Black Cat Weekly #94

Chapter 5-1

by“Give yourself permission to make this decision,” the counselor said.

The pen, which moments before had rested, if not comfortably, at least had rested between my thumb and index finger, now sat clutched in the palm of my hand. I could not have squeezed it tighter if it were a dagger. My hand shook just above the page, dotting the form with ink.

“It’s funny,” I said, then paused and began again. “It’s not funny at all. It is tremendously tragic.” I stared toward the window, slits of light showing through the drawn blind. “Got up this morning… I felt that this was the day… I really believed it inside.” Swallowing hard, I touched my chest. “I was prepared to make a final decision…to bring all of this to a close…to pull the trigger. The idea gave me…this sounds terrible, but I actually felt relieved. I know how much trouble we have been to you.”

The counselor reached out and touched my arm. “It’s never been about us…”

I cut her off before she could say more. “I know that it’s my decision. But this place has been quite kind and very patient. I’m sure that people who have been married longer have signed these forms. I know that you’ve got schedules to keep and supplies to manage. You can hardly put things on hold and wait on one sentimental fool.”

“We appreciate the consequences and know full well the gravity. Letting go is hard,” the counselor said. I listened carefully, her words calm and even. I had heard stress in the human voice countless times. I felt attuned to the tones of strain, the voice either tremulous or hard-edged. I detected neither. I looked down at the pen and turned my wrist slightly to see the nib emerging from the other end, the dagger point.

I felt my fingers relax. My hand unclenched, and the ballpoint fell on the page. I heard the click, the sound of pen hitting the informed consent. The slight noise had a finality to it. I blew out a long breath. I didn’t need to look at her. The counselor and I knew that no paperwork would be signed today.

We made eye contact. “I’ve made a bit of a mess of your form, I’m afraid.”

The corners of her mouth upturned in a small smile. Her eyes showed sympathy. “That’s all right. We can print new ones when you’re ready.”

I nodded, understanding the meaning of what she had said. Declining to decide is not a decision. I looked down at the paperwork one more time. “I got up this morning feeling that this was the day,” I repeated. “I went to bed last night thinking today, the struggle would be over for both of us. Had the sleep of the relieved, like a weight had been lifted. Ate toast and eggs, aware that I had made up my mind, crossed a boundary in my own head. Felt sure. I saw my schedule for the day laid out before me. I would come down here, sign my paperwork, take care of one meeting for work, and then come back here and get things…finished up.”

I stumbled on the last part.

I considered again picking up the pen, signing my name, and racing out of the building. An impulsive decision without thought, like jumping off the high board at the pool. You can stand, think, look down, and allow fear to poison your mind and freeze on quivering knees. Or you can leap and not think.

But this wasn’t a high board over a pool, I knew. Some decisions are impulsive, and others demand reflection.

I looked at her. She watched me, her eyes conveying nothing but sympathy. Her eyes revealed nothing else, her face an inscrutable mask. I thought I could cloak my emotions and drop a veil over my personal feelings, but at this moment, I felt like an amateur.

“I got out of the car, filled with purpose,” I continued.

Maybe, I thought, frustration was what she felt. Perhaps I had mistaken genuineness for a façade. I couldn’t tell. She was a pro at this.

“Do you ever go to the dentist?” I asked.

Her eyes widened, the redirection taking her by surprise.

“Of course you do. I’ve seen your teeth. They’re stunning.” I moved on quickly, feeling awkward about the stupid question. “You know that smell the dentist’s office has? I don’t know about yours, but my doc’s office has this smell. You could blindfold me. Spin me around. The minute I walked in there, one sniff and I’d know exactly where I was.

“And here’s the thing,” I continued. “With the smell comes the feeling. I can be at home, thinking a teeth cleaning is just routine, no big deal. But the moment that smell hits me… Wham! I’m nervous. Can’t explain what comes over me the minute I walk through the dentist’s door. Totally irrational, but that’s what happens.”

Her eyes watched me. Her lips were pressed together, not showing teeth. Had concern replaced sympathy? She probably thought I was rambling. She had good reason. Perhaps, she thought, I would melt down at the oak conference table or collapse into a heap on the rug.

“Sense of smell is perhaps the most primal. Neurologists think humans retain it to the end of life.” She was always thinking about death.

“I’m babbling,” I said. “You’ve probably seen all kinds of ways people deal with this.”

She nodded. “Everyone has to deal with death in their own way.”

“My point is, all morning long, I had this resolve. Ready to sign and move on, and then, the minute I walked through the door, it was like I smelled that dentist’s office smell. My determination just evaporated.”

