In Laymon's Terms

The cashier was leaving the station when he arrived. She recognized him, gave him a hug, careful around the wounded shoulder, thanked him for his intervention. He downplayed it, said he didn’t do anything special. She insisted he did, threw the word “hero” about no less than three times in as many sentences. Jon didn’t feel like one, and told her so. As they were starting to launch into a real conversation, the previously sympathetic and understanding cops became impatient and annoyed, urged the two to hurry it along. The cashier reached into her purse, wrote down her number and handed it to him. “Gimme a call,” she said.

Jon took the piece of paper, looked at the name and number.

“Nice to finally meet you, Meg. I’m Jon.”

“Gimme a call, Jon.”

“You bet.”

Jon replayed the entire ordeal for the detectives—all he could remember. He omitted nothing. They seemed most interested in the details surrounding Terry, which, for Jon, was a large blank. He hadn’t seen it happen, only heard Terry’s girlfriend screaming, a point he had to explain numerous times. He mentioned the irony of never knowing anyone else’s name—only the dead guy’s—then apologized for sounding callous. The detectives forgave him. The older of the two even laughed at the irony, once pointed out.

“I’d like to thank you for coming in,” the detective said as the interview (Jon felt it was like an interview, even if they insisted it was “making a statement”) concluded. “I realize going through this all again is difficult for you, but it does help us out a lot.”

“I don’t get it,” Jon said. “I saw the guys go down as you came in. What’s left to prosecute?”

“One of them is in ICU,” the cop explained. “He might make it.”

“No shit?”

“None.”

“Which one?”

“The one who tried raping Miss Carter.”

Jon’s fists clenched. “Too bad.”

“I can understand how you feel.”

Jon looked the cop in his flat, cold eyes.

“No you can’t.”

Jon and Meg’s first date started at the Cafe Xelucha over double tall americanos and scones, then progressed to Gethsemane Cemetery. They stood at the gates, but did not enter as a dark motorcade parade of limousines passed, lights on, though the day was as bright and the weather as fair as New York’s geography permitted—especially in Brackard’s Point, where Hook Mountain loomed over from the west to cast dusk early.

They didn’t know Terry. Neither had the stomach to attend his funeral, yet both felt obliged to pay him some type of respect. They said their final words to the memory of a stranger in silence. They turned their heads and watched the hearse enter the cemetery, followed it with their eyes as it wound down the gravel path, twisting around through rows of tombstones and concrete angels.

From there, Jon and Meg walked for a while, no destination in particular, found themselves sitting on a bench at the War Memorial Park, sharing life stories as they watched the sailboats and ships out on the Hudson. She told him how she almost made it onto the television show Castaway, for the doomed seventh season, how broke up she was about it, yet thankful at the end, considering how it all turned out. He told her about his teaching job, how he’d been at the World Trade Center the day of the murders, leading his class on a field trip when the first plane hit.

After a lull in the story-swapping, Meg looked at Sing-Sing, the state penitentiary in Ossining, on the Hudson’s other bank. “You think they’re gonna send that son of a bitch there?”

“I hope he gets the chair,” Jon replied.

“You and me, both.”

“You don’t think there’s any chance he’ll get off, do you?”

“If he does,” Jon said, “I’ll be ready for him.”

“What do you mean?”

Jon opened his jacket. Meg looked in, saw the handle of his SIG. “Illegal or not, no damned politician is going to force me to be a victim again.”

“You ain’t worried about getting caught with it?”

“More worried about needing it and not having it.”

Meg nodded. “I hear you there. I’m glad you have it on you,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Feels a lot safer. After last week, I didn’t know if I could ever feel safe again.”

Jon didn’t know what to say, so he held her. As she nuzzled against his neck and placed her leg over his, he knew he’d done the right thing. They stayed that way until the shadows from Hook Mountain grew long. The sun was two hours away from setting, but the cliff to the west darkened the streets early. With the sunlight almost gone, the wind blowing down the Hudson, they started to get cold.

“Dinner?” Jon asked.

“Sure—I don’t live too far from here. I’ve got plenty at the house, couple steaks, some chicken I oughta cook up sometime soon. A few bottles of wine.”

“You mean dinner at your place?”

“Yeah,” Meg said. “It’ll be safer.” She patted his gun through his jacket, and stood. She led him up by holding his hand. Jon rose without understanding what she meant. He was going to ask, but decided that it didn’t matter. Instead, he asked: “White or red?”

Edward Lee