Boy Scout

Some prose for the day from the archives.  Should this keep going, I wonder?

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I can hear singing in the cherry tree outside as I reluctantly open my eyes to the sounds and smells of six a.m. With resignation I shake the dreams from my head. There is so much to do today.

With a sigh I sit up and reach blindly for the slippers under the bed. I can only find one; the cat has stolen the other slipper, and no doubt it is lying somewhere in the hallway where I will be sure to trip over it. I’m not ready yet. I’m not prepared for a day of searching for footwear.

Coffee.
 
I trek sluggishly down the hall and find my slipper, balanced precariously at the head of the stairs. I retrieve it and insert my foot. To my joy I find warm cat saliva waiting to embrace my ankle. A recent theft then.

I am not yet lucid enough to wage war against the cat slobber on my foot, but I quickly wake up at the sight of the large cream-colored envelope waiting on the floor in front of my front door. “How did that get in here?” I mutter to myself as I bend over to pick it up. There is no name on the front, nothing to tell me where it came from. Distracted, I walk the rest of the way into the kitchen to get the coffee started. Nothing is happening in my house, at six a.m., without caffeine fortification.

I sit at the kitchen table, envelope lying there nearly forgotten, and stare out the garden window at nothing. The comforting smell of brewing coffee fills the house. I let my mind wander back to the night my life ended.

Alex never told me anything.
 
All those years of visits on Mothers Day and my birthday, and all he could talk about was, “Bob cracked us all up during the staff meeting” and, “I think Kevin and Darcy have a thing going on.” Investment banking was a safe choice. What do I know about investment banking?

He was always good at math; it made perfect sense to me. I could even picture him sitting behind his desk, tie over one shoulder, watching his computer monitor while speaking rapidly on the phone. I hoped he would have a picture of me somewhere in the clutter of folders and printouts. He had a messy room his whole life, why would his desk be any different? 

When they found his Kevlar vest in the bushes on the bank of the Columbia River I remember asking myself, what would an investment banker need with one of those? Between the words “line of duty” and “award for bravery,” I gradually began to understand. Alex had been lying all along. He knew as much about investment banking as I did.

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The bubbling sound of the coffee maker brings me back to the present, where I have neither investment banker, nor undercover agent for a son. Where I have no son. I absently stir coffee and cream together as I release the final images of bullets flying around my beautiful boy from my mind. I don’t have time for this today. There is so much to do.

Glancing back towards the table I remember the letter. I set my cup down and pick up the envelope. I look it over again curiously and then open it. I read it.

Dimly, I hear a clatter and a crash. I feel wetness against my left leg. That’s not right, I think. The cat stole my right slipper.

It doesn’t matter anyway, nothing matters. The only thing left in the world is the carefully printed card I am holding on to for dear life right now.

“Mom, I am so sorry. I had no choice. Please forgive me.”