“You’re not supposed to give up.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. Your daughter, remember? ‘I’ll never let anything bad happen to you, honey’? What do you call this?”
“You turned out great. You’re beautiful, intelligent, artistic. You’re self-reliant and resourceful. You’re actually a nice person, most of the time, which is a real blow against genetic determinism.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“No I’m not. You’re all grown up. You’re who you are. Go be it.”
“Like, this is none of my business?”
“It’s completely your business, it’s just not your life.”
“You won’t admit you’re wrong.”
“Is that all this is? Okay, I’m wrong. I admit it.”
“Then come home.”
“First off, sweetie, it’s not your home anymore. You live in Rhode Island. Secondly, it’s not mine, either, it’s your mother’s.” I held up my empty glass. “Can I get you anything? Drink?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m buying.”
“With what? You quit your job.”
“They give you a drinking stipend. It’s part of the severance.”
I waived to the woman at the bar. She caught me out of the corner of her eye and nodded.
“Mommy said you’re in wicked bad trouble, but she wouldn’t tell me what, or why.”
“Not really in trouble, but the night’s still young.”
“Did you hurt anybody?”
“Nobody that matters.”
“Everyone matters.”
“No. You matter. The rest is up for grabs.”
“If I really mattered, we’d be having a different conversation.”
“I never fell for that ‘if you really loved me’ stuff.”
“Too much of a hard-ass.”
“Too realistic.”
“Hard-assed engineer.”
“Worst kind.”
“Think scaring people is some kind of triumph.”
“Only your boyfriends.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“Then I did something right.”
“You should scare me, but you don’t.”
“Because you’ve got nothing to fear. You could tear my throat out with your bare hands and I’d kiss your wrists while you did it.”
She clutched her jacket even tighter to her chest.
“I don’t get it.”
“You’re not supposed to. Later on, you will. Maybe.”
A pallid young waitress dropped another Jack Daniels on the table and looked at my daughter to get her order.
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
The waitress kept her face in neutral and walked off.
“So this is it,” she said to me. “You’re going to sit here for the rest of your life and drink that shit.”
“I’m very proud of you.”
“Stop doing that.”
“I am. Sometimes I can’t believe it. What a gift.”
“No help from you.”
“Exactly.”
She seemed to be a little lost for words, an unaccustomed state of affairs. I used the silence to drain off a little of the Jack.
“So this is it,” she said, finally.
“It’s great to see you. Even when you’re mad at me.”
She stood straight up out of her chair.
“Then take it all in. It’s the last time.”
“Aw, geez.”
She pointed her finger at me.
“I know what you’re doing. I know
And she turned on her heel and walked away with her head up, briskly, but self-assured, like she was about to catch a train the conductor was holding for her at the platform. I told her I’d always love her, no matter what, but she was way out of earshot by then and wouldn’t have heard me anyway.
After that I lost track of time, about two weeks’ worth. I know things started with a trip down to a neighborhood in Stamford where I met up with a bunch of kids I knew from the gym. They had a good time touring me around the local action and unsettling their families by feeding me and letting me sleep on their sofas. My color got us into a lot of fights, which broke up the monotony of stuffy apartments and ratty neighborhood hangouts. On one of the nights I left my car, the company car, next to a curb with the engine running. According to the Stamford prosecutor it never turned up again, though I doubt anyone actually looked for it. A few other things happened that I only dimly remember, but it was all pretty thoroughly detailed in the charges they filed against me.
True to her word, my daughter never talked to me again. I knew she wouldn’t. She always had a stubborn streak and never would let go once she got a good grip on something.
Joe Sullivan was big enough to take up half the couch in my living room, leaving just enough room for Eddie to scrunch up next to his butt. Sullivan made up for it by rubbing him behind the ears, a treatment Eddie found tirelessly engaging.
By now the ambulance had hauled Buddy off to Southampton Hospital and all of Sullivan’s colleagues had drifted away. Ross Semple had threatened to make a personal appearance, but Sullivan had gently discouraged him.
“He still wants you to show up tomorrow for a little chat,” Sullivan told me.
“Not a problem.”
“Not yet.”
Sullivan was still officially on duty, so I felt a little bad about drinking in front of him, though not bad enough to stop. He took it in stride.
He waited till I’d dropped down on the floor with my back against the fireplace before asking me again if I’d left anything out of my statement.
“I was getting my mail when he cold-cocked me, only this time it didn’t land straight on and I was able to get away. He chased me up to the house where I got my little bat, which I used to successfully fight him off.”
“I’ll say.”
“You writing all this down?”
“Already did. No witnesses?”
“I don’t know. You can ask around.”
“Nothing to add?”
“Only, I guess, I know who he is.”
Sullivan arched his eyebrows and let his hands fall into his lap, a gesture I’d seen my mother use on more than one occasion. Usually under similar circumstances.
“Memory coming back? All of a sudden?”
