The Last Innocent Hour

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  “That’s it?” Charlie sounded incredulous and Livie felt somehow gratified. “I’m sorry?”

  She turned drying her hands.

  Charlie looked at the front of the envelope. “It’s postmarked Seattle. You sure it’s from him?”

  She said she wasn’t; she didn’t know why. She said, “I don’t have anything left to compare the handwriting with.” She was remembering Cotton’s love notes. When they were dating, he’d left them for her everywhere, tucked under a flower pot on the doorstep of her Houston apartment, or poked into the pocket of her winter coat. The last note from him had been the postcard Nix had brought her, the one that had read: Tell Livie it’s not her fault. Tell her to forget me. Tell her not to look for me. I’m not worth it.

  That had come the first part of May, four days after Cotton disappeared. After they’d had search parties out slogging through the countryside hunting for him. After the police had issued an APB, after they’d posted fliers and appeared on television.

  By the following July, when the shock had worn off and her grief had hardened into anger, Livie, who’d been staying with her mother at the time, made a huge fire in the fireplace at her mom’s condo and burnt the card along with everything else Cotton had ever written to her. Her mother had come home from her bi-monthly, day-spa appointment, freshly manicured, pedicured, coiffed, massaged and made up and, without a word, she’d set the air conditioner on sixty. She’d gathered Livie into her arms, unmindful of the heat and its effect on her careful appearance and the dinner date she had later. Unmindful of Livie’s tears soaking the pearl-buttoned front of her silk shirt.

  “Well, it seems weird,” Charlie said now.

  “I wonder how he found me.”

  “Computer. Search engine. Your website, a business listing.”

  “What if he shows up here?” Livie thought how she’d used to wish for that more than anything, that Cotton would appear, that he would finally explain. Now the possibility tied her stomach in knots. She’d believed she had forgiven him, too. But looking at his letter only made her feel afraid and confused and furious all over again. He’d made a mockery of her love, her faith in him. How could he presume now that some remote, two-word, unsigned apology would make up for that?

  “Have you told Delia?” Charlie asked.

  “I haven’t told anyone. Livie hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms.

  Charlie came to the sink, dashed the dregs of his cup, ran water into it and set it in the drain. “You don’t owe her, Livie.”

  “I know, but she’s his mother. She deserves peace of mind as much as anyone.”

  “Maybe he wrote to her too. Maybe he’s home with her right now.”

  “She would have called.”

  “You think? From what you’ve told me, she doesn’t feel your sense of obligation.”

  “She doesn’t let herself feel much of anything these days.”

  Charlie clicked his tongue. “That gin is gonna kill her if she doesn’t quit it.”

  Livie shifted her glance. She thought how hurt she would be if she were to learn Cotton was home and that Delia hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone. Hurt but not surprised. The surprise was why Livie bothered with Delia. Who was nothing to her, really.

  Her almost mother-in-law.

  Livie knew people, her family, Charlie, wondered about the connection, but she refused to explain it. She was pretty sure no one would believe her anyway. Sometimes even she had trouble believing that Delia had once trusted her, had once confided matters of such a private and painful nature to Livie that it was impossible not to feel an obligation. Never mind how onerous.

  “So, do you want to ride into town with me, see the sheriff?” Charlie asked.

  Livie looked at him. “Why would I do that?”

  “You said Cotton’s buddy--Nix, isn’t it?--he told you Cotton took off because he’d done something. To me that sounds like it was illegal.”

  “What would I say? Writing a letter isn’t exactly breaking the law, right?”

  “No, but given the circumstances, who knows what he has in mind.”

  “Evidently an apology.”

  “It doesn’t bother you, the way he’s going about it? It’s not even signed, for god’s sake.”

  It did bother her; it bothered her plenty and Charlie knew it. He’d likely talk to the sheriff whether Livie went along or not, unless she spoke up. But no, she thought. Let him talk to JB if he wanted to. Maybe that’s what needed to happen. On the remote chance that Cotton might show up, maybe the sheriff should talk to him.

