Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  "What?"

  "Where's the new job?"

  "Across town at a restaurant."

  "What's the name? I'll give you a reference."

  He doesn't believe me.

  "It's new... the... gourmet something-"

  "You come in dressed for work to tell me you have another job."

  "I - I didn't want to leave you without notice."

  He shakes his head. "Cut it out. You're not going anywhere."

  "Yes I am. Tonight's my last night."

  I couldn't help but look up to see Liz staring at us through the glass wall with that smirk on her face. Lou catches it.

  "No. Because of that? No. Caleb she's a sour kid blowing off smoke. You can't let her win."

  He's flushed. His breathing is short. Losing this Diner would kill him and I know it. Losing me won't.

  "You've always told me to be my own man. This is my decision. I'm sorry."

  Standing from that chair was the hardest thing I've ever done. I didn't want to leave. I put my hand out to shake his just like he did for me on my first day there. It soaked in. He knew I wouldn't go back on it. He gripped my hand and put his other on top. The sting of tears was in the corner of my eyes.

  "Here."

  He hurriedly digs into his pocket.

  "No, Lou. I'm okay. Really."

  If I stayed in there one more second, tears were inevitable.

  "Bye, Lou."

  "Goodbye, son."

  That word stopped me mid stride. My back to him, I couldn't turn around. Keep going. My shift went fast. The same old stuff. I did it in a blur, knowing it was my last time. Liz didn't say a word to me. We finish at the same time but the difference is she usually hails a taxi every night that whisks her home. I put feet to the pavement and walk home. Tonight, we are equals.

  The shift ends and I wait until I see Liz walk out, get into a taxi and leave. I have no one I need to say goodbye to. No one who will ask me if everything is alright. So, I step outside and hear the bells ring on the diner door as it shuts behind me for the last time.

  The winter storm knocks the warmth of the diner away. It's unbearable. The thirty mile per hour winds are broken between the buildings. My reality is as bitter cold as the storm. Lou was my only semblance of family. A father figure I looked forward to seeing. I could have left that job a long time ago. Manhattan is full of opportunities. But, Lou's kindness held me there. And mine let him go.

  Thanks to my new small bottle, I can fix this. A mouth full. This seems to be the bottom of the barrel. Why not? I lift my hand. A yellow taxi stops. I tuck the bottle into my right pocket and open the door. Taxi seats, black leather and springy. Thick cloudy bullet-proof glass separates the front seat from the rear, makes me feel like a fish. It's only the second time I've been in a taxi. It's a luxury I can't afford and often don't need. The driver slides open a small door in the bullet proof glass.

  "Where to?" asks the taxi Driver.

  "5th and East 96th Ave. park-side."

  "You got it," replies the driver.

  I settle back in the seat. In luxury. My last luxury. Everything in my pocket couldn't pay for this ride. The radio is loud. Most New York taxi drivers don't like chit chat. At least that's what one told me while I cleared his plate at the diner.

  "New York, brace yourself. Extreme winter storm advisory has been issued. Temperatures plunging to five degrees below zero so snuggle up with your loved ones and grab that cup of cocoa. Stay inside, stay warm and check on your elderly neighbors. You don't need to dream of it, but we're playing that all time Christmas favorite, White Christmas. Stay tuned for more updates on airport closings-"

  "Can you turn that down?"

  The driver looks at me from the rear view mirror.

  "No."

  I'm not offended. New Yorkers don't leave you guessing about what they feel. You always know where you stand with them. Total opposite of the Southern hospitality I was taught since birth.

  The tall buildings roll by quickly. Too quickly. My little glass friend blurs them all together. The wipers swipe furiously but can't keep the falling snow off of the windshield. I can feel the car bracing the gusts of wind.

  In this part of town the streets are empty. I don't come here often. An occasional person stepping quickly out of a private car or taxi then rushes through doors held open by a suited and gloved doorman. There is no doorman where I live- well, lived. It's well past six p.m.

  The bounce and sway is comforting. Unlike riding in the crowded subway or bus where no one wants to close their eyes, this was a safe place. The dark night vanishes and the glow of a warm sun rises behind my closed eyelids. I see rows of deep green fields and can smell fresh rain coming in the distance. Every now and then, the aroma of home cooked meals from farm houses that dot the countryside. I can't decide here. I can't manipulate things here. The memory is so perfect I don't want to.

  There is a worn wooden church, and there it is. The lake. Not a huge one but big enough for our boat. The boat dad and I refurbished all summer last year. It's docked, bobbing in the water behind our house. It must be Sunday because mom has the front door open and the screen door I promised to fix is unlocked. There she is. Mom walking past the window holding a serving tray waiting for the Pastor, his wife and the love of my life to come over after church. This feels real. I know it's a memory breathing in my cold reality but I want to stay in it.

  I want to see us laughing at the dinner table. I want to see my mother brush back the strands of hair that slip from her Sunday French twist. I want to see my father sipping her perfect lemonade making jokes. The feeling in that moment is perfect. Safe. I truly want to stay right here. No chance.

