The Exceptions

by David Cristofano

  I walk to the bed and sink into its softness as I sit. I set the alarm on the clock instead of requesting a wake-up call, having learned long ago that technology will always be more reliable than any human being.

  I check my cell: three messages from my head chef, zero from my family.

  I pull back the comforter, and the sheets are stretched perfect and smooth like a pool yet to be dived into. I strip down to my boxers and take the plunge, and within seconds I drown in sleep.

  TWO

  As I leave the hotel less than five hours after arriving—notably the most expensive per hour cost of sleep I’ve ever incurred—the city of Norfolk comes alive, the traffic thickening as I narrowly escape rush hour and return to the Bay Bridge-Tunnel. The chilly air seems held in place by a fog that will likely burn off before I get to the other side, disintegrated by a distinct spring-into-summer morning sun that has me reaching for my sunglasses.

  On the bridge portions I pass all the vehicles I can so that the single-lane tunnel sections are more bearable, and within thirty minutes I can see the lonely expression of the Delmarva Peninsula, the remaining lengths of the bridge spans stretching out like waiting arms. I say a silent prayer that Melody’s are outstretched for me as well. Everything is running out: time, hope, and my last chance of making an escape with Melody. I’ll be facing one of three scenarios: (1) Melody coughed up my arrival to the marshal, in which case I will be nailed; (2) Melody tasted what it’s like to be free—both from my arrival and my departure, and the fact that she can turn me in if she chooses—and suspects that only I can give that to her; or (3) she’s already gone, disappeared—or dead.

  I turn into the motel parking lot, spotting the marshal’s Explorer still in place from last night, and drive around until I find another red car to park next to, the only trick I have to conceal my cherry bomb. I exit my car and slip on my jacket, then my driving gloves. I move in and out of the walkways and crevices of the motel that I’d walked just hours earlier. The facility appears dirtier and more neglected in the daylight than when illuminated by nothing more than the moon. I slip behind the bushes a stretch away from their rooms and stare, watching for anything: a crack in the door, movement of blinds, a cleaning person going in or coming out.

  After almost twenty minutes of crouching, the marshal is the first to emerge—from Melody’s room. I read the numbers on the doors and I am certain of it; I can’t help but wonder how close they’ve become, if Melody’s apparent attraction to the marshal somehow evolved—or worse, the possible words they exchanged in what might have been an all-night discussion, how the impression I left on Melody was not as effective as I hoped.

  The marshal walks out and stands on the sidewalk, goes nowhere, breathes like he’s getting ready to make an Olympic run down a ski slope. Then he quickly returns to his room. Two minutes later he shows again, takes a few paces back and forth while he rubs his eyebrows and temples, then back into his room. He goes through this ritual one more time before he doesn’t make it back, bends over like he’s looking for something he dropped in the shrubs, then retches all over the hedges, stumbles back inside his room, and closes the door.

  This, I determine, functions equally as a blessing and a curse. I’d intended to snag Melody when the marshal left his room to take care of resolving their bill, prepare the Explorer, meet another marshal—whatever would draw him out and away. Now I know he is indisposed, a real chance to get her out of here. Unfortunately, I’ll have to pull it off with him one wall away.

  I reverse my movements, retracing the perimeter of the facility, keeping my eyes on the doors to their rooms. I zip down the walkway and slow as I come right up on their doors. I pause and listen for voices, hearing only the marshal’s muffled vomiting; I make note of how flimsy the structure of this motel actually is, how quiet we will need to be.

  I pull out my card and open Melody’s door within seconds, a mastered skill utilized for its final time. My eyes slowly adjust to dim flickering light, the muted television throwing gray light upon the walls. I hear the shower running and splashes of water hitting the bottom of the tub in large bursts. Her room is strangely warm, heat still radiating from the ventilator even though it’s off. Within thirty seconds, the water stops and the only remaining sound is the vent fan for the bathroom. Its rattling and knocking make it impossible to hear sounds from the marshal next door.

