Ties That Blind. Zachary Klein

I wanted. Lou would kill me.”

      “We won’t tell him. I don’t like charity.”

      “I’m not talking charity. I prefer to do this as...” I groped for words, “a friend.”

      “That’s very sweet, but we’re not friends. And I’ve already asked you for too many favors.”

      “Then think of it as a favor to Lou. There’s just no way I’ll take your money.”

      There was enough silence to give me time to work on the aspirin container.

      “You know, Matthew,” Lauren began regretfully. “I feel terrible about the timing of all this. I keep wishing we met under different circumstances.”

      And right then I wished we’d never met at all. “Me too,” I lied. “What finally happened to your car?” I asked, changing the subject.

      “Junked.”

      “How are you getting around?”

      “I’ve been using my oldest son Stephen’s car. He lent it to me until I get a cheap rental.”

      “What does it look like?”

      “One of those truck things. A silver and black Cherokee.”

      “Well, tell me a couple of places you’ll be going today and roughly when you’ll be there. Same for tomorrow and the day after.”

      It took Lauren a couple of minutes to organize and relay the information. “There may be other stops but these are the ones I’m sure about. Do you want to meet somewhere?”

      “No. I want you to go about your business and leave the rest to me.”

      “You’re familiar with the North Shore?”

      “Enough.” Throughout the years I lived in The Hub I’d come to appreciate New England’s craggy coastline. Before the car accident, Chana and I frequented a jazz club in Beverly. We usually managed to get lost, often exploring the surrounding affluent towns under moonlit, marijuana cover. The last I’d heard the club had burned down. Seemed appropriate, somehow.

      “I’ll pick you up today and if I do it right you won’t know I’m around. In fact, try to forget I’m doing this at all. I don’t want you to inadvertently scare anyone off.”

      “You really don’t mind?”

      “Not at all.” It began as a lie but came out true. Despite my mixed feelings about Lauren and Lou’s relationship there were worse things to do than keeping an eye on a beautiful woman. Also, I often forgot how much I liked to work. The smell of a hunt never failed to sneak behind my usual lethargy. Or, in this case, my discomfort.

      After we hung up I finally pried the lid off the aspirin and spilled the pills all over the floor.

      The glare of the sun didn’t hurt. In fact, the cool sea breeze hit like a first day furlough. I drove to Manuel’s, switched cars, then rode the sedan back to a sub shop where I bought enough bad food to fry my arteries.

      I returned to my apartment and studied my notes along with a detailed map of the North Shore. Lauren’s town, hamlet, really, hugged the ocean. If I rushed I could pick her up at home, the Hacienda, but now the distant echo of seventies spiritual yearnings subverted my hunt head. I heard the couch call and felt a channel surfer’s finger-itch. For a moment I rationalized that if I left the house before the itch subsided I might accidentally shoot someone. Hell, I felt like shooting someone. It just wasn’t easy getting right with my father-in-law’s Big Romance.

      But I’d promised. Lauren planned to pick up Lou from the commuter station in Magnolia later that afternoon. Plenty of time to amble my way up the coast and find her, them, there. But it wasn’t until I offered myself that languid, stoned amble, that I pulled together a cooler of beer, a small stash, binoculars, smokes, and an old Ross Macdonald mystery.

      My mood lightened when I passed the thirty-five foot Madonna blessing the stretch of highway that led to the abandoned horse track. The church always knew who lived where. Here, it was working class and Hispanics—the same for the connecting towns beyond. One of them used to have an oceanfront amusement park, but it was replaced by condos built for urban dwellers ready to have kids. Sadly, the town forgot to throw in a decent school system. They also forgot that the sky overhead was wall-to-wall aircraft stacked to land at Logan. Now, the burg’s oceanfront view translated into available storefronts and rooming houses for the itinerant elderly. An unfortunate example of “location” being nowhere at all.

      I lit my joint when I passed Mary Baker Eddy’s birthplace. And felt its kick by the time I drove by her adult home. This was one of the very few times I regretted not having my cell phone on. I’d heard Mary was buried with a telephone and I wondered if she’d take my call. But, by the time I reached the outskirts of Magnolia, I realized Mary probably had an unlisted number.

      I had plenty of time before Lou’s train and used it to search for an artful lookout. I picked a spot up the hill, lucking into an exiting sleek, green Jag. Though we were on the summer’s downside peering into very early fall, the town, like so many in the area, bustled with visiting pink and green clad boaters. Very different from the snowy winter when the population shrunk to a fraction of its summer size—which was exactly how the ritzy year ‘rounders liked it.

      With five to go before the train’s arrival, a silver and black Cherokee double parked in the station’s lot. My eyes combed the slow moving traffic, but no one stopped or even looked for a parking place. I reached into the back seat, grabbed the binoculars, and checked for anyone staked or suspiciously loitering. Nothing caught my eye. Manny’s heavily tinted car windows kept me well hidden so, when the train pulled in, I focused the glasses toward the platform.

      Lou bounded out of the last car wearing pleated linens and a white windbreaker. When he turned in my direction I saw the bright multi-colored shirt and dark suspenders—a long reach from his typically tired threads. My stocky father-in-law looked downright sporty. He also looked as if he had lost weight.

      Lou paused at the edge of the platform. For a brief instant I grew paranoid about my tinted glass protection and slumped in my seat. By the time I lifted my head Lauren had joined him. I raised my glasses and watched up close as Lou unzipped his overnight bag and pulled out something white and cylindrical. He unrolled and shaped it into a large brimmed Panama which he handed to Lauren who clapped her hands, kissed his cheek, and plopped it on. The two appeared oblivious to the surrounding foot traffic. When I saw Lou reach back down into his nylon bag, I once again scanned the entire area and, once again, came up empty. Lou didn’t; when I turned back to the station a plum beret perched jauntily on his head.

      

      Pleats, thinner, a lilt to his step, and a fucking beret. I huffed and puffed on my cigarette until they left the quaint station. Then I started my engine and concentrated on my job. I knew where they were going, but wanted to see if anyone else was curious.

      No one was. I looked around again to make sure no one had their eyes on me before pulling out onto the street. The Hats were on their way to Rockport, an artsy/fartsy town on the tip of Cape Ann, Cod’s smaller sister. If Magnolia was busy, Rockport was going to be tourist hell. There’d be no way to use the car as a blind so I’d have to pick them up on foot.

      By the time I passed the fishing wharfs in Gloucester, all trace of my buzz was gone. The day remained bright and beautiful, but my mood was darkening. The shock at seeing Lou decked out in colors had evaporated. Now I just felt tired, torn, and an odd, forlorn sadness.

      I pulled into a parking space about eight blocks from Rockport center, retrieved a beer from the cooler in the trunk, and retreated inside the dark interior. The town was dry and I didn’t want to flaunt the law. Or carry a brown paper bag. I finished the Bass, smoked the roach and, finally, unable to stall any longer, kicked myself out the door.

      My pace