{"id":2125,"date":"2012-01-04T10:34:03","date_gmt":"2012-01-04T15:34:03","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/wpblog\/?p=2125"},"modified":"2012-07-15T20:11:22","modified_gmt":"2012-07-16T00:11:22","slug":"free-throw-part-3-by-jeffrey-schrecongost","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/free-throw-part-3-by-jeffrey-schrecongost\/","title":{"rendered":"Free Throw (Part 3) By Jeffrey Schrecongost"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

29<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In the morning Don woke on Sarah\u2019s couch, eased from sleep by eggs scrambling, sausage sizzling, and coffee brewing. He sat up, pulled the big Hudson Bay blanket over his bare shoulders and chest, and lit a cigarette.<\/p>\n

Sarah sprinkled a handful of shredded cheddar cheese into the egg skillet and stirred, then snagged a pair of tongs from the pocket of her yellow apron and rotated the sausages.<\/p>\n

\u201cMorning,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCoffee?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Please. No sugar. Just a splash of milk.\u201d<\/p>\n

She walked barefoot into the living room and handed Don the hot cup. \u2018The Doors\u2019 in a psychedelic font on one side and Jim Morrison\u2019s face on the other. The shirtless, beaded-necklace photo.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you. Morrison, huh?\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat cup\u2019s a relic. Really dug him once upon a time, though.\u201d Sarah dropped her voice and sang, \u201cWhen the music\u2019s over, yeah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019d never been to the ocean,\u201d Don said. \u201cNever seen that beauty. I promised her we\u2019d make it. She was a good person.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sarah removed her apron, carried two plates of scrambled eggs and sausages into the living room, placed them on the coffee table, sat next to Don, and kissed him on his right temple.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll make it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

She smelled like efflorescing flowers in a cool, gentle rain. Her hair was still damp from the shower.<\/p>\n

\u201cGotta get forks,\u201d she whispered, and stepping past him, the morning sunlight charging through the windows rendered her white, cotton dress translucent, and he saw where her thighs met and the way her ass moved with each stride, and he felt like a thief, and he looked at Morrison and dragged on the cigarette.<\/p>\n

\u201cTurn out the lights. Turn out the lights. Turn out the lights.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

30<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>After breakfast Don made a half-dozen phone calls arranging for Vessie\u2019s body to be transported back to Clarkton and to locate and notify eighty-four-year-old Randolph Blaze, her brother and only living relative.<\/p>\n

He then showered, dressed, and placed Sarah\u2019s two suitcases in the back of the Tahoe and her guitar case in the backseat. They pulled away from her apartment building and headed for the highway, for the sea.<\/p>\n

\u201cShould I feel safe with you?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t? You let me sleep on your couch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do. But should I?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want me to take you back home?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m just driving until the road ends. And I want you with me when the road ends.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re just driving?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s behind you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing. Nobody. What\u2019s behind you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLife in that town. The restaurant. No one to hear my songs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want people to hear you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have a lot of songs?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou write them all?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMost of them, yes.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sarah pulled a joint from a pack of Marlboro Lights.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mind?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou sharing?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen I don\u2019t mind.\u201d<\/p>\n

The mid-morning sun followed them like a spotlight as they crossed the South Carolina state line.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you like Little Feat?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

Don pulled up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo.<\/p>\n

\u201cNice. The sailin\u2019 shoe. Got it beat, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sarah removed her black, knee-high boot, raised her left leg and dropped her foot on the dash. On her ankle was a tattoo of a German shepherd with antlers and a purple lei around its neck.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m impressed,\u201d Don said. \u201cThe Hoy-Hoy<\/em> LP cover.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sarah turned, opened the case, and pulled out her guitar. She played and sang.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201c\u2026But don\u2019t go fallin\u2019 over the edge. Don\u2019t let your wanderin\u2019 mind drive you out of your head. Stay on that fine line. Hold on to that thread. \u2018Cause pain is all you\u2019ll find by fallin\u2019 over the edge.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>\u201cDon\u2019t stop now,\u201d Don said. \u201cHow about some of your own stuff?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay. You asked for it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her music was like a shelf full of Don\u2019s favorite albums. Fresh, but familiar. She had that indefinable skill, that ability to exist inside the mysterious, inside the just-out-of-reach. Some kind of make-believe truth in her songs. Some kind of reliable fragility. Her voice was not operatic, not classically beautiful. More like dry leaves and honey. And her voice and melodies had a strange effect on her song lyrics, altered the words somehow, made the painful appealing and the alluring suspect.<\/p>\n

And there she was, rolling under a deep-South sun in her black, knee-high leather boots, white, low-cut dress, and orange, sequined gypsy scarf around her head, strumming and singing with a controlled urgency, a soft intensity, that narcotized Don\u2019s soul.<\/p>\n

And they kept moving, wheels turning, for someplace else, for the sea.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

31<\/strong><\/p>\n

Fluidity vs. Fixity: A Binary in Shelley\u2019s Frankenstein<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

