Jan Burke - Goodnight, Irene

“Why, Mr. St. Germain, I-I-” Miss Ralston was stuck in neutral, but the name had helped me place him.

“Guy St. Germain?” I asked, giving it the best French-Canadian pronunciation I could muster. “Didn’t you play defense for the Buffalo Sabres?”

He beamed. “Yes, ma’am, I did. How did you know that? Not too many hockey fans around here, and most of them are only interested in Gretsky and company.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. St. Germain, the Sabres are my second-favorite team. You’ve met another Kings fan. But I do remember seeing you play.”

“You’re too young for that, I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense.”

I introduced myself and we spent a few minutes discussing the recent Stanley Cup play-offs, taking advantage of that rare-in southern California-pleasure of talking serious hockey in the off season. Miss Ralston was dumbstruck, totally unable to comprehend our conversation.

She sidled off and Guy St. Germain led me over to his large desk. He had a vice-president’s title on his name plate and a fancy pen set. The visitors’ chairs were plush. Eventually we wore down on hockey and he asked me if Miss Ralston had hurt me when she gave me that hard check.

“No, I got a few bumps and bruises in a car accident yesterday, and so I’m a little stiff and sore today. She didn’t mean to run into me; I just stopped suddenly when she was right behind me.”

“I’m glad you’re not hurt, and it is kind of you to be so understanding. Is there some way in which I may be of help to you?”

“I’m trying to get in touch with one of the employees here,” I said, praying to God that Ann Marchenko was the AM of O’Connor’s computer notes.

“Really? Which one?”

“Ann Marchenko.”

“Our branch specialist? You have a problem with a safe deposit box here or something of this nature?”

“Oh, no, she doesn’t even know me. She helped a friend of mine who died recently and I wanted to thank her. He mentioned her in some notes he left.”

“I see. Well, Mrs. Marchenko is off today, but she’ll be in tomorrow. Shall I have her contact you?”

“I’m not sure I’ll be in town tomorrow; I’ll stop by again. Is Wednesday her regular day off?”

“No, her daughter was ill today and she couldn’t arrange child care in time. She’s usually here Monday through Friday.”

“Well,” I said, standing up and extending a hand, “I’ll call if I’m out of town, or come by if I’m still in Las Piernas. Thank you for your help, Mr. St. Germain.”

“Please call me Guy,” he said, returning the handshake with a firm grasp. “And please stop by my desk and say hello if you do come in. You have provided a very pleasant change of pace today, even though our acquaintance had such an unfortunate beginning.”

“Don’t worry about it. And I will definitely stop by if I come in, if you promise to call me Irene.” We shook on it and I left him.

As I walked out, Miss Ralston spotted me and started following me again, her long strides catching up to me quickly. She had found her voice again and was chattering away at me. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, I don’t know what got into me. I didn’t realize you knew Mr. St. Germain. I don’t mean knew him-but knew of him, or whatever…” She kept this up, following me all the way out onto the sidewalk. I stopped and turned around, ready to ask her to please forget all about it, when I heard the roar of an engine and noticed something very much out of place: A car was barreling down the sidewalk, headed right for us.

ITOOK TWO long running steps and wedged myself between two parked cars, as the car on the sidewalk, an old brown Camaro, sent newspaper stands outside the bank flying as it steered toward me. Next I heard a sickening thunk -similar to the sound a football makes when it’s kicked-and watched Miss Ralston hurtling through the air. She had frozen in place, and now was knocked halfway down the block by the impact. The car never slowed down. There were no plates on it. It jumped back over the curb and onto the street and went squealing out of sight before any of us on the sidewalk had moved again.

A woman who had just missed getting hit as she walked out of the bank started screaming at the top of her lungs. I was shaking, unable to make myself come out from my haven. It took a moment to grasp what had actually happened, and once I did I felt sickened by it.

Eventually I made myself go down the sidewalk to the place where she’d landed. I didn’t have much hope for what I’d find there. It was just as well. She was absolutely motionless, lying face-up with her eyes open, and would have seemed unscathed if it weren’t for the fact that her head was in one of those unnatural positions that can only be achieved with a broken neck, and that her skull was completely cracked open where she had landed on it, spilling its contents out onto the sidewalk. I stumbled over to the gutter and retched.

In moments, I saw emergency-room people coming from the hospital across the street, and Guy St. Germain was running down the sidewalk from the bank. I turned and caught another glimpse of Miss Ralston, and almost passed out.

Next thing I knew, Guy had taken hold of my shoulders and was shaking me gently, shouting, “What happened to her? What happened to her?”

I started crying. “A car-oh, God, have mercy on me, it’s my fault. Sweet Jesus, it’s all my fault-it was me they wanted to kill. It was me. They wanted to kill me.” I was losing it rapidly.

He was taken aback, then put his arms around me and held me, saying, “No, no, ch и re -hush.” I felt dizzy and sick; once again, I almost passed out, but fought it off. As if it were happening miles away from me, I felt my own crying become sobs. Guy turned me away from where Miss Ralston lay and held me to his shoulder while they found something to cover her. I concentrated on the weave of the fabric in Guy’s suit and calmed down.

Someone came out of a nearby cafй and gave me a glass of water. It was one of those little kindnesses that make a person feel human again. I washed the taste of being sick out of my mouth, pulled out a Kleenex and blew my nose. I was getting there.

In no time at all, police pulled up, sirens howling. One of the officers gently took me from Guy and sat me down in a patrol car. I asked him to contact Pete Baird. He turned his head to one side and took a longer look at me. “You the lady who was with Frank Harriman yesterday?”

I nodded through a stream of tears.

“Sister, you better think about getting out of town for a few days.”

I had thought about it. I thought about Gila Bend. I thought about running away to some place not even connected to all of this, just long enough to feel sane again. But how could I feel in control of my own life if all I did was run? I had to face this head on; even if I got scared or cried or whatever-I had to deal with it.

I thought about Miss Ralston, and how sarcastic and mean all my thoughts of her had been, when she was just a busybody who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If she hadn’t knocked me down, she wouldn’t be dead. If I hadn’t been walking around in a suspicious manner, she wouldn’t have come over to talk to me. If only I hadn’t looked up and seen the BLP on the building-if, if, if, if.

I thought of something O’Connor once told me. He had read an article somewhere that made an impression on him, and as was his wont, he repeated its salient points for my benefit.

“Irene, “ he said, “do you know what the two saddest words in the English language are?”

“Boo and hoo?” I had guessed.

“No, wise-ass. The two saddest words in the English language are ‘if only.’”