Blessing looked around the house. They had just come down the long hallway with a dining room set off to one side and a den of some kind off to the other. It was not a large house. It was really much smaller than any of the houses that his mother cleaned. It was not all that much bigger than the house he and his mother lived in. A crucifix hung by the doorway. That was different. There were so many in his home. Just the one here.
He had been told to sit in the den while his mother met with the owner of the house - her employer. He had not expected Ms. Wetta to live in a place like this. He had expected more. Grandeur and decadence was what he expected - even if his 13 year old vocabulary never had those words for it. The closest it came to excess was the butler who answered the door. A tall black man with red hair curled tightly and cut short to his head. His eyes pushed down at him. Those eyes, that stare, had made Blessing look down. His own eyes fixed upon the shiny black shoes. He stared at them and tilted his head just a bit. Yep. The vague image in the toe of the shoe shifted just the same. This butler had style.
The butler had led his mother to the stairs to the basement. Blessing had never known of a house in Crosby to have a basement and wanted to follow them - it was part of the reason he had left the den and was halfway down the hallway after them. Years later, at the most awkward of moments, he would remember the door of the basement opening. The black man held the door with his right hand while his left found the center of his mother's back. And his mother's right hand had reached up and settled in the middle of the black man's chest. He had seen this. But he had not noticed it. A part of him locked the memory away.
He looked up at one of the pictures on the wall and saw a man. His sandy blonde hair was going to grey around the edges. The man was in a plaid shirt and was holding the reins of a horse. The horse's head was draped over his shoulder in a way that Blessing, who knew nothing about horses, could tell was friendly. There was a boy on the other side of the horse. He had the same hair and eyes and nose and bearing of the older man. But his smile was... friendlier.
"That was taken, what? Three years ago now. I must have been about your age from the looks of you. Dad took Jericho and me to Kentucky for the Derby."
Blessing turned and saw the boy from the picture. Only older. Taller. Shoulders broader and the arms and legs looking like they belonged. But it was the boy from the picture.
The boy never really stopped talking. He had paused until he saw recognition and then rambled on, "Dad had promised that we would all go to Kentucky. Of course that was before Jericho turned up lame. Freak thing. Not even in a race. Working with the trainer. That trainer..." The boy didn't spit but the pause had. Even at thirteen Blessing was impressed by that. The other boy had said the words just so and Blessing, in his mind, had spit at the mention of the trainer. He tilted his head to the left in appreciation.
The other boy continued, "That bastard wanted to put Jericho down. The first vet did too. But Dad found one willing to do the work. And bend the rules. In that picture? Jericho is out of his mind on morphine." The blond boy smiled from ear to ear.
Blessing found his voice even in the face of that smile. "How could he race with..."
"Race? Oh hell, he didn't run at the Derby. No. Hell no. Dad had just promised that we would all go to the derby. And by God, we did. Dad drank mint juleps until he was fall down drunk and I found his bottle of bourbon until Ginger took it away from me. And ole Jericho was out of his mind on illegal narcotics. My dad was freaking insane. But ya gotta love that kind of crazy don't cha?"
Blessing found himself in the glare of that smile again. And he smiled back. "Oh. Sorry. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Sebastion Bradshaw. But my friends call me Bash."
"I'm Ben." He reached out to take the hand that the blond boy offered. They shook. Blessing looked up at him. He wrinkled his brow. "Do your friends really call you 'Bash'?"
The blond boy looked him up and down. Something about him changed just a bit. Blessing felt it change. When the blond boy continued his tone was different. His voice was softer and somehow older. Ben felt.. something. He didn't know how or why, but he was now... more... in this boy's eyes.
The blond boy looked at him in silence for a beat and then smiled. "Maybe its what I wish they would call me."
"What DO they call you?"
"They call me 'Bashful". Especially the girls. The name started with the girls actually."
Blessing felt awkward on the boy's behalf. He knew how an embarrassing name could haunt and torment. The blond boy must have seen the pity rolling across his face. Bashful laughed. "No. Not like that. God no. That would be horrible."
"No. I'm not at all bashful. That's what makes the name. That's why it stuck. I've never really had a problem talking to girls. Any girl. All the girls. Some of whom can apparently get fairly jealous. There was a bit of a scandal when two young ladies got in an actual fight over me. The odds against such a fight were astronomical. A truly historic bit of fisticuffs." Bashful paused a beat, "One was my history teacher and the other taught physics."
