He wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t thought about for years. After hearing about Jenny, I read everything I could about liver cancer in the prison library and I knew some people believed stress played a large role in it.
I said, “I just want to see you.” I wanted to ask him for Paul’s address and number, but stopped myself, knowing that that request would lead to a quick hang-up. Instead, carefully choosing my words, I added, “I don’t want anything from you other than that. A half hour, Michael, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Yeah, well, you’re asking a hell of a lot. I spoke to Allie this morning. She doesn’t want you calling her again and leaving any more messages, so don’t.”
“Maybe Allie will change her mind someday.”
“She’s not changing her mind.”
I hesitated, my voice lowering almost to a whisper. “Michael, you’re my son. I love you. I just want to see you.”
He laughed at that, a tired, exhausted laugh. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that’s what kept you surviving prison.”
I lied then and told him it was partly that. In truth, I wasn’t sure what it was that kept me going all those years. I knew it was self-preservation and anger that made me cut the deal in the first place. During those early years I was driven by wanting to see Jenny again, and to a lesser extent, wanting to walk out of prison as a big loud fuck-you to Lombard. After Jenny died and I no longer had any sort of life waiting for me on the outside, that fuck-you message I wanted to deliver stopped seeming all that important to me. I had to fight while inside prison to make it from day to day, but the thing was, I’d be damned if I knew why I bothered.
Michael took some time digesting what I told him. When he spoke again it was to tell me that I was lying, but there was a hint of doubt in his voice. “Don’t call me again,” he said. “Maybe I’ll call you back someday, I’m not sure, but don’t you ever fucking call me again.”
He hung up then. I felt jittery inside, but also a little hopeful. Before his call, I never thought I would hear his voice again, and it went about as well as I could’ve expected.
Christ, my head was hurting me. Like it was being cracked open like a walnut. I sat for a while with my head bowed, cradling it in both hands. When I could I straightened up and reached for the bottle of aspirin that I kept next to the bed. My hand shook as I spilled several tablets into it. I chewed them slowly without bothering to get any water. I knew they weren’t going to do much good. They never did much good.
Later that morning I was at a coffee shop trying to mind my own business while I ate a two dollar and fifty cent maple-banana-nut muffin and drank a three dollar cup of coffee – all of it costing more than a full breakfast at Lucinda’s diner would’ve cost – when I noticed a woman sitting a few tables over staring at me. She was in her thirties, thick dark hair, dark features, probably of Italian descent, and all I could think was that I was about to have a confrontation with another of my victims’ relatives.
I stared back. I didn’t care. Let her shout and scream all she wanted. She got up from her table and walked over to me. Up close her hair was all tangled, like a hornet’s nest. It looked like it hadn’t been combed in days, that it needed washing and, even more badly, some work at a salon. But as bad a hair day as she might’ve been having it didn’t hide that her features were striking, even given how skinny she was.
“I must’ve been staring,” she said, keeping her voice soft and low. When I didn’t say anything in response, she showed a trace of a shit-eating grin, and added, “I was there yesterday morning at the Blue Bell Diner when you and that fat guy gave us your two-man show. It was very entertaining. Do you mind if I join you?”
She waited a few seconds for me to answer her, and when I didn’t, she sat across from me anyway, her shit-eating grin stretching a fraction of an inch. I remembered her then from the diner. She’d been sitting at a table in the back and I caught a glimpse of her when I stood up to leave. If she hadn’t been so strikingly beautiful I wouldn’t have noticed her. But as beautiful as she was, she was also somewhat a mess, both with her hair and her clothing, and no makeup on. My first thought would’ve been that she was a drug addict, except her eyes were bright and clear, and her skin too healthy for that.
“Did you follow me here?” I asked, my voice cracking and coming out as a hoarse rumble.
She laughed at that. It was a nice throaty laugh. “Hardly,” she said. “Boy, are you one paranoid sonofabitch, but I guess given your situation I can’t blame you for that.” Her eyes glistened as she looked at me. “I was in here minding my own business when I recognized you from the other day. A coincidence, that’s all.”
“What do you want?”
She raised an eyebrow at that, her grin growing more amused. “It’s not enough that a somewhat attractive woman wants to sit at the same table with you?” she asked.
Somewhat attractive didn’t do her justice. Even as skinny and unkempt as she was, there was real beauty in her. Someone like her wasn’t about to sit down at a table with a guy like me who was thirty years or so older than her, especially looking the way I did, unless she wanted something from me. After the stories broke about me six months ago I started receiving letters and photos from wack jobs who wanted to correspond with me in prison, a few even offering marriage proposals. Maybe it’s a sadomasochism thing, maybe some bizarre attraction to death, or maybe just plain mental illness, but I discovered first hand that there are plenty of sickos out there who are attracted to serial killers, and I guess some of these looked on a professional hit man as being even more of a prize. Maybe this woman was one of them, except she didn’t look it. With the prison letters I received, you could tell right away how insane these women were.
“Again, what do you want?”
Her lips pursing, she asked, “I have to want something?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” she said. Her eyes glistened several degrees brighter as she studied me. “What you went through in that diner yesterday was rough. I felt for you, but I also liked the way you handled yourself.” She looked away for a moment, a solemnness momentarily weighing on her features. “I guess I also felt empathy. I’ve done plenty of things in the past that I’m not proud of, things that weren’t so nice and that I wish I could take back. I wouldn’t be happy if complete strangers kept throwing them in my face. Fuck that guy yesterday, you know. From what you said, it sounds like you did the world a favor killing his scumbag rapist of an old man. Was what you said true? He really did that to that girl?”
I nodded.
“Well, good for you then.”
“I don’t have money stashed away, if that’s what you’re after.”
More of that throaty laugh, her eyes shining again. “You don’t trust people much, do you?”
“Not too much.” I gave her a long hard look, trying to figure out what she was after. “I’m not killing anyone else, if that’s what you’re here for.”
She didn’t say anything in response to that, but the amusement in her eyes and smile showed that wasn’t it either.
“You want to write a book about me, don’t you?” I asked.
She shook her head and told me that she wasn’t a writer, but there was a hesitation when she did so. So that was it. A wild stab in the dark, but I had figured her out. Another hopeful author who wanted to sell my life story for fame and fortune. At least this one was nice to look at, and more than that, had some personality. I felt comfortable with her.
She stood up, an impish smile still on her lips. She told me she had to get going, but that she lived in the area and she was sure she’d run into me now and again. She warned me if that happened for me not to get all paranoid and think she was following me. I had no doubt that I’d see her again. She’d make sure of it. She was smart enough where she’d give it some time before making her sales pitch about me writing a book with her, but I didn’t much mind the prospect of that.