By Ronny Rose<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 We have, in Mary Shelley\u2019s Frankenstein<\/em>, an interesting binary: fluidity in opposition to fixity. Both Frankenstein and the Creature advise inertia (Frankenstein: \u201cLearn from me [\u2026] how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow\u201d; the Creature: \u201cOh, that I had remained in my native wood, not known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst and heat!\u201d), leading one to assume it a privileged binary in the novel. However, textual evidence suggests that travel, movement, and constant pursuit are the sources of the two characters\u2019 fulfillment and, indeed, act as a sort of lifeblood. While the novel would like to promote stagnation as the untested remedy for the ills (both psychological and physical) of the characters, it instead becomes as much travel literature as gothic horror.<\/p>\n

Early in the novel we learn Walton himself is \u201c[\u2026] on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.\u201d So, we have in this frame tale Walton on a voyage, Frankenstein on a voyage, the Creature on a voyage, Clerval on a voyage, etc. Yet, Frankenstein says, \u201c[\u2026] [a] human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquility.\u201d Clerval\u2019s father says he \u201ceat[s] heartily without Greek,\u201d but finally allows Clerval to \u201cundertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge.\u201d Again, we see this binary of fluidity\/fixity. While the favored position is to remain<\/em>, the text continues to advance departure<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Later in the novel, when the Creature confronts Frankenstein, the Creature promises to \u201c[\u2026] go to the vast wilds of South America.\u201d The Creature pledges distant travel in exchange for a mate, employs travel as currency. This again is indicative of the value placed on movement in the novel.<\/p>\n

Travel is often medicinal for Frankenstein. He says of Clerval\u2019s invitation to join him, \u201cHe besought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle, and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed southward together. This letter in a degree recalled me to life [\u2026].\u201d Travel also liberates Frankenstein both literally and figuratively. He says, \u201cI was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the county town, where court was held [\u2026] and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison.\u201d Indeed, Frankenstein\u2019s travels, \u201c[\u2026] which are to cease but with life,\u201d supply him with a mysterious energy \u2013 certainly the antithesis of what he could expect to gain from a fixed existence (though both would have, no doubt, driven him mad).<\/p>\n

While Frankenstein<\/em>, on its surface, seems to frown upon fluidity and travel as a source of human fulfillment, a number of its characters ultimately find a great degree of satisfaction \u2013 irrespective of intent \u2013 in constant pursuit. Perhaps the Creature\u2019s words, carved in the tree, sum it up best: \u201cFollow me.\u201d<\/p>\n

32<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/strong>On Highway 26 now, just past Columbia, South Carolina.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo why haven\u2019t you asked me what I do?\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

\u201cFigured you\u2019d tell me if you wanted to. What do you do?\u201d Sarah said.<\/p>\n

\u201cPast to present: basketball, too much cocaine, gambling, and radio.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDeejay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSports talk show host.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStill gamble?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTrying to quit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBlackjack?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCraps.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGuard?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cForward.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStill do coke?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy\u2019d you quit?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI missed a free throw I shouldn\u2019t have missed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou just get tired of your radio job, or what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don checked the rear view mirror.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know the one thing I\u2019m going to miss about that shitty town?\u201d Sarah said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEl Jefe\u2019s Macho Diablo Casserole. It\u2019s a source of fear and loathing. Rumor has it that it was Pancho Villa\u2019s mother\u2019s creation. I can never get it right when I try to make it at home. No one can. It\u2019s this mind-boggling, Tex-Mex beast of a meal, and the recipe is the most closely guarded secret in Pennville\u2019s restaurant business. The combination of ground beef and chorizo sausage is easy enough to detect. So is the mix of onions, garlic, and jalape\u00f1o peppers. The layers of flour tortillas? The red sauce? No-brainers. But it\u2019s the spice blend and the brands <\/em>of Colby and Jack cheeses that have everyone stumped. To discourage people like me, El Jefe\u2019s owner, Marley Fannon, placed a two-by-four foot sign above the restaurant\u2019s bar for everyone to see. It says, \u2018I know what you want. Don\u2019t ask.\u2019 People still try to steal the recipe, though. Last year Marley became suspicious of two of his employees. I guess he overheard them plotting to steal his recipe book. He waited after-hours in his office, surprised the two guys, and beat them beyond recognition with a heavy, copper pot. Then he poured salsa verde on them and called the police. Crazy stuff, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d say so. Got it beat, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Pizza Prince\u2019s King Arthur.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the hell is that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the best pizza in the world. Some people kill for it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWow. I\u2019ve gotta hear this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou sure? Because I mean literally kill for it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cC\u2019mon. Tell me. What do you mean \u2018literally kill for it.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

Don reached for the roach in the ashtray, lit it, cracked the window, and inhaled.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere was this guy I knew in high school,\u201d he said, his voice crimped. \u201cJett Mason.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

