Smiling, he’d said, “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Tell switched over to a music video. Shakira, enticingly shaking it.
Sipping his coffee, Tell continued to channel surf, settling on Country Music Television. Billy Joe Shaver was singing “Live Forever.” The sentiment was lost on Tell, but he liked the Mexican visuals well enough.
The eggs, surprisingly, weren’t bad. Tell had asked his cousin’s wife, Salome—a black haired, black-eyed gypsy beauty whose coloring reminded Tell more than a little of Marita—to teach him how to make some basic meals for himself.
Tell had never learned to cook: He’d gone straight from his parents’ home to school and then on into police work that started early each day and ended late. After he left home, it had been a steady diet of school cafeteria and then take-home meals and fast food until he married Marita. Salome spent two days teaching Tell to fend for himself in the kitchen and gave him a notebook filled with handwritten recipes. Tell had found himself spending most of his daylight hours with Salome and with his cousin’s pretty daughters. Tell and Chris tended to catch up in the late evenings.
While sitting together a night or two before on the back porch of his cousin’s cabin, Chris Lyon, five years older than Tell, had urged his cousin, “Get back out there as soon as you can, Tell. It’s not a betrayal, though I know you’re going to think of it like that. But the sad fact is, us Lyons, we don’t do that well without a woman in our life. We just aren’t built for solitude, my brother.” Chris hadn’t been the first male Lyon whom Tell had heard make that assertion.
Tell had paraphrased the lyrics of a song back to Chris, “Mom always said don’t fall in love too quickly … you know—before you know your own mind.”
But Chris shook his head. He’d said, “Huh-uh. Our kind? We’ve likely got more days behind than ahead of us. We maybe don’t have the luxury of time.”
Tell sipped some more coffee and stared up at the mantle. Pictures of black-eyed, black-haired Marita and their baby girl, Claudia, stared back at him, smiling forever in the only pictures he had left. The rest had perished in the fire that killed them.
* * *
The city fathers hadn’t stipulated that Tell live in New Austin. But Tell thought it bad form to live outside the community he was sworn to protect and serve. He hadn’t yet found a house to his liking, and he hadn’t really settled on exactly how much house he wanted or needed. And his cousin’s cautions kept eating at solitary Tell.
So as a stopgap, Tell had settled on a temporary apartment near the West Side.
Tell locked up, toting his sack lunch—something he’d made to Salome Lyon’s specifications—and a metallic flask of coffee. The thermos, brushed chrome with black highlights, had been his last Father’s Day gift.
He walked out to his civilian wheels, a 2000-model Suburban, and pressed the fob to disarm the alarm.
“Hey you!”
He turned as Patricia Maldonado trotted up next to his truck. She brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead. She was panting; her chest heaving. She wore sneakers, black shorts and a damp, maroon sports bra. Her long black hair was pulled back in a thick ponytail. She glistened with sweat. Tell made a conscious effort to keep his focus on her face.
“You’re up early, Chief,” she said.
“It’s when I like to go to work,” Tell said. “Get more done in an hour or two when I’m alone than I do the rest of the day once the others come in with their distractions and the phones start going. And you should talk about being out early.”
“It’s when I run,” Patricia said. “You know, before the heat sets in. What are you doing here, Chief?”
“Tell.”
“Sorry, right.
Tell
. What are you doing here, Tell?”
“I live here. In 308.”
She smiled, hands on hips and chest still heaving. “How strange! Me too—304. You’re just down the hall. At least I feel
Tell switched over to a music video. Shakira, enticingly shaking it.
Sipping his coffee, Tell continued to channel surf, settling on Country Music Television. Billy Joe Shaver was singing “Live Forever.” The sentiment was lost on Tell, but he liked the Mexican visuals well enough.
The eggs, surprisingly, weren’t bad. Tell had asked his cousin’s wife, Salome—a black haired, black-eyed gypsy beauty whose coloring reminded Tell more than a little of Marita—to teach him how to make some basic meals for himself.
Tell had never learned to cook: He’d gone straight from his parents’ home to school and then on into police work that started early each day and ended late. After he left home, it had been a steady diet of school cafeteria and then take-home meals and fast food until he married Marita. Salome spent two days teaching Tell to fend for himself in the kitchen and gave him a notebook filled with handwritten recipes. Tell had found himself spending most of his daylight hours with Salome and with his cousin’s pretty daughters. Tell and Chris tended to catch up in the late evenings.
While sitting together a night or two before on the back porch of his cousin’s cabin, Chris Lyon, five years older than Tell, had urged his cousin, “Get back out there as soon as you can, Tell. It’s not a betrayal, though I know you’re going to think of it like that. But the sad fact is, us Lyons, we don’t do that well without a woman in our life. We just aren’t built for solitude, my brother.” Chris hadn’t been the first male Lyon whom Tell had heard make that assertion.
Tell had paraphrased the lyrics of a song back to Chris, “Mom always said don’t fall in love too quickly … you know—before you know your own mind.”
But Chris shook his head. He’d said, “Huh-uh. Our kind? We’ve likely got more days behind than ahead of us. We maybe don’t have the luxury of time.”
Tell sipped some more coffee and stared up at the mantle. Pictures of black-eyed, black-haired Marita and their baby girl, Claudia, stared back at him, smiling forever in the only pictures he had left. The rest had perished in the fire that killed them.
* * *
The city fathers hadn’t stipulated that Tell live in New Austin. But Tell thought it bad form to live outside the community he was sworn to protect and serve. He hadn’t yet found a house to his liking, and he hadn’t really settled on exactly how much house he wanted or needed. And his cousin’s cautions kept eating at solitary Tell.
So as a stopgap, Tell had settled on a temporary apartment near the West Side.
Tell locked up, toting his sack lunch—something he’d made to Salome Lyon’s specifications—and a metallic flask of coffee. The thermos, brushed chrome with black highlights, had been his last Father’s Day gift.
He walked out to his civilian wheels, a 2000-model Suburban, and pressed the fob to disarm the alarm.
“Hey you!”
He turned as Patricia Maldonado trotted up next to his truck. She brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead. She was panting; her chest heaving. She wore sneakers, black shorts and a damp, maroon sports bra. Her long black hair was pulled back in a thick ponytail. She glistened with sweat. Tell made a conscious effort to keep his focus on her face.
“You’re up early, Chief,” she said.
“It’s when I like to go to work,” Tell said. “Get more done in an hour or two when I’m alone than I do the rest of the day once the others come in with their distractions and the phones start going. And you should talk about being out early.”
“It’s when I run,” Patricia said. “You know, before the heat sets in. What are you doing here, Chief?”
“Tell.”
“Sorry, right.
Tell
. What are you doing here, Tell?”
“I live here. In 308.”
She smiled, hands on hips and chest still heaving. “How strange! Me too—304. You’re just down the hall. At least I feel
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