never seen so much blood. The neck was practically severed, but the guy was alive and talking. Kept talking about how his wife thought he’d been cheating on her but he wasn’t. Kept saying how much he loved his wife. Justin called for an ambulance. They took the guy to the hospital while Justin took the wife to the station. The guy died before they reached the hospital. The EMW said that the guy was talking up until the moment he died, still saying how much he loved his wife and how he was sorry he made her so jealous.
Reggie asked him how he dealt with that kind of thing-didn’t it turn his stomach, didn’t it make him hard and insensitive? Justin said that yes, it turned his stomach, but you deal with it. You ignore the horror and do what you have to do until it’s all over. Then the horror returns, inside your own head, and you have to deal with that. And yes, he said, it does make you hard. It makes it difficult to feel anyone else’s pain because you spend your whole life having to put that pain out of your head so you can do your job.
Then she asked him about his own pain.
He knew that she knew. She’d said at lunch that she’d Googled him, had seen the stories about his past. They’d been in the Providence papers when it had all happened, and was rehashed in the media after the Aphrodite thing broke. So he told her about Alicia and Lili, about their deaths, about his helplessness and guilt. He hadn’t talked about it with many people, no more than a handful, didn’t know why he was talking about it now except that the bombings seemed to have turned the whole world upside down and, for the first time, his own loss seemed connected to a greater loss, even seemed connected to the woman sitting on his couch with her scuffed black boots tucked under her.
And she talked about the losses she’d suffered, too. She was hesitant to reveal too much of herself, would start to say something, stop, give a quick, hard shake of her head as if reminding herself of her own vulnerability, and then she’d bite her lip, stopping the flow of words in midsentence. But she did tell him a bit more about her father, how devastated she was by his sudden death. How alone she felt and how afraid she was to ever be so dependent on one person for a sense of family, for a feeling of love and safety. Her mother had died when she was very young, twelve years old. She’d slipped and fallen from a balcony. Killed instantly.
When she told that story, his eyes moved slightly and she caught the motion.
“Yes, I know,” she said.
“Know what?”
“‘Slipped.’ I always accepted that because it’s what I was told. I was too young to ever think anything but that. But when I became a cop, I guess it’s the way we think, it occurred to me for the first time that maybe it wasn’t just an accident.”
“Is there something that made you think that?”
“She drank. I don’t know how happy she was. It could have been a suicide. I loved my father but he couldn’t have been easy to be married to. He didn’t talk much. Didn’t show much.”
“It doesn’t much matter, does it? Accident or. . no accident. It doesn’t change you or what you are. Or what’s happened since.”
“No. It definitely doesn’t change me.” She gave a half smile. “I am what I am.”
At one o’clock in the morning, he bobbed and weaved his way to the kitchen and the refrigerator, came back and said he was out of beer. Reggie said she didn’t care. She also made no move to leave. When he sat down on the couch, the first time he’d been next to her all night, his hand grazed against her thigh. He pulled it away quickly but she reached out and grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer to her.
“This is really awkward,” she said. “But. .”
“But you don’t want to be alone tonight.” When she nodded, he said, “Neither do I.”
The next few words came out slowly, and she kept shaking her head and stopping herself as she spoke, as if nothing that came out of her mouth was what she really wanted to say. “I can’t. . I mean, I don’t think. . what I want. .”
“You can have my room. It’s the most comfortable bed.”
“Jay, I feel like an idiot. I mean. .”
“I know. Feels a little like high school.” She nodded again, looked down as if afraid to speak. “Get into bed,” he said. “I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep.”
She smiled, thankful.
“I don’t have a spare toothbrush,” he said. And then he added, “I don’t have a spare anything.”
“I’ll live,” she told him. And then she went upstairs.
He waited a few minutes, then he slowly climbed up to his room. He saw her clothes tossed over an old red felt-covered piano bench in the corner of the room. She hadn’t folded them. One leg of her jeans was inside out. One boot was upright, the other toppled on its side. He looked over at the bed and Reggie was in it, under the sheets, the thick blue quilt pulled up to her chin. She was already half asleep. Her eyes were almost closed and she looked peaceful. He could see her chest moving gently up and down under the covers.
Justin gently eased himself down on the bed. She murmured something incoherent, it wasn’t even meant to be a word, just an acknowledgment of his presence. He stroked her hair slowly and softly and she sighed quietly and contentedly. He stayed there, just like that, for five more minutes until he knew she was asleep, and then he stayed several minutes more, his hand not moving, just resting on top of her head, slightly tangled in the strands of her hair. He pushed himself up off the bed, almost in slow motion, careful not to disturb her, and the moment he stood he was overcome with exhaustion. It hit him like a wave of heat, making him dizzy.
He didn’t go to the tiny second bedroom at the top of the stairs. Instead he went back down to the living room. First he sat on the couch, then slowly stretched out. His body was too long to fit perfectly, so he curled his knees up, felt his side sink deeply into the cushion.
He stayed awake for several minutes, listening to the quiet hum of the television, which he’d never turned off, not looking at the screen, instead watching the light emanating from it flicker and reflect off a window.
Justin thought of the woman upstairs. About the smell of her shampoo that still lingered on his hand. About the way the day’s violence had frightened her. Changed her.
He thought about the hundreds of thousands-the millions-of others who were also frightened, who were also changed.
And before he finally fell asleep, he thought about himself. And wondered if he could ever truly be frightened again.
Or changed.
Some part of him hoped it was possible.
But he didn’t really believe it.
15
Justin awoke at 7 A.M. He instantly twisted his stiff neck and heard it crack. His lower back was tight and when he stretched his body he felt an ache up and down his spine. His mouth was dry and fuzzy and his head hurt. Another day in paradise, he thought, and managed to sit up.
The television was still on, still showing images of the latest bombing. He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the stale taste of beer, and stood up. He took a few steps toward the TV, swiped at the power button and watched the picture fade. He slowly made his way upstairs, still twisting his neck and stretching his back. He pushed open the door to his bedroom. Reggie was sound asleep. He gently shook her, but she was in a deep sleep. He decided he could let her be, then he suddenly remembered the alarm, quickly reached out over her and hit the off switch on the radio before the Mark Knopfler CD he’d put in began to blare. He headed for his closet, walking as softly as he was capable of, pulled out a clean shirt. He then made it to the one chest of drawers, pulled out a pair of socks and underwear.
He was on his way to the shower, but he stopped before leaving the bedroom, stood in the doorway and looked down at the woman in his bed. The blanket was only pulled up to the middle of her back. She slept on her left side and he could see most of her right breast and a tattoo on her right shoulder. A purple, black, and red butterfly. Her skin was remarkably smooth and soft. His gaze moved down her arm, which was perfectly proportioned, toned and muscular but not too thin. Just the right amount of flesh. It was an arm you wanted to touch. To stroke. Looking closer, he saw that she had elegant fingers. Long and perfectly manicured. In sleep they
