“I like the Pearl Lady.”
“So do I.”
A silence formed between them. Then Tommy spoke.
“There’re people who do that,” he said, repeating it like a mantra. “…people who do that.”
“It’s okay, Tommy. We’ll find the money.” But if they didn’t? Tommy’s monthly health care costs alone would sink them. “There are people who do that.” To bring his brother back, one had to snap the tape loops in the kid’s head. He repeated what he’d just said. Tommy’s breathing calmed.
“I know someone,” Knox said. “She does this kind of thing.”
“Seriously?” Knox heard a ray of hope in his brother’s voice. “Do I know her?”
“No. But you’ll like her,” Knox said.
EPILOGUE
On a cold November day, wet with rain and sharp with wind, Steve Kozlowski rose from the couch and his DVR’ed Eagles game to answer a knock on the front door. The events of a month before were all but forgotten, swept aside by more urgent matters-an impending state visit by the vice president, chief among them.
Liz came out from the kitchen, not realizing her husband could be broken from the spell of football. She was driven in equal parts by a sense of responsibility, and a curiosity what neighbor might be calling on them. If the knock was an outside visitor, the compound’s gate guards would have notified them by telephone.
As she saw her husband approach the door, she stopped. But she didn’t turn back. She wanted to see who this was, anticipating that her husband would want nothing to do with any of their neighbors.
Kozlowski opened the door and just stood there.
“Sweetheart?” Liz called out. “Who is it?”
Her husband did not move, silhouetted by the pale gray air and the pale gray security wall in the distance that surrounded the compound.
She tried for a second time. “Steve?”
“A friend,” he answered.
Determined to see whatever was going on, she approached.
“Get a scarf,” he said.
“It’s raining!” she complained.
“That’s why you’ll need a scarf,” he said, still not turning toward her. “And grab a ball cap for me.”
“I’m not going out there.”
“Yes. We both are. We’re going to get wet, and we’re going to enjoy it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Her patience with him was sapped.
Kozlowski stepped through the door and out into the drizzle, and as he did, Liz could finally see beyond him to the object in the front yard. It was a spit-shined, black motorcycle and sidecar, an antique, with polished chrome and new leather. Steve circled, admiring it from every angle.
She gathered the scarf and ball cap. Called upstairs to Tucker that she and Daddy were going out for a few minutes and would be right back. She walked out into the rain, envious of the bike for the smile it brought to her husband’s face.
She closed the door behind her.
Ridley Pearson
