writer. She was now his sole author and narrator. She held his ending. However unpalatable or sour it might be, he had to have it.

  Around him, the caravan of stories inched forward.

  In the Volkswagen to Scott’s left, an alcoholic widower, whose only son wanted nothing more now to do with him, took a discrete swig from his pocket flask.

  Behind Scott, a discharged Army Ranger tapped his steering wheel impatiently. As he did, he remembered his final tour, how six months earlier he ordered a Private to hold the hands of an Iraqi boy to the hood of their Humvee. The Ranger then separated each of the boy’s eight fingers from his fists, as retaliation for finding a cache of IEDs in the family’s home in Fallujah. Now the ex-Ranger smiled. Good times.

  In the eastbound lane, honeymooners headed to Logan. In his brain, a decade-dormant tumor waited to kill the groom on a Cancun beach the very next day.

  In a nearby SUV, an ex-cop slept in the passenger seat, a man now occupied with the grubby work of others; a man on an errand: to find and kill a stranger whom he himself had never been wronged by.

  In a Porsche nine cars ahead of Scott, a swim coach, having just paid the termination costs for the 15-year old student he was banging, rang his wife to query the grocery list he was supposed to fulfill.

  And somewhere else in the throng, a woman sat in the company of her violent partner; a woman whom Scott would most definitely have looked twice at, had he seen her: Not because she was pretty, though she was. Not to stare at the harsh scar which ran from her cheek to her collar, though it was hard to miss. But because the same inner quiet and fierce determination which marked Julianna for Scott was evident in this woman’s eyes. When you’ve known it once, it never escapes you.

  After a while, the rains eased and the traffic lightened. Scott found himself gaining speed and distance. Gradually his mood settled. His thoughts retreated. The dark sky ahead prized open a thin sliver of sight and the dying sun peeked its bloody eye back on Boston. But Scott left Massachusetts without any such nostalgias.

  Chapter 18

  1999 – Dedham, Massachusetts

  Friday December 31

  They married on a dry sharp winter’s night, as the Millennium slipped free of the turning world. In the tiny convent chapel of the Ursuline Academy, Julianna Putnam came before Scott Jameson in a simple fine-woolen white dress. Her heart beat joyously under the Scottish lace lattice on its breast. Her tummy turned cartwheels under the high empire waist and her arms, though fully covered, itched with goosebumps which had nothing to do with the chilled country air. She carried a modest bouquet of red roses and white moth orchids, beaded with mistletoe and holly berry. As she floated toward him under the full flowing fall of her dress, she was simply the most beautiful thing Scott would ever see.

  He wore a plain black suit and his younger brother stood witness as Scott promised to love and protect her always. He swore he would cherish her company and guard their children fiercely and guide them wisely.

  Julianna spoke of the love she had keepsake’d to his heart and she took the words of another in avowment of their union.

  “Intreat me not to leave thee,” she said, as they clasped hands before God, “or to return from following after thee. For whither thou goest, I will go. And where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee from me. This I swear, Husband, to the last beating of my heart to yours.”

  The small congregation watched them depart, two become one, under the golden halos of the candlelit ceremony. Outside, Julianna laid her bouquet inside the small fenced burial plot for the Ursuline nuns. The ground shimmered with the icing of a million winter jewels and a light snow began to fall as they kissed there. The white flakes settled on Scott and Julianna laughed as she scooted them away from his shoulders. They did not show against her dress, only in her hair, and as Scott looked at her, he could not bear to disturb them where the
y lay. He thought they made a tiara—a garland of stars above the face which held his world, its maker, and his heart all hostage to her whim.

  The Book Of Ruth

  Deer Tracks

  For prosperity in the hunt

  Chapter 19

  Hershey, Pennsylvania

  Thursday August 25

  Scott finally called it a night after six solid hours’ driving. Sometime around 2am, he climbed the stairs of the Milton Motel and, with barely the energy to shed his shoes, collapsed on his bed. In spite of his fatigue, he slept badly. He lay on his back, but no matter how stubbornly he kept his eyes shut, his imagination rose up and waited above him, inviting his thoughts to come play. The game, engaged, was futile and fruitless every time. The creeping brightness through the curtains eventually pulled him from his mental brownout. Showered and shaved, he trudged across the street to the Palmdale Café.

