Page 43 of I Am the Messenger

I wonder which card will end up in my letter box next. It's the spades that worry me most, I think. The Ace of Sp

ades scares me--always has. I try not to think about it. I feel watched.

Late in the afternoon, we walk a fair way and end up at Marv's place, where a lot of guys are hanging around out back.

Once in the backyard, I call out. Marv doesn't hear me at first, but when he comes over, I say, "I'm in, Marv."

He shakes my hand like I've just asked him to be best man at my wedding. It's important to Marv that I play because we've both been in it the last few years and he wants it to become a tradition. Marv believes in it, and I realize I shouldn't look down on that. It's what it is.

I look at Marv and the other people in his backyard.

They'll never leave this place. They'll never want to, and that's okay.

I talk with Marv awhile longer and attempt to leave, despite being offered beer by several cooler-toting suburban men. They're in board shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops. Marv comes with me through the gate to where the Doorman waits. When I'm nearly midway back up the street, he calls out.

"Hey, Ed!"

I turn. The Doorman doesn't. He doesn't care much for Marv.

"Thanks, okay?"

"No worries," and I keep walking. I take the Doorman home, make my way to the Vacant lot, and clock on. As I drive back through town, I think again of last night. Fragments of it stand by the road and run next to the car. When one image slows down and drops off, it's replaced by another. For a moment, when I glance in the rearview mirror, I don't seem to recognize who I am. I don't feel like me. I don't even seem to remember who Ed Kennedy's supposed to be.

I don't feel anything.

One piece of luck is that I have the next day off, completely. The Doorman and I sit in the park on the main street of town. It's afternoon, and I've bought us both ice creams. Single cone, two flavors. Mango and Jaffa orange for me. Bubble gum and cappuccino for the Doorman. It's nice, sitting in the shade. I watch intently as the Doorman gently lunges for the sweet taste and softens the cone with his slobber. He's a beautiful individual.

Footsteps crease the grass behind us.

My heart seizes up.

I see shadow. The Doorman keeps eating--a beautiful individual but a useless guard dog.

"Hi, Ed."

I know the voice.

I know it and shrink back down inside me. It's Sophie, and I see a glimpse of her athletic legs now as she asks if she can sit down.

"Of course," I say. "You want an ice cream?"

"No, thanks."

"You don't feel like sharing one with the Doorman here?"

She laughs. "No, thanks.... The Doorman?"

Our eyes come together. "Long story."

We're silent now, both waiting, till I remind myself that I'm the older one and should therefore initiate conversation.

But I don't.

I don't want to waste this girl with idle chitchat.

She's beautiful.

Her hand falls down to gently stroke the Doorman, and all we do is sit there for about half an hour. Eventually, I feel her looking at my face. Her voice enters me.