Chapter Seven

JOLIMONT, PENNSYLVANIA, BEGAN AS a small trading post where French trappers, Seneca Indians, British merchants, and enterprising colonists came to indulge in beaver and booze in the shadow of a rolling range of calm green mountains not far from a small, slowly snaking river that eventually leads to a branch of the Susquehanna.

The town itself was never much to look at, just a few ramshackle buildings. No real businesses, not even a general store. No tradesmen except for a blacksmith and a tanner, who also served as a surgeon and dentist when needed and when threatened. And only one place to get a meal or a room or a drink: the Jolimont Inn.

It wasn’t the town that people remembered but the surroundings. There were far more spectacular natural settings to be seen, but this was a place that called out to a traveler to stop awhile and feel at peace. The mountains were protective but not intimidating like the daunting ranges farther west; they were wild but not unruly, lush but not gaudy.

One hill stood out more prominently than all the others. It was a little broader, a little higher, and because of the large number of elm trees growing there, whose buds were red-tipped before turning green, the entire hillside was tinged a hazy, dark pink each spring.

When describing how to get there, the French always ended their directions by saying the town was “au pied du joli mont.”

At the foot of the beautiful mountain.

Over time—after the beaver were trapped and hunted into near-extinction along with the Indians, and the French and British were asked to leave, and the colonists became known as Americans—the town lost its original reason to exist, and may have ceased to exist altogether if it wasn’t for the farms surrounding it and the Jolimont Inn, which continued to be a useful stopping-over point for people journeying to and from Pittsburgh and points beyond.

Then an ancient black rock that could be dug and blasted out of its hillsides and sold in vast quantities to factories and steel plants was discovered. The town had its new and final reason to exist.

However, Jolly Mount never thrived the way some coal towns did. It wasn’t the site where the area’s most powerful coal baron, Stanford Jack, decided to base his operations. He and his partner, Joseph Peppernack, chose a town called Centresburg, farther south, where more of his mines were located.

Jolly Mount never had the shops and the amenities that came along with the mansions belonging to the mine operators and the other men who were successful in businesses related to or dependent on mining. It never had the impressive courthouse and marble-columned bank. It also never had the noisy, grimy backstreets lined with overcrowded, company-built row homes.

It’s stayed basically the same, supplying only the most pressing needs of its residents, most of whom prefer to live scattered throughout the countryside rather than along Route 12, the main road through town.

Jojo and her sister mine, Beverly, still provide most of the jobs. Kids still play around the smoldering bony piles despite their mothers’ warnings. The beautiful mountain is still here, too, but the French pronunciation of the town’s original name is long gone, having been modified over time to fit the American tongue.

The only things French left in town are the way lovers kiss and the fries at Jolly’s when the grill is working.

I finish my tour guide version of the town’s history just as Gerald Kozlowski and I arrive at Jolly’s.

He doesn’t comment, but he did listen attentively when he wasn’t on his cell phone, which was most of the time. The calls were all from clients, and consisted predominantly of assurances from him to them that everything was under control.

He didn’t seem to care if I overheard his side of the conversations, and I understood why since he never said anything that could be useful to someone trying to figure out what he was up to, but I did notice a change in the way he spoke depending on the caller.

For some, his language was formal, aloof, and peppered with big words: a voice that promised success and prosperity yet was laced with an underlying menace and detachment, like a dictator addressing the starving masses below his palace balcony.

With others, he softened his voice, simplified his vocabulary, and sounded almost as if he were trying to console and control a child.

Jolly’s parking lot is full. Saturday nights are usually pretty busy and tonight is no exception.

The weather turned cooler after the sun went down but the evening’s still warm for this time of year. People have spilled out of the bar onto the porch with their cigarettes and beers to enjoy the clear, mild night, the women in jeans jackets and the men in insulated flannel shirts.

Kozlowski has made an attempt to look more casual and blend in by putting on a pair of jeans, but they don’t help much since he’s still wearing his Prada loafers and the black T-shirt and blazer. At first I thought the jacket was the same one he wore earlier but now I realize it’s a slightly lighter shade of black.

