Jeffery Deaver - Making Amends

Jamie Feldon woke up one cool Monday morning in April and decided to change his life.

The night before, he’d fallen asleep on the couch, thinking about a sitcom he’d just watched. It was great, really kick-ass. Most TV comedies were just plain stupid: twenty-five-year-olds tossing out one-liners, then mugging for the camera while the Laugh sign goosed the audience to make noise.

No, this show was different. The hero was a guy who’d had an Oh-Jesus moment or something and was making amends for everything bad that he’d done in his life. Each episode, he’d track down somebody he’d screwed over or hurt and apologize and make it up to them.

Pretty damn sharp.

Jamie’d lain on the couch, mesmerized by the show, laughing and once or twice even crying, which was something he never did.

You can believe it, real tears.

He’d thought about that show for hours until, still dressed, he’d fallen asleep.

Now, at seven-thirty A.M., the forty-two-year-old rolled over and rubbed his face, feeling the creases left by the corduroy slipcover. He squinted hard and studied what sat beside him on the coffee table: half a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, an overflowing ashtray, and a bag of popcorn with a bunch of unpopped old maids inside; the micro-wave was on its way out.

Swinging his feet to the floor, Jamie pulled the remote control out from under him, the smell of sweat and unwashed clothes wafting around him. He wrinkled his nose, then wiped it on the sleeve of his pale-blue dress shirt. The TV set was still on but quiet; he’d hit the mute button in his sleep. On the screen, an early morning talk-show host was silently moving his lips. He seemed real sincere. A picture flashed on-two Asian kids holding bowls of rice. They were happy. Back to the host. He now looked happy too.

Jamie shut the set off. It crackled as the screen went black.

He stretched and felt his belly pressing his waistband. He figured the Big Macs-for-lunch, pizza-for-dinner diet he’d been on lately was finally catching up. His head throbbed with the drumbeat of a marching band.

He happened to glance at the mail, dumped on the floor the other day. He hadn’t looked at it then. He now saw that the letter on top was from the family court. What now? he wondered sourly. He’d had a problem-wasn’t his fault-and had missed picking up his son last month. The ex’d made a big stink about it. Maybe she was trying to modify visitation. What a bitch. Or maybe it was something else. Was he late with the maintenance or the child-support check? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t know what the hell she had to complain about, though, even if he was a little late. Christ, she got fifty-six percent of his salary. (Though that wasn’t exactly a gold mine; as a claims agent for a small insurance agency, Jamie made squat.)

He eased forward and cradled his aching head, crowned with an unruly fringe of thinning red hair, lost in his depression, the relentless troubles.The words that popped into his mind were “the bottom.”

That’s where I am. I’ve hit bottom…

And just like the night before, watching that TV sitcom, tears welled in his eyes.

Sitting here, in his shabby two-bedroom apartment, the graying walls decorated with stains and scuff marks, some of them dating back to when he moved in four years ago, Jamie couldn’t get that show out of his thoughts: the guy making amends for all the bad things in his past.

Then he began considering the offenses in his own life: fellow workers, his brother, ex-bosses, girlfriends, students at his community college, his ex-wife, his mother, even kids in his grade school.

Pettiness, cheating, insults, and-just like the hero of the TV show-even a few crimes.

His initial reaction was to offer excuses.

It wasn’t so bad, it was an accident, everybody acts that way, everybody cheats from time to time…

But then he stopped cold.

Furious with himself. Excuses, excuses, excuses.

No more!

Instinctively he reached for the whisky.

Then, as if he was watching himself from a distance-viewing himself on a TV screen-he saw his arm slow.

Then it stopped.

No, my friend, that’s not the way it’s going to be this time.

He was going to change. Just like that guy on TV, he’d look back over his life, he’d make a list of all the bad things. And he’d set them right.

Making amends…

Jamie rose unsteadily, picked up the liquor, and poured it down the kitchen sink. He returned to the living room and eyed his cigarettes. Well, he knew he couldn’t give them up, not completely. But he was going to limit himself to ten a day… Wait, no, five. And he’d never smoke before noon. That was reasonable. That was mature.

He staggered into the bathroom and took a fiercely hot shower, then a freezing one. He toweled off and walked into his kitchenette, had half a bagel with no butter, and coffee without cream.

It was a very different Jamie Feldon who stepped from his apartment into the bright New England morning twenty minutes later, virtually sauntering to the parking lot. He dropped into the seat of his battered Toyota, started the engine, and headed for Route 128, which would take him to his office, twenty miles north of Boston. Normally the congestion drove him crazy. But today, he hardly noticed it. He was thinking about the possibility of a future real different from the disaster his life had been. He could actually foresee being content, being happy.

Making amends…

And yet, Jamie realized sitting at his desk later that day, it might be easy to work up the determination to stick to your moral convictions, but there were practical issues to consider, logistical problems.

In the TV show, for instance, the hero had spent a half-hour or so coming up with a list of people he’d offended or hurt.

But that was fiction. In real life, coming up with a list of offenses would take a lot of work. So at quitting time, he went to his boss and asked for the rest of the week off.

The chunky, disheveled manager swung back and forth slowly in his old office chair. He clearly wasn’t happy with the idea. But Jamie was determined to stick to his plan, so he added, “I’m talking without pay, Mr. Logan.”

“Without…” The boss was working to get his head around this idea.

“Unpaid leave.”

The words were sinking in, but Logan still seemed uncertain, maybe wondering if Jamie was scheming-hoping the boss would say, Naw, it’s okay, I’ll pay you anyway.

Jamie said sincerely, “I mean it, Mr. Logan, really. Something personal’s come up and I really need the time.”

“You sick?”

“No. But there’re a few people need my help.”

“Yeah, you doing good deeds?” Logan laughed.

“Something like that.”

“Well, you find somebody to cover for you, yeah, then I guess it’s all right.”

“Thanks, Mr. Logan. I appreciate it. I really do.”

As he left he glanced back and noticed his boss studying him with a perplexed smile-as if he was looking at a brand-new Jamie Feldon.

Returning home that night, Jamie called around until he found a temp worker who was familiar with the company. He arranged for the man to start the next morning as a replacement.

On Tuesday, Jamie woke early, showered, dressed, and ate a bowl of cereal with low-fat milk. Then he cleaned his kitchen table off and went to work. A pad of yellow paper in front of him, he began the list. It wasn’t easy, compiling all the bad things in your life. Some were hard to deal with-he felt so much shame about them. Some, he wasn’t sure if they’d actually occurred. Were they figments of his imagination, dreams, a result of the booze?