Blessing laughed out loud. Bashful smiled.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Chapter 24: Sitting Next to Curtis
He had sat next to Curtis Steeridge in a diner in Mountain View, California.
He sat and listened intently to the slightly tipsy man talk about moving boxes in a warehouse. Curtis said that he was old school - a label sticker and a box kicker. A burp of Jack Daniels and he explained that his current team was almost all millennials, Even so, they had still set records. He went on to explain that it had always been about giving away credit. But with millennials? You had to give each one of them a bit of the credit. And specific credit. Something peculiar to them. If you could do that, if you were willing to do that, then a generation vilified for participation trophies would actually do great things.
He listened. He took it in. But his situation never left his thoughts. They still didn't know what he looked like - exactly. But they knew enough. A particularly dark skinned Latino just over six feet. Slim, athletic, and carrying at least one bullet. But alone. He was supposed to be alone.
He had smiled at Curtis and nodded and said something encouraging to get him talking again. They were not looking for two old friends sitting at the bar of a diner. And it was easier to listen than talk while taking shallow breaths. He resisted the urge to reach under his arm to feel the stitches. The veterinarian had been a perfect confluence of character and greed. The money got her to pull the bullet and replace it with thread and staples. Her sense of honor had kept her from even thinking of selling him to the people who were now walking bar to bar, restaurant to restaurant looking for him.
Curtis was explaining how structure, accountability was almost always welcomed by those who could excel. "If you don't define bad, you can never have good. And if you don't know what good is, how the hell will you ever be able to recognize greatness? You just gotta have a plan. What IS success? What does winning look like? How do you know when you've won?"
He paid for the man's bill and then for dessert and then for a cup of coffee and then another. Curtis even thought it had been his idea when he asked his new best friend and patron if he wanted to head over to Bierhaus to continue their conversation over German hops and barley. Curtis was a good man. A good talker without running out of words or eager listeners at the popular bar.
They had left the bar and moved on to a strip club. They eventually sat with Edgar. Edgar explained that he had his disability check sent straight to the club. The club cashed it for him and sat up a tab. They gave him the little bit of money he gave his mother for rent and he sat in his regular booth every day and every night until they closed the place down. He was like a mascot for the club.
Curtis greeted Edgar with a joke about the blond that was on Edgar's lap. The three of them laughed almost loud enough to be heard above the music. Curtis called him over and introduced him to Cindy - Sindy he found out when he went to the pisser and saw her little poster above the urinal. Back to Edgar. Edgar offered him his right hand. Even as he saw it, he was careful to not hesitate to shake it. And he smiled and over the music loudly said, "Nice to meetcha. Can I buy you a beer?"
Edgar had smiled back and said, "Naw. I get beers at cost. How about I buy you a beer and you by me a dance?"
And so they sat in the booth and Sindy and her friends Asshley with two s's of course (yet another poster) and Honey came over after their sets to snuggle comfortably between the three men. Edgar finally noticed him staring at his hands. He held them both up. On his right hand he waggled the only two fingers there. There were only two and they were exceptionally long. It almost looked like they were extensions of two bones in the forearm. And the thumb far down below from the two fingers. An afterthought. The left had three fingers plus another useless thumb. "It wouldn't be so bad if my name wasn't Edgar frigging Thomas. And no, I don't love Reese's Pieces either."
Curtis burst out laughing and despite himself and the stitches and the staples, he laughed too. He called for another round even though his wasn't missing an ounce. He looked over at Honey and couldn't tell if it had been a tough life or if she was just older than most strippers in the club. "Honey?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"I need you for a little something."
"Bet its not too little," she smiled back at him.
He saw them come through the door. The bouncers at the door had tried to frisk them and now one of the bouncers had a nose shattered and the other found a boot in his groin and his lunch moving up past his throat.
Before Honey saw, he whispered,"Take me for a private dance."
The noise was obvious after that but Honey couldn't care less. She had a fish on the hook. All that mattered was getting him in the boat. That changed when he had her by the throat. "How do I get out of here?" She looked back to the way they came. "NO! When the cops come. When vice decides they need a headline! Where do you go! Now!"