  I stand like a statue by the entryway, survey the room like a vandal coming back to assess his handiwork. So many things remain from the night before: the clothes she removed from her body, the chair by the window, the smell of stale smoke once exhaled from my lungs.

  And then I start absorbing those things I missed the first time. A Rorschach-shaped, roux-colored stain decorates the pillowcase in the dent where her head had rested. A ripped-open box of hair coloring along with its near-empty contents rests below the mirror on the dresser. One-inch lengths of hair are sprinkled unevenly across the floor like salt on an icy sidewalk. Other than her clothes from the night before, there is so little to know of her. Were I a voyeur or snoop, how disappointed I would be at gaining access to her life. The woman barely exists.

  The vent fan goes off. I walk toward the bathroom door and look around for any further signs of life, and as I get nearer I can hear Melody drying her body, the sound of the cotton towel gliding across her skin. I inhale and hold my breath to better hear, put one hand and one ear on the door. Though I’m certain she’s lived a transgressive life—her scamming of the government is proof enough—I can’t let go of viewing her as an ingénue, an innocent girl waiting to learn what the world has to offer. Granted, my world is not one worth emulating. Even now I disappoint myself, standing only inches away, separated by nothing more than a hollow wooden door, wondering just what that innocence might look like, how smooth and warm it would feel in my hands.

  I turn around and sit on the edge of a small fold-out chair. I’ve made it so close to the end of my lifelong journey of righting this wrong that nothing will stop my completion. If Melody chooses to leave me here, so be it; I’ll make a struggled attempt at accepting it. Until then, the only way someone is taking her is over my bullet-filled body.

  I stare at the muted television and watch the Weather Channel, try to read the lips of the meteorologists, find out the warm streak will soon be coming to an end. I have my ear trained on the door to the bathroom, shift my eyes on the door to her room. Whichever one opens first will be the decision maker.

  Then all at the same time: The bathroom door opens, the mirror lights are flipped off, and Melody walks right in front of me and yelps.

  “Oh, geez!” she says.

  I race to cover my eyes. “You decent?” I ask softly, implying her loud voice is a bad idea.

  She waits to respond. I hear her deep breathing. “You’re very polite for a captor, you know that?”

  I crack a little space between my fingers, take a peek from the corner of my eye. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt that casually reveals the shape of her body, a mixture of cheap fragrances follow her out with a ten-second delay.

  She backs up a little and turns to the side and I examine her body, note that I may have been way off on the style of jeans she wears, but spot on for the contour they needed to cover. Melissa was right; all these years of watching her left an impression.

  “We have to leave,” I say. “Now.”

  Our futures come down to her response to my demand. She slips her hands in the pockets of her jeans, nervously taps her thighs beneath the denim. Her hesitance, her keeping herself together here suggests she gave my late-night discourse some consideration.

  She studies me, says, “Today is the last day of the rest of my life.”

  Having lived an existence of distrust and confusion, she seems to find solace in ambivalence; she’s clearly sitting on the fence. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to try and talk her down. And as much as I’d love to grab her hand and yank her off, she’s been yanked all her life.
The decision has to be hers, a choice that will carry a commitment strengthened by the exercising of her free will.

  “Get it?” she adds.

  I grab the remote and turn up the television to mask our conversation; she’s either too nervous to speak quietly or she’s trying to send a signal to the puker. At this point it’s more important for me to cover our words than to try and hear the marshal.

  I step closer; she does not back away. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, didn’t I?”

  “But you’re a liar. You’ve been in my life for no more than a few minutes and you wasted it by lying to me.”

  “What did I lie about?”

  “You said Sean makes forty grand a year. He actually makes fifty-three.”

  I purse my lips; fifty-three does sound familiar. If nothing else, at least I know Gardner’s information was on the up and up.

