*
Bits of Sri’s memory came back, like the Tetris game he’d helped his friends with. Sussannah sometimes thought she saw that look in his eye. It took all of her will not to ask, Do you remember us having sex?
Whether he remembered or not, the damage was already done. The senior year housing lottery had come and gone, and Brent, Sussannah, and Marla had pointedly each pursued their own options. Marla was going to the Young Orchard Apartments, Brent was living off campus with Al, Sussannah was going to be a counselor in a dorm. Sam was graduating (going to film school), April would be moving to hospice. Environmental House would be Sri and whoever the new people were.
*
Sussannah and Sri were walking down Thayer.
“Are you Sri Patil?”
They turned. A man in a dark suit and sunglasses. Sussannah instinctively stiffened.
“FBI,” the man said, showing them a badge.
“Am I under arrest?” This was part of a liturgy Sri had memorized, that he’d been told could keep you from getting busted for pot. “Am I under arrest? Am I free to go? I do not consent to being searched.”
“You’re not under arrest,” the man said, smiling a little. “I just want to talk to you.” He motioned that Sussannah should scram. She felt reluctant; she didn’t want to leave him.
“It’s okay, I’m not under arrest,” he said softly.
Sussannah forced herself to turn and walk away. What it was, she realized, was that she was in love with him. For him, she’d lost her best friend—both of them. And you know what? She’d do it again. What an unimaginable gift it had been when he’d reappeared, and she knew right then it would be him. No matter what. Even if he never remembered her, she’d stay by his side. She’d wait.
Sri whipped around, yelling, “I remember! I remember! Sussannah!” And he started to run to her. She turned, her face blasting open with the stupidest smile, her arms opening.
And for reasons that no one seems to know, will probably never know, because those in power don’t have to tell anything when they declare that an incident has to do with “terrorism,” that’s when the FBI agent drew his gun and shot the running Sri right through the heart.
$1,000 NASSAU
BY THOMAS COBB
Triggs Memorial Golf Course
He was on the third tee at Triggs Memorial when he slid his left thumb to the right side of the grip, strengthening it. He swung hard, a little harder than usual, and watched the ball come off the tee, sailing upward and out before it started to draw to the left as he wanted, then turn harder, through the trees and over the chain-link fence and onto College Road. “Shit.”
“Your little draw grew up, didn’t it?” Victor said. “And looks like it ran away from home.”
He shook his head slowly. “It does that sometimes.”
“Looks like it wanted to go to college,” Don said. “Can’t blame it. Lots of pretty girls over there.”
Bobby took another Titleist from his pocket, teed it up, regripped the club, sliding his thumb back to the center of the grip, and sent the ball down the right side of the fairway, drawing back to the middle. “Why didn’t I do that the first time?” he said, anticipating the likely response. He walked off the tee and watched Don and Victor send shots down the middle, Don’s twenty yards short of his, Victor’s back another ten or twenty yards. “Good shots,” he said. “All of us.”
“Except we’re lying one and you’re lying three.”
“That’s okay,” Bobby said. “I’m all right.”
“You all right to increase the bet?” Don asked.
“I don’t know if I feel that good.”
“You think he’s playing, us, Vic?”
“First bad shot he’s hit, Don.”
Don went to his bag, took out a cigar case, extracted a cigar, already unwrapped, clipped the end, and lit it, expertly toasting it to get an even light.
“That smells good.”
“Because it is good. Montecristo No. 2. Straight from Havana, Cuba.”
“Nice,” Bobby said. “Hard to come by.”
“Nothing’s hard to come by if you have the right connections. I have the right connections. You want one?”
Bobby hesitated, tempted. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
Don nodded. “On the bet too?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“A thousand.”