Murph

By David Phillips

Murph is a story about a man whose unthinking actions deeply
affect people around him in ways he never imagines. It begins as a small story about self-pity, temptation, and a breakdown of moral and ethical boundaries but grows into an epic accounting of cause and effect that takes place in six countries on three continents, spanning forty years.
It is ultimately a compilation of several stories, intertwined by actions and events, built on the intrigue of romance, war, kidnapping, theft, and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479782178

Book preview

Part I

Chapter One

He’d never been there before, yet everything seemed oddly familiar. It was almost as if he knew what to expect over each rise, but that was ridiculous. Wasn’t he still gasping from the run? Wasn’t he still looking over his shoulder for whoever was surely hot on his trail? Hadn’t he just been driving at breakneck speeds, hurrying as if the hundred-year-old oak he’d hit might somehow not have been there if he’d been late? He certainly hadn’t been expecting that.

The oak won the fight. Detroit’s best lay steaming now, like some gutted beast. He remembered the crack, then just the ominous creaking of the violated tree. He could still smell the antifreeze and gasoline; pungent in his nostrils, these odors jolted him back to reality whenever he became intoxicated by the sound of wind, rustling corn, and groaning barns. If only he could sit for a while, perhaps in the shade of a willow, or on top of a hill with a commanding view so he could examine the intricate maze of field, lane, and fence. So he could watch young boys hunting toads and garter snakes.

Suddenly his senses were assailed by the roar of reality, and he looked up to see an overpowered GTO careening down the gravel road toward him. He threw himself flat in the tall grass beside the road, praying he hadn’t been seen. A crushed Falstaff can hurled from the window of the speeding car landed just beside him. As the car passed, the air was filled with the peals of young laughter and clouds of blue smoke that spilled from its open windows. It was gone just as quickly as it appeared, though, surrendering the day once again to the sounds and smells of the countryside.

He struggled back to his feet, muttering, Assholes, as he bent to pick up the discarded beer can.

That was when he realized there were cans everywhere, all along the gravel road and alongside most of the adjacent fence lines as well. He grumbled, God, help us, when it occurred to him that farm boys don’t gig frogs anymore, that barefoot boys in rolled-up jeans and their fathers’ flannels existed only in Norman Rockwell paintings. Now it seemed farm boys drove souped-up GTOs, dangled toothpicks instead of fresh mown hay, and littered the landscape with beer cans. He looked at the crumpled can in his hand and threw it down in disgust. It startled a sunbathing toad.

Groat, complained the toad.

•

He’d been christened James Terrance Salpic shortly after his birth, fifty-nine years earlier, in 1920. He’d never known why, but as long as he could remember, he’d been called Murph. He hadn’t even known that Murph wasn’t his real name until just after his eighth birthday, but it might just as well have been. To this day, he thought of himself as Murph, and so did everyone else.

Murph was disgusted with the cans and trash strewn along the road. He’d never imagined this sort of city trash to be a part of the countryside. Despite his present appearance, cleanliness was important to him. Now, though, he more resembled a vagrant than a salesman. His new suit was wrinkled, spattered with blood, and painted with stains of grass and mud. He hoped his mother couldn’t see him now.

He had very few memories of his mother. She’d died while he was still a boy. He remembered how she’d kept her house, though. Everything had been placed just so, every detail meticulously arranged. He didn’t recall her saying too much, but he did remember one thing. Shortly before she died, she’d told him, Murph, be clean. It was almost as if she’d been hanging on just to pass along this important piece of advice. She died of lung cancer several days later, at the age of thirty-one. The doctor said her lungs were filthy with tar.

Murph had never smoked, not really. He’d shared a few pass-around smokes behind the local grocery, but his participation was more about acceptance than desire. He’d never taken up smoking as a habit; and in fact, after witnessing his mother’s death, he couldn’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke. His memory of her wasting was clear and resilient. She’d died a painful death, and although he couldn’t imagine a good way to die, he knew he didn’t want to die like that.

Was that another car or just the wind? With a start, Murph realized he was wandering right down the middle of the road. Panicked, he dove across a culvert and scrambled up a hillside, but there was a price. In his haste, he dragged his leg across a jagged boulder placed there, he felt sure, just to maim and further torment him. The boulder tore both his pant leg and the flesh of his shin, and when the pain collided with his self-pity, he shrieked, Goddammit, why me? Why is it always me?

Actually, he was no more a target of life’s torment than anyone else was. If he were capable of objectivity, he might have realized that he created many of his own problems, and a broader view of that might have even revealed how his decisions were impacting others. At the moment, though, objectivity was just out of reach. His circumstance left him with a much more fundamental perspective. His sole purpose was survival, his focus was escape, and any semblance of truth or reason had been supplanted by raw emotion. Yet Murph wasn’t in control of his emotions either. Instead, they pulled his strings; and the only strings they pulled were tied to fear, anger, and confusion.

