Author: nina.sandlin (page 3 of 3)

You are standing with the porch light behind you, casting a shadow on the steps. I can see you’re holding the letter. I left it out on the kitchen table in plain sight, and yet I’m still surprised you noticed it, let alone cared to read it.

“Who’s Jim?”

In your mouth, the words are not an accusation. Far from it. Your question is casual. Guileless. Genuinely curious. But not without weight. A perfect reflection of all that I love best about you.

I’m sitting on a folding chair in the front yard, smoking a stale Marlboro – one of the cigarettes I’d hidden away when we quit last year. I’m out here letting my tears dry naturally in the cool evening air. For the last forty-five minutes, and for the long month before that, “Who’s Jim?” had been my question. Now it was ours. It was my turn to speak, and though I had left Exhibit A on the table for you to find, and was prepared for an indictment should that be the way it went, I still did not know what to say for myself.

That night last month, right after it happened, I vowed to lock up the details. What did it have to do with us? It was something I did for myself. And besides, it all started out so innocently. A matter of thirst – the kind a pint of Guinness might quench.   […]

Charlie was just a boy, maybe nine years old, when it happened.

It was a school holiday, and Charlie begged to go along with his dad on his morning deliveries. It was dark outside when they packed up the Young’s Meat & Fine Foods truck and headed out to sell steaks to the Ramada Inn in Wrightwood, and it was still well before dawn when they turned off California 138 onto Lone Pine Canyon Road, climbing higher into the mountains.

Time for just the two of them was a special treat. Charlie talked about school and TV shows and told some knock-knock jokes he’d learned. His father sipped coffee, kept his eyes on the road, said “Who’s there?” and “Banana who?” when it was his turn.

Then they saw it.   […]

One man stood apart from the other three who were hanging around in front of the Labor Exchange. He was smaller than the others, but he was the only one smiling. He was also the only one without a hat. His blue-black hair was parted and neatly combed, thick with pomade. He wore a white button-down shirt with dress slacks. And wingtips. Wingtips!

I pointed at the other three, and they all took seats in the back of the truck. Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I took a last look at the fourth man.

“Work for you?” He was beaming at me, showing a mouthful of straight, well-kept teeth, walking toward the truck with his hands out, palms up. “Please. I am a good man.”

And I am a goddamned sucker.   […]