My new home had two rooms: a small bedroom and bath, and a larger room for everything else. I had thrown a bare mattress on the floor and called it good. Sarah had picked out my sheet and bedspread set on our trip to Walmart. We’d picked out my new wardrobe there as well, an assortment of knock-off jeans and shirts. Some of the shirts even had buttons. Boots, a black ball cap and an oversized jacket finished the look. I’d insisted on shopping for my own underwear and socks. The rest of my furniture—two plastic lawn chairs and one round table—had come from Goodwill.
I ate off paper plates with plastic utensils, so no dishes to wash. My stove didn’t work, so Sarah had bought me a hotplate. I kept it on top of the broken stove. I picked up a six-cup Mr. Coffee maker and a few bags of discount ground coffee. The novelty of cooking my own meals gave me joy. What a luxury it was to eat when and what I wanted. Mostly noodles, tuna, and jar sauce. It was great.
Sarah had given me a small allowance as well. That’s where all those noodles came from. This was the hardest thing to accept, but I’d only been out of the hospital one week and had nothing to my name. I’d protested that I’d pay her back every cent (and I would, somehow) and she’d just smiled. Sarah explained that her rainy-day fund was for her to leave her marriage and the philandering Victor. I asked her when, and she said soon. Sarah had worked hard at her career and was well off. She was looking at townhouses in Dupont Circle that were all seven-figure listings. We both knew what she was giving me was sofa-cushion change to her, but it meant the world to me. I loved her for it.
I had arranged my lawn furniture in the front of the big room, nearest the window and away from the kitchen area. The set was dark brown, lightweight and indestructible. It was comfortable enough, and I could move it about the room as I pleased. I grabbed my cup of coffee and took a seat facing the window. The windowpanes were permanently fogged up at the corners, which looked like spider webs. I leaned back in the chair and splayed my legs out. Blew out a few deep breaths, listened to the traffic. People going places. Myself? I wasn’t so sure.
It had only been three days since Nicole had changed everything. I couldn’t get the boy out of my mind. Kept seeing that photo of him, standing straight and awkward, head cocked at the camera. Eyes searching, no smile. I wanted to jump into that photo. Give him a big hug, tell him it would all be okay. Tell him he was not alone. That his father wasn’t dead anymore. Or at least not yet.
Made me think of my own father, Arthur Edward Luce, a journeyman plumber who hadn’t wanted to wallow in other people’s shit all day and so became a small-time street hustler in one of the crews of Boston Irish mob kingpin Quinn Doyle. Arthur was a good earner and even better with his fists, and gained a reputation as a man not to be trifled with. I’d worshipped my dad. But he’d loved the streets more than me, and my mom Emily and I hadn’t seen him much. There were lots of rumors about him, his exploits and conquests. I think it was the rumors I’d loved more than the man himself. He died in the street when I was nine years old, two bullets behind his right ear.
So I never really knew my dad, and I’d vowed I would be different if I ever had a boy of my own. And now, as it turned out, I had a son who didn’t know his father either. I tried to convince myself it was for the best, but Teddy’s face would then appear to me as an apparition and I knew better. Or did I? Hey, son. Good news, bad news. The good news is your dad’s not dead; the bad news is that he’s dying, though. How could I ask this boy to put his faith and trust in me? Me, the man who had himself withdrawn from the world, surrendered his own faith and trust. I’d had my reasons, sure, but in truth they were explanations, not excuses. My government had betrayed my trust—twice—and I’d just stopped giving a shit. My son was too young for all this. A little boy without faith and trust was lost. Perhaps forever. I just couldn’t let this happen. It was too late for me. It didn’t have to be for him.
On my tippy plastic table sat a long-necked vase with two flowers sticking out. Daisies, I think. It was a housewarming gift from Sarah. The flowers were as incongruous here as Sarah was. And perhaps me as well; certainly the old me, not so much this gnarled version. I drained the last of my coffee, now cooled to room temperature, and placed the cup on the table by the flowers.
Next to these flowers sat the envelope Sarah had given me yesterday. In it was a round-trip Amtrak ticket to Boston. I had officially been summoned by Quinn Doyle. And when Doyle called, one came.