That was his world. His existence had deteriorated to the roar in his ears and a clog of flashing images. It was a thirty-three played at seventy-eight, a film on fast-forward. His only escape seemed to be the soft gauze of mindless reminiscence, and lately he found himself enveloped in this ethereal refuge more and more often. If he’d taken the time to consider the trend, he would have been horrified.

His father, Otto, had found similar comfort in his memories when he retired. His retreats had become so frequent and prolonged that he’d eventually lost himself in them. Now he lived in a dingy little room, in a place called Sunny Shores, and reminisced mindlessly over an endless game of checkers.

Otto was one of the favorites of those attending him. Between themselves, they called him the gentle giant. Not that he was particularly tall or heavy; the nickname paid homage to his happy, toothless smile and his chronic, rather impressive erection. He didn’t bother getting dressed much anymore; he spent most of his time in one of the knee-length smocks the home supplied. That made his rather chronic state of arousal hard to miss. Otto had never heard his nickname, but if he had, it wouldn’t have bothered him in the least. He would have just smiled vacantly and wandered off in search of a checker game. He was happy at Sunny Shores.

Otto was eighty years old. He hadn’t always been blessed with enduring tumescence. That dubious distinction had only been with him for the last fifteen years. He’d lost his teeth at age sixty-two; and although he still had his dentures, he kept them rolled up in a sock in his dresser and never put them in anymore. It was when he retired at age sixty-five that he’d lost his grip on reality. He might have let go when his wife died, but he still had a son to raise. He might have let go when his son grew up and moved out, but he still had his work.

When he retired, when there was no more work, he woke up one morning with an erection, carefully rolled his dentures up in a sock, and walked down to Macy’s to do some Christmas shopping. He hadn’t bothered dressing. A kind woman had punched leg holes in the bottom of her shopping bag and helped Otto pull the makeshift garment on. He’d worn it with pride. He hadn’t wanted to relinquish it to the social worker who’d appeared to escort him to safety.

Otto had been a very hardworking father. He never went to college himself but had strong convictions on the importance of education. As a direct result, Murph did go to college; and although he only completed two years at the University of Illinois before dropping out, Otto still pointed to him with pride. After all, he’d been the first Salpic ever to attend college, but then Murph had a habit of being different. For instance, while most children chose mama or daddy as their first word, Murph had departed from the tradition. His father, as die-hard Chicago fans are apt to do, had asked the rhetorical question, How about those Cubs this year?

Mrf was his clear response. In fact, until he was almost two, it was his clear response to nearly every question or statement thrown his way. He’d earned his nickname. It was an easy choice.

•

From the top of the hill, sheltered from view by a tangle of blackberry bushes, Murph could see for miles in all directions. He was surrounded by a complex weave of fields, fences, and country roads; but just a couple of miles to the east, he spotted a busy interstate. The muffled hum of cars and trucks speeding down the pavement provided a subtle accompaniment to the euphoric twittering of birds and bugs.

Murph studied the traffic on the interstate and considered his plight. What in the world am I supposed to do now? he sighed. He couldn’t reach out to any of his friends. He certainly couldn’t call his office for help. Perhaps he could hitchhike, but what if he were spotted by the police? What if his description had already been circulated?

He shook his head in resignation. It was a risk he had to take. He didn’t have many options. He rolled onto his side to check his appearance. In the process, he rolled directly into a pile of cow manure, and he knew immediately that he now smelled just as bad as he looked. Nearly in tears, he hissed, How the hell did I end up in this mess?

Chapter Two

It was an unusually warm October day in Chicago. The air was clear, and a sometimes-gusty breeze was dropping red and yellow leaves and then scattering them across the sidewalk into a congested midtown street. The city surrounded and tormented Murph with its noise and visual overload, but he’d learned that if he focused on the park in front of him and concentrated on shutting out the noise and chaos surrounding him, he could pretend he was actually in the country. The grass in the park was still green. A kite fluttered and bobbed in the impossibly blue sky. Children were floating chips of wood in the pond, and birds were hopping through the grass, cocking their heads quizzically in their endless search for food.

Murph entertained the illusion that his life would somehow be better in the country. He considered it the answer to so many of his issues. It would lend meaning to his life. It would provide him tangible work, work that mattered. He’d work hard each day and sleep peacefully each night, and his work would yield more than mere profits. At least, that’s what he thought. As he watched children skipping stones across the pond, he couldn’t help murmuring, If only I lived in the country… It was an enduring illusion, and if only was its dog-eared dance partner.