  Assuming everything else he gave me was accurate: “He confirm that he isn’t married?” She bites the corner of her mouth, shrugs one shoulder, and looks toward the blind-covered window. “If you ever see him again, ask.” I walk a little closer to the door. “Unfortunately, you probably won’t ever see him again. And if you do, you won’t live long enough to ask. You’ve got one shot at survival here, and it requires you to trust me.”

  She has enough confidence to look me right in the eye. Her mouth opens, pauses without forming words, as though she’s thinking twice about whatever was about to escape. I seem to have achieved one objective: By introducing myself last night and leaving her unharmed, my return has her displaying a different disposition.

  I turn to fully face her, drop my hands to my sides, attempt a nonconfrontational pose. “Tell me you want me to leave,” I say. “Ask, Melody. You can do it.”

  “I don’t have to ask anything. Sean comes through that door and there’ll be nothing more to discuss.”

  There’s that friggin’ fence again.

  I fold my arms, confrontation arrives anyway and makes itself known, passes my lips in what appear to be words of jealousy. “I find it entertaining that you call your little clam-digging friend Sean instead of marshal or deputy.”

  She speaks positively but shakes her head in disappointment. “We have a sort of… connection.”

  I try not to laugh too loud. “Well, expect to get disconnected very soon.”

  She rolls her eyes as though anxiety has been replaced by annoyance. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? What’d you do with Sean?”

  “Sean is delayed. You might say he’s having a bout of tummy trouble.”

  “Oh, clever! Let me guess: That means you sliced his stomach to pieces. You guys are totally awesome.”

  I need to get her out of here, but she’s starting to suck the energy right out of me. I stand back and hold my hands out, far-distanced and weaponless. “Does that seem like my style?”

  “What do I know? It was definitely your dad’s style.”

  I look away, would love to explain how that would never be who I am to her, and that I have traveled twenty years to undo the specific actions that caused her all this destruction, to restore her to who she was before we vandalized her life. Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time. “Yeah, well, that’s sort of why I’m here.”

  “Aw, your daddy send you on errand?” The fear she had five hours earlier seems to have been fully transformed into hatred. Quite unfortunate. For nearly my entire life I’ve been mentored on the way to manipulate fear into a currency that can be used to make any purchase. Hatred, on the other hand, adds up to nothing, was almost exclusively reserved for the feds and the cops and those we had betrayed.

  And now I’m facing a bout of fear myself—the fear I’m going to lose her here. I search my arsenal of possibility; I’ve got nothing, can’t look her in the eye. I’ve never been defeated easily—at least never this easily—but Melody has knocked me down. I’m surprised how much it hurts.

  I turn to leave, no longer caring what faces me on the other side, ready to take out that inadequate marshal with a few swift blows, give him a lesson on how seriously he should be taking his job.

  “Meet me out front in five minutes.” And as I open the door and step into the sun, I say, “And be alone.”

  “Wait!” she says, then pauses like she had no follow-up. “Should I bring my stuff?”

  I stare at her, and with all the intention I can rally I try to drive home my point, that if she chooses the marshal over me, the existence she will condemn herself to: “What stuff?”

  I close the door behind me, walk to my car. And wait.

  THREE

  I keep my promise. I pull next to the rusty overhang at the front of the motel. But now I am fueled, less interested in strategy than in battle; Peter would be proud. A small part of me would love to get face-to-face with her marshal—Sean, the lethargic superhero—and put a finger to his chest and a fist to his head, command him to protect her life like his own.

  I decide to in-your-face this entire scene: I park my car sideways and block anyone else from driving through the entryway, display the Audi like the only ripe tomato in a struggling Delmarva crop. Then I put the top down and my sunglasses on.

  I keep the engine running and watch the path Melody would walk, my eyes so fixed on any movement near the corner of the building that I can’t even distract myself with lighting a smoke.

