Hope House (37 page)

Her heart raced as she carefully cut the paper.
Please Kurt. Let there be a note in here somewhere, a clue to where you are and when you’re coming back. You have to  come back. I’m in love with you.
Under the brown wrapper was plastic. Too thick to see what was underneath. Couldn’t cut the covering off fast enough.

When Gloria finally revealed the painting, tears poured down her face. Daises. A field of daisies. Hundreds of shards of bottle
caps painted white and yellow embedded in a field of green. Too many shades of green to comprehend. Too many daisies to count.

Gloria cried and Martine leaned in. “There is no note?”

She shook her head. “Love never dies. Daisies are Kurt’s way of saying that without words.” She grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes. “It means he’s watching me. Us. Martha and me.”

“Will he come back?”

Gloria wiped her eyes again because these tears of relief weren’t going to stop anytime soon.  “Maybe not now, but one day.” She carried the painting to the bare space above the fireplace that had been patiently waiting for years, for the perfect piece of artwork.
Whenever I look at this, I’ll remember that you’re with me.

“You will wait for him?” Martine asked.

“You waited for your Dr. Tad for years because you loved him. Do you regret it?”

Martine’s dark skin blushed. “His was the greatest love I ever had, and I never even gave him a real kiss.” She smiled. “No, I do not regret a day.”

Gloria took her hand. “Then you understand. I can wait. Distance doesn’t matter. Someday we’ll be together again. Knowing he’s out there thinking of me is enough.”

Gloria looked at the picture situated on the mantle, and then to Martine and
Martha. Her heart fluttered.

Things would be all right now. Maybe not in the way Gloria would have intended, maybe not the way she’d always dreamt, but everything had turned out all right. Maybe the love of her life was out of reach, but not forever. 

3.

Small Apartment, Poughkeepsie, NY, several months later, afternoon

Kurt walked through an apartment in Poughkeepsie, New York with the stubby unshaven landlord. The guy’s flannel shirt was untucked and his nails were chewed to the quick. His curly black hair was a mess. He wasn’t the type to pay attention to detail. Good.

The place was on the second floor which was a plus. It was a big enough  one bedroom with peeling linoleum kitchen floors and worn wall-to-wall carpeting everywhere else. The walls were tenement-special off white. Tan. Maybe they’d be white if Kurt took a sponge and some bleach to them and wiped off the smoke residue that smeared itself on every surface. He’d need a lot of bleach but he’d cleaned up worse things than nicotine in his lifetime.

Kurt turned on the shower and the water flowed strong and hot after a few seconds.

He walked outside with the landlord and stood on the sagging front porch.

It wasn’t a nice place but it made a fine hideout while he figured out his next steps. Nondescript three-family. Peeling blue lead paint on the outside, relatively low income neighborhood but not dangerous. People would come and go quickly in areas like this. No one would stay around long enough to ask questions or pry into his personal business.

He knew he could get this place without a credit check and that was key. Poughkeepsie was a big enough town to get lost in, but not a major city where someone might know him.

As he gazed down the street littered with a mix of Mercedes, BMWs, and old Sentras and Reliants he thought about Gloria and sighed. Shit.

He really loved her. He hoped she knew that, that the painting would say it all. He’d find a way back into her life, but it would take time.

He was still winding down from the Puglisi business and wasn’t fit to be near her and the baby. He wondered what she’d named the little girl . . .

He closed his eyes and tried to extricate the images of the last few weeks from his mind.

Kurt wished he could have had the pleasure of killing Tommy, the ex-husband, but the Puglisis must have done that for him. He cracked his knuckles. The rest of them though . . . God, he hadn’t killed like that in years. So many bodies. What a lot of death. He hadn’t done that since before he was Kurt Malone. Before he was even Tim Perconi.

It was a few lifetimes ago that he’d had a spree like that.

The fact he was excited by it, rejuvenated instead of remorseful, reinforced why he couldn’t go back to Gloria yet. What if he couldn’t stop?

No
. It had to stop. He had to rein in the temptation to kill, and settle back into a safe identity. Become a man someone like Gloria could love and trust. Someone the baby would grow up proud to call her father.

He had to become someone who helped others by peaceful means.

But that wasn’t likely to  happen overnight. It would take awhile for Kurt to rid himself of the urges. It always took time. But he could do it. In the meantime, he’d hide out here and regroup. 

“I’ll take it.”

“Good. I collect rent once a week on Saturdays.”

“Not a problem. Is cash okay? I haven’t had a chance yet to get a new bank account.”

The landlord smiled. “Cash is never a problem.”

Kurt handed him a month’s rent and the guy gave him a key. “I’ll be by tomorrow to move in.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” the landlord said. “I’m Mitch Mandela.”

Kurt paused. What would his name be? He thought for a minute, trying to come up with something generic. “Mike Garrick.” That was a good strong name but easy enough to forget.

“Nice to meet you, Mike Garrick.” Mitch shook his hand.

Mike Garrick walked to his newly acquired scratched up black ’97 Nissan Altima.
Can’t get any more forgettable than this car
, he thought.

He climbed into the car, turned the key, and headed back to his hotel. It had taken him months to locate each of the other baby factories and shut them down one at a time. That much was finally behind him, but he had a great deal more to do. There were phony IDs to make, utilities an
d email accounts to set up. Mike knew he’d be up all night creating a fictitious past.  But that was all right. It would pay off. A fresh start was always worth the paperwork.

He was again starting a new life. Hopefully this would be the last identity he’d ever need. One that would be worthy of Gloria. This time he was going to get it right.

-End-

For more fiction by Tracy l. Carbone, please visit her webpage at
www.tracylcarbone.com
.