Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

under the circumstances. If I hadn’t had a glass or two myself I might have felt guiltier; as it was, I merely noticed it worked. He got into the spirit, and the five of us celebrated like guests at a Mafia wedding. Nothing was too trivial to laugh at; nothing too expensive to order.
    I remembered a million other evenings like this— with Rob and me and Chris, sometimes with one of her boyfriends, or Mickey and Rob and me, with or without Kruzick— or the five of us together.
    I remembered what I liked about Rob— his social ease, his cleverness, the way he could be so much fun when he hadn’t disappeared for days on some story he’d forgotten to mention. I was starting to think that maybe, after all, Julio had reason to be jealous. I was so overcome with nostalgia and good feeling that I invited them all to my place for coffee.
    We were laughing and probably talking way too loud— paying no attention to anything except our own good mood— and we had just begun the ascent to my apartment on Green Street, when we heard the first shot. Almost as quickly, there was another. We could have jumped into a doorway if there’d been one, but there was nothing, no cover at all, in this section of the block, and now we heard clatter, footsteps behind us.
    Like a herd of cattle, we began to stampede— all five at once, as if at a silent signal, simply took off hell bent for leather.
    “Shit!” Rob yelled behind me, and I looked back, saw him grasp his arm, and knew he was hit. Another second later we were all cowering in the overhang of my front door. There was no one behind us, and there were no more shots, though people were poking heads out of windows, even stepping outdoors, gathering to see what had happened. Not wanting to talk, I fumbled for my key and let us in.
    “Rob, let’s see.”
    “Winged my wing.” He held up his right arm, showing a bullet hole in his jacket sleeve.
    “Does it hurt?”
    “Not yet. I must be in shock.”
    Quickly, before the pain started, he wrestled the jacket off, revealing one pristine arm, not so much as a wrist hair disturbed.
    “Holy shit,” said Mickey, and Rob, speechless for once, started to laugh. The rest of us caught it, and it was five minutes before we could climb the stairs to my apartment.
    The shots meant another bout with Curry and Martinez, but there was no help for it. Instead of coffee, we had cognac, knowing the cops wouldn’t be thrilled about it, but feeling an unaccustomed, un-nineties need for a stiff belt.
    And as soon as Rob had fortified himself, he phoned in a little story, prompting Mickey to call our parents, knowing they’d get overexcited if they read it in the paper.
    It was late before the dreaded detective duo had raked us over the coals and left. Mickey, Alan, and Chris left in a cluster, but Rob couldn’t seem to make up his mind to go.
    When I hinted, he said, “Rebecca. Someone tried to kill me.” His voice was full of wonder.
    We didn’t know that, really— they could have been trying for any of us— but there was no denying he was the one they’d nearly gotten. I opened my arms to him, and we hugged for a long time. We kissed a little as well, but after a moment I resisted, and in time, he left, though I offered him the couch.
    I thought, as I watched him go, that I’d never seen him look so sad. But his life was the one he had chosen, a life alone, a life of adventure yet no real closeness, and I couldn’t change that.
    When I was in bed, tears, seemingly from nowhere, trailed down my cheeks. I wanted to call Julio, but it was too late, and anyway, what would I say? “My biopsy’s negative, but I got shot at”? It might not be the easiest thing to relate to, since I’d never gotten up the nerve to mention The Thing.
    Even in my tears, I could have kicked myself. How could a person who couldn’t tell her own boyfriend about a breast lump judge someone else’s choice for aloneness?

Chapter Seventeen
    It’s funny how a few hours’ sleep can turn a grim world downright hospitable. That and the sun, I suppose. And maybe cheerful genes. I woke eager to get back to my regular schedule, more or less convinced we’d been set upon by a random lunatic, which I suppose made me a candidate for one myself.
    I breezed into the office and buried myself under a pile of paper, hardly wincing when the phone snapped me out of it. Kruzick answered and reported, “It’s some guy says he’s a friend of