34
We were almost done packing. After several years in that apartment, the time had come to say goodbye before the floor gave out or a black hole opened up that sucked us into some alternate universe. A man can only face so many attempted assaults on his doorstep before rethinking his living situation. And since I'd already been thinking about more space, when Amanda agreed with me it made sense. My lease was up in a few weeks.
It was as good a time as any to start over.
We were submerged amongst folded cardboard boxes, masking tape, clothes, books, papers and every thing else you forget about and probably have no need for. My books took up the most room. I packed all of my first-edition Jack O'Donnell tomes in a padded box, reinforced with enough masking tape to hold up the
Brooklyn Bridge. My clothes were another story. There were two small boxes marked Henry's Clothes. They weighed about as much as a pizza.
"You know," Amanda said, "you could have saved on the moving van and just rented a bike. You could have fit all your stuff into one of those E.T. baskets."
"I'm not a shopper, what do you want from me?"
"Not a shopper?" she said, putting down her Sharpie.
"Even being able to use the word shopper implies that you have, in fact, shopped in your life. I'm guessing most of these clothes survived from college, or else the local Salvation Army dropoff is pretty bare. When we get settled, first thing we're doing is taking you on a proper shopping spree. You could use a new suit. And new pants, new shirts, and don't get me started on your underwear."
"Is this what we'll be like five years from now?" I said, smiling. I went up to Amanda, wrapped my arms around her. She snuggled in, resting her head on my shoulder. "On each other's cases about clothing and stuff?"
"I'm playing with you, you big baby." She tilted her head up until I was staring into those beautiful eyes.
"Besides, I just want the best for you. You're great at your job. I just want people to know that just by looking at you."
"You know that just by looking at me."
"Hopefully, most people won't need to wake up next to you in the morning in order to know you're the best young reporter in the city."
"Best young reporter?"
"Don't get ahead of yourself. Give it time, Henry."
I gave her a quick kiss, then went back to packing.
Though there were enough bad memories here to make me want to run away from this block screaming like a banshee, I'd miss it ever so slightly. Like that crazy first girlfriend who showed up at your apartment drunk at
4:00 a.m. and burned all your CDs when you broke up, there would be a small (well-guarded) place for it in my heart.
I wished there would be room for Stephen Gaines in my heart, but I couldn't force what was never there. I don't know how many people have pasts that exist without their knowledge. There was more to Stephen's life than what I'd uncovered. He'd lived for thirty years, abandoned by his family, given up by his father. The man who killed him had faced the most severe retribu tion possible. Yet a lingering doubt still remained, as I could see him on that street corner, tortured by some thing. Not Scotty Callahan. Not Kyle Evans.
Having dealt in vice for ten years, Stephen had seen more evil than most men did their whole lives. To do what he did took resolve, the knowledge that you were bringing poison into the world, that you couldn't be scared of the consequences. Every day could have brought jail or death. Yet he kept on living that life. And finally the odds caught up with him.
So what scares a man who isn't afraid of losing his freedom or his life?
My cell phone rang. It was the moving van. They were here to pick up our furniture, though we'd be lucky if it made it to their warehouse without disinte grating. I answered, and a hoarse voice told me the van would be there within fifteen minutes. I turned to
Amanda, said, "Moving company's almost here. Should we, like, start bringing stuff down?"
She looked at me like I'd just admitted to wearing women's underwear. "Henry. They're a moving company. We pay them to move us. That's their job."
"I know, I just feel a little silly watching people carry all my stuff."
"This is New York. If you can pay four bucks for a coffee and not feel bad, paying someone to carry and store your crap shouldn't even register on the guilty-o meter. So enjoy it, babe. It's not too often people are going to do your heavy lifting for you."
Suddenly the buzzer rang. "That was quick," I said.
"They told me fifteen minutes."
I went over to the window, expecting to see the truck and some burly, impatient men. Instead, I saw just one man standing on the street. He was wearing brown pants and a blue shirt that was untucked and flapping in the wind. He turned up to look at me, palms facing upward as if to say, Are you gonna let me in or what?
"No way," I said. Amanda came over to join me at the window. She looked out.
"Who is that?" she asked.
"It's Jack," I replied.
"I thought he was…"
"In rehab. Me, too. I guess he's out."
"Well, you should go…"
I was out the door and running down the stairs before she could finish her sentence.
The steps couldn't be passed fast enough. I hadn't seen Jack in months, since his name was dragged through the mud and he disappeared to presumably battle his internal demons. He'd left no forwarding address, no note. And now he was here, at my doorstep.
I had so many questions to ask I hoped he didn't have plans for the next year.
When I arrived on the first floor, I sprinted through the lobby and burst through the front door. Jack O'Don nell was standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets.
Then he took them out, checked his watch.
"Forty-three seconds from buzzer to outside. Not quite Olympic caliber, but not too shabby for a guy who sits in front of a computer most of the day." I didn't know what to say. So I just went up to Jack and threw my arms around him. He stumbled backward, saying,
"Easy now, Henry."
When I untangled myself, I took my first real look at Jack in months. His gray hair was neatly combed, if slightly disheveled due to the weather. His face had none of the red ruddiness I was used to, and his cheeks seemed fuller. Jack's beard was neatly trimmed, cut razor sharp along his jawline, and he looked like he'd put on a few pounds.
"You look good," I said, patting him on the shoulder.
"Scratch that, this is the best I've seen you look since we meet. Where have you been?"
"Away," Jack said. "We can discuss the wheres and whys later. Just think of what I went through as dialysis of the soul."
"I'm getting a disturbing image of you passing
Ghandi through your urethra." Jack laughed, a quick ha.
"It's good to see you, kid. Been a long time. I spoke to Wallace before. He filled me in on what you've been up to, you busy little bee."
"You already talked to Wallace?"
"Hell, yes, my young friend, I spent all of last night in the office, getting reacquainted with my computer.
Making sure nobody stole my Rolodex. And asking him for permission to chase one particular story."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"Well," Jack said, "while I was on my little sabbati cal, I got the Gazette delivered to me every day. Generally it was the same old stuff. World's going to hell in a handbasket, the dollar can barely buy so much as a loaf of bread, foreign investors are buying the Statue of Liberty. And Paulina Cole still has a job. All things that make you want to hide under your bed and cry.
Then I read one story last week, and that's when I knew
I was ready to step back into the light."
"What story was that?" I asked.
"Stephen Gaines's murder," Jack said. His face was now solemn. The grin gone.
"I didn't write that."