Confusion? Fear? Did it matter?
Laura closed her eyes, squeezed them shut. The blast deafened her. There was a second one. She felt a searing pain in her ear. She could smell earth, the grass, the night. She felt a breeze. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard footsteps. When she opened her eyes, he was gone. Her ears still ringing, she could make out the sound of his car door open, then slam shut, the engine starting, the car skidding, turning, leaving her behind.
Her whole body started to convulse.
What was that? What the hell was that? How could he miss? He was right there. He must have more than two bullets.
Minutes passed. She sat with her hands clamped onto the steering wheel, her forehead pressed against it.
She thanked the same God she had once cursed for taking away her mother and her sister before their time. Her father was a different story, he had danced with death from the moment he brought a bottle of whiskey to his lips. He was no match for even the slowest of the Devil’s quick steps.
I am one of those people from those blighted families, my life’s journey a series of join-the-dots tragedies.
She put her foot on the gas.
But I’m alive. Thank you, God. Thank you. This is not my time.
New York
Robert Prince’s vast TriBeCa office was lit only by the antique desk lamp on his custom four-thousand-dollar desk. There was one framed photo on top – his wife, Ingrid. He sometimes Googled her, just for fun. He had been reading a gossip piece on them from two weekends previously, their ‘rumored baby news!’, and was now looking at a Tumblr page dedicated to her early modeling work, created by someone who was probably in junior high at the time. Robert wondered if it was easier for a man like that to idolize an image from the past; was the extra remove a small way of justifying why he couldn’t have her? Not because a woman like that would always be untouchable to a man like him, but simply because she no longer existed in that form. This man had described her as a woman of exceptional beauty. Robert felt a small stab of envy that it was not he who had formulated this perfect description of his wife, that he had not presented it to her himself, maybe on a hand-written card on a tray at breakfast time. He loved her like no other woman. Not that there had been many. He had never been a ladies’ man. He respected them too much. He was Ingrid’s man.
His cell phone rang and the face of exceptional beauty flashed on the screen. He picked up. ‘Hey, sweetheart.’
‘It’s me!’ said Ingrid at the same time.
Robert loved how she announced herself on the phone. Of course it was her. But she spoke every time as if it would be a surprise to him. Maybe it was something about her bouncy Nordic twang.
‘I just got a PDF of our magazine spread,’ she said. ‘The official announcement. Oh my goodness, listen to this: “The Baby Prince”! How pregnancy suits me. They call you my “besotted husband”; I have “tamed Robert Prince”!’
‘I am your besotted husband,’ said Robert. ‘But can you tame a mouse?’
‘Mouse!’ said Ingrid. ‘Tiger.’
Robert laughed. ‘With you, I’m a mouse.’
‘Well, journalists see you in a different way …’ she said.
‘As they see you …’ said Robert.
There was a short silence.
‘The photos are great,’ said Ingrid.
‘Good, good,’ said Robert.
‘I have to warn you, though, they’ve used that old shot of you with the Lotus—’
‘Well, you can get them to remove it – I presume the purpose of the PDF was for pre-approval.’ Robert had a collection of eleven historic racing cars. The Lotus Series 2 Super Seven had been his favorite. And it had been totaled on New Year’s Day, through no fault of his.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Ingrid. ‘But I love it. It just captures you so well. You look so happy.’
‘Well, now I feel a little sadder,’ said Robert.
‘It’s only a car, everyone’s alive,’ she said.
‘I know that,’ said Robert. ‘I know. Speaking of precious lives, is Laura back?’
‘No,’ said Ingrid, ‘but I was expecting her about an hour ago.’
‘You didn’t go to the airport?’ said Robert.
Ingrid laughed. ‘No, Robert. You’re very sweet, though. She was getting a cab. She insisted.’
‘And you haven’t heard from her?’ said Robert. ‘And she’s late?’
‘No, but I’m sure she’s fine.’
‘I tried her phone; it was diverted to voicemail.’
‘She was probably in the air,’ said Ingrid.
‘I worry,’ said Robert.
‘I know. But there’s no need.’ Ingrid paused. ‘I miss you.’
‘No – you miss New York.’
‘What?’ said Ingrid. ‘That’s not true. What are you talking about? Are you OK?’
‘I am,’ said Robert. ‘Of course I am. I love you, sweetheart. Sleep tight. I’m going to finish up here shortly. Text me when Laura gets in.’
‘OK – sleep well,’ said Ingrid. ‘Talk tomorrow. Love you.’
Robert ended the call and stared out into the night. He looked down at the letter on his desk. It was dated August 1st, 1919, written by his great-grandfather, the source of much of his wealth, copper-mining star, Patrick Prince.
Dear Fr Dan,
I hope this finds you in good health. Thank you most sincerely for accepting Walter into your community for the coming months. Though now just sixteen years old, he is already showing signs of acuity and I have no doubt that, in business, his efforts will bear fruit. Please do not let that blind you. I want you to put him to work on the ranch, in the barns, and tending to those less fortunate. I want him to rise with the sun, and to brighten with it.
Please help me, Dan, please help my son. As you know, I made my fortune mining the depths, drawing forth from the earth to provide for my family and to allow others to provide for theirs. However, my keen sense of what lies hidden has failed me in matters personal. From the shadows, my reasoning would be that the reach of good men is often hindered. In contrast, I fear that harm’s reach has no bounds, and – far worse – invisible fingers.
All the best,
Pat
Family was important to Robert Prince. Life was important. He considered birth, death and after-life carefully. He slid open his drawer, took out his Bible and set it on top of the letter. He let his hands rest on the black leather cover, his fingertips on the debossed golden letters. All over the world, people were reading this same text and finding different messages.
Different messages.
Robert opened the Bible on a random page. He wanted to find the right words. Wasn’t that all anyone wanted? To know … to feel … the right words.
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