33<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Jett Mason walked up the highway toward Clarkton, hands and feet numb from the cold. His Levi\u2019s were muddy below the knees, his black work boots torn at the soles, and his brown, leather bomber jacket creaked as he moved. A full moon reposed behind translucent clouds and illuminated rolling hills and pastures on each side of the road. Winter lightning split the night sky, and snowflakes glistened like descending shards of shattered mirrors.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your favorite word?\u201d he asked the trucker who had given him a ride forty-eight hours earlier.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy favorite word?\u201d the trucker said. \u201c\u2018Family,\u2019 I suppose. \u2018Love,\u2019 maybe.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s two. I asked you what your favorite <\/em>word<\/em> is.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Family,\u2019 then. What\u2019s yours?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Rehabilitation.\u2019 Pull over here. I\u2019ll walk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhatever you say, buddy,\u201d the trucker said, pulling the rig off to the side of the highway. \u201cYou take care, now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will. Thanks for the lift.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett shook the trucker\u2019s hand, then pulled a .38 revolver from his jacket pocket and shot him in the head.<\/p>\n

\n

***<\/p>\n

December, 1985<\/em><\/p>\n

Jett knew Carol was bringing ugly news. It was her voice, how her voice tottered when she called him that Saturday morning. He had just finished a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when she pulled into the driveway in her growling, black Camaro. From his bedroom window he watched her stride toward the front door, her blue and gold coat matching her cheerleader outfit. Her brown curls bounced with each step she took. Her right hand was clenched.<\/p>\n

Worry reddened his face. He couldn\u2019t swallow. The doorbell rang. His mother opened the door and greeted Carol.<\/p>\n

He walked into the bathroom, looked in the mirror, then went downstairs, counting the steps.<\/p>\n

\u2026eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>Carol stood in the narrow foyer. Jett leaned forward to kiss her. She pulled away.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey. What\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI came over to give back your class ring.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett said nothing. Across the street Alvin, the neighbor boy, was building a snow fort.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not working out,\u201d Carol said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you talking about? I thought you loved me. I love you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s your mom?\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n

Jett turned.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the kitchen. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe should be at the next level by now, and you\u2019re never ready. You\u2019re like a little boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNext level? What do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you think I mean, Jett? What do we always fight about?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I want to wait until we get married.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t. And it\u2019s not just that. We\u2019re seniors, Jett. We should be able to date other people.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re breaking up with me because we don\u2019t do it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. The other reasons, too. Here. Please take this.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carol reached out and opened her hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho is it? Tim? Sloan?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTake it, Jett.\u201d<\/p>\n

With his index finger Jett lifted the ring. Gone was the yarn and thick, black nail polish Carol had once carefully applied so it would fit snug.<\/p>\n

\u201cGoodbye, Jett.\u201d<\/p>\n

From his bedroom window he watched the Camaro disappear around the curve just past the Markwell\u2019s house. He sat on the edge of his bed and pushed PLAY on his tape deck. He forgot he\u2019d cued up The Beatles\u2019 \u201cShe Loves You\u201d the night before.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou think you\u2019ve lost your love?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Well, I saw her yesterday.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s you she\u2019s thinkin\u2019 of,<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 and she told me what to say.<\/em><\/p>\n

She said she — \u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He pushed STOP and stared at a framed photograph atop his dresser. It was Carol on Myrtle Beach in a day-glow-pink bikini, smiling, sitting next to a message she had scooped out of the wet sand: I LOVE JETT.<\/p>\n

He placed the picture in the top drawer of his dresser and closed the drawer. Then he dropped the ring on his tongue and sucked on it, shifted it from one side of his mouth to the other. The faint taste-combination of metal and nail polish made Jett swallow the ring four seconds before he wanted to.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 No more snow fell, but a harassing wind returned. Jett plodded up the on-ramp at the junction of Highway 78 and State Road 445 and made his way toward the Sunoco gas station on his left. A bell rang as he stepped inside. He walked directly to the counter.<\/p>\n

\u201cEvening, sir. How can I help you tonight?\u201d said the lanky, towheaded clerk.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need two packs of Kools.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes sir,\u201d said the clerk, reaching above the counter for the cigarettes.<\/p>\n

Jett eyed the cash register.<\/p>\n

\u201cTwo packs of Kools. Jett? Jett Mason?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s me. Bernie Wickel.\u201d<\/p>\n

He offered Jett his hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, Bernie,\u201d Jett said, shaking it.<\/p>\n

\u201cWow. Jett Mason. How\u2019ve you been, man? Hell, I haven\u2019t seen you since when?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSince I went to prison.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh. Yeah, man. Everybody missed you at the reunion. We all missed you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI bet. Funny thing is nobody missed me enough to visit me up there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry I didn\u2019t get up to see you, man. Things got really weird after you went away. People had to take sides, or take no sides. Bullshit, you know? I always thought you got a raw deal, Jett. I mean, ten years? But, you know, Sloan\u2019s parents, and Carol, they wouldn\u2019t let it go, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe loved him,\u201d Jett said, looking out the window above the candy bar rack.<\/p>\n

A yellow Buick with front-end damage pulled up next to the gas pumps and stopped. The driver, a portly, middle-aged woman, got out, looked back into the car, threw a mini-tantrum, and drove away.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe all knew it was an accident. We knew you didn\u2019t mean to kill the guy. Come on, it was a fistfight. He started it anyway, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSort of. Maybe. Then again, maybe I did. Anyway, one punch can fuck your life up pretty good, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Jesus. So what\u2019re you doing now?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett looked into Bernie\u2019s eyes, pulled out the .38, and said, \u201cI\u2019m robbing you, Bernie. Give me all the money in the register.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bernie laughed.<\/p>\n

