Girl Most Likely

Twenty-One

You are not anxious to do this.

Well, that’s not exactly right. You are anxious, in the sense that anxiety is a low fluctuating hum beneath your surface calm. You are prepared to do this only to protect yourself. You really have no wish to hurt her. The memories with this one are too fresh. Too sweet. Too vivid.

But you will probably have to do it.

And, you tell yourself, several other important functions may well be served. Confusing the issue is one. Throwing suspicion elsewhere is another. Sentiment cannot be allowed to defeat self-preservation.

First, you must check on the person to whom you hope attention will be drawn. Is he at home tonight? That could prove a deciding factor. If he is with her, or is planning to meet her when she gets off work, you would have two people with which to deal, simultaneously... and that would not do.

Your hope is that he will be at home, that is, the home of his parents, in the basement apartment they have provided him. The house is at the end of a cul-de-sac on Bluffwood Drive, barn-shaped but with modern touches against a wooded backdrop. You park down the street, walk to where two houses have no lights on and then cut between them, to work your way through the trees and around to the barnlike structure’s nicely landscaped backyard.

Staying low, you are able to peek in a window into the finished basement. There’s a massive wall-screen TV, and a big open area with comfy chairs and a couch arranged for viewing. But against the far wall is a single bed and a dresser; also a desk with a computer on it. Seems to have been a family room until it was turned into this studio apartment.

Its inhabitant is sitting on the couch with his feet on an ottoman. He has a can of beer in hand, wears a T-shirt and jeans, no socks. Next to him is an open bag of Sterzing’s potato chips. He would appear to be in for the evening.

Good.

Even better is that the rest of the lights are off in the house and there’s no car in the drive or the garage. The parents and their Chrysler are nowhere to be seen.

Perfect.

You drive back to downtown Galena, park on Commerce, and walk up the slope of Washington Street to South Main. It’s after eight and, with the stores closed and few restaurants or bars at this end of Main, things are very quiet. Not many cars parked on the street; traffic’s light.

And it’s only going to get quieter.

You take the old concrete stairs by the narrow closed-off cobblestone street, to the right of which is a modest park-like area, and go up to the patio of Vinny Vanucchi’s. No one around, but lights are on in the restaurant. They don’t close till nine.

You go in. Take a left to go down the short hall to the restrooms. You duck into yours, relieve yourself, wash your hands. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s you. Normal. Nothing shows. You check your hair, brush it back in place, and smile at your reflection. Not pushing it. Just friendly.

Walking past the little unattended deli counter, you find the greeter, the thirtyish assistant manager who you know a little, leaning at the station where he seats guests. Another deli counter, also unattended, is at right, its low electrical hum a manifestation of your anxiety.

The restaurant is fairly empty. Dean Martin is singing “Sway.” Somebody in white is working in the kitchen. The sunken wine-cellar nook at left that you pass has both its tables empty. Up the stairs your host pauses at the bottom of the stairs to the main dining room, from which there is no noise at all. You are taken into the cozy dining area that you like best and are seated by the faux fireplace in the corner. By the window onto Main, a middle-aged couple are having a late dinner. They are the only other diners.

Jasmine appears to be the entire waitstaff at this hour, late in a slow day. She comes over, looking surprised to see you, her expression falling, but then picking itself up into something pleasant that could be called a smile.

“Alone tonight?” she asks.

She is pretty as ever, her medium-length brown hair framing her face beautifully. You feel a pang and it’s not hunger. Well, really, it kind of is. There are hungers and there are hungers.

“Everybody at home but me has the flu,” you say.

A real smile. “I sure hope you’re not contagious.”

“No, I’ve already had it. You’re perfectly safe.”

She has a menu for you, but you say you don’t need it.

“Rocky’s Ravioli,” you say.

“Your favorite.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re my favorite.”

Her smile is gone but a frown hasn’t replaced it. “Don’t say that. It’s cruel.”

Sammy Davis is singing “Something’s Gotta Give.”

“I don’t mean to be cruel,” you say. “It’s just that... I’ve missed you. I am not coming on to you! Just telling you. I’ve missed you.”

“Yes,” she said, cheerfully, “it’s nice seeing you, too. I’ll bring your bread and salad.”

She goes off to do that. The middle-aged couple are finishing up. After Jasmine returns with the bowl of salad and basket of bread, she goes over and gives them their check, then disappears.

