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“I wanted to surprise you.”
“I wanted to surprise you, too,” she said. “I made us a seven o’clock reservation at the Orangery.”
“Oh, darn—I wish I’d known,” I said. She shot me a dubious look, which I countered with an innocent smile. “That would’ve been nice, honey. But I guess you’d better call and cancel.”
“I’ll call,” she said, “but I won’t cancel; I’ll reschedule, for Saturday night. You don’t get off the hook that easily. If I can survive thirty years of Cracker Barrel vittles, one fancy French dinner won’t kill you.”
She turned and headed inside. The instant the sliding-glass door closed, Jeff and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.
Dinner was loud, rowdy, and wonderful, with three terrible puns (all of them mine), two brotherly squabbles, and one spilled drink (also mine). The ribs were a hit—smoky, succulent, and tender.
Sitting at the head of the kitchen table, I surveyed my assembled family, then, with my sauce-smeared knife, I tapped the side of my iced-tea glass. “A toast,” I said. The three adults looked at me expectantly; the two boys gaped as if I were addled.
“Toast?” said Walker. “Toast is breakfast, silly.”
“A toast,” Jenny explained, “is also a kind of blessing. Or a thank-you. Or a wish.”
Walker’s face furrowed, then broke into a smile. “I toast we get a dog!” His toast drew laughs from Kathleen and me, and nervous, noncommittal smiles from his parents.
“A toast,” I repeated. “To my lovely wife. To thirty wonderful years together.”
We clinked glasses all around. Kathleen looked into my eyes and smiled but then, to my surprise, she teared up. “To this lovely moment,” she said, her voice quavering, “and this lovely family. The family that almost wasn’t.”
Now I felt my own eyes brimming. We almost never spoke of it, but none of us—Kathleen, Jeff, Jenny, or I—would ever forget the near miss to which she was alluding. The grown-ups clinked glasses again—somberly this time—and Kathleen reached out to me with her right hand. Instead of clasping hands, though, she bent her pinky finger, hooked it around mine, and squeezed. It was our secret handshake, of sorts: our reminder of what a sweet life we had, and how close—how terribly close—we’d come to losing it, right in this very room, right at this very table, a dozen years before. I lifted her hand to my face and uncrooked her finger, tracing the scar around the base and then giving it a kiss. By now the scar was a faint, thin line—barely visible and mostly forgotten, except when something triggered memories of that nightmarish night, and that evil man: Satterfield, sadistic killer of women. Satterfield, emerging from our basement, gun in hand, to bind us—Kathleen, Jeff, me, and even Jenny, Jeff’s girlfriend at the time—to the kitchen chairs. Satterfield, putting Kathleen’s finger into the fishlike jaws of a pair of gardening shears, and closing the jaws in a swift, bloody bite.
Odd, how memories can open underfoot, in the blink of an eye, taking you down a rabbit hole of the mind to some subterranean, subconscious universe where different rules of time and space and logic hold sway. Part of me remained sitting at the table, my fingers smeared with barbecue sauce, but part of me had gone down that bloody rabbit hole.
Kathleen’s finger, which had sent me spinning there, now beckoned me back. She stroked my damp cheek and smiled again. “Will you marry me, Bill Brockton?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” I answered. “Again and again. Every day.” Half rising from my chair, I leaned over and kissed her—a grown-up kiss, on the mouth, taking my time.
“Gross,” said Tyler.
“Gross gross gross,” agreed Walker.
IT WAS TEN-THIRTY BY THE TIME JEFF’S FAMILY WAS gone, the kitchen was clean, and Kathleen and I were showered and in bed. I rolled toward her on the mattress and cupped her face in one hand. “Not as romantic as the fancy French dinner you wanted,” I said, “but tasty.”
“Says the man who thinks turkey jerky is a delicacy,” she said. “But yes, delicious. And it’s always so sweet to see Jeff and Jenny with the boys. They’re such good parents, Bill.”
“They should be. You’re a great role model.”
“You, too,” she said, then—from nowhere—“You still sad we couldn’t have more?”
“No,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true; deep down, I would always wish I’d had a daughter as well as a son. “I’m the luckiest man alive. I couldn’t be happier.” I felt the stirrings of desire, and I slid my hand down to her hip. “Well, maybe I could be a tiny bit happier.”
She smiled, but she also shook her head. Taking my hand from her hip, she brought it to her lips and gave it a consolation-prize kiss. “I need a rain check, honey. Bad time of the month.”
“Still?” She nodded glumly. “That doesn’t bother me,” I assured her. “You know I’m not squeamish.”
“I do know, and I appreciate that,” she said. “But I’m just not up to it. I’m sorry, sweetie; I’ll be off the sick list soon, and I will make it up to you. I promise.”
She crooked her little finger at me again, to make sure I knew she meant it.
“I’m sorry it’s giving you trouble,” I told her, my disappointment giving way to sympathy. “Seems like that’s gotten worse again. You need to go back to the doctor?” She’d had outpatient surgery a year or so ago, to remove a uterine fibroid—a knot of benign tissue—and her cramps and bleeding had lessened afterward. For a while.
“I think it’s just menopause, letting me know it’s headed my way,” she said. “Now turn out the light and spoon me.” She rolled over and snuggled against me. Switching off the light, I wrapped an arm tightly across her chest. Her breathing slowed and deepened, her body twitching as she sank into sleep. As my own breathing found the same cadence as hers, I made a silent wish for her—one last anniversary toast, Walker style: I toast you sleep well and feel better tomorrow.
Brown Field Municipal Airport
San Diego, California
&n
bsp; Twin shafts of light—one green, the other white—sliced the hazy night in opposite directions, like luminous blades, as the airport beacon turned with blind, unblinking constancy.
Poised at the western end of the runway was a small twin-engine jet, its airframe quivering like a living creature: like a racehorse trembling in a starting gate, its entire existence—bloodline and breeding and birth and indeed every moment prior to this one—mere preamble and prelude to the impending instant of release and freedom, of exultant headlong hurtling.
Within the indigo glow of the cockpit, the pilot, his face ghostly in the glow of gauges and screens, worked his way down the takeoff checklist, item by item: engine instruments, check; fuel, full; altimeter, set; radio frequency, 128.25; flaps, ten degrees; flight controls—rudder, ailerons, elevator—free, clear, and correct. Satisfied, he throttled back the engines. He did not hurry; he could take all the time he needed or wanted—hell, he could take a three-hour nap right here on the active runway, if he pleased, with no risk of being disturbed. The control tower had closed for the night at seven, and at the moment—a moment shortly after midnight—the dawn’s early light, and the first stirrings of human and aircraft activity, were still hours away. And by then he would be long gone.
Finished with the checklist, he tucked it into a slot in the center console and sighted down the runway, an eight-thousand-foot ribbon of black, outlined by jewel-like orange lights, which seemed to converge and merge at the far end. It was pure coincidence, but it was nonetheless an interesting and apt coincidence, that Mexico, too—specifically, the quarter of Tijuana known as Libertad, “Liberty”—lay almost exactly eight thousand feet away as well: a mile and a half due south of him; less than thirty seconds away, if he banked hard right immediately after takeoff. Not that he would, though; a half mile off, he’d be banking left: toward the northeast, and Vegas.