\u201cQuit fuckin\u2019 around, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not fuckin\u2019 around, man<\/em>. The cash under the tray, too. Do it. Now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bernie\u2019s hands began to tremble. He opened the register drawer, pulled out the cash, raised the tray, yanked out the large bills, and handed the money to Jett.<\/p>\n

\u201cPut it in a bag.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t shoot me, Jett. We were — \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c — Shut up. Now turn around. Give me the keys to your truck.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAww, Jett. You can\u2019t take my truck, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bernie reached into his jeans pocket.<\/p>\n

\u201cDrop them on the counter. Walk this way, into the bathroom. Hurry up.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bernie, with the .38 between his shoulder blades, walked into the men\u2019s room.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich one of these keys locks the bathroom door?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe gold one. Don\u2019t shoot me, Jett.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShut up. Get on your knees.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJett. Jett.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett shoved Bernie to the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cQuiet down, Bernie. All you have to do is answer one question, and I\u2019ll leave. Okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure, Jett. Anything you want to know, man. I\u2019ll tell you anything you want to know. Just don\u2019t shoot me. Please.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett took a quick look back toward the interior of the store.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow late is Pizza Prince open tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPizza Prince? I don\u2019t know, Jett. Midnight? One?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich is it, Bernie?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOne. One.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cClose your eyes, Bernie.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bernie\u2019s head exploded, red and pink chunks spattering against the wall above the toilet. Jett looked at the condom machine to his right and spit on it, then backed out of the restroom.<\/p>\n

Four bullets left<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Jett locked the restroom door and closed it, grabbed his cigarettes from the counter, ran out to the parking lot, jumped into Bernie\u2019s blue Toyota pickup truck, drove across the lot to the pay phone, called information, and asked the operator for Carol\u2019s address. Then he drove back up the highway.<\/p>\n

He robbed two more gas stations on Highway 78, again shooting both clerks — a twenty-four-year-old woman and a seventy-three-year-old man — in the head and leaving them for dead in locked, bloody restrooms, then doubled back for Clarkton. For Carol. But first, for King Arthur.<\/p>\n

Jett pulled off the highway and turned back onto State Road 445, then turned right onto University Avenue, slowing down to thirty miles per hour. He lit a Kool and scanned the area for the Pizza Prince delivery car he knew would eventually appear. Ten years is, after all, too long for anyone to be denied a King Arthur. It is cruel and unusual.<\/p>\n

Two bullets left<\/em>.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Pizza Prince is a Clarkton institution. The first Pizza Prince restaurant, on Washington Street, opened in 1958, and it was there and then that original owner, Driscoll Buckminster, created and perfected the King Arthur. The King Arthur is a culinary masterpiece: a thin crust topped with (in this order) a secret tomato-based sauce, finely diced provolone cheese, finely ground sausage and pepperoni, chopped black olives, chopped onion, chopped red and green bell peppers, and chopped mushrooms. This aesthetic tour de force is crowned with more finely diced provolone cheese and a sprinkle of secret spice mixture, then slid with care into imposing, Bulgarian-made ovens hand-crafted specifically for Pizza Prince. After the prideful pie has developed a bubbly, lightly browned exterior, it is removed from the oven and sliced with rare, razor-sharp, Nicaraguan machetes into iconoclastic square pieces, then boxed and covered with aluminum foil to ensure a dramatic unveiling. The King Arthur is, quite simply, the world\u2019s best pizza, and those fortunate enough to experience this gastronomic rapture can never objectively judge any other pizza again. One can understand, then, why Jett Mason, after ten years in prison, and before killing Carol, had to conquer King Arthur.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDon\u2019t shoot me, dude,\u201d said the Pizza Prince delivery kid. \u201cI\u2019ve got a statistics test tomorrow morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

The kid smelled of high-grade marijuana, and his eyes looked like Ban Roll-On applicators.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust give me the money,\u201d Jett said.<\/p>\n

Jett had followed the delivery car for three blocks, and when the kid parked in front of a fraternity house, he stopped the truck, jumped out, and put the gun in the kid\u2019s face. He nodded at the pizza box on the passenger seat.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat a King Arthur?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou bet. Sixteen-incher, man. You want it too, dude?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a stupid question, pothead. Of course I want it. I\u2019ve been away for a long time.\u201d<\/p>\n

The kid handed Jett his money bag, then the extra-large Arthur.<\/p>\n

\u201cScrew you, dude,\u201d he said, and sped off toward Kemper Street.<\/p>\n

The pie\u2019s beguiling aroma had dulled Jett\u2019s perceptions. He fired a sloppy shot at the kid\u2019s car, missed badly, and put a hole in the left leg of an Inflate-A-Mate blow-up sex doll the frat boys had taped to an oak tree.<\/p>\n

One bullet left<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Jett ran to the truck, tossed the pizza onto the passenger seat, the money bag onto the floor, started the engine, and stepped on the accelerator. He turned right onto Turner Drive, then left onto Millborn Avenue, and headed for Blue River Park.<\/p>\n