In a few minutes, when you are still just getting started on your bread and salad, she returns and takes the middle-aged couple’s money. A little while later she brings them their change, and you are done with the salad and bread.

You only eat half of what she brought. That low hum inside you means your stomach might not like any more.

You sit and think. Ponder. Consider. You may not have to do it, after all. She seems friendly. She seems not at all scared, though you would imagine by now she has reason to be. Your belly seems to be handling the rich buttery garlic bread and the tangy Italian salad. You even eat a yellow pepper.

You are doing fine.

Bobby Darin sings “Call Me Irresponsible.”

She brings your order of ravioli — a half dozen good-size pasta puffs filled with ricotta cheese; the marinara they luxuriate in is excellent. You ordered this because it’s your favorite all right, but also to take it easy on your stomach, which is not made of cast iron. Neither are you. You are human. You once felt something for this girl. You still do maybe.

Maybe you won’t have to go through with it.

While you are eating, Jasmine comes in and clears the middle-aged couple’s table. No busboy is working this evening. When she bends over, her slender shapely figure reminds you of the needs that drive you, needs you can’t help, needs you must respond to or you might just go mad.

When you are finished, eating only half of the serving, Jasmine returns, brings the check, and asks if there’s anything else.

“I would like a glass of white wine,” you say. “Chardonnay. The Main Street.”

“From California. Good choice.”

“Why, is that your favorite?”

She smiles a little. “One of them.”

“Why not sit and talk? You’ll be closing, in what... twenty minutes. I don’t see any other customers.”

“No. I’d imagine you’re my last.”

“If Tony spots you,” you say, referring to the assistant manager who seated you, “you can scurry off like a good girl.”

“I... I have to clear the table first.”

You say fine, and then give her two twenties. “Settle up for me later, and keep the rest.”

She nods, or you think she does — it’s barely perceptible. She clears the table.

So you sit awhile and wonder if she’ll disappear with your money. Maybe Tony will show up with your glass of wine.

But it’s Jasmine who comes, bringing a bottle and a glass. She sets it before you, and takes the seat beside you. Then she fills the glass all the way, which is what Frank Sinatra is singing. You sip. Then she looks around surreptitiously and does the same — an under-drinking-age girl, stealing sips. How much sweeter the wine tastes because of that.

You speak very softly. It’s barely audible above “Ol’ Blue Eyes.” You tell her how much you miss her. How often you think of her.

“I think of you, too,” she admits.

“That makes me happy.”

“But I think we both know it was wrong. You told me so yourself. You told me how wonderful it had been, how much you’d cherish the memories. But that we would have to go our separate ways. You were kind about it. Sweet, even. But it hurt. Do you know how much it hurt?”

You put sadness in your smile. “Wasn’t it Roy Orbison who said, ‘Love Hurts’?”

“... I think it was Nazareth.”

She steals a sip. Yours takes its time.

Then she says, “We haven’t spoken since then. Except when you and your family were here and I took your order. Do you know how hard it was for me to see you living a life like that without me? But at the same time... how could I deny you that? No. I was in the wrong. I made the first move.”

They always did. They always thought they did. You were really good at maneuvering that. Which always paid off, when it came time to talk about blame.

“I’m not here,” you say, after a sip of wine, “to start things up again... as hard a reality as that is to face. You have a new love in your life. I saw you at the reunion.”

She shrugs. “We’re not real serious yet. Getting there, maybe, but... not like we were. Maybe that’ll happen. I know I haven’t really been in love since...”

Her lovely brown eyes are swimming with tears. That’s good! That’s perfect.

You consider touching her hand, but think better of it. If Tony should peek in, and saw that, you would have to call it off. They trade sips.

“Sweetheart,” you say, “I just had to talk to you because... well, you’ve been much on my mind.”

“I have?”

“You have. After what happened to that reporter from Chicago, Astrid Lund—”

“She was from here, you know. One of the girls I room with had a sister who went to school with her. She was on TV in Chicago, I guess, really kind of a big deal.”

“Yes, I know. I wanted to make sure you weren’t too upset about it.”

“Why would I be?”

“Well, that boy you’re seeing, I don’t know if you know this, but he used to date her. The dead girl.”

When she was living.

“I knew that,” Jasmine says. “But that’s old news.”

You almost smile at that — Astrid the big-time broadcast journalist... old news.

“I think,” you say, “that everyone at the reunion has been questioned by the police. I know I was.”

“Me, too!”

“Oh?”

