Page 156 of I Am the Messenger

"Please," he pleads. I realize a giant sorrow has arrived in me for this man. He's suffered. "Go on. Leave."

I don't.

I remain in him a few moments longer, saying, Think that over.

At the car, I realize I'm alone.

I'm alone because there's a young man with blood across his mouth who has taken a few extra steps. He's walked forward, toward the house. The girl he used to meet in the field and make love to till dawn is on the porch.

They're staring, each to each.

A week treads past.

In the cab of that night, from Cabramatta Road, Auburn, Marv had just sat there, bleeding onto my passenger seat. He touched his mouth and his lip opened up, and the blood came sliding out, seeping. When it stained the seat, I told him off, of course.

He said one thing to that.

"Thanks, Ed."

I think he was glad to still be treated the same--even though he and I would never be friends like we once were. We had this in our memories now.

As I pull out of the Vacant Taxis lot one morning, I'm stopped by Marge. She comes hurrying out, waving me down. Once I've stopped and wound the window down, she hauls in her breath and says, "Glad I caught you--there's a job got called in for you last night, Ed. It sounded personal." I notice today that Marge has a lot of wrinkles. Somehow, they add to her friendliness. "I didn't want to broadcast it on the radio later on...."

"Where is it?" I ask.

"It was a woman, Ed, or a girl, and she requested you specifically. Twelve o'clock today."

I feel and know it.

"Cabramatta Road?" I ask. "Auburn?"

Marge nods.

I thank her and Marge gives me a "No worries, love," and my first instinct is to call Marv straightaway and tell him. I don't. The customer has to come first. I am a professional, after all. No, instead I drive past where he's been working lately, at a new subdivision out close to Glory Road. His father's truck's there, and that's all I need to know. I drive on.

At noon, I pull up outside Suzanne Boyd's abode in A

uburn. She comes out promptly with her daughter and a special car seat.

We pause a moment.

Suzanne has long hair like honey and coffee eyes, though much darker than mine. No milk in them. She's skinny. Her daughter's got the same color hair but still fairly short. It curls around her ears, and she smiles at me.

"This is Ed Kennedy," her mother says to her. "Say hello, sweetheart."

"Hello, Ed Kennedy," the girl says.

I crouch down. "And what's your name?" It was Marv who got her in the eyes.

"Melinda Boyd." The kid has a prize smile.

"She's great," I tell Suzanne.

"Thanks."

She opens the back door and straps her in. It hits me hard that Suzanne really is a mother. I look on as her hands make sure Melinda's safely in the seat. She's as pretty as she always was.

Suzanne works part-time. She hates her father. She hates herself for never fighting. She regrets everything.