"April is the cruelest month."
 
 Where'd that come from?
 
 I mean, I know it's T. S. Eliot or Emily Dickinson or somebody--I
 must have read it in college English--but why did I think of it
 right now? Right now, I'd say November was.
 
 I mean, look around. Trees are bare, grass is going brown and
 dead...it looks like the world is mourning Theresa too.
 
 Like Chuck is.
 
 Sometimes after all these years, he can still surprise me. Sure, I
 know the way he overdramatizes, he always has, but this...I never
 expected he'd fall for her at all, let alone so hard and so fast. I
 mean, sure, I got it pretty bad for Marcia, but even I took longer.
 
 I hate it that he's hurting. I wish I could tell him the truth.
 But I can't. I don't dare.
 
 He told me in McGinty's that "she ran away once, she'll run away
 again...and when she does, I'll find her." I don't know if he
 really could, but I can't take the chance that Pirelli's...business
 associates...wouldn't find out he was looking. And if they did,
 he'd be in danger. They'd go after him just like Pirelli did, to
 find out if it was true she was alive. They'd want to be sure,
 before they put out a contract on Pirelli for...what would you call
 it, dereliction of duty? malfeasance? And people like that, they
 don't care who they step on along the way. They'd hurt Chuck,
 trying to get him to talk; probably they'd kill him sooner or later.
  I won't chance that.
 
 Better he hurts now than dies later.
 
 I just wish I could tell him she's alive.
 
 I don't like mobsters any more than any other honest citizen does,
 but I have to give them one thing, they're efficient. I almost
 can't believe how fast Pirelli got everything arranged. A wetsuit
 for Theresa to put on under her clothes, so she'd survive the cold
 when she went into the river--lucky thing she knew how to swim. A
 Kevlar vest so they could use live ammunition on her and make it
 sound--and look--right for anyone who might happen to see...not that
 they expected Chuck and I would, because of course they didn't know
 about the Paper. A cab waiting for her about a mile down, with the
 driver well paid off to forget anything weird...or wet...about his
 passenger. A small plane chartered at Chicago Midway to take her to
 Milwaukee, and from there a ticket to San Diego already arranged.
 Fake ID to go with the name on it. Money, and a promise of more
 wired to a Mexican bank account, enough so that she can live on it
 the rest of her life, quietly, if she wants to. What you might call
 the Mob version of the Protected Witness Program. It scares me a
 little to think how much power a man must have, that he could set
 all that up in just a few hours' time.
 
 And yet I can't help respecting him for loving her enough to do it.
 Enough to let her go, knowing he could never see her again. It's
 something I don't know if I'd have had the strength for, if it had
 been Marcia. And for being willing to risk his own life for her
 sake, because if his bosses ever find out, he'll be toast.
 
 But I don't think they will. The Feds made sure of that by grilling
 Chuck and me about what we saw. He went to them first thing, of
 course. He wanted Pirelli to pay. All we had to do was tell the
 truth. Of course Chuck kept insisting it was Pirelli who killed
 her, but even he had to admit that the man never had a gun in his
 hand, that the shooter was that guy on the motorcycle and it was too
 damn dark to see anything noteworthy about him. The Mob's got its
 sources in the Bureau--it has to, or Pirelli wouldn't have known to
 pick me up after they questioned me the first time. By now it knows
 everything we said, and it figures just what Pirelli and I wanted it
 to--that the hit was on his orders but not at his hands. They've
 probably already given him a commendation, or whatever it is that
 mobsters do, for putting his...his Family obligations ahead of his
 personal feelings. The Feds couldn't prove a thing on him; they
 couldn't even get a warrant, that's why he could be here today.
 
 I don't know if helping a mob boss fix it up so his tail is covered
 is exactly the best way of doing what the Paper wants me
 to--whatever that is, and sometimes I'm not entirely sure. I
 don't know if I like the idea that Pirelli's going to walk again,
 that he'll be able to go his way and run his rackets until...well,
 until the odds catch up to him, which I guess they will eventually.
 But I couldn't let him kill Theresa either--and I absolutely
 couldn't let him kill Chuck.
 