Murph was disappointed with life. He’d imagined great achievements for himself and had expected relevancy to follow certain life passages. He’d anticipated the holes in his life to be filled by the onset of puberty, his loss of virginity, or the age of majority, but those passages came and went, and his emptiness remained. He could still delude himself about a life in the country, though; he could still cling to that when he lay awake in the middle of the night.

Deep in thought, Murph nearly overlooked her presence entirely, but some things are fated. It was her aroma that caught his attention, not perfume, mind you, but the musky scent of a vital and passionate woman. When he turned to look, he was staggered. She was magnificent and commanded his admiration as the wind teased her pleated skirt, tossing it over her knees and up her thighs. Her hair was gleaming copper, glinting metallically in the low autumn sun. Her figure was full and firm, stretching the weave of her too-tight sweater, and she walked with a swing in her hips that belonged in Murph’s backyard. She’d already passed before he reacted, but his reaction was neither deliberate nor considered. His will had been hijacked by impulse.

His breathing was erratic as he charged up behind her and grabbed her by the arm. He was barely able to gasp. Excuse me… Excuse me!

The woman spun around, her green eyes flashing dangerously, and she pulled her purse close as she snapped, Keep your hands to yourself, creep!

Murph tried to collect himself, and while he did relax his grip on her arm, he didn’t release it. I’m sorry if I scared you, miss, he began. Please forgive me. I umm… I just wanted to… well, it’s just that . . . I’m really sorry. I guess I couldn’t help myself. I just think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, that’s all.

Now her wariness was joined by amusement, and her eyes softened as she said, That’s all, is it? Nonetheless, she wrenched her arm from his grasp, bristling, Now if you don’t mind, and tried to be on her way.

Murph just couldn’t let it go. His mind was in turmoil as he scrambled for words, and in desperation, he tried, I’m a little lost. I’m looking for Lake Street. There’s supposed to be a good restaurant there. Can you help me?

I’m sorry, I have no idea, she replied curtly, and she turned and strode away.

Murph was left stewing in his embarrassment and frustration, but neither emotion could defeat his desire. Forsaking his pride, he turned and raced after her. When he appeared beside her again, he was nearly hyperventilating. His brow was glistening with sweat, and his heart was hammering in his chest.

Mister, I’m going to call a cop if you don’t leave me alone!

Murph just stood his ground. He paused for a deep breath and then released his thoughts and feelings in a torrent of blather. Listen, I think you might be the one. Please don’t give me the cold shoulder like I’m just another mug. I know this must seem screwy to you, but you’re the thing. You’re what’s been missing. I just know it. If you just walk off like this, you’ll be mucking up destiny. He paused for a breath, looked at her earnestly, and added, No one should monkey with destiny.

She looked at him now, really for the first time; and while she maintained a sort of amused detachment, she found things to appreciate about this ridiculous young man. He wasn’t altogether bad-looking. He had a strong chin, an earnest brow, and a slender but not unappealing body; but she kept returning to his eyes. They were clear and an imprecise shade that seemed to shift between green and blue, and as she watched him slowly regaining his breath and composure, his eyes began to reflect more intellect than insanity. What really captured her interest, though, was his sincerity; it seemed genuine. That it was laced with a measure of naiveté was just a bonus.

Destiny, is it? she asked with a little smile tickling the corners of her mouth. I certainly wouldn’t want to monkey with destiny. Perhaps an introduction is in order.

Hours and days crept by, wrapped neatly in a fleeting moment. Murph was subjected to a paralyzing range of reactions. He was amazed that he hadn’t been slapped or arrested, panicked because he had no plan, and overwhelmed by unfocused angst. He felt sweat trickling down his sides, and the thought of big stains spreading from his pits horrified him. Since he couldn’t really check, he pulled his elbows in just in case. He could only hope that he wouldn’t be asked to light a cigarette for her. That, then, led to a minute tremor in his hands, a tremor he perceived as wildly erratic; and that made him sweat even more. Nonetheless, his anxieties were no match for his hormones. In fact, they’d already triggered increased blood flow to a delicate area, and that’s what left him mortified with his hands clasped in front of his crotch.

Murph laughed nervously. Of course, an introduction, I’m James… uh… well, Jim really… umm except… look, just call me Murph.

Now she’d relaxed completely, and she remarked, Well, at least we’ve narrowed it down. She laughed as she held out her hand and introduced herself. I’m Jeannette, Jeannette Stewart. You can call me Jean.

To Murph, her laughter sounded like music. As he took her hand in his, he blurted, Salpic… my last name, I mean. It’s Salpic.

Jean noted Murph’s panicked intensity with satisfaction. She was well aware of her impact on men and didn’t hesitate to use it to her advantage. She was a powerful woman. She enjoyed control, and seeing otherwise self-assured men fall apart in her presence kept her voracious ego well fed. When she suggested, Perhaps we could find that place on Lake Street together and discuss destiny over lunch, Murph choked completely and could only nod.