“So what color do you wear when you’re feeling really festive and light-hearted?” I ask him as we push through the people gathered on the porch, all of them greeting me and eyeballing him. “Charcoal? Ash gray?”

He glances at me. I’m wearing a pair of jeans, high-heeled, dusty rose suede boots with snakeskin toes, a silver tank top, my Stetson, and the cropped pink leather motorcycle jacket I bought for myself for my fortieth birthday a couple months ago.

“Adults who wear bright colors are either tasteless exhibitionists,” he says to me, “or people trying desperately to seem festive and light-hearted when in actuality they wish they were dead.”

We start making our way to the bar, but he gets distracted by the Jolly Mount Mine Disaster clippings and photos posted on the wall.

The story from yesterday’s newspaper about the Jolly Mount Five suing J&P Coal has been added to the display.

Someone has already written the words, “Fuck you,” in pen next to the headline. I don’t know if the sentiment is directed at Cam Jack or the miners.

I leave Kozlowski there while I continue on to the bar to get a drink. It’s packed. The tables are full, too.

I spot E.J. and Ray down at one end. Ray waves and smiles and calls out to me.

E.J. looks in my direction, then goes right back to looking into his glass of whiskey.

He’s sulking because I called him a slut earlier. And a pig. And then I think I called him disgusting, too. But none of that matters because I’m sure he started it. I’m sure he said something insulting to me first; I just can’t remember it anymore.

He’s always had this uncanny ability to make me feel like I’ve treated him badly when I haven’t. Usually, he’s the one who’s treated me badly, then when I react to him treating me badly, he acts like my reaction came out of the blue and I’m some kind of crazy, violent, overly emotional, female head case.

“Hey, Champ.”

Sandy appears in front of me. She holds up a fist, shakes it, and smiles.

“You really beat the crap out of Choker,” she shouts over the barroom din. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” I tell her. “Let me have a beer.”

“On the house,” she says.

Kozlowski joins me.

Sandy eyes him appreciatively and blushes profoundly.

“Grey Goose and tonic,” he orders. “On crushed ice.”

A shadow of panic crosses her face.

“Grey Goose is a brand of vodka.” I help her out.

“Oh, sure. I knew I’d heard of it. I’ve seen ads for it in magazines at my hairdresser. No, we don’t have that here. I’m sorry.”

“Absolut?” he asks.

She nods.

“I’m absolutely sure.”

“Absolut vodka,” he states.

“Give him a vodka and tonic,” I tell her. “Whatever vodka you have will be fine.”

I turn to him.

“Come on, Gerry. Lighten up. Surely there’s been a time in your life when you weren’t drinking top-shelf liquor.”

He studies me for a moment, trying to figure out how to play me. Should he let me into his confidence a little? Should he keep me completely on the outside?

“I prefer Gerald,” he says.

“Okay, Gerald. There’s a couple friends of mine at the end of the bar. They’re also two of the Jolly Mount Five. Come on. I’ll introduce them to you.”

We walk over to E.J. and Ray, who are leaning with their backs against the bar now, watching a game of pool. I tell them Gerald’s visiting from out of town. He’s a lawyer from New York. They both look less than enthused.

“Let me guess; you’re not crazy about lawyers,” Kozlowski says with a far nicer smile than he’s ever tried using on me.

E.J. and Ray look at the hand extended toward them.

“Not exactly,” Ray replies.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a chance as an individual before you pass judgment on me in regards to my profession. You know what they say, ninety percent of lawyers give the rest a bad name.”

“That’s a lot,” Ray comments.

Kozlowski looks over at me.

I stick my face in my draft and shrug.

“It’s a joke,” he explains.

Ray pushes his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes and off his forehead, which is prematurely marked with heavy lines that come from the constant pinched expression most people think is a scowl but is actually concentration.

He’s wearing a pale yellow shirt pinstriped in blue. The material is so thin, his sleeveless undershirt is visible beneath it. His shorts are cutoffs that come down to his knees. His sneakers are black canvas with matching holes where his big toes have pushed through. He keeps his tube socks pulled up to the middle of his calves.

