House of Blues

destroyed because I couldn't do
anything."
    He stopped and sighed. She could feel his body shift
in the dark, and realized he had demons of his own about tonight.
"But that's neither here nor there. What I want to tell you
about is what happened to him. He went into a frenzy of work; he got
all snappish and nasty like you did."
    "Sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."
    "And I realized it was all a way of keeping the
way he was feeling at bay. I didn't get it; I really didn't get it at
first. But tell me if this is right—you don't feel like a hero, or
even like you're in I control. You feel vulnerable."
    She stared at the lightish circle that was all she
could see of his face. "How did you know that?"
    "I'm right, aren't I? I'm right." He
sounded triumphant.
    ''How do you know?"
    " Well, that's how I get when I feel that way.
Snappy. Like everybody's intruding." He inserted the key and
turned it, apparently satisfied that he'd made contact.
    When they were out of the garage, abroad in the soft
night, he said, "I finally figured that out. But I never figured
out why."
    "I'm not sure. I guess—it's such a huge
thing—you don't want to think about it. Anyone who comes around and
says, 'How do you feel' or something makes you think about it. And
that's the last thing you want to do."
    He nodded. "You want a drink?"
    She did. She wanted two or three. "No. I mean .
.
    "No," she said again. "I'm fine."
    "No, you're not. But I am—on that one. I could
watch you drink until six A.M. and not even be tempted."
    " Mr. Macho."
    "No. It's just not an issue."
    "Maybe not tempted. Repelled."
    "I like drunks. I've spent a lot of time with
them."
    She knew he couldn't possibly—even drunks don't
like drunks—but she went with him to the Blacksmith Shop and had
two beers while she talked to him. Mostly, she talked, not him. She
told him every detail of what had happened at Delavon's house and
everything that led up to it, even about being kidnapped by Delavon's
thugs.
    "Okay, that's it," he said. "Now even
I don't believe you. He didn't shoot first. You just had to kill him,
right?"
 
    "What do you mean, ‘even' you?"
    "Oh, no, I forgot to tell you. The IA guys won't
say so till it's official, but you're in the clear. That gorgeous
woman—Martha something—said she saw it and it happened like you
said."
    "She couldn't have seen it. She had her back
turned."
    "She says she turned around to say something to
you."
    "I don't think so. I didn't see her."
    " You were looking in the glass."
    "Yeah, but you feel things. Motion. I think she
was already in the kitchen."
    "Would you want your daughter to marry Delavon?
She'll probably send you flowers."
    She knew he was making a giant effort for her, and
she was grateful. She wondered if she would have done it for him, for
Jim, for any partner in trouble.
    Probably not. I get my feelings hurt when people
snap. She was grateful that he had not; that he had known what was
wrong, and cared enough to wait for her, to sit with her while she
talked it out. Tomorrow was his second day in Homicide, and it was
only a few hours away; he would want to be rested, and he wasn't
going to be.
    She thought: I could love this man, and knew that it
was only partly the beer. He reminded her of Steve.
    When she was home, in bed alone, she found that the
tears finally came. They surprised her, and not the least of her
surprise was realizing she had kept them back, she hadn't cried, she
had behaved with dignity.
    She missed Steve so much her whole body hurt, and it
was all she could do not to reach for the phone. There was a time
when she'd have called Jimmy Dee, no matter how late the hour, but
with the kids there, she could no longer do that.
    After a while she slept, but she awoke early, leaking
tears onto the pillow. The image of Shavonne tripping on her shoe,
crawling to her widowed mama, wouldn't leave her.
 
    29
    She got out of bed, sat on the floor, and tried to
meditate. This was something she did every time she felt stressed
out, and she always failed. She simply couldn't sit still long enough
to empty her mind.
    This time it was like a waking sleep.
    She had the sense that it wouldn't lead to spiritual
enlightenment, was somehow not what was meant by the empty—mind
concept, but, oddly, it felt safe.
    She had no idea how long she sat there, legs folded,
back straight, hands open on her knees, but when her alarm rang, it
penetrated her peace like a gunshot. She opened her eyes and made