All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 127

127

She found Jimmy sleeping on the couch.

The TV played a hockey match, though the sound was muted.

Three empties on the glass coffee table. He did not clean when she was away, so she would spend most of their first day together tending to the house. She wiped his piss from the linoleum in the bathroom. Washed shirts stained yellow beneath the arms. She had suggested they get someone to help, to come wash and iron once each week, but he would not hear of it.

Saint clutched a hand to her stomach and watched the rise and fall of his chest.

She bagged take-out cartons, did not balk at the smell and the congealment. She emptied the ashtray and did not wonder when he had begun to smoke again. Cream drapes with an autumn flower print. A wooden TV stand filled out with magazines and a few of her books. A VCR, a stereo, and a lamp she did not recall purchasing.

The kitchen was cream cabinets and veneer handles. She had wanted the white, but Jimmy said the cream reminded him of his mother’s.

She jumped when she felt the hand on her back.

“I thought you were sleeping,” she said.

He wore sweats and the glassy eyes of a drunk. “It’s good to have you home.”

She fixed them sandwiches though it was night.

He sat at the table and watched her and did not pass comment when she set the plate down in front of him.

The drywall was unpainted because he had been busy, but she did not know what with. She asked after his day, and he told her how a group of

schoolkids had visited the zoo, and one had puked so much he had to fetch two buckets. She pushed her sandwich away.

“You caught your boyfriend yet?” he said.

She sipped her juice. “He’s not—”

He raised a hand. “I’m kidding.”

“Did you stop by and check on my grandmother?”

“I will.”

And so it went. Until she heard the knock at the door, and instead of inviting Nix in she decided to step out, and they sat side by side on the front

step.

“Saw your car,” he said.

“Glad you came.”

He smiled, and she had missed that. In his eyes she saw reflected pride and also the drain of the past years. No matter what he said, how he tried to preach of caring just enough and then switching off, something about the Macauley case had dragged him in deep.

“The FBI,” he said, and let out a low whistle. “Anything on the Macauley kid?”

She shook her head, felt her breath leave her for a moment that still hurt.

“Daisy ran a piece on the gallery, on the new girl in the window. You ever think something good can come out of something so bad?” she asked.

“Something beautiful, maybe. A dawning. A realization. But nothing good, kid. The price is too great.”

Streetlights flickered on, and distant church bells called. Saint remembered a time when contentment had settled over her each night like a

comforter.

“I checked in on Norma.”

She touched his arm.

“She’s not taking it well. You being away,” Nix said.

“I know.”

“She said female FBI agents will likely turn barren through stress before

they reach thirty.”

“Barren?”

“As the Mojave. No chance of a clutch of eggs for you.”

“A clutch? Like I’m a goddamn animal.”

He reached for a smoke, and she saw a slight shake in his hand that she

had not noticed before.

“I fucked up, Chief.”

“We all fuck up, Saint.”

She shook her head because he could not understand, and she loved that

he would not ask.

“How do I fix things?” she said.

“You’re not always able. But you take a moment and remind yourself where your north is. But I’ve got a feeling you already know that.”

They stood by his cruiser. “Why did you stop by?” she said.

“It’s not only the old lady that misses having you around.”

He hugged her.

“I went to see Tooms,” she said.

“And?”

She looked him in the eye, smiled, and shook her head.

Nix smelled of cigars and cologne, and maybe of everything before.

“What do I do?” she said.

“Do something meaningful. Or maybe just mean everything you do,” he said.

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