The Prodigal
By Sally Bell
I knew I should never have gone into that seedy bar. But the day had been rough, and the place was convenient. I ordered gin—straight—and hope the day’s stress would fade away.
I didn’t notice Jack McCoy at first. He’d parked himself in a dark corner where he was quietly drinking his way into oblivion. It was only when the altercation started that I turned and saw him.
“Look, I’m not servin’ you no more,” the bartender said. “You don’t got any more money and I don’t take credit cards.”
“Want another,” Jack mumbled.
“Sure, buddy, you and everyone else. Out of the bar, now.”
I walked over to them. “Hey Mac,” I said to the barkeeper. “You can’t let him go out of the bar like this, with no cash to get a cab. If he gets behind the wheel of a car—“
“I ain’t payin’ for no cab. He can walk home.”
“He doesn’t live anywhere near this place!” I exclaimed.
The bartender’s eyes gleamed. “So you know him. You take care of him.”
“I have no intention—“ I began, but he had turned and was addressing Jack.
“Hey buddy, you know this dame?”
Jack squinted at me. “She came. Yeah, I know her.”
“Hello Jack,” I sighed.
Somehow, I got him out of the bar and out on the street. It was cold and raw, but I was in luck. A cab was cruising by and I hailed it. I pushed Jack in and then followed.
“319 West 35th,” I told the driver.
Jack looked at me. “My house?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m taking you home, then going on to my place.”
“No, I wanna go with you,” he said, his voice rising.
“Jack, you need to go home,” I insisted.
“NO! Go with you!” He was shouting now.
The cabbie watched us in the rear view mirror and glared. “I’m gonna pull over and dump both of you out if you don’t stop shoutin’. And with the weather turnin’ bad, you can kiss the idea of getting another cab goodbye.”
I looked at Jack. “Go on up to 75th Street,” I sighed, giving the cabbie my address.
I never thought I’d let Jack into my apartment again. It had been—five years? No, closer to eleven. Time flies when you work hard to forget. I’d joined the DA’s office, young and idealistic. Jack was my supervisor, my mentor, and very soon my lover. That’s when I found out sharing an office and a bed didn’t work out very well. One day he took all his things from my apartment. The next day I resigned.
Life had been interesting since then—first a stint with Legal Aid, then a practice of my own. There’d been a series of lovers, but I’d left them all behind when I hung out my shingle. No time for love when you’re building a practice.
I’d heard about Jack from time to time, over the years, and even sat across the aisle from him on a few cases. I could tell he and Diana Hawthorne were hot and heavy when I defended Rodiguez. But I wasn’t too surprised when Diana got in legal trouble—the only surprise was that Jack had a hand in the prosecution. Both of them skated too close to the line, in my opinion. I’d hoped that his latest assistant, Claire, didn’t pick up his bad habits. And then, I’d heard Claire was killed in an accident, and the point was moot.
Jack had settled back on the cushions, eyes closed. I was glad of that. I would be hard enough having him back in my apratment, even if it was only to sleep it off. At least I could work on motions in peace.
The cab stopped, and I paid the driver. Jack opened his eyes.
“Come on, Jack,” I said, taking his hand.
“Claire. You came.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, not wanting to provoke another scene. “Come on, out of the cab—“
He came with no resistance, and followed me into the lobby. He said nothing as we got in the elevator. It was only after we’d arrived at my door that he said, “You’re not Claire.”
“No, I’m not,” I said as I fumbled for my keys.
“Where’s Claire?” he asked, looking around and getting agitated.
“Keep your voice down,” I said as I located my key and put it in the lock.
“I waited for her. Waited this time,” he insisted.
“Yeah, well you waited too long,” I said, pushing him into my apartment. “Claire’s dead.”
He turned and stared at me.
“Go over to the couch and sleep it off,” I cried impatiently, but he didn’t move. “Do I have to do everything?” I pulled off his parka and tossed it on the floor. Then I pushed him onto the sofa, where he fell back on the cushions.
“She’s—gone,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, she’s dead. But on’t worry, Jack, you’ll have another assitant to bed in no time.”
He slumped over and put his head in his hands. And that was when I realized he was crying.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I’m busy, and—“
“My fault,” he said shakily. “My fault she died. I loved her, and now she’s dead.”
“Yeah, well.” I didn’t know quite what to say. Jack McCoy, office Lothario, admitting he actually loved somebody? I’d always thought that for him it was a roll in the hay with no strings attached. “I’ll bring a blanket, and you sleep it off.”
“Can’t sleep,” he sighed. “Not for days.”
Oh great. Well, I was not going to forsake my work to hold his hand all night. He would never have done such a thing for me, I told myself.