He cut the lights and pulled the truck in behind a group of trees and bushes just a few yards from the bank of the slushy river. Wind gusts whistled above. On the other side of the river red and blue lights reflected off the now heavy, opaque clouds.<\/p>\n

Jett rolled down the truck\u2019s windows, took a deep breath, and opened the pizza box. With deliberation he lifted the thin foil covering the King Arthur. A bit of provolone cheese had stuck to the foil, and Jett licked it off. Then he reached first for a crispy edge piece. He raised it to his mouth and bit into the savory square, closed his eyes, and chewed slowly, slowly. His head rolled back as the pizza\u2019s rich, complex flavors both pleased and perplexed him. He smiled and nodded, contemplating every glorious morsel, then gently pulled his fingertips across the tops of the steamy, grease-heavy center pieces.<\/p>\n

More red and blue lights. Sirens now.<\/p>\n

A sixteen-inch King Arthur provides the fortunate diner with thirty-five wondrous squares. Jett ate twenty-seven of them, placed the foil back atop the pie, closed the box, pulled onto Millborn Avenue, and headed for Tommy\u2019s Trailer Park. For Carol.<\/p>\n

He dumped all the cash he had stolen that night into the Pizza Prince money bag, stuffed it into his jacket, then parked the truck in an empty lot nine units down from Carol\u2019s trailer. It was dark inside, but a Chevy Malibu was parked in the drive.<\/p>\n

He walked to the back door, took off his boots, then with a nail picked the lock and entered. He moved like a ghost through the neat, clean kitchen and turned to look down the hallway. He heard voices in a room at the end of the hall. It was Thomas Magnum. Arguing with Rick and T.C. He walked on the balls of his feet toward the room, his greasy hand holding the .38 to his side.<\/p>\n

\u2026two, three, four, five.<\/em><\/p>\n

The door was open.<\/p>\n

Jett peeked around the doorjamb. Carol was asleep on her left side, the only light in the room the Magnum, P.I. <\/em>rerun. He stepped forward and stood next to the bed. She had kicked the black sheets off her body, and they lay in a messy lump at her feet.<\/p>\n

God, that sweet-white smell<\/em>. White Shoulders<\/em>. <\/em><\/p>\n

A small ceiling fan made a scraping noise every fifth rotation.<\/p>\n

Scrape<\/em>. Scrape<\/em>.<\/p>\n

His eyes moved from her toes to her knees to her thighs. Her white t-shirt had shifted up a bit, revealing the two dimples on her lower back and the curve of her hip under tiny, green, satin panties.<\/p>\n

Her lips. Her eyes. Her hair.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 You smell so good. <\/em><\/p>\n

He held his breath, leaned down to within an inch of her face, and moved his left hand up and down her body, never touching. He counted her breaths.<\/p>\n

\u2026three, four, five\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n

He had never seen her skin before. Not like this. He closed his eyes and again inhaled her scent.<\/p>\n

I think I\u2019m ready now. Ready now.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>\u201cI think I\u2019m ready now,\u201d Jett whispered, startling himself.<\/p>\n

Carol opened her eyes, paused for a moment, then leapt up screaming.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet outta here! Get out!\u201d<\/p>\n

Like a ninja she rolled to the other side of the bed and grabbed an aluminum baseball bat she kept next to her nightstand.<\/p>\n

\u201cI said get — \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c \u2013 Carol. It\u2019s me. Jett.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJett? What are you doing<\/em> here? Get the hell outta here. I\u2019m calling the cops.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI remember this one,\u201d he said, pointing to the television. \u201cMagnum\u2019s having all those Vietnam flashbacks. Is this a two-part episode?\u201d<\/p>\n

With her free hand Carol reached for the phone.<\/p>\n

Jett raised the gun.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot yet,\u201d he said. \u201cCarol, look.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett pulled the money bag from his jacket and dumped the cash onto the bed.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee? I\u2019m not a boy anymore. I\u2019m not a little boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carol stared at the money and wrinkled her nose. She looked up at Jett.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou smell like a King Arthur.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI should. I just ate twenty-seven pieces of a sixteen-incher.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat means there are, what, eight pieces left?\u201d<\/p>\n

Carol lowered the bat.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Eight. Center pieces, though. I ate all the edge pieces first.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJesus. You would do something like that. What is this, anyway? You gonna hurt me, Jett?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. But I thought we could have sex first. I think I\u2019m ready now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Carol looked back at the pile of cash.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s the rest of that King Arthur?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn my, in Bernie Wickel\u2019s truck.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou killed Bernie?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFirst one to go. What do they call it? A Spree Killing? Thrill Killing?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was always a jackass, anyway,\u201d she said. \u201cLook. I\u2019m not gonna fuck you if I know you\u2019re gonna kill me as soon as we\u2019re done. Total turn-off, Jett. You must\u2019ve picked up your social graces in prison, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett pointed the gun at Carol\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou really like that thing, don\u2019t you?\u201d she said. \u201cCalm down. Hear me out. I\u2019ve got an idea. I\u2019ll put my bat away, and you put your gun away. Then you run out and get those last eight pieces, and I\u2019ll freshen up. Then, when you get back, we\u2019ll thunder the lightning, polish off that King Arthur, count this cash, and take it from there. Sound good?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow will I know you won\u2019t call the cops or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBaby, I\u2019m hungry, horny, broke, and I haven\u2019t had a King Arthur in months. I\u2019m a little ragged around the edges, but I\u2019m not stupid. So, what\u2019ll it be?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett put the gun back in his pocket, nodded, walked out the back door, put on his boots, and ran through the darkness like an unhinged possum to Bernie Wickel\u2019s truck for the remnants of the King Arthur. More lights in the sky. More sirens.<\/p>\n

