or other? My little Latino friend had even thrown in the grimy backpack, which I dumped on the dining-room table with the gun still inside. After I dumped it, I just stood there looking at it.
A moment later the doorbell rang.
More flowers , I thought. But when I peered through the window, I saw Detective Martin standing on the porch. He was brushing down the front of his jacket as if he remembered what I had said the last time he was here. Again, he looked tired and a little disheveled. I was beginning to think he always did.
He looked up and saw me through the window staring out at him. Since there wasn’t enough time to run around the house to try to find a place to hide the gun, I decided to leave the backpack on the dining-room table. Surely he wouldn’t go rooting through my stuff and find my illegally purchased firearm. My luck couldn’t be that bad.
I pulled open the door, and the detective jumped, looking guilty.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said.
“See what?” I asked.
He looked down at himself, as sheepish as a five-year-old caught swiping cookies, and resumed dusting himself off. “My cat hair removal system,” he said.
I was actually too nervous to grin, but I found myself doing it anyway. “Ah, yes,” I said. “Waldo.”
He nodded. “Fucking feline.”
We stood at the front door staring at each other. When we both finally decided to speak, we did it at the same time.
“Sorry, I—”
“Hope I didn’t—”
Then we both shut up again.
To break the tension more than anything else, I stepped aside and swept my hand across the threshold in an exaggerated salami-salami-bologna bow to usher him in.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, and stepped through the door. Barely.
“Don’t stop there,” I smiled. “Keep going.”
So he did.
Feeling rebellious, I led him all the way across the living room to the dining-room table and pointed to a chair. “Sit,” I said. “Please.”
He sat. The greasy backpack with the Smith and Wesson in it lay on the table in front of him. He eyed the filthy bag curiously, then apparently decided to try to ignore it.
He cleared his throat. “I’d like to spend some time with you, Tyler.”
This time it was my turn to jump. “I—I don’t understand.”
Looking horrified, he waved his hands in the air, more like a traffic cop than a homicide detective. Splashes of color stained his cheeks. “No! Good God, no! I mean I want to spend time with you while we retrace your steps the night of the… of the… well, that night. I think it might free up some of your repressed memories if we put you back at the scene.”
“My memories are repressed?”
His eyes never left mine. “You know what I mean.”
I didn’t tell him I had returned to the scene already. I didn’t show him the cuts I carved in the palms of my hands with my fingernails when I did. I didn’t tell him my little trip down memory lane didn’t open up any revelations about what took place there in that filthy bathroom on the last night of my happily married life, although it sure as hell freed up a new batch of anger. I also failed to mention that new surge of anger had prompted me to buy what was now tucked away inside the greasy backpack lying on the table in front of him.
And to my sudden horror, I realized he was absently fingering the strap of the backpack while we were talking. What would he do if he knew what was in there? Would he confiscate the weapon? Would he press charges, seeing as how I must have broken several standing gun laws when I bought the damn thing?
Or would he look the other way?
To get him away from the backpack, I said the first thing that came to my mind. “All right. Let’s go.” I gazed through the dining-room window and saw the sun beginning to set. “It’s almost the same time of day,” I added, as the memories already began flooding back. Franklin trembling at the door, trying not to explode. Spence beside me, our wedding bands new on
A moment later the doorbell rang.
More flowers , I thought. But when I peered through the window, I saw Detective Martin standing on the porch. He was brushing down the front of his jacket as if he remembered what I had said the last time he was here. Again, he looked tired and a little disheveled. I was beginning to think he always did.
He looked up and saw me through the window staring out at him. Since there wasn’t enough time to run around the house to try to find a place to hide the gun, I decided to leave the backpack on the dining-room table. Surely he wouldn’t go rooting through my stuff and find my illegally purchased firearm. My luck couldn’t be that bad.
I pulled open the door, and the detective jumped, looking guilty.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said.
“See what?” I asked.
He looked down at himself, as sheepish as a five-year-old caught swiping cookies, and resumed dusting himself off. “My cat hair removal system,” he said.
I was actually too nervous to grin, but I found myself doing it anyway. “Ah, yes,” I said. “Waldo.”
He nodded. “Fucking feline.”
We stood at the front door staring at each other. When we both finally decided to speak, we did it at the same time.
“Sorry, I—”
“Hope I didn’t—”
Then we both shut up again.
To break the tension more than anything else, I stepped aside and swept my hand across the threshold in an exaggerated salami-salami-bologna bow to usher him in.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, and stepped through the door. Barely.
“Don’t stop there,” I smiled. “Keep going.”
So he did.
Feeling rebellious, I led him all the way across the living room to the dining-room table and pointed to a chair. “Sit,” I said. “Please.”
He sat. The greasy backpack with the Smith and Wesson in it lay on the table in front of him. He eyed the filthy bag curiously, then apparently decided to try to ignore it.
He cleared his throat. “I’d like to spend some time with you, Tyler.”
This time it was my turn to jump. “I—I don’t understand.”
Looking horrified, he waved his hands in the air, more like a traffic cop than a homicide detective. Splashes of color stained his cheeks. “No! Good God, no! I mean I want to spend time with you while we retrace your steps the night of the… of the… well, that night. I think it might free up some of your repressed memories if we put you back at the scene.”
“My memories are repressed?”
His eyes never left mine. “You know what I mean.”
I didn’t tell him I had returned to the scene already. I didn’t show him the cuts I carved in the palms of my hands with my fingernails when I did. I didn’t tell him my little trip down memory lane didn’t open up any revelations about what took place there in that filthy bathroom on the last night of my happily married life, although it sure as hell freed up a new batch of anger. I also failed to mention that new surge of anger had prompted me to buy what was now tucked away inside the greasy backpack lying on the table in front of him.
And to my sudden horror, I realized he was absently fingering the strap of the backpack while we were talking. What would he do if he knew what was in there? Would he confiscate the weapon? Would he press charges, seeing as how I must have broken several standing gun laws when I bought the damn thing?
Or would he look the other way?
To get him away from the backpack, I said the first thing that came to my mind. “All right. Let’s go.” I gazed through the dining-room window and saw the sun beginning to set. “It’s almost the same time of day,” I added, as the memories already began flooding back. Franklin trembling at the door, trying not to explode. Spence beside me, our wedding bands new on
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