She spun around to face me. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I mean it. This was a very lonely life without you.”
“I know you mean it.” She kissed me. “I know you do.”
She let me hold her for a little while longer. Then she took me by my hand and led me into the shower.
Thirty-Four
The paranoia over Lance Vaughn Mabry’s murder had faded away, but was never completely out of my thoughts. Even after the sheriff theorized that the death hadn’t been anything more than a careless accident, my unease persisted.
“Been known to happen,” the sheriff said at a press conference. “Deer hunters, ’specially young and inexperienced ones, they come down here thinking they’re gonna bag a big buck their first time out. Most of ’em don’t never even get to take a shot. So they get all bored and frustrated and have a little too much to drink. Then they go down by the river with their dumbass side arms, find what they think’s an abandoned car, and shoot it up. My bet is they didn’t even know what they done until they heard about it on the radio the next day. Now they’re just scared. Don’t worry, we’re going through all the huntin’ licenses and checking for suspects. What we’re gonna find here is that it was just a terrible, stupid mistake.”
But that next morning, other things were far more present on my mind. With only a few breaks for writing and eating, Renee and I spent that whole day and day after that in bed-sore ribs and all. The sense of desperation was heavy in the air. Although I invited Renee to come up to New York for a week when I moved, we both knew she wouldn’t. Just as I was leaving Brixton behind, she had to let me go to leave me behind. Sabbatical or no sabbatical, we both knew it was unlikely I was ever coming back. This time we had together was all the time together we were ever going to have, and neither one of us seemed inclined to waste it.
Well beyond the continued intensity of my time with Renee, things that had been all wrong since my return from New York had somehow righted themselves. I hadn’t crossed paths with Stan Petrovic again. That all-knowing smile of Jim’s was gone and he seemed genuinely happy for me. He didn’t even react badly when I explained about no longer wanting to risk getting my head blown off in the chapel before leaving town. It helped, I think, that I gave him and Renee a lot of the credit for turning my life around. I’d said it not only to be nice-something the Kipster would only do in service of pussy or cocaine-but because it was true. It may have started with Frank Vuchovich’s gun in my face, but my urge to write again might have died with him that day if I hadn’t gotten involved with Jim and the St. Pauli Girl.
The one thing Jim asked of me was that we keep up our routine until I was ready to leave. I was glad to oblige him. A writer’s routine is more than just what he does in his office, at his desk. It’s his life. It’s his comfort. And while I knew I would have to create a new routine when I got to New York, I was thrilled at the prospect of having at least some more time with my old one. My ribs were healing, but not healed, so I kept our morning run under a mile. Even that made my chest feel like it was caught in a junk yard car-crusher. I wasn’t complaining. With the term over, I had more time for writing. Shooting was fun again and when we were up in the woods above the falls, I regaled Jim with as many tales of the Kipster as I could remember. I was incredulous at the seemingly inexhaustible nature of those stories.
Knowing that I was leaving made Renee’s decision about going home for Christmas an easy one: she stayed with me. One of my gifts to her was a clothes shopping spree at the regional mall in Stateline. We went to the movies afterwards and I treated her to Thai food for dinner. When the waitress asked if my daughter and I had enjoyed the meal, we just laughed it off. We fucked particularly long and hard that night.
Jim came over Christmas Day. Renee made a regional-style ham that featured an apple glaze and chestnut sauce. It was really good. I let myself drink a little bit, having a glass of champagne and a few beers. Renee and Jim both had a lot more than me. After the apple pie Jim’s mom had baked for the occasion, we sat around listening to my vast collection of bad New Wave CDs and discussing New York in the ’80s. Jim knew a lot about the era from my books and from our talks, and I swear I saw a little jealousy in Renee’s eyes, but it quickly passed.
When it was getting late, I told them both I had gifts for them. Their eyes lit up at the sound of that and I could clearly see they were both still kids, really. The only thing I could have done to make it better was to have had a fat man slide down the chimney in a Santa suit. I handed a small gift-wrapped box to each of them. They hesitated.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Open them up.”
Jim was first. “Holy shit! These are the keys to your-”
“-Porsche. That’s right. When I leave, it’s yours.”
For the first time since I met him, Jim Trimble was at a loss for words. He actually hung his head. Then he just held his right hand out and said, “Thanks, but I don’t know how to-”
I shook his hand. “Just like my old golf clubs, the car’s something I should have parted with a long time ago. There’s no place for it in my life anymore. Take it. Enjoy it. Just beware, the repair bills and insurance will bankrupt you.”
The three of us had a laugh at that, but I was glad to be rid of the Kipster’s car. I very badly wanted to molt the last vestiges of the Kipster’s skin before I went back to New York. I didn’t know if there would be a future for Amy and me or, if there was one, that I wanted it. I did want to set things right with her. I wouldn’t have been able to do that if the specter of the Kipster was looming. Funny how things evolve. For years after Amy handed me my walking papers and married Moreland, I told myself I would have sacrificed anything to have her back. Anything, except everything. I was as ready to give up my extracurricular activities as I was prepared to write a great new book, which was not at all. The lies we tell ourselves are always the most obvious ones, but we always believe them. I guess my road back started when I began to believe them a little less.
“Now yours, Renee,” I said, pointing at her gift.
It held a key too, one she already had a copy of-the key to the house. She was a bit confused by it, I think.
“The house is yours, rent free until the end of the summer. I’ll pay the utilities too. I’m leaving a lot of the furniture. It’s not enough of a gift, but … ” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The one gift she wanted was the one I couldn’t give her. If I could have only brought myself to say “I love you,” it would have meant everything to her.
“Thanks, Ken.” She kissed me softly, but hugged me tightly. When she relaxed her grip, I did not. I didn’t let go. When I finally opened my arms, placing my hands on her shoulders, she stepped back slightly and gazed right up into my face. Gauging by her expression, that hug meant much more to her than a few months free rent.
Almost involuntarily, I said, “I lo-”
Renee stopped me, covering my mouth with her hand. “Don’t! Don’t ruin it. Thanks for the house.”
Jim, looking a tad perturbed, cleared his throat and the spell was broken. He went out to his truck and came back in with a gift-wrapped package of his own. He handed it to me.
“Your turn.” His smile was crooked, but pure. A gift to a friend and father figure, one he took pride in giving. When I caught a glimpse of Renee, she didn’t seem nearly as happy or excited by it.
“Heavy,” I said, tearing away the paper.
Under the paper was a lovely cherrywood case about ten inches by ten inches by three or four inches. The case, however, wasn’t what gave my gift its weight. There was something inside, but it was locked. Before I could say a word, Jim held out a shiny key to me. It was a night for gifts of keys.
“Go on, open her up, Kip.”
When I turned the key and lifted the case’s finely crafted lid, I was as horrified as I was delighted. Inside the cherrywood case, resting in a molded foam bed that exactly matched its unique shape was a Royal Blue Colt Python with a six-inch barrel. It was the same type of handgun Frank Vuchovich had used to take my class hostage.
“This is amazing, Jim.”
“We don’t want anyone up in New York thinking they can fuck with Kip Weiler.”
“Not unless they’re carrying a Howitzer.” That pleased him. It pleased him a lot. “Jim, this thing must’ve cost
