A Long December

by Richard Chizmar

  It was easier than it should’ve been. Easy and quick.

  There were only two men guarding him. Both standing outside, hiding from the rain underneath the awning. I popped up behind the first one and forearmed his head a couple of times until he went to sleep, and the second one—a muscle-bound teenager—actually took off running before I could get to him. Guess you can’t buy loyalty.

  Mama Lucia’s was a corner restaurant at the north end of Little Italy. Vine-covered red brick. Two stories. A relatively quiet section of the city. Only three blocks away from the harbor, it attracted plenty of suits and other expensive clientele and served as one of many tourist attractions. And if it was like most of the other ethnic restaurants on the block, there were living quarters on the top floor. Mailman probably had something on the restaurant owner—like an overdue coke bill—and figured it was the last place anyone would look for him.

  It was close to three in the morning when I walked in the front door, gloves on, gun in hand. The downstairs dining room was dark and deserted. I headed for the stairs, moving carefully through the cramped maze of tables and chairs. Considering the Mailman’s healthy ego, I was surprised that the place wasn’t crawling with armed guards. A few seconds later, as I reached the last step and entered a narrow, carpeted hallway, I heard squeals of pleasure, then a deeper-toned groan, and immediately knew why security was minimal. The Mailman was getting laid.

  The animal sounds—they sounded like they were mauling each other—were coming from the end of the hall. There was a single door and it was cracked open, a sliver of dim light escaping into the hall. No wonder his men had been waiting outside in the rain.

  I had no brilliant plan of action and instead of formulating one now, I simply walked into the room, yanked the flabby woman off the Mailman’s lap, and shoved the barrel of my gun under his nose. “Don’t move or I swear to God I’ll pull it.”

  “Be cool, man,” he said, gold teeth flashing. He was nude, slicked with sweat, sitting up on a tangle of sheets. He held his arms up and I could count the ribs sticking out below his scrawny chest. Christ, he certainly didn’t spend his money on food. I’d seen enough pictures of Scales to recognize his face, but still I couldn’t believe this was the guy we’d been looking for. He looked like a damn kid.

  The woman was hysterical behind me. She screamed and cussed me and started clawing my back, so I reached back and pistol-whipped her across the forehead. She hit the carpet, and shut up real nice after that.

  “Listen, man, I—”

  “Just shut up and sit your ass right where you are, and we’ll have no problems. I’m just gonna take you out of here and talk to you.”

  His eyes widened and he nodded his head spastically, looking like a broken puppet. He even smiled, as if to show that he trusted me. It was a sad sight.

  I moved quickly, hoping that the downstairs was still clear. I pulled a set of handcuffs from my coat, yanked the Mailman’s arms behind his back, and snapped them on his wrists. There was a pair of ugly yellow jockeys on the floor, and I slipped them on him, myself. Wasn’t my idea of a good time, but I’d seen his naked body long enough.

  I guided him down the hall in front of me, shielding myself, in case anyone was waiting. I knew the gorilla downstairs wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon, but I wasn’t sure if the other one had called for help or grown balls in the meantime and returned.

  For once, the horseshoe was up my ass, and the downstairs was exactly as I had left it. I escorted the Mailman down the block, shoved him in the front seat of the Mustang, got in, and drove away.

  “Be careful, man. I told ya I can’t swim.”

  “And I told you to shut your mouth. We’re almost there.”

  We were inside one of the abandoned shipyards outside of Fells Point. Walking single-file down a narrow concrete path above the water. The docks had long been taken out, leaving a sheer drop from the concrete into the black water. The rain was falling harder now, and the walk was dangerously slick. A row of dark, abandoned warehouses stretched several hundred yards in both directions, blocking the view from the street. On the way, I’d told him that someone was waiting in one of the buildings to talk to him. I figured I could waste him down here, and nobody would ever find him. It was almost over.

  I studied his silhouette closely as we walked, itching to pull the trigger. He was so damn thin, his body took on an almost elastic appearance. He was a full ten inches taller than me, but I probably outweighed him by twenty pounds. It was too dark to see clearly, but I could hear the squeak of his bare feet on the pavement and the slap of thick gold chains against his chest. Wearing only underwear, he shivered badly in the cold rain.

  We passed an ancient loading platform, broken and uneven now, and the pathway widened a bit. I looked back over my shoulder; we were far enough from the street now.

  “The building’s right up here,” I said. He slowed his pace, and I pushed the 9mm’s barrel into the center of his back, nudging him forward.

  “Damn it, man. Keep me the fuck away from the edge. I can’t swim, I tell ya. I can’t fuckin’ swim.”

  Suddenly, a flash went off inside my head. My heart hammered.

  I can’t swim.

  I pushed him over the edge to see if he was lying.

  He wasn’t.

  I watched the bubbles until they disappeared.

  9

  I hate answering machines. The only reason I finally bought one is because I kept missing calls from my bookie. Now I get messages all the time from a Mr. Pony. Clever guy.

  I always screen my phone calls, with an emphasis on the always. I pick up maybe one time out of every three or four dozen calls. That’s it. But, and it never fails, the single call I answer in the flesh is always the one I wanted most to avoid.

