Unleashed (30 page)

Hugh stopped us in the middle of the bridge. "Can everyone hear me?" he yelled over the rushing wind. People nodded. "This is totally illegal, so after we open the canister and we watch the ashes fall, we really ought to run. Those of you in the back should run back to Brooklyn and those of us in the front will run to Manhattan." More nods. "Before we go, I'd like to thank you all for coming. I know James would have loved this." People smiled sadly, and I felt a clench in my chest. Hugh turned to me. "Ready?"

"As much as I'll ever be." We leaned over the edge. Hugh removed the lid of the urn and tilted it toward the turbulent black water below. A gust of wind shot up just then and took James's ashes. They poured out of the urn and twisted up into the light-polluted clouds. The wind stopped, and James remained suspended right in front of us for just a moment. Then the gust continued on its way. Up, up, and away. Hugh wrapped his hand into mine, and we ran.

###

I
woke up on Nona's couch with Blue on top of me. He was crushing my legs, and I tried to push him off me. He warbled with his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. I couldn't help but laugh. Nona came into the room and smiled at my predicament.

"Tea?" she asked.

"Please." I pushed Blue onto the floor and made my way into the bathroom. I turned on the tap and started brushing my teeth. Since the funeral, everyone I talked to kept saying that now my life would get back to normal. The suggestion being that James's death was something I, like most victims of violent crime, would recover from, that one day it would no longer sit on top of my brain affecting every single fucking second of my life.

The people who thought my life could be normal again didn't know shit. Someone tried to kill me, and it was only a matter of time before they came back and tried again. I was so scared that I actually left fear behind—like when it gets so hot that you stop feeling the heat, and everything is just in slow motion.

The bruising on my face was still a brilliant yellow with patches of green. The finger marks on my neck were already gone. The cuts stayed hidden under bandages, which I pulled off as a part of my morning routine. I applied fresh Vaseline, then new white cotton pads. I knew that within the week the stitches would dissolve and I'd be left with just white scar lines. I thought it was possible I might miss the pain, the constant tending to the wounds. They were this very real, easy reminder of how much I hurt.

"You want toast?" Nona asked through the door.

"Yeah," I said. The doorbell rang. When I walked out of the bathroom, my mother was standing on the threshold. She looked uncomfortable and tired. Her face was bare, her skin sagging on the bones. I recognized James's and my gray eyes.

"How about I take Blue out for his walk?" Nona suggested, slipping into a pair of clogs. "Come on, boy." Blue bounded over to her, holding his leash in his mouth. "What a good boy," Nona cooed. They left, and I was alone with my mother.

"You can come in," I told her, my voice hard and defensive. She took small steps into the hall, and I closed the door behind her. I gestured for her to continue into the living room. We sat down on Nona's couch after I pushed my bedding to one side. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to come and say good-bye. Bill and I are leaving now."

"Good-bye." She twisted her wedding ring and looked at me with wide eyes. "You have something to say?"

"I'm worried about you."

I smiled. "Don't be."

"Are you OK for money?"

"Yes."

"Where will you live?"

"I don't know."

She looked out the window. "I remember when your grandparents first moved here."

"Yeah."

"We were close then, you know?"

"I know."

"We were so young—" She looked back at me and didn't finish her thought.

"I know, Ma. I know."

"I wish—I wish I could be a better mother to you."

"So do I."

Her eyes filled with tears. "I love you very much." Her chin shook uncontrollably. Tears dripped down her face and onto that stupid wedding ring that she just kept turning round and round.

"I love you too, Mom." I didn't want to cry, but she grasped at me. She pulled me into her, and she still smelled like my mother—like the woman who made my lunches, walked me to the school bus, who had laughed at all my Dad's jokes. She still smelled like she was supposed to. So I cried, too. We cried together because James was dead, because we didn't even know each other, because there was nothing left to do but sob.

She wiped the tears off my face with the hem of her awful skirt, and I smiled at her. "I wish you had come to the funeral, Mom."

"I should have," she said, a hint of defiance in her voice.

