They walked their usual route through Friendship Heights, Django stopping at the houses where he knew other dogs lived, barking excitedly at the canine faces that were barking at him through doors and windowpanes. When Amanda walked Django, she stopped to talk to neighbors and occasionally strangers, but Flynn was not gregarious that way and politely nodded or said hello but kept up his pace. He was a workingman in a neighborhood of what he thought of, rather archaically, as professionals and yuppies, and as an adult he felt he did not fit in here, despite the fact that this had been his home almost his entire life. Sure, he ran a successful business and cleared six figures every year, but to his knowledge he was the only homeowner in Friendship Heights who drove a cargo van to work, and he believed that people looked at him and saw a guy who was not as educated as they were, not as accomplished, and, on some level, not in their class.
This was largely in Flynn’s mind. In reality, most of the neighbors liked Thomas and Amanda Flynn and had never been anything but friendly and inclusive. Flynn knew this, yet he could not keep those feelings at bay.
He stopped, as always, at the rec center and playground near their house. There in the grass Django sniffed about, found a spot he liked, and commenced to take a crap. Flynn looked at the playground, where young parents stood talking to one another while their children played. “I’m going to enroll Emily in the French-immersion program,” and “Skyler loves science; we’re taking him to the Smithsonian tomorrow,” and “Dylan is strong at soccer; we’re looking at a sleepaway camp for him this summer. Maybe he’ll get an athletic scholarship someday!”
Enjoy it now, thought Flynn. There’s nothing but heartache ahead. Okay, some of you will be luckier than I was. But not all of you. So enjoy your dreams.
Flynn made a glove of the plastic bag and scooped up Django’s shit.
Amanda was standing over the granite kitchen counter, chopping a red onion for a salad, when they returned. Beside the cutting board sat a ziplock bag containing chicken breasts in a marinade of salad dressing. Flynn guessed he would be grilling the chicken shortly. His plan was to pour himself a bourbon over ice and take it out on the deck while he worked.
“Good day today?” said Amanda. Django pressed his nose into her thigh by way of hello.
“Not bad,” said Flynn, going to the sink. He pushed down on the plunger of a liquid-soap dispenser, turned on the faucet, and began to wash his hands. “You?”
“I had to pay the insurance for our guys. But a couple of receivables came in, too.”
Flynn ripped a paper towel from a roll and dried off. “Our son’s got a girlfriend, I think.”
“Yeah?”
“She works in the office at the warehouse. Nice-looking girl. I doubt she’s educated… ”
“Don’t be such a snob.”
“I’m not.”
“I didn’t go to college. You saying you have regrets?”
“Hell, no.”
Amanda stopped chopping momentarily as Flynn walked behind her and placed his hands on her waist. She was twenty pounds heavier than she had been as a teenager but carried it naturally. She had kept her curves, and the thought of her naked still excited him. He pulled her shoulder-length hair away from her neck and kissed her there and took in a clean smell of soap and lotion.
“How do you know she’s his girlfriend and not just a girl?”
“Just a feeling I had,” said Flynn. “She has your hair color and build. You know what they say about boys trying to date their moms.”
“Stop.”
Flynn saw the lines at the corners of her eyes deepen and knew that she was pleased. “I don’t blame him.” Flynn cupped her breasts and kissed the side of her mouth.
She turned in to him. They kissed and in no time it went from love to passion. Finally her skin became flushed, and she chuckled low and gently pushed him away.
“That was nice,” she said.
“We’re done?”
“Why does every kiss have to lead to sex?”
“Because I’m a man?”
“A caveman, you mean.”
“They don’t bother with kisses.”
“Go pour yourself a drink.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“Not entirely,” said Amanda.
“So, later on tonight…”
“Perhaps.”
Flynn walked toward the dining room, where he kept a small bar.
“What’s her name?” said Amanda to his back.
Flynn said, “Kate.”
He made a drink. He drank it rather quickly, and reached for the bottle on the cart.
THIRTEEN
Ben lived in a one-bedroom unit in a group of boxy red brick apartment houses set near the Rock Creek Cemetery in upper Northwest, steps away from Northeast. The neighborhood was not dangerous, nor did it carry an air of tension like the foster homes in which he’d been raised. After the rush hour traffic died down on close-by North Capitol Street, a commuter route in and out of the city, the atmosphere was fairly quiet. His apartment got little sun, was furnished with Goodwill and Salvation Army stuff, and roaches scattered when he turned on the kitchen light.
Ben’s place was nothing to brag about, but it was the first living quarters he’d ever had to his self outside lockup. It was his and it was fine. Only bad thing was, the management didn’t allow pets. He wanted a dog.
Ben didn’t own a car or possess a driver’s license. He hadn’t been behind the wheel of a vehicle since his days of joyriding and grand theft. For a while he’d been barred from getting a license, but he was clear to obtain one now. Chris had been urging him to take the test. It would be easier on Chris, and make Ben more valuable to Mr. Flynn, if he could drive the vans. He supposed he would do so eventually, but he was not in a hurry. He preferred to take small steps.
Other than for work, Ben had no need for a car. He was on a bus line, and he was not far from the Fort Totten Metro station. You stayed in the District, it was easy to get around.
He liked to take walks in the cemetery, eighty-some acres of hills, trees, monuments, and headstones, some of the nicest green space in D.C. He entered at the main gate, at Rock Creek Church Road and Webster Street, and walked up past the church to the high ground, where the finest, most ornate monuments were located, and down a road so narrow it did not look like a proper road, to the Adams Memorial, his favorite spot. A marble bench faced the statue, the monument shielded by a wall of evergreens. On his weekends off, he’d sit on the bench and try to write poetry. Or open a paperback novel he had slipped into the pocket of his jeans.
Ben could read.
He had been at Pine Ridge until the age of twenty-one. The incident with Calvin Cooke had kept him behind the fence and razor wire, even as his friends had been set free. At eighteen, Ali and Chris had rotated out when they’d achieved Level 6. Lawrence Newhouse had been released, violated the conditions of his parole, was reincarcerated at the Ridge, and went on to do adult time for gun charges, first at Lorton before it closed, and then at a penitentiary in Ohio. By the time Ben had walked free, he was the old man of the facility. The guards had clapped him out, the way faculty did for kids graduating elementary school.
Under supervision, he lived in several halfway houses with other men. He stayed to himself, kept his appointments with his parole officer, walked by unlocked cars without stopping, was piss-tested regularly, and always dropped negatives. Chris, by then employed by his father, put him on as an assistant and taught him the carpet-and-floor-installation trade. Ali, then a student at Howard but already working the system, found out about a
