The Drowning Child

57

Jimmy Lyle walked through the airport terminal, angry and red-faced, dressed in a black jacket, blue jeans and black boots. He was coiled like a spring waiting for a reason to launch; his broad shoulders hunched, his arms rigid, ending in tight fists. But he’d kept his eyes down, because he couldn’t launch, he couldn’t draw attention to himself.

He’d do one night in the house, that was it, then get to the retirement home, pack up his daddy’s things, show his face at Longacres, stand there mourning his fucking eyes out for a couple hours and get the fuck back to his vacation, his car, the plans he’d been forced to rearrange.

After fifteen minutes driving Jimmy’s rental car was suddenly illuminated by flashing blue lights. His breath caught. He felt like his head was going to explode. His leg spasmed and, for a brief moment, his foot struck the accelerator and the car jerked. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the police car, its presence like a looming tank that would roll over the rest of his life.

Jimmy got his breathing under control, because his mind had quickly taken him to an image of an officer asking him to pop the trunk of his car. Jimmy knew how to tame the wild breaths because it was what he had learned to do. Just as he was regaining the rhythm – and visualizing an alternative scenario, picturing charming the officer, instead of sitting in the driver’s seat, pale and sweaty and suspicious – the police car drove on.

Jimmy’s relief came out as something between a growl and a cry.

You’re in a rental car. You’re in a rental car. Idiot. You emptied the trunk. Idiot.

You are nothing. You are nothing. You are nothing.