 No. That I wouldn't do. No way.
 
 I was lucky. If Pirelli hadn't let it slip that he believes in
 astrology, that he follows his horoscope...I don't think I could
 have pulled it off if I'd tried to appeal to anything but
 superstition.
 
 Or was it superstition? Some people would say that believing anyone
 could get tomorrow's newspaper today falls into that category...only
 I know it's possible, and so does Chuck, and Marissa. Not only is
 it possible, it happens. Every day.
 
 I wonder if this whole thing was...planned.
 
 Get a grip, Hobson. You're reading too much into it. You did what
 you had to, for Chuck's sake.
 
 If only he hadn't gotten so personally involved.
 
 Of all the women in the world he might have fallen for, it had to be
 her. Why? I wouldn't even have said she was his type.
 
 Of course, when I think about it, maybe Marcia wasn't really my type
 either. Though I certainly thought she was.
 
 The way he screamed when he saw her go over the rail of the
 bridge...God. I've never heard him make a sound like that before.
 And I hope I never have to again.
 
 I know he blames me, that's why I haven't gone to him. That's why
 I'm standing back, out of his space, letting him do his grieving
 alone.
 
 I hope he'll get over it. I hope he'll forgive me. I don't want to
 lose him.
 
 But if I have to lose his friendship to keep him alive...I'll do it.
  I'll make that sacrifice. Because I care about him.
 
 Because I love him. As a friend. Even though that's not something
 Americans like to say, it's still the way I feel.
 
 I've heard it said that a friend is someone you can say any jackass
 thing to that happens to come into your head, without having to
 worry about how he'll take it or what he'll think of you; if you
 can't, you don't have a friend, you have an acquaintance. By that
 definition, Chuck and I are friends, definitely...or at least we
 were. But still, there are times when honesty isn't the best
 policy, no matter what Ben Franklin said.
 
 Sometimes, if you love someone, you have to lie to him. To save his
 life, you have to.
 
 I wonder if Theresa really has any idea what she could have had in
 him, if things had been different. I know it surprised me to
 realize he could have such depths. He tries so hard to seem shallow
 and uncaring, to keep that surface gloss bright and shining, to make
 it seem that life to him is just a joke, a game. That it's all
 about piling up the big bucks, acting sophisticated, and cashing out
 with more toys than the next guy.
 
 But he hasn't been back to work since...since it happened. He took
 some of his vacation time and basically told Pritchard that if he
 didn't like it he knew what he could do. Marissa told me that; it
 was all over the secretarial pool in half an hour.
 
 A month ago, or even a week, I'd never have believed Chuck would go
 that far for anyone, except maybe his mother and me.
 
 I don't know if he really loved Theresa, or just thought he did.
 But I guess it doesn't matter. All that matters is that he believed
 it was real. Because to him it is.
 
 Sometimes perception does become reality.
 
 And I hate it that I had to hurt him...that, in a sense, the Paper
 made me hurt him--if it hadn't had that story in it about Theresa
 getting gunned down on the street, he'd have never met her, and he
 wouldn't be grieving now.
 
 But it wasn't the Paper that went to Pirelli with tomorrow's
 horoscope and a wild plan. It was me. I made that choice, and
 given the same set of circumstances, I'd do it again.
 
 I got over Marcia; my ring's in the drawer now, not on my finger.
 Chuck will get over Theresa one day. He wasn't even married to
 her--he barely knew her a day.
 
 And if he hates me for taking him from her side, so be it. At least
 he's alive to hate me.
 
 And that's all I really care about this time. Not that I saved
 Theresa's life; not that I did a Mob boss a favor. That I saved
 Chuck.
 
 That's all that matters.
 
 
 End

Email the author: sevenstars39@hotmail.com
 

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