Growing up, Ray was one of the truly poor kids like me, but unlike me he never learned to stop dressing like one.

No one looks more at home in a scratched hard hat and dirty rain gear with a miner’s tool belt strapped around his waist than Ray does, but every time I see him in a social situation his outfits bring back every uncomfortable memory I have of all the hopelessly unfashionable, ill-fitting hand-me-downs I was forced to wear to school: the flood pants; the frayed, discolored collars on the cheap polyester blouses that always had snags running down the sleeves and quarter-sized shadows of permanent mystery stains dotting the front; the scuffs on the shoes and the slapping echo they made walking down the hall when the soles began to fall off; the faded T-shirts with outdated slogans or corny decals that only kids who weren’t given a choice would ever have the guts to put on their bodies.

Ray takes Kozlowski’s hand and they shake.

I look down at my ensemble. My clothes may be tasteless in the opinion of some, but they were never worn by somebody else first.

E.J. shakes his hand, too.

“We had a guy in school with a name like yours,” Ray ventures.

Kozlowski smiles again and tilts his head a little like he’s trying to understand.

“You mean Polish?” he asks.

“Well, of course there were lots of kids with Polish names. There’s tons of Polacks work in the mines. My own mom’s Polish. No, I mean a guy with a name like Gerald.”

He elbows E.J.

“You know who I’m talking about? Remember him? What was his name?”

E.J. takes a drag off his cigarette and looks thoughtful.

“You mean that Jonathan kid?”

“Yeah, that was it: Jonathan. Not John or Johnny or Jay.”

They fall silent for a moment.

“Jonathan,” Ray says, nodding his head.

“Jonathan,” E.J. repeats.

Ray smiles. “You remember him?”

E.J. nods.

“Yeah.”

Kozlowski looks blankly from one to the other then back at me again.

I pop a few peanuts in my mouth and shrug again.

“You wanted to talk to locals,” I say.

“So you two are part of the Jolly Mount Five?” asks Kozlowski, making an attempt at conversation.

This is the wrong subject to pick, but I let him plow on.

Neither E.J. or Ray responds to Kozlowski’s question. They continue drinking and watching him.

“You were heroes,” he adds.

“We weren’t heroes,” E.J. counters immediately. “We didn’t do anything heroic.”

“We were survivors,” Ray adds. “There’s a big difference.”

“I can see the distinction,” Kozlowski says, “but still a lot of people feel you have to have a certain amount of strength and courage to survive something like that.”

Ray nods.

“A lot of people called us heroes, but we never saw it that way. We even had some guy from a toy company who wanted to make action figures of us. Remember that, E.J.?”

E.J. nods.

“Remember what Jimmy asked him? He asked him if the action figures were going to be part of a series: trapped coal miners, Indians on reservations, starving Africans, paralyzed soldiers in wheelchairs. He said they could call the collection Luckless Bastards.”

They both smile broadly at the memory.

“Or maybe Lucky Bastards would be a better name since you’re all survivors,” Kozlowski suggests.

“Maybe,” Ray says but the smile leaves his face and E.J.’s and neither of them look convinced.

“So what do the two of you do for a living now?”

“We work in the mines,” Ray replies.

“You went back in the mines after what happened to you?”

“What else are we gonna do?”

“I guess I don’t know.” Kozlowski looks authentically stunned. “But surely there has to be something else you can do. Wasn’t there a book deal and a movie deal? Didn’t you make some money from that?”

“Yeah, we made some money from that but not as much as people think. People think we’re millionaires now but we’re not,” Ray starts to explain. “And what people don’t understand is when you make a big unexpected chunk of money like we did, there are all kinds of rules and regulations and fine print the IRS comes up with so you end up paying about half of it in taxes, and as if that’s not enough, then they use this new money—which you ain’t ever gonna make again in your life ’cause you’re sure as hell not planning on getting trapped in a mine again—to say now you’re in a new tax bracket and that allows them to take more money than usual out of your regular paycheck, which hasn’t gone up at all. Then you got to pay an accountant to do your taxes for you ’cause there ain’t no way in hell you can figure them out by yourself anymore.

