18.
 They did not see each other when the children were with her. She asked that of him for a few months until they were better acquainted. He could see the reason in that.
On night, around eleven, there was a knock on the sliding glass door. Tom had been watching the late news and was getting groggy, but he went to peek. It was Hawkins, in his uniform. "Open up," Hawkins mouthed. Tom saw a patrol car in the driveway with another officer in it. It was the town's only patrol car, with an extra blue light for some reason in the emergency flasher bar on the roof.
Tom let him in. "How nice to see you again. You working nights?"
"I work different shifts." Ollie swayed about uneasily, as if carrying a great burden and didn't know where to put it down. "I came to apologize, Fariello."
"Sit down, why don't you?"
"I can't stay long." But Hawkin sat at the small table, which had two chairs and doubled as A.J.'s desk.
A.J. took the brittle, charred wallet from his socks drawer. "Look here. It's from the station wagon." He laid it on the table and opened it. It fell apart into two chunks. There were all sorts of papers inside, from movie tickets to parking stubs. "It was my wife's. It was in her purse the night of the fire. She'd left her purse in the car and this wallet made it all the way until I hit that tree and you came along."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fariello."
"Tom. My name is Tom."
"I'm sorry, Tom."
"It's okay—?"
"Oliver. Ollie to my friends."
A.J. gently picked apart the zipper pocket. Out came a browned, brittle piece of loose-leaf paper. On the blue lines one could still make out the awkward penmanship: Rec'd $200 from T. Smith fur Car. "I didn't know I was buying a stolen car, Mr. Hawkin."
"Ollie."
"Yes, Ollie. I suppose ignorance of the law is no—."
Hawkin tore up the paper. "That's all history, man. I'm sorry, I didn't know what happened. I read you wrong. It doesn't happen to me very often. You can stay here all you want and nobody will bother you again. We'll help you get on your feet."
"We?"
"The town people. Eve. Yes, I don't care if you get mad. She had me check you out. You're getting to be an important person to her. I just got my call back from the detective in Kansas City. Says you were at work one night and your Christmas tree tipped over."
A.J. sat with his hands dangling between his knees, reliving what terrified his dreams and which he could not face during waking hours. Hawkin's mouth was moving and sounds were coming out. A.J. heard them and yet did not hear them.
"She called you to say the house was on fire. You told her to call the fire department and then you raced home. By the time you got home they were dead. Your wife and your little boy and your little girl."
A.J. felt hot tears dribbling down his face. "Susan. She should have called the fire department first."
"It was nobody's fault, Tom. A.J. "
"Markie, he was six. Allison, she was eight. I wish they were all here again."
"Listen, I'm going to stay here with you. Just let me tell my partner—."
A.J. felt himself slipping away into another world. He felt himself walking down the street into the fire, to die in the house with them. But he couldn't get there because somehow he was trapped on the ground in a fetal position...
|
Thank you for reading. If you love it, tell your friends. Please post a favorable review at Amazon, Good Reads, and other online resources. If you want to thank the author, you may also buy a copy for the low price of a cup of coffee. It's called Read-a-Latte: similar (or lower) price as a latte at your favorite coffeeshop, but the book lasts forever while the beverage is quickly gone. Thank you (JTC).
|
TOP
|
MAIN
Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
|
