The Good Neighbor (49 page)

“Signs?”

“From—wherever. I don’t know. The universe or whatever.” “Holy shit,” said Francie. “I do believe Coltrane Hart has had a

spiritual awakening.”

Colt bristled. “Now, hold on there,” he said. “It’s not like I’ve found Jesus or something. I mean, I’m not suddenly going to start going to church or anything like that.”

“Oh, no,” said Francie. “God forbid.” She smiled. “Good one,” said Colt. “Very funny.”

“Well,” said Francie, “what can I say? I’m glad.” “I thought you would be.”

“Oh, and I found something of yours.” Francie plucked an ob

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ject from her pocket and handed it to him. “Up in the bedroom,” she said. “In the floor. It was kind of stuck between a couple of floorboards. I don’t know what happened to the chain.”

It was his good-luck charm—his mother’s ring. Colt took it and held it in his palm.

“Wow,” he said. “I thought this was gone.” “Well, there you have it,” said Francie.

“Thanks.” He stuck it in his pocket and patted it. He was about to open the door, but something in her expression told him she had more to say. “Was there something else?”

“Yes. I heard from your lawyer.” “Oh, yeah. Gibbons.”

“He wants me to get a lawyer of my own.”

“Yeah, well, you know, you should. I mean, it’s just the way it’s done. I guess. So they can do all the arguing and stuff for us. That way we don’t have to hash it out ourselves. It’s a lot easier that way.” “Well, I thought I would talk to you first,” said Francie. “Just to

let you know what it is I want.” “Uh—okay. I guess that’s all right.”

“I want the house,” said Francie. “That’s it. Nothing else. No money, no stocks. Nothing from your portfolio. Just the house.”

“Oh,” said Colt. “That’s it? You’re sure?”

She nodded. “It’s the only thing we’ve got that means anything to me,” she said.

“What are you going to do for money?”

“I don’t know. But I can take care of myself. I can get a job somewhere. Maybe in Plainsburg.”

“In Plainsburg? Is there even a job market in Plainsburg?”

“It’s not your problem, Colt,” she said. “I can handle it. I just wanted to tell you.”

“Yeah. Okay. Well. I don’t have a problem with that. It’s al ready paid for, anyway, and to tell the truth, I sort of regretted buying it. Not sure it’s ever going to appreciate.”

“
I
appreciate it,” said Francie. “And that’s all that matters.”

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Colt drew a deep breath. “There’s, ah—there’s something I wanted you to know, Francie. I mean, something I felt like I should say to you.”

She waited, hands in her pockets.

“And that is that I’m—well, I’m sorry.”

Once again Francie wasn’t sure she had heard him right. “You’re sorry?” she repeated. “Is that what you said?”

“Yeah.”

“For?”

“Well,” he said, “I guess everything.”

“I might need to hear some specifics,” Francie said.

“Well, hold on now,” said Colt. “This is not me coming crawl ing to you on my knees. I’m just saying, is all. I have feelings of— of sorryness. In a general way. About everything.”

“Coltrane, clarify,” said Francie. “If you’re apologizing to me for something, I’d like to know what for. That’s all.”

“Right. Well—the, uh—the whole thing about kids. And all that.”

“You mean the fact that you had a vasectomy without telling me.” “Yes. That.”

“You’re sorry for that?”

“I am,” said Colt. “I mean, I had my reasons, and you know what they were, so I guess there’s no need to go into it all over again. But some stuff has happened to me in the last couple of weeks that’s kind of—changed me, I guess. And I can see now that maybe I didn’t handle that whole issue very well. And I just wanted to let you know that it wasn’t anything personal.”

Something in Francie’s face softened then, it seemed to him. She shifted on her feet, staring up at him. Colt found it not as hard as he’d thought it would be to look at her as he was saying these things.

“It wasn’t personal?”

“No. It really wasn’t. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have kids with you. It was just that I didn’t want to have them, period.”

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“Right.”

“So, just so you know.” He paused. “Did you, uh—did you think it was personal?”

“Well, to tell the truth, Colt, yes, I did,” said Francie. “And I think it would have been damn near impossible not to take it that way, just so
you
know. It would have required a level of self-control that no human possesses, not to take something like that personally.”

“Yeah. I know. Well, I really am sorry about it. And it really wasn’t personal. And another thing,” said Colt.

Francie waited.

“I know you told me you wanted a divorce,” he said, “and if that’s what you want, then you can have it. And you can have the house, too. I won’t fight you on that. But I just had to say this one thing, which is this. And that is—”

Francie still waited, not saying anything.

“I don’t know if
I
want a divorce,” he said. “I mean, I’m not mad enough at you to justify that. It just doesn’t make sense. I’m not mad at you at all, in fact. You didn’t do anything. I know you were the one who asked for it. And I’m not saying that you have to come back to me or anything. I’m not begging you to forget all about everything. That’s not what I’m doing.”

“I see,” said Francie. “What are you doing, then?”

“What I’m doing is—I mean—I don’t know. I just wanted to ask you if you really felt like a divorce was . . . well, was neces sary.”

“I guess I don’t know what necessary means, in this context,” she said.

“You don’t?”

“No. But I do know what I need. And that is I need to be on my own. To do my own thing. I guess that’s what’s necessary.”

