Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  Apparently nothing was ringing a bell with John because his expression remained as blank as ever. It didn’t even look like he was trying to remember. This should be cute, Liz thought.

  “Ah, then, you’re Terry. Sorry.” But he had the decency to look chagrined.

  The poor waitress snapped. Liz could tell the exact second the woman lost it. With a quick flip of her hand, the plateful of pie and ice cream landed on John’s chest.

  “My name is not Terry! Not Terry, you jackass! It doesn’t even start with a T! I thought I made that perfectly clear with the tape!”

  Realization came slowly to John’s face. Though Liz wasn’t exactly sure what the livid woman meant about . . . oh, the duct tape! She found herself eager to hear more as she leaned closer to the action.

  “Zelda? Zoe?”

  The hapless man struggled so, she could almost smell wood burning as he tried to come up with a name.

  The waitress, purple-faced and puffed with indignation, struck out at his cheek with a resounding slap that made all the other diners swivel in their seats.

  “Nora, you sonovabitch! My name is N-O-R-A!”

  With that, the woman spun on her heel and headed behind the counter while the cook shouted at her in Greek, so no one understood what was going on.

  Liz forced herself to remain stone-faced while John, recapturing his aplomb, picked pieces of pie from his shirt and placed them on the table. With a shake of his head, he said simply, “Well, that’s one mystery solved.”

  Then burst out laughing.

  Liz joined him.

  He did not leave a tip.

  She tried hard to ignore the stain on his shirt as he walked her to their building. She tried hard to laugh only to herself and not spoil the moments they’d had between them. They were precious, though, and his kindness had managed to seep beneath the hardened shell around her heart.

  Perhaps he’d been this way with all these other women, she thought. Maybe that was why they were always so offended that he didn’t remember their names.

  As she and John stood at the outside door, the little tingle of anticipation filled her. She’d stood here like this before, back in another lifetime. Would it end the same way tonight? Would he want to kiss her and should she let him? Oh, sweet Jesus ! This wasn’t high school. She was a grown....

  John took away any further thought by stepping close, putting his arms around her and drawing her to his warm, apple-scented body. She looked up, trying to read his intent in his eyes, suddenly hoping he would kiss her the way he’d done when she ripped off Nora’s handiwork.

  He didn’t let her down.

  Softly at first, his lips touched hers just the way she wanted. A minute spark, static electricity from the dry air and their clothing maybe or she was thinking too much because it was more tender, more wonderful than that previous stolen kiss. But the spark had happened. They both felt it, pulled away at the surprise and looked at each other through half-closed eyelids.

  And once again he met her lips and continued a long, slow kiss. Liz’s toes curled in her shoes as she raised her hands to encircle his neck and pull herself closer to his heat. This time, when his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, she let him plunder. Giving in to this man was easy. So easy.

  Before she lost herself completely, she broke the kiss, but rested her forehead against the softness of his jacket. What was she doing? What was going on?

  He held her close for a few seconds more then whispered, “Good night, Lizzie. Sweet dreams.”

  Was she imagining it, or did his voice sound as shaky as she felt? Another thought to ponder as she lay awake in her lonely bed.

  Chapter 29

  He’d been sitting at his desk, fiddling with a paper clip and thinking about last night with Liz and how much he wanted her again when Curtis walked into the office. Curtis only ventured out of the newsstand during the day if he was on fire. The grave expression on his worn, dark face warned John before the man even spoke a word. The time had come.

  They didn’t waste words on formalities.

  “She said the old lady got admitted on the night shift, John.”

  Curtis slowly shook his head while John sat up straight and dropped the paper clip with a loud ping.

  “Thank you, Curtis. You know how long I’ve waited to hear this. I appreciate you coming over here to tell me.”

  “Yeah, well, this was the first time I could get away from the newsstand, but I figured you’d need to know.”

  John loosed a tight laugh.

  “Yeah, it’s been quite awhile. This gives me time to prepare, though. How bad did Lucille say the lady was?”

  “Real bad. Her daughters were all there at her bedside, if that means anything. Lucille said she’d look at the old lady’s chart next shift, but from what she could tell, it didn’t look as if she had much longer on this earth before God called her home.”

  “Curtis, I don’t know if God will want her anywhere around.”

  After a long pause, Curtis spoke in a hushed, serious tone. “Now, don’t say that, Bourbon. Just because her son is no good, doesn’t mean she’s not in the Maker’s hands.”

  “I guess she can’t help the fact that her son is a murderer, Curtis. Right. You’re right.”

  Another long pause. “Well, John, don’t you do anything to soil your immortal soul. The Lord wants us to turn the other cheek always.”

  With vehemence, John replied, “Not this time, Curtis. I cannot turn the other cheek. That little shit killed my partner, ambushed us when we thought he was going to make a deal. He deserves to die, Curtis. And I swore to Dutch he would.”

  Carly stood outside the office door, paralyzed as she eavesdropped on the two men.

  “Oh, God, please, no . . . don’t let this be happening,” she whispered. What? What can I do? Blessed Mother, what can I do ?

  “There has to be another way. Call in the FBI . . . they’re the ones who can bring him to justice. You’re not the Lone Ranger, Bourbon.”