She never shouted out or shed tear but he did have to grab her hand when it came up with a razor. He had a full 3 seconds to realize where the folded blade must have been. It took him another 2 to appreciate the... control that had kept it there for the night. And yet another second to rule out bringing her with him.
As soon as the razor was on the floor she turned to look at the wall to the far left. He threw her towards it. She rolled with the momentum and had popped the hidden door open and was through it and just about to close it on him when he leaped through it. That was when the first shots fire-crackered back down the hall. He saw the next door vaguely in the darkness and dove for her ankles. She spilled in front of him and he drug her back to him.
"Don't move. I can get us out of this alive but you have to do exactly what I say." She stopped struggling and sat still. Her eyes were wide. But she didn't make a sound. Light flooded down the narrow hall way. Voices were in the hallway. Her breathing got quicker and louder.
Two shots. Two dead. And he looked back at her and smiled. "Get us out of here."
The days ran past them. It took him 9 days to get back to Wetta. It had turned out that his caution was well founded. The two men had had colleagues who had proven too smart to be led down a dark and cramped hallway like their fellows. He had kept the girl with him the whole time and used her again as a decoy when he had found a way to gain the upper hand. Two days later he felt confident to make his way back to Wetta.
He still had the girl with him in the elevator leading up to the penthouse. She had been quiet since they walked into the building. The elevator opened and they turned left and walked down the hall to the wide open living space with the floor to ceiling windows looking out upon Manhattan. And there sat Wetta. And she smiled with Curtis standing behind her. "How did he do?"
"He's almost as calculating as you said. Used me to ferret them out. Killed them without hesitation. But he did sleep with me on day four. Until the door to that elevator opened, I was beginning to think he might not bring me to you. And by the way, it is such a relief to be out of that strip club. But it was nice to be ogled again at my age." Honey - not her real name.
Wetta smiled at her. And reached to the glass coffee table and held up a small card - a post card. The picture on the front showed blue bonnets with a caption she could not read but apparently about Texas. "He mailed this to me. By the postmark it looks like he mailed it on day three of your little journey."
Honey - not her real name - no longer smiled but looked at him with a little bit of bewilderment and a little bit of respect. Wetta continued, "Only one line, 'Honey is sweet.'"
He sat and listened intently to the slightly tipsy man talk about moving boxes in a warehouse. Curtis said that he was old school - a label sticker and a box kicker. A burp of Jack Daniels and he explained that his current team was almost all millennials, Even so, they had still set records. He went on to explain that it had always been about giving away credit. But with millennials? You had to give each one of them a bit of the credit. And specific credit. Something peculiar to them. If you could do that, if you were willing to do that, then a generation vilified for participation trophies would actually do great things.
He listened. He took it in. But his situation never left his thoughts. They still didn't know what he looked like - exactly. But they knew enough. A particularly dark skinned Latino just over six feet. Slim, athletic, and carrying at least one bullet. But alone. He was supposed to be alone.
Curtis was explaining how structure, accountability was almost always welcomed by those who could excel. "If you don't define bad, you can never have good. And if you don't know what good is, how the hell will you ever be able to recognize greatness? You just gotta have a plan. What IS success? What does winning look like? How do you know when you've won?"
He paid for the man's bill and then for dessert and then for a cup of coffee and then another. Curtis even thought it had been his idea when he asked his new best friend and patron if he wanted to head over to Bierhaus to continue their conversation over German hops and barley. Curtis was a good man. A good talker without running out of words or eager listeners at the popular bar.
They had left the bar and moved on to a strip club. They eventually sat with Edgar. Edgar explained that he had his disability check sent straight to the club. The club cashed it for him and sat up a tab. They gave him the little bit of money he gave his mother for rent and he sat in his regular booth every day and every night until they closed the place down. He was like a mascot for the club.
Curtis greeted Edgar with a joke about the blond that was on Edgar's lap. The three of them laughed almost loud enough to be heard above the music. Curtis called him over and introduced him to Cindy - Sindy he found out when he went to the pisser and saw her little poster above the urinal. Back to Edgar. Edgar offered him his right hand. Even as he saw it, he was careful to not hesitate to shake it. And he smiled and over the music loudly said, "Nice to meetcha. Can I buy you a beer?"
