Last Chance — decomp.

“Last Chance”

by Stephan Lang

I strolled to the mailbox and retrieved the mail like I did every day when I got home from work. The only letter in the box was addressed to me. The return address was the state penitentiary, and I knew at once that it was from my cousin Duke. I ripped open the envelope and read the first line. The devils in my past darted through my mind and I felt unsteady, weakened by a rush of nausea. Had I not been leaning on the mailbox I might have toppled over.

Dear Zeke,

They’re letting me out of this shithole a week from Wednesday, the 10th. Come pick me up at 11 a.m. I’ll be at the south gate. We got a lot to talk about. Bring cigarettes.

Duke

I hadn’t seen Duke in twenty years, not since that judge sentenced him to life in prison for gunning down two drug buyers in a dark, foggy alley behind Billy’s Bar in the middle of the night. Duke claimed self-defense, but the jury and the judge didn’t see it that way.

And now he was coming back for the cases of heroin and hundred-dollar bills that I was supposed to be holding for him. What would he do to me if I couldn’t come up with the cash for him? He’d just paid twenty years of his life for that money.

I’d always looked up to my cousin as a little boy in grade school when he was the best high school athlete in the county. Duke was a throwback from the James Dean era with his tight-fitting white T-shirt and a high school letterman’s jacket slung over his shoulders. He had Crater-Lake-blue eyes, beachy-colored skin, slicked-down sandy-brown hair, and a cigarette tucked snug above his right ear. I’d throw a football to cardboard cutouts leaning against the garage wall for hours while dreaming of making his story my own. Then he busted up his knee, flunked out of college, and started peddling drugs for a living. He got big time and enlisted me as his lackey, promising gobs of easy money. I was a junior in college at the time and foolishly allowed myself to be suckered in by his sweet-talking bullshit.

By the second reading of Duke’s letter, the scariest thought of all struck me. He knew my address. He knew where my family and I lived.

I’d sold the smack first thing. And the money was gone. Long ago. Some went to the used Porsche 911 I bought from a guy advertising it on Craigslist. Wrecked it on the way home before calling in for the insurance. Then there was that two-month trip to Europe between my junior and senior year before I met Nikki. I smoked and drank plenty of it and probably tossed a little around to my buddies. As for the rest, I couldn’t tell you where it went. It was just gone. All two hundred grand. After the judge gave him that life sentence, I never dreamed about Duke coming back to get it.

I leaned against the mailbox, read the letter again, and thought of Nikki. We’d met in our college dorm a little over a year after that night in the alley behind Billy’s Bar. I heard the call for a fourth in a bridge game down the hall and stumbled into her room. We played cards until midnight, then dumped the other couple and wandered down the street to the local all-night coffee-house. Streaks of pink and powder blue weaved their way through her long, straight blond hair, and the brass loop earrings gave her the look of a pirate lass. I leaned closer across the table, allured by the aroma of lavender perfume and hypnotized by her Parisian accent. We talked about Einstein, flying our own spaceship to Mars, the Packers, and Jesus. I asked her if she wanted to share some weed. She said, “Moi! I doo not zmoke zees scheet.”

She didn’t see me drop the pot to the floor and smash it with my foot. By five a.m. we were naming our kids. We went back to her place and made love right through my math class and a chemistry midterm. I never smoked another joint in my life.

We were married six months later, had three kids, and grew vegetables in our backyard. Whenever my mother-in-law visited, we sang old Western ballads and played Monopoly until late at night, and I ate like the king of France. Nikki made me jambon and eggs with a croissant every morning. And I went to bed sober every night.

Nikki and I always shared everything, no secrets. Well, almost no secrets. I never told her about Duke, the drugs, or the briefcase full of cash. Didn’t see any need. That happened long before we met each other. I wasn’t sure how upset she’d be about this revelation coming twenty years later. But I didn’t see any point in taking the risk. I was nervous as hell and had no idea how I’d do it, but somehow, I had to come up with two hundred Gs to zap that psycho cousin out of my life.