  She heard a terse laugh.

  “There’s where you’re wrong Curtis.”

  “I ain’t wrong. It’s up to the Lord to send an avenging angel. Last time I looked, Bourbon, you weren’t an angel.”

  The desk chair scuffed back against the wooden floor. “You’re right, Curtis. I’m no angel. But I made a vow that night and I will keep it.”

  “All I ask is that you think about it, Bourbon. Think about that sweet little girl of yours. What’s gonna happen to her if you’re in jail or dead?”

  Carly caught her breath. His little girl? What did that mean?

  “I have that all figured out, Curtis. Rest assured, I have everything under control.”

  More movement, foot-shuffling, coming closer to the door. Carly ducked back behind a corner of the hall, well out of sight. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!

  The door opened. “You be careful, Bourbon. Think over what I said. You’re a young man still, you got a lot to live for. No use wasting your life for revenge.”

  Curtis left without an answer from John.

  Terror held Carly in the shadows for a long time. What was going on? She needed a plan, a darn good plan. She had to act as if she hadn’t heard a thing, yet she had to find out what Curtis had meant. What it all meant for her, too.

  John sorted through three days’ worth of mail stacked neatly on his desk by Carly, he assumed, and added what had come in today without even looking at it. She was a good kid. A real good kid. Sharp as a tack and with a wonderful future ahead of her. He planned on making sure all his finances were in order so he could leave her with enough funds to make it through college, at least.

  He had money he’d received when he’d gotten shot . . . compensation from the Bureau. He’d never touched a cent. That was stashed in a locker at the bus station. Not very bright of him, but safe as anywhere else. And he had insurance money he’d changed over to her name instead of his parents. They’d be okay. They’d never use it to take a trip to Europe even if
he bought them tickets, so it was best for Carly to have, in case he should be killed instead of just sent to prison.

  He shook off that thought.

  Liz.

  Carly would be set, but how would Liz handle this? He scrubbed at his face, the memory of Liz’s warm body against his overriding his senses, fogging his determination around the edges. This complication he’d never guessed, never planned to happen.

  He dreamed about Liz. He caught himself thinking about the texture of her hair, the sweet fragrance of her perfume. Her gruff act, pretending not to like him when he knew damn well she did. That fire in her eyes drew him like no other woman ever had.

  He was falling in love with her.

  He’d never dreamed his life could have gotten so complicated; he’d avoided distractions and attachments so easily for the past seven years, and now this.

  Somehow, he’d have to settle things with Liz, too. Hell. It wasn’t going to be easy. It was going to hurt, but he’d take care of it the only way he knew how.

  The time for if only had run out.

  Consulting the list he’d made right after Curtis had left, he ticked off several other things he’d been able to handle by phone.

  One item remained that he could attend to tonight.

  John went to church.

  Mike was hearing confessions.

  John decided he couldn’t wait for him to finish so he entered the vacant confessional.

  He’d forgotten how cramped the confessional was, how tight the fit as he knelt inside and considered what he had to tell Mike. There was no air . . . that much he remembered from his childhood. And a discomfort stumbled through his body while he waited, feeling all the short hairs he possessed tugging at his skin, especially around his balls.

  That much he remembered, too. All the sins he ever had committed or made up because he lacked enough wrong-doing to be believed by those ancient priests came stealing back into his mind. What he would confess today would top them all, and he knew there would be no Hail Marys or Our Fathers to cover his planned transgression. He mouthed out an Act of Contrition, just to make sure he remembered the words.

  Wood slid over worn wood and the dim outline of the priest shone through the screen. John fought ancient fears before speaking.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  Silence.

  He wondered whether Mike had heard him.

  “Father? Mike?”

  “Jesus! Is that you, John?”

  He felt the corners of his mouth turn up. “Yeah, it’s me, Mike.”

  He heard the priest turn in his chair. “What are you doing here? Are you drunk?”

  John hung his head. “No, I’m regrettably sober and have been for years.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  He sensed Mike leaning closer to the screen. “Couldn’t it wait? I’m sure I’m almost done here. Nobody really comes to confession anymore, and I’ve been here over an hour.”

  “Well, I needed to talk to you right away and I figured this was as good a place as any.”

  “Were you serious about confession?”

  John exhaled as he thought. “Yeah. I’m serious, Mike. I have a lot on my shoulders right now and I need to make sure you understand what I have to do and why. And I need you to take care of Carly, to make sure you bring her up to my parents’ house. There’s money in a locker—the money I got when I was shot. It’s enough to see her through these last years of high school and probably, since she’s smart, enough to get her through college, providing she doesn’t blow it. I need you to handle this.”

  “Wait,” Mike said, no longer whispering. “What are you going to do, John? This sounds terminal. What’s going on?”

  “It’s time. The old lady is dying. Her son will be coming to Jersey from Sicily to see her buried and you know what I swore to do. I intend to do it.”

  He pictured Mike rubbing his big hand over his broad Irish face. “Don’t do this, John. You’re under no obligation to Dutch. You made that vow when you were nearly out of your mind with pain and guilt. Turn away from it. Dutch wouldn’t want you sacrificing your life this way. Not for him.”