  What's that tapping?

  "We're here. Hey, buddy, we're here. Wake up."

  The driver knocking on the glass divider. I purposely picked this street in Manhattan because I knew it was right beside an entrance to Central Park.

  "Okay. Stop knocking."

  "Twenty seven fifty."

  He's looking at me through the rear view window. I start fishing in my left pocket.

  "Oh, yeah, it's in this pocket."

  I act as if I'm reaching into my right pocket but instead, I pull the door handle hard and lean into it expecting it to open. It doesn't. He's reaching for something.

  "Just give me my money! Pay!"

  I saw this in a movie. Hopefully it works. I hit the door panel just beneath the lock with my elbow. The lock pops up.

  "Sorry."

  The falling snow gets in my eyes. I can feel my boots slide slightly. I can't stop now. An opening to Central Park is right there across the street. I can see it.

  "THIEF! THIEF! Police!"

  I hear a car door shut and screeching wheels sliding in the snow. A few more feet. No car entry into the park means I'm in the clear. A cop car. Coming in the distance. I have to cross the street right in front of it. Slow down. I pull my hood on and hunker into my thin jacket. Not suspicious on a night like this. The taxi driver circled around. Figures. He's coming up right beside the Police car. Come on. I can't run. A few more feet to the park entrance. One foot on the curb.

  "Hey!"

  I don't want to turn around. If I don't, it may be worse.

  "Hey, you! Let's go."

  Reluctantly, I turn. A homeless man covered by a tarp is on a subway grid with steam rising from it.

  "Too cold for that tonight. Go to the shelter."

  Now through the park entrance, I hear the homeless man responding to the officer.

  "T-eeef! Police!"

  The police car turns his spotlight into the park.

  "No."

  The elements are on my side. The snow, trees and lots of darkness. It being two degrees below zero helps too. My adrenalin right now makes up for my thin coat. The hood is soaked. I run until the cold air hurts to inhale. I see light in the distance. Is it a cop car? I can't tell but I can't spend the night out here. Already, I can't feel my nose. A sip. That's what I need. Iron
ic, how eerie a place intended to be occupied can be when it's desolate.

  Tonight, the day before Christmas Eve, people have family or friends. No need to be in an empty park. Tree by tree, I inch into the light. Traffic is a welcoming sound compared to the silence of the park. What is it about light? In it, you feel warmer than when in the dark.

  I made it. No cops in sight. I can't help but stare. I don't come here. It's the other side of Manhattan separated by Central Park.

  There is a huge white large brick building. Elegant, entreating. Long windows from ceiling to floor framed with expensive curtains swooped open by large tassels. Twinkling Christmas trees in some, Tiffany lamps perched on cherry wood tables in others. It's something... familiar. A large television’s playing Christmas shows, a husband, a wife, snuggled on the sofa wearing thick white robes holding steaming mugs. I can't help but smile at the two brothers bouncing from present to present shaking them roughly. It was home. Family. Love. Everything I don't have right now. That question, the one I hate that I can't get out of my mind. Was my parents' death really an accident? I can't let it go until I know. A deep swallow.

  The cold vanishes, each window telling a story. I feel snowflakes falling on my open lips and my nose running. What difference does it make? They loom above, a beacon for New Yorks' new arrivals with visions 'making it' into the wealthy elite who live in one. Tonight, it taunts me. The struggling displaying all I miss and will never attain.

  I tap my breast pocket and hear the paper crunch. It's still there. The eviction notice. It may as well be for millions. My debt is their pocket change, a tip they leave on a restaurant table. Flickering fireplace catches my eyes. Three adults, two elderly and one young, decorating a tree in the window, rushing so little Johnny won't catch them. How cute. I used to be little Johnny.

  I would have liked to have some photos of my family. My memories burned in that fire the orphanage had.

  The Monks were accustomed to young boys coming in silent, depressed and struggling to leave their old life behind them. The stone walls of the Monastery aren't like these stone walls. There was no warmth within them. No family. But, usually after a few weeks, meals and outdoor play tongues loosen and they assumed a form of normalcy. I didn't. I didn't speak for a year. That's when Wallie broke through.

  I found one thing behind those cold walls. A brother. He talked. I listened. We connected in my silence. His mother died in child birth with him. His father, a long lingering death. Cancer.

  I actually liked listening to Wallie’s stories. Tales of summers on his father’s yacht and winters skiing in Vermont with dignitaries. Tea with royalty.

  I thought he was lying, of course. It didn't matter. They took me out of where I was. A dark place. I didn't care about revenge on the drunk driver that ran my parents off the road. I was angry that I had to keep living, alone.

  It's easy to get lost in open windows. Watching snips of lives in motion. They were like Wallie’s stories.

  Police sirens. You must be kidding me, for taxi fare? A group of loud party goers. Perfect. Slip into the group and a few blocks up, I'm in the clear. I have a few blocks to figure out how to get into my apartment.