"Was it Bill?" She looked back down at her wedding ring.

"He has very high expectations of me," she told me. I didn't want to argue, so I left it at that. "I want to give you something," my mom said after a moment of silence. She reached for her white leather purse, opened the giant brass clasp, and pulled out an envelope. "This is from Bill and me, to help you get back on your feet." She pushed it into my hands and stood up quickly. I could tell it was money.

"Mom, I don't want this." She was already moving toward the door, and I followed her quickly. "I don't need this." She opened the door and was going to leave. I grabbed her wrist. "I'm not taking it."

"Oh, please, please do."

"I don't want this money. It's dirty." She was about to start to cry again.

"Please. I want you to have it," she said.

"Do the people who donated it want me to have it?" She pulled herself free from me and fled down the hall. I started to follow her but gave up before I'd even begun the chase. Her skirt swished behind her as she disappeared down the stairs. I stayed staring at that empty hall for a long time, trembling.

A
s I walked from the subway east toward the river, my stomach clenched, flipped, and threatened to empty itself. When I was last here, James was alive. He was walking around talking to people. And now he was a million little pieces in the air, all around me, everywhere.

Snowball jumped up in her cage, pushing her small pink paws through the bars when she saw me. At the dog run, I got a bunch of hugs, some sorrowful nods, and all the gossip. It was good to just sit there and let them talk. I heard about the new doorman at one of Fiona's buildings and the puppy a young couple had bought. "Having trouble with house-training," Marcia told me.

"They should be here soon," Fiona said, looking around.

"It's funny," Elaine whispered to me.

"They are so desperate to praise him for going outside they scare him," Marcia said.

"They've read too much," Fiona decided.

"Have you guys heard anything about Julen?" They all looked away from me. "What?" Marcia glanced at my face and then at a nearby tree. "Guys, what's going on?"

"He killed himself," Marcia mustered the courage to tell me.

"No." I felt a sinking inside me.

"I'm afraid so. His testimony is what got Mrs. Saperstein indicted and after that—in fact that same night, he cut his wrists." I couldn't speak. Poor Julen. He had been caught in the middle of something so not to do with him, and it killed him. I wondered if he'd killed himself or been murdered. But it didn't matter whether by his own hand or someone else's—this was all Kurt Jessup's fault. And poor Mrs. Saperstein was going through hell because her husband had wanted to run away with his lover.

"This is horrible," I said.

"At least that Jacquelyn is getting what she deserves," Fiona said. "If it weren't for her, Julen would still be alive."

"Not to mention her husband," Marcia added.

"You guys really think she did it?" I asked.

"Isn't it obvious? I mean Julen admitted that she wasn't with him. She was the only one who had access to that toupee; she matches the description of the woman seen leaving the scene of the crime."

"But isn't that all circumstantial? I mean, is there any physical evidence?" I asked.

"Her fingerprints are on the toupee," Fiona told me.

"But Toby chewed on it. How could there be prints?" I defended her.

"If it wasn't her leaving the scene of the crime, who was it?" Elaine asked, her face the picture of innocence. The other women nodded.

"I don't know," I admitted.

I walked into Snaffles' house and discovered Cecelia asleep on the couch, a picture of her younger, accused sister, held to her breast. I listened to the gentle purring she made as she slept and had an overwhelming urge to protect her—to stop all the pain she had ever known, to solve all of her problems. But that was stupid. So instead I took the dog for a walk.

Although the day was warm, I felt chilled. A strong wind blew off the river and raised goose bumps on my skin. I felt someone watching me. Turning quickly around, I saw him—the hulking stranger, the man with the hot breath. He was walking behind me, following me.

###

A
t first I thought he was there to kill me, but he just watched. I decided to call the large man following me Bob. Bob followed me all day. At first Bob tried to hide himself, but soon he realized (I waved at him) that I knew he was there. Whether behind a tree, around the corner, riding in a different elevator, I knew Bob was with me. He watched Snaffles and I go around the block; he meandered through the park as Toby and I walked in it. Bob stood outside Charlene's building when I went to see Oscar. But Oscar was gone. The apartment was empty. I hoped Charlene had come for him, but an open window worried me. I filled his food and water, just in case he decided to come home.