A few days later I pulled fifty thousand dollars out of my 401K plan, the maximum amount the plan would allow me to borrow. Told Marjorie, the office manager, it was for an emergency and she obliged. I couldn’t believe she gave it to me the same day. I was lucky she forgot about the spousal consent requirements.

By noon I was sitting in the back room of the nearby Indian Casino in a no limit hold ’em game. I’d financed half my college education playing cards, mostly poker. I was a little out of practice but felt pretty good about my prospects of whittling away at that two hundred grand. I knew how to play disciplined and manage my money well. But, most importantly, I knew when to be passive, when to play aggressive, and when to charge in for the kill.

After just three hands I was down twelve grand and my confidence started faltering. My anxiety shifted from Duke to Nikki. What would she do if she discovered that I’d gambled away our savings? Not if but when. Because she would find out. She read those brokerage statements every month. I not only had to win enough to erase Duke from our lives; I had to restore that fifty thousand back into the account before Nikki missed it. And I’d already squandered a quarter of my capital.

Next hand I drew a king and queen of diamonds. Normally, I would have jumped all over hole cards like that. But I hesitated; my boldness abandoned me. And, worst of all, it showed. These guys weren’t flunky college kids; they were seasoned, and they were good. Probably had me sized up as their chump before I even settled into my seat.

Doyle, an old-timer about seventy-five, looked like he just stepped out of an old black-and-white Western movie with his bolo tie and Stetson cowboy hat. The scrawny guy next to him wore a gray Patriots hoodie sweatshirt cinched over ninety percent of his face like some guy you’d see every year on ESPN’s World Series of Poker. Mr. Nguyen sported a Van Dyke goatee, black-olive-colored sunglasses, and I wondered if he’d smiled anytime since birth. Rocky, a clean-cut middle-aged man, talked like he’d traded in a regular job for a life of poker and arm wrestling. He wore a tank top with a Gila monster tattoo etched up and down each arm. The guy at the end looked like he’d just ditched his high-school algebra class with his pimply face, Surfer Joe-style sun-bleached hair that swooped down over his forehead, and a goofy Gilligan grin.

They were a blabby group that offered nonstop commentary during each hand and every flip of a card. Rocky nicknamed me Rookie after a bonehead move cost me the pot on the second hand of the day. But over the next hour or so my mojo returned, and I won a few pots. Got my stake up to about seventy grand. Surfer Joe was proving to be the real rookie. I wondered what kind of trust fund he raided to play in a game like this.

I drew hole cards of the king of hearts and jack of diamonds and bet five grand. Doyle, Hoodie, and Surfer Joe called. Mr. Nguyen dropped out and Rocky raised to ten. Everyone called.

Rocky slapped his hand on the table. “Finally getting some action here, boys.”

The dealer flopped a king, jack, and deuce. All clubs.

I figured Doyle had the flush when he slid fifteen thousand into the pot. There was a lot of bellyaching and long, slow thinking, and manipulative chirping. Everyone called, including me. But I don’t suppose any of them were squirming on the inside like I was. This is what I came for-- big pot and most everyone was in. But it was just money to them, a little more or a little less. For me, this hand was my life. I catch a king or a jack and I’m gold, Duke’s out of my life, and Nikki never gets an inkling of this little hiccup in our marriage. But if I don’t, Doyle destroys me with those clubs and Nikki might never speak to me again. I could easily see her packing up our kids and moving back to France. I may never see any of them again. And that’s if Duke doesn’t blow my head off first.

The dealer was agonizingly slow, and I thought my heart might thump right through my chest before she got around to flipping that turn card. But when she tossed over that king of spades, it took all the strength I possessed to keep from jumping out of my seat and screaming for joy. But I kept my cool and played it slow. Rocky pushed out twenty grand and I figured him for two jacks, a full house of jacks over kings. Not as good as my kings over jacks. Hoodie folded, but Doyle called, not quite so confident once that new king popped up. Surfer Joe called, who knows what for. I hemmed and hawed, played it real coy, and just called.

