“The monkey,” I say.
“Good choice. But too bad, that perfect record was due for a hit.” Amy grabs my thigh and squeezes. “Sorry, Donnie, you didn’t make it.”
. . . . .
Twenty miles from Pittsburgh we stop at a diner, our legs creaky-stiff, our backs wracked in knots, the rented Porsche a terrible choice for the long, broken-down highways dragging us into the Rust Belt. Forget the cool factor and the zero to sixty in five seconds flat; the leg room sucks, and the seats take every bump and pothole and shove them straight up your spine. Even the Civic would have been a smoother ride, but we can’t abandon the damn thing, so we make the best of it, pretending to appreciate how smoothly the tires hug the lanes and how the trio of teenage boys outside the diner get excited the second we pull into the lot.
We both order the chickpea salad and a plate of french fries, a reasonable compromise between health and grease. While we wait for the server to bring the food, Amy flips over the paper placemat and starts drawing, an impromptu sketch capturing our trip. I do some quick mental math, subtracting miles and calculating average speeds, the anticipated number of bathroom stops. At our current pace, in less than five hours we’ll be outside Ronan’s door, leaving the magic question: then what? By now I am nothing but doubt.
“Maybe we should turn around, head home,” I suggest.
She doesn’t look up, her pencil gliding over the placemat. “What about truth and reconciliation?”
“It’s usually done with a professional facilitator, someone trained in …I don’t know…”
“Reconciling?”
“Something like that.”
“This was your idea. I thought you were going to kick his ass.”
“I know…”
“You opened a door, Donnie. You can’t close it until we walk through. We keep going.”
End of debate. She turns over the placemat so I can see it—a drawing of the two of us standing on a porch, my face twisted in comic anguish, cartoon flop sweat flying from my brow; Amy with a smile, and in her hand, a pistol. Thankfully Captain Sick is nowhere in sight.
“Please tell me you’re not armed.”
“Okay, I’m not armed,” she says. “But don’t worry. It’s unregistered; my grandfather bought it fifty years ago during the Newark riots. There’s no way to trace it. If we have to, we wipe the prints and leave it.”
“Wipe the prints? What are you saying?”
The waitress arrives with our salads and fries; Amy flips the placemat and smiles.
“Ground pepper?” the waitress asks. We decline, and she drops two straws and ambles away.
“It’s never seemed right that the only person I ever shot was you,” Amy says.
I’m pretty sure she’s playing with me, testing my limits. “If you brought a gun with you, we’re going home right now.”
“Jesus, Donnie, relax …” She spears a French fry and dips it in ketchup. “I’m not armed. Pat me down if you don’t believe me.”
The fries look crisp, the salad fresh, but my appetite is dead. I sip ice water and wish for sleep.
“I get that you don’t want me to shoot him,” Amy says, “but what exactly are we going to do? Ring the doorbell and say, ‘trick or treat?’” She claps her hands and goes girl-group, swaying her shoulders in a Sixties shimmy. “My boyfriend’s back and you’re gonna be in trouble. Come on, Donnie, sing …”
Two tables over, a truck driver gives us a look. I stab my salad with a dingy fork.
“Chickpeas? If you’re really planning to kick his ass, you need some red meat. Should we order a few burgers to go?”
It occurs to me that I’ve never punched anyone in my life. Even when I found the plumber penis-deep in my ex-wife’s ass, the most I did was pelt him with a bad slice of pizza, and when he finally hiked up his pants, it was me who moved back, not him. Was it possible that Mr. Ronan would kick my ass? He’d be in his mid-fifties now, hardly decrepit. Uncle Dan was sixty-five but one glance at his arms made it clear he could clobber me and barely break a sweat. Or what if Amy and I knocked on Ronan’s front door, and suddenly I fell asleep. Who was I kidding? I was nobody’s hero.
I stop myself. Just remember what he did—adrenaline and anger will take care of the rest.
As if reading my mind, Amy reaches across the table and touches my wrist.
“Don’t stress it. I’m not expecting you to be anyone but yourself.”
Why does that feel like an insult?
“I’m a big girl now,” she says. “Whatever’s going to happen, I’m writing the scene—not you, not him. And I lied. I do have my grandfather’s .22 with me, just in case, and his silver flask, too, liquid courage, thirty proof peppermint.”
Unzipping her purse, she pulls out the flask and takes a swig. “I’m with you in Rockland, Carl Solomon!” she says, that old line from Ginsburg’s “Howl.” I never paid much attention to that poem until an Intro to Lit class freshman year. It turned out that Rockland was a mental institution where Ginsburg had spent time ducking a robbery charge.
Amy leans over and pecks my lips, her mouth salty-sweet, French fries and peppermint Schnapps.
“Finish your chickpeas,” she tells me. “Rockland awaits!”
. . . . .
The alcohol opens a door, unleashes her memories, her voice low but steady, the Porsche gobbling up the miles as we head West, the Ohio border minutes away.
“After the first time it happened, he sent me