Quinn Doyle and I had a complicated past. Doyle had been my father’s boss and the only man he’d feared. Emily had always blamed Doyle for my father leaving the trades for a life of crime, and she resented him for it. My father had tolerated no disrespect of Doyle in our house, and so my mother had seethed in silence.
Emily had broken her silence when my father died, at least partly. She would rant against Doyle in private, but bit her tongue around others. My mother was a tough and outspoken woman, and had never had a problem speaking her mind before my father’s death. This had led to arguments, and sometimes more, as my father got heavy-handed when he was drunk. But something had changed with Emily after my father’s death. She feared Doyle now and showed him deference whenever he came around.
And Doyle had started to come around often after my father died. He made sure we had money and food on our table. He offered his protection, which in our neighborhood in South Boston was as if we had been kissed by God. I had taken my dad’s death hard, and I guess I was looking for a father figure. Doyle became that to me, and I like a son to him. Emily had tried to intervene, but it was no use. I fell under Doyle’s influence. Emily had screamed and forbidden me to see him, but no one told Doyle what he could and couldn’t do. Doyle had started to groom me for the life. The life my father had chosen. I did not resist. In desperation, my mother had pulled me out of the eighth grade and moved us to Silver Spring, Maryland, to live with her younger sister. I’d hated her for it at the time.
My contact with Doyle had remained after the move. He was there for many of the milestones of my youth: school graduations; my championship football game in high school; my and Sarah’s senior prom. He’d stayed in my life through West Point, and glowed with pride when I was awarded the Medal of Honor at the White House, an event he chose not to attend out of fear his criminal notoriety would detract from my ceremony.
Doyle had loved Sarah, and they had grown close. Our breakup broke his heart as well as my own. He’d supported me in my stance against the army and my marriage to Nicole. Doyle was one of the relationships I’d betrayed when I walked away from my life. Sarah had told him of my return, and he hadn’t wasted much time in calling me to his side. Through Sarah, I had succeeded in delaying this trip by two weeks.
I grabbed the envelope and held the Acela ticket in my hand: Union Station to South Station. Four hundred fifty-seven miles, seven hours, and fourteen stops. And one giant leap into the past. I anticipated and dreaded this reunion with Doyle in equal measure. But knew I owed it to him, and knew I would go.
I rose from my chair and went to the kitchen to make my second cup. Then I walked back to the window and wrestled with the old double-hung frame, finally raising it a couple of inches to let in the smell of the summer rain. The traffic noise grew louder, like angry wasps buzzing through the window’s aperture. I sipped my morning coffee and took in the view. The overpass stood over me, a giant billboard over it.
The billboard rose almost one hundred feet in the air, its concrete pillars at ground level as wide as a redwood. It tucked into the side of the overpass, enlightening the passing motorists about the miracles of Viagra, or how to get bailed out of jail, or the location of the nearest dollar store. But now this billboard was spreading the word about the A1 Pawn Shop, which claimed to offer the best deals in the District.
I had no interest in the A1 Pawn Shop, for I had nothing to pawn and objected to shylocking on principle. What had mesmerized me was the picture of the young woman pitching A1. She was presented in headshot, twenty feet high from head to s
houlder. Her head extended another five feet above the rectangular billboard, calling even more attention to her. She was a young Latina, with dark eyes and silky black hair, which she wore long and parted over to one side. Her skin was flawless, the color of my milky coffee. But it was her eyes and lips that really got me. Her eyes danced with a youthful innocence that masked a glimmer of melancholy underneath. The full red lips were slightly parted; her open Mona Lisa smile said she was in on the joke.
This woman towered above me, like a beguiling angel. Her face filled my only window. I’d taken to calling her Angela, which I soon shortened to Angie. The longer I studied her face, those eyes, the surer I had become that she was looking right at me. Her face was burned into my brain. I found myself glancing up at her often. Her presence had become reassuring to me. I did not know why, nor did I care. I’d take it.