She nodded her head slightly. I didn’t think she fully agreed with the comparison, but I’d made clear where I was going. She saw the point behind the explanation and no longer looked primed to call building security. I had enough stress without having my face pressed onto the wooden table, frisked for any evidence that I might harm myself, and then tossed out of the building. That wouldn’t work, wouldn’t work one bit.

“We can wait until you are ready,” she assured me.

I put my hands flat on the table and pushed myself upright. “I’ve taken up too much of your time.”

“We know these decisions are difficult. Letting go of someone is hard. That’s why we don’t want you feeling rushed,” the counselor said, her honey-coated words soothing and calm.

Calm because she was sympathetic or soothing to get me out of the building before my disordered thinking related all of this to a root canal, I wondered anew. Sympathy or self-preservation?

“But,” she continued, her tone sympathetic but firm, “after ninety days, there is virtually no chance of a recovery.”

“You make it sound like an extended warranty for my refrigerator.”

“Facts may be ugly, but that does not make them any less true.”

My eyes drifted back to the paper. The ink dots marked where the counselor had expected my signature. “I know what I need to do. I’m just not ready to do it yet.”

“I understand. We’ll be here when you are.”

I glanced at my watch. I’d be late for my next appointment if I didn’t leave.

I had begun the day with a feeling of purpose. Hours later, nothing had been resolved. My stomach clenched at this situation. Declining to decide is not a decision, I repeated. Leaving Samaritan Hospital, I shuffled to my car, leaden legs stuck to the walkway. The tightness behind my navel made it impossible to walk any faster. I sat and closed my eyes; the sun’s warmth touched my face. I concentrated on the sensation, using it as a form of self-hypnosis. I took slow deep breaths, grabbing as much air as possible and then holding each inhalation briefly before pursing my lips and exhaling fully. I pushed out every bit of oxygen, feeling a slow death of emptiness in my lungs. I repeated the breathing exercise, concentrating on the air moving in and out, the simple, repeated act of living. I thought only of the sun and my breathing, tuning out all the other noises inside my head. Slowly, my stomach knots untied, and the tension across my shoulders relaxed. Like a dripping faucet or a metronome, I counted the slow, regular breaths in my head, a private meditation. The decision had been avoided, a blessing and a curse.

I opened my eyes. My mind cleared of the clutter; I could focus on the task ahead. I started the car. I had a person to kill.

Retrieving the Glock 9mm from the glovebox, I confirmed that it had a full magazine and a chambered round. Slipping the g*n into my pocket, I retrieved the target’s name from my phone. The message said that Steve could be found at the community center.

I knew the story. Steve Thomas was some computer whiz. Steve manipulated data in computers and made illegal cash look legal. Steve also embezzled money from his employer. The boss was angry. And the boss was not the kind of guy who took his troubles to the police or sued in civil court. He didn’t run the type of operation that the authorities supported. Instead, the boss discreetly hired me. Guys like that know how to find guys like me. Make Steve an example, the message said. Examples promote loyalty among the other employees, the boss had told me. Then he agreed to my price. I never argue with an employer about management techniques.

Steve’s electronic shenanigans had left him justly paranoid about an online presence. He had deleted any files containing photographs before he disappeared. I didn’t have one to work with. I didn’t feel concerned. The Tucson job had the same obstacle. I had overcome the problem there. The key was flexibility. Some folks in my line of work are exquisite planners. That’s the symphonic style, with everything scored. I’m more of a jazz type, relying upon improvisation. Besides, burying myself in my work allowed me to shift my focus away from Samaritan Hospital.

Through contacts and old-school intelligence, I learned that Steve Thomas would be at the downtown community center for a meeting at 10:00 AM this morning. After confirming that my fee had been deposited, I shifted the car into gear.

Parking nearby, I walked toward the community center. Men and women huddled outside a side entrance to the building. Keeping my head down and careful not to make eye contact, I blended with the wall and did nothing to make myself recognizable. Head down, ears open. If I were lucky, I’d identify the Steve before stepping into the building. I could cap the target and keep walking. Thrusting a hand in my coat pocket, I gripped the 9mm.

Things didn’t go that smoothly. None of the loiterers mentioned a name. Even if I had a picture, I might not have found Steve. Everyone outside smoked mostly real cigarettes rather than those electronic sticks. Clouds of exhaled tobacco hung over the side entrance, creating air a guy could slice. I felt like I had landed a bit part in a 1970s casino movie. Eyes watering, I twisted my shoulders, kept my back to the group, and slipped inside the community center.

“Hello,” a voice boomed immediately upon my arrival.

Blinking to scrub the smoke off my eyes, I turned. A big guy with tattooed arms and a silver ring in his nose stood before me. He wore a tight black T-shirt and looked like someone whose day job was throwing drunks out of a roadhouse.