The lunch was good, if inelegant. They’d found one of those chic restaurants in the business district with American food and a French name. They’d arrived right in the middle of lunch service, and the bustle and din that surrounded them left Murph feeling pressed and hurried. He tried to be clever and interesting but only managed inane comments about the weather and the traffic, and how about those Cubs this year.

Of course, the lunch was over much too quickly; and now as Murph walked down the broken sidewalk toward his home, he could think of dozens of clever things to say. However, while sharing an unlikely lunch with a beautiful woman, his tongue had thickened and his mind had gone numb. He’d made a complete fool of himself. He’d even aspirated a swallow of water. He only hoped she hadn’t noticed the asparagus that flew from his mouth while he was coughing.

Damn! he cursed as he shook his head in disgust, but he reminded himself that he’d gotten her phone number. At least he’d had the presence of mind to do that. He’d call her for sure, not tonight but real soon. He’d give it a little time, and then he would definitely call her.

He didn’t call her, though. He was too busy, not in the right frame of mind, or short on money, he’d tell himself. When I get a job or when I get my own place, he’d say. Then after a while, he didn’t even bother with excuses anymore; he just let it go.

•

The receptionist wasn’t particularly appealing, but she really seemed to like Murph. After a buzz from the intercom, she smiled suggestively and cooed, You may go in now, Mr. Salpic. Opening the door for him, she crowded his path, forcing him to brush against her as he entered. When he tried to slip past her, she whispered, I really hope you get it.

He forced a smile and managed to murmur, Thank you, in response.

Inside the office, he was greeted enthusiastically by a balding man sitting behind a beautiful mahogany desk. Good morning, young man. You must be Jim Salpic. Your father talks about you all the time.

Yes, sir, said Murph. He’s mentioned you quite often too.

A good man, Otto, and if you’re half the man he is, you won’t have any trouble at all handling this job, that is, if you decide you want it.

Oh yes, sir, I want it very much. I can start right now if you like, said Murph excitedly.

The man wiped his brow and laughed good-naturedly. Oh, I think Monday will be soon enough. Use the weekend to celebrate, and I’ll see you at eight o’clock Monday morning. You can fill out these forms over the weekend and bring them with you when you come in.

Yes, sir, and thank you, sir. I’ll do that.

Murph was walking on air as he left the office. He even winked at the receptionist as he walked past her. This is gonna be great, he thought. I can get an apartment, buy some clothes, and maybe even save up for a car.

His thoughts were interrupted by a low, breathy voice. Hey, think I’m still the thing? ’Cause if I am, we’d best not monkey with destiny.

Murph whirled around with a huge grin on his face. He was stunned. Jean! he cried happily. Now the day was perfect.

That night at dinner, Jean explained that she was a secretary for the editor of the newspaper. She was delighted that Murph was going to be working there too and told him that a couple of the columnists had actually gotten their start in the mailroom.

Murph was at more of an advantage on this date. After their lunch, Jean expected to hear from him right away. After all, wasn’t that what always happened? Murph hadn’t called right away, though. Three weeks passed, and he never called. It was quite a blow to Jean’s ego. She’d mistaken his cowardice for indifference. As a result, she was the predator this time, and he was the prey.

Their dinner was good, and after they’d emptied a bottle of wine, Murph loosened up and talked about his dreams. He talked about renting an apartment and fixing it up just like one he’d seen in Esquire. He shared his plan to get rich and retire young. He made her laugh and complimented her on her clothes, her hair, and her figure. He didn’t cough up any asparagus, and he was as charming and engaging as he’d ever been.

Jean listened to Murph attentively. She asked the right questions, expressed her admiration at the right moments, and laughed at all his jokes. After dinner, they danced until the band packed up, and the club closed. Neither of them wanted the night to end, though, so they walked, arm in arm through the night, with no direction and no destination. When they found themselves on the shore of Lake Michigan, with its boundless black waters twinkling reflections of their city, they knew they’d arrived, and that’s where they spent the rest of the night. They skipped stones, admired the skyline, talked, and then watched the sun rise, nestled in each other’s arms.

They were together almost constantly after that. They had dinner, went dancing, had lunch, saw movies, talked, laughed, and found every opportunity to enjoy each other. Jean set her vanity aside for the most part and devoted her attention to their budding romance. As for Murph, well, he was on top of the world. He was riding a huge wave. He was in love, he had a great job, and he was saving for a place of his own.

That was the only hitch. They really didn’t have much privacy. Murph still lived with his father, and Jean shared a small apartment with a girlfriend. It was only a matter of time, though. He’d be getting a snazzy place where they could be alone, just like the one he’d seen in Esquire.

