Magic Hour, Susan Isaacs [life changing books txt] 📗

assistance to a person who has committed a Class A felony—like second-degree murder. I was actually very clear about the consequences of the devast-ation I was bringing on myself. I remember I contemplated what a felony conviction could do to my pension rights, wondered whether they had AA meetings at the Green Haven Correctional Facility and decided that because I had a couple of good friends in the Suffolk County D.A.’s, maybe they’d only go for a misdemeanor. But the drippy palms, the twisting gut, had nothing to do with these objective considerations.

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No, I drove back to my house with an unswallowable lump in my throat because I was afraid Bonnie would be gone.

She’d think fast, as she had the week before, at Sy’s, when she’d killed him, and do what she thought she had to do: run. No. She hadn’t killed him. I did believe her. But she’d have visions of the jury nodding, convinced, as the People summed up its circumstantial case against Spencer, and she’d run. Or just be frightened, and want someone to hold her, comfort her, kiss the top of her head, like her friend Gideon, and she’d run. Or knowing Bonnie, be a good, chin-up American, face the music, trust in God and the Constitution, and she’d run, find a phone, call Homicide and ask, Is Detective Kurz in?

Oh, Jesus. What would I do if she wasn’t there?

It was Thursday night, but weekenders were already pouring in. Traffic had gotten even heavier than when I’d left for Bonnie’s a half hour earlier; it was like one endless, metallic reptile snaking its way east. And every person in those thousands of cars was an important person, with important things to do. They bad to hear what last-minute truly fun invitations were on their answering machines so they could break the dates they’d already made. They had to change into the three-hundred-dollar black gauze shirt. They had to refresh their potpourri before their houseguests arrived. There was fresh mozzarella oozing in the shopping bag on the back seat, wetting their baguettes, an intolerable situation that had to be stopped.

Not a single car would defer and let me cross Montauk Highway. I honked and flicked my brights at a new 560SL, made eye contact with the driver and then didn’t look back at the road; I kept staring at him—and driving. It unnerved him enough that at the last possible second, he slammed on his brakes.

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Hatred disfigured his jowly face, but he knew I looked demented enough to actually hit a Mercedes.

Then I floored it back to my house. Except I had to stop when the guardrail went down at the train tracks. It was the longest fucking train in the history of the Long Island Rail Road.

I rushed into the house and tripped over Moose, who was running to greet me. I said, “Get out of my way, you goddamn bag of shit.” She wagged her tail. I patted her head.

Okay, I thought, Bonnie left the dog. Clever: she knew I’d take care of it. The house was absolutely silent. I trudged toward the pineapple room and called out “Hi” against the emptiness. Still a little hope. “Hello?” Not a sound. “Bonnie!”

I yelled.

“Hi,” Bonnie called back. Did I jump! “It’s you! I heard you say ‘Hi,’ and I thought it was your voice, but I couldn’t be sure. I thought: What if it’s one of his friends, or a burglar?”

My whole body was flooded with relief, and it left me so empty, that sudden decrease in tension, that I had to lean against the wall for a minute to get my equilibrium back.

Then I went into the pineapple room.

She was curled up on the bed reading This Date in New York Yankees History, the only book that had been in there.

She put it down on the floor, then sat up on the bed, Indian style. “Who is the all-time leader for career grand slams?”

she asked.

“Gehrig,” I mumbled.

“It said Henry Gehrig. Is that the same as Lou?”

I nodded and said, “Here.” I handed her the sneakers and hairbrush and took the underwear and toothbrush out of my pocket. I was still too emotional. I couldn’t make conversation.

“Thanks.”

I jiggled the bag with the dog chow. She smiled 274 / SUSAN ISAACS

and waited for me to say something, so I told her I’d give it to Moose, take a quick shower and be back. I was amazed; I sounded so matter-of-fact. Like a normal person. Did she want something? I had a bunch of TV dinners. She said, No, thanks, she wasn’t hungry.

I shoved two Hungry Man dinners in the oven, figuring when push came to shove she wouldn’t be able to resist an aluminum-foil tray of greasy, breaded chicken, or worst case, I’d eat it. I got into the shower. Water, a lot of soap, the nice pine smell of shampoo. This was better. A cool, clean man instead of a sweaty, feverish, overwrought wreck. I reached out for the towel, a little disappointed Bonnie hadn’t sneaked in to hand it to me; in the back of my mind, I’d been imagining getting out of the shower and having her there. I’d say, Get the hell out of here, and she’d say, Let me do your back.

But then, resting her body against me, she’d reach around to the front, stroke me, murmur, Oh, Stephen.

I got dressed, took out my notebook and called Vincent Kelleher, the catalog king. “Detective Brady again.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Mr. Kelleher, I don’t know you, but somehow I get the feeling that you weren’t being straight with me, and that makes me very upset.” Silence. “Now listen, I’m not interested in your tax situation. You want to pay off the books, on the books, I don’t give a damn. But I do give a damn if you lie in response to a simple question.”

“Why do you think I lied?” he whispered in Flagstaff, Arizona.

“Because