  “Why not, Mike? He sacrificed his life for mine when he pushed me out of the way.”

  “You’d already been hit! You were probably falling down anyway! Jesus, John! Think, man! Is this what you really want?”

  Silence.

  “And what about Carly? What’s going to happen to her?”

  “I told you. I’ve taken care of that. But I need you to take her to my parents’ house. Maybe explain to her. I’ll either be dead or in jail.”

  Silence, this time drawn out considerably.

  “Is she your daughter?”

  John rubbed his face, feeling sweat on his fingertips. He had to swallow hard. “I’m not sure, but I think so. At first, I thought I was out of the picture. But then I found her mother, Mike. She didn’t admit to it, but it wasn’t the other one, so it had to be her. And she told me we had spent one night together. So, along with everybody else, I could be her father.

  “What about the others?”

  His knees ached from kneeling. “They’re all bums. Unbelievable. If I had time, I’d tell you about them, but it’s a long story, so I’ll just say that of the others, you and I are the prizes and you, my friend, don’t suck the jelly out of the doughnut first.”

  Mike said nothing. John guessed he was too stunned to speak.

  “I’m not going to hand her over to any one of them. Since I could be her father, and I like the kid . . . I really do, I’m just going to say I am so she has a family.”

  Mike made a funny noise, either a laugh or a cough or some indefinable sound in his throat.

  “No test?”

  John shook his head. “No tests because I don’t want a test. She’s my kid because I want her to be.”

  “Then don’t you want to stick around to be a father to her?”

  Long pause. “I’m going to do the best I can. I’ve seen to her welfare. She’ll have my parents and my sisters and brothers-in-law and all my nieces and nephews and cousins. More family than she’s ever had before. She’ll be okay.”

  “John, think about this . . . think about what you’re going to be throwing away.”

  “I have, Mike. I’ve thought about little else for the past seven years.”

  Mike’s voice, low and slow, came through the screen. “I won’t grant you absolution.”

  John sighed. “I didn’t think you would. I just wanted you to know what was going down. You’re my friend and I need your help. Give me that much, Mike.” Not a plea, but a bargain, that’s what he wanted.

  “What else can I do for you, John? I want to save your soul.”

  John rose. “Save it for Carly. She’s gonna need you. As a friend of her father’s, you can help without any questions.”

  “Aw, hell, John. This stinks.”

  Before he left the confessional, John had to agree. “Yeah, it surely does. Thanks, Mike.”

  He thought about lighting a candle and saying a prayer, but in the end, he just left.

  Carly felt like a thief, sneaking into her home. No, scratch that, the place she slept and kept her clothes, but had no right to be in without John Preshin’s good graces.

  She could smell the faint traces of aftershave that lingered most of the day. Here it was evening already and the heady scent tickled her nose.

  Putting her backpack on the floor, she decided to take a look at the papers on John’s desk. Perhaps there was a clue as to what was going on. She’d become an expert at reading opened mail, she thought. And her routine stacking of it accounted for the fingerprints.

  Not that John would look. He knew that she knew. . . .

  Ah. Her fingers caressed a large tan unopened envelope. When she flipped it over, her stomach fluttered. The envelope bore her name.

  Fingers turned to claws as she ripped the flap to irreparable shreds.


  Inside, a sheaf of papers—legal looking things with letterhead and seals and a sticky note in Mother Superior’s spidery hand. “These are yours. Hope they help.”

  “Big deal,” she muttered while her impatience flared.

  Some sort of formal looking paper bore the title of non-identifying information. Hmm. This looked promising. Parking herself in John’s swivel chair, she read. Her insides turned to water at the information it contained. All sorts of things from the height of her mother to the fact that no father was named slapped at her sensibilities. No known birth defects in family. No heart disease known. Mother’s grandparents living at time of her birth. Mother did not need glasses. Hair—light blond. Eyes—blue.

  Carly sat back, feeling gut-punched. Her mother had blond hair and blue eyes. Just like her. Somewhere out there, somewhere on the planet was a woman about thirty seven years old with blond hair and blue eyes who was her mother. If she was still alive. If she hadn’t dyed her hair or shaved it all off.

  God! Somewhere out there, along with a father she couldn’t find, might be a mother. If only. If only she could . . . could what? Search everywhere?

  Letting those papers fall from her shaking hand, she picked up the one with the letterhead. Hmm, lawyers from Philly. All with the same last name, Coleridge. Very big bucks, oooh. What did they have to say?

  Blah, blah, blah, “cease and desist from searching for birth mother.”

  Cease and desist searching for birth mother? She wasn’t looking for her. She was supposed to be dead!

  Was she?

  Carly closed her eyes as the tears squeezed out. Mother Superior thought this would help?

  Wait. She looked at the date on the letter from the lawyers. A week ago. It had come to the convent seven days ago. That meant that someone had poked his nose into her life and twisted somebody’s knickers.

  It also meant her mother was alive and knew he’d been looking.

  Had Mother Superior ratted her out somehow?

  Lawyers wouldn’t send a letter to protect a dead woman.

  John Preshin.