Okay. The weekend’s over. We had a hockey tournament in Minneapolis, well, I guess that’s Minneapolis-St. Paul. It’s two cities together. Never been there before. I was talking to other parents, and we have another tournament scheduled in March in this area. It seems like a long way to go – I didn’t really think that hockey would be this serious a thing. Everyone is telling me that the boys have good hockey sense and are excellent hockey players for their ages. There was no way I could not have them on the same team – I couldn’t be in two places at once; so, Sam is playing “up.” He’s in a higher age level, on Kevin’s team, but Sam is big for his age and can take care of himself. Lord knows he’s been through more than any of these kids. They ooooh and aaah in the locker room about the scar from the gunshot wound in his front and back, he’s said. And he tells them that he got shot by some maniac and that his dad put his fist into the hole in his back and saved his life. So matter-of-fact. No parent has asked me about it, but I get the glances when I have my arm around Sam’s shoulder and we’re talking to one of the other parents. They wonder. I don’t say much.

And I don’t think he’s told anyone what happened with his mom – they know she is dead. That’s really all they know. I’m going to fast forward ahead – skip past some stuff. I’ll fill it in down the road. Jane died. You read the name – Joseph Butcher. Well, the story on Butcher was that he was the leader, the suzerain they called him, of the one group of “vampires” who were out to “get” Frank Morton.

While I’m sitting here writing about this stuff, a Kurt Vonnegut novel, Mother Night comes to mind, and its moral: You are what you pretend to be, so be careful about what you pretend to be.

Maybe that’s a true statement.

How did she die? We were in the pool, relaxing. The mist rising from the warm pool waters into the cool, clear, spring-night air reminded me of horror movies; but Jane had different thoughts -- the mist was mysterious, but romantic. She had me pinned against the side of the pool, face to face. The boys were down at the shallow end, playing out the latest adventure with the G.I. Joe action team.

By this time, and I’m getting way ahead of myself here, but who cares, Morton had been killed, and the case was over with. I mentioned Bronx Murallo, a lawyer, before. Janie said that he had called her and said that I was still in danger, even though Morton was dead. She told me this, pressed close, water warm and getting warmer. Bronx thought I was involved with some kind of a cult and that they were nuts, which worried Jane.

The telephone rang. Kevin grabbed the waterproof cordless phone. He said it was for me and swam on his back, left hand holding the phone in the air. Eric Waters, a lawyer at the firm, was on the phone. I should talk about Eric, not his real name; although, he said he didn’t care if I used his real name – that’s how he is. The boy has been a faithful friend. He interviewed with the firm and turned down an offer from a large firm in town to do trial work with me. Flattering, to say the least. He calls me almost every day to see how I’m doing. He got married last year. I was his best man at the wedding – I tripped and almost fell on the steps going to the altar. He sent me a DVD with the view from four cameras that were rolling. Very athletic, staying on my feet. Of course, it was a good laugh.

I have played this out every day for the last seven years – it was the last time I saw Janie. It’s never enough – you never know when you’re going to lose the one person that was made for you. I guess that is why you need to be on your best behavior at all times. You need to act like each time you are walking out the door to go to the store, to go to work, to take the kids to the doctor, that it might just be the last time that you’ll ever see the person you’ve made your life with. Time moves so imperceptibly in the moment, but so quickly in retrospect. It isn’t quite fair.

Eric’s voice was strained when he told me to come down to the office. Something had happened there – you know the voice after a while. He told me that he stopped by to get some files and found that my office had been ransacked. He was calm, but his voice was definitely strained. He was suppressing the panic you feel rising in your chest when you realize you're in over your head -- in a big way.

Jane wanted to know what was going on, but I am acutely aware right now that I didn't acknowledge her, which is something that stabs at my heart even now. Eric said that there were papers and files all over, chairs and my couch slashed up, and that I oughta get down here. I told him to call the cops and have them come over, but he thought I should come down there before he did that.

There was nothing in my office that could cause a problem, then I recalled the cocaine that was in the top drawer of Marty Mendelsohn's desk. He was a partner. I walked in on him one day, and he was setting up lines on his glass desk top. I pushed the lock button on his door and closed it on my way out without saying a word. Mendelsohn never said a word about the incident. He probably had a stash of pot, too. I saw him selling a few bags to the night doorman in the garage one night that I stayed late. So, I told Eric to call Mendelsohn and to tell Mendelsohn that the cops were gonna come into the office. I told Eric that he should tell Mendelsohn that I suggested he come down to the office to see if anything was taken from his office. I figured he’d be there within minutes to cleanse his office.

But that wasn’t what had alarmed Eric. He said, voice shaking, almost losing it in a panic, that there was blood everywhere. Pictures taken in a bedroom of a murder case I handled came to mind, and the queasiness returned. Eric was losing patience and control. He raised his voice, something he never had done to me before, and yelled at me to get my ass down there. The earpiece clicked as he slammed down the phone. I took it away from my ear and set it down on the concrete walk surrounding the pool; and Jane looked at me, her eyebrows close above her eyes. The pool light shimmered across her face as it reflected off the ever-rippling water. I couldn't see her eyes clearly, but I knew the look -- how bad was it?

I told her that I needed to go into the office and that there was blood all over my office and someone wrecked it. She asked if I wanted her and the boys to come along.

I pushed off the bottom toward the ladder, grabbed hold of the chrome pipe, hoisted myself onto the first rung, and climbed up. I padded around the pool, picked up one of the large beach towels and pulled it around me. And I told her, "No. I don't know how bad it is. I don’t know how late I'm gonna be.”

Jane popped out of the pool by grabbing onto the brick edge of the pool and pulling herself up, muscles in her arms rippling. I caught a glimpse of the white of her breasts below her tan line. The shiver I felt wasn't from the cool night air. And I remember thinking that I didn’t really have to go to the office. I looked at my wife -- and grabbed her.

She whispered in my ear, "You okay?"

I said, not really knowing at that moment what was going to happen, that time was at an end, "I think so. ... I love you."

And she told me to be careful. She kissed me. I held onto her, longer than I should have, but not as long as I wanted to. She wouldn't let me go. And I shouldn’t have let her go. Funny how writing this brings back the smell of her right at that moment. And a shiver. And she whispered, “Kind of like magic, isn't it," pressing against me hard. "Still works. Oughta use it more often," she said softly. True. That was the last time I saw her alive.

And that’s all I can do now. I need a break.

Comments

[Mark A. Rock]

We are trying to account for every Cosworth Vega ever made. If you really owned/still own one, can you provide any information on it. Dash #. VIN. Options. Mileage. Condition. Where is it now. Etc.

Thanks.

Mark/The WebCrew
(a fellow Clevelander)
www.cosworthvega.com