Nice

by Jen Sacks

  "Look," he said at last. "Did you mean to do it?"

  "Well, no, I didn't mean to do it."

  "Then I'm just gonna consider it an accident."

  "An accident? Did that bump on your head unhinge you? You could have died. That was my doing."

  "Well, you're just gonna have to work it out yourself. I've got this story on these homeless people to do; then I've gotta get back in touch with the men's magazine people, and then I've gotta get back to Peru. I don't have time for police red tape."

  My mouth was agape.

  "I'm just gonna leave this between you and me. And hope you learned your lesson. But I better not find out you're doing it again. Or you'll be the next story I do."

  I was still looking at him as if he were crazy, which I honestly think he was.

  He started to get up. "Oh, and I'll be sending you a bill for my clothes."

  "What about your medical expenses? Plastic surgery?"

  "What, are you kidding? This scar looks cool. Improves my credibility."

  I reached out and grabbed his arm. "Are you sure? I mean, you have every right in the world to seek justice."

  "Frankly, I just don't think we should try going out again." He started to totter out of the restaurant.

  "Hey," I called after him. "Audrey was asking after you."

  "I'll give her a call," he said, without turning.

  After a few minutes, I was able to get up from the table. I managed to snag a cab and get inside my apartment before I threw up.

  Then I called Sam.

  46

  Sam

  "Do you want me to kill him?" was my first question, after Grace told me the story.

  "Are you nuts? After what he's been through? Don't even think it."

  "Apparently the lot of you are crazy" was all I could conclude as I came back into the room after splashing some cold water on my face. "You think he will continue to say nothing?"

  "Geez, obviously I hope so. But whether he does or not, he stays alive."

  "Not if - he meets up with the wrong Peruvians."

  "Don't even think of polishing up your Spanish. It's my business. You're not in any danger," she informed me.

  "If you are, I am," I said simply.

  Her face crumpled. Gently at first, and then with more and more emotion, she began to sob. She cried for a good hour and a half after that.

  So I made her tea. I put her in her night-clothes—that is, a T-shirt and sweatpants she had lying around. I held her and supplied her with tissues. This abandoned, limitless sobbing was something I had not seen from her before. The pullover I was wearing was becoming quite wet from her tears and her nose. At one point, she noticed and started to apologize.

  "I'm ruining your sweater," she said.

  "That is what dry cleaners are for," I told her.

  At last, and almost predictably by now, she began to speak.

  "I feel so relieved. And so guilty." She sobbed. "I'm just crying. It feels so good. And you're taking care of me. You'd even kill for me. Not that you should," she reminded me, "but the offer is nice. I know you mean well. I just always tough everything out alone, you know? And here you are helping. Nobody ever does that. I don't let anybody do that. I just haven't been taken care of in a long, long time. But I can take care of myself," she added hastily. "I was doing okay all alone, wasn't I?"

  "Well, in a manner of speaking. Everybody could use a little help."

  "You are so sweet," she wailed.

  "I am not sweet."

  "I'm sorry, I just can't stop. It feels so good to cry. And you don't mind."

  I patted and stroked her back lightly. Like the end of a rain shower, she gradually dried up.

  "You know? I can finally rest with you. It just seems like I don't have to worry. I'm just so tired of worrying about everybody's feelings. Even mine. You can worry about mine. I mean, not all the time. Just now and then."

  "Now and then," I repeated, soothingly, I hoped.

  She was silent for a few minutes, reflecting. "I don't know if I'm good or if I'm bad," she whispered to me after this pause. "But I feel… strange. Not afraid." She blinked. "Free."

  I held her tightly. She felt free. I did not. Not anymore. For me, that was an improvement.

  47

  Grace

  Killing people changes you. It does. It can't help it. I don't know myself anymore. Or maybe I know myself better than I ever did. But I don't know what I will do. I was angry when I killed those guys. I know that much. And now I can't always keep it in. Sam once told me that when he works, he knows it's either his life or the other guy's. And there's a certain freedom in that. Losing the old fear makes me a little afraid of what I might do.

  I got into an argument with someone at work the other day over something I would normally swallow. Instead, I went up to my coworker and stated my case, told her why I was offended and why she was wrong. And I won. She apologized. I went back to my cubicle. I should have been satisfied, but I wasn't. I wanted more. Once you open that door… I guess I was angry when I did the things I did. I thought I meant well. Really. I'm not sure killing is such a sensational solution to the hostility problem, after all. I'm not sure what is. But I don't want anyone else to pay for my problems anymore. Unless they're causing them, of course.

  48

  Sam

  She found me in overdrive. The not-unforeseeable outcome when one opens one's home to someone. But then, I knew the risks. She kept her finger on the buzzer, attempting to rattle me, until I let her in the front door. That left me with perhaps a minute and a half—while she took the elevator up to the floor I lived on—to put away my playthings. Too late, I realized that I would have to add a little device to the lift to disable it when I wanted to slow someone down. She was knocking on the door as I slid the last gun into its hideaway.

