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.

After the Storm

Harry flipped the light switch on and off. The shaded, tassled bulb responded and he nodded, then raised a curious eyebrow at Chris. She looked at him and the corners of her mouth raised in the slightest of smiles and her face seemed to say "Yeah, thanks for checking that out." It said something else too. Something darker and quieter, said in a place far, far away. It was something Harry knew, because he had it to say too but was holding off, holding back, digging his heels in the sand to keep from getting to that edge that he was inevitably going to come to and he knew this time he was jumping.

The air in the apartment, condominium actually, hung heavy moved slowly by one of two ubiquitous ceiling fans. The place was small and in a recently re-habbed loft on Magazine Street, just off Canal. The neighborhood had flooded but the waters had spared most of the French Quarter, two blocks away. Being that close, and with downtown a short walk in the other direction, the block got fixed earlier than most. There was money here. Not a lot but not ninth ward shotgun ranch poor either. Chris was in the heart of rebuilt and revived New Orleans and she was staying. This was where it was going to end, right here where she felt she could settle, surround herself with most of the things she loved, work, make a difference, feel safe.

Harry was leaving. They both knew it and they took the weight off each other's shoulders just last night, just on the east side of Jackson Square when he reached out to touch her hand. Just to get her attention, to show her something in a store window or a street busker or a cracked stone in the sidewalk for all he could remember. But he touched her and she turned and now he had her arm and her other arm was around him and then they kissed hot and violently, publicly entwined in a way they hadn't since, what, Thayer Street? They kissed again and then once more and stepped back from each other. He looked into her eyes and said it. It closed the door to the past they had and knew they couldn't continue with.

"I'm never going to put you on a plane again."

She understood what he meant.

He was leaving. She was staying. This was New Orleans and her new home and Harry was going home. Once and for all. To the small, old house in the little town he felt content in. To the job that kept him busy and surrounded with friends he cared more and more about as years went on. To the woman who had gotten out of her truck one Monday night and filled herself into every corner of Harry's life. He loved her. They both knew it. Harry had only come down to make sure that Chris was "all settled" which of course they now knew was code for the kiss on Jackson Square.

Goodbye. The edge of the precipice had been reached. He looked at Chris. She stood in the middle of the room, under the tassled shade of the ceiling light, smiling. There wouldn't be a last kiss. That had happened already. Harry smiled and Chris smiled back and he stepped into the hallway, closed the door behind him and wondered what his boots sounded like to her as they faded down the corridor.

Back to Our Feature

Harry had just switched over phone services and was now buying internet, phone and cable from the cable t.v. company. Mostly it was because he wanted a high speed internet connection so that he could work from home when he wanted to. Ultimately, as managing editor, having to be on the floor all the time, his working from home days limited themselves to Saturdays and Sundays.

One of the added benefits of packaging all three services into one bill was the accessories package offered him. He got five more cable stations. He had three separate email addresses. He got call waiting.

Not that really mattered. He was excited about the channels and hadn't figured out how to set up multiple accounts and nobody really called all that often.

So when the phone beeped at him, he had no idea what to do.

"You still there?" Chris asked. Her question had stunned him. Her voice on the phone, even more so. It had been close to a year.

"Uh. Yeah. " The phone beeped again.

"Do you want to get that?" She asked.

"What?"

"The call you have on the other line."

"Oh, is that what that is."

"You didn't know you had call waiting?"

"I guess not. How do you use it?"

"Harry. You keep maps of Paris Streets in your head. You remember the day of the first Atomic bomb drop. You can order the right wine in three languages but you don't know how to use call waiting." It was a statement, not a question. "Click the receiver button down quickly, whoever is on the other line will be there."

"Where will you be?" he asked.

"Right here. Waiting."

He felt better having heard that. He clicked. "Hello."

"Harry, you are home."

"Hi Kathy."

"Who you on the phone with."

"Just a friend." Wrong thing to say to her. Kathy was insanely jealous and with little reason. She was also smart. If he had lied and said "Jim" or "Dave" she would have made some cutting remark and told him to get off the line or call her right back. She was demanding that way too and it kept Harry off balance and after three months it was starting to irritate him. He liked dating her and they had fun together. He just didn't like the games she was starting to play more and more.

"You're asking some girl out on a date." Her voice was both a little sing song but also had an edge to it.

"No. I'm not." Harry said "Let me call you right back."

"Sure. Whenever. If you're not all tapped out. Bye."