  The cold has gotten down into my bones. I wish I had a scarf. The air is frigid. I hope that's not my stuff. I don't have much but that definitely looks like new black garbage bags under that fresh snow in the alley. The glass on the building door is fogged up but there's Jerry right there at the desk.

  The fire escape ladder is gone. I guess I'm not the only one who thought of that. Wait, who is that? Great, her. Why isn't she in the hall where she belongs? She saw me.

  The wind is gusting so hard I can barely stand still. Pressing myself against the building helps a little. Is she ratting on me? Why is she talking to Jerry? No one willingly talks to Jerry. What's she doing? She's laughing with him. She must be drunk. Wait, she's waving me past. Merry Christmas to me.

  The bells on the door. He'll hear them. A lobby dweller, the chess playing gentleman who is always down there is walking by the door, looking right at me. He grabs the bells while I push the door gently. I look straight at him and he smiles with his gray beard stubble rising. I have to duck and make it to the stairwell.

  "Hey, Reggie. What-r you doing'?"

  "Need a little fresh air. You don't want me kicking the bucket down here, do you?"

  "Very funny. As I was saying, my dear, I have a bottle of wine in the back and-"

  She must have seen the stairwell door close behind me because their conversation ends abruptly.

  "Look at the time, Jerry, I got to go. Bye."

  I hear his salty reply.

  "Hey, forget you."

  I can't believe I made it to the room. I stick the key in, praying silently. The lock isn't changed yet. Good thing it's Christmas Eve, Jerry probably couldn't get a locksmith. All the time I've complained about this place but right now, I can't help but feel grateful I had a place to go tonight. Especially with this storm.

  The money. It's still there. Forty, fifty, seventy... one hundred and sixty. Jerry's crooked. That's assured. It's not enough for the rent, but it might be enough to buy Jerry off for a few more day’s stay.

  It feels good to toss my jacket on the back of the chair. I need a hot shower to chase this cold from my bones. In the morning. I'm too tired. I've never been shivering this long after coming inside. I just collapse backward on the squeaky bed and pull the blanket over me.

  It feels like a long day. Eviction notice, fired, chased by police... what next? I can't spin the little gold key between my fingers and shove the sock of money in my jean pocket. I feel sleep slipping in faster than usual and I will not fight it. I'll just get up early, shower and leave way before Jerry can get up here. Normal people sleep or celebrate on Christmas day. Jerry likes to clean his nails with a business card. He's not normal.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wilkes

  "Tonight guests are out in their finery to celebrate the retirement of the United States Secretary of Defence. The mood is electric and tender moments reflect his service. Even standing here in the lobby of this fine hotel, you can feel the mood of those who will miss him and his dedication dearly."

  Newscasters breathe for moments like this. I'm ready to go home. My retirement dinner is polished. This phase is done and the next is about to begin. It is amusing that even my enemies will smile in photos with me now. It is part of the political game.

  "Wilkes," a general who second-guessed me for years says, "if there's anything you need, please call me."

  The flash bulbs flare and we shake hands for a photo. I resist the urge to hit him with my cane. Diplomacy wins.

  "Keep the torch burning, General."

  "I will. Don't worry."

  My successor, soon to be announced. Tastefully, he should have stayed away tonight and allow this old relic the ability to shine alone. But that kind of tact is dead. I still don't like the flash from cameras. Most of us who have seen combat do not. They evoke memories I try hard forget. Focusing on my walk, cigar, anything, helps. My therapist told me to let my anxiety finds its way onto the hilt of my cane.

  The President’s absence cannot ruin my evening. His presence would have put to bed some rumors. I am not surprised though.

  It was a good choice, my full length London Fog coat. It goes perfectly with this tuxedo and hangs on at the shoulders well.

  "Oh, Wilkes."

  A cheeky embrace and sultry smile from an attractive woman. She clings to my arm for a flurry of camera flash bulbs. I draw her into a friendly embrace. The article will never say that I don't even know her name. At this point, I don't even care. She'll gush on social media about how much she'll miss me. Oh good, my ride is here.

  Reporters on the hotel steps in the snow. I feel for them.

  "Sir? Leaving so soon?"

  "It's been a lovely evening. You all go in and get yourselves a drink."

  "Thank you, Mr. Secretary."

  I touch the brim of
my hat as the chauffeur closes my car door. That always makes for a good picture.

  "Tonight is the last night you will drive for me, Collins. How long have we been delivering Christmas Presents to the living families of my men?"

  "Eight years, Sir."

  "Quite a run. They deserve it. One always thinks about those who died during Christmas. It's inevitable. These presents make them feel like their dad or husband gave it to them directly. I owe them that."

  "It wasn't your fault, Sir. It's the price of war."

  "It's always your fault, son. Remember that."

  I notice Collins smiles when we stop at each house as he pulls the gift from the trunk and hands it to me while I make my way to the front doors. It's almost midnight but I will not stop until every last one is delivered.

  The sharp pain in my hip deepens as the night passes. Vestibule after vestibule. Ascended elevators in buildings. Hugging and handing out gifts, refusing to take one in return, as usual. We are done and Collins pulls in front of my home.