Chapter Three

The man walked mincingly down the road. He’d been on his feet all day, and they hurt him now. His clothes and skin were coated with a thin film of road dust. He was hitchhiking to Chicago, hoping for a fresh start. It had been a long trip and a long day. Hitchhiking required patience. If you were black, hitchhiking required supreme patience.

He’d been on the road for three days and had almost made it to Chicago. What was already a long trip got longer when he hit the Illinois state line. He’d heard the Illinois Highway Patrol didn’t like seeing hitchhikers on the interstate, so he’d chosen to stick to the lesser roads and highways for this last leg of his trip. He’d hoped to make it to Chicago before dark, but he still had fifty or sixty miles in front of him, and the sun was beginning to set.

Well, I sure as hell ain’t gonna try this in the dark, he grumbled to himself. Probably wouldn’t see more than one car on this damn road all night, and it’d be just my luck to get run down by it. He decided to walk for a while in the waning light and look for a safe place to roll out his sleeping bag. He could make it to Chicago in the morning. He’d be a lot more comfortable trying to make his way through the city in the daylight anyway.

That was when he saw steam rising just around the next bend in the road. When he reached the source of the steam, he saw a car crushed against a big oak tree. There wasn’t anyone in the car, and he didn’t see any sign of a body nearby, so he just studied the carnage for a moment. Then he shook his head dolefully at the shameful waste. Look at that! That was a mighty nice ride. El-do-rado, he mumbled, playing with the sound. Eldo-fucking-rado! Some damn fool sure fucked up my car.

Then he heard the sirens. They seemed pretty distant but sounded closer with every passing second. He gazed at the wreckage, trying to picture what might happen if he was hanging around when the cops arrived. Try as he might, he couldn’t envision a scenario that ended well for him. Nope! he muttered. This is not where I need to be. And he headed for the underbrush crowning the embankment on the opposite side of the road.

Halfway there, he was struck by an impulse. What the hell! For luck, he murmured as he trotted back to the wreckage. The hood ornament was right beside the tree, lying in a pool of radiator fluid. He grabbed it, stuffed it in his pocket, and then hurried back across the road and slipped into the thick underbrush beside it. He pulled his pack in behind him and then worked his way down the embankment, out of sight.

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This was entirely too much. He didn’t have a change of clothes, and his suit was soiled and torn. He looked at his pants and saw stains of mud, grass, blood, and something he could only hope wasn’t urine. He had cuts on his hands and his face; he was bleeding from a fresh wound on his shin, and now on top of everything else, he smelled like the back end of a bull. Nausea and tears fought a fast battle within him, but the tears won. They left streaks in the dirt on his face as they rolled down his cheeks.

So this is how it all turns out, he snarled. All the years of worry about how I’d end up and here I am! He tasted bile in the back of his throat when he saw the flies swarming over the manure caked on his pant leg, and he sobbed. Great job, Salpic, you’re lord of the fucking flies! He slapped wildly at his leg, which only succeeded in spreading the putrid waste to the palm of his hand. The flies weren’t harmed, though, only inconvenienced.

When he finally grew tired of wallowing in his anger, he decided to see if he could find some water. He knew he needed to get cleaned up before he did anything else, and since he ultimately needed to make his way to the interstate, he began his search by heading in that direction. As it turned out, his decision was a good one. Within the first couple of hundred yards, he happened upon a concrete culvert with a shallow stream of running water, obscured on all sides by a dense stand of squat trees.

With enormous relief, he stripped and washed his body in the murky water. He soaked his pants and shirt, but his jacket was a complete loss, so he threw it aside. He washed his arms, his legs, his hands, and his face. He wet his hair and carefully combed it straight back. Then he sat back and enjoyed what was left of the waning summer sun as he waited for it to dry his clothes. In less than an hour, feeling slightly more presentable, he was back on his feet and headed for the interstate.

Murph spent forty-five minutes standing beside the busy expressway with his thumb out. Each time a car came into sight, he shuddered with apprehension and expected to see a cop. Each time he didn’t see a cop, his panic eased, but his paranoia was beginning to get the best of him. Why was the driver of that car staring? Had the story already been broadcast? His anxiety grew with each passing moment. His stomach was twisting in painful knots, and his mouth was so dry that his lips had begun sticking together.

He heard the sirens just as the sun was beginning to set. As the daylight was consumed by dusk, he could see the flashing red lights racing down the same county road he’d left behind. However, the cars on the interstate continued to speed without slowing past his outstretched thumb, dashing what little hope he had and replacing it with panic. His head was on a swivel, first pleading for a ride from the rush of oncoming traffic and then snapping to the left to track the progress of the flashing red lights. It wasn’t until he was about to give up and look for someplace to hide that an eighteen-wheeler slowed and then squelched to a stop on the shoulder fifty feet behind him.

