I've never thought of myself as a brave person. I spent too much of my childhood being told to shut up and sit down – that kind of upbringing doesn't breed bravery. Becoming a writer (or trying to become one) and taking up smoking were my only acts of nonconformity . . . and let's face it. Neither one of those is really all that brave.
They're definitely not stand-up-to-men-with-guns brave.
There was a part of me, the quiet raised-in-Iowa part, that almost turned and bolted into my apartment, leaving John to whatever trouble it was he'd managed to get himself involved with. That was the part of me with a pounding heart and shaking hands -- but there was another part, too.
That part came packaged with a scarred forearm and nine months' worth of shared smokes.
And it was that part -- what I guess you could call the brave part -- that reached out and pushed the wooden balcony door shut, then dashed across the landing to stand, flustered and wide-eyed, in the doorway of my apartment.
They came up the stairs only a second later, five men all armed and scowling, ignoring me for the moment as they shoved open the door to John's apartment. The Man In Sunglasses led the way in, shouting "Smith!" and barking orders at the others.
After I don't know how long holding my breath (Ohpleasedon'topenthebalconydoor), they left John's apartment and backed me into mine, crowding into the small room. The Man In Sunglasses pushed his way through the knot of soldiers and regarded me with a scowl.
"Where's Smith?"
"Smith? The guy across the hall?" I took a deep breath.
Brave? No, I'm not brave.
But I'm a writer. If I know anything, I know how to tell a good lie.
"He left earlier," I started, "With some guy. Big guy." I shot a nervous glance at the nearest gun. "B-but I . . . I heard 'em talking . . ."
And I let my mouth run away with me, something my father was always quick to accuse me of doing – let my brain spin out an elaborate, detailed, utterly bogus story that had the Man and his gun-toting minions completely focused on me. He even pulled out a notepad and wrote down some of the high points, asking a few clarifying questions that I answered with the shameless innocence of a born liar.
Somewhere in the midst of it all, while their attention was completely on me, the balcony door inched its way open (thank God for quiet hinges) and John slipped out, moving with more stealth than a night breeze. He shot me a brief, brilliant grin as he deftly stepped over the noisy floorboard and headed, bag in hand, down the stairs.
I spared only a glance at him – not enough to draw the Man's attention away from the lie I was spinning – and reflected distantly that I had not, after all, had the chance to say goodbye.
But somehow, I thought he'd gotten the message just the same.
TBC