“Out of what?”
“But you leave the door open, see?” He pointed to the letter B on the napkin. “So that I can slip in . . . Don’t worry,” Fred continued, looking me right in the eye, “he won’t suffer. Hell, he’s suffering now, isn’t he? With grief? We’ll be doing him a favor.”
“How did you know about Michelle?” I asked Fred suddenly.
“Who?”
“My daughter,” I said softly.
“I ran into Simone . . . what’s her last name? Your old friend from college?”
I took another sip of my drink, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Simone married a guy from Australia and moved there a million years ago. After one Christmas card with a picture of kangaroos pulling Santa’s sleigh, I never heard from her again.
“How else can we be together?” he asked me.
“But your wife . . .”
He grinned. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. She’s agreed to a divorce. She thinks I’m a no-good son of a bitch, and she said good riddance.” Fred reached across the table and took both of my hand in his. “I came looking for you. Third time’s the charm, babe.”
I didn’t know what to say. I stared at Fred, the man I had loved more than anyone ever. I stared at that napkin.
“You come straight here, and I’ll meet you under the clock.”
It felt like a dream. My whole life—Fred and Jim and even Michelle—all of it.
“We wait until the insurance pays off, then we go.”
“Go where?” I asked him. A plan was taking hold.
“Anywhere,” he said, smiling. “Where do you want to go?”
I shrugged. “Hawaii?”
“Sure, I like that.”
“Kiss me,” I said.
He leaned in.
“Not like that,” I said, and I moved to sit beside him in the red booth.
“Like this,” I said, kissing him until he couldn’t catch his breath.
*
The rain was cold and hard.
The next evening, I stood nervously under the Shepard clock, my umbrella clutched tight in my hand. The wind tugged it, and I couldn’t help but think of how Fred had saved me.
I felt like I waited forever before I spotted him approaching, his head bent beneath his own umbrella. I could make out those ridiculous sideburns, the mustache. His London Fog was belted tight against the storm. Already his wing tips looked soggy.
“Is it done?” I asked him when he reached me.
He lifted his face. He was still beautiful, I thought.
“Done,” he said.
“Do you think—” I began.
But he held up one finger and pressed it to my lip. “Believe me,” he said, “they won’t be able to recognize him.”
I nodded, trying to steady myself.
“It’s time to call,” he said.
I went to the phone booth and stepped inside. I dialed 911.
“My husband!” I said, trying to sound panicked. “I came home and found him. He shot himself! He’s dead!”
I broke into sobs, real ones, as if everything I’d had in me all this time was finally freed. The woman calmed me, asked for my address, said help was on the way.
When I stepped out of the phone booth, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out the airline tickets, just enough so I could see them.
“Honolulu,” he said.
I thought of mai tais on the beach. I thought of the ocean pounding the shore, washing away memories and pain and grief.
“The flight leaves at nine. We have plenty of time to get to Logan.”
“Kiss me,” I said.
My husband bent his face to mine and kissed me. We had not kissed in longer than I could remember and it felt good, right.
Jim hooked his elbow in mine, and we walked together through the cold April rain. I thought I could almost hear the faint sounds of the song “Michelle” playing in an empty house.
THE VENGEANCE TAKER
BY ROBERT LEUCI
Olneyville
While there are several names in this story from the public record, this is a fictional tale. The story is completely a creation of my imagination. —R.L.
Tommy Boyle, restless for life, a young man of twenty-four who had learned to live on his family’s connections, his nerves, and his boundless energy, made his way from his three-room apartment in Olneyville Square to the Federal Hill section of Providence. Once there, Tommy would borrow money, twenty thousand dollars, from a man some referred to as the Old Man, others called him George. His name was Raymond Patriarca, a mighty Mafia don and bon vivant. Tommy was hoping to launch a spectacular diner with the borrowed money. It was money for which he would pay a vigorish 20 percent weekly, a loan shark’s interest, collected with a half-smile and a baseball bat.