Introspection

by Juliet Benson

If David had gotten me out before that fateful talk with Pulitzer, if I hadn’t gotten caught at the Irvington Hall, if I was stronger… If if if. I was caught in a corner, and the only way out was no way after all. I closed my eyes and relived that dreadful scene. Again and again I saw Kid Blink go down for me, heard Spot’s yelp of pain as he was knocked out, felt the steady pressure of David’s hand against my back or shoulder. I closed my eyes and I could see it: a patch of various scenes from the rally, pasted together in a dizzying array, playing over and over again. It was a new kind of torture.

Joe’s words kept coming back to me. Free. I could be free. I closed my eyes, trying to remember the picture I had painted of Santa Fe. The colors seemed brighter than before. It was intoxicating.

I watched him collapse on the overstuffed chair. He leaned his head back and sighed in bliss, having his feet finally up. Medda walked through the door and rolled her eyes at him, but an affectionate smile graced her face.

"How was your day, dear?" she asked, walking behind him and putting her hands on his shoulders. I wasn’t stupid, I knew they were trying to create a family-type atmosphere for me. It wasn’t working. It all just felt wrong to me. I sank lower to the floor, huddling in on myself.

"Fine, fine," Father replied.

"You two relax and talk, and dinner will be done in no time," Medda exited the room, and I stared at the wooden floor.

"How was your day?" Pleasantries. Of course, never a real conversation. Never broach any truly important topic.

"Fine," I rocked back on my heels. "Yours?" Easy enough, no one could accuse me of not trying to have a conversation.

"Good. Busy. Good." Medda stuck her head in.

"Dinner’s nearly done. Jack, do you want to set the table?" "Medda" and "mother" did not collide in the same sentence. She’d been with us for two months now, and I still could not fit her into that category. She was made simply to sparkle on stage, I think. And as a friend. Never maternal. I got up, brushed off the invisible dirt on my legs and went into the kitchen. I got out the chipped plates and cheap silverware. There were three chairs at the table. How cozy.

Dinner was silent as usual. The wet sounds of their eating was slowly driving me insane. I tried to tune it out, but it kept worming it’s way into my ears until I thought I would scream. Luckily, by that time we were finished. Medda tried to shoo us out to "talk" some more while she cleaned up. However, I heckled her into letting me wash the dirty dishes. I didn’t want to sit through another long silence. When I finished there was nothing to do but face Father. I walked in, and saw him slumped in his chair. His cocaine bottles were arranged next to him, and he looked half asleep.

"Did Paul come today?" I asked. Father worked at a bank. Believe it or not, we were "rich"; as much as relative low-classers can be. Anyway, there was a fellow coming in that he was suspicious of.

"Yep, he comes in every day," Father replied, rolling his head around to smile at me. I sank down to the same spot I had occupied before.

"Did he try anything?" I inquired, determined to do my part.

"No, he never does," his head fell back, his eye’s out of my line of sight. "Not yet anyway." It was said almost to himself. He looked about to fall asleep, so I rose to my feet in disgust.

"Jack?" I stopped at the sound of his voice. "Tomorrow, pick me up some stuff, all right?" He limply gestured toward a piece of paper next to the bottles. I nodded, picked it up, and folded it into my pocket. He smiled thinly.

"Good boy."

I couldn’t remain still any longer, so I stiffly rose to my feet and paced the small cell. They had locked me up tight, no mistakes this time. For a moment, I got claustrophobic, and hysteria set in. I forced myself to close my eyes and drag in deep breaths. The panic slowly deserted me, and I was left alone and cold.

I trudged down the dirty streets of New York. Truly, it is an over-rated town. I rubbed the back of my hand across my nose, then pulled out the crumpled paper Father had given me yesterday. I hunched my shoulders forward to protect myself from the chill of the October wind and studied it, mentally ticking off the items. The first couple was various foods, and I collected them relatively easily. Next was more cocaine. Again, easy enough. I strode down to the store that had the best prices and was just as soon out again. Near the bottom was a new watch. I blinked- What on earth would he need that for?- and went to see if I could pick one up with the money in my pocket. I hadn’t expected this, so was ill-prepared financially. As I entered the shop, I noted absently that it was close to the bank Father worked at. Inside, I had to wait a while the man behind the counter finished helping someone. I didn’t mind; it was warm in the shop, and it gave me a chance to thaw out. Finally, I stepped up to the counter and asked about the watches. Father hadn’t really specified what kind he wanted. The man brought out some of the cheaper watches that were still nice-looking. I bent over them, studying them laboriously before making my selection. Just as the man handed me my package, a commotion arose from outside. More than what was usual for New York. I cautiously stepped out, not wanting to get mixed up in something, and found to my utmost surprise that there were bulls all over the bank like ants.

"Huh," I said aloud. ‘Paul must have made his move,’ to myself. I stepped up to the bank, morbidly curious. Soon, two policemen came out dragging Father between them. I was… shocked. It dawned on me then. The reason for the look in his eyes whenever he talked about Paul: grudging respect and distaste. He was Paul. It must have been some sort of alter-ego the whole time. Just then, he looked up and caught my eyes. He half-grinned at me, raising his chained hands to give me a mock-salute.

I resigned myself back to sitting down in my filthy corner. Like father like son. It had occurred to me later that the salute was more then a farewell; he wanted me to have the watch. I puzzled it over in the following years, what the watch could mean, could symbolize. I never came to a conclusion. Until now.

Time. It must have something to do with time. Time until I turned into him? Time until he’d see me again? I still had a lot to work out. I leaned my head back against the cold stone. And, unfortunately, with the way things were working, the way my mind was working, I’d have that.