Allison Harmell lived in North Olmsted. Fifteen years earlier she’d lived on Scranton Road, a neighbor but not a classmate. Allison’s parents came up with the cash to send her to a Catholic school, but she’d hung out more with the West Tech crowd than with her friends from school.
She was an accountant now, recently resigned from one of the large national chains to work independently. I’d learned this in the same way I’d learned everything else that had happened in Allison’s life in the last eight years—through letters. We didn’t talk on the phone because the silences that inevitably slid between us never felt as comfortable as they should have between old friends. We used to meet for drinks occasionally, always at a hotel bar in Middleburg Heights, in a room filled with strangers, but now those meetings had gone by the wayside, as well. These were the rules of contact that had developed between us as the years had passed, and while they were always unspoken, they were also rigid.
She worked out of her house, I knew, so I didn’t have to rise so early simply to catch her at home. I was more interested in catching her before she turned on the television.
She came to the door within seconds of my knock, but she wore a robe and had her hair in a towel.
“Lincoln,” she said, lifting a hand to her temple. “What in the world . . .” Halfway through the question she answered it for herself. “Something’s wrong.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Something’s wrong.”
Seeing her again, I regretted that I’d designated myself as the messenger. I’d known it wouldn’t be any fun for me, but it had also seemed better than letting her hear it from some idiot television news reporter or as overheard conversation in a grocery store checkout line. Now I was struck by just how difficult the disclosure was going to be.
“He’s in trouble,” she said, stepping aside from the door. “I’ve already heard. But, Lincoln, he couldn’t have killed that woman. He couldn’t have.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. Not where he’s concerned.”
I was inside the house now, following her through a tiny dining room and into a kitchen that smelled warmly of brewing coffee. Allison sat on a kitchen stool, the robe sliding off slim, bare legs.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ed’s dead.” I was standing in the kitchen doorway, tall and rigid, hands hanging at my sides.
“No. Dead? No. He’s just in jail, Lincoln. They were going to send him back to . . .” The attempt died then, and she shut up and stared at me.
“It happened last night,” I said. “I was there when he died. The cops came after him and he ran into the street. He was drunk and he couldn’t make it across. They hit him with their car.”
She didn’t say anything, just reached up and slowly unwound the towel from her long blond hair. It fell to her shoulders, some of the wetter strands sticking to her neck.
“Three years and seven months,” she said. Silence for a moment, and then: “That’s how long it’s been since I talked to him. I figured that out when I heard about the fire on the news last night. We saw each other once when he got out of jail, and then no more.”
There was another long pause before she said, “So then I shouldn’t be sad, right? Not really.”
She started to cry then, softly and without theatrics, just a quiet supply of tears that she’d occasionally wipe with the back of her hand. I didn’t move toward her. For a long time we remained like that—her crying on the stool, me standing with my hands at my sides in the doorway.
“Shit,” she said eventually, sniffing back the last of the tears and shaking her head. “He’s dead and I’m mad at him for that. Make any sense?”
“Yes.”
She barked out a laugh that was still wet with tears and shook her head again. “Good. I’d hate to seem crazy.”
The silence that followed lasted a few minutes. Then she took a long breath and said, “Now are you going to tell me how you ended up with him when he died? Because if it’s been almost four years since I talked to him, it had been a lot longer for you.”
“It had been longer.”
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me why you were there, tell me how he looked, tell me what he said. Tell me how it was when he died.”
Thirty minutes later we were still in the kitchen. The coffee had finished brewing but sat unpoured, and Allison’s hair was air-drying and fanning out a bit with static. I was still standing in the doorway, refusing to cross the threshold and join her in the room.
“Did you believe him?” Allison asked.
“When he said he didn’t kill her?”
“Yes.”
“I believed that before he said a word. Ed was a lot of things, Allison, but a murderer wasn’t one of them.”
“People change. Especially when they . . .”
“When they spend years in jail,” I said for her. She winced, but it wasn’t because she’d stopped the sentence to protect my feelings. It was a whole lot more personal than that.
“Yes,” she said. “That changes a person.”
“Not that much. I don’t believe it changes someone that much. But then I’ve never been to jail.” I paused a second before saying, “For more than a night, that is,” as if that detail mattered.
“He hadn’t been in any trouble,” she said. “Nothing since he got out. I watch the papers for his name.”
“You have any idea what he was doing since then?”
She shook her head.
“Me neither,” I said, and something in those two words made her cock her head and frown at me.
“You’re going to find out, though, is that it?”
I shrugged.
“Are you?” she prompted.
“Would it be wrong if I did?”
She shook her head, her eyes watching me with a measure of pity. “No, Lincoln. But it’s too late to make amends.”
“You think that’s what it’s about? I don’t have to make amends, Allison.”
“Right,” she said. “We never did. But I’m not sure you ever believed that.”
“I did. I do.”
She smiled slightly. “So tell me again why you went after Ed last night?”
“I wanted to help a friend.”
“He wasn’t your friend, Lincoln. Not anymore. Hadn’t been for years.”
“He’s my friend.”
“And you’re his,” she said. “That’s what you wanted to prove. To him, to Scott Draper, to anyone who ever knew the two of you. To the whole damn neighborhood, whatever’s left of it.”
I looked at the wall behind her.
“I’m not discouraging you,” she said. “I’m just reminding you of what you came here to tell me—he’s dead.”
“His name’s not. It’s still going strong right now, and headed in the wrong direction. You want the city to remember him as a killer?”
“No.”
We were quiet for a while, and then she asked if I ever saw anyone from the old neighborhood.
I shook my head. “Some people sent cards or called after my dad’s funeral. That was the old guard, though, most of them over fifty. As far as the kids we grew up with, no. You?”
She smiled at me the way you smile at someone who’s just asked an utterly absurd question.
“No, Lincoln. I’m not thought of too highly around there.”
“Neither one of us is, Allison.”
She tried to make her tone light. “We did what we had to do, right? Just didn’t work out the way anyone wanted it to. No regrets, Lincoln. No regrets.”
There wasn’t much more to say after that. I stayed in the kitchen with her a while longer. She finally poured the coffee. I drank mine while she cried over hers. She was dry-eyed again when I left.