“I know,Dad.”
Just then, twoelderly ladies are seated at the table next to us. Both areapparently hard of hearing because they are yelling when talking toeach other. Dad and I laugh.
After ourplates are clean, we order crème brulee and coffee. The old ladiesnext to us holler back and forth about knitting, laundry andrecipes. Dad and I can’t stop giggling.
Then, one ofthe ladies says, “Did you hear about that horrible incident thathappened by Spanish Banks last night? It was on the news.”
Her friendshakes her head.
Just as ourdesert and coffee arrives, the first lady continues, “Well,apparently, the fire department and police were called to anautomobile fire out by Spanish Banks. By the time the fire was out,the two men inside the car were dead. Can you imagine?”
The old ladyacross from her says, “Oh my goodness. That is terrible. I wonderwho the men in the car were? Maybe they were lovers and decided toblow themselves up because they were shunned by theirfamilies.”
My father and Istare at each other in disbelief.
“No. I don’tthink they were lovers because the police said that the licenseplate and car belonged to a young man that was known to police.They say that he was involved in the drug world. Isn’t thatsomething?” The first lady says.
Her friendimmediately pipes up and says, “If that’s true, it’s good those menare gone. They probably ruined a lot of lives selling drugs. It’sjust unfortunate that a perfectly good vehicle was destroyed in theaccident. Did the news report say what kind of car it was?”
Dad and I,still laughing, try not to spill while we’re finishing ourcoffees.
“It was one ofthem fancy schmancy cars, a Mercedes—a white one.”
As soon as thewords leave the old lady’s lips, I put down my cup and look at Dad.He looks back at me and says, “What’s wrong?”
I shake myhead, not wanting to talk until we’re outside and in private.
I flag down thewaiter then pay the bill. Once we’re back in the truck, my dad asksme again what’s wrong.
“The old womansaid that the burned-up car was a white Mercedes with two dead guysin it. Then, she mentioned that the car was known to police becauseof it being involved in drug activity,” I say, staring at him.
“Fournier,” heblurts out. You think that the white Mercedes might be the same oneyou were following? The dealers?”
“It sounds alittle too coincidental not to be,” I say, starting the truck.
“It wouldn’tsurprise me if you are right, Jules. But what good does it do youto know this? We’re forgetting all about Fournier, remember? Letsleeping dogs lie.”
I nod andpretend to agree with him, but I can’t stop thinking about thatwaste of skin, Fournier. Why should he be able to use and abusepeople and then discard them afterwards? Someone has to stop him.No matter what my dad says, I will never be able to just walk awayand be ok with Fournier killing my mom and destroying my family. Hehas to pay for what he’s done—that’s fair.
When we get tothe apartment, we stop in the lobby so I can check the mail. Myfather walks ahead of me to the elevator, and I sift throughJason’s mail and some flyers. Suddenly, my father says, “Oh,hello,” to someone and causes me to raise my head.
Katie issitting on the chair beside a planter.
I take a deepbreath, feeling nervous and excited.
My dad pushesthe elevator button and when it opens, walks in. “I’ll go upstairsand let you girls talk.” The door closes and Katie and I are alone.She stands up and walks over to me, “Why haven’t you returned anyof my calls? Did I do or say something wrong?”
“Of coursenot,” I answer.
“Then why?”Katie’s eyes fill with tears.
My heart feelsheavy. I’ve hurt her, and that’s the last thing I wanted to do. Howcan I explain the reason I am ignoring her is for her own good?Will she understand or will she think that I’m just a horribleperson?
“I’m sorry ifyou’re upset, Katie. I think you’re a really great girl. I nevermeant to hurt you. I guess I just don’t want you to get draggedinto the fucked-up things that I’m dealing with from my past. Ijust want you to be happy. You deserve that.”
“Don’t tell mewhat I deserve. I have the right to make up my own mind about whatI choose to get involved in,” she says, getting pissed off.
Her tears makeher green eyes shimmer under the fluorescent lights. Ignoring hercalls was a hell of a lot easier than being strong while she’sstanding right in front of me looking so beautiful. She’s the firstwoman who has ever had this kind of impact on me. Initially, myintention was to keep her far away from me to protect her, but nowas I look at her, I feel selfish. I can’t help it. I want her.
“Will you comeback to my place with me, so we can talk?” She asks.
I nod.
We ride theelevator holding hands. When we walk into the apartment, Dad smileswhen I tell him that I’ll be going to Katie’s for a while.
“Have fun,” hewinks. “Maybe I’ll just call Jim from work. He was wanting to takeme for a coffee later.”
* * *
Katie’sapartment is made up of one large room. Half of the room is kitchenwhile the other half is her living room. A micro bedroom, justlarge enough for a bed, sits directly across from the tinythree-piece bathroom. She was right. She lives in a shoebox. In themain room, a beanbag chair sits in one corner with a narrowbookcase beside it. On the opposing wall is a love seat with asmall end table and a floor lamp. The smell of previously lit rosescented incense, still lingers in the air. Katie takes my coat andpours me a glass of red wine. I watch her as she sets her glassdown on the coffee table then walks around the room lightingstrategically placed candles.
I feel nervousin this intimate setting with her. As much as she
