you
do?” She frowned at Sherry aggressively. “Look at the life I’m giving him! Have
you noticed how pale he’s getting? That damned little room!”
Sherry’s eyes returned to the road.
She sat back and looked away, murmuring determinedly, her
lips moving like an athlete coaching herself before a competition. “He’s all
I’ve got,” she repeated. She paused, then continued reflectively. “You know,
I’ve been thinking . . . I’ve never decided anything, never decided anything hard ,
anyway. Well,” She paused in thought. “Brian . . .” She stopped and shook her
head sadly, worked her hands on the apron. “This stupid dead end job, going
nowhere . . . living down here, my schooling . . . I just let things happen. I
guess it’s what I do. Let things happen. That’s what my mom always said,
anyway. I just let things happen.” She worked her hands. “But I can’t do that anymore, and I can’t live like it’s just me anymore. I’ve got to
concentrate and make some firm decisions for once in my life. And I’ve got to
make the right ones.” She lowered her voice as if someone might hear. “The hard ones . . . for his sake.”
Mary blinked a few times, then whispered, turning her head
out the window so Sherry wouldn’t see the tears rising, and so she could fight
off the picture of John forming again in her mind. “And, the way life’s worked
out, I’m pretty much all he’s got—”
“Hearin’ anythin’ from Ruggle?” Sherry interrupted. Mary
sensed the gruffness was designed to help her manage her emotions. The radio
squawked again and he snapped it off.
After a while she answered through a sniffle. “No. Left him
a message on his voice mail like you said. Nothing. I’ll probably just get a
letter. He likes to have them dropped off at the front desk. Guess he doesn’t
like to talk much in person.”
“Well, prob’ly likes keepn’ a record a’things, ya know?” he
wheezed and pursed his lips. “Like I said, that there’s a file man ever
seen one.” He thumbed his hat back. “CYA . . . that’s what’s important to a guy
like that. People ain’t too high on the list,” breathed in heavily.
“Fella like that—”
“Listen,” now she broke in to take him off his subject,
smiled at him gratefully when he stopped. “I want to thank you again.” She
patted his arm on the wheel. “Sometimes I think you’re the only friend we’ve
got. Above and beyond, as they say. Helping me sort out Luis’s things . . .
picking up Brian, keeping an eye on him at school. I don’t know how we’d be
getting through this without you, or how I’d be sane at all.” She snickered
softly through a cynical smile. “If I am. If you weren’t here to listen to all
my whining—”
“Hey, Hon,” he looked at her benignly and chuckled
bashfully. “Two way street on that, y’ know? You been puttin’ up with a lotta
me moanin’ n’ whinin’ too . . . them feds.” He shook his head and glanced at
his left hand. “Know, cop’s no different’n anybody else. Even a cop’s gotta
have somebody to talk to. Whatta they call it these days? Vent? Me, I usta tell
the wife everthin’ . . . lotta times she’d tell me what she thought I oughta do
when I’s havin’ a problem . . . soundin’ board, y’know? Prob’ly most cops do.”
He drove in silence for a few moments, then chuckled. “ Pillow
talk we call it. ‘Course, kin getcha in lotta trouble,” his smile widened
and he arched his brows toward Mary. “Wrong head’s on ‘at pillow.”
The smile faded and he drove without speaking for several
blocks, then looked at her soberly with a single eye wide open. “Both hoein’
tough rows right now . . . maybe it’s good we kin help each other out a
little.” He studied her for a long instant then turned back to the road. After
a few moments he said, “Say, Hon, you lemme know when you gonna talk to them
letter boys again.” He coughed,
do?” She frowned at Sherry aggressively. “Look at the life I’m giving him! Have
you noticed how pale he’s getting? That damned little room!”
Sherry’s eyes returned to the road.
She sat back and looked away, murmuring determinedly, her
lips moving like an athlete coaching herself before a competition. “He’s all
I’ve got,” she repeated. She paused, then continued reflectively. “You know,
I’ve been thinking . . . I’ve never decided anything, never decided anything hard ,
anyway. Well,” She paused in thought. “Brian . . .” She stopped and shook her
head sadly, worked her hands on the apron. “This stupid dead end job, going
nowhere . . . living down here, my schooling . . . I just let things happen. I
guess it’s what I do. Let things happen. That’s what my mom always said,
anyway. I just let things happen.” She worked her hands. “But I can’t do that anymore, and I can’t live like it’s just me anymore. I’ve got to
concentrate and make some firm decisions for once in my life. And I’ve got to
make the right ones.” She lowered her voice as if someone might hear. “The hard ones . . . for his sake.”
Mary blinked a few times, then whispered, turning her head
out the window so Sherry wouldn’t see the tears rising, and so she could fight
off the picture of John forming again in her mind. “And, the way life’s worked
out, I’m pretty much all he’s got—”
“Hearin’ anythin’ from Ruggle?” Sherry interrupted. Mary
sensed the gruffness was designed to help her manage her emotions. The radio
squawked again and he snapped it off.
After a while she answered through a sniffle. “No. Left him
a message on his voice mail like you said. Nothing. I’ll probably just get a
letter. He likes to have them dropped off at the front desk. Guess he doesn’t
like to talk much in person.”
“Well, prob’ly likes keepn’ a record a’things, ya know?” he
wheezed and pursed his lips. “Like I said, that there’s a file man ever
seen one.” He thumbed his hat back. “CYA . . . that’s what’s important to a guy
like that. People ain’t too high on the list,” breathed in heavily.
“Fella like that—”
“Listen,” now she broke in to take him off his subject,
smiled at him gratefully when he stopped. “I want to thank you again.” She
patted his arm on the wheel. “Sometimes I think you’re the only friend we’ve
got. Above and beyond, as they say. Helping me sort out Luis’s things . . .
picking up Brian, keeping an eye on him at school. I don’t know how we’d be
getting through this without you, or how I’d be sane at all.” She snickered
softly through a cynical smile. “If I am. If you weren’t here to listen to all
my whining—”
“Hey, Hon,” he looked at her benignly and chuckled
bashfully. “Two way street on that, y’ know? You been puttin’ up with a lotta
me moanin’ n’ whinin’ too . . . them feds.” He shook his head and glanced at
his left hand. “Know, cop’s no different’n anybody else. Even a cop’s gotta
have somebody to talk to. Whatta they call it these days? Vent? Me, I usta tell
the wife everthin’ . . . lotta times she’d tell me what she thought I oughta do
when I’s havin’ a problem . . . soundin’ board, y’know? Prob’ly most cops do.”
He drove in silence for a few moments, then chuckled. “ Pillow
talk we call it. ‘Course, kin getcha in lotta trouble,” his smile widened
and he arched his brows toward Mary. “Wrong head’s on ‘at pillow.”
The smile faded and he drove without speaking for several
blocks, then looked at her soberly with a single eye wide open. “Both hoein’
tough rows right now . . . maybe it’s good we kin help each other out a
little.” He studied her for a long instant then turned back to the road. After
a few moments he said, “Say, Hon, you lemme know when you gonna talk to them
letter boys again.” He coughed,
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