Lisa Unger - Fragile

“You confessed,” she said.

“Yes.” She was a little surprised to hear it. Maybe she had expected him to tell her that he hadn’t confessed, that it was a mistake or a lie.

“And you confessed because you did-,” she said, stumbling over the phrasing. “Because you killed her.”

“Because I-,” he started, then didn’t finish. He just stood up and hung up the phone. He called for the guard. When the handcuffs were around his wrists, he raised them to her-in a gesture of resignation or farewell, she never did find out.

She hadn’t known what to say when he left her so abruptly. She’d had the urge to call after him, to press him. In the end, she’d just watched him go and then left as well, feeling selfish and wrong about the visit. But she’d also left convinced that she’d been right about him, that he didn’t have it in him to torture, mutilate, rape, and kill a young girl. And she’d vowed to do something about it, though she didn’t know what.

Thump. Thump. Thump .

She’d drifted off on the floor; she didn’t know for how long. Now that the door to the attic was open, she wasn’t even sure the sound was coming from up there. It seemed to come from the air all around her, inside her own head. She wondered how long she’d have to lie here like this before someone found her. She thought she’d try for the cane again when she felt less tired. But for now, she found herself content to wander through the attic of her life. She wanted, no needed , to visit those dark places and examine all the things she’d done and hadn’t done, and to make amends where she could-before she lost what fragile hold she still had on it all.

Travis opened the door for Jones and offered him a beer, which Jones declined in spite of really, really wanting one. There was a yellow light glowing over the kitchen sink, a nearly full ashtray and an open bottle of beer on a table in the room’s center, as if Travis had been just sitting there, smoking and drinking, staring off into space. The room was devoid of decoration, just clean Formica countertops and old appliances. The only decorative touch was an old calendar hanging on the fridge, still on December of the year before, every square blank, a topless woman stretching over the hood of a Cadillac.

“Marshall home?”

A quick shake of his head. “What’s he done?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. I just want to talk to him.”

Jones told Travis about Charlene, about the message she’d sent to Marshall, about the witness who’d spotted the car. Travis took a seat at the table, lit a cigarette. The smell made Jones sick, but he didn’t say anything. Cigarette smoke reminded him of Abigail. He barely had a memory of her that didn’t include a cigarette in her hand or dangling from her mouth. More brand cigarettes-long and brown like shrunken dead fingers, crooked and pointing, piles of them in ashtrays all over the house. When she died and he sold the house, the real estate agent had made him strip the curtains and the wallpaper, even rip up the carpet. Everything was yellowed and stiff, reeking of smoke.

“He said he took some girl for a ride the other night. But that was early in the evening,” Travis said. “Anyway, I didn’t believe him. He lives in his head on that computer upstairs.”

He said it without heat. Jones nodded, walked over to the refrigerator, saw a magnet from Pop’s Pizza. He thought about his own kitchen, cluttered with every possible gadget, colorful ceramic bowls, at least one pile of catalogs and mail, a little gathering of cute salt and pepper shakers that Maggie had haphazardly collected over the years-little Eiffel Towers, dancing pigs, an egg and a yolk. She was always complaining about the lack of counter space. Get rid of some of this junk , Jones would say. It’s not junk, it’s life , she’d answer.

“I saw your boy last night,” said Travis.

“Where?”

“At Pop’s,” he said, gesturing toward the magnet as if that was what had made him think of it. “He was sitting there, looking like he’d dropped his ice cream cone on the sidewalk.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah. Stood up from the looks of it. Checking his phone, dialing and hanging up.”

Jones felt something loosen in his chest. If Ricky had told the truth about that, maybe he was telling the truth about everything. When relief passed, guilt rose in its place. This search is more about you than it is about him , Maggie had accused. Maybe she was right.

“Charlene is Ricky’s girl, isn’t she?” Travis said.

“Yeah,” said Jones, sitting across from Travis. The other man took a long draw from his beer. They were easy together, always had been, even with, or maybe because of, the past they shared.

“That must kill you, Jonesy. It must keep you up at night.”

Travis was already over the line Jones had seen him cross too many times. They’d all go out for a drink, a bunch of guys from the precinct, and the rounds would start coming. By about round three, Travis would start to change. Depending on his mood, he’d get rowdy, or maudlin, or just plain mean. His face would turn a particular shade of red, his voice would take on a certain pitch. And soon a few of the guys who couldn’t handle it would beg off for the night. Usually, someone would wind up taking Travis home. Often it was Jones. Travis didn’t bother Jones as much as he did some of the other guys. Jones understood him, knew the size and shape of the baggage he carried, how much it all weighed.

“She wouldn’t have been my choice for him,” said Jones, smiling in spite of himself.

Travis took another swig off his bottle. “She looks like her mother.”

Jones gave a snort. “Mel never looked that good.”

“Come on. You fucked Melody Murray.”

“No, man. I never. That was you.”

Travis laughed again; this time it took on a hooting quality. “Now, that’s true. I popped her cherry-in her mama’s bed.”

“That’s what I always heard.”

They both chuckled for a bit. For a minute they were just two middle-aged guys who’d known each other nearly forever.

Then, “So where’s Marshall, Travis?”

“He took the car a while ago. Pissed at me, as usual. Said he was going to sleep at his grandpa’s. He actually seems to like the old bastard.”

“You and your dad still not talking?”

Travis cast his eyes to the ashtray and ground out his cigarette. “You know, the DUI, losing my job. I disgraced him, he says.” Travis started to laugh a little then, but Jones could see there was no humor in it. “Disgraced . Like he’s the queen of England.”

Travis started tapping his fingers on the table, beating out a nervous rhythm. Then he lit up again. Jones could see yellow stains on his index and middle fingers.

“I’m going to need to talk to Marshall, Travis. Like, right now. Tonight.”

Good humor abandoned Travis’s features, and that familiar darkness settled in around his eyes and the line of his mouth.

“How’s the transmission on your vehicle?” Jones asked.

Travis gave Jones a slow blink. “Needs work.”

He stood up quickly, and Jones did the same. It was never a good idea to be sitting when Travis was standing. Travis left the room and returned a moment later with a beat-up denim jacket.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “To find Marshall.”

That was the last thing he needed, Travis along for the ride. But there was something about the way the other man looked that ignited a familiar feeling of pity within Jones. It was that same thing that always drew them together. Besides, Marshall was a minor; Jones couldn’t really talk to the kid without a parent around anyway.