Beckett
January 25th
It was almost eight when we staggered into the apartment. Zelda whipped up a quick dinner of pasta and salad but I hardly tasted it. My eyes were glued to my cell phone, waiting for the call. Or maybe it would be a knock on the door. DOC coming to take me back to Rikers, then Otisville.
Zelda kept up a stream of chatter, trying to take my mind off the impending repercussions. “Maybe Mrs. J doesn’t know your situation,” she said as we lay in bed. “The conditions of your parole?”
“She knows everything about the four of us who robbed her.” I raked hands through my hair, pulling it. “I should call Roy. I should’ve called Roy the second I got back. I have to call him now.”
“No, don’t. He might not know. Mrs. J might not say anything. You’d be walking back to prison for no reason.”
“Not for no reason, Zel. I broke the law. Again. I don’t regret it, not for a second. Not going to you would’ve tortured me forever. But if there are consequences then I have to take them. I want to take them.”
I called Roy before I could think it to death and before Zelda could talk me out of it. The call went straight to voicemail.
“Hi, Roy,” I said, my voice suddenly drained of strength. “It’s Beckett. I need you to call me back as soon as you can. Thanks.”
“Would they really send you back to jail?” she said.
“I’m low-risk,” I said. “They might put me back, or I might just get an extension on my probation. God, there’s no worse feeling than waiting for the shit to hit the fan.”
I lay back down, and Zelda immediately curled up close.
“Do you think Roy will be mad?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Disappointed, maybe, which is almost worse than any punishment for parole violation.”
“You love him,” she said softly. “And he loves you.”
I cleared my throat, looked to the ceiling. “I never had a real dad. Mine was gone for months at a time and drunk whenever he came home. I hardly remember him or my mother. They both took off when I was eight. Gramps took care of me but when I got older, I took care of him more than the other way around. But Roy…”
Zelda’s arm slid across my chest and she held me tight. “He’s not going to let anything bad happen to you. I know it. It’s the only reason I can sleep tonight.”
Sleep eluded me. Roy Goodwin might’ve loved me, but he was by-the-book, with a solid sense of law and order, right and wrong.
But Zelda needed me today. That’s all that fucking matters.
The thought finally let me fall asleep, and I woke to the sound of my phone ringing the next morning. It was Roy.
“Hey,” I said, my voice tight. “Listen—”
“I need you to meet me at the Plaza Hotel in one hour,” Roy said, his voice like a blade. “The Napoleon Lounge. Alone.”
“The Plaza Hotel?”
“In one hour.”
“Roy, listen. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you…”
“We’ll talk when you get here.”
He hung up and I stared at the phone in my hand.
Zelda’s eyes were wide, expectant. “Well? What happened?”
“He wants to meet me at the Plaza Hotel.”
She frowned. “Isn’t that one of the most expensive hotels in the city?”
I nodded and slowly moved to get dressed. “I have to leave now if I’m to make it on time.”
“Well, wait a minute, what happens at the hotel?” Zelda said, sitting up in bed and brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Are you going to be arrested or you are you going to have high tea with the Queen?”
“I’ll text you as soon as I know anything,” I said and kissed her softly. She clung to my wrists.
“Wait, I’ll come with you.”
“You can’t, baby. I’ll talk to you soon. I promise.” I kissed her again.
“Beckett, wait…”
“I love you, Zelda. I have to go.”
She pressed her forehead to mine, eyes squeezed shut. “Come home soon.”
I took the subway into Manhattan and then a cab to the Plaza Hotel. My elbow complained every time I put pressure on it to use the crutches, and my ankle throbbed like it had a second heartbeat. A heartbeat that was pounding a rapid pulse of fear and confusion.
The magnificent Plaza Hotel lobby opened before me in a display of elegance and wealth. I crutched to the front desk and asked the concierge the way to the Napoleon Lounge. He immediately called someone to escort me personally, up four floors to the conference level. The bellhop opened the door to a little tearoom with antique furniture and a chandelier that probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
Roy stood by the window overlooking the city, his hands clasped behind his back. Sitting in one of the chairs, sipping tea from a delicate cup and saucer was Evelyn Johannsen.
Mrs. J.
Roy turned when he saw me and his expression melted into one of shocking worry at my crutches and foot. “Beckett, what happened?”
“It’s nothing I’m fine,” I said. I stared at Mrs. J. I’d only seen her twice before—once during the robbery, the second time at my sentencing. She’d been shrouded in black, a netted black veil over half of her face.