Edgar had smiled back and said, "Naw. I get beers at cost. How about I buy you a beer and you by me a dance?"
And so they sat in the booth and Sindy and her friends Asshley with two s's of course (yet another poster) and Honey came over after their sets to snuggle comfortably between the three men. Edgar finally noticed him staring at his hands. He held them both up. On his right hand he waggled the only two fingers there. There were only two and they were exceptionally long. It almost looked like they were extensions of two bones in the forearm. And the thumb far down below from the two fingers. An afterthought. The left had three fingers plus another useless thumb. "It wouldn't be so bad if my name wasn't Edgar frigging Thomas. And no, I don't love Reese's Pieces either."
Curtis burst out laughing and despite himself and the stitches and the staples, he laughed too. He called for another round even though his wasn't missing an ounce. He looked over at Honey and couldn't tell if it had been a tough life or if she was just older than most strippers in the club. "Honey?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"I need you for a little something."
"Bet its not too little," she smiled back at him.
He saw them come through the door. The bouncers at the door had tried to frisk them and now one of the bouncers had a nose shattered and the other found a boot in his groin and his lunch moving up past his throat.
Before Honey saw, he whispered,"Take me for a private dance."
The noise was obvious after that but Honey couldn't care less. She had a fish on the hook. All that mattered was getting him in the boat. That changed when he had her by the throat. "How do I get out of here?" She looked back to the way they came. "NO! When the cops come. When vice decides they need a headline! Where do you go! Now!"
She never shouted out or shed tear but he did have to grab her hand when it came up with a razor. He had a full 3 seconds to realize where the folded blade must have been. It took him another 2 to appreciate the... control that had kept it there for the night. And yet another second to rule out bringing her with him.
As soon as the razor was on the floor she turned to look at the wall to the far left. He threw her towards it. She rolled with the momentum and had popped the hidden door open and was through it and just about to close it on him when he leaped through it. That was when the first shots fire-crackered back down the hall. He saw the next door vaguely in the darkness and dove for her ankles. She spilled in front of him and he drug her back to him.
"Don't move. I can get us out of this alive but you have to do exactly what I say." She stopped struggling and sat still. Her eyes were wide. But she didn't make a sound. Light flooded down the narrow hall way. Voices were in the hallway. Her breathing got quicker and louder.
Two shots. Two dead. And he looked back at her and smiled. "Get us out of here."
The days ran past them. It took him 9 days to get back to Wetta. It had turned out that his caution was well founded. The two men had had colleagues who had proven too smart to be led down a dark and cramped hallway like their fellows. He had kept the girl with him the whole time and used her again as a decoy when he had found a way to gain the upper hand. Two days later he felt confident to make his way back to Wetta.
He still had the girl with him in the elevator leading up to the penthouse. She had been quiet since they walked into the building. The elevator opened and they turned left and walked down the hall to the wide open living space with the floor to ceiling windows looking out upon Manhattan. And there sat Wetta. And she smiled with Curtis standing behind her. "How did he do?"
"He's almost as calculating as you said. Used me to ferret them out. Killed them without hesitation. But he did sleep with me on day four. Until the door to that elevator opened, I was beginning to think he might not bring me to you. And by the way, it is such a relief to be out of that strip club. But it was nice to be ogled again at my age." Honey - not her real name.
Wetta smiled at her. And reached to the glass coffee table and held up a small card - a post card. The picture on the front showed blue bonnets with a caption she could not read but apparently about Texas. "He mailed this to me. By the postmark it looks like he mailed it on day three of your little journey."
Honey - not her real name - no longer smiled but looked at him with a little bit of bewilderment and a little bit of respect. Wetta continued, "Only one line, 'Honey is sweet.'"
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Chapter 23: A Desperate Smile
He lay there breathing softly. Her head rested on his chest in that romantic way. She snored just above a whisper. He knew that bit of coolness trailing down his side was a thin line of drool. Movies never showed that. When she woke she would realize what had happened and would surreptitiously wipe it away from her cheek with her palm. And he would pretend that he had never noticed and she would pretend that she believed that.
He had been so gentle this time. There was not a hunger this time. There was not an urgency. It had been soft and delicate right up to that brief last moment when it is always savage and wild. The kisses - their lips - her lips... The feeling of her kissing him. The softness of her lips within his and around his and against his. Slowly and softly and familiar as they always were and strange and electric and teasing as they always were - her lips.
