After Death(10)

Michael’s voice softens to a sympathetic whisper. “It’s hard to leave a life that’s working.”

“It was working. I don’t know about now.”

“I understand more than you think I do, Nina. You’re thinking Aleem wants your boy, and I want your boy, and is it one and the same thing.”

“Is it?”

“He wants to make the boy into a gangbanger. I want to see him reach his full potential. And I want him always with you.”

“It’s so Twilight Zone. It’s a big damn thing to do this.”

“Huge,” he agrees.

“But I keep going back to how you told me the truth about where the money comes from. You didn’t make it clean and neat.”

“I never lie. Not since I died. Before sometimes, not since.”

“Are you my bridge? My bridge over troubled water?”

“I will be if you’ll let me.”

“Because of Shelby Shrewsberry.”

“Yes. And because of your son.”

“I wish Shelby had told me how he felt. He seemed like . . . like such a good man.”

“He was the closest I’ve known to a saint. Not just my best friend . . . maybe my only one.”

“Good men haven’t often crossed my path.”

“Take this new path. Maybe that’ll make all the difference.”





THE BOY




The sky is overcast and the morning light bleak, but following Nina’s decision, the kitchen is filled with a spirit of quiet hope, as though what has begun here is the sanctification of a world gone wrong, which might in fact be the case if Michael’s intentions can be fulfilled.

She puts the duffel bag full of money in the pantry and gives him an opaque plastic bag with a drawstring closure, which she uses for groceries. He stashes the two guns in the sack, less concerned about keeping one in hand now that his eight-block walk will be in daylight.

“I could drive you,” she says.

“Thank you, but I’d rather walk.” Walking, he can more easily be in two places at the same time.

“I’ll list the house with a broker today, sell it furnished. Notify my clients I’m closing up shop, shoot all their data back to them. Not much to pack ’cept clothes and memories. We can be out of here in maybe four days.”

“Sooner is better. What’ll you do if something goes wrong and you need help?”

“I’ll do exactly what you told me.”

“I just want to hear you say it.”

“I keep my company website open. If I need you, I post a notice says, ‘The ninth hour.’ But how often will you check?”

“I’ll know the moment it’s posted.”

“Oh. Yeah. I still can’t get my head around that.”

“Some days, neither can I.”

The swinging door creaks open. The barefoot boy steps in from the hall and stands there in his rumpled pajamas, knuckling grains of lingering sleep from his eyes. He comes fully awake at the sight of Michael. “You’re him.”

On his first visit to this house, Michael had come under the guise of a potential new client seeking Nina’s accounting services. John had been attending classes at Saint Anthony’s.

“Pleased to meet you, John.”

“Mom told me about you, but not everything.”

“She’s been waiting to see if I’d keep a promise I made. I believe now she’ll tell you the rest.”

John is good-looking, with large brandy-brown eyes that seem to be lit from within. Michael cannot read minds or discern the quality of anyone’s character with a divining rod, but judging by what Nina has said and what the teachers at Saint Anthony’s School have written in their student reports, he believes this is a smart and steady kid, a fine man in the making. John’s posture, the inclination of his head, his quiet voice, and a hesitant manner suggest a healthy vulnerability that will inoculate him against the psychotic degree of self-esteem that shapes other boys into gangsters like Aleem.

He reminds Michael of Shelby.

“You’re younger than I thought,” John says.

By one calculation, Michael is forty-four, but in another sense, he is only four days old. To the boy, he says, “And I suspect you’re older than your years.”

Nina confirms, “He’s that, all right,” and the boy ducks his head, shying away from the praise.

“It won’t be easy leaving your friends.”

“What friends?” the boy asks.

“I know you have them.”

“You mean school friends.”

“A hard thing for most kids.”

“School friends aren’t forever. Everyone grows up and moves on. That’s how it is.”

Impressed, Michael says, “I know you’ll help your mother through this.”

If John is ever capable of looking at his mother without his intense love being apparent, this is not one of those moments. He clearly adores her. “We’re always all right.”

“Always,” she says.

“Stay home from school,” Michael advises.

“I’m not afraid,” the boy says.

“It’s not about being afraid. It’s about being smart.”