Divine Providence
Amy was dead.
She had been murdered, not that that mattered. At least not now.
She and Mike and Patrick and Tommy had been friends in high school. Close friends, the kind that formed their own little clique. A troupe of misfits, like anybody fit in anywhere in high school really, but they almost didn't care. Oh, sure, they did. Mike wished he was cool enough to date Virginia, Tommy could have used a little more height, Patrick was so skinny that he wore two sets of clothes just to look normal. And Amy hung with them, appreciating them for being as smart as she was but wishing that she could find that sort of action in the mainstream crowds. The ones that hung at the mall on Saturday nights and didn't wear men's dress shirts like she did and had a hope of getting fucked one of these days which these guys, Mike and Tom and Patrick seemed either not to care about or had given up hope entirely.
But for what it was, the four of them, it was good. At least for a while. Somewhere in their seventeenth year their lives, or maybe it was time, or maybe the eighties kicked in and accelerated things to where they all spun off in separate directions. No one noticed it then, they all agreed that things were moving on but when Mike looked at it now, twenty seven years later he couldn't help but feel like they had all flown off a record turntable.
Mike and Amy stayed friends and hung out until college took Mike to New York City for polysci and Amy to Wisconsin for English Lit. Tommy's folks moved to the eastern shore of Maryland and Tommy got really interested in hanging around the harbor. He degreed as a civil engineer and ran ocean surveys, coming home to four daughters and a wife. Nobody really heard much directly from Tommy anymore. Patrick exiled himself in dope. He started bringing stoners around as friends, annoying the shit out of Mike and Amy. They weren't choir kids, but they didn't really want to be drawn into "that" crowd so they quietly let Patrick go. And go he did. They never saw him in school although he did graduate. The morning after graduation though, he was gone.
People thought he had gone to Providence. The city, or at least as much of a city as Rhode Island could muster. There was talk of him winding up stoned and homeless on Pine street but Mike never saw him when he got down there and nobody else could back those stories up.
Smithfield was a suburb of Providence. It was an amalgamation of a couple of old mill towns into a far flung town that was closer to a township than anyplace with a center. Esmond and Greenville were the main components of the town with Georgiaville thrown in because it wound up in the middle of the two larger villages. Esmond was the scruffier place, more working class with three deckers and sandlot driveways. Greenville was a little more well heeled and picket fenced.
The fact that Mike went on to Secret Service (now retired) from Esmond while Patrick sold hash to most of his Greenville neighbors would have been amusingly ironic if Mike gave a shit.
He did not. He stood in a viewing room at Waterman's, staring at what he assumed to be Amy. He hadn't seen her in about eight years so he assumed she looked good for a corpse. At least the bullet holes were hidden.
What was more though was Patrick was coming. He hadn't seen Patrick since age seventeen. Both were now forty four.
This would be interesting. He wondered what kind of rat's ass taxi would drop an old skell off or what red SLK would someone in a sharp suit and Italian shoes drive up, get out and be Patrick.
The black Volvo with Massachusetts plates surprised him. So did the reasonable suit, nice tie and middle aged guy wearing them that got out.
At least he's put on a few pounds. Not in a bad way, either.
She had been murdered, not that that mattered. At least not now.
She and Mike and Patrick and Tommy had been friends in high school. Close friends, the kind that formed their own little clique. A troupe of misfits, like anybody fit in anywhere in high school really, but they almost didn't care. Oh, sure, they did. Mike wished he was cool enough to date Virginia, Tommy could have used a little more height, Patrick was so skinny that he wore two sets of clothes just to look normal. And Amy hung with them, appreciating them for being as smart as she was but wishing that she could find that sort of action in the mainstream crowds. The ones that hung at the mall on Saturday nights and didn't wear men's dress shirts like she did and had a hope of getting fucked one of these days which these guys, Mike and Tom and Patrick seemed either not to care about or had given up hope entirely.
But for what it was, the four of them, it was good. At least for a while. Somewhere in their seventeenth year their lives, or maybe it was time, or maybe the eighties kicked in and accelerated things to where they all spun off in separate directions. No one noticed it then, they all agreed that things were moving on but when Mike looked at it now, twenty seven years later he couldn't help but feel like they had all flown off a record turntable.
Mike and Amy stayed friends and hung out until college took Mike to New York City for polysci and Amy to Wisconsin for English Lit. Tommy's folks moved to the eastern shore of Maryland and Tommy got really interested in hanging around the harbor. He degreed as a civil engineer and ran ocean surveys, coming home to four daughters and a wife. Nobody really heard much directly from Tommy anymore. Patrick exiled himself in dope. He started bringing stoners around as friends, annoying the shit out of Mike and Amy. They weren't choir kids, but they didn't really want to be drawn into "that" crowd so they quietly let Patrick go. And go he did. They never saw him in school although he did graduate. The morning after graduation though, he was gone.
People thought he had gone to Providence. The city, or at least as much of a city as Rhode Island could muster. There was talk of him winding up stoned and homeless on Pine street but Mike never saw him when he got down there and nobody else could back those stories up.
Smithfield was a suburb of Providence. It was an amalgamation of a couple of old mill towns into a far flung town that was closer to a township than anyplace with a center. Esmond and Greenville were the main components of the town with Georgiaville thrown in because it wound up in the middle of the two larger villages. Esmond was the scruffier place, more working class with three deckers and sandlot driveways. Greenville was a little more well heeled and picket fenced.
The fact that Mike went on to Secret Service (now retired) from Esmond while Patrick sold hash to most of his Greenville neighbors would have been amusingly ironic if Mike gave a shit.
He did not. He stood in a viewing room at Waterman's, staring at what he assumed to be Amy. He hadn't seen her in about eight years so he assumed she looked good for a corpse. At least the bullet holes were hidden.
What was more though was Patrick was coming. He hadn't seen Patrick since age seventeen. Both were now forty four.
This would be interesting. He wondered what kind of rat's ass taxi would drop an old skell off or what red SLK would someone in a sharp suit and Italian shoes drive up, get out and be Patrick.
The black Volvo with Massachusetts plates surprised him. So did the reasonable suit, nice tie and middle aged guy wearing them that got out.
At least he's put on a few pounds. Not in a bad way, either.
posted by The Caustic Bunny at 10:01 PM
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