  “We could check on the dog, too.” Charlie made the offer figuring, rightly, that mentioning Razz would entice Livie.

  “I’d like to see about Razz, but I’m supposed to meet Dexter at Cavanaugh’s to look at rock.” Livie brushed the fine hairs that had loosened from her chignon off her face.

  “All right.” Charlie went to the screen door and paused. “But you’ll call if--?”

  “Cotton’s not here, Charlie.”

  “Just because the postmark says Seattle--”

  “Well, even if he were here, he’s not a maniac, at least not last I heard.”

  “It’s been six years, Livie. People change.” Charlie closed the screen door and stood looking in at her. “I’m just saying you can’t be too careful.”

  Chapter 2

  He called Anita from a pay phone on the side of the road. New Elm Street, according to the sign on the corner. He’d left Seattle without saying good bye and he half expected her to call him a jerk and hang up, but she didn’t. She said she’d figured he’d go at some point; she wondered where he was.

  “Some burg in New Mexico,” Cotton said. “Bus had to stop for gas. We got thirty minutes.” The wind kicked up a sudden gust and although it was a May night, and warm, he was shaking and hunched his shoulders.

  “Are you drinking?” Anita always asked.

  “Not yet.” He looked across the street at the bar he’d just left, a place called Judy’s. Where friends meet, announced a loopy neon scrawl, except the r in friends was burnt out so it looked like f iends, Where f iends meet. The lettered glow bounced off every reflective surface around him, the glass storefront, the metal doorframe, a car bumper, mocking him in parts.

  “What’s your plan?” Anita asked and her tone was inviting as if they were settling down to a nice cozy chat. Between f iends, Cotton thought.

  He told Anita about Judy’s, that he’d gone inside and ordered a shot and a beer. “I left before the bartender brought them.”

  “I’m glad, Cotton.”

  “’Nita? I’m really sorry about the other day. I had no right to go off on you like I did.”

  “You know I’d help you if I could.”

  “I wouldn’t be sober if it wasn’t for you, not that I always want to thank you for it.”

  Anita laughed her rich-as-brass laugh. The sound was contagious. It made him forget himself. Cotton had once told her, soon after they’d met, after she’d done a number on his head, that her laugh was her mojo. Her laugh and the way she had of looking at him like she could see clear through all his bullshit.

  “So, you’re going home, I guess.”

  “Yeah, I think so.” If I can stay sober, he thought. Big if, smirked a voice in his brain.

  “Will you turn yourself in?” Anita sounded so bright, so hopeful. But then she’d never made a secret of her opinion that she thought confession was his best option. In fact, if he’d followed her advice, he’d have surrendered to the cops in Seattle and instead of traveling on his own now, he’d be in the company of some lawman from Texas.

  “I may not have a choice since I wrote Livie.” Cotton still wondered what he’d been thinking. The moment he’d dropped the envelope into the mail slot, he’d wanted it back. I’m sorry? Like two words could fix what he’d done?

  “But she has no reason to contact the authorities. Last I heard jilting someone wasn’t a criminal offense. Chickenshit, yes, but punishable in a
court of law?--I don’t think so.”

  “Is chickenshit a legal term?”

  “Moral, I think.” A pause fell before Anita said, “You know the first time I got sober and had to confront how bad I’d screwed up my life, not only confront it, but live every second knowing that everything I’d worked for, my career as a lawyer, my marriage, all of it, was over as a result of my love affair with the bottle, I went back to it. It was worse the second time. Coming back was worse.”

  “I can still see her, Nita, everywhere I look. You’d think six years of boozing would have killed off enough brain cells that I wouldn’t remember her, but I do.”

  “You’re talking about the little girl.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s because you’re sober now.”

