Guilty Heart- Chapter Nine
It had been a long day–no—a hell of a long day— and all he wanted to do was go home and drink a few cold beer. The temperature hadn't dwindled and it was still hot enough to fry bacon on the sidewalks. He looked down at the street below and felt a stab of pain in his heart as he watched small children run through a fire hydrant spray, splashing and screaming. A.J. would have been six, and old enough to partake in a fun evenings run with the other kids. He leaned over the balcony, arms braced on the black wrought iron railing, a can of beer in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other and watched the New York skyline, heard the rustle of the busy streets and the horns honking. It was the only pleasure he had left in life, now that both A.J. and Jamey were gone.
Ya, and exactly whose fault was that?
After a few minutes of yearning for them, his head hurt. Those memories were engraved in his brain, his skin and they never faded, even after three years. He ground the cigarette under the heal of his sneaker and headed inside.
After closing the window that lead out to the small fire escape he walked over to the sink and ran some hot water into the pot and put it on the stove to boil. Then he reached above his head and grabbed a bag of pasta. As dinners went this was about as fancy as it got.
Always dinner for one. A.J. loved pasta—
The old beige rotary phone that still hung on the kitchen wall began to ring and even before he picked it up her knew exactly who it was. Still, he picked it up and answered in his characteristically gruff New York accent and encountered an equally thick female one.
"Messer."
"Danny?" The voice of his would-have-been sister-in-law came across the line—if Jamey had married him—if A.J. had lived.
It wasn't that he didn't like Tracey Kent—far from it—he loved her. Jamey's elder sister by two years had much the same personality as Jamey had. They were both like a warm sunny day, both beautiful and full of life—or had been. They looked so much alike they could have been twins, but Tracey's eyes were a deep blue and Jamey's were green. Tracey always reminded him of Courtney Cox, with her dark hair and exquisitely blue eyes.
The last three years had been hell on Tracey as much as it had been on him–maybe more—considering that when she had left Danny she'd left everyone else as well, including her own family. As far as he knew Jamey had never once called home. Maybe that's why he still talked to Tracey—she was the only last living connection he had to Jamey and A.J.
"Ya?" He answered flatly, knowing exactly what she was calling for.
"It's Tracy."
He rolled his eyes. "I know that."
"How are you?"
Wounded, hurt, lonely, angry—and that was just for starters.
He suppressed the urge to snort in her ear. "How do you think I am?" He asked blandly. How was he ever?
"I don't know—that's why I'm calling."
"I'm peachy." He emptied about half the bag of pasta in the pot and gave it a quick stir.
"I heard you guys caught the Riverbed Killer over in Brooklyn." She attempted to make conversation. "Mac mustof been happy."
"Yep. All in a day's work." He said shortly. "Do you need somethin, Trace? Cause I'm kinda busy."
There was a pause and then she cleared her throat. "Danny, are you angry that I'm calling you?"
"No."
Yes–dammit—why can't you ever leave me the hell alone? She hasn't since forever–why the hell would she call now?
"Any word? Anything at all?"
Danny sighed and rubbed his hand over the three day stubble on his chin. He'd been having these conversations for too long and it was starting to get to him. She had been calling almost weekly since Jamey had left, wanting to know if he'd heard from her, if he knew how she was—any piece of information—it had been a damn year and a half! He was friggin tired of this—mostly cause it still hurt like hell
"Nah, Trace. No nothin." He busied himself with stirring the pot of spagetti that was boiling on the stove. "Dontcha think that this is gettin pointless?" He asked tersely.
"Do you think this is pointless?" She asked just as tersely. "I mean, she's gone–yes–but sooner or later one of us has to hear from her. I just can't believe that she still hasn't called."
He cleared his throat. "Trace, she's livin a new life now. One that doesn't include anyone from her past."
He thought he heard her whimper. "I know—it's just that I can't get over it—how do you walk away from your family? It's like she's dead. She could be dead—" She continued on. "If she was how would we even know? I just—"
Danny blanched. He hated the word, hated everything about it, probably because he had lost the two most important people in his life because of it.
Because of you, Messer. It was your fault.
"Tracey—I can't talk about this anymore with you." He interrupted, while he grabbed the pot from the stove and dumped the contents into a strainer. "She's gone. She's not comin back and neither is A.J. Do you get that? And talkin about it every damn day isn't gonna help either of us." It came out a little harsher than he intended but he was just so tired. So damn tired of thinking about her, about what driven them apart.
"He would have been six today, you know." She said softly, changing topics.
"I know that." As much as he tried to make the words come out strong, he failed, his voice faltered. "You're not tellin me anythin I don't already know." He gripped the phone so tight his knuckles turned white.
"I bought him a present." She confessed. "A baseball bat." She continued when he didn't acknowledge she'd spoken.
For some reason it angered him. Made him madder than hell that she'd do something for a boy who wasn't even around to play with such a thing. He knew that it would have been his son's birthday—had thought about it all damn day—and the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it.
"That was stupid." He yelled. "Is he gonna play with it from six feet under?"
As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he ground his teeth. He was hurting her and he knew it. He also knew that she missed A.J. as much as he did—it's was just that it hurt so damn much he could hardly breathe.
"Asshole."
"I'm sorry." He breathed, feeling his chest tighten and his throat constrict. He felt the burn of tears behind his eyelids. "Trace—"
But he was talking to a dead line.
"Fuck!" He slammed down the phone in anger and picked up the pot of pasta and threw it against the wall where it slid down and splattered on the floor.
He sank slowly to his knees and buried his face in his hands.
And for the first time in over a year, cried.
