the car. When one image slows down and drops off, it’s replaced by another. For a moment, when I glance in the rearview mirror, I don’t seem to recognize who I am. I don’t feel like me. I don’t even seem to remember who Ed Kennedy’s supposed to be.
I don’t feel anything.
One piece of luck is that I have the next day off, completely. The Doorman and I sit in the park on the main street of town. It’s afternoon, and I’ve bought us both ice creams. Single cone, two flavors. Mango and Jaffa orange for me. Bubble gum and cappuccino for the Doorman. It’s nice, sitting in the shade. I watch intently as the Doorman gently lunges for the sweet taste and softens the cone with his slobber. He’s a beautiful individual.
Footsteps crease the grass behind us.
My heart seizes up.
I see shadow. The Doorman keeps eating—a beautiful individual but a useless guard dog.
“Hi, Ed.”
I know the voice.
I know it and shrink back down inside me. It’s Sophie, and I see a glimpse of her athletic legs now as she asks if she can sit down.
“Of course,” I say. “You want an ice cream?”
“No, thanks.”
“You don’t feel like sharing one with the Doorman here?”
She laughs. “No, thanks…. The Doorman?”
Our eyes come together. “Long story.”
We’re silent now, both waiting, till I remind myself that I’m the older one and should therefore initiate conversation.
But I don’t.
I don’t want to waste this girl with idle chitchat.
She’s beautiful.
Her hand falls down to gently stroke the Doorman, and all we do is sit there for about half an hour. Eventually, I feel her looking at my face. Her voice enters me.
She says, “I miss you, Ed.”
I look across and say, “I miss you, too.”
The scary thing is, it’s the truth. She’s so young, and I miss her. Or do I cling to her because she was a good message? I think I miss her purity and truth.
She’s curious.
I feel it.
“You still running?” I ask, denying it.
She nods politely and plays along.
“Barefoot?”
“Of course.”
There’s still a graze on her left knee, but as we both look at it, there’s no regret inside the eyes of the girl. She’s content, and if nothing else, I take comfort in her comfort with me.
You’re so beautiful when you run barefoot, I think, but I don’t bring myself to say it.
The Doorman finishes his ice cream and laps up the pats from Sophie’s hand and fingers.
A car horn blows from behind us, and we both know it’s for her. She gets up. “I have to go.”
There’s no goodbye.
Just footsteps and a question when she turns around. “Are you okay, Ed?”
I turn and see her and can’t help but smile. “I’m waiting,” I answer.
“For what?”
“The next ace.”
She’s smart and knows what to say. “Are you ready for it?”
“No,” I say, and resign myself to one clear fact. “But I’ll get it anyway.”
She leaves properly then, and I see her father watching me from the car. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a miscreant or something, sitting in parks and preying on innocent teenagers. Especially after the shoe box incident.
I feel the Doorman’s snout on my leg now, and he stares up at me with his lovely geriatric eyes.
“Well?” I ask him. “What’s it to be, my friend? Hearts, clubs, or spades?”
How about another ice cream? he suggests.
He’s no help really, is he?
I crunch through my cone and we stand up. I realize how stiff and sore I still am from two nights ago at the Cathedral. Attempted murder will do that to you.
A third day passes, and still nothing.
I’ve been down to Edgar Street, and the house is dark. The woman and the girl are asleep, and there’s still no sign of the husband. I’ve contemplated going back out to the Cathedral to see if he jumped or if something else happened to him.
Yet.
How ridiculous am I?
I was supposed to kill the man, and here I am worrying about his well-being. I feel guilty about everything I did to him, but
I don’t feel anything.
One piece of luck is that I have the next day off, completely. The Doorman and I sit in the park on the main street of town. It’s afternoon, and I’ve bought us both ice creams. Single cone, two flavors. Mango and Jaffa orange for me. Bubble gum and cappuccino for the Doorman. It’s nice, sitting in the shade. I watch intently as the Doorman gently lunges for the sweet taste and softens the cone with his slobber. He’s a beautiful individual.
Footsteps crease the grass behind us.
My heart seizes up.
I see shadow. The Doorman keeps eating—a beautiful individual but a useless guard dog.
“Hi, Ed.”
I know the voice.
I know it and shrink back down inside me. It’s Sophie, and I see a glimpse of her athletic legs now as she asks if she can sit down.
“Of course,” I say. “You want an ice cream?”
“No, thanks.”
“You don’t feel like sharing one with the Doorman here?”
She laughs. “No, thanks…. The Doorman?”
Our eyes come together. “Long story.”
We’re silent now, both waiting, till I remind myself that I’m the older one and should therefore initiate conversation.
But I don’t.
I don’t want to waste this girl with idle chitchat.
She’s beautiful.
Her hand falls down to gently stroke the Doorman, and all we do is sit there for about half an hour. Eventually, I feel her looking at my face. Her voice enters me.
She says, “I miss you, Ed.”
I look across and say, “I miss you, too.”
The scary thing is, it’s the truth. She’s so young, and I miss her. Or do I cling to her because she was a good message? I think I miss her purity and truth.
She’s curious.
I feel it.
“You still running?” I ask, denying it.
She nods politely and plays along.
“Barefoot?”
“Of course.”
There’s still a graze on her left knee, but as we both look at it, there’s no regret inside the eyes of the girl. She’s content, and if nothing else, I take comfort in her comfort with me.
You’re so beautiful when you run barefoot, I think, but I don’t bring myself to say it.
The Doorman finishes his ice cream and laps up the pats from Sophie’s hand and fingers.
A car horn blows from behind us, and we both know it’s for her. She gets up. “I have to go.”
There’s no goodbye.
Just footsteps and a question when she turns around. “Are you okay, Ed?”
I turn and see her and can’t help but smile. “I’m waiting,” I answer.
“For what?”
“The next ace.”
She’s smart and knows what to say. “Are you ready for it?”
“No,” I say, and resign myself to one clear fact. “But I’ll get it anyway.”
She leaves properly then, and I see her father watching me from the car. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a miscreant or something, sitting in parks and preying on innocent teenagers. Especially after the shoe box incident.
I feel the Doorman’s snout on my leg now, and he stares up at me with his lovely geriatric eyes.
“Well?” I ask him. “What’s it to be, my friend? Hearts, clubs, or spades?”
How about another ice cream? he suggests.
He’s no help really, is he?
I crunch through my cone and we stand up. I realize how stiff and sore I still am from two nights ago at the Cathedral. Attempted murder will do that to you.
A third day passes, and still nothing.
I’ve been down to Edgar Street, and the house is dark. The woman and the girl are asleep, and there’s still no sign of the husband. I’ve contemplated going back out to the Cathedral to see if he jumped or if something else happened to him.
Yet.
How ridiculous am I?
I was supposed to kill the man, and here I am worrying about his well-being. I feel guilty about everything I did to him, but
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