He set the ice water on the end table and reached for his MacBook. He opened his email and was met with thirty or forty new messages. He quickly deleted the come-ons to buy something and scanned a couple of others asking him to speak at the local Rotary club or donate autographed books to charity auctions before he marked them unread to deal with later.
A message from his mother and father remained in cyber purgatory, unopened days after it had first arrived. Another email from someone calling himself “Harold Strong” had a subject line that caught his eye: “Boxing Fan.” Mister Strong said he loved Pilate’s book and heard he liked to box. He wanted to buy him “a nice drink” and have a chat about his ideas of “why friendships are ordained by the universe” whenever Pilate “had an hour or two of free time.” Pilate chuckled and wrote back: “Maybe one of these days. Glad you liked the book, friend.”
A reporter with the Miami Herald, doing a story on leaders and powerful people suspected of having narcissistic personality disorder, wanted to interview Pilate about his long-dead nemesis, Jack Lindstrom. He hit ‘reply’ and typed out:
“Thank you for your interest in my thoughts. Jack Lindstrom was a damned nightmare for nearly everyone who knew him. So, I hope you understand I don’t want to spend one more minute of my life thinking about him. Good luck with your story (Yes, you can print this.)” Filing away Sending the message from the Herald reporter brought another e-mail scrolling onto the page, and the name “Kate Nathaniel” in the sender field made him catch his breath and sit up straight. It wasn’t from her work account at Cross College, the one she usually used, even for non-business matters. This one was her old personal account, which she hadn’t used much since they married. Or perhaps he didn’t get email from her much, until lately.
Kate and John had not spoken in the two weeks since when she asked—no, demanded—her space and he gave it to her. He missed the kids and he missed her, truth be told, but he was trying to respect her wishes, as in, “Get your shit together, Jack.”
“Shit coming together, babe,” Simon said.
Pilate mentally waved off his inner voice and read the email. She asked for money for the kids’ school clothes and to finish repairing the damage to their living room, still messed up from a home invasion a couple of years ago.
Kate didn’t specify an amount. He toggled tabbed over to his bank account online and transferred $10,000. For once, he had plenty of money. His recently-recovered book royalties made him more or less liquid, and the pay from the occasional teaching or writing gig, as well as living in his deceased pal’s “fishing shack,” helped make ends meet pretty effortlessly. The most he spent on himself was on personal training fees and vodka...and he was trying to cut back on the potato juice.
Pilate read on.
“And since we are taking a break here I wanted you to know that Grant Fielding from the history department asked me out to coffee. I’m going to go. He’s a friend—that’s all, but I wanted to let you know because you know you can’t do anything in this town without the gossips--”
Pilate felt his guts tighten, his breath became choppy, his chest tighten, accompanied by a tinny, piercing whine in his ears.
“Mother…” he muttered. He breathed deep after a few staccato breaths, starting the anxiety attack protocol Dr. Sandberg taught him.
“Where’s the threat?” he asked himself. This began the calming process.
“Anxiety attacks can be headed off relatively quickly with practice, John.” Sandberg had said. Pilate worked silently, breathing steadily, adjusting. Adjusting.
“Steady, John,” Simon said. “Where’s that inhaler?”
Pilate’s eyes focused back on the screen.
“…gossips mouthing off. I just need a friend. You understand that, right?”
Pilate slammed the laptop closed and kicked the ice pack off his foot; it hit the wall and burst open, spraying half-moon-shaped pieces of ice across the room. “Take my damned money and go. I don’t care.”
Hot tears stung his eyes. He prowled the room a moment, then went into the galley, jerked open the old fridge door and scooped up a bottle of Tanqueray vodka in one rough gesture.
“John,” Simon whispered.
He snatched a rocks glass from the cabinet over the sink and poured it halfway full.
“John,” Simon whispered again.
Pilate slammed down a good swallow.
“John,” Simon whispered.
“What?” he growled.
“There’s Lillet in the fridge and half a lemon in cling wrap in the door.”
