18

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sneak on the brown line El at Irving Park and save myself the walk. There are some benefits to knowing the system. And who’s going to arrest me?

My stomach turns as we pass Addison. Even though the lights are off, I can see Wrigley. The station is just past it. I wonder if Mason is there.

The train slides down the track loosely, knocking from side to side as it rights itself on the rails. Three college girls get off at Fullerton, giggling and intoxicated, concerned with where to get burritos and whether or not to bother with an eight-thirty class. A black man in an old coat watches them, probably wondering how they’ve managed so long without getting mugged. He digs through a plastic bag, produces an orange and peels it, dropping the rind back in the bag. The smell of citrus reminds me of Longboat Key. I wonder what it’s like. I wonder if I’ll ever know.

The train dips underground, now fast and certain on its track. I get off at Clark and Division.

On Division I walk past at least a dozen bars. Half of them have been around forever; they’re suburban-male traditions. The other, newer half seems to come and go in months. They’re geared toward younger, richer, more beautiful people who apparently get bored easily. I wish I had a few bucks. I need a drink.

I get to my building and a new guy mans the door: a young white kid with an olive tinge in his complexion. I decide he’s Greek. Though I’ve seen him before, I haven’t introduced myself. I don’t feel like it now, either. He lets me in, nodding his head as a welcome. I nod a thanks.

The lights are still on in my place and for a second I hope Mason is here, though I know he isn’t. I decide to go back downstairs to the liquor store, because I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep without a little help.

As I grab my bag, my answering machine beeps once, alerting me to a single message. So, do I play it now? Or do I get myself a bottle, and some nerve along with it, before I listen to what Mason has to say?

I push play.

“Sam, it’s me. Are you there? Pick up.” A pause. Is he formulating a story? “Look, I’m sorry I left. This thing is getting blown out of proportion. We have to trust each other.”

It’s going to take more than that.

“After I left,” he says, “I went to Fred’s house. Deb’s had guys staying over there, and it was Flagherty’s night, but his kid is sick. So I go over there, figuring I can maybe get some information while I’m at it. And she’s a total wreck. Apparently some insurance man had been there, asking questions that made her feel like she’d robbed a bank. I tried to comfort her, and—you’re never going to believe this—she starts coming on to me. She was so desperate. It was sad. And it hit me, you know, it made me think of you with someone else. I couldn’t handle it. Are you there, Sam? Are you listening?”

I am. And he’s got me hanging on every word.

“I hope you know I’m in this with you. Just give me time. And trust me.”

I want to.

“I’m going home tonight,” he continues. “I’ve got to do some damage control. I hope you understand. I wish I could be with you.”

Me too.

“I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up. Why wouldn’t he? He said everything I needed to hear.

I am shivering again. I can’t get rid of the chill running down my spine that reminds me of sitting in Fred’s yard, wondering if Mason is telling the truth.

And here I am, alone again. So I am having an affair with a married man. When do I start to feel cheated?

Instead of going out for alcohol so I can get drunk and emotional, I decide to cut out the middleman. I put on my pajamas, get into bed, pull the covers over my head, and cry myself to sleep.