  Of the five minutes I told her to wait, four have passed and my heart starts pounding harder. I can’t help but consider going back to her room, throwing her over my shoulder and tossing her in the car, taking her somewhere more suited to explaining the whole story; after all, of all the hardware in my toolbox, force has been a chrome Craftsman. But it would be so much more powerful if she makes the choice on her own.

  And so I stare and hope and pray. If there are other sounds, other cars passing up and down Route 13, I don’t acknowledge them. A storm could be rising behind me: federal agents carefully slipping between parked cars and placing the back of my head in the crosshairs of their rifle scopes; the charge of another marshal as he winds up his arm in preparation to pistol-whip me; the surge of tires over gravel from an Impala with New York plates, then the sluggish exit of crew members, the tap on my shoulder and ruffling of my hair as someone mutters, “We’ll take it from here, Johnny.”

  The fifth minute ends, departs like a train rolling down a dusty track, slowly vanishing out of sight. Can’t help but think it’s a real shame she didn’t make it to the station on time.

  Though it appears her decision has been made, I refuse to give up. As much as common sense would suggest I throw the car in gear and return to New York, I’m stuck. In the sixth minute, I repeatedly think, C’mon, Melody. In the seventh minute, I start whispering it.

  But in the eighth:

  Melody walks around the corner, her hands in her pockets again, bottom lip tightly clenched between her teeth. She keeps looking back and around and over her shoulder like a kid about to make her first drug buy. As she slowly draws closer, I try to avoid smiling, but no amount of strength can prevent it; it feels silly when it happens. This must be how a man unsure of his lover’s affection feels when his offer of marriage is tearfully accepted. She chose me.

  Melody approaches like a child having just been offered a piece of candy by a lurking stranger. The closer she gets the more confused she looks. She stops about ten feet away. Though I expect her first words to be you better not hurt me or I demand to know what’s going on, she pops this fly:

  “Why not just paint a target on the back?”

  The steadiness in her voice surprises me, suggests she’s been transported so many times under such terrifying conditions that I am nothing more than a new driver. I wave her closer.

  “Meaning what?”

  She doesn’t budge. “Meaning I cannot think of a more conspicuous way for you to get me out of here.” Read: You’re an amateur and we don’t stand a chance.

  “What do I care?” I say. “I’ve committed no crime.” Ex
cept, of course, the breaking and entering thing. I clarify. “At least none that would concern the pukemeister back there. And let’s be clear: I’m not holding a gun to your head or a knife to your throat. You’re coming willingly.”

  She chuckles as though my stab at wangling her with semantics pales in comparison to the manipulation she’s received from the government. “You kidding? The gun or knife is implied, Jonathan.”

  “I specifically told you I would not hurt you.”

  “And I specifically told you I perceive you to be a manipulative liar.”

  Still going through the hatred phase, I see. Though I’m now getting the sense she’s forcing it. She may say I’m a liar, but as she finally steps a little closer, I can tell Melody wants to know what it is she’d be giving up. She inches toward the car, and once having finally reached it, places her hand on the frame of the passenger door, looks over the interior like a dieter staring down a hot fudge sundae.

  “Besides,” she says, letting her eyes eventually make their way to mine, “you did have a knife to my throat not too long ago, remember?”

  “You mean this?” I reach into my pocket and pull out the pen I’d put to her neck. She stares at the Montblanc, cocks her head as though thinking, It did sorta feel like a pen instead of a knife. When I was a middle schooler, Tommy Fingers taught me the art of staying fully armed without carrying a single weapon, achieved by way of everyday things that can cause immense damage—paper clips, pens, a roll of coins, even dental floss. You can wipe someone out, and when the cops arrive they find nothing incriminating on you. Should the marshal have surprised me last night, the last thing I’d have wanted him to shake out of my jacket was a traditional weapon.

  I try to capitalize on her doubt. “Hop in,” I say, and smile a little, try to suggest that everything is going to be okay, except I’m thinking, C’mon-c’mon-c’mon-get-in-the-friggin’-car-let’s-go.