Carol placed the cash on the floor. She strutted to the bathroom and fixed her hair, applied a bit of lipstick, eye liner, and White Shoulders perfume, turned off the television, turned on a small lamp on her nightstand, took off her t-shirt, and stretched out on the bed.<\/p>\n

Five minutes passed.<\/p>\n

Then the thump-click of boot-steps on plastic tile.<\/p>\n

\u2026two, three, four, five.<\/em><\/p>\n

Then nothing.<\/p>\n

\u201cJett? You can come in, baby.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett stepped into the bedroom and looked down at Carol.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou took long enough. Where\u2019s the pizza, sweetie?\u201d she said. \u201cBaby? What\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

The room was quiet save for the sound of the ceiling fan.<\/p>\n

Scrape, scrape. <\/em>Every fifth turn.<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess I\u2019m not ready,\u201d he said. \u201cNo more pizza.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bang. No more bullets.<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Nineteen months later.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>\u201cHop in, buddy,\u201d the trucker said, fiddling with his stringy, gray beard.<\/p>\n

Jett looked at the goofy lettering beneath a not-so-cleverly-airbrushed caricature of a nude Marilyn Monroe on the truck cab\u2019s door. It read: The Booby Trap.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks,\u201d he said. \u201cWhere you headed?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSouth. Pensacola,\u201d the trucker said as he rolled the rig out of the truck stop\u2019s parking lot. \u201cCan you hand me that bag of Red Man there on the console, buddy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d Jett said. He handed the trucker the bag of leaf tobacco. \u201cHot day, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLord yes. There\u2019s some beer in that cooler behind you. Help yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett opened the red Igloo cooler, pulled out a Stroh\u2019s, admired the can\u2019s frosty skin, and popped the tab. He took three gulps. Then he lit a Kool.<\/p>\n

\u201cFire Brewed Taste,\u201d the trucker said. \u201cFolks just don\u2019t appreciate Fire Brewed Taste anymore. Real shame.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your favorite word?\u201d Jett said.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy favorite word?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour favorite word. What\u2019s your favorite word?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHmmm. I always liked myself some words, you know. I guess my favorite word would be \u2018invidious.\u2019 Yep. Always liked \u2018invidious.\u2019 Kinda mean-soundin\u2019, ain\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. It sounds mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s yours?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt used to be \u2018Rehabilitation.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a pretty good word, I guess. You say it used<\/em> to be your favorite?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your favorite word now?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jett closed his eyes and felt the pull of the simmering Deep South. He listened to its warm winds whisper promises of anonymity, peace, forgiveness. Maybe a little, white boat in calm, Gulf waters. Yes. A pearly dot and sail-shadowed stick figure on azure, and a child on a beach grasps his father\u2019s hand and says, \u201cLook, Daddy. There\u2019s a man<\/em> on that boat.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll of them,\u201d Jett said.<\/p>\n

34<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/strong>\u201cJohn, Paul, George, and Dingo,\u201d Paine said, leaning back and crossing his boots on Dingo\u2019s desk.<\/p>\n

He lit a cigarette, dropped three tablets of trucker speed on his tongue, and washed them down with a gulp of his Gin-and-Cheerwine.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy entire life, Victor. My entire life I\u2019ve heard that one.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy all the fucking ducks, Dingo? And the ships. And compasses.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey bring some class to this place, you know? My office. I can make it look however I want.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s ironic, Dingo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know it is, Victor.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dingo sipped his Jack-and-Ginger.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019d he say he was going?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSaid he was going west.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat means he\u2019s going south. What did you give him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwo vests and a Glock.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou two are such pals. Charming. He gonna shoot me with that Glock, Dingo?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure you guys can work it out, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho was with him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s he driving?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBlack Tahoe.\u201d<\/p>\n

Paine stood.<\/p>\n

Dingo followed.<\/p>\n

\u201cSit down. Relax. How much you want for this wealth of information you\u2019re giving me, Dingo?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing, Victor. On the house.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I wanna pay you something. It\u2019s the right thing to do. Here.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dingo looked at the wooden mallard atop his file cabinet, at the photograph of his boat above the door, then back at Paine.<\/p>\n

Paine reached into his leather vest pocket, pulled out a wrinkled coupon book, and dropped it on Dingo\u2019s desk. He picked up a tiny duck from an end table, examined it briefly, then carefully replaced it.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should think seriously about redecorating in here,\u201d he said, then walked out.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

