Interference & Other Stories Read Free

perspective wouldn’t kill you, you know. Studies have been done, and—“
    â€œOh! Studies! Studies have been done!”
    â€œYes, and you know what they found? That cops have the highest rates of divorce of any profession, but hold on, Darlin’, here’s the good part—they also have the highest rate of remarriage. It’s like ninety percent. Ninety percent!” She got out of bed. “I’d rather be the woman in your heart, Larry, okay? Not the new marriage that proves to the guys at the barracks, and to your ex, and to yourself that you’re fine.” His hat was there on the chair next to the phone on the nightstand—round and brown and chin-strapped and dented just so—and she put it on and slipped into a loud, deep, officer-at-the-accident voice: “It’s okay folks. Everything’s fine here, folks. Nothing to look at here. Keep it moving.” Naked except for the hat, she gesticulated at imaginary rubberneckers, her breasts bobbing and swaying with the movements of her arms. “Nothing to look at here. Keep it moving, folks. Nothing to look at here.”
    Powell felt his face flush, blood and anger and shame all coming to the surface. He whipped the covers off and stood and glared at her across the bed. How dare she? He had imagined the scene a hundred times before he managed to lay it to rest: the cruisers, the lights, Tom Whalen and troopers Stern and Korofsky on the scene, Franklin’s Nissan crumpled in the weeds, his boy, unbloodied, who would get no older. And one of them, probably Korofsky, waving the traffic on by. He moved his mouth but nothing came out.
    â€œOh my god, Larry. That’s not what I meant. I didn’t think. Oh my god, I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot! I’m sorry!”
    â€œOut,” he managed. He pointed to the door. “Get dressed and get out.” He turned and sat on the bed with his back to her, struggling with himself.
    â€œLarry. Darlin’. I’m so sorry.”
    He could hear her approaching around the bed and he stood and wheeled and pointed, something like the maneuver he’d used with the Holder kid. “Go!” he said, “Now!”
    He watched her shrink and back up two steps before he turned away. He sat back on the bed and listened to her gather up her things and dress in the other room. Even before he heard the front door close, he’d changed his mind, but he couldn’t call out to her.
    Though he already knew he would not sleep, he turned out the light. But tonight the dark was not friendly, and he lay in a box of black, a weight on his chest and bedlam in his head. He was not so much thinking as suffering thought: it came out of the opaque emptiness from all directions and converged on him. Memories and fears and anger and recriminations. Faces and voices. Liz, Franklin, Didi. No single thought that he might fix and consider. Consciousness itself a black cascade.
    All the alternatives to simply lying there letting the torment continue were available—he could put on the light and read; go into the other room and look for a late night movie on TV; he could pour himself a bourbon, just two fingers; he could dress and go out for a walk; he could get in the shower and let the hot water hit the back of his neck and shoulders while he leaned forward, palms 011 the tile wall—but he refused them, because he trusted some sense he had that he was moving forward. It was like driving at night through a blizzard of regrets and bad faith and lies he’d been told or had told himself. There was nothing to do but try to stay on the road. Later, looking back on this night, he would think that it was a lot like dreaming—the whole process going on without any direction from him, as if his mind were deliberating without him.
    Well into the night, he realized he’d been crying, the tears running down across his temples and into his ears, and after that he