“Try,” I said. I went to my closet and got out my stadium blanket. He lay down and I draped it over him. He was quiet and still. I sighed, and picked up my briefcase. I was fully focused on my work when his voice made me jump.
“It’s hard to go on without her.”
I turned and looked at the couch. He was curled up in the fetal position, eyes staring at the wall.
“Yeah Jack, it’s hard to go on,” I said. “but you can do it. I’ve been dumped by the best—starting with you—and I’ve survived.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“For what?”
“For what I did to you.”
I looked at my desk for some time.
“Never thought I’d hear you say it,” I said finally.
“Never knew how much it hurt ‘til now.”
I went over to him. “You need anything?” I asked.
“No, go on with your work.” He never looked at me; he just kept staring at the wall.
“I’ll be done in about half an hour,” I said. “Then I’ll turn out the light and you can go to sleep.”
He was silent as I worked. Funny that something so simple as a brief could turn out to be so hard. My mind kept wandering from cases and citations to the man who lay on my couch. I hadn’t been that long since Claire’s death, I told myself. He’s still in shock. That’s why he’s acting this way.
Finally, I put my pen down in dusgust. No more work happening tonight. I switched off the main light, but kept my desk lamp on, so he could see if he needed to get up in the night.
I looked over at him. He hadn’t moved. I took one step toward him, then hesitated. I had the feeling that if I said anything, I wouldn’t be heard, so I turned and went into my bedroom, shutting the door.
Unlike my guest, I had no trouble falling asleep. Staying asleep was another matter. A noise woke me about an hour later. I sat up groggily and looked out the window. The wind was up, and snowflakes danced in the lamplight. Snowflakes don’t make noise. I got up and went to the living room. Jack’s parka was still on the floor, but he was nowhere to be seen. I checked the bathroom, then the kitchen. Nothing.
“He snuck out and went home,” I thought angrily, then shook my head. Why be angry? Jack McCoy was out of my hair—and my life—once again. Except for his parka.
I looked at it, all in a heap on the floor. It bothered me, and I was too sleepy to know why. A vague uneasiness led me to the phone, where I dialed Jack’s number, which I still knew by heart. No answer.
I paced the floor. Where could he be? I looked at the parka again, and it hit me. Quickly, I went to the closet and got on my coat and hat. I shoved bare feet into my hiking boots and grabbed my keys as I went out.
He wasn’t in the lobby. I looked out at the swirling snow, and seemed to detect movement in the darkness. I took a deep breath and headed outside.
He was leaning up against the mailbox, peering down the street. At least he had his hands in his pockets.
“What are you doing out here?” I demanded. “Trying to make yourself into a snowman?” I brushed the snow from his hair.
“I’m waiting for her,” he said simply.
“For Claire? Jack, we’ve been over this before. Claire’s dead.”
“Then maybe I’m waiting to join her.”
The words made me shiver, despite my warm coat. “Listen here, Jack McCoy,” I said. “You either come back into my apartment, or I call the cops and they haul you away. I’m not having you freeze to death on my watch.”
He looked at me. “You still have your old fire,” he said with quiet admiration.
I held out my hand, and he took it. His hands were ice cold, and I found myself trying to warm them as we rode the elevator back upstairs.
As soon as we were inside my flat, I led him to the bathroom, where I began filling the tub with warm water. “Get undressed and get in here.” I looked up at him; he made no move. “Come on, Jack, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before!”
He slowly pulled off his clothes as I finished drawing the bath. I picked up his clothes as I walked past him. They smelled of whiskey, and I decided to hang up the suit and launder the rest. As I put detergent in the washer, I wondered if Jack was functioning well enough to get into the bath and get warm. When the clothes were in the washer, I went back to the bathroom and looked in.
Jack lay in the tub, his eyes closed. Oh great, he’d fallen asleep. I shook his shoulder, but no luck. Finally, I drained the tub and started toweling him off. That woke him up.
“Up and to bed,” I declared. “Guess the warm water cured you of your insomnia.”
“Guess so.” He sounded exhausted. Somehow, he got to his feet, and I helped him finish drying off. He took my arm as we started down the hall. But suddenly, he was dead weight.
“Wake up, Jack,” I said, “at least long enough to get to the couch.” But he didn’t. And the only place to drag him was my bed. He rolled in without waking.
I crawled in on the other side and drew covers over us both. The last thing I thought I’d ever do was go to bed with Jack McCoy again. But at least he was dead to the world. A part of me regretted the lack of temptation.
I awoke to the alarm the next morning. Jack hadn’t stirred. I got up and went through the morning routine. I was ready to go, and he was still asleep. Well, the phone was right by the bed. I jotted down my number and left it on the nightstand.