  “Honey, you bout ready to order now?” The waitress was back.

  On his second coffee, he had yet to even pick up the menu. “I’m sorry. My mind’s misfiring a bit today.” He smiled contritely.

  “Ain’t you lucky to have your looks to fall back on? You can afford to let slide all day.” She grinned. “Ok. I’m benchin ya and taking over. Just say ‘Yup’, ok?”

  “Ok,” he agreed. “Yup, I mean.”

  “Eggs Palmdale Primo, scrambled, with the works. You like asparagus? Never mind. My call, yeah ya do.” She scribbled on her pad.

  “I do actually.”

  “Side of sausages?”

  Scott’s stomach growled loudly.

  “That’s a big ‘Yup’,” she laughed. “Two pieces of toast. A fruit cup fr’after and grapefruit juice.”

  “Yup. Yup and yup.”

  “That’s it. Not so painful, eh?” she chirped.

  Skipping behind the counter, she put Scott’s order on the wheel and spun it wildly. It stopped abruptly, braked by an unseen hand in the kitchen.

  “Katie, keep it under 60,” someone back there barked.

  The waitress, a tall stocky blond woman of about 50, brought Scott’s juice over.

  “Jack’s taken a few knockbacks from Vanna White, I reckon. Any tips you could loan him… ?” She lowered her head to elicit an introduction.

  “Scott.”

  “Hey Scott. I’m Katie. Loverboy back there is Jack—more the Jack Black than Jack Bauer type, ya know?” She giggled.

  “I’m sure the real Jack Black gets more dates than the both of us.”

  “Hmm, modesty. Cute. Coming from you mind, seems like out‘n out lying. I’m sure you’re an in-demand fella.”

  “Used to be. I’m married.” Scott held up his left hand.

  “She know you’re cheating on her with the Caffeine Cupid?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your coffee. You’ve been studying it with the weight of a troubled man.”

  “I’m just not sleeping well.”

  She laughed. “So you all say. Still, I reckon you need Triple-A For Men.” She suddenly zipped off to seat another table. The roundhouse café was filling with early locals and tourist families.

  When she returned with Scott’s toast, she picked up the earlier remark as though she’d never left. “Lemme give you a clue. It’s three little words.”

  Scott shrugged. “I dunno. ‘I love you’?”

  “You guys,” Katie snorted. “You all have such cute notions. It’s reassuring to us gals how simple you’s actually glued together.”

  “Ok, I give in. Triple-A For Men. What is it?”

  “Triple-A for men. Katie’s patented relationship assistance for the brokedown-hearted. Admit. Apologize. Amaze. Tell Mel Gibson when you see him; there’s his answer.”

  “To what?”

  “What women want. What’s all we want. Hey, don’t get me wrong. I’m only here to serve. Anyone’s business comin in is their own. But the food’s great; I’d marry Jack Black in there a thousand times again for that alone. And the advice is free. If it’s unwanted, at least I hope it’s memorable.”

  A guy with a trolleycart came through the entrance.

  “Sorry, deliveries,” she announced. “Plate’s coming real quick. You’ll swear he’s lacing the eggs with acid but they really are that good.” Katie whirled away to the delivery guy.

  Scott sipped the juice. He could almost envision Julianna sitting in the seat opposite, her wry smile at his newly-gained insight.

  - Admit. Apologize. Amaze. Whatever happened chocolates and flowers? he asked.

  - You can file them under ‘Amaze’. It’s so much better when they aren’t instruments of apology. Less fattening in that respect.

  - Ha-ha. Maybe you should be thankful we don’t apologize as much as we should then.

  - How considerate of you to think of our waistlines.

  - I want to apologize to you now, Jules.

  - For what?

  - For letting it go this far. How it came to this, that’s my fault.

  - What exactly is ‘this’?

  - This. This… emotional entropy.

  - Our fall from grace?

  - I guess.

  - Scott, no one can spend their entire lives in the white-heat of first love. It’s physically and emotionally impossible. Dizzy-headed-over-heels, can’t-keep-hands-off, well that’s all fine for a time. But then comes the groove. Your heart eventually stops going rat-dat-tat. You find your breath again. The drug maxes out.