“And in order to get any of this money from these deals in the first place, you have to get an agent to negotiate things for you and a lawyer to make sure everything’s on the up-and-up, including what the agent’s doing. So by the time you pay all these people and the government and you buy everyone in your family a new dishwasher, there ain’t really that much money left. Especially if your wife makes you buy a bigger house and she goes out and buys a sports car along with a bunch of other stuff.”

I check on E.J. He has his cap pulled down as far as it can go without interfering with his drinking. It looks like he’d crawl into his glass of whiskey if he could.

I can’t tell if he’s reacting to Ray’s tendency to talk too much or if he’s hiding from a woman he jilted.

I scan the patrons and notice a blonde standing by the pool table in a pair of low-rise, acid-washed jeans, with a Tweety Bird tattoo on her shoulder and her tits practically popping out of a too-tight black halter top, shooting daggers at him from between her heavily frosted blue eyelids.

“But, see”—Ray moves closer to Kozlowski, taking him into his confidence—“no one wants to hear this. No one wants to hear us bitch about the fact that some TV company gave us each $100,000 for doing nothing just so they could make some movie about something that happened to us that was beyond our control.

“Everybody wants to think we’re millionaires so they can either hate us or be happy for us, but at the very least we give them something to talk about.”

E.J. noticeably cringes at the thought of people talking about him.

“What about the other three? Are they still working in the mines, too?”

“Our boss took early retirement. E.J.’s dad, Jimmy, lost his leg, so he’s not working anywhere anymore. Dusty took his money and opened a restaurant. It just went out of business a couple weeks ago.”

Sandy comes by with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to refill E.J.’s glass.

“You want another beer?” she asks me.

“Is it on the house, too?”

“Sure. One more.”

“Why are you getting drinks on the house?” Ray asks.

“I escorted Choker out of the bar earlier today.”

“I heard about that,” Ray replies. “What was that about? Unfinished police business?”

“I heard he made fun of her tits,” E.J. comments.

He winces the moment the words leave his mouth. I can tell he regrets it, but he won’t apologize and I’m not going to cut him any slack.

I notice a table opening up near the door, and I tap Kozlowski on the shoulder.

“Let’s go sit over there,” I shout at him over the noise. “I want to talk to you alone.”

I say good-bye to Ray and turn my back on E.J.

“Why did you want to come over here?” Kozlowski asks me before we’re even seated. “I didn’t get a chance to ask them if they know Shannon.”

“You don’t need to ask them because they would have told you what I’m about to tell you.”

I let the tension build for a moment while a country-western star on the jukebox sings about a flag he’s proud of and a life he can hang his hat on.

“Shannon Penrose is my sister,” I announce. “She ran away eighteen years ago, and I haven’t seen her since. Up until meeting you, I didn’t even know if she was dead or alive.”

He sits back in his chair and cradles his drink in his crotch.

“Why did you lie to me?” he finally asks.

“I didn’t know anything about you. I didn’t know if I could trust you. Maybe you wanted to hurt her. But then I thought about it and since I can’t tell you where she is, I figured I might as well be honest and see if in return you’ll tell me what you know about her.”

He thinks about my proposition while swirling the ice in his drink. The bar is loud, but all I hear are the cubes clinking against the glass.

“Shannon and I have known each other for several years,” he tells me.

“In New York?”

“In New York.”

“Is that where she lives?”

“Yes. During that time we’ve worked together on several projects. She recently broke one of our business agreements, and that’s why I’m trying to find her.”

“What kind of business?”

“That’s as much as I’m going to tell you.”

“You said you had something you wanted to give her? What is it exactly? A bullet in the head?”

“No. Nothing like that. I don’t want any harm to come to her. On the contrary, I want her healthy. I don’t have anything to give her. I just want to talk to her and try and convince her to come back to New York with me.”

I wonder if he’s the father of the baby, but if he is, why would he say they have a business arrangement? What could Shannon possibly do that would lead her to get professionally involved with a lawyer? Then again, he could be lying about everything.