  "So, how's tricks?" she asked. She was a little breathless.

  "What do you mean?" I parried.

  "What are you doing? You look like I caught you in something naughty."

  "Impossible," I declared.

  She walked around the living room, suspiciously. She finally came to my laptop. That was really an oversight. I was still on-line. Peter's motor vehicle history was on the screen, complete with address. Rather damning, I am afraid.

  "So what you say to me means exactly nothing, is that it?" She turned to me angrily.

  "You were too upset to be logical."

  "I said no. No, no, no. When is that word gonna work for me?"

  "He was hardly in a rational state when you spoke. What he said cannot be relied upon."

  "No. What you said cannot be relied upon. I actually trust him."

  "I have to do as I see fit. As long as he is alive, he can change his mind. I do not relish prison visits, nor can I guarantee that I could risk them."

  To my utter shock, she pushed the computer off the table. It hit the floor, beeping a few times before giving up the ghost.

  "I'm mad at you," she said. But she looked a little afraid of what she had done.

  I walked across the room to her from where I had been standing by the door— slowly, carefully, both palms up in a gesture of pacification. How angry is she? I thought. Even more to the point, I wondered if she was armed. Grace stood her ground. I reached out a little tentatively, took her hands in both of mine, and led her to the nearest couch, seating myself as I pulled her gently down to face me.

  "I have to kill him. I know you understand why."

  "You have to kill. But not him. You touch him and we're finished." She was shaking; I could feel her tremble.

  "You cannot mean that. That is insane. He is not worth that."

  "It's not about him. It's about you and me. If I can't trust you, then forget it." She was serious.

  I let go of her and leaned back on the couch, pressing my hands to my eyes. My head was beginning to ache. I had never had this kind of discussion. I had been fairly resolved on a faux mugging. There was not time enough for any complicate
d, more subtle procedure. With my eyes closed, I could see exactly how it would proceed. The look on his bewildered face before he crumpled to the ground, a bullet in his brain. It was necessary. And because of that, it was as it had been before I met her. It was beautiful.

  I opened my eyes, and she was still sitting there looking at me. Clear-eyed. She spoke more softly now.

  "There's no such thing as a purely reasonable killer. Is there? You can't be adjusted in every other way and still heartlessly kill people."

  "I have to say, I have no idea," I endeavored to answer lightly. "But I think I am a touch too old to change my spots." Although, privately, I was beginning to have a few doubts on that score.

  "What is it you Like about killing?"

  "I never said I liked anything about it. It is a job."

  "Yeah, and it was war. But it's over. What are you, one of those Japanese soldiers hiding in the jungle for twenty years?"

  "War never ends," I argued, rather weakly.

  "You like it," she replied, pressing me.

  "I like control," I said, giving in to her interrogation. "I like precision. I like the simplest solution possible."

  "Then how come you like me?" she asked.

  "It is against all my principles."

  "You're gonna have to come up with a better word than that."

  "Can it not just be that I am evil? Or natural? Perhaps I am the natural state of man. Before scruples or neuroses are imposed."

  "I don't want to judge you," she said. "That was the whole point of this. You never judged me, no matter what I did. And I couldn't judge you. I wouldn't have dreamt of it. But now you're a real person to me. I'm not any better than you are—"

  "Yes, you are," I interjected. It was a salient fact.

  "—but killing him would be bad for you. Not to mention us. I'm willing to live with the risk."

  "My little girl is growing up."

  "Cut it out. I'm serious."

  "I know you, are. It is quite frightening. What other risks are you willing to live with?"

  She said nothing in reply. She just leaned back against the couch, her shoulder against mine.

  "Please," she said.

  I glanced over at her finally. "Have I ever denied you anything?"

  "If anything ever happens to him, I'll know. I'll know you can't be trusted."

  "Enough. I will let him live. I think it is a mistake, but if that is what you want…"

  "I don't know what I want. I only know what I don't want." But she smiled. I closed my eyes again. Was she going to do this sort of thing often now? For only the second time I could recall in a long while, I actually felt a bit helpless.

  It is a known scientific principle: The observer affects the thing observed through the process of observation. And now a corollary: The thing observed affects the observer. That is not in any textbook.

  49

  Grace

  Jesus. What am I going to have to do? Kill him? I don't know whose feelings I'm worried about right now.

  He threatens me, and I threaten him. On the deepest level, I mean. Is it always like this?

  Who is he really? I could spend a lifetime trying to figure that out. Of course, I'm not sure exactly how long a lifetime is for the likes of us.

  50

  Sam

  I watch her while she slumbers sometimes. Her countenance looks remarkably peaceful. She seems to dream painlessly. No nightmares appear to haunt her in retribution for her misdeeds. I used to worry about that. I have wandered that territory alone at night myself. And so, as she wishes, I will do nothing to inspire any.

  When I finally fall asleep, I dream as I have done for the last few weeks: of her.