  - Love?

  - Yes. It becomes different, an acceptable cold-turkey from the original high. Hedonism gives way to habit. The mundane becomes the norm. As long as you can tie your shoelaces every morning, you won’t feel like dancing in them, but you won’t feel like hanging yourself from them either.

  - So that’s ‘Love’? Sounds more like ‘Appreciation’. Is that what a marriage’s supposed to be, a mutual appreciation society?

  - In part. There is no roadmap, is there? You just get on with it.

  - I’m just trying to get a handle on this whole ‘Love’ thing. I mean, it can’t just be a simple ying-and-yang, can it? Love-No love. If it’s so goddamn important, there ought to be more words. The Eskimos have 70 words for ‘snow’. How many have we got for the most important feeling in the world? Let’s see: ‘Lust’? ‘Like’? ‘Loathe’? They’re just phases either side of love. What do you say when you’re in the thick of it. Are you always just ‘in love’? What about when you’re not doing so good? When you’re falling out of love, what are you falling into? Are you unloved? What about that? How do you label it then, to not be loved? ‘Longing’? ‘Loss’? How do I tell someone how I feel right now if I can’t even put words to it that make sense to me?

  - ‘Loneliness’, Scott, is what it means to be bereft of love. If you’re loved, you shouldn’t ever feel lonely.

  - Is that how you felt, lonely?

  - It’s how we both felt. You were too pig-headed to see it, either in me or in yourself. You didn’t want to talk about it. Why were you so scared to confront it?

  - I didn’t want to break it even more than I knew it was already broken. Like I said, I didn’t know what to call it. I just… appreciated that we hadn’t completely imploded. There was always hope, right? Right up until you left, or right up until you decided I was worth leaving.

  - Just because I’m in your head doesn’t mean you’re in mine. But Scott, be sure of one thing. Don’t come looking for me unless you are absolutely, one-hundred-per-cent certain that you love me and that we are ready to fix this, together. And you can stop with all this ‘Appreciate’ crap. It’s not part of Triple-A, as you now know.

  - I don’t have a vocabulary for this then.

  - All you need is ‘Love’.

  Breakfast arrived. It was as good as Katie promised and Scott hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

  “Well, good?” Katie asked when she returned with a refill.

  “I’m gonna have to call the DEA. My compliments to Jack Black.”

  “Jack Leary
actually. I’ll be sure to tell him. Everything seems better on a full stomach, don’t it? Especially a proper home-cooked meal, at home, by and with the one you love.”

  “You know, you could have the wrong end of the stick. I might just be a tired overworked grumpy sales exec. What makes you think I need a relationship intervention?”

  “Scott, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re married, you said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Show me your ring again.”

  Scott held up his left hand. The ring was gone. It had switched places to his right hand. He stared at it, as if trying to unpick a magic trick he’d just witnessed.

  “You been worryin that thing since you got here, twisting it and thumbin it,” Katie explained. “Tapping it gainst the sugar cellar, loud as creation. Guess you didn’t notice you moving it. Just kinda slid it across from one to the other.”

  “I don’t remember doing that.”

  “I’m a waitress, Hun. I notice everything, but I never show and I rarely tell.”

  “Thanks. It’s a bit… personal.”

  “Should stay as such, I’d say.” Katie fetched up his empty plate.

  “So, you have any more wise words for me then? From the secret code of The Order of the Apron?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Triple A’s about all I get?”

  “It’s all you need. Actually it’s all I got.”

  “Makes it easy for us guys to follow, I guess.”

  “Hell no. Shouldn’t be easy. Nothing’s easy in this world. Things just work until the day they stop working. Stuff just goes shooshy. Ain’t no warning. You fix what you can, don’t sweat what you can’t. And don’t ever let go of what you won’t ever get back”—she made a resilient fist—“lessin you didn’t want it in the first place.”

  “I guess I need to arm myself with the biggest box of chocolates ever produced then.”

  “Well, you came to the right town. You’re in Hershey, remember?”

  “Yeah, I saw the sign on the way in. Sweetest Place On Earth, right?”