Then she flipped the river card, a two of hearts. No jack for Rocky. I knew I had them and went all in. Doyle and Rocky agonized forever. I didn’t care, I had ’em cold, and I think they knew it. Had to be over three hundred thousand bucks in the pot. I could see Duke waltzing out of my life forever. And I was going to have plenty left over to take Nikki on a second honeymoon to Paris. Doyle and Rocky called, so did the kid.

I flipped my cards, rose out of my chair and reached toward the center of the table to claim my prize. “I figured as much … should have dropped out when I saw that king.” Doyle said. Rocky flipped his jacks and chimed in, “You’re shitting me.” Then the kid said, “Not so fast, chief.”

The dealer held up her hand to stop me as Surfer Joe revealed his pair of deuces. Four of a kind. Four little ducks declared my death sentence. I staggered away and had to lean on the railing all the way to the front door just to stay upright. The end of my life came into clear focus.

I moped around the house over the weekend. Nightmares were relentless. Every couple of hours I’d have a different dream of how Duke did me in. Duke tied me to a pole, back-to-back with Joan of Arc, and burned me at the stake. Duke hid behind a Leatherface mask and buzz-sawed me into chicken-soup-sized bits of meat. Duke the Butcher impaled me on a stake and left me on display for the whole town to witness. Another night he yanked my tongue out and ate it raw while my kids and I were forced to watch. Nikki comforted me when I woke up, but she started asking questions, getting suspicious. I just passed them off as weird dreams. But she knew there was more to it than that.

I was scared shitless of Duke. My most vivid recollection of that night in the alley was the moment just before he pulled the trigger. Even in the poor light, I could see that odd squint in Duke’s eye that conveyed danger to whoever defied him. The exact same look we all saw in his father Fred’s eyes on the Christmas Eve dinner the cops hauled him away for going Jekyll and Hyde on Aunt Lucy when she burned the bread and the potatoes weren’t hot enough.

Uncle Fred had served three stints in the county jail for assault, spousal abuse, and battery. He spent a year in the psych ward for treatment of his schizophrenia. He beat my Aunt Lucy the night he got out of the hospital, then ran off and was never seen again. I felt sorry for Duke for having such a crappy dad. My mom thought that Duke was just like his father.

But I was even more petrified of losing Nikki. I’d lied to her for the first time ever, drained our 401K, and endangered her and the kids.

By the next day I’d resigned myself to my destiny. I was going to die a really shitty death. I went out for a long run to clear my head and come up with a plan. I had to make amends with Nikki. I resolved to tell her everything, about Duke, the letter, the shootout, the drug money, the 401K. A full confession.

I charged back into the house prepared to grovel. The moment I turned the corner into the kitchen, I knew I was too late.

Nikki stood at the far end of the kitchen island, dressed in a cream-colored apron adorned with images of short mustachioed Frenchmen drinking red wine, puffs of flour splattered on her cheeks and hair, and bread dough stretched out on the counter in front of her. Only French women know how to tilt their left hip higher than their right just so, hold a tiger stare longer than the statue of the David, and convey anger with the way they fold their arms over their chests.

She slid a piece a paper across the granite surface in my direction. “You’d best start doing your own laundry if you want to use your sock drawer as a hiding place.” Then she resumed rolling out the dough.

I didn’t need to pick it up. I recognized the crinkled corners and coffee stain on Duke’s letter. “He’s my cousin, Duke.” I started to tell her about the briefcase full of cash and the satchel of heroin. But she interrupted.

“I know who Duke is. I had a long talk with your mother.” She kept her head down, grinding the shit out of that bread dough. “He murders people.” She spoke in a loathing, hateful tone that I’d never heard from her before.

“I can explain everything.” I took a step toward her. She looked up, the rolling pin hoisted in one hand over her shoulder. I retreated.