She hung up. He was in deep shit again with her. But right now he didn't care. At all. He clicked the receiver. "Chris?"

"Right here. Like I promised."

Harry exhaled deeply.

"Where do you want to meet?"

Intermission

"Hey." she said. Then there was nothing. Just the background silence of the line. "You there?" she asked when Harry's pause went on and on.

He had no idea what to say, how to start. Kind of unusual for a smart mouth but such was the extent of his shock.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here. Where are you?"

"I'm ok." she ducked the question and Harry realized it right away. He jumped back in to the conversation.

"You're well? Not hurt? You're ok?"

"I'm fine. Everything's all right. Thanks. Thanks for asking."

"So what's up?" Why are you calling was the question tearing at Harry's brain but this was Chris and he knew she either would or would not answer the question in her own time and on her own terms. So he kept up a bantering line, hoping to keep her on the phone. After all, this was the woman he had put in a car over a year ago and said his final farewell to a tail light in the rain. This was a voice he had never expected to hear again. And it suddenly felt so good to hear.

"Nothing. Nothing really. I just thought it would be ok to call. It is ok to call, isn't it?"

"Rob's in jail. It's ok."

"I didn't mean that."

"Josette is long gone too."

"I didn't mean that either."

Harry wrestled. This was Chris and only the truth would do, but the truth might slam a door that had just cracked open. Maybe. If it was, he was inclined to see how wide open he could get it, and he had to be careful doing so. The truth, then: "There's someone, but she doesn't live here." He held his breath. "It's serious enough not to be dismissive about it but it's not that serious. I guess that sounds confusing."

Chris laughed. "No, it pretty much sounds like you."

Harry laughed, and he laughed with all the joy he had lost over the last year. And then he noticed that there were tears on his face.

"Could I see you?" she asked.

Coming Attractions

Harry and Kathy had been seeing each other for about three months when the phone rang one Saturday morning and Harry ran from the bathroom with a half a face full of lather to get it.

Dating Kathy was like sailing in the eye of a hurricane. It was peaceful and smooth, but there was danger all around. Kathy was a lovely woman. Mike had called it well. She was smart, beautiful, funny and fun to be with. She was terrific arm candy too which didn't hurt after his last romance which had been entirely conducted away from the public eye.

But she was, for all these things, volatile as evaporated gasoline and a spark. She was jealous. Of what, Harry had no idea. He had never been a player and was not going to start now. He was freshly divorced, freshly out of a romance that he could never finished and just happy to be with someone who wanted to be with him. From his point of view, Kathy could sit back and call for ice water every ten minutes and Harry would get up from rubbing her back to get it. Nevertheless, she was on guard for any perceived wandering Harry might do. Last night had entertained just one of those perceptions as Harry might have rested his gaze on a woman at the bar just a moment too long for Kathy's liking. She insisted that he take her home then and there and Harry did, wondering where the hell this had all come from. A curt "goodnight" and Harry was in the car, listening to Van Morrison because it was the least romantic CD he could find.

He caught the phone on the fourth ring, just before the machine.

"Hello?"

There was a pause. A long one. Harry smiled to himself. Kathy may have perceived a slight but the light of day made that go away. She was also not without manners. She would gently apologise and they'd get on with their day at the museum or art gallery or IKEA or whatever.

"Hello?" He asked again.

Another pause and now Harry was a little annoyed. This might not be Kathy and if it was a telemarketer he would really be pissed.

"Hi."

Now it was Harry's turn to pause.

"Hello?" the voice said.

"Chris?"

The Animated Short

"I think I've seen you when I picked up work from Mike." starts the email reply.

Great, thinks Harry, she's not even sure who I am.

"Sure, I can waste an hour. Here's my number. Call me."

It was Wednesday and it was raining so Harry's shoulder hurt more than usual. Now that it was all over and there was no more Chris, Harry started looking desperately for distractions. Anything to take his mind off of the idea that she would walk in his front door again, kick her shoes off, pour a glass of wine and sit herself down at the kitchen counter the way he used to envision her doing.

She never did, or course. But it was one hell of a fantasy. And it was a fantasy he played over a lot because reality, well, was reality. It hurt, it was cold and the color of mop water most days. So he played out Chris, went back to London and relived the days one quiet hour at a time.

This was anything but healthy and Harry knew it but wouldn't stop himself.

Harry hated making phone calls. At least at the office, he could hide behind the professional persona of managing editor. At home, he could only be himself, and himself was not good at cold calls when he had a good head of self confidence up which he decidedly did not now.