She had told him almost before he could close the door. He had heard her and understood her and still stood dumbfounded like he had never learned the language she spoke. She said it again and he had smiled so broadly and so desperately. His eyes had gone wide and the light reflected from them more brightly than a moment before. He thought he never wanted this. Realization: he had never wanted to want this. Her words only promised possibility. Pragmatism held him aware of all that could still go wrong. And he damned himself for not being properly lost in this happiness.
She woke as he shivered. She forgot herself and any embarrassment of sleep. She marveled at him. She had never seen this from him. She had not known this of him. He sobbed. Ginger cried.
She reached up to his cheek while softly breathing, "Shhhhhh. Its going to be alright. Its going to be wonderful. Its okay. Its okay."
After missing so many times, he managed to catch himself. He inhaled deeply... again. "Its more than okay. Its a Blessing."
He had been so gentle this time. There was not a hunger this time. There was not an urgency. It had been soft and delicate right up to that brief last moment when it is always savage and wild. The kisses - their lips - her lips... The feeling of her kissing him. The softness of her lips within his and around his and against his. Slowly and softly and familiar as they always were and strange and electric and teasing as they always were - her lips.
She had told him almost before he could close the door. He had heard her and understood her and still stood dumbfounded like he had never learned the language she spoke. She said it again and he had smiled so broadly and so desperately. His eyes had gone wide and the light reflected from them more brightly than a moment before. He thought he never wanted this. Realization: he had never wanted to want this. Her words only promised possibility. Pragmatism held him aware of all that could still go wrong. And he damned himself for not being properly lost in this happiness.
She woke as he shivered. She forgot herself and any embarrassment of sleep. She marveled at him. She had never seen this from him. She had not known this of him. He sobbed. Ginger cried.
She reached up to his cheek while softly breathing, "Shhhhhh. Its going to be alright. Its going to be wonderful. Its okay. Its okay."
After missing so many times, he managed to catch himself. He inhaled deeply... again. "Its more than okay. Its a Blessing."
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Chapter 22: Rogers
She finished pouring her drink. She turned to look at him over her shoulder, "Would you like something?" He shook his head no. She turned and walked over to the couch and sat without saying another word. She sipped her drink. She made eye contact with him and then looked to the chair across from her. He sat.
He knew better than to speak again. She would just fix him with a stare until he stopped talking. He had told her they had a problem. Maybe this silence let her gather herself. Maybe it was just to make him nervous. She had seen her like this before. Sometimes it had ended well for all involved. Sometimes..
She inhaled and smiled. "Have I ever told you my favorite story about Ginger?" He managed not to wince but he did blink. Even in this bit of discomfort, he was awed by her. How did she know? How much silk was in her web? He shook his head to say no.
"The thing I love about Ginger is that he is so controlled. Sometimes I thought he wouldn't actually sweat if he chose not to. But he was also implacable. Couldn't be stopped if set to a task. That was useful to me at times - most times actually. That ability to separate himself from his emotions, his needs, the petty concerns of the common - I found that very attractive. And familiar."
"He was never afraid of me. And he was not afraid of failure. He knew it was a part of life. An inevitability for anyone daring to do great things. He had no fear. And he did not lose himself to ego."
"But my favorite story. Happens to be true too. John Malleck. John Mallek was an earner. Ran our New Mexico interests for six years. Hated Ginger. Hated him. Professional jealousy was part of it. Race was another. Alpha male pissing on whatever he could." She blinked her disdain.
"Called Ginger "Rogers" every time he spoke to him outside my presence. And Ginger never once called him on it or told me about it. Other people made a point of letting me know. They thought it would lessen Ginger in my eyes. Make him look weak. I knew it was just the opposite. I admired the fact that Ginger kept control of himself like that. Went on for 8 months."
"Then one day it came to light that Mallek was skimming. And not a little. The man had been brazen. Most people in Ginger's shoes would have been worried about that kind of thing happening on his watch, under his nose. Not Ginger. He came to me with it immediately. And I gave him Mallek."
"I never saw Mallek again. I did see Ginger's knuckles though. Mallek did not die from a bullet to the head. I know that much."