“What makes you think she’d be here?”

He doesn’t answer for a few minutes. I can tell he’s trying to decide how much he should tell me. He doesn’t trust me either.

He takes a sip of his drink, then leans over the table so I can hear him better.

“In all the time I’ve known her, she never told me anything about her past. Nothing about her family or the place where she grew up.

“Then one day a couple of months ago I was visiting her at her apartment, and she had the TV on. An ad from General Electric came on. It was a group of sweaty, half-naked, gorgeous models—male and female—strategically streaked with dirt, pretending to be coal miners. The point of the ad was to say that now there’s technology that can make coal a viable energy source again. The catchphrase was something about coal being beautiful.

“She flew into a rage. I’ve never seen anything like it. Especially from Shannon. She started ranting about how there’s no way coal can ever be a clean fuel. There’s no technology that can accomplish this. Anyone who’s ever lived in a coal town knows this. It’s all lies. And the new technology they’re talking about is all automated so it’s not going to bring back any jobs. It’s not going to help any of the people living in coal mining regions, but what it is going to do is continue to ruin the land that’s finally begun to heal and contaminate the water and pollute the air. And for what? To make rich people richer. All the coal companies are owned by oil companies now. It’s all the same thing. They’re all owned by the same men. It’s not an alternative to oil. It’s not going to give us cheaper energy. It’s going to kill us. They’re trying to kill us.”

He pauses to take another drink.

“I couldn’t believe it. Shannon is the least excitable woman I’ve ever known, not to mention I’ve never heard her utter anything that could even remotely be construed as political. For the longest time she thought Condoleezza Rice was the name of that little Hispanic actress on Desperate Housewives.

“After she calmed down, I was able to get her to talk a little bit about what set her off,” he goes on. “That was when she told me her father was killed in a coal mine in Jolly Mount, Pennsylvania, a long time ago.”

“Twelve years ago,” I supply for him.

“I asked her if that wasn’t the same town where the miners had been rescued a couple of years ago. She said it was. She never talked about the town again, but I’ll never forget how upset she was and how attached she seemed to be to the place. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought she’d just left it a couple of months ago instead of years ago and that she was terribly homesick. It was so out of character. Coming here was just a hunch.”

His attention swings away from me. He’s watching someone walk toward us.

He stands with his handshake at the ready.

“I’m heading out,” I hear E.J. say.

“It was nice meeting you,” Kozlowski says.

“Same here,” E.J. replies.

He looks down at me, says nothing, and walks away, the son of a bitch.

“Excuse me,” I say, getting up out of my chair.

“Where are you going?” Kozlowski asks me.

“I’ll be right back,” I assure him.

I rush out the front door and down the porch steps. E.J.’s already around the side of the building heading for his truck in the parking lot.

“Where are you going?” I shout after him. “Looking for fresh meat? Nothing left for you around here? Pretty soon you’re going to have to start crossing state lines to find someone new to plug.”

“Look who’s talking,” he replies over his shoulder. “You had to cross state lines twenty years ago.”

“Go to hell!”

He keeps walking toward his truck. I can’t believe he’s not going to stay and fight.

I run after him.

“So it’s okay for you to screw around because you’re a man, but it’s not okay for me because I’m a woman,” I say once I catch up to him.

He takes his packet of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket and taps one into his waiting fingers.

“Don’t start this again, Shae-Lynn,” he says, looking tired and annoyed. “You know I don’t feel that way. You just want to get in a fight. You don’t even care what the fight’s about.”

“And why would I want to get in a fight?”

“Because it’s the only thing you’re good at.”

His words stop me cold. I feel like I’m ten years old again and he’s just made fun of my inferior aim with his BB gun, or he’s beat me again in our daily race to the top of Union Deposit Road where we used to throw down our bikes and walk to the guard rail, with our lungs bursting and our T-shirts stuck to our backs with sweat, and stare across the valley at the railroad tracks cut into the mountainside waiting for the 4:05 freight train to go by.

