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For Riley and Oliver
LISA Yates was trying to live normally.
That’s what she was telling herself, although the truth was that she was merely trying to appear as if nothing was wrong. That was not easy to do, because something was very wrong, and there was no longer anything normal about her life.
Lisa Yates was terrified.
She had been living with that fear for a long time. She finally decided that she would face it directly, but doing so was an extraordinarily risky proposition. This was not necessarily an act of courage, because she believed, knew in her soul, that not doing anything was even more dangerous.
The other thing she knew was that success depended on no one suspecting what she was planning. She was afraid to do it alone; something like going to the police or FBI scared her. She had decided she needed a lawyer, but did not know who to approach. And she had to be extraordinarily careful in whatever she did.
They could well be watching.
So this was intended to seem to be a normal evening out. She had no desire to go out; her inclination was to stay at home, obsess about her situation, and go over her plan for the thousandth time. Instead she’d spend a couple of hours making small talk, more for show than to help her forget her dilemma. Nothing could get her to forget.
So she went out to dinner with Una Loge, a former colleague at work who had left when she got married. Lisa had stayed fairly close with Una and her husband, Dave, but Lisa’s own domestic situation by its very nature kept them somewhat apart. Lisa’s domestic situation, at least until a month ago, was a train wreck.
They went to Manero’s, in Teaneck. While pretending to be attentive and in the moment, Lisa let Una do most of the talking. But while Lisa was physically present, her mind was a million miles away.
The dinner took a little over two hours. Lisa revealed nothing about herself, not even sharing stories about the office, though Una still knew most of the people there. Una could tell that something was wrong and inquired about it, but when Lisa said that everything was fine, Una backed off. She wanted to give her friend space but was clearly worried for her.
Lisa quickly grabbed the check when it arrived, more in desperation to end the dinner than to show generosity. She had to get out of there, her mind was exploding, and she couldn’t pretend anymore. She told Una that she could pay next time, though Lisa doubted there would be a next time.
They said good night at the restaurant’s front door and Lisa walked to her car on the street, not more than fifty feet away, while Una stayed behind, having used valet parking.
Lisa had just reached her car when she heard the noise. In that split second, she knew what was happening, but she did not have time to react, and she did not feel the bullet pierce her skull.
She would never be afraid again.
I am staring fear in the face; it is coming at me in waves.
I don’t mean that as a metaphor; the waves are literally coming at me … one after another, in varying sizes and strengths.
I am standing at the water’s edge of the Eighth Avenue Dog Beach in Asbury Park, New Jersey. I rarely came to Asbury Park as a kid; in those days it was in decline and disrepair. I never understood how that could happen to a city with such a large and beautiful beach; it would seem to be a prime real estate location and immune to such a fate.
But the municipal decay was an unfortunate fact, so for our vacations, the Douglas family always went a bit farther south, to Long Beach Island. Since then Asbury has made a remarkable comeback and is now a thriving community … and the dog beach is cool.
So here I am.
With me at the moment are Dani Kendall, who I can no longer deny is my serious girlfriend, and Simon Garfunkel, my longtime pal and partner. Simon is a German shepherd and functioned as my K-9 comrade on the Paterson police force for almost eight years, before our recent simultaneous retirement.
My earliest fear in life was as a result of my first trip to the beach. I was with my mother and brother, and we were staying in a boardinghouse on Long Beach Island. We used to go there for a two-week vacation every summer, but my father would come down only on weekends. He was a sergeant in the Paterson PD, and he worked overtime as much as he could. I can never remember him taking a weekday off. Even taking Saturday and Sunday during our vacation was a major concession on his part.
I was probably four years old and excited to be going in the ocean for the first time. Then my mother killed that feeling of anticipation by warning me of the undertow, or riptide, or whatever she called it. It was an invisible, mysterious force in the water capable of dragging small children off to certain, horrible death. And, according to her, it was relentless and overpowering; once a child was in its grip, it was over.
So the four-year-old Corey Douglas did not go in the ocean that day, or any day since. Literally never;