He cleared his throat. "I should have come to you as soon as we thought he was missing. I know that."
She smiled. Not a friendly thing. "We haven't got to my favorite part of the story. After the deed was done Ginger came here. Iced his knuckles in that bucket right over there at the bar. He took a deep breath and told me that Mallek had never stolen a dime. He asked me why I had set him up."
"Because he disappointed me."
He knew better than to speak again. She would just fix him with a stare until he stopped talking. He had told her they had a problem. Maybe this silence let her gather herself. Maybe it was just to make him nervous. She had seen her like this before. Sometimes it had ended well for all involved. Sometimes..
She inhaled and smiled. "Have I ever told you my favorite story about Ginger?" He managed not to wince but he did blink. Even in this bit of discomfort, he was awed by her. How did she know? How much silk was in her web? He shook his head to say no.
"The thing I love about Ginger is that he is so controlled. Sometimes I thought he wouldn't actually sweat if he chose not to. But he was also implacable. Couldn't be stopped if set to a task. That was useful to me at times - most times actually. That ability to separate himself from his emotions, his needs, the petty concerns of the common - I found that very attractive. And familiar."
"He was never afraid of me. And he was not afraid of failure. He knew it was a part of life. An inevitability for anyone daring to do great things. He had no fear. And he did not lose himself to ego."
"But my favorite story. Happens to be true too. John Malleck. John Mallek was an earner. Ran our New Mexico interests for six years. Hated Ginger. Hated him. Professional jealousy was part of it. Race was another. Alpha male pissing on whatever he could." She blinked her disdain.
"Called Ginger "Rogers" every time he spoke to him outside my presence. And Ginger never once called him on it or told me about it. Other people made a point of letting me know. They thought it would lessen Ginger in my eyes. Make him look weak. I knew it was just the opposite. I admired the fact that Ginger kept control of himself like that. Went on for 8 months."
"Then one day it came to light that Mallek was skimming. And not a little. The man had been brazen. Most people in Ginger's shoes would have been worried about that kind of thing happening on his watch, under his nose. Not Ginger. He came to me with it immediately. And I gave him Mallek."
"I never saw Mallek again. I did see Ginger's knuckles though. Mallek did not die from a bullet to the head. I know that much."
He cleared his throat. "I should have come to you as soon as we thought he was missing. I know that."
She smiled. Not a friendly thing. "We haven't got to my favorite part of the story. After the deed was done Ginger came here. Iced his knuckles in that bucket right over there at the bar. He took a deep breath and told me that Mallek had never stolen a dime. He asked me why I had set him up."
"Because he disappointed me."
Chapter 21: A Dancing Butterfly
He sat behind his desk, arms crossed in front of him. He sat back in his chair and it fell back in forgotten expectation. The sudden rush of fear - the sharp intake of breath - every muscle tensing in adrenaline fueled impotence. A single butterfly danced up. Ginger smiled at himself.
He could not have planned a better way to put her at ease. At least as much as she could ever be at ease in his presence. He was fallible. Capable of fear. He could tell by her smile, suppressed but still struggling up to the surface however briefly, that some of the tension had gone out of her. She still sat ramrod straight in front of him with her hands folded within in themselves in her lap. Her dress came to a tasteful length at her knees. Her ankles were crossed like a proper lady.
He had refused to look to her ankle as she had limped into his office. He did look at her cane. The cane was something new. The discomfort must be increasing with age, he assumed. The cane was wood and a bit thicker that what you would normally see and it was polished to an impossible shine.
"I never wanted to see you again." She managed, somehow. to smile in a way that made the statement funny, if not exactly friendly.
"YOU were the worst night of my life."
He found himself. He had expected this. Accusation. NOT smiling. He could do that too. And he could do it better.
But she smiled, "And you were the best night of my life."
What?
It was everything he could do to keep from asking the question out loud. And then he wondered why it would be wrong to say it out loud. He was still debating when he heard his voice say, "What?"
It wasn't just his voice. His brows had gone up and then crinkled together. His chin had come up and to the left. Every tell he had ever had all at once. How did she do that?