“Earlier today. Right here. Police chief and her father.”

“I hope you weren’t too alarmed.”

“No. It was just a matter of giving them... I guess you’d say an alibi for Jerry.”

“He was with you after the reunion?”

She seemed embarrassed now. “Yes, I, uh... we spent the night.”

“You’re not just saying that to make me jealous.”

“No! No. You didn’t have anything to do with it. Uh... that sounded wrong. I didn’t mean anything by it. But you must know I’ve gone on with my life. I had to. And I’ve never told a soul about us. Not a soul.”

You sip wine. “The age difference, I’m afraid, would have people judging us.”

She sips wine. “That’s what I think. It’s not fair. So what if I was sixteen? Some places people marry younger than that!”

Yes, but seventeen is the age of consent in Illinois. You’d been all too aware of that, but not enough for it to matter.

She asks, “Is your... situation at home better now?”

“Not really,” you say. “But I have to think of the bigger picture.”

“Oh, I know. I don’t blame you. I really don’t.”

“Good.” You put concern in your expression. “Really, I just wanted to make sure this horrible event hadn’t upset you terribly.”

“I don’t consider what we had to be horrible at all!”

“I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about what happened to the Lund girl.”

“Oh. Well, yes.”

Again you trade sips, hers cautious, yours not.

“By the way,” you say, “did anyone see you and Jerry together after the reunion? I mean, if you’ll forgive me for snooping, where did you... wind up?”

“My apartment. Over Honest John’s Trading Post? But my roommates weren’t around.”

“Not even the next morning?”

“No. I know how to be discreet. You know that.”

She has her last sip of wine and says, “Well, better say good night. There are a few things I need to take care of before closing.”

Dino is singing “Arrivederci Roma.”

You gesture to the sound. “What he said.”

That makes her smile.

She is talking to Tony at the register by his station when you pass, nodding to the host, but not acknowledging Jasmine, who does not even glance at you. She was right — she always was good at discretion.

You slip outside.

The night is cold. Colder. You have a coat on, but not the coat you need. You move the car, parking it on Bench Street. You go around to the trunk. You glance about — nothing around but the rear of stores and the front of churches, neither doing business right now. No traffic at all.

You pop the trunk. Exchange your coat for the black hooded raincoat. Climb into it. Again, it’s a new one, the previous one discarded in a dumpster in Dubuque. You take out the fresh pair of kitchen gloves and snug them on. You’re getting used to the feel. The butcher knife you had not needed with Astrid is here for you now.

You shut the trunk and head down the concrete stairs. The world is not just cold but empty and almost silent, just some distant bar noise. You are at Main now. You tuck into the trees of the park-like area adjacent and wait as a couple of cars glide by. Through the trees you have a view on Vinny Vanucchi’s. You hear a door open and a good-night exchange between Jasmine to Tony, clear yet distant in the chill.

You rush across the street.

Along the side wall of Honest John’s Trading Post a wrought-iron stairway with wooden steps rises to the door to the apartment where Jasmine and two other girls live. You know that already. You do your homework.

You rush up the steps, your running shoes making a little noise but not loud, not echoing. At the landing where her apartment door awaits, you tuck yourself into the recession. You wait. Not long.

Because she comes up just as quickly as you had but with no worry about being heard. Her feet are gunshots — she’s in shoes not sneakers — and you count her steps, because you know how many there are. Homework.

And when she reaches the landing, you raise the knife and jump out and bring the blade down.

But without her in front of you, to judge, you only slash the sleeve of her red thermal jacket. There’s enough street light conspiring with a nearly full moon to show you her face as her eyes go so wide they might have fallen from her face, dark brown centers and stark white in an almost as white face, her mouth open in a silent scream.

She reacts quickly and well, you have to hand her that, turning and running down those stairs and by the time she reaches the sidewalk she is screaming. It resonates through the canyon of the facing buildings. You are close behind her but not close enough to strike, though as she runs across the street, she pauses, whether to duck any car that might be coming or to flag one down, only there isn’t any car, and when she starts running again, she stumbles a little.

Then you are right behind her and you bring the knife down once, hard, and it plunges deep, and when you withdraw it, red spurts from the red jacket, as if the jacket itself were bleeding. She goes down, half in the street, half on the sidewalk, and she isn’t dead yet, her motions like a swimmer trying not to drown, her back to you and you are in a way glad, because you loved this girl, and part of you still does as you plunge the blade in another five times, and she stops swimming.