Ben
I raised my hand and knocked on the door. It was a crummy apartment building, infested with rats and the various low-life scum who populated a place like this on the shitter side of town. The decal on the door read 233.
I crossed my hands in front of me and waited patiently. A few moments later, the door opened, and a woman greeted me. She was small and had pale blonde hair tucked up into a bandana on her head. Her dress might have been pretty once, printed with colorful flowers, but the brightness of the fabric had faded away over the years. I noticed frayed threads poking out from the edges of the garment.
“Hey, Dina,” I said. “Hope it’s all right if I drop in on you like this. I was in your neck of the woods, and I thought I’d swing by and say hello.”
She smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Poor woman. She looked so worn through, like an old dishrag that needed to get thrown away soon. There were bags under her eyes that looked heavy and immovable. “Hello, Ben,” she said. Her accent had gradually lost its edges since she’d first come to the city, but if I listened closely, I could still hear the harsh Russian grate on some of her vowels. She opened her arms to give me a hug. I leaned down to let her and she gave me a soft, friendly kiss on the cheek. “It is good to see you. Please, come in.” She stepped aside to let me into the apartment.
I ducked my head under the low doorframe as I entered. It was hot and humid in here. I could hear the window A/C unit chugging away, but it didn’t seem to do much to take the edge off the summer heat leaking through the thin walls. A few potted plants sat wilted in the corners of the living room. Dina slid past me and into the kitchen, where I heard pots and pans start clanking.
I looked at the walls. A few pictures were hung up in cheap frames. One of them was slanted off-center, and I reached up to adjust it. The picture was of a man and woman on the back of a motorcycle. The girl had her arms squeezed tight around the man’s torso. Both of them had wide, beaming smiles. They looked downright ecstatic to be with each other.
“I love that picture,” Dina said as she emerged into the living room with a pot of tea and two mugs in her hand. “Olaf looks so happy there.”
I let my hand fall to my side. “Yeah,” I said. “He really does. You both do.” I turned and joined her on the striped couch pushed up against one wall.
She poured out a cup of tea for me and handed it over.
“Thanks,” I muttered as I took a sip and set it down on the table next to us.
“So, Ben, how are you? How are things?” she asked. Her voice was earnest, but there was still that undertone of sadness to it, lingering just behind every word.
“They’re okay. Up and down, you know how it goes.”
She nodded. “It isn’t an easy life you chose.”
“It kind of chose me, but I guess you’re right. It ain’t easy.” The dying sun shone through the thin curtains hanging over the window, lighting up the room in purple and red. It made Dina’s hair glow. “But anyway, I didn’t come here to complain about my job. How are you?”
“Oh, you know,” she said, brushing away an invisible speck of dirt from her knee, “I’m doing fine.”
“Do you need anything? Money? Help around the place?”
“No, no, please,” she demurred, waving a hand at the suggestion. “I don’t need anything.”
“Because you can always let me know if you do. I want to help however I can. The whole club does.”
“I know that.”
“Good. Don’t forget it.”
We fell silent, not looking at each other. I didn’t know what to feel or do or say. I was always shit at these kinds of situations. But for some reason, I felt compelled to come back over and over again, even though nothing new had occurred to me. It was the same sad shit repeated every time.
“It’ll be three years next month,” she said quietly.
I looked up and saw a tear glistening at the corner of her eye. She wiped it away quickly. “I know,” I said quietly. “Can’t believe it’s been that long already.”
Her eyes met mine. She looked fierce all of the sudden. “I can. Every day is so long.”
I didn’t know what to say to that either.
“You must have come for a reason. Did you come to tell me something?” she asked. “Do you know more?” She was leaning forward and squeezing my hand tightly between her fingers. “Do you know who did it?”
I laid my other hand on top of hers. As gently as I could, I said, “I’m sorry, no. We still don’t know.”
The sudden spark of life faded away, returning her to the same grey, depressed woman who had greeted me at the door. “How can you not know?” she said. Her eyes were staring into the middle distance. “How is that possible?”
“We’re trying, D. He was important to us, too. We’ll find a way to make things right. He deserves that.”
Another tear welled up in her eye. Her bottom lip was quivering. “They shot him so many times,” she whispered. “I could barely recognize his body. Whoever did it was a monster.”