Pilate downed the rest of his glass and strode out to the porch, swinging with a round kick that sent the “For Sale” sign into the street below.
“Wow. You look like shit,” Val said the next morning, looking up from wrapping her hands.
Pilate grunted and dropped his bag. His head throbbed; his eyes felt like they had been rolled in fresh-mown grass clippings and jammed back in his skull backwards.
“Hey sunny, this one of those days?” Val said, her dark green eyes dancing under her sculptured brows, her ponytail dancing as she bobbed her head for comic effect.
He nodded, digging in his bag for hand wraps.
“Seriously,” Val said, standing up. “Have you eaten anything?”
“No,” he said. His chest felt as if it was bandaged tightly, the same feeling he’d had years ago, when he was shot in Cross Township.
She searched his red-rimmed eyes. “Yo, John?”
He glanced up at her a second, then went back to fishing for his wraps.
The bell clanged; two people began sparring in the ring behind them. Pilate stopped a moment, watching the clumsy ballet as the pair bobbed, weaved and punched—mostly striking the almost visible, humid air.
“We’re, uhhhh, not boxing today,” Val said. “As much as I think you want to hit something, we’re going to do something else.”
Pilate didn’t argue as she stripped off her wraps and dropped them in her bag. “Come on.”
The coffee’s aroma dazed him for a second; John detected traces of hazelnut wafting past him as he sat on the deck outside, idly watching Val through the window as she ordered their coffee at Frenchie’s Cafe, a tiny bistro housed in a white cottage with blue trim, next door to the Southernmost Inn, in turn, not far from the iconic Southernmost Point buoy.
Val’s tanned, compact, muscular frame moved efficiently past two other customers, through the tiny cafe out to the porch overlooking United Street. Pilate pegged her at about thirty, though with her rich brown hair and vibrant bronze skin, she could easily pass for younger. He rarely saw her wear makeup at the gym, of course. And she didn’t need it. Pilate admired her matter-of-fact ways, and could even tolerate that she was really into playing country music during workouts. She was just getting over a breakup with a cop.
“Total jerkface,” he remembered her saying once in passing. “Turned out to be a real lunk on a power trip.”
Lunk or not, Pilate couldn’t comprehend how a guy could allow himself to lose a woman like Val. “She’s the total package,” he thought.
“Kate loves a hazelnut blend,” Simon ventured from the recesses of his mind.
Val brought him a large coffee and sat across from him. “Croque Madames coming out in a minute.”
“Nice.” He nodded and picked up the coffee. “Thanks. I need sugar.”
“I think so, too,” she said as he took the coffee to the cream and sugar station inside. He dumped a few packets of the brown raw stuff in his coffee and gave it a cursory stir before returning to Val on the porch.
Val sipped her coffee a moment, looking up as several scooters, tiny engines cutting through the thick Florida Keys air like wheeled buzz saws, whipped down the street towards the Southernmost Point buoy.
“Thanks, Val.”
“You look better already,” she said, her smile revealing dimples and impossibly straight white teeth.
“Yeah, but in about fifteen minutes I’
m gonna need to poop,” he smirked.
“There’s an alley,” she said, jerking her head over her shoulder and returning to her cup, eyes on the street.
He nodded; his eyes joining her gaze on the horizon, looking south towards the end of America.
“I…had a kind of rough night,” he said.
“No kidding?” Val’s smile flashed, a perfunctory verbal jab.
“I uh, well, I think my marriage may be in trouble,” his voice broke. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve self-consciously.
“Oh,” she said. “How do you…I mean…what happened?”
“Got an email. She’s apparently seeing somebody else.”
“Oh my God,” Val said, turning over the coldness of a “Dear John” email in her mind.
“Yeah, I mean, she just said that she was going to go for coffee with a guy.”
“I’m confused,” Val said, cocking her head. “Coffee. Like you and I are having now?”