The eyes regarding me now were clear blue, lined with a few wrinkles. Her pantsuit still impeccable, but the blouse beneath it was soft. Her hand trembled as she set her teacup down, making it rattle against the saucer.
“Hello, Beckett,” she said.
My mouth tried to shape a reply but nothing came out.
Roy came around the table and took my crutches so I could sit. I went on staring, mute and stupid, while my brain screamed, What does this mean? What the fuck does this mean?
“I don’t have a lot of time,” Mrs. J said. Her voice was pitched low and refined. The voice of a natural hostess who’d thrown many dinner parties and organized charity fundraisers. “My plane leaves for Melbourne this evening.”
She reached for a small briefcase next to her chair and set it on the table. The locks popped open, the lid raised and she pulled out a stack of envelopes.
My throat clenched. There they were. My letters. All forty-one of them. Most sent from the Otisville Correctional Facility, the rest from Brooklyn.
Every envelope’s seal was broken.
“You read them?” I found my voice.
“Every one,” she said. “Several of them more than once. The last few I must’ve read twenty times each at least.” She smiled faintly her eyes shining. “The letters about Zelda.”
I swallowed hard, blinked harder. “You did?”
She nodded, her fingers trailing over the letter on top of the pile. The most recent one, in which I’d asked for her blessing.
“I didn’t intend to speak to you before I left,” she said. “I intended to board the plane without a forwarding address and go halfway around the world. But I couldn’t. Not without answering two of your questions.”
She folded her hands on the table and held me with her steady gaze. “Yes.”
“Yes…” My voice was a croak, choked with so much hope I could hardly breathe.
“You asked if I was trapped in the moment of my husband’s death. The answer is yes. I’ve been replaying it over and over in my mind for three years, just as you have. It occupies my waking hours and haunts my dreams. But your face haunts me, too.”
“Mine?”
“I’d never seen such a look of anguish before. It was like looking in a mirror,” she said, and smiled tremulously. “As if a fifty-year-old woman could share the reflection of a handsome young man. But in your eyes I saw what I felt: this was all a horrible mistake. And if only we could rewind time a few minutes, go back and undo it all…we would.”
I glanced at Roy. His face was tense, a dam holding back some tremendous emotion. His eyes shone as he looked at Mrs. J.
“Before I answer your second question,” she said, “I need to know something.”
I nodded. “Of course. Anything.”
“In forty-one letters over three years, you never asked me for forgiveness. Why?”
“It didn’t feel right,” I said, the words scraping my throat. “I don’t know that I deserve that.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes,” I whispered. Then louder, “Yes. I’m in love with her.”
“Is she the reason you broke your parole and went to Philadelphia yesterday?”
“Yes.” I sat up straighter in my chair. “And if I could rewind time a few minutes and go back, I’d do it again.”
Mrs. J nodded. “You never asked for my forgiveness, but in your last letter, you did ask for my blessing. Your second question that I came here to answer. You were asking me permission to feel happy, weren’t you?”
I started to speak but she shook her head, once.
“It’s not for me to determine. I can’t create your happiness, but I can give you my blessing to try to find it. With Zelda.” Her eyes shone and her voice quavered. “Yes, Beckett. That is my answer. You have my blessing, and even though you’ve never asked me for it—or maybe because you haven’t—you have my forgiveness as well. I forgive you.” The tears were flowing now, dripping on the lapel of her expensive suit. “I forgive you.”
I felt weightless. I clutched the chair to keep me in it and watched, struck mute, as Mrs. J moved around the table to me. I stood upon shaking legs as she put her arms around me.
Time ceased, stretching into some surreal dimension consisting of me saying I was sorry, and Mrs. J saying she forgave me.
I said it again. I’m sorry.
She said it again. I forgive you.
Again and again, until I finally found two more words. “Thank you,” I said.
“Oh my goodness, this feeling…” Mrs. J said against my shoulder. “If I’d known it would feel like this, I would’ve done it sooner.”
I held her tight, afraid I might crush her, overcome. I felt as if I’d been waiting to breathe for three years and now I could. Breathe and live and love Zelda with every bit of my heart that was now free.
After a moment, Mrs. J let me go and rested her palm on my cheek. “Be good,” she said. “Love your girl and be happy. I think we both have a chance now.”
I watched her gather the letters and put them back in her briefcase. She shook Roy’s hand wordlessly, gave us a final, parting smile, and went out.
I felt strength draining out of me and I slumped into the chair, my shoulders shaking. Roy’s arms went around me then, holding me for a long time.