  That’s how Connie finally tracked me down, a week and four messages later. She didn’t ask me why I hadn’t returned the calls, so I didn’t make up a sorry excuse. I had a feeling she knew, anyway.

  “Is it over?” she asked, skipping any casual bullshit.

  I’d rehearsed this moment over and over again, but my mouth felt dry and sticky. “Yes,” I finally said.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine,” I lied.

  Silence. Then she said matter-of-factly, “I’m expecting my sister and her family tonight, but if you’d like to come over and talk—”

  “No, no, that’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got a lot to catch up on downtown.” Another lie.

  “Okay, if you’re sure.” Long pause. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about what Ray said to you that night.”

  “Uh, huh,” I said, knowing precisely what she was talking about.

  “Well, you know Ray thought of you as a lot more than just a partner. I mean…he really admired you. He loved you.”

  Her voice was strangled and soft, and I knew she was starting to cry.

  “He thought of you as a brother…as family. And I think he was saying sorry because he was leaving you alone. He worried about you, you know? He used to talk about it a lot. No wife, no family, not many friends. Just your work. He always told me that if something happened to him, he knew I could go on. I had family members close by, good friends, a job I enjoyed.” She sighed. “You were the one he worried about. I think Ray was apologizing for leaving you alone. That was just like him, wasn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Just thanked her after a moment and hung up, knowing that what she’d said was the truth.

  Later, I made myself a sandwich and ate it outside on the back porch. I watched the leaves dance across the lawn, and the late-afternoon sunshine and the whisper of a breeze felt good on my face. Autumn was in full swing now, and for the first time since I was a teenager, I remembered that it was my favorite time of year. A season of change.

  I sat there for a long time nibbling at that sandwich, thinking about Ray. About his unshakable spirit and outlook on life. About the big mouth that had given me so many headaches during so many workdays
—his stupid jokes, his boring family talk, his childhood adventure stories. And I thought about the many times when we’d sat, shared a beer or dinner, and just talked. About nothing in particular, about everything that was important to us.

  As the afternoon passed, I could feel the heavy weight of guilt slowly ease away. What we’d done wasn’t right, but it had cleaned the slate. It had allowed us—Ray’s survivors—to survive.

  And to start over again.

  When the sun finally lowered and the chill set in, I took my empty paper plate and went inside. It was the best damn sandwich I ever ate.

  10

  Later that evening, while reading the newspaper, I found myself staring at the classified advertisements. I turned to the section for household pets and circled a phone number for purebred puppies. I thought about it a bit longer and decided to call in the morning. Someone to keep me company, I thought. One of those shiny gold ones…like Cowboy.

  I know Ray would’ve liked that.

  MIDNIGHT PROMISES

  She peeks around the edge of the door. Tiptoes inside the room and kisses him good morning. A soft peck on the cheek.

  He doesn’t stir.

  She walks over to the window and pulls open the curtains. It’s June and the sky is rainbow blue with lazy white clouds swimming by. The view is a pretty one—distant trees swaying in the breeze, a bed of flowers blooming in the foreground—and she wishes, as she does every morning, that she could open the window just a crack.

  She places her bag at the foot of the bed, takes off her windbreaker and sits down in the chair. She gently takes his right hand and begins stroking each of his fingers.

  Later, when he wakes up, she’ll move over to his left side so that he’ll be able to see outside the window.

  But for now she sits with her back bathed in golden sunlight.

  The cancer is taking him away—inch by inch.

  Every day, a little more of him disappears.

  And she sits and watches.

  Always she watches.

  She leaves at night now but only because they make her.

  “You need your rest, Mrs. Collins.”

  “We’ll take good care of him.”

  “I promise we’ll call you if your husband needs you for anything.”

  “You remember what happened last time, Mrs. Collins. We don’t want a repeat of that, now do we?”

  So now she goes home each night. Precisely at ten o’clock with the other visitors.

  A silent elevator ride to the lobby. A slow walk to the parking lot. And the lonely drive home.

  Home…where there is nothing left for her.

  Just a quiet, cold house. A mug of hot cocoa in the dark kitchen. The day’s mail. And an empty bed.

  Home is like a stranger to her now. Or perhaps she is the stranger. She can remember a time when this house smiled at her each time she walked through the door. Whispered in her ear as she crossed the foyer that everything was safe and sound and wonderful.

  Now there is only silence.

  Not even a whisper of life there: no lights or television or radio. No laughter or idle conversation. Nothing.

  Just the same damn thing, night after night after night.

  Hot cocoa. Mail. Bed.

  And, of course, the nightmares.

  They come more often now.

  Sometimes—very, very rarely—she dreams happy thoughts: A close-up of his smile. The sound of his laughter. The feel of his lips on her mouth. The touch of his hand as they walk barefoot on a moonlit beach.

  But most nights she dreams darker thoughts: an x-ray view of his torso…showing nothing. Absolutely nothing inside—just a hollowed-out husk of a man. Surviving on nothing but air.

