Sonja Kowalski?
A wave of nostalgia shook me to the core and almost took me to my knees. I flashed back to my patrol days at Lynwood, the hot summer nights working a black-and-white with Sonja. Her beautiful eyes, the soft touch of her alabaster skin, her red hair, and most of all, her scent. Twenty-five years later I smelled her scent all over again, the same as if she stood inches away, that unique combination of woman and green apple shampoo, with a hint of hibiscus left over from her perfume.
“Bruno?”
“What? Oh, yeah.” I snapped out of my funk and turned to Salvador. “Thank you, sir.” I shook his hand again like some kind of absentminded professor.
He smiled. “I’ll see myself out. It appears you have other more pressing business to attend to.”
Glad he didn’t shoot me a knowing smile, the one I knew he kept in his pocket.
I followed along behind him, my mind racing far out ahead. He passed Marie, who stood in the doorway. I bent down to kiss her on the lips, and she turned away. “You need to get the phone. Then, little mister, we’re going to talk.”
Not “the little mister” routine. She only used that term in severe cases of misconduct by the children.
I tried to think back to the conversation Marie and I had about Sonja. We only spoke of her once, as far as I could recall, when she’d asked about Olivia’s mother. I winced at the memory. The words I’d used might’ve been a little misleading.
No, there had been no question about it. I had implied that Sonja was . . . I’d said that Sonja was . . . “Sonja’s dead.” That’s what I’d said. But what I had meant to say, and didn’t finish, was, “Sonja’s dead to me.” I’d cut out two small words, and now I’d pay dearly just for those two little words.
My thoughts shifted back to the problem at hand. How had Sonja found me? How had she gotten the phone number?
Marie followed along in bare feet. I couldn’t hear or see her and didn’t want to look back to confirm it. I just knew she’d be close in tow, her jaw set firm, her eyes angry beyond belief. I fought the urge to contract my shoulders in self-defense for the blow that was sure to come. I didn’t know how she’d kept from hitting me with some object close at hand. I deserved every bit of her anger.
In the entrance hall, I picked up the phone’s receiver and held it against my chest, where my heart beat out of control. I tried to compose myself.
Sonja, of all people—why would she be calling me now? I hesitated for a couple of those heartbeats to examine my emotions, to see if I still held out some fire for her, no matter how small or how unlikely.
And I did. I still did.
And it wasn’t that small.
Guilt for that feeling swept over me. I loved Marie beyond the other side of forever and would never do anything to hurt her. I didn’t want anything to change in our relationship, not when things hummed along so well. I knew when I had it good, and Sonja could only complicate matters. Could? She already had.
Marie stood close, staring up at me, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes a beam searing a hole right through me.
But Sonja had been my first true love. You never forget your first love. She and I had worked a patrol car together, one of the most intimate things a man and woman could do. Yes, I held something in my heart for her. Only now, that affection came out tarnished and old in comparison to what I had with my sweet Marie. Ours was new and fresh, something that would never tarnish or get old no matter what happened, even if an old flame suddenly interjected herself into our lives. I wouldn’t let it.
With my mouth drier than dry, I swallowed and said, “Hello.” The word came out in a croak.
“Bruno, is that really you?”
“Sonja?”
“Yes, it’s me, Bruno. Sonja.”
“What’s going on? Why’d you call?”
“Oh, it’s good to hear from you, too, Bruno, I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
Same old Sonja.
Marie went up on tiptoes to listen in.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “No, you’re right. How are you doing? It is good . . . no, great, to hear your voice again.” I looked askance at Marie just as she socked me in the shoulder.
Marie whispered, “Great? You had to say great?” Then, louder, she said, “I’m pregnant, Bruno.” She held up her fist. “And hormonal.” I nodded that I understood.
Back in the phone, Sonja said, “Not great, Bruno. I’ve got problems I can’t handle. Believe me or I wouldn’t be bothering you. Not now, not after all these years.”
“I wish I could help, really I do, but right now I’m into something myself that’s taking all of my . . . ah focus and . . .”
I didn’t want to brush her off, but I’d never felt more boxed in. Cannons to the left of me, cannons to the right of me, cannons in front of me.
“Okay,” she said, “I understand.”
We both let the silence over the line tear at our emotions. The nostalgia, just hearing her voice, threatened to choke me. Then she said, “You think I would have called if this wasn’t of the utmost importance?” Her tone turned angry at the end. Even though I loved Marie dearly, I didn’t want to make Sonja mad at me, either, and that wasn’t fair to Marie.
Sonja composed herself and took a deep breath. “Listen, about us, now that I’m older and some time has gone by, I’m willing to admit I was the one who had the problem. I was the one who broke us up even though you’d been the one to say the words. And I’m sorry for that, Bruno, really I am. I’ve needed to tell you that for a long time now. It was all my fault.” Her voice caught with tears.
Marie socked me again, lower this time. She stomped off down the hall. She slammed our bedroom door.
“Sonja, I’m married now and I have . . . I have ten children who rely on me.”
I wanted to tell her that I had a child on the way, but couldn’t get the words to materialize. I stopped to think, to figure out why I’d not said those words. Was it because I didn’t want Sonja to know how serious it was with Marie, or was it because I was ashamed at having a child at my age?
“My wife’s pregnant,” I said.
Sonja said nothing for a long moment, enough time for several thousand beats from my out-of-control heart. At least it seemed that long.
Then, “Congratulations, Bruno. I know you’ll be a great father.”
I didn’t know about that. I was about to leave on a mission that, in all likelihood, wouldn’t allow me to ever return to my family.
“Thank you,” I said, without much behind it.
“I’m going to only say one more thing to you, Bruno, and then I’m going to hang up.” She paused. “After that, you do what you think you need to do. All right?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“What I have to tell you needs to be said face-to-face. And, Bruno, hear me when I say you’re really going to want to hear this.” She paused again to let it sink in, then she said. “It’s Tuesday the 13th, and it was a blue Chevy.”
Click.
She’d hung up.