He seems to sense how much he’s hurt me and once again he looks sorry like he did in the bar, but he doesn’t apologize.

He lights up his cigarette, takes a drag from it, and blows a frail stream of smoke into the thick black country night.

“There’s nothing wrong with me getting laid now and then. I never use anyone,” he tells me.

“Depends on what you consider using someone. I have a feeling acid-washed Blondie in there feels used,” I say more to myself than to him.

“I never lie. Women are the ones who lie,” he responds, his voice turning unexpectedly harsh. “They’re the ones who say they don’t mind if it’s just for one night, when actually they do mind. They think if they can get you to sleep with them just once, you’re going to be under their spell for life, and they can make you do whatever they want. I’m not looking for a wife. I’m not even looking for a girlfriend. I have sex with women because it makes me feel good. And I don’t have to justify myself to anybody. Least of all you. Why don’t you go back to your date?”

“He’s not my date. He’s a client.”

“You don’t have to make up a reason to be with him. You think I care about you hanging out with that guy?”

“She’s back,” I announce before I can stop myself.

I feel a lump in my throat, and I swallow it quickly.

“Shannon,” I further explain. “She’s here. She’s sleeping in my guest room right now.”

“You’re kidding. When did this happen?”

“She just showed up at my house today after I talked to you.”

“Holy shit. So what’s she got to say for herself?”

“Not much. I didn’t really push her. I wanted to give her some time.”

“What’s her tie to this Kozlowski guy?”

“I still don’t know. I didn’t tell her about him, and I didn’t tell him I know where she is.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure what’s best for Shannon. I think she’s in some kind of trouble, but I don’t know what. I’m pretty sure she’s lying to me about everything. And it turns out there’s someone else here in town looking for her besides Kozlowski: a woman who’s running around with Shannon’s photo but knows her by a different name and is accusing her of something criminal.”

“For Christ’s sake, Shae-Lynn.”

We’ve reached E.J.’s truck. He leans against the hood and smokes for a minute before he offers any more advice.

“You can’t let Shannon jerk you around. Tell her what you know. See if her explanation makes sense. If not, get Clay involved.”

“Why are you against her?”

“I’m not against her. I just don’t want her taking advantage of you.”

I can try and convince myself that Shannon never meant much to E.J., that to him she was just my pesky younger sister who I had to let tag along with me a lot since she didn’t have a mom at home to watch her. For the most part, I think he regarded her as less interesting than a puppy and more burdensome than a shadow, but he understood she was as devoted to me as the first and as impossible to get rid of as the second, so he tolerated her presence.

Yet at the same time, I know he cared about her, too, in his way. He would have never dreamed of giving her a hug or calling her by her name instead of “midget,” but he built a toy box for her in junior high wood shop, and he used to sneak out of his own house on Christmas Eve after we were in bed and stand below our window with a string of sleigh bells pretending to be Santa’s reindeer for her, and he was always available any time she had something that needed to be fixed, whether it was a flat tire on her bike or the mysterious inner workings of the Easy-Bake oven I found for her at the Goodwill Store for a dollar and fifty cents.

When she left she hurt him, too, even though he’d never admit it. He’s entitled to his opinion of her, good or bad.

“She’s a grown woman who hasn’t wanted anything to do with you for almost twenty years,” he continues. “She’s not your responsibility anymore. If she got herself into trouble, let her get herself out of trouble.”

“It’s not that simple. She’s pregnant. She’s going to have a baby any day now.”

He shakes his head.

“So that’s why she came back. For help with the baby.”

“I don’t think so.”

“The baby’s not your responsibility either.”

“It will be my niece or nephew.”

“It will be her son or daughter. She’s the mother.”

He tosses the butt of his cigarette onto the parking lot blacktop and stubs it out with the toe of his steel-toed boot. He’ll wear the same boots—only an older, more broken-in pair—into the mines tomorrow. I’m suddenly seized by a spasm of terror. I want to grab him by his arm and cling to him and beg him not to go back inside.

Instead I watch his hand reach out and grab my arm. He shakes me gently as he speaks.