Murph didn’t realize the truck had stopped until the deafening blast of the air horn annihilated his last nerve. When he turned and saw the emergency lights of the huge truck blinking impatiently as it waited for him on the shoulder, though, he yelped gleefully and raced toward it. He couldn’t believe someone had actually stopped to give him a ride. As he raced alongside the cab, the passenger door swung open; and as he climbed up, the grizzled old driver shouted something at him.

What was that? Murph asked as he pulled the door closed and flopped into the big vinyl seat.

I said can ya drive this thing? the old man repeated.

I don’t think so, Murph answered a little nervously. I sure do need a ride, though.

Well, don’t fret none. You got a ride. Sure wish you coulda spelled me, though. I been bouncing in this goddamned seat for the last twelve hours. You just go on ahead and settle in, though. I guess I’ll be all right a while longer.

The ride was indeed bouncy, and the noise was unrelenting, but Murph hardly noticed. He felt as relieved as he ever had. He could finally relax. He was safe, at least for the moment; and he leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and exhaled. As he felt the tension drain from his knotted muscles, there was a tap on his shoulder. He looked over to see the driver holding a bottle in his outstretched hand.

Have yourself a shot or two of Old Crow. It’ll do ya good! the old man shouted. It’s what keeps me goin’ on these fuckin’ marathon runs, if ya know what I mean.

Murph didn’t know, but he smiled and nodded like he did. He accepted the bottle gratefully and took a long swallow. The liquor burned his throat and made his eyes water, but nothing had ever tasted better. He handed the bottle back to the driver and then welcomed its return a moment later. They drank without talking as the truck roared down the interstate, and in no time, the bottle was lying empty on Murph’s lap. He drifted into a blissful sleep, aided by the rhythmic bouncing of the rig and a whole lot of whiskey. He’d earned his sleep. It had been a long and hard day. Dreams came to him quickly.

Chapter Four

He saw the room with the eyes of a prophet. Not what was or what wasn’t, but rather what could be, what will be, he thought. It was dark and a bit dingy, but new paint, something bright with contrasting trim, he thought. A little cleaning and perhaps a room divider to close off the kitchenette . . . It’ll be perfect.

Yes, Murph was excited. Perhaps a first apartment, despite the condition, looks promising and beautiful to everyone; but to Murph, it went beyond newly found independence and autonomy. This shabby little room meant privacy, romance, dreams to come, and Jean. Yes, most of all, it meant Jean.

Jean didn’t think it meant her at all. Instead of promise and potential, she saw broken tiles, yellowed walls, threadbare carpets, filthy sinks, antique appliances, cracked windows, and a sweating, overweight landlord anxious to collect the first week’s rent and get back to his sweating, equally overweight wife. She saw despair and broken dreams, and for the first time, she experienced second thoughts. She began wondering how she’d gotten involved with this rather naive and pedestrian mailroom clerk.

Jean didn’t say anything but merely smiled halfheartedly in response to Murph’s enthusiasm. In his elation, though, Murph only saw visions of tomorrow. He bounded around the apartment, pointing and exclaiming, and planning and dreaming. He dragged Jean from corner to filthy corner, envisioning the changes he’d make and painting an idyllic picture of their future together, and eventually, a touch of his enthusiasm rubbed off on her. She was simply no match for his excitement. The apartment would, after all, provide them a private haven, a place, however impoverished, that they could call their own.

Isn’t it wonderful, Jean? Murph exclaimed.

Yes, wonderful, honey, she lied.

The next morning, Murph was all moved in. His possessions, meager though they were, added an element of hominess to the room. Moving had been easy. Murph hadn’t yet lived long enough to accumulate too much stuff. His belongings consisted of a single bed, a matching six-drawer dresser, a big oval-shaped rag carpet, an upholstered easy chair, some throw pillows, a frying pan, and a few utensils.

he did well with what he had, though; and that very evening, under the always-discreet shadows of darkness, with the light of dime store candles flickering against the cracked plaster walls and with cartons of Chinese delicacies spread across the soft rag rug, a moment of perfect bliss emerged. As Murph and Jean nestled among the piles of throw pillows, fumbling with chopsticks in the dancing yellow candlelight, the shabbiness surrounding them was replaced by warmth and devotion. That night, Murph and Jean were captured by the moment and didn’t think about the past or the future. That night, the intoxicating bouquet of crisp white wine permeated their senses and filled their hearts with hope. That night, certain to be etched in their hearts forever, was so filled with hunger and promise; that night was the night Jean fell in love with Murph.

