call and Michael’s accident. Jason’s first thought had been to wonder why Lisa hadn’t told him herself. And then losing himself for almost four days, to the pain of helplessness and guilt. To anger and regret.
Jason felt the pain returning.
He was walking not fast but at a steady pace. He was trying hard not to slip into melancholia over the past. Losing Michael. And other kids. He thought about something Leah had asked him at their first meeting, and suddenly recalled, in painful details, the black teenager he’d shot five years ago while trying to separate a street gang fight. He was always to wonder if he could have done something else besides use his gun. Something else besides act on instincts he’d learned to use in war.
Once back in the dark of his apartment, Jason moved toward the refrigerator in his narrow kitchenette. He took out a can of beer and wandered back into the combination living room and bedroom of the studio apartment. His bed was a queen-size mattress on a wooden platform, low to the floor. He sat on the edge and felt his thoughts swinging dizzily back and forth between the past and the present. On a stool next to the bed that he used as a nightstand he reached for a pack of cigarettes.
His attention was caught by a propped-up postcard of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. It was from a redheaded dancer he’d met last spring at the precinct when she’d come in to report a stolen bike. They’d become lovers. Jason had been enthralled with her because she did things with her life. He’d loved her uninhibited freedom of spirit. She’d left for California in September to dance in a musical. Jason picked up the card and read once again the bright but impersonal message on the back. He put it down again. She had talent and was going places. She also had a temper. Jason remembered her passion and liveliness right in this very bed. He remembered her telling him that there were other men in her life, and she didn’t want any heavy relationship. So he saw her when he saw her, and enjoyed their time together. It used to be enough.
Jason’s thoughts switched back to Leah Downey. He’d never dated a black woman before. He didn’t even know any beyond Joe’s wife, Nora, and a few of the women officers at the precinct. But that was different. And he honestly wasn’t sure if Leah’s being black made a difference. Jason was aware of the prejudice—toward black people, and Latinos and Asians and Arabs and anyone else who wasn’t white—some of his fellow officers shared. The talk had always made him uneasy.
He liked the way Leah Downey listened. Intently, with her eyes on him. That’s the way he talked to his groups. He looked them right in the eye. Jason thought she smiled nicely, easily. Not coquettish. No games. No pretense. He liked that, too. She didn’t ask a lot of questions, but she responded with her complete attention, to everything he said. That interested him. Which still didn’t come close to any reason to ask her out again.
But he had. Jason finished the cigarette and lit another. He sat in the dark and sipped his beer while staring at nothing in particular as he tried to figure out if Leah Downey was really all that special.
Chapter Four
F OR THANKSGIVING DINNER GAIL invited her photographer friend, Steven, and Leah was expecting Allen. The day was gray and cold, but the smell of a dozen different foods filled the house with a warm, homey aroma. Gail, who’d offered to do most of the cooking, was anything but humble and home-like as she emerged from the kitchen at noon hot, bothered, and ill tempered.
Leah tried to soothe Gail as she set the table. But with most of the work done, Gail sprawled on the sofa and eventually dozed off for a nap.
Leah left her there and went to start the dessert. The kitchen, as was usually the case when Gail cooked, was a wreck. Leah began to clean up the mess. She had just finished putting away a handful of freshly washed utensils when
Jason felt the pain returning.
He was walking not fast but at a steady pace. He was trying hard not to slip into melancholia over the past. Losing Michael. And other kids. He thought about something Leah had asked him at their first meeting, and suddenly recalled, in painful details, the black teenager he’d shot five years ago while trying to separate a street gang fight. He was always to wonder if he could have done something else besides use his gun. Something else besides act on instincts he’d learned to use in war.
Once back in the dark of his apartment, Jason moved toward the refrigerator in his narrow kitchenette. He took out a can of beer and wandered back into the combination living room and bedroom of the studio apartment. His bed was a queen-size mattress on a wooden platform, low to the floor. He sat on the edge and felt his thoughts swinging dizzily back and forth between the past and the present. On a stool next to the bed that he used as a nightstand he reached for a pack of cigarettes.
His attention was caught by a propped-up postcard of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. It was from a redheaded dancer he’d met last spring at the precinct when she’d come in to report a stolen bike. They’d become lovers. Jason had been enthralled with her because she did things with her life. He’d loved her uninhibited freedom of spirit. She’d left for California in September to dance in a musical. Jason picked up the card and read once again the bright but impersonal message on the back. He put it down again. She had talent and was going places. She also had a temper. Jason remembered her passion and liveliness right in this very bed. He remembered her telling him that there were other men in her life, and she didn’t want any heavy relationship. So he saw her when he saw her, and enjoyed their time together. It used to be enough.
Jason’s thoughts switched back to Leah Downey. He’d never dated a black woman before. He didn’t even know any beyond Joe’s wife, Nora, and a few of the women officers at the precinct. But that was different. And he honestly wasn’t sure if Leah’s being black made a difference. Jason was aware of the prejudice—toward black people, and Latinos and Asians and Arabs and anyone else who wasn’t white—some of his fellow officers shared. The talk had always made him uneasy.
He liked the way Leah Downey listened. Intently, with her eyes on him. That’s the way he talked to his groups. He looked them right in the eye. Jason thought she smiled nicely, easily. Not coquettish. No games. No pretense. He liked that, too. She didn’t ask a lot of questions, but she responded with her complete attention, to everything he said. That interested him. Which still didn’t come close to any reason to ask her out again.
But he had. Jason finished the cigarette and lit another. He sat in the dark and sipped his beer while staring at nothing in particular as he tried to figure out if Leah Downey was really all that special.
Chapter Four
F OR THANKSGIVING DINNER GAIL invited her photographer friend, Steven, and Leah was expecting Allen. The day was gray and cold, but the smell of a dozen different foods filled the house with a warm, homey aroma. Gail, who’d offered to do most of the cooking, was anything but humble and home-like as she emerged from the kitchen at noon hot, bothered, and ill tempered.
Leah tried to soothe Gail as she set the table. But with most of the work done, Gail sprawled on the sofa and eventually dozed off for a nap.
Leah left her there and went to start the dessert. The kitchen, as was usually the case when Gail cooked, was a wreck. Leah began to clean up the mess. She had just finished putting away a handful of freshly washed utensils when
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