for a final glimpse of her face, praying she’d turn around one last time.
She didn’t.
Chapter 11
A scattering of envelopes waited on the doormat outside Nate’s second-floor Westwood apartment. His mind flew to that dark sedan; were these written threats from the man attached to the tattooed hand? Not to worry—Nate was a handful of pills from being safely out of anyone’s reach. Crouching, he saw the network logos brightening up the flaps and let out a thin breath of relief. Letters from a bunch of local news affiliates, requesting interviews about his “heroic” role in the bank robbery. Kicking them aside, he scooped up the morning paper.
Standing in the hall, he folded the Los Angeles Times back to the obituaries, as was his recent habit. There was Mary Montauk, a professor of linguistics who had helped design the first spell-check program. Gwendolyn Dawson, born crocheter and special-ed teacher. Arthur Fiske, heir to a textile fortune, World War II airman, and benefactor to the Getty. Nate pictured the man in a canary yellow sweater, reclining on a puffy down bed bleached with ethereal light as he drifted off, a faint grin touching his lips. He’d had plenty of time to adjust to the temperature, Arthur had, to ease his way into a place of nostalgic contemplation, a prince’s view back over a life well lived. As always, Nate’s eye snagged on the last line:
Arthur is survived by Pamela, his loving wife of sixty-three years, four sons, and eleven grandchildren.
Good on you, Arthur, he thought.
Entering his apartment, Nate dumped the paper and letters in the trash. Three years later IKEA labels remained stuck on the furniture, arrows and letters to aid assembly. He sank onto the foldout couch he’d bought in optimistic hope that Cielle would spend the occasional night. Two thumbtacked photos livened up the opposing wall. A candid, blurred shot of Janie and him from the wedding, dancing and laughing into the embrace of a private joke. And Cielle at six, all broad smile and crooked teeth, crouching with a soccer ball at her knee. On the coffee table before him sat the signed divorce papers and his suicide note. He lifted the note to the light.
To Janie and Cielle, my collective heart.
Janie, I wish you every happiness with Pete. (Pete, please stop reading over her shoulder. This is a suicide note—a little damn privacy, please.) And Cielle. I’ve thought long and hard about what I want to pass on to you. And I guess it’s that there are no guarantees, so don’t waste your time here like I did too much of mine. If you hold on to stuff too hard, you’ll sink with it.
He paused and smirked a bit at himself. Nate Overbay, Armchair Philosopher.
I resent only one thing, sweetheart, and that’s every minute I spent away from you and your mom. I had so many chances to do better, and I couldn’t. But it was never for lack of love. You and your mother were the best part of me.
Were they ever.
To the cop reading this— First, sorry to the guy who had to scrape me out of the Dumpster. Or off the corner of Ninth and Wilshire if I missed. Second, when you serve the death notice to my wife and kid, please be patient and kind. Don’t check your watch. Make eye contact and hug them if they need it. —Nate
P.S. There’s half a ham sandwich in the fridge. Have at it.
Tapping the note to his lips, he sat awhile, thinking about his ill-fated visit to Cielle’s room and running figures in his head. Three more years of high school at twenty grand a pop. Then college at twice that amount. A familiar pressure mounted inside him until he sprang forward, grabbed a pad and pencil from the drawer, and tallied up estimates, weighing his checking-account balance (not much), benefits from Uncle Sam (minimal), and projected income for the few months he’d still be able to work (meager) against upcoming medical costs to sustain him through his decline (colossal). A very large negative number stared up at him from
She didn’t.
Chapter 11
A scattering of envelopes waited on the doormat outside Nate’s second-floor Westwood apartment. His mind flew to that dark sedan; were these written threats from the man attached to the tattooed hand? Not to worry—Nate was a handful of pills from being safely out of anyone’s reach. Crouching, he saw the network logos brightening up the flaps and let out a thin breath of relief. Letters from a bunch of local news affiliates, requesting interviews about his “heroic” role in the bank robbery. Kicking them aside, he scooped up the morning paper.
Standing in the hall, he folded the Los Angeles Times back to the obituaries, as was his recent habit. There was Mary Montauk, a professor of linguistics who had helped design the first spell-check program. Gwendolyn Dawson, born crocheter and special-ed teacher. Arthur Fiske, heir to a textile fortune, World War II airman, and benefactor to the Getty. Nate pictured the man in a canary yellow sweater, reclining on a puffy down bed bleached with ethereal light as he drifted off, a faint grin touching his lips. He’d had plenty of time to adjust to the temperature, Arthur had, to ease his way into a place of nostalgic contemplation, a prince’s view back over a life well lived. As always, Nate’s eye snagged on the last line:
Arthur is survived by Pamela, his loving wife of sixty-three years, four sons, and eleven grandchildren.
Good on you, Arthur, he thought.
Entering his apartment, Nate dumped the paper and letters in the trash. Three years later IKEA labels remained stuck on the furniture, arrows and letters to aid assembly. He sank onto the foldout couch he’d bought in optimistic hope that Cielle would spend the occasional night. Two thumbtacked photos livened up the opposing wall. A candid, blurred shot of Janie and him from the wedding, dancing and laughing into the embrace of a private joke. And Cielle at six, all broad smile and crooked teeth, crouching with a soccer ball at her knee. On the coffee table before him sat the signed divorce papers and his suicide note. He lifted the note to the light.
To Janie and Cielle, my collective heart.
Janie, I wish you every happiness with Pete. (Pete, please stop reading over her shoulder. This is a suicide note—a little damn privacy, please.) And Cielle. I’ve thought long and hard about what I want to pass on to you. And I guess it’s that there are no guarantees, so don’t waste your time here like I did too much of mine. If you hold on to stuff too hard, you’ll sink with it.
He paused and smirked a bit at himself. Nate Overbay, Armchair Philosopher.
I resent only one thing, sweetheart, and that’s every minute I spent away from you and your mom. I had so many chances to do better, and I couldn’t. But it was never for lack of love. You and your mother were the best part of me.
Were they ever.
To the cop reading this— First, sorry to the guy who had to scrape me out of the Dumpster. Or off the corner of Ninth and Wilshire if I missed. Second, when you serve the death notice to my wife and kid, please be patient and kind. Don’t check your watch. Make eye contact and hug them if they need it. —Nate
P.S. There’s half a ham sandwich in the fridge. Have at it.
Tapping the note to his lips, he sat awhile, thinking about his ill-fated visit to Cielle’s room and running figures in his head. Three more years of high school at twenty grand a pop. Then college at twice that amount. A familiar pressure mounted inside him until he sprang forward, grabbed a pad and pencil from the drawer, and tallied up estimates, weighing his checking-account balance (not much), benefits from Uncle Sam (minimal), and projected income for the few months he’d still be able to work (meager) against upcoming medical costs to sustain him through his decline (colossal). A very large negative number stared up at him from
Similar Books
