video clip. The guy is good. Really good. I couldn't read his reaction at all.'
Alan reads people the way others read books. Pupil dilation, changes in breathing pattern, even something simple like the nervous turning of a ring around a finger, all have their place in ferreting out the truth. He's saying that Father Yates is very, very good at restraining these reactions.
'Kind of interesting,' Alan observes. 'Maybe we should take a closer look at the priest. That kind of control is rare unless you've been trained to do it.'
'He's not the guy,' I say.
'You sure?'
I shouldn't be. I've been fooled before, trusting angels who turned out to be devils in disguise. But I am, this time.
'I'm sure.'
'You seeing things clearly on this one?'
This is as close as Alan will ever get to asking me what happened inside that confessional booth. He knows to leave it alone, just as I would if our roles were reversed.
'Go ahead and pull his background, Alan. Dot the i's. But I'm telling you, he's not our guy.'
'Okay, okay.' He goes quiet as we continue to drive through the darkness. The city lights are everywhere, like dirty diamonds on a gray velvet background. This is LA, beautiful and flawed. Rough-cut forever, somehow endearing in all its shallow fumbling for greatness.
'So does this mean you're going to start going to Mass and taking Communion and all that stuff ?' he asks.
'Watch that crazy talk. He helped me. He didn't fix things between me and God. I have a feeling by the time this case is over I'll have had about all the Catholicism I can stand for a while.'
'Amen to that.'
'What about you?'
'I haven't talked to God since the second time I saw a dead baby.'
We see too much, doing what we do. The problem with believing in God, for us, is this: if God is real, either the devil's got him on the run, or he just doesn't give a damn. No God is better than a God that doesn't care.
30
'WELCOME BACK, TRAVELER,' I SAY TO MYSELF AS I WALK through my door.
The words don't seem quite as futile as they had the day before. My confession left me feeling hollow, but not in a bad way. This is not a black hole inside me. It's an empty table, waiting to be set. What do I place on you? New china or the old silverware, handed down?
A little bit of both, I think.
I open up my phone and call Tommy.
'Hey,' he answers.
'Were you sleeping?'
'Nope. I was thinking about you, actually.'
'Good. Because I'm ready to talk, and I need to tell you something. Bonnie is staying at Alan and Elaina's. Can you come over?'
'Silly question,' he says. 'See you soon.'
HE SHOWS UP AT MY door looking more rumpled than I've ever seen him. Tommy is not a neat freak, I've never gotten the idea that he obsesses over himself at the mirror, but he's always brushed and shaven and smelling of soap. Right now he's sporting a growth of stubble, his hair looks like it received only haphazard attention, and his shirt has a tiny food stain on the front. I reach out and touch his cheek with my palm.
'You okay? You look like hell.'
'I've been waiting to hear from you.'
I step back, dumbfounded. 'This is about me?'
His smile is lopsided. 'Strong and silent is a cliche, Smoky. I'm Latin, we wear our hearts on our sleeves. I feel things with all of me or none of me.' He shrugs. 'It's a problem sometimes.'
I stroke his cheek again, amazed at the idea of this man losing sleep and peace of mind over me.
That's because you've been thinking you're worthless for a long time, my voice-friend is kind enough to point out. And maybe he'll agree once you tell him what you told Father Yates.
'You want a beer?' I ask.
'Sure. But I might end up sleeping on your couch if I do. I've already been partaking; I was fine to drive here, but maybe not after one more.'
I smile at him. 'I'll take that chance.'
I grab us each a beer from the fridge and sit down on the couch, my legs curled under me. I pick at the label on the bottle with a thumbnail.
'I need to tell you something, Tommy. It's something I did, and it's pretty bad. I'm afraid that once I do, you're not going to want me anymore.'
He gazes at me with those dark eyes and takes a thoughtful swig of his beer.
'Is it something you have to tell me?'
I frown. 'What do you mean?'
'It's okay to keep some secrets, that's what I mean. I don't need to know everything about your past to love you right now.'
The hand holding my bottle trembles for a moment. 'I agree with that for the most part. But I need to tell you this. This is the thing that makes me feel like . . .' I search for the words. 'Like I'm not the person people think I am.'
Simple, succinct. He takes another swig, puts the bottle down on the coffee table, and takes my beer from me and places it next to his. He grabs my hands and traps them between his own. He looks into my eyes.
'So tell me,' he says.
And I do. I tell him all of it. How I felt lying in that hospital bed in the dark. The desire to die. The ultimate selfishness, killing my baby so it wouldn't prevent me from putting a bullet through my head. He listens as I talk, doesn't say a word, doesn't stop holding my hands, doesn't turn away. When I finish, he is silent for a time.
'Say something,' I whisper.
He brings my hands up to his lips and he kisses them slowly. It's not a sexual act, not even a sensual one, but it's very intimate and comfortable. He kisses every finger on the knuckle, ends with the thumb. Turns my hands over and kisses my palms with dry lips, then traces the lines in them with a finger. He brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, and smiles.
'I love you, Smoky. Maybe you were expecting something else, but that's the something I have to say. I need you with me, and not halfway. I want all of you, every inch, every scar, every perfect part, and all the defects too.'
'Are . . . are you sure? I'm not easy, Tommy. Ten times in the last two years I've told myself I was all done with my past, with the things that happened to me. I'm a lot better, it's true, but I always seem to find some new pocket of fucked-up-ness waiting to mess me up. What if that never changes? You want to love someone who might always have a little bit of her past she can't let go of ?'
'You are who you are because of everything that's happened in your life up to this point, Smoky. Not just the good things. I love the you that you are right now.'
'And Bonnie?'
'I love her too, and she knows it.'
'She does?'
'She told me she loved me a few months ago. We were watching cartoons, and she said, 'Tommy, you know I love you, right?' ' He shakes his head, bemused. 'She didn't even take her eyes off the TV. I acted like it was no big deal, of course I knew, and I told her I loved her too. We kept watching cartoons like nothing had happened.'
'Wow.' I grin. 'You have all the bases covered.'
He goes back to turning my hands over in his. His hands are rough, with the calluses and oversized knuckles