My eyes traveled from Angie down the long pillar that propped her up, to the street below. Off to the right, in the shadows, lay a homeless man, passed out. I felt a sting in my gut. I still remembered that life. I emptied my coffee cup with one last gulp.
I had a few extra bucks now. I slipped on my shoes and jacket. I would go down and shake the homeless guy awake, press a ten-dollar bill into his hand.
And say a proper good morning to Angie.
Chapter Thirteen
August 28, 2016
Frank’s Apartment
Fort Totten, Upper NE WDC
I dropped the disposable razor into the sink and inspected the stranger in the mirror. I had not seen this man in years. I stood naked in my tiny bathroom; the door was open, with a view to my bedroom and mattress beyond. Between the shower and shaving, I had exhausted all the hot water, and finished with a cold shave that nicked my face and neck up good.
I had ventured out earlier today to get a haircut at a local shop. I had always worn my hair high and tight, an echo from my military life, I suppose, but now thought I’d do otherwise. I told the guy to cut my bangs straight across at eye level and shorten the rest to just above shoulder length. I hadn’t had a haircut in years, and it was a mess. I felt bad for the guy and tipped him heavily when he was done.
Now, I pulled my hair up tight into a topknot. It felt tidier this way, kept the hair out of my face. Old habits, it appears, die hard.
The man in the mirror had a quizzical expression on his face. I ran my hand over his—my—smooth face, then to the triangular soul patch below my bottom lip. I tried on a smile but got only a grimace, and so let it fade. My face had gone gaunt, my features sharp as a hawk’s. More than a few wiry gray hairs spotted my dark brown hair. The green eyes were flat, the whites a jaundiced yellow. I was shocked at how much I’d aged. That was enough for now. I turned from the mirror and got dressed.
I grabbed a can of beer and plopped into one of my lawn chairs, which I had positioned five feet in front of my window. Night was falling, and Angie was up-lit by the lights bolted along the bottom of the billboard. I turned my one light off, which put the room in near darkness. Better for me to see Angie, and her me.
“Yeah, it’s just me—Frank,” I said, tipping my can towards the billboard in toast. “Whaddaya think, Angie? You like?”
She held our stare.
“Here’s to a new look… and a new life,” I said, and took a hit off my beer. Then another.
Was a new life even possible? Or was it too late? What would the leukemia have to say about this? I was in day ten of my life with cancer, but I felt fine. No symptoms. I’d promised Sarah I would take treatment, and I would. But I was in no hurry for my body to be blasted with chemo and radiation.
I studied Angie’s dark features. “You know, you remind me of someone.” I chuckled, took a long pull from my beer. “Just a little.”
I’d thought of my fall from grace often during my absence. My five-year odyssey, a journey I’d started as a soul-searching backpacker and ended as a hardcore homeless transient. It seemed to always come back to that one night, a Friday it was, that I had stayed at CIAHQ to work deep into the evening to meet a deadline. I’d got up from my desk to stretch my legs and ran into her at the elevator lobby. She had dark features, like Angie, but was of Middle Eastern descent. Her name was Prisha. She didn’t give me her last name. We talked, she flirted. I was tired and lonely in my marriage. She invited me up to her office and we rode the elevator together. She had a small executive bar next to her desk. We drank bourbon and swapped stories. She poured us another, then sat down next to me on the sofa. Close. She kissed me softly. Then again, forcefully. We had sex on that sofa. Loud, animal sex. She was aggressive and liked it a bit rough. I obliged. We both finished quickly.
I regretted it as soon as it was over. By this time, I was certain Nicole was being unfaithful in our marriage, but I took no solace in that. This was not revenge sex. It had just happened, as the trite saying goes. I was ashamed, disgusted that I had broken my vow of fidelity. Nicole knew nothing of this. I knew it would never happen again.
The following week, I learned that Prisha was none other than Prisha Baari, the newly appointed Deputy Director of the CIA. I had stayed away from office gossip and news back then. I had heard we had a new DD, of course, knew it was a female, and had maybe even heard her name, but all of this was far from my mind that late Friday night in her office.
