I Was Here(97)

             But then Bradford says, “What are you doing here?”

             And the kid says, “Mom says you got the days mixed up again. She was pissed about it.” He sees me then, gives me a questioning look.

             “Go to your room, and we’ll discuss it in a second,” he says gruffly.

             “Can I use your computer?”

             Bradford nods curtly. The kid disappears down a hall. As I watch him go, I can’t help but notice how drab this place is. The wood table with a stack of napkins in the middle. The generic prints hanging on the wall. There’s a chipped bookcase; it’s not full of philosophical tomes but supermarket paperbacks, the kind found in Tricia’s break room. There’s one big book, a reference book called Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, lying sidewise, so I can see all the sticky notes jammed into it. This is where he gets quotes from?

             I hear the chime of the computer, and it’s like my brain clicks on.

             Crappy condo, shitty job, depressing town. Bradford’s life is a lot like mine. Except that every night, he fires up his computer and plays God.

             “You should go now,” Bradford says. The calm, taunting tone has vanished. His voice is icy again, like it was on the phone when someone barged in on him.

             From down the hall, his son—who must be what, thirteen, fourteen, not so much younger than me?—calls out, asking for a sandwich.

             Bradford’s voice is tight as he promises a turkey and Swiss. He looks at me: “You should go now,” he repeats.

             “What would you do if someone did to him what you did to Meg?” I ask. And for a second I picture it. His own turkey- sandwich-eating son, dead. Bradford grieving as the Garcias have grieved.

             Bradford stands up, and I know he has seen the scenario I just conjured. As he walks toward me, the vein in his neck bulging, I should be scared. Except I’m not.

             Because I don’t want his son to die. It wouldn’t even anything out. It would just be one more dead kid. And somehow, this is the thought that gives me the strength to stand up, to walk past him, and to leave.

                          x x x

             I keep it together as I walk out the door, down the gravel path, past the drinking neighbors, who are blasting classic rock now. I am okay until I look back at the condo and picture the man who made Meg die—a monster, a father—preparing a turkey sandwich for his son.

             The sob that rises up comes from deep within me, as if it’s been festering there for days, or weeks, or months, or maybe so much longer. I can’t hold it back, and I can’t be near him when it comes. That’s where the danger is.

             So I run.

             I run down the dusty streets, churning up sand that flies into my nose. Someone is coming toward me. At first I think it’s a mirage; there’ve been so many of those lately. Except he doesn’t disappear the closer I get. Instead, when he sees me crying, he too starts to run.

             “What happened?” he repeats over and over, his eyes alive not just with worry, but with fear. “Did he hurt you?”

             Even if I could get the words out, I wouldn’t know what to say. He was a monster and he was a person. He killed her and she killed her. I found Bradford but I didn’t find anything. I’m choking on sand and dust and phlegm and grief. Ben keeps asking if he did something, and I want to reassure him, he didn’t; he didn’t hurt me or touch me or do any of those things. What finally comes sputtering out is this:

             “He has a son.”