Pilate stopped a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Well, I mean, it’s different…here. What we are…doing. We’re friends.”
She nodded. “And this guy…he’s not her friend?” she made air quotes.
Pilate sighed, then shrugged, exasperated at himself.
“Okay. Let’s hold on to that for a minute,” she reached for her coffee cup, then, stopped herself. “How long have you been separated? You never really said.”
“About six months. I haven’t seen her or my kids in three,” he said, thinking back to a quick visit to Cross, where he picked up clothes and spent some time with his children. Kate had all her defenses up, full armor from head to toe, but he thought he felt some progress. They’d slept in separate rooms and all their energy and conversation was focused on the kids, but still. Progress.
And he had notched up his visits with Dr. Sandberg.
“Shoot, man, I’m sorry,” Val said, her green eyes downcast.
He nodded. “I was…careless.”
“Oh,” she said, inferring something he wasn’t sure he meant.
“Any idea what you’re going to do?” she said.
“No,” Pilate said. “I mean, I don’t want to move back to that hellhole in Nebraska, but she doesn’t want to leave. But I miss my kids and I was gearing up to move back when this hit. Even put the shack on the market. He looked out at the street at a flock of tourists walking past. “Now I guess I could still move back. Just be Mister Weekend Dad in a hellhole.”
“Hmmm.” Val sat back in her chair. “Maybe I should’ve let you punch something.”
“How did it feel physically?”
“What?”
“When Kate told you about the coffee date?” Dr. Sandberg said, shifting in his chair, hands grasping a yellow legal pad and pen.
“Like I was having a heart attack, you know?”
Sandberg nodded.
“Well,” Pilate cleared his throat. “I saw red. Like I could barely think. My pulse was probably racing, too.”
“So was there a sensation in your chest or your stomach?” His open hand hovered over his chest.
Pilate leaned back in his chair. “Both, I guess. Not pleasant.”
“Was it a radiating pain or—”
“Stabbing, then a tightness.”
“In your chest?” Sandberg said, his hand dropping back to his lap.
Pilate nodded.
“And you couldn’t think?”
“No, not really. Not for a few seconds. I got mad. I kicked a bag of ice across the room.”
“A bag of ice?” Sandberg looked confused.
“I was icing my foot after a workout. Trust me, better the ice bag than my laptop.”
The psychologist nodded. “So how long did this feeling last?”
“The nausea?” Pilate asked.
Sandberg nodded again.
“Probably the better part of twenty minutes. I drank some vodka to calm it down,” Pilate said, looking away.
“Careful John, you tell him too much about drinking and you may not get to drink anymore,” Simon chimed.
Sandberg made a quick note on the pad. “Did the drinking help the sensation go away?”
“I think it started to go away before the booze kicked in,” Pilate said. “I felt short of breath. Sick, you know? And my chest was tight. Almost like when I got the wind knocked out of me trying to do a double play in little league. Not fun.”
Sandberg nodded, standing up to close the blinds behind Pilate, then returning to his seat. “Then what?”
“What?”
“Once the feeling faded away, and you started drinking, what happened?”
“Not sure, I don’t remember.”
“Do you drink every day?”
“Used to. Until this happened I was working out instead. It helped. I wanted to lose weight. Vodka is a lot of empty calories.”
“You want to lose weight—is that the main reason you started working out?”
Pilate twisted his mouth a bit. “Well, I mean, I guess I wanted to look better.”
“Better?”
“For when I went back to Cross.”
Sandberg looked up from his notes. “You were going to visit?”
“No, I was going to move back home to fix my marriage. I can fix it.”
Sandberg looked at Pilate impassively.
“At least I thought I could. But that’s not going to happen now.” Pilate’s hands trembled; his eyes watered. “I blew it. Stupid.”
“I’m sorry.” After a moment, he said, “You know, you say that often.”
“What?”
“Stupid. You call yourself ‘stupid’ pretty often in our sessions,” Sandberg said.
Pilate shrugged. “I guess ‘cause I am.”