  51

  Grace

  A good movie is a mixed blessing. If it's something worth concentrating on, then you want to be able to concentrate. I can't do that in noisy theaters. One of these days, I really have to put together my Ideal Moviegoing Outfit. It would incorporate a Taser or tranquilizer gun, supermarket-priced Raisinets and soda, a bottle of water—to spill on the seat in front of me so no tall person would be able to sit there—and, if all else fails, a bazooka.

  Nearly a month had passed since the return of the dead and our subsequent lovers' quarrel. I was feeling pretty good. Maybe I shouldn't have been, but I was. My man and I were getting along fine. I hadn't killed anybody else. And Sam and I were taking in a happening flick.

  We were about ten minutes into it, and some guy behind me, who had been talking nonstop throughout all the previews and the be-quiet warnings, was still nattering on. He was behind me, maybe a seat over to the right. I hadn't looked at him yet. Finally, I turned and gave him the eye. I turned back. Nothing had changed. I turned and gave him the deep, loud, hush-up intake and exhale of breath. No change. Sometimes that only encourages them. Nobody else was saying or doing anything, naturally. Sam, incredibly enough, was absorbed. The film was in Russian. I turned and said, "Will you please be quiet?" I know that was way more civilized than he deserved, but maybe he just wasn't getting it.

  He looked straight back at me, without batting an eye. He got it all right. He turned back to the guy on his right and recommenced chattering away. I turned and said, "Are you going to talk through the entire movie?"

  "Fuck off," he said.

  I asked Sam to get the usher. That was reasonable, wasn't it? We were sitting two rows from the back. Sam was in the aisle seat, so he was up and through the door quickly. Why did he do that? I wondered later. I guess because professional killer or not, you don't really want to make a scene. And most of us try to follow the rules most of the time. It was a momentary lapse, but I don't blame him for it. It's not like he had a trank gun handy, either. And this certainly didn't qualify as a capital offense.

  The guy started throwing bits of popcorn at me. It was get afraid or get angry. I'm afraid I got angry. I turned and, kneeling on my seat, reached over and slapped him.

  "You bitch," he snarled, a word I think I've already made clear that I don't like.

  We both rose to our feet at the same moment. I don't even know what part of his body I planned to hit. It wasn't really a planned thing. We ended up in an embrace like you see with boxers. He lost his balance as I managed to smack him in the gut, and he fell on me, over me, pulling me with him out of the seat area and onto the floor of the aisle, where the soda that Sam and I were sharing had been. As we fell downward, it flew upward, straw first, into my face. As I hit the ground, it was under me.

  In retrospect, there is almost something comical to the sequence of events. But not then. The straw was already bent, I believe, but there was enough of it sticking out to be driven straight into my left eye. I can't compare the pain I felt then to any other in my life. I don't know if it was worse physically or if it was that I knew as it was happening exactly what was happening.

  Everything stopped for me right then. I don't know what happened to the noisy guy. I don't know when Sam got back, usherless.

  I must have screamed. I don't remember. I passed out.

  52

  Sam

  I shall never forget the sound of her scream. I came back, just a few moments after leaving on my fruitless errand, to find her moaning on the floor; she had apparently recovered semiconsciousness almost immediately. The majority of potential witnesses in the theater were still, literally, in the dark, although there were stirrings from nearby. The straw was no longer embedded in her; still attached to the plastic cover of the soda container, it had fallen out when she automatically recoiled, but I could see clearly enough what it had done. I scooped her up before those few people nearby had had enough time to take in what had occurred, let alone decide to act, and carried her to the hospital. The movie theater was, fortunately, mere steps from St. Vincent's.

  Grace was remarkably quiet. I told the attending physician that she had tripped on something in the street, walking and drinking her soda, and fallen on the straw. Any other bruises she may have been developing were not ye
t noticeable. I had grabbed up the now-empty soda container and the straw, along with our jackets, before picking Grace up from the floor.

  The garrulous man had been, at last, silenced. He was writhing around a bit in the aisle; he must have been injured somehow in landing, as well. I knelt and pressed on his carotid artery long enough to knock him out. My decision was a rapid one, in direct contradiction to my deepest feelings. I thought of Grace. I thought of the police. I thought of our future. I let him live.

  At the hospital, they cleaned the wound, checked Grace for shock, gave her a light tranquilizer, and bandaged her up.

  They did the best they could, but that straw went in like a knife.

  The eye is gone.

  Later, when the bandages were removed, she was given a patch, a black one. Ultimately, the doctors explained, when she is completely healed, she can be fitted for a glass eye. They say they can match her shade almost exactly. I doubt it.

  I cannot help feeling horribly, horribly guilty. I should never have left her. And yet, she is an adult. She made her own decision. She had never done such a thing before; who knew she would do it this time? But, even so, I had not been there.

  She will not allow me to castigate myself in front of her for leaving her alone—I found myself doing so repeatedly in the first days after the event.

  She tells me it was not my fight, it was hers. She says she feels very little regret. "That guy was really being noisy," is how she put it, "and I was tired of letting them get away with it."

  She says she feels kind of like a pirate.