I avoided Prisha as best I could, hoping this thing would just go away. At first, she sought me out, even stopping by my desk a few times. She was charming, clearly wanting to continue our liaison. I was physically attracted to her, as I suspect all men were, but told her I was married and committed. This seemed to encourage her even more, and she got more reckless and brazen in her courtship. I finally had to shut her down, tell her to leave me alone. She’d turned on me instantly, cussing and threatening, and that’s how we parted. After that final blowout, she gave me icy stares the few times we passed in the halls.
I was fired from the CIA, for cause, a month later. Some bullshit about me mishandling classified information. They pulled my security clearance and all my government benefits. No health insurance, no pension. And no security clearance, meaning I was basically unemployable in the Beltway. Cue the sad trombone.
I had no proof that my one-night dalliance with this black widow spider had anything to do with my firing and deconstruction, of course. But it did feel like this was the beginning of the end, the day the clouds gathered and never parted. The rain came soon thereafter.
I was lost in thought when I heard the pounding on my door. It clearly wasn’t Sarah’s knock, and no one else knew I was here. I approached and listened. I could hear someone shuffling and breathing heavily on the other side. I threw the latch and opened the door wide. A young guy, rail thin and jumpy, gave me a gap-toothed smile.
“Hey, man,” he said, scratching at the scabs on his face. “You got any hero, man?”
“What?”
“C’mon. Big H. I know you holding. How much?”
“You got the wrong guy.”
“No. They told me this was the place.”
Great. The previous tenant must have been a heroin dealer. Just wonderful.
“Wrong apartment,” I said.
I shut the door on the guy as he was about to start another round of gimme-my-stuff. There was a pause, and then the pounding began anew. The cussing followed. I shouted at him to piss off. He kicked the door and stomped away. I wondered how many more customers I might get this night.
I turned and walked to the kitchen, pleased to feel adrenaline in my veins for the first time in years. Fight or flight. Fight it would be.
I searched my kitchen for a proper knife but found none. I supposed Sarah thought me suicidal and didn’t want anything sharp or pointy within my grasp. I realized I had never even noticed my kitchen was without steak knives. I searched the apartment for a suitable blunt object, but again nothing. I walked back to the kitchen, opened the drawer, grabbed a butter knife, and went back to my chair to await my next visitor.
For the next
few hours, with the glowing billboard as my nightlight, I sat in my lawn chair, watching the night pass. I asked Angie about the previous occupant of my apartment and about our neighborhood. She had nothing good to say. It occurred to me that Nicole and Teddy lived in a similar neighborhood to mine. That they too must get unwanted knocks at their door. I now understood that they had lived in fear since I’d left, and that fear was all that Teddy knew. He had not been around for the good early years in Colonial Village, our suburban home three miles north and a galaxy away from the Pike Towers Apartments. How many nights had Teddy lain shaking in his bed, covers pulled tight over his head, while Nicole stood guard against the world?
I looked down at the butter knife clenched in my hand. I slowly released my grip, let it clatter to the floor. I flinched at the noise, my nerves now on edge. I heard footfalls in the hallway, but no visitors. I turned back to Angie and we had a long chat. It started to rain again.
I glanced down at the butter knife twinkling in the light of the billboard, still lying where it had come to rest on my filthy floor. Though dull, the blade had nicked the old gritty hardwood, revealing the lighter golden wood that lay beneath. I stared at it a while before it hit me. I shot upright in my plastic chair. The idea arrived fully formed and clear as truth can be.
I would find out why I had been wrongfully terminated from the CIA. I would fix it and get my government benefits and pension reinstated. Nicole and Teddy would get it all upon my death, enough to get them out of Pike Towers and back to where they belonged. I would put things back to the way they were. Nicole could use the money to buy a house in Colonial Village, our old neighborhood. A place with good schools and no fear. Teddy would make friends, live a good life. I would stop treatment when my benefits were restored. Nicole would collect soon enough.
A great weight lifted from my soul. I grabbed the arms of my chair lest I float to the ceiling. I smiled openly at the thought of Teddy in his new bedroom or playing with his new friends in the schoolyard. I heard his jubilant laughter. I looked to Angie through misty eyes. She agreed.
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