Part 25 (1/2)
The waitress-Greek, gorgeous, eighteen if she was a day-asked if I wanted coffee. I nodded. She filled my cup. I waited until she left before I spoke.
”You bring it?” I whispered.
Nicki leaned over. ”Why are you whispering?” She nodded out the window at her car, b.u.t.ted against a telephone pole in the farthest corner of the parking lot. I must've looked nervous, because she added, ”It's not going anywhere. Chill.”
Cold rains blunted the boulevard, cheap eats and chain retail obscured.
”Did it make any more sense?” I asked.
”The Xerox? No. I told you. It's just a tally of the underage offenders New Hamps.h.i.+re sends out of state.”
”Drugs?”
”Maybe. Didn't list specific crimes or names even. Only totals.” She paused. ”Y'know-nothing you do fixes the past, right?”
”Huh?”
”All this s.h.i.+t you're doing, it won't bring your brother back. Nothing you do will ever bring him back.” Nicki caught my eye. She didn't seem angry with me anymore. ”When all this is over, you should call your wife, do whatever you have to do to make things right.”
”You didn't seem too concerned about my wife last night.”
”No. But you did.” She stopped. ”I'm not a bad person.”
”Didn't say you were.”
”I mean, I'm better than this. You met me at a weird time.”
How long had it been since that afternoon in Longmont? My timeline jumbled, nothing in order, I inserted Nicki into memories that weren't possible. I had us hanging out together by the reservoir, at parties in the summertime, drinking beers on the hoods of cars. Jean shorts and bikini tops. Soft kisses in setting suns. Springsteen on the radio. I'd known her less than a week.
”The day I met you,” she said, ”that was the day I'd decided not to go back to my uncle's.”
I didn't grasp the relevance right away.
”I would've been at the house, y'know? When whoever came looking for me. Your friend, Bowman. Whatever.”
”He's not my friend.”
”But I would've been there, see?”
”Not really.”
”I called home. My uncle's in the hospital. Slipped on a patch of ice and cracked his skull open. More like shattered. Doctors are calling it 'blunt head trauma.'” Nicki wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug, glimpsing out the gla.s.s. ”Pretty much brain dead.”
”What are you saying?”
”Nothing. Uncle Bob drank a lot. Maybe he tripped over the steps getting the morning paper.”
She didn't bother mentioning the next part, that those injuries were also consistent with a good jackboot stomping.
The waitress returned and asked if we were ready to order. I grabbed the menu, prepared to make up for days of dietary neglect, but Nicki glanced at her phone, and asked for the bill.
”You in a hurry?”
Nicki tucked the phone in her purse. ”I'm going back to New York.”
”Just like that?”
”Just like that.” She paused and tilted her head so. ”Unless you want to try and make this work between us.”
In that split second I ran through the possibility, wondering what a different future might look like, the separate narrative less about a specific woman and more about the rotating doors of parallel realities. Who would I be there? Would I be any happier, more fulfilled, or the same man, different only in inconsequential ways, still unsatisfied?
”I'm kidding, Jay. Go home to your wife.”
When the waitress slapped down the bill, Nicki s.n.a.t.c.hed it up.
”On me,” she said.
I hadn't ordered anything.
We walked out of the diner together. I almost took her hand. Not like a boyfriend, but because I really did care about her; I did understand. Behind the tough girl front, someone vulnerable lurked, someone desperate to be understood, loved like the rest of us, someone who didn't want to feel alone. But I didn't grab her hand. I let the moment pa.s.s. The walk to her car didn't take long. I had no time to regret the decision.
”I'm sorry, Jay.”
The apology didn't register at first. h.e.l.l, I was sorry too. Another life and things might've been different between us. I could be honest with myself now, admit the feelings I had for her. But that's not what she meant. If I'd been paying more attention, I would've noticed the fresh set of tire tracks and s.h.i.+ny black car with state plates now parked beside us. Then again if I'd been paying attention, I wouldn't be in this situation in the first place.
The back door pushed opened.
Michael Lombardi patted the seat beside him.
I turned to look for Nicki, but Nicki was already gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.
ARMS REACHED AROUND me, hands patting me down. They found the steak knife, of course, Charlie's keys, too, my disa.s.sembled phone parts and cigarettes. They let me keep the cigarettes.
The man pushed me into the back, before joining the driver up front.
I heard the doors lock.
Through the rear window, I saw Nicki sitting in the front seat of her Jetta. Our eyes met. She waved halfheartedly. The gesture came across as sincere.
Her car pulled away, heading south on the Turnpike. We followed out the parking lot, north, toward the mountain.
”I can't believe I'm back here,” Michael Lombardi said. ”Want to hear something funny? When I have to campaign up in these parts, I'll hit Berlin, Pittsfield, even Twin Mountain. But I avoid this town like a bad habit. Not sure why. I have pleasant enough memories. Still want to forget them, though.” He turned to me. ”I remember when your parents died in that car accident. It's not the same, I know, losing a parent at my age, but I had a difficult time when my father pa.s.sed last year. I can only imagine how rough that had to be for a boy your age. The rumors of your brother's involvement. Even if we weren't close growing up, I felt bad for you.”
Not close? This was the first conversation I'd had with Michael Lombardi my entire life.