I opened my mouth to talk, but the words just wouldn’t come. Dina succumbed to the crying. Sobs took over, racking her from head to toe as she buried her face in the couch cushions. I patted her back softly and let her cry.
I couldn’t even fathom what this woman was going through. Was she really the same as the girl in the picture? That girl had looked so happy, so head over heels in love. And now look at her. She was a wreck, always just a few words away from a sobbing fit. Three years to cope with her husband’s murder, and she was still barely keeping it together.
A wail from the other room interrupted us. I looked around, confused, but Dina shot up immediately, wiping her eyes as she tried to pull herself together. She disappeared through the doorway connecting the living room to the bedroom. I sat and waited. A moment later, she emerged with a bundle in her arms.
My blood ran cold. “It’s okay,” she murmured in a singsong voice. “Mommy’s here. It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” She rocked the toddler back and forth her in arms, cooing and clucking. She straightened up and looked at me. Her eyes were red and puffy from the tears, but when she spoke, her voice was calm. Strong. “I’m sorry. He hasn’t been sleeping well the last few weeks. I think he knows when I’m upset. Olaf’s anniversary always rattles me.”
“No problem,” I said. She sat on the couch next to me. In between the folds of the blankets, I could see the pink nose of the toddler. A little hand reached out and clung to his mother’s shirt. The fingers were so small. How was it possible that this was a person? How was it possible that I was ever that small and unblemished? I looked down at my own hands. They were scarred, tattooed, and tanned from years on the road. Life had done its work on my skin. This little guy, though, had so much in front of him.
But he’d have to face all that without a father. I couldn’t believe Olaf had meant so much to this woman, had given her a son and been the reason behind her every smile. Only to disappear when they needed him most. Not that it was his fault. But goddamn, a man had to know when he was close to the end, didn’t he? Didn’t he know dying would hurt his family so much more than it would hurt him?
“He’s getting so big,” I said. “How old is he now?”
“Two and a half,” she said.
“I guess he’s not a baby anymore, then, is he?”
“Not really. Growing up so quickly. Look,” she said, pushing the blankets away from the child’s face, “hair just like his father.” A shock of dark hair had taken root across the kid’s scalp. She was right; it was thick and curly, just like Olaf’s had been.
“He’ll be a lady-killer for sure,” I said with a sad smile.
“Handsome boy, yes, you are,” she cooed at him. A beeping sound went off in the kitchen. “That’s the oven. Do you mind holding him for a second? It was hell to get him to lie down for his nap, and he sleeps better when he’s next to somebody.”
“I, uh, well—” She didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, she hoisted the boy onto my lap and strode quickly into the kitchen. I sat perfectly still, statute still. God forbid I wake the kid up. I wouldn’t have the first clue about what to do. This was already way beyond my level of childcare expertise, which was more or less nonexistent.
But as I looked down at his face, I felt something sag in my chest. No one in the world had the right to look that peaceful. Didn’t this kid know his dad was dead? Didn’t he know how much his mom was struggling? Maybe when he was awake, he did. But for right now, he was Zen, as unlined and innocent as the day he was born. My heart went out to him. He didn’t realize yet how hard life could be.
A thought came shooting across my mind: Fuck Olaf. He caused this. He set up this beautiful woman for a lifetime of misery, and he condemned her son to the exact same shit. I could have felt sorry for him—he was dead, after all, and we were no closer to finding the killers than we had been the day it happened—but no, fuck him. Fuck any man who told a woman he loved her, who gave her a baby, then went out and risked his life the way he did.
I looked down at the face of the kid in my arms and made myself a promise. I’d never do to someone what Olaf did to Dina and her son. I’d stay far away. This life of mine was too risky as it was. I had no right bringing someone else into the mix. I was willing to gamble with my own skin. But not that of others. Not the skin of those I loved. How could I? This child’s skin was so smooth and perfect. I refused to be the one to inject it with my dark ink.
“I gotta go, D,” I said as soon as she returned.
“I understand,” she replied. She crossed the room and scooped up the child from my lap.
“If you need anything…” I began, but she just shook her head.
“We’ll be fine.”
“I’m going to find out what happened to him, Dina. I promise you.”
Her eyes were clear and her gaze was unwavering as she looked up at me. “I hope you do, Ben. I really hope you do.”