Murph had given up his virginity on his eighteenth birthday. Four of his high-school pals had taken him out and gotten him half drunk on a few bottles of filched, rather warm beer. Then they’d sprung for the services of a jaded young prostitute they found working Cicero Avenue. She’d pulled her skirt up to her chin, complimented Murph on his manliness, and encouraged him to finish quickly, snapping her gum all the while. Murph obliged her and was finished less than a minute after he’d started. As he struggled back into his pants, he thanked her sheepishly while she smoothed her skirt over her knees and smiled at him coquettishly.

Later that night, after their first romantic dinner in his new apartment, Murph was surprised to find himself in his bed with Jean, locked in a passionate embrace. His performance that night bore no resemblance whatsoever to his sexual debut two years earlier. There were no sounds of gum snapping and no entreaties to hurry. Instead, there were whispered endearments, soft caresses, and careful, delicious explorations. As he delighted in the perfection of Jean’s body, her generous curves and gentle lines, he shivered under her touch as she carefully traced the muscles of his chest and abdomen with the tip of her index finger.

I’ve never been so happy, he whispered into her forehead.

I love you, Murph, she replied through the fog of half sleep.

And I love you, he returned, squeezing her tightly to his chest. I love you, love you, love you, love you…

Then she was asleep. He breathed in her scent and rejoiced. He held her tenderly all night, like a delicate piece of porcelain, and he lay awake all night, listening to her slow, rhythmic breathing, partly in wonder and partly in disbelief. It was a long and glorious night, but he was grateful to see the sun rise. He knew it wouldn’t be too long before Jean woke up too, and then he’d be able to free his right arm and revive it. It had been asleep beneath her shoulder for hours.

Chapter Five

The late afternoon sun glinted through the old imperfect window, casting elongated shadows throughout the living room. The stained glass pieces inset above the window added patches of red and blue to the symphony of light. There were white roses just outside the window, some in full bloom and some still tightly cocooned against the elements. Inside, the warmth of the sun fell upon an ancient carpet appointed with delicate blue blooms and stately gold spires. Throughout the room, the careful hunting and collecting of several years had resulted in a nearly perfectly matched set of antique furniture perched upon spindly legs.

It was indeed a striking room and by far his favorite of all in the old but carefully maintained house. He thought to himself how good it had been to have a place where he found peace; everyone needs an uncluttered place where they can think. He smiled and ran his fingertips lovingly over the dark fluted woodwork. I will miss this place, he whispered. Behind him, he heard a gentle swishing, but he didn’t turn. Allyson? he said softly.

Then you’ve made your decision, she responded.

The decision made itself. There never was a choice. It’s not something I can do. It’s something I must do. Allyson, will you go with me?

No, John, she said softly but firmly. There’s really no choice for me either. This is my home. The children and I will stay here.

Then he heard the gentle swishing sound again as she turned and left the room. He looked at his fingers, still rubbing the smooth woodwork, and murmured, Allyson… Allyson Sherwood, as if he were seventeen and testing the sound of the two names again.

They’d gotten married fifteen years earlier, when they were both nineteen years old. It had seemed perfectly sensible. They were deeply in love and had been for two glorious years. Their hearts had been full, spilling over with wonder, and they were eager to discover the adventures that tomorrow would bring. They knew that together, they were invincible.

They had two children in the first three years, both of them girls. The first, Julian, had been born without a hitch and had been a beautiful, rosy-cheeked cherub full of happy bubbling sounds. The second, Margaret, had been a difficult birth, nearly taking Allyson’s life in the process. Margaret had been a caesarian section, and complications had forced a hysterectomy upon Allyson at the tender age of twenty-three. Margaret was not full of happy bubbling sounds. Instead, she expressed herself with endless hysterical squalling and the sounds of strangulation. It was almost as if she resented her difficult birth. Now Julian was fourteen, and Margaret was twelve. Julian still smiled a lot, and Margaret still cried a lot.

John had been an apprentice steam fitter for the first five years of their marriage. The job had been steady and secure, but the money had provided a meager subsistence, and they’d lived in a run-down duplex as a result. Allyson had been stressed to her limit in those days, and she didn’t miss many opportunities to disparage John for his lack of motivation and success. John suffered the rebukes dispassionately, taking care to avoid exacerbating the situation any further.

However, after five years of struggle and rising inflation, John finally decided the time for change was right. He made his decision independently. He quit his job and sought out the nearest real estate office. He had gotten the idea from a matchbook cover. The matchbook asked, Would you like to retire in ten years? John thought he would like that very much, and after six months of hard work and stress, as well as criticism from Allyson regarding his impetuous gamble, John made his first sale. The commission wasn’t much, but it was more than John had ever seen in one place. Just nine and a half more years, he’d mused.

