“I know.”
“My phone takes calls, too.”
“Must be a real fancy one.”
Lucas stopped. “So what did I do wrong?”
Constance shrugged. “It wasn’t a long-term thing. We both knew that.”
“Something must have made you get off the bus.”
“I saw you one night, Spero, at the downstairs bar at Saint-Ex. You were with a woman. You were looking at her the exact same way that you looked at me when we were out and having a good time. And it came to me that I was nothing special to you. I was just one of many.”
“That’s not how I feel, though,” said Lucas. “You’re exactly the kind of person-”
“Please. Don’t do that.”
“I’m trying to figure things out, Constance. I missed out on the good part of my twenties. When everyone else was in college, going to parties and whatever, being young, I was in the desert. Now I’m here, catching up. I told you once before, I’m not ready to make plans.”
“I wasn’t looking for a commitment,” said Constance. “Just some courtesy.”
She went back to join her friends. Lucas swung onto the saddle of his bike and pedaled uptown, not yet understanding what he’d lost.
The Anwan Hawkins trial began late in August. Lucas did not speak to Tom Petersen during the proceedings, but he read about them daily in the Washington Post. Because the marijuana legalization movement was making inroads in D.C., the chronicle of this high-profile, high-volume weed dealer and his possible conviction made timely copy. The day after the jury reached its unanimously guilty verdict, the Post reporter assigned to the story quoted an unnamed courtroom witness: “It seemed to me that the defense’s closing arguments were oddly dispassionate and, at times, clumsily delivered.” Tom Petersen, normally light on his feet, had forgotten how to dance. He’d had a bad day.
One Sunday early in October, Lucas went to church. He took his seat beside the white-haired former teacher, noticing many of his friends and their families in attendance, and Leo and his mother front and center, in place. He recited the Creed and the Lord’s Prayer, followed along with the liturgy in the book, and when it was time he kneeled and gave his usual thanks, and added a prayer for the dead.
After the service he bought a dozen red roses and drove over to Glenwood, passing under the arched gate. He negotiated the twisting lanes and went along the stretch of mausoleums, where a blanket of scarlet leaves had fallen on black asphalt, and continued on to the section of headstones at the west edge of the cemetery, which gave to a view of the Bryant Place row homes and North Capitol Street.
Standing before his father’s grave, he made the sign of the Holy Trinity with three fingers of his right hand and did his stavro. He stood there, feeling the energy around him, listening to the call of sparrows, watching a gray squirrel scamper up the trunk of a tree, breathing the crisp fall air. He looked at the flowers he held by his side.
Lucas returned to his Jeep. He drove north, crossing over the District line at Georgia Avenue and into the neighborhood where he’d come up. He saw one of the barbers standing outside of Afrikuts, and the man shouted out a greeting as Lucas went by in his vehicle, and Lucas waved. He passed a couple of Guatemalan housepainters standing by an old 4Runner, a ladder lashed to the crossbars of its roof.
Driving down his street, Lucas punched in a number on his cell. When the call was answered he said, “Just wanted to make sure you were home.”
“I’m here, honey.”
His mother was standing outside the front door, waiting for him. He met her there and put the roses in her hands.
In the evening, in the stillness of his apartment, Lucas grew restless. He decided to go up to the bar on Georgia that had the quiet patrons and the eclectic juke. He left his place, went out to his Jeep, and looked up at the hunter’s moon and clear sky. He’d walk.
He took Piney Branch to Colorado, east to 14th Street and its small commercial strip, and followed it to 13th, where he turned left. Down at Quackenbos he cut into the weedy field alongside Fort Stevens, and he traversed it, going up the gravelly road to the parking lot of the Emery Methodist Church, where he’d fought Earl Nance.
He’d killed many men. Some, like Ricardo Holley and Bernard White, had been murderers themselves, and others, like Beano Mobley, had been dirty, in the wrong place, and had simply caught his fire. And then there were the men who were fathers, sons, and brothers, fighting in their homeland. Men he’d ended because they’d tried to kill him.
He stood on the edge of the lot and stared into its shadows. Close to the church’s north wall, where the light from the moon was obstructed, the night was very dark. He walked through it and took the steps down to Georgia Avenue. He crossed the street and headed for his bar.
Lucas was thirsty. He wanted a beer.
Bonus story
Chosen
Evangelos “Van” Lucas was behind the wheel of a Land Cruiser, his wife, Eleni, beside him. They were driving home from a Sunday barbecue in upper Northwest, hosted by a business associate of Van’s. Most of the guests were people Van and Eleni had not met before. There had been polite conversation, food eaten off paper plates, and a bit of afternoon drinking.
“You know that lady I was speaking with by the food table for a long time?” said Van. “With the sweatshirt falling off her shoulder?”
“The Flashdance woman. She was nice.”
“She was all right. But why’d you have to go and tell her about our kids?”
“She asked to see photographs,” said Eleni. “Once I pull those out, there are questions. It’s easier just to tell people.”
“But see, then I had to continue the conversation with her.”
“You didn’t look like you minded.”
“Please. She wasn’t my type. That lady was all angles and bones. It would be like doing a skeleton.”
“How would you know what that’s like?”
“My point is, I’m into a woman who looks like a woman. A woman with curves. Like you.”
“I think there’s a compliment in there.”
“And you’re smart.”
“Thanks loads.”
“Not, like, mousy smart. Don’t get me wrong; I like a smart woman. But I also like a nice round ass and a beautiful rack. Which, thank you, Jesus, you happen to have. Matter of fact, you’ve got the whole female package.”
“You’re about to make me blush.”
“But that woman, she just bothered me.”
“I noticed.”
“Not like that. She wanted to talk about our kids, how wonderful it must be to have a rainbow family, how I was doing God’s work, all that bullshit. What a good man I am. Like, just because I adopted a bunch of kids, that makes me good.”
“As you were trying to look down her sweatshirt.”
“Exactly.” Van looked over at Eleni. “You saw me?”
“From across the room.”
“She’s too skinny for me.”
“You like a nice round ass and a beautiful rack.”
“Don’t forget smart,” said Van.