  Or her standing alone in a cold, driving rain. Standing above his open grave. Dropping a single red rose onto the shiny black casket…

  Or the apple dream. This one is the worst of all—sheer, breath-stealing terror. She sees the two of them sitting in front of a large desk of dark, polished wood. Holding hands. Listening to a doctor. The doctor’s face is grim. His lip is trembling. He tells them that the first reports were wrong, that the cancer has spread and he holds up an x-ray…and the image is that of an apple tree. Tumors everywhere, hanging there like fat, ripe apples. Dozens of them. Dark and moist and plump. Waiting to be picked…

  Thank God, this dream doesn’t come very often.

  Because when it does, she almost always wakes up screaming.

  It’s lunchtime and the hallway is buzzing with activity.

  She gets up and closes the door.

  He’s sleeping again, but she isn’t worried about the noise disturbing him. It’s the smell—he can’t stand the smell of the hospital food. It makes him nauseous.

  A lot of things do that to him. Food. Flowers. Perfume. Even some liquids. They all smell funny now. One of the drugs is responsible, but she can’t remember which one.

  He doesn’t eat the food, anyway. Not anymore. They use a tube for that now. A shiny, little clear thing that snakes right into his stomach.

  She remembers that as a particularly bad time—the week he stopped eating.

  But even worse was when he stopped talking.

  It’s been thirteen days now. And barely a whisper in all that time. Too weak, the doctors explain. Too many drugs.

  So, most days, they just sit there and hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes. Sometimes they smile and make silly faces, sometimes they just sit there and cry.

  With the door closed, the room is very quiet except for the constant beeping of the I.V. She turns the volume down a notch—she knows the machines as well as any nurse on the floor—and starts to read again, a letter she’d written him just before they were married. Her voice cracks several times and there are tears in her eyes, but still she keeps reading. She has a stack of letters in her bag, tightly-bound with a thick rubber band, and she is determined to get through them all.

  The mornings are no kinder than the nights. Same routine every day—up by six-thirty, out the door by seven-thirty.

  She starts each morning with a long, hot shower and she always tries her hardest to think of something nice, something cheerful to start the day with. But she never can.

  She forces herself to eat a good breakfast most of the time. Toast. Fruit. Juice. For energy. She knows this was the reason she’d gotten sick last month and needed to see the doctor—not because she was sleeping in his hospital room every night! Not because she was overtired, for goodness sake!

  She had simply forgotten to eat. For three or four days. She can’t remember which.

  So now she takes the time to eat most mornings. And when she’s done, she washes the dishes and wipes down the countertop. Then she grabs her keys from the foyer and locks the door behind her. She gets into her car and pulls away from the curb. And never once looks back.

  Dinner is served at quarter to six.

  She closes the door as soon as she hears the familiar squeaking of the tray-cart working its way down the hallway.

  He’s awake now and they’re looking at photos.

  High school. College. Summers at the beach. Even pictures of the wedding. She brought them all.

  He smiles at most of the pictures. Points and grins and raises what’s left of his eyebrows. It’s the most animated—and alert—he’s been in weeks, and it does her heart wonders to see him this way.

  When she gets to one particular photo, he really surprises her. His face lights up like a child’s and he takes it from her with trembling fingers.

  It’s an old photo. From the very first summer they spent together. A narrow strip of three small black-and-whites from one of those cheap, little booths you sit inside. In the first two, their faces are pressed together cheek-to-cheek and they’re grinning like goofy kids. In the last one, they’re kissing.

  He lifts the photo to his face and tries to kiss it. But the tubes get in the way.

  So she takes it from him and kisses it herself, then lays it o
n the sheet atop his chest.

  He smiles at her and closes his eyes.

  She does the same and moments later when she hears the whisper—“thank you”—she thinks she must be dreaming…

  Until she opens her eyes and sees his stare and the tears streaming down his cheeks.

  And at that exact moment, she knows with complete certainty that she is doing the right thing—the letters, the photos…

  In her heart, she knows.

  Just after eight o’clock, he falls asleep again and she returns the photos to her bag. Except for his favorite one—she leaves that right where it is.

  She holds his hand and watches him sleep until ten. Just like so many times before.

  Then she kisses him goodnight and heads for the elevator.

  Sometimes, when she’s away from the hospital, she tries to convince herself that he’s improving. That he’s looking better. And that she’ll walk through the door the next morning and he’ll be sitting up and talking and maybe eating some scrambled eggs. And she’ll bounce over to the bed and say, “Hey, kiddo, I thought you had some color in those cheeks last night—”

  But she knows none of this is true. She knows what’s really happening.

  Fourteen hours a day is enough to convince anyone.

  He’d lost his hair during the second cycle of chemo. By the end of the third, he was thirty pounds lighter.

  A month later—halfway into the final cycle—they knew it wasn’t working.

  So, they’d switched to different drugs and a different program.

  And it had worked for a while, too. For a few weeks, at least, he seemed to stabilize. His energy crept up a few notches, his weight maintained.

  But then, as if the whole thing had just been some sort of cruel joke, it all went downhill and fast.

  He stopped eating.

  His skin turned a sick combination of yellow and green.

  He started to sweat so much and the smell…oh God the smell…