He raised an eyebrow and thrust his head forward. “Really? Okay. Why do you think that?”
“Have you been listening to me the past few God only knows how many years?” Pilate said, raising his voice, trying to play off his frustration as a joke.
“Come on, man. You’re a bestselling writer, a teacher, and a community leader. You’ve done some extraordinary shit—I mean you helped take down a drug cartel, for Pete’s sake. I deal with lots of people day-in, day-out. I see what stupid looks like. You’re far from stupid.”
“I do stupid things,” Pilate said, waving him away.
“I locked my keys in the car the other day—while it was running. Had to have my wife come home from work to help me. Does that make me stupid?”
“No, you made a mistake. Probably had your mind on other things.”
Sandberg nodded. “You told me you got called stupid a lot when you were a child.”
Pilate looked at his balled-up hands in his lap. “Yeah, there was a lot of teasing.”
“Teasing?”
“I did stupid things sometimes. What does this have to do with Kate?”
“It’s not about Kate. It’s about you, and how you react to certain things. You’re very judgmental of yourself. So they weren’t teasing?”
“What?”
“Growing up. You just said you were teased…called you stupid. Then you said that you actually did do stupid things. Which was it?”
“They did the best they could,” Pilate said, softly, looking at the shelf of autographed baseballs behind Sandberg. “She wasn’t well,” he said, rubbing his neck, eyes still on the baseballs. “Is that a Marlins ball?”
Sandberg nodded.
“I like the Royals.”
“Mom wasn’t well?” Sandberg said.
“She’s better now,” Pilate said. “You know.”
“You have two kids,” he said, looking at his notes. “Kara and—”
“Peter. You know that, come on.”
“Do they do stupid things?” Sandberg raised his eyebrows, his eyes vaguely innocent, but Pilate had seen this look before, when he was setting a small trap in therapy.
“They’re kids.”
“Do they misbehave?” he said.
“Sure. All kids d
o,” Pilate said, shrugging. “But they’re good kids.”
“Does Peter do stuff that makes you mad?” Sandberg said.
“Mad? No. Irritated, sure. He spills stuff a lot. But he’s barely out of diapers, so—”
“Ever call him stupid?” Sandberg cut in.
“No,” Pilate said, flatly, his breathing shallow.
“Ever hit him?”
“No,” Pilate growled, glaring up from the fists in his lap.
“Would you want Kara or Peter to spend a week living in the environment you lived in as a child?”
“Stop pushing my buttons, god damn it. Don’t talk about my kids, man.” Pilate’s chest ached, his vision clouded, his breath coming in short sips. He stood up. “I gotta go.”
Sandberg rose to his feet. “John, are you okay?”
Pilate looked past him, hands raised, palms open. “Just let me go,” he said, his voice breaking.
“Hey, let’s sit back down and let you calm down for a minute,” Sandberg said, his voice soothing. “We don’t have to talk, okay?”
“I feel sick,” Pilate said, easing back into his chair. The room was swimmy, his breath coming in short, ragged sips.
“Just breathe,” Sandberg said. “Where’s the threat? Breathe. Let me get you some water.”
Sandberg opened the door, went out into the anteroom and brought back a paper cup of cold water. He handed it to Pilate.
Pilate drank the water and started to breathe deeply.
They sat in silence.
“I never hit my kids. You know I would never, ever hit a kid,” Pilate said, the words navigating his tight lips. “And I never tell them they’re stupid, or worthless or that I don’t want them around. I am not like that and never will be.”
“John, I know that,” he said. “I just wondered if you truly did.”
Pilate nodded. “What’s going on in here, then?” Pilate said, tapping himself on the chest with his knuckle.
“We’ve worked on your issues for years, John, and developed ways to treat the symptoms. The panic attacks. I think we’re at a point where we need to get to the roots of what happened to make you the way you are.”
“The way I am?” Pilate said, wiping a tear from his eye.
Pilate's Shadow Page 2