I’m not the sort to complain. God put me here. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s He who set me on my way even as I’ve erred.
Martha used to say that even the worst sinners can witness a miracle. I won’t say a miracle, but I’ve come to think that helping her has to be some form of salvation. Not forgiveness for what I’ve done, but if the Lord saw fit for her to be the only one to see me, maybe He really does work in mysterious ways.
When I saw Magic’s body with that red starburst spreading across his stomach, I was sure it was a mistake, that I was dreaming, that he was wearing one of those fake Hawaiian shirts with bright colors tourists love so much. But I was still holding that warm Beretta I knew so well tight in my hand. I wasn’t set on him dying. How could I be?
I was sobbing like a fool when I saw her come out of the trees. She looked like a ghost with her white dress and her shiny silver belt, her gray hair parted ever so nice and coming down to her shoulders and her eyes that were so light blue they almost looked washed-out. They made her look like she wasn’t even human. Truth be told, she terrified me. I figured she was an apparition and I could feel my whole body pulling back, like my heart would just snuff it in my rib cage, like I was going to fall apart, crumple up like a burst balloon. She looked at Magic on the ground with that starburst, which was a lake now, and the blood turning his whole shirt red. She glanced at him like he was just any old thing that’d fallen to the ground. She turned to me, eyed my hand still holding the gun like it wasn’t nothing.
And when she looked me in the eyes next, she didn’t seem scared. I couldn’t tell you what she saw in this old man in a suit holding a Beretta over a body, but I think I recall the faintest bit of a smile on her face. She didn’t give me a grin. It was a smile at something nobody but her could make out.
Later on, she proposed me a pact. Not with the devil, like I figured at first. A pact with God, she said. I didn’t see how she might be in any position to do such a thing, but she was offering me a salvation of sorts if I could prove myself worthy. So, God, answer me this: Why would a white woman be there in Central Park so late in the evening, with no witness other than those ice-blue eyes of hers, if it wasn’t a sign on Your part?
And all this while, every time I wake up, I can still see Magic standing over me. He doesn’t say a thing, he’s pale, he’s laid his hand on that hole in his belly like he’s ashamed of it, like he wants to hide it. And I, all I can do is curse myself for letting this rage that isn’t like me get the better of me. All I can do is cry my eyes out for my son.