The Long Fall

8

I got back to my street, a block east of Riverside Drive, at a few minutes past eleven. Katrina was at the door before I could get my key out of the lock.

Her presence annoyed me. In all the years of our less than loving marriage Katrina never waited up. She didn’t want kisses or make overtures for sex. She never asked how I was doing or when I was coming back home. She maintained the house and looked after her children and mine. We had a balance, a home life that I could follow like a German train schedule.

“Leonid,” she said, putting her arms around me, kissing my cheek.

She was wearing a frilly pink nightgown and lime-green slippers. Katrina maintained most of the beauty that she’d generated for Zool. She’d put on a few pounds but didn’t look anywhere near her fifty-one years. Her green eyes were actually luminescent.

“I was worried,” she said. She had a slight Swedish accent, which was a little odd since she was born in Queens and, even though her parents were Scandinavian immigrants, they hailed from Minnesota.

“I come home late two nights out of three,” I said, moving away from the embrace. “What are you worried about?”

“You didn’t call.”

“I never call.”

“But you should. I was worried.”

She followed me down the hall to the dining room. I sat at the table, not knowing what to do in a house where I felt both welcomed and alienated.

“You want me to heat you something?” my bride asked.

Katrina could make anything in the kitchen, and it always tasted great. Even those years when we lived separately together she made a good dinner seven nights a week.

“What you got?” I asked.

“French beef, with those wide noodles you like.”

“Red wine sauce?”

“Of course.”

I nodded because I hadn’t eaten.

“I’ll get the children,” she said.

“It’s late, Katrina,” I complained.

“Children must respect their father,” she said, bustling off down the corridor that led to the bedrooms.

We had a big prewar apartment, more than large enough for our family of five. I had my own den, the kids each had a bedroom, and the rent never went up. The landlord and Katrina had an arrangement. I never asked what that was. I never cared.

In the momentary solitude, Roger Brown came to mind. I hadn’t even met him but still I sold his name for the money bulging in my breast pocket. I tried to convince myself that this wasn’t like the people I’d bushwhacked in the old days. It was just a job. Roger would probably thank me, or maybe he’d get a call from his old friend’s parents and politely decline the invitation.

“Hi, Dad,” Shelly said. She entered the room from the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

Shelly had dark olive skin and almond eyes, in shape and color. She didn’t look like me in the slightest but that didn’t keep her from expressing a daughter’s love. She hugged my head and kissed my cheek. Shelly had been a daddy’s girl since she was a baby. I loved her, after a fashion, even though we didn’t have much in common.

“How are you?” she asked. There was still sleep in her eyes. She wore a T-shirt and jeans thrown on quickly in her haste to welcome me home.

“Workin’ hard,” I said. “Just finished a case tonight.”

“We should celebrate. You want me to make you a martini?”

It was the one thing she could do that I enjoyed.

“Sure, babe.”< K“SuI e/font>

As Shelly ran off toward the kitchen, Dimitri rumbled in. He was a shade or two lighter than I, with my body type but taller. He was brooding and heavy-handed. Dimitri was my blood, you could see it in every aspect of his personality and demeanor.

“Hey, boy.”

He grunted and sat in the chair furthest from me.

“How’s college?” I asked, intent on engaging him.

“I need my sleep.”

“I know. Your mother seems to think that we have to eat together no matter when I get home.”

“I already ate,” he complained. “I was in bed at nine.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Really.”

The apology got me another grunt.

I wasn’t angry at the sullen junior. He didn’t like me, but he was my son and I would be a father to him no matter how he felt.

“Hey, Pop,” the youngest of the brood said.

He was standing in the doorway smiling and easygoing. Twill was a handsome teenager. Dark-skinned, he was sixteen but could have passed for twenty-one easily.

“Twilliam,” I said, saluting.

“You work too hard, Pops. If they paid you by the hour you’d make minimum wage look good.”

He took the seat next to me and slugged my shoulder.

“How’s school?”

“I got passing grades and my teachers are just about trained good.”

“You makin’ it to class?”

“Yes sir. Almost every day.”

I should have gotten mad but instead I laughed.

“Dinner is served,” Katrina announced. She entered the room carrying a large tray bearing two big bowls and a breadbasket. Behind her came Shelly with a chrome shaker and a martini glass. In the old days she would have had a glass for her mother too, but since Katrina had abandoned our family for Andre Zool, Shelly refused to serve her.

“Dimitri, get us some plates from the cabinet,” Katrina said.

“I’m not eating,” he replied.

Before I could say anything K sant>Twill popped up and went to get our plates. He was a peacemaker, a very important trait for a career criminal.

“Don’t give me one,” Dimitri said, holding his hands over his little parcel of the table.

“I’m on a diet,” Shelly said.

“Isn’t anyone going to eat with their father?” Katrina asked the universe.

“I will,” Twill said.

My wife served me and her son.

He only took one bite but I still felt good that he joined me.

Shelly chattered on about her classes and classmates, her teachers, and a cute boy named Arnold. Dimitri was silent and Katrina kept asking if I wanted more.

When the food was gone and the shaker half empty, Dimitri stomped off to bed. Shelly followed after kissing me goodnight. She was a lovely Asian child. Her father, I was quite sure, was a jeweler from Burma who’d had a yearlong affair with my wife.

“I’ll help with the dishes, Mom,” Twill offered when Katrina began stacking plates.

“No, darling. You keep your father company.”

She carried off the plates and we sat, side by side, at the table for eight.

Twill had a small scar under his chin, a blemish from a tumble he took as a toddler. I often thought that that little protuberant flaw made him even more perfect, telling the world that this handsome representation of a man was human too.

“How’s it goin’, Twill?” I asked.

“Can’t complain.”

“You see your probation officer this week?”

“This afternoon. He said I was doing fine.”

Twill always looked you in the eye when speaking.

“Any girls on the scene?” I asked.

He hunched his shoulders, giving away nothing.

Twill didn’t call girls hos and bitches, as many of his friends did; not that he was outraged by that kind of language.

That’s just the way people talk, he once told me. I don’t do it ’cause it don’t sound right comin’ outta my mouth, that’s all.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“It K sihinis what it is, Pop.”

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