Long Bright River(103)

But a new thought is occurring to me, distracting me.

—The attack, I say with something like sadness. The man who attacked you.

—What about it?

—It wasn’t random, I say. Was it.

He looks down the block.

—People don’t like me poking around here, he says.

—You knew him?

—I’d pulled him off his girlfriend a day or two before. Found him beating the shit out of her. Pulled him off.

—Why didn’t you say anything to me? I ask.

He looks at me impatiently. How was I supposed to explain what I was doing in some abando off duty? he says. To you or anyone?

I have no good answer.

I look away.

—Well? says Truman finally.

—Well what?

—Your turn, he says. His mouth is a line. There is no warmth in his voice.

—I was following you, I say.

I feel helpless and resigned. I have no capacity at the moment to tell him anything but the truth. My eyes are focused on the cracks in the pavement, on the little weeds and pebbles that have made their way into each crevice.

—Why, says Truman quietly.

I exhale. I say, They said you were the one.

—Who?

—Kacey’s friends.

Truman nods.

—And you believed them, he says.

—I didn’t, I say.

Truman laughs, but his voice is hard. Ah, he says. And yet here we are.

I say nothing. I look down at the ground a while longer.

—It was an unhappy coincidence, I begin, but Truman interrupts me.

—Why do you talk like that, says Truman. Mickey. Why do you talk like that?

An interesting question, actually. I think for a bit. Ms. Powell used to tell us that people would judge us based on our grammar. It’s not fair, she said, but it’s true. Your grammar and your accent. Ask yourself, how do you want to be perceived by the world? said Ms. Powell.

—I had a teacher, I begin, and Truman says, Ms. Powell. Ms. Powell. I know.

—Mickey, he says, you’re thirty-three years old.

—And? I say.

He doesn’t reply.

—And? I say again, raising my head. Only then do I see that Truman isn’t beside me anymore. I look to my right and see only the back of him, a lifted heel as he disappears around a corner at the end of the block.





I realize, suddenly, how long it’s been since I’ve checked my phone. When I do, I see I have three missed calls.

All of them are from my own landline.

I have one voicemail, as well.

I don’t listen to it. I call the house.

—It’s Mickey, I say. Are you all right, Mrs. Mahon? Is Thomas?

—Oh, now, everything’s fine, says Mrs. Mahon. It’s only Thomas seems to have come down with something.

—What does he have? I say.

—Well, says Mrs. Mahon, unfortunately, there’s been some throwing up.

—Oh no, I say. Mrs. Mahon, I’m so sorry.

—Don’t worry, says Mrs. Mahon. I got to put my nursing degree to use. He seems a bit better already, though. He’s eating crackers now. You might want to pick up something hydrating on your way home.

—I’ll be home in forty-five minutes, I say.



* * *



—

On the drive, I call my father.

—I need to talk to Kacey, I say.

A second later, my sister is on the line.

—Hang on, says Kacey.

In the background, I can hear her footsteps as she walks someplace. Seeking privacy, probably.

A door closes.

—Go ahead, says Kacey.

Quickly, I give her a summary of my day.

—I really don’t think it could be Truman, I say, at the end. No matter what your friends said.

Kacey pauses, considering this.

—Why would they lie? she says. Why would they lie about something like this? That doesn’t make sense. Everyone in the whole neighborhood has the same idea.

A thought is beginning to occur to me. That old sensation: holding a puzzle piece I know will fit precisely.

—Kacey, I say. Kacey. What were their exact words.

—God, Mick, I don’t know, says Kacey.

—Please try to remember, I say. Do you remember anything?

Kacey exhales.

—Something like, she says. Something like, Everyone in Kensington knows about your sister’s partner. You think your sister doesn’t know it too?

I fall silent.

—What, says Kacey.

—Truman hasn’t been my partner since last spring, I say.

—He hasn’t? says Kacey. Who has?





The huge quantity of information that I know about Eddie Lafferty now seems to me, very improbably, like a blessing.

We were only partnered for a month, and I mainly spent that month listening to him as he talked about himself, at length, in the passenger’s seat.

But recently, I’ve heard nothing at all about him.

After I asked Ahearn not to partner us anymore, I generally avoided him. And since my suspension, I’ve been even more out of the loop.

The person I want most in the world to talk to about this is Truman. Right now, unfortunately, I don’t think he’s an option.