35<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The orange \u2018Vette rumbled across the South Carolina state line and into a spongy-blue dusk. Paine took a curve too fast, and his copy of Heart of Darkness<\/em> slid across the passenger seat, coming to rest at an angle. He pulled it back to the center of the seat and straightened it, then patted it three times with his fingers.<\/p>\n

36<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable greyness with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid scepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

37<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNow that\u2019s nuts,\u201d Sarah said. \u201cSo this Jett guy really got away?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cIt would appear so. From time to time you read about a sighting here, a sighting there, Gulf Coast, Carolinas, but they can never catch him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s awful what he did, but the pizza, the King Arthur. I can understand why that was so important to him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike I said, it\u2019s the world\u2019s best pizza, and it\u2019s made in Clarkton, Indiana.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should take me there sometime. Just for the King Arthur, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNever going back there. Remember? You\u2019re never going back. I\u2019m never going back.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Okay. But you know what they say about never. About saying never.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don sped up. Approaching the 26\/95 junction now.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know what they say. Doesn\u2019t apply to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sarah pulled her guitar from the backseat, plucked a few strings, then strummed and sang: \u201cBeen on that long, broken road. I hope she straighten up, straighten out, before I get too old. Still on that long, broken road. Is she gonna straighten up, straighten out, before I get too old?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

38<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Humid, mid-morning gray. In the Low Country now. On Highway 21, just outside Beaufort. Dense aromas of mud, sea, and briny creatures.<\/p>\n

\u201cI love that smell,\u201d Sarah said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll be there in about an hour,\u201d Don said. \u201cIt\u2019s called Palm Island. Nice resort. We\u2019ll get a room and pamper ourselves for a few days. How\u2019s that sound?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSounds fantastic. Do you know Joni Mitchell\u2019s \u2018My Old Man\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGreat song. Sing it for me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to. That\u2019s why I asked you if you knew it. \u2018My old man, he\u2019s a singer in the park. He\u2019s a walker in the rain. He\u2019s a dancer in the dark.\u2019\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

39<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Paine passed an RV to get a better look, but still wasn\u2019t sure.<\/p>\n

Could be. Could be.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>He glided into the left lane, sped up to eighty, and passed five cars at once. He tapped Heart of Darkness <\/em>three times.<\/p>\n

C\u2019mon. Indiana plates? <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>Out into the left lane again and back quickly, just missing an oncoming Jeep Wrangler. Then back into the left lane. Two cars behind now.<\/p>\n

Indiana. Gotcha, you sonofabitch. Jackpot.<\/em><\/p>\n

40<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201c\u2018He\u2019s my sunshine in the morning. He\u2019s my fireworks at the end of the day. He\u2019s the warmest chord I ever heard. Play that warm chord and stay baby.\u2019\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>Don caught the orange flash in his side view mirror. The Corvette was one car behind, dashing in and out of the passing lane. Don knew it would happen eventually. It was happening now.<\/p>\n

\u201cSarah. Sarah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHuh?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReach behind you and open that green duffel bag. There\u2019s a gun in there. Give it to me. Careful. It\u2019s loaded.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease. Just do it. Now put on that vest.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don placed the Glock on his lap.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon, what\u2019s happening?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGive me the other vest. Take the wheel for a second.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don put on the vest.<\/p>\n

\u201cSomeone\u2019s following us, Sarah. Bad people. Slide down and stay there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Paine was on the Tahoe\u2019s bumper now. He raised his STI Eagle 50-45 and blew out Don\u2019s rear window.<\/p>\n

Sarah screamed.<\/p>\n

Don, left hand on the wheel, turned and fired three times through the breached glass.<\/p>\n

Paine ducked, and the Corvette\u2019s windshield exploded. He swerved and fired again, catching the Tahoe\u2019s left taillight.<\/p>\n

Don sped up to ninety, the Corvette right on him. Just ahead was a wobbling, white pick-up truck, in its bed an entire house full of furniture loosely tied together with frayed twine.<\/p>\n

\u201cHold on,\u201d Don said, passing the truck.<\/p>\n

Paine followed.<\/p>\n

The truck\u2019s driver, startled, jerked to the right, then back, then lost control and veered into the left lane. A wooden bookshelf bounced out of the truck\u2019s bed and slammed into the Corvette\u2019s passenger side.<\/p>\n

\u201cGoddamnit,\u201d Paine said, edging the \u2018Vette left.<\/p>\n

Paine\u2019s driver\u2019s side rear tire slipped off the shoulder. He over-corrected, and the rear of the \u2018Vette swung out far to the right. Paine worked the wheel. Too late. He grabbed Heart of Darkness<\/em>. The \u2018Vette went airborne, then vertical, nose down, and spun nine times like a top on the pavement. An orange blur. A strange, orange twister. Then off the road, engine howling, ripping through the trees, shredded metal and glass and flesh and bone.<\/p>\n

41<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He owed her the truth. There was more than just the debt to Gordy. She wasn\u2019t Karen. No one could be. But he wanted Sarah in his life. He knew this nomadic, deceitful existence had to end. This hateful lie. He needed <\/em>her. Perhaps a weaker man, or a stronger one, could let her go. Don could not.<\/p>\n

By the time they pulled through the Palm Island gates, he had told her everything.<\/p>\n