“Oh.”

“One thing I have to tell you, Colt,” said Francie, “is that a lot has changed with me, too. You remember when we met, there at the museum, ten years ago? How we were then?”

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“Yeah.”

“That was not me,” she said. “Or rather, that wasn’t the full me.” “It wasn’t?”

“I’ve changed, too,” she said. “A lot. Maybe even more than you have. For one thing, I was barely twenty-one years old then, and now I’m thirty. That’s a big difference. But I don’t know. We both changed, I guess. And that’s what makes me wonder if we even belong together anymore. What I realized is—” She stopped her self, putting a hand to her throat. “Oh, shit,” she said.

“You okay?” Colt asked.

“Yeah,” she said, wiping her eyes on her hand. “Did you ever . . .”

Colt waited.

“Did you ever think that we were together for the wrong rea sons? Because we only needed each other? Not because we loved each other?”

Colt frowned. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never thought about it that way.”

“Oh,” said Francie. “Because the thing is, I have.” “I see,” said Colt.

“I never knew you as I was, when I wasn’t on those pills,” said Francie. “And you never knew me. You never knew what I really was like, the real me. You only saw the medicated me. And that wasn’t me. It was only half me. You never saw me do all the things I could do. I stopped wanting to do
anything
. And that wasn’t who I was. I used to have dreams, Colt. I used to be really ambitious. Like you. I had goals, and I was all set to go after them.”

“I thought they helped you, those pills,” said Colt.

“Helped me, maybe. At first. They helped me not be so scared. But then, after I stopped being scared, I just kept on taking them. And I see now—” here she put a hand over her mouth again, paus ing before she could go on—”I see now that I was taking them just so I could pretend I was happy.”

“Happy. With me.”

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She nodded.

“Right,” said Colt. “So you were . . . what? Lying?”

“Um,” said Francie, her voice quivering, “okay, if you want to look at it that way. I don’t think that’s fair, but I could see how you might feel a little—well, cheated maybe. Out of being with the real me. If that’s how you feel. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” said Colt. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. Not any more. Not if it’s over.”

“No,” said Francie. “Not if it’s over.” “So.”

There was a long, dead pause. Francie struggled to breathe; she sat down on the bed. Colt put his hand on her shoulder and sat down next to her, but she got up and moved away from him.

“No,” she said. “Don’t.” “Sorry.”

“I should go,” Francie said.

“You don’t have to. Not because of me. You can stay if you want. Michael’s here. You can hang out with him.”

“No. I really have to go.” “All right.”

She stood up and went to the door. “Francie,” Colt said.

She turned. “Yeah?” she said.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I always saw you doing some thing big. And I used to wonder sometimes what was holding you back. Whatever that thing is, whether it was the pills, or some thing else—even being with me—I just want you to know some thing.”

She waited.

“I’m glad it’s gone,” he said. Francie managed a smile.

“Thanks,” she said, and she walked out of the bedroom, leaving him looking after her.

37
‌

Sold

S
he was the last of Walter’s customers to get the news.

In the past, Walter had kept long hours, opening early and often

not closing until ten at night; since the only other thing he did be sides sell books was sleep, he often used to say, he might as well be sitting behind his register. He had never, in Francie’s experience, been closed. But pulling up in front of the bookstore, she saw with sinking heart that the lights were off, and there was a sign taped to the door. She didn’t need to read it to know what it said, but she forced herself to get out of the truck and look anyway.

CLOSED FOREVER

it said, in Walter ’s bold, regal handwriting. “Oh, shit,” said Francie. “Oh, Walter!”

She pressed her face to the window, shading her eyes from the glare. Walter hadn’t even removed his stock yet—all his books were still on their shelves, waiting for creditors to come haul them away, no doubt. And yet—

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Francie had to look twice to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. She knew exactly where
Poems from My Sinister Hand
had been sitting, just a foot to the right of the cash register, lean ing on its own small Plexiglas display rack. But now it was gone. She squinted harder to see if maybe it had just fallen over or some thing, and that was when she spied a handwritten note taped to the rack, written in the same hand, in red marker:

THIS BOOK HAS FOUND A HOME

Francie could hardly breathe. Someone had bought her book.

She continued to lean against the window for a long minute, resting her forehead on it, covering her face with her hands as if she was still looking inside, although her eyes were shut.

When she had gotten control of herself again, she turned and got back into her pickup truck. She started it up and wrestled with the gear shift, listening for the satisfying
chunk
it always made when she put it into first.

Then, in a cloud of blue smoke, she pulled away from the curb, heading back toward the tunnel and out of the city, back to the place where she belonged.

Epilogue
‌

L
ess than two weeks later, there came a knock at her door, and when she went to see who it was, there stood a free Flebberman

in his familiar snowsuit and boots, smiling a chagrined half-smile. “Hello, John Dillinger,” she said. “I half expected to see you in

stripes.”

Flebberman laughed self-consciously. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess that’s about right.”

“So they sprung you in time for Christmas?”

He nodded. “I prob’ly got you to thank for that,” he said. “You puttin’ the bug in yer husband’s ear.”

“Believe it or not,” Francie said, “he did it on his own. As far as I can tell.”