  “I can tell you the color of her eyes.” Blue stained with terror. “I can tell you what she was wearing.” A maroon warm-up jacket over bright green jersey shorts with the number four printed in yellow near the hem. Cotton had wondered about her uniform, its mismatched parts; he had wondered at the smooth, round knobs of her knees that had been smaller than his fists. “I can tell you the color of her hair.” Dark brown, the same as polished mahogany. “I can tell you her mother had on a T-shirt so huge, I figured it must have belonged to her husband.” Cotton wiped his face. “I can tell you her mother died, but I can’t tell you her name.”

  “The police will know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Listen, Cotton, you aren’t the first drunk to sober up to a boatload of legal problems and I’m serious, I’d help you in a flash, but even if I still had my law license, it wouldn’t be any good in Texas.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish you’d opened up more at the meetings and talked about your situation. The other members might have helped.” Step five, Anita meant. Admit to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. But Cotton didn’t care about step five. Or step three or seven. He couldn’t say any better now than he could have two months ago when Anita had dragged him into his first meeting what those steps said. No.

  The one he knew, the one that had jumped off the page at him had been step nine. The one about making amends. There he’d been sober for the first time in near six years with every nerve ending on fire, sitting in a room with a bunch of strangers, jittery and scared.

  Dry.

  His mouth had been so dry, his craving a thing with teeth, but somehow his eye had found that word: amends. It had been like he’d never seen it before. Couldn’t imagine the concept. That he could make it straight? Make it up? It had to be done directly, the step said, which meant in person, so long as doing it wouldn’t cause further injury.

  It had ripped him open, reading that, the possibility, the hope that glittered, the death sentence that seemed inherent. He might have howled at the way it brought it all back. He was there again, seeing her face, the little girl’s face, expression threaded with panic, chin trembling. He looked into her eyes, gone huge and dark with fright; it was the last brave thing he’d done.

  “Mommy?” she’d whispered to him.

  Cotton had lost it then.

  He’d nearly lost it again at the meeting. He’d never know how he stayed in the chair. He’d wanted a drink; he still did. The voice in his head urged him to it; the voice in his head said he was stupid to think he could go back. What right did he have to bother them? Amends? What the hell was that stacked against their loss?

  “Cotton, are you there?” Anita prodded gently.

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to say you’re sorry, I get that, but they may not.”

  Cotton shot a glance down the road. He said he knew. He said if that was all it was he’d be inside Judy’s right now drinking with the rest of the f iends. And when Anita asked what else there was, he said, “That little girl--” and stopped.

  “What about her?”

  Cotton looked away from the glare of passing headlight. He had her mother’s final message. He had that to give, if the little girl, whom he guessed was not so little now, would let him near enough to tell her.

  He looked up as three rough-looking women came out of the store laughing, knocking hips. “Girl, you crack me up!” one cried. Cotton recognized them from the bus. They’d sat in the back, passing a pint in a paper sack, playing endless hands of five-card stud.

  He knuckled his scalp near his temple. “I have to see if she’s okay; if all of them are okay,” he said. “After that, I don’t know.”

  “You realize Livie may be married now.”

  Cotton said he hoped she was because he’d forfeited his right to hope for anything else.

  “You won’t drink?”

  “I can’t make any promises, ‘Nita.”

  “I’m still your sponsor.”

  “Yeah, and sometimes I even love you for it.”

  o0o

  It was after two in the morning and raining steadily when the Houston city lights appeared and seemed to float above the horizon, watery smears of color. Around him, the other bus riders slept. Even the women who had been playing cards had shut down their party.

  Cotton sat with his hands on his knees and his gut in a fist beside a window that gave nothing but a view of his own rain-riddled profile. He wondered if he even knew who that was, that sober man. Some guy with forty bucks to his name and a duffel that held a couple changes of socks and underwear and no clue where he’d stay, what he’d do to earn a living. He thought of who he’d been when he’d lived here before: that guy had owned his own company. He’d built houses, whole neighborhoods full of fine, big homes. Planned communities. That guy had had friends who’d have helped him out of a regular jam.