42<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cRoom service,\u201d a voice outside the bungalow barked.<\/p>\n

Don opened the door, and the young bellhop pushed the table inside. He avoided eye contact as he assembled the elaborate tablescape. He dropped a pepper shaker, shook his head, and mumbled. Don handed him a twenty as he exited the room.<\/p>\n

The menu was sensual and sensational: a cheese, olive, and cracker plate followed by a well-chilled, rustic, chunky gazpacho, then chicken with pancetta, potatoes, and black olives accompanied by wild rice with porcini mushrooms. For dessert, tiny wild strawberries served plain in a silver bowl. Two bottles of Rioja Alta completed the culinary composition.<\/p>\n

They ate in silence, surrendering glances then yanking them back. Sarah struggled to maintain her anger. It was grappling with two facts she couldn\u2019t ignore: Don could have left her numerous times and didn\u2019t, and he did <\/em>save her life.<\/p>\n

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Neither spoke.<\/p>\n

Finally, Don said, \u201cLook. You have every right to be angry with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sarah didn\u2019t stop him. She turned her head and stared at the pool.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m almost free of this,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

He had yet to realize he was lying again. To her. To himself.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo?\u201d Sarah said, still averting her gaze.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo. Stay with me until I am.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStay with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

She looked back at him, expressionless, refilled her wine glass, brought it to her lips, took a large drink, and lit a cigarette.<\/p>\n

Don felt like he was scaling a sheer cliff.<\/p>\n

\u201cI won\u2019t lie to you again,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Sarah stood, walked toward the open patio door, leaned against it, and stared at the full, silver disc in the night sky. Don followed and wrapped his arms around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder. His cheek touched hers. She closed her eyes.<\/p>\n

43<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 An hour later, at Sarah\u2019s urging, Don found himself dancing amidst only candlelight at Tony\u2019s Tiki Hut, an open-air beach bar, singing Beach Boys songs and spilling margaritas on them both.<\/p>\n

\u201cGonna go get refills,\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, dear. Make them doubles.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a wild, wild woman.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sarah continued to dance as Don returned to the bar. The balding bartender, a tough-looking but friendly man in his fifties donning surf shorts and a faded blue t-shirt, handed Don the margaritas and said, \u201cNice lady you got there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don hesitated, for an instant confused. The bartender nodded toward the beach. Don turned. Sarah\u2019s dance serpentine, her hands reached for the sky, then toward the sea, as if to beckon an apparition perceived by her alone. Her thin, cotton dress surrendered to the fitful candlelight, permitting it to trace her body\u2019s silhouetted curves. The length of her dark hair rose and fell with the tranquil breeze.<\/p>\n

He left the margaritas on the bar, approached her a bit unsteadily, and placed his trembling hands on her hips. She turned and pulled his hands to her face, kissed them. He moved closer and touched his lips, then his tongue, to her neck. Then a sound as she eased her head back \u2013 a soft, involuntary moan — made him starve for her.<\/p>\n

Later they made love like they invented it. Afterward, lying side by side, hand in hand, they laughed about, debated, hinted at, something like a future together, but ultimately agreed they were delirious in their fatigue. They slid into a deep river of sleep.<\/p>\n

44<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/strong>The next morning\u2019s sun rays snuck in between the curtains.<\/p>\n

\u201cGonna take a long, hot shower,\u201d Sarah said.<\/p>\n

She kissed Don\u2019s chest. He, her hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s go out to the beach before breakfast,\u201d she said. \u201cWant to?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Sounds great.\u201d<\/p>\n

He watched her as she walked into the bathroom. She turned on the shower and sang a song he didn\u2019t recognize.<\/p>\n

He looked up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes, covered them with his fingertips.<\/p>\n

45<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The duffel bag on the bed contained twenty thousand dollars in cash. Next to it, on Palm Island Resort stationery, a note:<\/p>\n

Sarah,<\/em><\/p>\n

You\u2019re too lovely for never.<\/em><\/p>\n

Always,<\/em><\/p>\n

Don<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

46<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/strong>Late on a clear, chilly Nashville night, Sarah entered her apartment, leaned her guitar case against the wall, poured a glass of wine, and lit a joint. She was drained, but it had been a great gig. She turned on the radio, tuned in to a Gulf Coast AM station, and smiled at his voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cWelcome back, friends. You\u2019re listening to \u2018Chasin\u2019 the Trane\u2019,\u201d said Don McQueen \u2013 now Trane Peckinpah. \u201cWe have one of my favorite callers on the line. Good evening, Cal from Galveston.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, Trane,\u201d said Cal Trapp \u2013 once Jett Mason. \u201cI was wondering. What\u2019s your favorite word?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

29 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In the morning Don woke on Sarah\u2019s couch, eased from sleep by eggs scrambling, sausage sizzling, and coffee brewing. He sat up, pulled the big Hudson Bay blanket over his bare shoulders and chest, and lit a cigarette. Sarah sprinkled a handful of shredded cheddar cheese into the egg skillet and stirred, then […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,200,219],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2125"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2125"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2125\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3222,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2125\/revisions\/3222"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2125"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2125"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2125"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}