He dialed. Busy. Fuck. Probably on the phone with some girlfriend. Or guy friend.

He dialed again. Still fucking busy. Well, gee, ninety seconds later, what are the chances of that?

The Weather Channel was on and Harry forced himself to watch until and through the next local weather broadcast. Then he turned the sound down and dialed:

"Hello?"

"Kathy."

"Yes."

"Harrison Moss."

"Hi."

And she knew who was calling and why and they had a short conversation filling in a little background information on who she was and who he was and he suggested they meet for coffee. She said fine. Harry hung up, shaking his head and wondering if it was all really happening.

It was and it was still when she got out of the car to meet Harry at the coffee shop the next Saturday.

That was the place he had last seen Chris.

How fitting.

He bought two regulars and they sat. The place was empty since the morning crowd was gone and the pre-movie crowd had yet to arrive. Ben was behind the counter. Ben was a friend of Harry's. Harry had once hired him to build a stone walkway at what was now Josette's house and used to be Harry's once too. Then they were bar buddies. Anyway, Ben knew enough to busy himself in the back room. He'd hear the unlikely customer in plenty of time.

Harry and Kathy bantered back and forth. Small, stupid things designed to keep a conversation moving and not upset anyone or give anything away. But Harry kept looking in her eyes. They were dark. Brown but almost black, deep pools that if you could dive into, you'd have to take an unimaginable amount of air into your lungs. Deep, mysterious, dark. Eyes that hid something the redhead in the pink sweater wanted hidden just for the sake of, what? Mystery?

There was a store in the next town over that Harry used to like to go to when he owned his big old house. Now that he owned his little, really old house, he didn't go there anymore. The house was a place to live and not much else. Make it comfortable. But comfortable to Harry was being surrounded by old and interesting things and the store, an architectural salvage place, was where he liked to go to get these things. Kathy had an appreciation of old creaky artifacts it seems. So Harry jokingly says "I should call you next time I go."

"You should."

And Harry smiled as he began to play that possibility out in his mind.

At the Movies

Wherever Chris and Evan were, Harry hoped they were happy. Not really but he wore that game face every time somebody asked, usually after inquiries as to how he was healing.

Very well, thank you although I've been promised one hell of a case of early arthritis in the shoulder the bullet finally lodged in. All the same, he'd been shot and was still alive to talk about it so complaining seemed ingrateful.

Rob was just starting his seven year sentence for attempted murder. Good luck and I hope you keep Vaseline handy. Prisoners don't get beaten up as easily as say, your wife.

And Harry was back at the magazine. The managing editor, wincing from time to time when he moved his arm the wrong way but generally back in the groove he had chosen after Intaglio fell apart. He worked hard and played...not at all. After eleven or so hours at the magazine, he usually got home to a couple of beers or a whiskey or four just to take the edge off. Must be one hell of an edge, Harry steeled himself every night. It wasn't until the eighth Tuesday morning hangover that he realized normal people don't work this way and put the bottle down, save for weekends. So he watched TV, read or stared at the wall for hours from time to time humming Zevon songs from "The Wind" to himself.

It may have been in an editorial meeting: He might have paused or stumbled over a lineup about some relationship story. He might have looked out the window a moment too long. Watching someone get dropped off at the office, kissing goodbye and Harry catching himself that he was heading towards staring at what was not his business. Or it may have been as simple as locker room banter before a run with the boys. After all, he had been shot in the shoulder and not the leg. Whatever the case, Mike Caruso picked up on something that everybody else was seeing too. Harry was lonely. The boss needed someone to talk to about something other than running the magazine. One day it hit Mike that he was sending freelance work out to his friend Kathy and Kathy was single and Harry was a decent guy so what was there to lose?

Harry brushed him aside. Thanks, but I'm ok and will get through this all right.

Sure you will Harry, Mike said and pressed the email address into his palm anyway.

Harry mumbled thanks, cleared his throat and went back to his office. He toyed with the post-it for a few minutes and then put it in his wallet. Mike would be offended if he threw it away here.

And then one Friday night, when Harry allowed himself to and did have a tumbler of whiskey over the week's home emails, he took the post-it out of his wallet and tacked it to the bulletin board next to his computer. The note from Mike: Kathy's email.

He reads some more of the week's accumulated spam, some notes from his friend George out in Iowa, some blogs he likes to surf and keep current on and then he looks back at the post-it.

Well, what can it hurt?

Dear Kathy: Starts the email.

Can I waste an hour of your time?