Time

The following short story by Damon Stewart first appeared in Salvage (April 2005). It later appeared in Interesting Tales of Other People's Woe, a collection of fiction by Damon Stewart (2014).

The city bus shuddered and heaved its way over the car-eating potholes of Third Street, lumbering through the sleet like a tank in defiance of enemy fire. Burke sat in the backof the empty bus, staring out the window at half-remembered landmarks: Dence’s Tavern, the house with the collapsing garage—still collapsing, after all these years, it surprised him—the pizza shop, only it was an empty storefront now, the “Pizza” lettering on the glass faded and peeling. About one more mile, he thought, and glanced down at his hands. He used to hold Jacquelyn’s hand. Burke smiled, remembering how it felt.

His black coat radiated the smell of new leather, a gift from Sykes. He hoped it would make an impression on Jacquelyn. Burke stuck his hand into the left pocket of the coat, making sure it was still there—the other gift from Sykes.

He looked at his boots and pursed his lips. He had done his best to clean them, but they were creased and stained—hiking boots, comfortable if a bit worn down at the heels, and he didn’t think anyone would notice that they were at least five years out of style—they all looked the same to him anyway. His jeans, one of the two pairs that he owned, were spotless. They were faded to a perfectly uniform robin’s-egg blue, softness approaching that of silk. Not unique, nothing you’d necessarily remember, but nice nevertheless. He nodded in self-approval. He wanted to look good for Jacquelyn. He had a first impression—two actually—to make tonight, and one had to pay attention to details with these things.

He figured he had changed some. Probably thinner than when she last saw him, but no doubt in much better shape. He’d been exercising regularly for at least four years now. He used to have a ponytail—they called him “Whitetail,” and smiled when they did—but it felt too suggestive of his past, too easy to mark him. So that morning he had walked into the first place he could find and instructed the girl to “make it short and something that looks… I dunno, current.” She giggled, chewed her gum hard for a moment, then chopped it all off and charged him $20—for a haircut that, as near he could tell, was current when he was a small boy.

He reached into the green nylon duffel bag that sat next to him and pulled out a black baseball cap with “Lucky Duck” printed in yellow stitching above the brim. He had no clue what the hell it meant, but it only cost $2.50 and would serve its purpose well enough. He put it on, then took it off again, adjusting the plastic tab in the back. He placed it back on his head, pulling the brim down low and staring at his reflection in the window. Perfect. He stuck it back into the duffel.

There—they passed the old church with the giant red doors, the words “Church of the Redeemer” lit up above them. His stop was the next block. He stood, grabbing the duffle as he tapped the strip above the window. Burke heard the “ding” and clutched at a pole as the driver let off the gas. The bus lumbered to the curb and Burke stepped out of the rear door into a pile of slush, almost falling as the bus roared away in a blast of diesel.

Looking down the street, he saw the convenience store a few blocks away, a Fastmart. Burke looked around, DeLisle used to live near here, a couple of blocks back. Last month, when Burke was planning the trip, he considered looking DeLisle up to see if he wanted to do something. Then found out DeLisle was dead, some shit about killing his girlfriend in a fight and a subsequent suicide-by-cop. DeLisle didn’t seem the type, but Burke was no longer surprised by anything.

No one on the street. There wouldn’t be, it was a late weeknight and the weather was sufficiently rotten to discourage most from going out. Even the streetlights seemed muted, hunkered down against the sleet. Burke set the bag on the ground and unzipped it, pulling out the cap, a dark blue zip-front sweatshirt with a large hood, and a pair of gloves. The sweatshirt was also new but had a smell he didn’t like, all plastic and chemicals. It was warm though, which was good, thought Burke. The wind drove the damp right into him. He quickly put the hat on, shrugged into the sweatshirt and gloves, then pulled the hood over his head, tightening the drawstring. Another quick look around and Burke started off, leaning into the wind and squinting. He patted the duffel bag again, checking for the hundredth time that the package was still in there. Sykes had told him to make sure to get her a gift.

“For two reasons, dude. A, you’re supposed to, it’s just what you do. B, it’ll be awkward when you meet and this way she’ll focus on the gift for a minute, let some of the weirdness bleed out of the room.”

Burke figured Sykes had a point. It had been so long since he’d seen Jacquelyn—when they’d last been together she had to be pulled away from him, crying. He stopped his own tears—barely. Didn’t tell her—barely—how much he’d miss her or how sorry he was. But he didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him like that, so he had just walked away. Then the numbness set in. During the time they’d been apart, time itself had halved its progress, paradoxically leaving him with the feeling that twice as much was passing by in the rest of the world. He’d lost his sense of it, then lost care for it.