The problem of Jack McCoy shifted to the background of my thoughts as my busy day began. I had a new client to meet, that brief to finish, and an afternoon court appearance. I came home exhausted.
I opened my door and looked around. Jack wasn’t in the living room, but I did hear sounds in the kitchen, so I went to investigate.
There was Jack, clad in his shorts and shirt, stirring something in a pot on the stove. The scene was so domestic, yet so incongruous, I had to laugh.
He turned around. “You’re home,” he said softly.
“And you have nice legs,” I smiled.
He looked down at himself. “I was lucky to find these. I had no clue what you’d done with them until I took your sheets out of the washer to dry them.”
“You changed the bed?” I asked, surprised.
“Thought I should,” he said. “Didn’t want you sleeping on dirty sheets. And then I cleaned the kitchen, and made you a bite to eat. Would have done more, but I just woke up at three.”
“You didn’t have to do anything.”
“I thought I did—to make up for things.” There was an awkward silence as Jack stirred the stuff on the stove.
“Where are the rest of my clothes?” he asked finally.
“In the hall closet, hanging up,” I replied.
“That explains why I couldn’t find them,” Jack mumbled. “I didn’t look there for my suit.” He got out a plate and spooned spaghetti on it and then covered the pasta with sauce. “Here’s some supper. Start eating and I’ll go make myself decent.”
He left, and I went to the table and took a bite. Not bad. Leave it to Jack to remember my weakness for Italian food.
He came back, buckling his belt. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“Since you made it, that’s a given, isn’t it?” I looked at his face, still lined with sadness. “It’s really quite good.”
Jack said nothing. He got a plate and put a small amount of pasta and sauce on it before sitting down opposite me. We ate in silence.
“Got a new client today,” I said, trying to make conversation. “Seems he was picked up for shoplifting. He swears he didn’t do it, he was framed. I was skeptical, and all for making a plea. And then into my office walks the store clerk. Had a fit of conscience, and told all. He says the boss told him to id my client as a shoplifter, even though he didn’t take a thing! Something to do with a cousin of the boss with sticky fingers. I can hardly wait to spring this on the prosecuting attorney! Of course, this isn’t in your league, but—“
“I’m happy for you, Sally,” Jack said without looking up. “Happy that you’ve made a life for yourself.”
“It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do,” I said.
“I know,” he said softly. “Love of the law was the one thing we shared.” He got up abruptly and took his plate to the sink, where he washed it. “I’d better get my stuff together and get out of your hair.”
“No rush,” I found myself saying. “After all, you did clean up my kitchen.”
“The least I could do,” he replied, head bowed.
I looked at him. This was not the Jack McCoy I knew of old.
He looked at me with sad eyes. “You finished with that? Then I’ll wash it.”
I watched as he washed the dishes and put up the extra food.
“Let’s go to the living room and talk,” I said when he was done.
:He followed me in, and we sat on the couch. I studied his face. The fatigue was still eveident, even though he’d slept all day.
“How are you feeling?” I asked with concern.
He looked at the floor. “Still not good,” he replied. There was a silence for some time.
“You want to talk about it?” I asked finally.
He looked at me. “You’ve been kinder to me than I deserve,” he said. “It was—losing Claire—that showed me what a demanding SOB I’ve been. She’d wanted to leave the DA’s office, Sally, but I talked her out of it. Wasn’t ready for the relationship to end, and couldn’t see how it could go one without her there. And then what did I do? I argued with her after we witnessed an execution, Then I went off and got drunk. Kept calling her to come get me. And when she didn’t come, I left, with a curse for her on my lips—“ The tears were falling now.
“It wasn’t until I saw her in the hospital, cold and dead, that I realized—“ He buried his head in his hands. After a few minutes, he pulled himself together. “The funeral was a few days ago. Adam gave me some time off. But I didn’t know what to do with myself—Sal, I don’t want to be alone.”
I put my hand on his. “Then stay,” I said simply.
“Thanks,” he sighed. “I’ll get the blanket and put it on the couch and—“
“You’ll sleep with me,” I said. “I think you need the comfort of an old friend who’ll make no demands on you, and will just hold you.”
He looked at me in astonishment. Then he took my hand and kissed it.
Later, in bed, he put his head on my chest as he used to.
“Why did it have to end?” he asked.
“You mean Claire’s death?”
“No, between you and me. I wished we’d had the chance to really love, and not just make love,” he said.
“But I’ve grown up since then, Jack. I’m my own woman now.”
He kissed my breast. “I know it, and I’m glad for you. But I can still wish I could change the past, can’t I?”
I stroked his hair and kissed him as he fell asleep.