broken ribs. A broken collar bone. And a broken jaw. Jesus Christ, Jim.”
“Like they said, a bad accident.”
“It was no accident.”
“No,” I said, looking at her. “It wasn’t; it was a methodical beating that I gave to a son-of-a-bitch to reinforce the idea that he is to never, ever touch his family inappropriately again. The way I see it, he got off easy. His wounds will heal. The damage he inflicted may never heal.”
“Did your point hit home?” There might have been sarcasm in her voice.
“So far he’s sticking to the accident story. So he’s scared. As he should be.”
The waiter came around and took our order. Salmon for Cindy and two Super Mex chicken burritos for me, extra guacamole and sour cream.
“You’re going to kill yourself before your tryouts,” said Cindy. More sarcasm?
“I’m still about seven pounds from my target weight.”
“Isn’t there a healthier way to gain weight?”
“Is that an oxymoron?”
“I’m serious, Jim. I’m concerned about you. About us.”
She wouldn’t look me in the eye, and sipped her martini faster than normal. Her free hand played with the napkin, repeatedly wadding it and smoothing it out.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I can’t keep doing this.”
“You mean strangling your napkin?”
“No. I mean us.”
I let the air out of my lungs. We had had this conversation before.
“Last time, I convinced you to stay,” I said. “Talked until I was blue in the face. Do you remember what I told you I would do if you did this to me again?”
“Yes,” she said. “You said you wouldn’t try to stop me the next time.”
“Yes.”
The napkin was wasted, rendered perfectly useless. She pushed it aside and drank deeply from her martini. So deeply, in fact, that she finished it. I said nothing. There was nothing for me to say. I was not going to keep having this conversation with her. I loved Cindy with all of my heart, but I was not going to make her do something she did not want to do.
The waiter saw her empty glass and came over.
“Another?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
She still hadn’t looked me in the eye. I studied her closely. She was behaving very un-Cindy like. Small, jerky movements as she tapped on the now empty cardboard coaster. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
I said nothing.
“Jesus Christ, Jim, you beat the unholy shit out of another human being. Your life has been threatened by a hired killer. A dead cat shows up in your office. Cut in fucking two. And now you’re drinking again. It’s not that you’re drinking, really. It’s that you are getting drunk, and doing it in secret, which makes it dirty and dangerous and all-consuming. And, ultimately, sad. Very, very sad.”
I said nothing.
“You didn’t answer the phone last night because you were passed out.”
Her second apple martini came, followed by a second waiter bearing our food. The food was placed before us; it went ignored.
“And now you’re trying out for the Chargers in a few weeks. What if you make the team? I would never see you. I know that’s selfish of me, but it’s true. You would throw your whole life into it, like you do everything else, and the NFL would own your heart and soul. Would there be any room left for me?”
She drank her martini. Her eyes were wet. Hands shaking. She spilled some of the drink, and used the shredded napkin to clean up. The napkin only managed to smear the liquid.
“Christ, aren’t you going to say anything?”
I said nothing.
“And I love you so much, you big sonofabitch. You worked your way deep into my heart like a damn thorn. A thorn that hurts, but has so much love to give.”
I didn’t like the analogy, but said nothing.
“I worry so much about you. But you can take care of yourself. I’ve seen it. And you have Sanchez and your father to help you. The three of you are an amazingly formidable force. And you are so brutal and deadly, but moral and just, and so fucking hilarious. Shit.”
She stopped talking and picked at her salmon. She even went as far as to bring up a forkful, but then got distracted by her own thoughts, and set it down again.
“You are a wonderful man, but you fuck me up.”
She started crying. She brought her hands to her face, and the tears leaked from under her palms. I resisted the strong urge to reach out to her. She needed to make a decision. I was not going to influence her decision in any way. I held on to that thought, no matter how hard it was for me to do so.
“Are you just going to sit there and let me cry?”
I said nothing, and didn’t move, although my hand flinched.
“I think I need to leave,” she said.
She did, getting up quickly and dashing through the dark restaurant. I watched her go, and when she was gone I set aside my Coke and signaled the waiter.
I was going to need something a little stronger.
39.
It was almost 1:00 a.m. when I came home that night.
With a twelve-pack of MGD in hand, I took the stairs two at a time, climbing my way to the fifth floor, where my apartment and drinking sanctuary awaited. I had made it a point recently to always take the stairs, to augment my training. I figured every little bit helped.
I was regretting that decision now. Especially at this hour, and what had happened over dinner.
Maybe I should have said something to her, I thought.
But I was determined not to sway her decision. She needed to decide for herself whether or not she wanted me in her life. Me prostrating myself, switching into used car salesman mode, and listing my strengths and perks did no one any good. It debased me on one level, and clouded her thinking on another.
Cindy and I had been seeing each other steadily since my senior year in college. At the time, she was in the master’s program at UCLA. I had met her through a teammate of mine, her brother Rob. Cindy had come from a football family, and although she made no real effort to understand the sport, she at least understood the men who played it, and we were a good match. She went on to get her doctoral in anthropology, her expertise the anthropology of world religions. Turns out, there’s a lot of world religions out there, and so she keeps fairly busy writing papers and what-nots. She’s only recently been tenured at UCI, which is great because now she really has to royally screw up to be fired. Luckily, she rarely screws up.
After my injury, she had been so supportive during those years of rehabilitation. She had also been supportive of the idea of me following in the footsteps of my father, although I had sworn long ago to never be a detective. I mean, I was destined for a long and rewarding career in football, right? Say ten years in the NFL, another ten in broadcasting, and finish things up as an NFL coach. That had been the plan.
Things change.
Especially when you’re hit by a cheap chop block, and you hear the sound of your bones fracturing in so many places that you still have nightmares over it. It was only later, after my drinking had started, that I found amusement in the fact that the fracturing of my leg had sounded like the popping of popcorn.
