Linwood Barclay - No Safe House

Seven years back, he made me promise to do what I could to help her. Although I transferred out of Old Fairfield High School for a few years before returning, I continued to encourage Jane with her writing. But it wasn’t as simple as that. It wasn’t enough to tell her she was good at stringing words together. I had to persuade her that hers was a life worth writing about. That you didn’t have to be some big-name, lame-brained celebrity to be interesting. That there was value in, and lessons to be learned from, the lives of each and every one of us. That her experience, as much as she tried to diminish it, was worthy of examination.

“What do you care?” Jane asked me, more than once.

“If I tell you I’m doing it because I care about you, you’ll think I’m full of it,” I told her. “You won’t believe me. So I’ll give you a more selfish reason. I’m doing it for myself. If I can get you to give more of a rat’s ass about your future, I’ll feel better about who I am and what I’ve accomplished as a teacher.”

“So it’s a huge ego thing,” she said.

“Yeah. It’s all about me. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

Jane remained stone-faced. “So if I just pretend to give a shit, you get to be all Mr. Holland’s Opus.”

I smiled. “Yeah. Just fake it. Don’t do well because in your heart you want to be better. Do it to see if you can pull one over on us.”

“Okay,” Jane said. “I’m like your Eliza Do-nothing.”

“That’s a good one,” I said.

“You think I don’t read. I know shit.”

“See? You’re getting into the spirit of this already.”

Other teachers at the school who I kept in touch with reported that Jane Scavullo was starting to make an effort. Not exactly Yale material yet, but she might actually get out of the building with a diploma.

“That act is going very well,” I told her.

“I’m going for an Oscar,” she said.

By the time she was in her last year, she’d stopped skipping so many classes. She completed assignments. Her grades improved.

“I don’t think you’re acting anymore,” I told her one day. “I promise not to tell anyone, but I think you’re starting to give a damn.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” she said.

“You’re doing it for yourself,” I said.

“God, you think you’re so smart, but you’re really not, you know,” she said. “I’m doing it for him.”

For Vince.

I should have figured that out much earlier. She was trying to make things up to him by making something of herself. What I was slow to realize was that Jane was carrying around a lot of guilt where Vince was concerned. It had been Jane who’d persuaded Vince to help me that night when he nearly died.

I assisted Jane with her college applications, wrote letters on her behalf. Her teachers were right: she wasn’t Yale material. But she was accepted at the University of Bridgeport, where she took advertising. “It’s perfect for me,” she said. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to make people believe shit that isn’t true.” Advertising allowed her to apply her gift with words and her powers of persuasion.

She e-mailed me once in a while, mostly during her first year. I wondered whether I’d rate an invitation to her graduation, but was quietly relieved when I didn’t. There was a good chance she might not have bothered attending anyway. Jane didn’t put a high value on ceremony. But if she did go, and if I’d attended, there would have been a good chance I’d have run into Vince, and that wasn’t something I’d have wanted.

For a long time, I felt my neck where Vince was concerned.

Cynthia and I visited him twice when he was recovering in Milford Hospital from his gunshot wound. Our times with him weren’t long enough to really qualify as visits. He wasn’t particularly happy to see us.

“Fucking stupidest thing I ever did was get mixed up with you two,” he said the first time we walked into his hospital room.

It was hard to argue. It was Cynthia who’d insisted we go back a second time to see how he was doing.

“His disposition may have improved if he’s feeling better,” she said. “We owe him a lot.”

So we tried.

Looking at Cynthia, Vince said this: “If I could find myself a fucking time machine, I’d get in it, set the dial back to 1983, and instead of going out that night with you, I’d have looked for — shit — the ugliest girl in Milford. I’d have even gone out with a fag and done whatever the hell he wanted to do if it meant I’d never have gotten dragged into your mess and ended up here getting shot in the fucking gut all these years later. So you can keep your get-well cards and your fucking flowers and get the fuck out of here.”

We opted against a third visit, and hadn’t seen him since.

I didn’t tell Jane about the encounter, but kept my promise to Vince to help her out.

“What’s going on between you two?” she asked me once. “I asked him if you guys talk and he just grumbles.”

“We’ve kind of gone our separate ways,” I said.

“You think you’re too good for him, don’t you?” Jane said. “He’s the guy from the wrong side of the tracks. You don’t want to be seen with him.”

That touched a nerve.

Even if Vince had been willing to associate with me, wanted to meet for a beer now and then, I’d probably have resisted, but not because I’d have thought I was too good for him. Vince was not the kind of person I had the nerve to pal around with. He was a tough guy, and so were the people he hung out with. Vince made a living breaking all the rules.

I was a high school teacher who paid his parking tickets.

Vince killed people.

I really couldn’t see the two of us as pals.

So when I saw Jane at Whole Foods, I was ambivalent. It would have been nice to see her, to catch up. But the conversation would inevitably turn to Vince, and I didn’t want to talk about him.

I was getting into my car when a voice behind me said, “You spotted me but didn’t say anything. I know it.”

I turned around, saw her standing there in front of me, brown recyclable bag in her hand.

“Don’t try to deny it,” Jane said.

“I won’t,” I said. “You look good.”

She did, too. No ripped jeans, no nose stud, no streaks of pink in her hair. She looked... polished. Tailored clothes, smart jacket, nails polished, hair shorter than I remembered it, nicely trimmed.

“You kinda look like shit,” she said, and then smiled. “Sorry. I guess that’s the old me talking. Let me try again. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” I said. I guessed there was a heaviness in my voice that she’d picked up on. Things at home were sapping my strength.

“I didn’t mean to get all first-degree on you there. If you didn’t want to talk to me, that’s cool.”

I smiled. “I’m sorry. I did see you. But you looked like you were in a hurry and I didn’t want to slow you down. How are you?”

“I’m good. You know, okay. Just heading back to work.”

“Which is where?”

“After I finished school, I got a job with Anders and Phelps.” She waited a half second to see whether I recognized the name. When she saw that I did not, she said, “They’re a small advertising firm here in Milford. It’s not like we’ve got the Coke account or anything. It’s just local stuff, but it’s fun. I’m putting together a radio spot for a furnace repair guy.”

“That’s fantastic,” I said, and meant it.

She shrugged. “It’s not exactly Mad Men , but you gotta start someplace. So, when I said you looked like shit, I didn’t mean that, but you look kinda, you know, tired.”

“Some,” I said. “But hey, who doesn’t have something going on at one time or another, right? This is just one of those times.”