Burke didn’t fool himself into thinking he would ever make it up to her; their separation had been too abrupt and too long. But he figured there would be some feelings remaining—had to be, it was the way of things.

“Time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me.” Some song that Sykes always used to sing, the lines long since burned into his head. It wasn’t a happy song, and Burke didn’t particularly like it, but it usually surfaced into his consciousness at moments like these, when stress and possibilities loomed over him like waves, the trick being to hold his breath until the seas calmed again.

Two car-lengths from the Fastmart, Burke stopped, looking further down the street. A left at the next intersection, just past the store, led to Jacquelyn’s house. It was down a steep hill, keep going and you got to the river; the Hudson looked slow but the current, especially this time of year, was strong. Jacquelyn was about halfway down on the right.

He walked to the other side of the street, and then back and forth past the Fastmart, thinking. If he blew this there wouldn’t be another chance. But if it worked, it would give him something, the means to start over. Burke crossed the street again and went into the store. He got a cup of coffee, taking his time wandering through the aisles before throwing two dollars at the clerk on his way out, not waiting for change.

The frozen rain stung his face again as he crunched through broken ice towards Jacquelyn’s house. As he approached he could see the blue glow from the TV illuminating the bay window in the living room. He hoped Jacquelyn’s mother was in bed, but it was too early for that. She was probably sitting with Jacquelyn, watching TV, gently administering poison to Burke’s character with off-the-cuff remarks and subtle suggestions. He had called Lori that morning to say he was coming, the first conversation they’d had in years. It hadn’t gone any better than the last conversation they’d had.

He walked up the crumbling steps to her front door, then realized he hadn’t even considered whether Lori had a husband or boyfriend—he hadn’t heard of one, just assumed there weren’t any. Could be difficulty if there were, but he’d deal with that as it came along. He took his sweatshirt and cap off, stuffing them back into the duffel with the gloves.

Lori answered the door on the third set of knocks. Burke was shocked; if he aged as much as she did, Jacquelyn wouldn’t recognize him. She was still pretty, but so much older.

“Michael.”

“Lori.”

“You remember what I said on the phone, Michael—any shit, anything funny at all, and I call your parole officer. You got one hour.”

“Yeah, I missed you too.”

But she wasn’t listening; she had turned away and was walking down a long, dark hallway. Burke followed, suddenly numb again, clutching the duffel bag containing the package tight against his chest.

“In there.” Lori pointed to the room on her right, then at Burke. “One hour.” And then down the hall into the kitchen.

Burke didn’t mind. An hour was all he wanted, indeed all he had. Otherwise, he had the leverage to stay longer; hell he could move in. She didn’t see it yet, that was clear, but he’d save that for later.

Burke hesitated at the threshold, then went in.

The lights were out and the volume on the TV was turned up too high; Burke frowned, he wanted to be able to see her, hear her, perfectly.

She was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, her hands folded in her lap. He noticed her left foot shaking back and forth. I do the same thing when I’m nervous, he thought, and grinned. Then frowned again; he wished this weren’t something that made her nervous.

He cleared his throat and she turned to him.

“Daddy.” She smiled, waved at him then stared back at the TV.

Sykes had said this was the time to give her the package, get her attention off of him. But it already was and Burke didn’t know what to do.

“Hey Jacquelyn. I got something here for you.” Burke unzipped the duffel and pulled out a box. He walked over to the girl and sat down next to her on the couch.

“Here.”

She grabbed the box without taking her eyes off the TV, some cartoon, a talking sponge or something. She ripped the paper off the box, felt around the edges then moved her hands towards the center. When she got to the plastic window, she looked down.

“Barbie.”

“You like it?”

“I got that one already,” and Burke felt the frustration like an old wound, so familiar that he wasn’t sure if it even hurt anymore. She suddenly looked up at Burke, reached over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks, Daddy.”

Not knowing what else to do, Burke sat back and watched the cartoon in silence with her. After a minute, she grabbed his hand and held it. Her hand was big enough to grasp four fingers; she didn’t have to just grab one anymore. That did it, and Burke had to look away towards the hall for a moment.

“So. How’s school?” during a commercial.

“Fine.”

“What grade you in?”

“Second.”

Her attention was on the show, so he waited for the next commercial before resuming their catching up.

“Play a lot of games?”

“No.”

Lori walked by, scowling into the room. Jacquelyn looked at her mother as she passed, then at Burke.

“I don’t think she likes you.”

Burke smiled. “Nope.”

“Do you like her?”

“I like you,” he said, and they returned to the TV.

