M Is for Malice

sound and Guy emerged, head down. He wore a dark-colored jacket, his fists shoved into his pockets as though he were cold. I leaned over and unlocked the door on the passenger side. He slid into the seat and then pulled the door shut without slamming it. He said, "Hey. Thanks for coming. I thought I'd go crazy without a friendly face. I'd have called you before, but they were watching me like a hawk."
    "No problem. I don't know why you don't break and run while you can."
    "I will. Tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that. I told you we're supposed to have another meeting tonight just to talk about some things."
    "I thought you already talked."
    "Well, we did. We do. Every time I turn around, we have another chat."
    "That's because you haven't knuckled under yet," I interjected.
    "I guess that's it." He smiled in spite of himself. His tension was contagious and I could have sworn I smelled alcohol on his breath. I found myself with my arms crossed, one leg wound around the other as if to protect myself.
    "I feel like we're having an affair," I said.
    "Me, too. I used to meet girls out here in the old days when I was grounded. I'd slip over the wall and we'd screw in the backseat of a car. There was something about the danger set me on fire, and them, too. Made most of 'em seem more interesting than they were."
    "I know this is none of my business, but have you been drinking?" I asked.
    He turned and looked out the passenger window, shrugging. "I had a couple of drinks last night before all this shit came down. I don't know what got into me. Don't get me wrong – they were being nice at that point, but you could tell they were nervous and so was I. I'm ashamed to say this, but the alcohol did help. It mellowed us out and smoothed the conversation. Tonight was pretty much the same except everybody's mood was different. Cocktail hour comes along and those guys really hit it."
    "Bennet and his martinis."
    "You bet. I figure that's the only way I'll get through. Peter wouldn't be too happy with me, but I can't help it. I can feel myself sliding back to my old ways."
    "What'd you think of Christie?"
    "She was nice. I liked her. I was surprised at Bennett the weight he'd put on, but Jack seemed the same, still nuts about golf. And Donovan hasn't changed."
    "What've they said to you so far?"
    "Well, we talked some about the money, what else? I mean, the subject does come up. It's like Donovan says, we can't just ignore the issue. It's like this big dark cloud hanging over us. I think we were all uncomfortable at first."
    "Have you resolved anything?"
    "Well, no. Nothing much. At first, I think they were wondering, you know, generally, about my attitude. Now, anything I say and everybody jumps right on in. Tell you the truth, I'd forgotten what they're like."
    "How do they seem to you?"
    "Angry. Underneath it all, they're pissed. I keep feeling the anger coming up inside me, too. It's all I can do to keep a lid on it."
    "Why bother? Why not blow? The three of them certainly don't hesitate."
    "I know, but if I flip my lid that's only going to make matters worse. I'm trying to show 'em I've changed and then I find myself feeling like I always did. Like I want to smash lamps, throw a chair through a window, get stoned or drunk or something bad like that."
    "That must be a trial."
    "I'll say. I mean, literally. All I can think about is maybe this is some kind of test of my faith."
    "Oh, it is not," I said. "It may be a test of your patience, but not your faith in God."
    He shook his head, pressing his hands down between his knees. "Let's talk about something else. This is making me so tense I could fart."
    I laughed and changed the subject. For a while we chatted about inconsequential matters. Hunched there in the front seat, I was reminded of the occasional dates I had in high school where the only hope of privacy was remaining closed away in some kid's car. On chilly evenings, the front windshield would fog up even if all we did was talk. On warm nights like this, we'd sit with the windows rolled down, radio tuned to some rock and roll station. It was Elvis or the Beatles, clumsy moves and sexual tension. I don't even remember now what we talked about, those lads and I. Probably nothing. Probably we drank purloined beer; smoked dope, and thought about the incredible majesty of life.
    "So what else's going on? Aside from interminable meetings?" I asked. Like a rough place on a fingernail, I couldn't resist going back to it.