myself off.
'I told them not to say anything--you never know who's listening.'
'Or who's not listening. I must've called you twenty times; you never once returned my calls.'
She goes back to her original seat and motions for me to join her. It's her way of avoiding the question.
'No, thanks,' I tell her. 'Now why'd you have the Service lie when I came by to see you?'
'Please don't be mad, Michael. I was abou--'
'Why'd you lie?' I shout, my voice echoing through the narrow room.
Realizing I need to vent, she lets it pass. It's been a tough two days. For both of us. Truthfully, though, I don't care. It's my ass they're going to pin it on, not hers.
Eventually, she picks her head up. 'I didn't have a choice.'
'Oh, suddenly you're sapped of your free will?'
'You know what I'm talking about. It's not that easy.'
'Actually, it's really easy--all you have to do is pick up the phone and dial my extension. Near as I can tell, that's the least you can do.'
'So now it's all my fault?'
'You are the one who took the money.'
She gives me a steady, cold look. 'And you're the last person who saw her alive.'
I don't like that tone in her voice. 'What're you saying?'
'Nothing,' she purrs, suddenly unconcerned.
'Don't give me that--you just . . .' My voice cracks. 'Are you threatening me, Nora?'
She tosses me a dark grin. Her voice is ice smooth. 'Say a word to anyone, Michael, and I'll slaughter you with this.' As the words leave her lips, I feel my heart in my throat. I swear, I can't breathe.
'That's what you get for being a nice guy,' she adds, refusing to let up. 'Sucks to be you, huh?'
Oh, God. It's just like Pam said . . .
Nora breaks into a smile. And starts laughing. Pointing at me and laughing. The whole room is filled with her playful cackle.
A joke. It was just a joke.
'C'mon, Michael, you really think I'd desert you?' she asks, still plenty amused.
The blood flushes back to my face. I look at her with disbelief. Two people--one body. 'That wasn't funny, Nora.'
'Then don't point fingers. It's no way to make friends.'
'I wasn't pointing fingers . . . I just . . . I don't like being left out to dangle.'
She turns away and shakes her head. Her whole body suddenly looks deflated. 'I couldn't do that to you, Michael. Even if I wanted to. Not after you . . .' She stops, searching for words. 'What you did for me . . . I owe you way more than that.'
I can practically feel the pendulum swing back. 'Does that mean you're going to help?'
She looks back, almost surprised by the question. 'C'mon now, after all this, you really think I wouldn't be there for you?'
'It's not just about being there--if things go bad, I may need you to corroborate my side of the story.'
Lowering her gaze, she studies the empty scorekeeper's sheet in front of her.
'What?' I ask. 'Say it.'
Again, all she does is stare down at the sheet.
I can't believe it. 'So that's the way it goes, huh? Now I'm suddenly back on my own?'
'No, not at all,' she shoots back. 'I told you I'd never do that--it's just that--' She cuts herself off, but finally turns my way. 'Don't you get it, Michael? If I get involved, all it does is get worse.'
'What're you talking about?'
'Do you even realize what would happen if they found out we were dating?'
Did she just say we were dating?
'They'd kill you, Michael. They'd put your picture on the front page, talk to every teacher and enemy you ever had, and eat you alive--all to see if you're good enough for me. You saw how they tore through my last boyfriend. After three weeks of having reporters stalk him, he called me up, told me he was nursing an ulcer, and broke it off.'
I know this is no time to get distracted, but I can't help but smile. 'So now I'm your boyfriend?'
'Stay on subject here. Even if I jump in and take the beating myself, they're still going to tear you down with me.'
I stop mid-step, a few feet from the scoreboard. 'How do you know? Did someone say that to you?'
'They don't have to say it--you know how it works.'
Much as I hate to admit it, she's right about that one. Every time a bigshot falls, everyone near the epicenter goes down with them. Even if I'm innocent, the public needs to think we've cleaned house.
I close my eyes and shade them with my hand, hoping to get some distance. For the past two days, there was always at least one clear way out--sacrifice Nora and save myself. But once again, with Nora, it's never that simple. Even if I give her up, they'll still hang me out to dry. 'Damn!'
My shout rumbles down the lane, but Nora never looks up. With her head bent over, and the way she stuffs her hands behind her knees, she once again becomes that little girl. It's not easy for her either. She knows she's put me in this one. That's the penlight at the end of the tunnel--she's not just worried about herself--she's worried about me. 'Michael, I swear to you, if I thought it'd be like this, I never would've--'
'You don't have to say it, Nora.'
'No. I do. Whatever else happens, I got you into this, and I'll get you out.'
She says the words forcefully, but I can still hear her fear. Her eyes are locked on the floor of the bowling alley. Her bowling alley. She's got a lot more to lose. 'You sure you want to risk this, Nora?'
Slowly, she looks up at me. She's been debating this one since I dropped her off the other night. Her hands are still stuffed nervously behind her knees. But the answer comes as quickly as her grin. 'Yeah,' she nods. 'No question.'
My mind is racing with all the reasons Pam and Trey gave me to walk away. And all their Freud-babble explanations for why I'd stay: my need to protect, my need to help my dad, my need to somehow get the inside track to the President . . . But as I stand here--as I watch Nora--there's only one real thing that makes sense. Unlike before, it's not about the stupid things like the way she looks at me and the way she says my name. It's not about how much she needs me, or even who she is. In the end, as I take it all in, it's about what Nora Hartson is willing to give up--for me--to make things right.
'I'll get you out,' she repeats confidently. 'I'll get you--'
'We,' I interrupt. 'We got in. We'll get out.' I take the seat next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. It's the same thing with my dad--sometimes the only way to problem-solve is to look past how we got here. And while I don't necessarily like it . . . with my family . . . it's the only way I know how to live.
Once again, she picks her head up. A soft smile lights her cheeks. 'Just so you know, I hate romantics.'
'Me too. Hate 'em with a passion,' I shoot back. She's got the comeback ready, but I don't give her a chance. The only way out of the box is to figure out what really happened. 'Now what about your bodyguards? Did you tell them what's going on?'
'These guys? They just work the weekends. I told them we went on a date and you pissed me off. They figure this is makeup time. Why? Did you tell your girlfriend Pam?'
'How do you know about Pam?'
'I checked you out, Garrick. I don't date every slob in the building.'
'She's not my girlfriend,' I add.
'That's not what she thinks, Romeo.' She gets up from her seat, heads for the alley, and throws an imaginary bowling ball down the lane. 'You know Nixon used to come down here and bowl ten games back-to-back? Is that psychoville, or what?'
As she asks the question, I can't help but notice how quickly her mood's changed. Within seconds, she's a different person. And once again I'm reminded that I've never met anyone who can make me feel so old and so young at the same time.
'So did you tell Pam, or what?'