After my work was done, Bob followed me to the subway and observed me get on a train headed for Brooklyn. I don't know why Bob didn't kill me. Maybe the mayor was saving that for himself. Or maybe, just maybe, he was afraid of me. I'd proved myself pretty hard to kill, I thought, as the train passed over the Manhattan Bridge, and I looked out into the darkening skyline. Maybe I made Kurt Jessup nervous, and just maybe he didn't know what to do about me.

I went to Nona's, picked up Blue, and went walking. I headed deeper into Brooklyn. Blue followed me, not bothering to pull over for whiffs of trees or sniffs of trash cans. He stayed directly behind my left leg; we moved in unison.

I wasn't looking for answers or a solution or anything, I was just walking. I was a little surprised when I found a gun shop. "You ever used one of these before?" the greasy man on the other side of the counter asked me. I didn't answer him.

"I want one that holds a lot of bullets." I paused. "And I need a silencer." The man's yellowed tongue shot out and flicked at his chapped lips.

"You need a permit for that kind of thing, you know."

"Show me that one." I pointed through the glass at a nice-sized silver gun. He placed it in front of me. "Can I get a silencer for this?" He turned around, opened a drawer, and came back with a black silencer. He screwed it onto the end. "I'll take it," I told him. He put the gun down in front of me.

"It takes a couple of days. You can't just walk out of here with a gun." I pulled out my mother's envelope of guilt money and laid hundred-dollar bills on the counter until the gun was in its box, in an unmarked bag. I held a bill in the air and asked, "Bullets?" He dropped a box into the bag. I placed the bill on the top of the stack, picked up my purchases, and left. The weight of the bag filled me with a deep and satisfying pleasure.

That night on Nona's couch, I dreamed I was on top of the mayor, pushing on his eyes. But this time I didn't pussy out. This time I pushed his eyes into his head. Blood exploded out the back of his skull, and he laughed and laughed.

###

I
decided to take the gun to work with me the next day. It is illegal to carry a gun in New York City, let alone one you don't have a permit for, but I didn't care. If anything, I liked the element of danger the gun brought to my daily life. I liked the weight of it in my purse but decided that I wanted a shoulder strap just like the good guys on TV—or maybe a garter holder. Wouldn't that be sexy?

A large woman sat across from me on the subway as I pictured the perfect place to put my pistol. She was not just wide but also tall. She sat in the middle of two seats, on the rise meant to separate them. She had long red hair with white roots, yellow teeth, and an under bite. Her tank top revealed soft arms with hairy pits. Her eyes were a clear, focused blue.

She was listening to an iPod that she held in one of her large, manly hands. "Ya'll gonna make me lose my cool," she half sang, half said out loud. "Take some shit," she bobbed her head. "All was his pain, they say we could play the game." On the chorus, "X is gonna give it to you, X is gonna give it to you," she bounced with the music, first to the left and then to the right.

At the Brooklyn Bridge stop, a mariachi band boarded the train in costume. The beaded jackets and sombreros sparkled under the florescence. They began to play a sweet and sad song. The men swayed with the motion of the train and just managed to be heard over its squeaking and wheezing. The woman across from me continued to bounce and announce that X would indeed get us all. The mariachis sang a song I didn't understand but guessed was about a love first found and then lost. One or two of the other riders glanced up to look at the brightly dressed men and then returned their gaze to whatever they had brought to look at. No one looked at the woman across from me.

My phone beeped to let me know I had a message as I stepped out of the dark subway into another sun-filled July day. "Hi, Joy. This is John Heart. Give me a call back when you get a chance." I called him back.

"Joy, I wanted to let you know that we're going to be able to let you back into your apartment this week."

"I'm moving."

"I can understand. The thing is, it's a rental, right?"

"Yeah."

"That means you're responsible for the cleanup." I couldn't hear for a second as a bus barreled past me.

"Cleanup?" I asked.