  But the jam Cotton had gotten into here wasn’t regular.

  He couldn’t call on any of those guys for advice with the exception of maybe Nix, who’d been his best friend, his best man at the wedding that wasn’t. Could be Nix would still talk to him. Cotton didn’t know.

  Anything.

  Except the last time he’d been this scared, he’d been leaving this town.

  o0o

  It was still raining when he left the terminal. The water soaked through his clothes, doused what was left of the fire he’d had in his belly to get here. He kept expecting to see a cop, to be stopped, questioned, identified. He walked on, keeping a constant watch over his shoulder. The city blocks that fell from under his feet were jammed with bars and strip joints and nightclubs, all closed now. Otherwise he’d have been inside one of them in a flash. That was the one clear thought in his mind.

  A half hour had passed when on an unraveling edge of downtown, he found a room in a dive called the Goodnight Hotel. In the next few days, going through the motions, he found a job as a fry cook in another dive nearby called Gooney’s Café and Grill. If he could have spared the change, Cotton would have called Anita and she’d have laughed at the name.

  Laughed that big brassy laugh.

  If he’d called her he’d have told her how sorry his life was now, that every day was an argument, a war, a line between sober and who gives a shit and sober kept winning. He didn’t know how. Gooney’s was within blocks of where he lived, which was good since he didn’t have wheels, but going back and forth, he had to count sidewalk cracks or passing cars or high-flying goddamn stars to keep from seeing the places and ways a man could get drunk. He could have said to Anita that he didn’t know what kept him from it. It wasn’t as if pride was an issue. His failure to man-up and take the hit hadn’t stopped him from running, from boozing, before.

  o0o

  The day he caught the metro bus downtown to the library, he hadn’t known he would do it, hadn’t believed he could actually go through with hunting up the news stories about the accident. Then there he was, in front of a computer searching the Houston Chronicle archives until he found the name of the dead woman, Joan Latimer, and the names of her family, husband, Weston, children, Trevor and Nicole. According to the article, Trevor had been eleven and Nicole six at the t
ime of the accident. She’d be twelve now, Cotton thought. And motherless. He thought how he had wished his whole growing up life to be motherless; he thought how he hadn’t spoken directly to his mother in six years. He wondered if he called her whether she’d be sober enough to carry on a decent conversation.

  Cotton jerked to his feet and left the library now as abruptly as he’d come and, like a homing pigeon, went into the first bar he saw. It seemed like a no-brainer. What else? What the fuck else?

  But when the bartender set his order in front of him, bourbon, two fingers, neat, what Cotton saw floating near the thick bottom of the glass was the little girl’s face, pale and terrified. The smattering of freckles that bridged the span of her tiny nose were the same color as the booze. The image widened and he saw the soccer ball in the back seat of the car; he saw her mother through the jagged hole in the windshield lying in the road, leg twisted at an impossible angle as if she’d been thrown down by some giant careless hand, a King Kong hand.

  Cotton bolted from the bar.

  Without paying, he told Anita when he called her hours later. Hours that he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing. Walking, he guessed. He hooked his fingers over the top of the box that housed the pay phone and said, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You need to find a meeting, Cotton.”

  “No! I don’t need a damn meeting. I need these pictures out of my head. I need to see if Nicole Latimer is okay.”

  “So go.”

  “How? They live forty miles north of here and I’ve got no car.” But he was bullshitting; the truth was he didn’t think he had the guts to face the Latimer family. He was sorry he’d found out their name.

  “What about renting a car?”

  “Latimer’ll call the cops sure as hell. It’s what I’d do if it was me.”

  “That’s why you should turn yourself in.”

  “How’s it going to help that family if I go to jail, Nita? AA says you make it up whenever you can without causing more pain, but how can I know that? They could have moved on, made some kind of peace, then I show up and--”