“You believed your dad killed her. You believed your own father killed your sister. Do you understand what a fucked-up thing that is to have to carry around inside yourself all these years?”

“Do you realize how fucked up things were to begin with in order for me to be able to believe that?”

“Yeah, I do.”

I meet his eyes. In the dark they look silver, not blue, like a pair of liquid nickels.

In all our years of friendship, we never discussed details. I never described my home life to him. I blamed my injuries on my clumsiness like I did at school, but this explanation was destined to fail eventually with E.J. because he knew me better than my teachers and he also didn’t have any reason to want to believe the lies.

He spent a lot of time with me. He knew I was athletic and coordinated. He knew I couldn’t possibly fall down stairs and run into walls as much as I claimed to when he wasn’t around.

I don’t know exactly when I began to realize that he knew I was lying and that it wasn’t necessary for me to do it anymore. This didn’t mean I was going to start telling him what was really going on. Somehow I knew he couldn’t stand hearing it any more than I could stand saying it. It was simply enough for me to know that there was someone who knew the truth about me and didn’t find me repulsive.

We used to talk about running away together without ever stating the reason why. We talked about taking Shannon with us. We made lists of supplies and grand plans for living off the land. But in the end I couldn’t let him do it. He had a great mom and dad. We each had to accept that we were prisoners of our own lives: his a good one, mine a bad one. He was powerless to save me from mine, and I was unwilling to lead him away from his.

I never stopped to think what it must have been like for him to accept that there was nothing he could do to help me.

My cell phone rings. I’m tempted not to answer it, but it’s my business number and I’m also a mom so I always have to answer.

“Jolly Mount Cab,” I say.

“Hello. I’m trying to get in touch with a Shae-Lynn Penrose.”

“That’s me.”

“Hello, Shae-Lynn. This is Pamela Jameson. We met earlier today.”

We met—that’s a nice way to put it. Sounds like we attended the same tea party.

“I remember,” I say. “I changed your tire.”

“Yes, you did. We also talked a little bit about why I’m here. Do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have a proposition for you. I’m meeting Jamie Ruddock tomorrow at ten A.M. at a place called Eatn’Park.”

I smile to myself despite the fact that I’ve just received further proof that Shannon is continuing to lie to me. She used to love Eatn’Park pies. Especially the coconut cream. I can picture her as a little kid sitting across from me in a booth with dabs of toasted meringue glistening on the end of her nose and the bottom of her chin.

“You said you were going to trap her.”

“Yes, something like that. It occurred to me that I might need protection.”

“Protection?”

“Yes. I thought since you have a law enforcement background, and you’re obviously a woman who can handle herself in unorthodox situations…”

I hardly consider changing a tire to be an unorthodox situation, but I don’t point this out to her.

“…I thought maybe you could help me. I’ll pay you, of course.”

“Okay,” I tell her without even thinking about it. “I’ll meet you at your hotel about nine-thirty so we can discuss details before you meet with her.”

“That sounds fine. Good night.”

I put my phone back in my pocket. E.J. has wandered away from his truck toward the street.

I follow him. He’s walking aimlessly, breathing heavily through his nose, his fists and jaw clenched, his eyes open but not seeing.

He’s having one of his panic attacks.

He described to me what they feel like once. He begins to doubt where he is, then he stops doubting and he’s certain that he’s having a dream. The sky, the space, the fresh air, the freedom: it isn’t real; it’s one more cruel illusion his failing brain is playing on him before he suffocates.

The terror grows inside him. He’s sure he’s back inside Jojo. He’s sure he’s going to wake up soon inside that horrible backward new world where only sleep brings scenes of life and waking brings nothing but fathomless black. Reality is darkness until death arrives with eternal darkness. Sight is not reality. Sight is insanity.

I put my hand on his arm and talk to him softly, hoping the sound of my voice will cut through his mounting hysteria.

He takes his cap off. Beads of sweat have gathered along his hairline.

He turns his head in my direction. The frantic glitter begins to fade from his eyes and he unclenches the jaw that was holding back the useless screams of a trapped man.