Bit 8
"Tell us a secret, Max," said Ruby
"Tell us a secret, Max," said Ruby. During the last
half hour the conversation had been drifting from subject
to subject. Initially they'd talked about the decor of
Corks Restaurant ("Plain and simple," Cynthia had
declared, "It sucks.").
Next the three of them went over the details of their
day. Ruby had overslept and gotten to the City Scape a few
minutes late -- where he found Jack the Bump behind the
bar scaring away customers. Maxwell had had an early
morning client who'd taken him to brunch up fiord. She was
a soon-to-be-divorced woman whose husband had left her for
a bartender in Key West. Cynthia had gotten up early
enough to write, have her haircut, and lie out on her
balcony for two hours.
Realizing that the conversation was already threatening
to put them all into a slumber, Ruby said, "Tell us a
secret, Max." He had a mischievous look in his eyes. Max,
looking up from over the rim of his glass of club soda,
said, "What are you talking about, Ruby?"
"Let's have some fun; let's each of us tell a secret
we've never told anyone before."
"Isn't it about time the waiter brought us our
appetizers?" Cynthia said.
"We didn't appetizers," Ruby said. Then, "Well,
Maxwell?"
Max looked at the two of them and considered what Ruby
had suggested. "I don't think I can do that without
thinking about it for a while."
"Oh come on!" Ruby chided, "Tell us a secret!"
"No, really, Ruby, I need a few minutes to think on
it."
"Fine," said Ruby, turning his attention to Cynthia
Wiles Hemingway. "Well, what about you, Cyn."
"I really don't have a whole lot of secrets, Ruby,"
Cynthia said, "I'm not some great lady of mystery."
"You must have something that you've said or done that
you've never told anyone about, don't you?"
Cynthia looked across the floor toward a wall
absolutely littered with smelly corks. "No," she said, "I
don't." Something in her eyes, however, seemed to indicate
trouble nudging her mind. Ruby, seeing that look on
Cynthia's face, said, "Oh, come on baby. You're with
friends. Let it out."
"It's nothing, really. I mean, it's just something that
happened -- oh, I don't know, maybe ten or twelve years
ago."
It had been a warm summer night and Mercantile Street
was packed with tourists and townies. The two of them had
been out drinking as usual and Cynthia had entered a very
treacherous place in her psyche. It was the one that
existed for her halfway between consciousness and a
blackout. They'd left one bar and were headed toward
another; things seemed to be business as usual, except
that he was acting more aggressive than normal. Being a
prick when he'd drunk too much wasn't unusual, but on this
particular night he seemed worse than ever.
Maybe the moon had been full or perhaps Cynthia had had
enough. This time, when he turned vicious on her (it was
in front of the Drug Store), Cynthia freaked. She grabbed
him with both hands and pushed him backwards with all her
strength. He immediately lost his balance and -- seemingly
in slow motion -- began falling. Cynthia, the blood
rushing into her head and her vision clouding red, began
to run down Mercantile Street at full speed. She turned
around only once and saw Patrick's body sliding under a
slow moving car, the back tire moving toward his skull.
Then, she ran like the wind down the street.
The next morning Cynthia woke up with a horrible
headache, the smell of coffee filling the air and the
sound of typing coming from his writing room.
"Did he ever say anything about it?" Max asked.
"Not a thing."
"Amazing."
"No," Cynthia replied, "Not amazing at all. There was
nothing unusual about it."
"Except for the fact that you fought back," said Ruby.
"Right," Cynthia said, "Except for that."
"Well, dear," Ruby said, "You'll never know how unusual
that really was."
"You mean him not remembering or Cynthia's fighting
back?" asked Max.
"Both, actually," answered Ruby, "Usually when people
picked a fight with Patrick, he made sure they remembered
it."
"Yeah," said Cynthia, "Usually by writing down his
version of the story."
"How can you write about something you can't remember?"
asked Max.
Ruby looked at him across the table and said, "That, my
dear, is why he has a Pulitzer notched on his belt and you
don't." And then, seeing the waiter coming toward their
table, he added, "Oh good, dinner is finally served. Let's
put all this chitchat about Miss Patrick on hold for a
decade or two."
If only, thought Cynthia, it was that easy.
Next: Bit 9
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