Well, now the time had arrived. Ten years had passed. He was in no position to retire. He didn’t even want to retire; he wouldn’t know what to do with himself, but he didn’t want to continue selling real estate either. Smiling at excited young men and fussy matrons, telling them that there hadn’t been a flood in the old riverbed for years or that the basement hardly leaked at all just wasn’t John’s idea of a meaningful career. He had no qualms about the pay; it was more than adequate. It had put them in a classic Victorian home at no modest expense. It had provided them a new car every two years. It had purchased the latest fashions for Allyson and both of his daughters every year. It had paid the orthodontist, bought dog food, financed elaborate vacations, and allowed Allyson to be a stay-at-home mom with a membership in a local tennis club.

There was no question that real estate had made life comfortable for him and his family, but John just wasn’t happy. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate his upper-middle-class status or all the perks. On the contrary, he was proud that he’d been able to provide for his family, but there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t give up if he could find some measure of inner peace. Not the cars, not the clothes, not the vacations, not the house with its magnificent living room, and not even, it would seem, his demanding wife and his two very different daughters.

John saw a troubled world through his antique windows, and he felt a need to make a positive contribution, to make a difference. It was a desire that had been building inside him for years, and his resolve was only heightened by the birth of his children and his responsibility for their well-being. For years, the urge had festered inside him, fruitlessly assaulting his conscience; and then six months earlier, one of Julian’s schoolmates had been brutally raped and murdered. The unconscionable crime devastated his daughter and brought John to a point of crisis.

John had reacted by applying to major police departments all over the United States. Finally, after dozens of résumés and endless periods of anticipation, he’d been accepted by the Chicago Police Department. The letter looked just like the polite rejections he’d already received, but this one invited him to appear before the chief administrator of the Chicago Police Academy and present his letter of acceptance on the ninth of September.

He had expected and gotten a reaction of disbelief and fury from Allyson, but he’d never expected her to admonish him that if he went, he’d be going alone, without her or their daughters. That unforeseen development had warranted further thought, and he’d spent nearly every free moment of the past month staring out the old living room window, wrestling with his agonizing decision.

Today, with the ninth just a month away, John had finally made his decision. On a sunny afternoon, in the splendid living room of the somewhat ostentatious house, John had weighed his duty and future peace of mind against his past, his home, and his family. The decision was the most difficult of his life. He’d go to Chicago, and despite the excruciating pain, he would go by himself. The die was cast.

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A sudden absence of chaotic motion, together with the harsh squelching sound of air brakes, brought Murph back to semiconsciousness. As he looked around the unfamiliar surroundings through his crusty unfocused eyes, comprehension remained just out of reach. He didn’t know where he was or how he’d gotten there. There was a huge rain-spattered windshield directly in front of him, and beyond the windshield, a neon sign buzzed and blinked eat—gas over and over, causing the raindrops on the glass to turn red, then yellow, and then red again.

Still confused, Murph blurted out, Where’s Jean?

His question elicited harsh laughter from the seat beside him. Sounds like I missed me a right good time there! The way you been moanin’ and carrying on, I couldn’t tell if you was dyin’ or having a wet dream. The old man laughed again, this time at his own joke, and then added, I’m gratified you ain’t dyin’, but I sure do hope you didn’t mess in my truck none. And the laughter erupted again.

Murph glanced down self-consciously, and when he saw his torn and stained pants, he began to remember where he was. The stunning events of the past couple of days came back to him like a body blow. Then he remembered the unfriendly interstate, the weary trucker, and the whiskey. Oh god, the whiskey. His head was pounding in retaliation.

Where are we? Murph asked groggily.

Just outside Des Moines, Iowa, the old man answered. This here’s one of my favorite chew-n-chokes. Had to stop for some thirty-weight before I sent us both to hell. Whyn’t you let me buy you a cup and get you an eyeful a Rosie? She’s a pitiful waitress, but her tits is so big, she ain’t counted her toes in twenty years! He roared with laughter at his own joke as Murph grabbed his head in pain.

When they got inside and were seated and served, the old trucker took a loud slurping gulp from his coffee cup. Then he exhaled grandly, settled back in his seat, and eyed Murph curiously. Name’s Able Ben Horowicz, he said. Friends call me Able.

Uncomfortable with the old man’s scrutiny, Murph didn’t respond at all. Finally, Able took another loud sip from his mug and asked, What you runnin’ from, mister?

Running? Murph asked warily.

Able put his arms on the table and leaned forward. That’s right. The way you clumb up into my rig without askin’ where I was headed or tellin’ where you was goin’, lookin’ the way you lookin’, and drinkin’ half my bottle a good whiskey without tellin’ yer name adds up to one thing, and that’s runnin’.

Murph eyed Able uneasily. Well, let’s just say I’m trying to get hold of my future before it gets hold of me.

Able shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah? Sounds like bullshit to me. Sounds like you’re runnin’ away from