They sat there for the next twenty minutes, watching the animated adventures of happy creatures. Once, Burke thought, he had plans for when he got out, a new start, legit this time, find some nine to five minimum-wage ex-con job and glide away the days in poverty and peace of mind.

But no. He had ambition, of sorts.

“Michael. Time. Leave.” Lori’s glaring eyes from the doorway, the shadows from the talking sponge blinking across her face.

Burke turned to the girl.

“Sweetie, how long do you think I was here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Two hours?”

“I guess,” in that TV-watching monotone; as if the effort of tone or pitch would throw off understanding of the plot.

“So I was here for two hours?”

“Um-hmm.”

“I’m not going to see you again for a while, ok? I have to go visit some friends. But I’ll come back, I promise. Alright?”

“Ok, Daddy.” The show went to commercial, white light filling the room, and Burke saw her face, blank, and he thought he could see in her the numbness he felt. He knew how it got there, and was surprised by his culpability. Never say never, he thought.

“Gotta go honey. Give me a kiss?”

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Bye, daddy.”

“Bye, Jacquelyn.”

Burke got up and walked past Lori, who was staring over his shoulder.

At the door, Burke turned around. “They wanted to know who drove.”

She turned to face him.

“I coulda got less time. They offered a deal.”

She looked at the floor.

“But I shut up. My lawyer told me I was nuts. Did a lotta years, just two words was all I had to say. Lotta years, Lori.”

Something appeared to occur to her and she looked up again sharply.

“So what do you want?”

“I was here for two hours. Got here at 10:00, like I did, but didn’t leave ‘til midnight. But only if anyone asks.” Burke paused. “Got it?”

“Fuck you.” He could see her steeling herself, ready for a confrontation. Ready—hoping, he was sure—to call the cops, but he wouldn’t give it to her that easy.

“Two things, Lori. One. Don’t know if the statute of limitations has passed on all that. Maybe. Maybe not. You want me to ask the cops to check? They will. You’re unfinished business; that don’t work, they’ll find something else, you know?”

The eyes. She remained erect, jaw up, body tense. But the eyes, the lines around them softening perhaps, just a bit, but enough to see that he had hit.

“Two. I bet the ‘something else’ they find is her,” and he nodded down the hall past Lori. “Social services finds out, they’ll want to know all about you. You a good mom, Lori? Got the money to prove it in court?”

Burke didn’t have a clue if social services would care or not, but she shifted her eyes to look past him out the door, and he saw her shoulders sag.

“So, let’s do this one more time: I was here for two hours. Got it?”

“Yeah. I got it.” She opened her mouth again, he could see the question coming and shook his head. She looked back down at the floor.

Outside, he paused at the doorstep. Further down the hill was the stop for the return bus. It wasn’t too late, he could bail out now and take the bus to the homeless shelter. Spend the night and figure something out in the morning.

Up the hill, he could see the lights of the Fastmart.

Stick to the plan, he thought, all I need is a start. He opened the duffel and pulled out the sweatshirt, hat and gloves. Before putting on the sweatshirt he reached into the pocket of his coat and retrieved the .38, quickly shoving it into the pocket of his sweatshirt. A friend of Sykes’, on the outside, owed Sykes. And Sykes owed Burke, who had once come across Sykes in the prison shop, on his back with another man’s knee on his chest and a sharpened screwdriver in Sykes’ ear, ready to permanently loosen an essential screw. Burke had inserted the screwdriver in its owner’s thigh instead. And thus the gun, and anything else Burke ever needed that Sykes could provide.

He walked up the slope towards the light of the Fastmart, tugging his cap low against the wind, rain and facial features; pulling the hood over his head to obscure his height. Both, along with the gloves, to be ditched in the river.

He had the layout: a surveillance camera in the far corner above the cooler, another on the wall behind the register. Clerk was some bored girl, the place closed up in ten minutes; she wouldn’t be trouble. No one on the street, no one in the store, wait if there was. Front door four steps from the register. Lay low somewhere, somebody’s garage, an unlocked car or back porch, ‘til morning. The duffel held a tightly packed sleeping bag. They’d check hotels, but wouldn’t consider anyone staying out in this shit.

Then the bus to the college across town; weeks earlier Burke had answered an ad from a student looking for someone to split the gas money and the driving down to North Carolina on break. Sykes had taught him that trick, no suspicious cops at the bus or train station to hassle with. He said a guy with a little cash could get himself a good start down in North Carolina, even had some friends who’d help him out.

Burke took a breath and started up the hill.

It was time.

Ⓒ 2014 Damon Stewart