"You gave me a life." She shrugged the phrase at him. "You gave me a limp. But you gave me a life too. What you did was outrageous. I had stolen from those women. I had. It was wrong. I should have been punished. That would have been just. What you did... What you did? You were a horror. A monster. What you did to me... I'll never walk without a limp. That's the horrible action of a terrible person."
Ah. We get to it. A monster. Evil. A bastard. He knew this script.
"And I am sorry I put you in that position." He felt himself swallow. None of this made any sense. And yet.. she gave him pause again.
"I knew I worked for Ms. Wetta. I knew what she could be like. In the back of my mind, I knew if I was caught, well, honestly, no addict thinks she will ever be caught. But I knew some of the things that had happened to people who had crossed her. And I knew that she never did those things herself. Someone would be ordered to do whatever thing she chose to do to me."
She pursed her lips at him. "I'm sorry you had to be that person."
He laughed. She pursed her lips a bit tighter. "Let me get this straight. You are apologizing to me for crushing your ankle? Really? My God, woman, What is wrong with you?"
"Not a thing. I know you had a choice to make. And I know you well enough, or I know of you well enough, to know that you have done far worse to other people than you have done to me. And I believe you will be held accountable for your decisions one day. I came here because I have to make amends. If I thought this would do you harm, I would be obligated to NOT come here. But I think you need to hear this: I forgive you. And I hope you can forgive me for putting you in that position - to have to make one of those horrible choices."
Her eyes glistened and this time it was her turn to swallow deeply. Ginger leaned forward with his elbows on his desk and looked at her. His face was blank - a mask. But another butterfly danced up from a dark place.
He could not have planned a better way to put her at ease. At least as much as she could ever be at ease in his presence. He was fallible. Capable of fear. He could tell by her smile, suppressed but still struggling up to the surface however briefly, that some of the tension had gone out of her. She still sat ramrod straight in front of him with her hands folded within in themselves in her lap. Her dress came to a tasteful length at her knees. Her ankles were crossed like a proper lady.
He had refused to look to her ankle as she had limped into his office. He did look at her cane. The cane was something new. The discomfort must be increasing with age, he assumed. The cane was wood and a bit thicker that what you would normally see and it was polished to an impossible shine.
"I never wanted to see you again." She managed, somehow. to smile in a way that made the statement funny, if not exactly friendly.
"YOU were the worst night of my life."
He found himself. He had expected this. Accusation. NOT smiling. He could do that too. And he could do it better.
But she smiled, "And you were the best night of my life."
What?
It was everything he could do to keep from asking the question out loud. And then he wondered why it would be wrong to say it out loud. He was still debating when he heard his voice say, "What?"
It wasn't just his voice. His brows had gone up and then crinkled together. His chin had come up and to the left. Every tell he had ever had all at once. How did she do that?
"You gave me a life." She shrugged the phrase at him. "You gave me a limp. But you gave me a life too. What you did was outrageous. I had stolen from those women. I had. It was wrong. I should have been punished. That would have been just. What you did... What you did? You were a horror. A monster. What you did to me... I'll never walk without a limp. That's the horrible action of a terrible person."
Ah. We get to it. A monster. Evil. A bastard. He knew this script.
"And I am sorry I put you in that position." He felt himself swallow. None of this made any sense. And yet.. she gave him pause again.
"I knew I worked for Ms. Wetta. I knew what she could be like. In the back of my mind, I knew if I was caught, well, honestly, no addict thinks she will ever be caught. But I knew some of the things that had happened to people who had crossed her. And I knew that she never did those things herself. Someone would be ordered to do whatever thing she chose to do to me."
She pursed her lips at him. "I'm sorry you had to be that person."
He laughed. She pursed her lips a bit tighter. "Let me get this straight. You are apologizing to me for crushing your ankle? Really? My God, woman, What is wrong with you?"
"Not a thing. I know you had a choice to make. And I know you well enough, or I know of you well enough, to know that you have done far worse to other people than you have done to me. And I believe you will be held accountable for your decisions one day. I came here because I have to make amends. If I thought this would do you harm, I would be obligated to NOT come here. But I think you need to hear this: I forgive you. And I hope you can forgive me for putting you in that position - to have to make one of those horrible choices."
Her eyes glistened and this time it was her turn to swallow deeply. Ginger leaned forward with his elbows on his desk and looked at her. His face was blank - a mask. But another butterfly danced up from a dark place.
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