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“Sorry,” I call her back. “Can you please make it a takeaway?”
“Of course.”
It is still early. I am going to catch a taxi on his street. I think I want to watch him, see what his life is like. Follow him around, or maybe I can get a closer look at his home. I need information. I need to know if there isanythingthat he loves. Anything close to his heart. Anything that I can take away from him.
Perhaps I need to do this in slow increments of frustration. Mess with his head upset his days, little by little, driving him to wonder if his sanity was slipping.
Of maybe I will just do it all in one go. A devastating blow that rips his life from beneath his feet. Tears his world apart and leaves him gasping and pleading for death - which will not arrive.
I walk out of the cafe holding my takeaway coffee cup. I am filled with a strange sense of energy. A new focus, a new purpose. It is the most directed purpose that I have had since the beginning of all of this. Before, I did not know who to focus on, where to look, who was responsible. I only had ideas. Hints, suggestions and things that I needed to find more about. But now I have a singular hyper focus. And nothing is going to distract me from this.
I wave down one of the iconic yellow cabs and climb into the backseat, giving him the street name. I spent so much time wasted on hating the wrong people.
Perhaps they were involved? I don’t know, but he is the one who dealt that devastating shot. It was his hand. His choice. His actions. And then afterward, he chose never to reach out to me. He didn’t even try.
The driver stops a few houses from my father’s and asks me if this is alright. I thank him and climb out of the car. I look around me. Before, I did not want to come here alone. I didn’t want to risk the danger of this neighborhood. But now, I feel so driven toward my goals that none of that seems to matter.
I stroll up the street. Walking as though I belong here. There is a worn, splintered wooden bench under some trees on thepathway, so I sit down in it, crossing my legs, leaning back and watching his house.
His windows are open, and now and then, I see him moving past them. Working in what I imagine is the kitchen, then walking through to another room. After around two hours, he comes out of the house, dressed in shabby clothing that suggests he has lived in them for many years. He walks in the opposite direction from where I arrived. My eyes are locked on his.
A young kid comes riding past me on his bicycle, then skids to a stop and backs up.
“Hello,” he says happily.
“Hello.”
“Are you new here? I live just over there. My name is Tommy.”
“Hi, Tommy. I am new around here. I live just around the corner on the next street. But I just moved in.”
“Oh, my friend lives around the corner, and my other friend lives over there and then we also play in the park over there, and then sometimes we just ride our bikes all over the place.”
“That sounds fun. Have you lived here long?”
He puffs out his chest, proudly answering. “I have. Everyone knows me.”
“And do you know everyone?”
“I do. You ask me anything, and I know,” he grins.
“What about the old man who lives in that house over there?” I point toward my father’s house.
“Mr. Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he is alright. For an old person. Do you know him?”
“I used to, long, long ago, before I can even remember.”
“He’s nice to us. Sometimes, he makes us sandwiches if our moms and dads are working late.”
“That sounds nice. Does he live with anyone?”
“No, he lives alone. And I never see him have visitors, either. He seems boring.”
“What does he do all day?”