Nikki’s been in this country for twenty-five years and speaks perfect American English. But she started talking too fast, commingling French words with the English, and her accent got so thick that I could barely understand her. “Marjorie from the office called this morning. I had to go in and sign consent forms for the money you took out of the 401K plan. Our 401K plan.”

“If you’ll please just hear me out.” It was at that moment that I lost all control of my bodily motion. I actually placed my hands and palms flat against one another in a Mother Teresa prayer pose and knelt to one knee.

Nikki couldn’t hold back an instinctive laugh. Not the type of laugh that says the joke you just told was funny. But the kind of laugh that says you are the joke. “I’m picking the kids up from school.” She removed her apron and grabbed her car keys. “Then we’re going to my mother’s house.”

“Nikki, please.”

She barged past me. “I don’t trust you anymore.”

Nikki stomped out the front door, and I immediately resorted to cyber-groveling. I called her every half hour. I left long syrupy messages, begging forgiveness. I confessed everything, the embarrassing details of all my sins.

I fired off one text message after another in rapid succession, hundreds over the next several hours; felt like a thousand. Professed my love in every mushy way I could imagine. Even scoured the online Cliff notes of Romeo and Juliet and Don Quixote for more material. Didn’t receive a response, not a single one. Not even an emoji.

Nightmares of Duke killing me in new and more gruesome ways kept me awake all night. No Nikki to comfort me. The only idea I had left reeked of desperation.

I hopped into the car the next morning and drove straight to my last resort.

Jim Bob’s Pawn and Gun Shop was a few hours drive away, located on the surly side of a run-down forgotten desert town. Steel bars crisscrossed the doors and windows, and decades-old paint peeled off the twelve-inch cinder-block walls. A hand-painted sign made out of an old piece of plywood hanging above the front window left little doubt about what awaited on the other side of the fortress door. “A Gun in the Hand is better than a Cop on the Phone.” The only Yelp review I could find for the place said, “Leave your wife at home.”

I stepped inside. A retired three-hundred-pound left tackle checked ID and sneered at anybody brave enough to enter. All four interior walls were covered by floor-to-ceiling homemade racks holding every kind of rifle and automatic weapon you could imagine: rimfire, centerfire, selective fire, single shot, lever action, pump action, automatic, semi-automatic, long barrels, short barrels, shotguns, AR, AK, and more. I only knew this because I could read labels. I didn’t know shit about guns and rifles. I actually hated those things. Voted for Obama twice solely because the NRA endorsed the other guy. Glass counters in front of each wall encased the pistols, revolvers, and anything else held in one hand.

A six-foot-four fat man wobbled up to me; he looked like the doorman’s twin brother. A Guns N’ Roses T-shirt barely covered the belly hanging over his belt, spider veins splashed across his nose and cheeks, and a smudged tattoo of the Lone Ranger was carved into his left forearm. He wore a ratty Texas Rangers cowboy hat with a sheriff’s badge pinned to the front, and a Hopalong Cassidy red bandana with a hole in it wrapped around his neck.

“Watcha lookin’ for?” he asked.

I tried to keep my cool. I bent over the case and scrutinized the weapons as though I knew the differences between them. “I need a gun.”

He leaned across the counter. I could smell the beer and sour eggs on his breath. “Well, duh. What kind?”

I stuffed my hands in my pocket so he wouldn’t notice them shaking. “One that’s small enough to fit under my belt but is lightweight and dependable.”

“You mean one that’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch you’re shootin’ at.” His gut vibrated as he exploded in laughter. Then his face instantly returned to grouch.

I feigned a smile and nodded. “Got something like that?” I glanced toward the door just to be sure nobody had locked it behind me.

He stared at me for a second, a creepy glare, then broke into a big grin. “I got just the piece for you. Came in last night. Won’t last long.” He slid open the glass case, pulled out a handgun, and plopped it onto the counter. “Glock-19. Can’t do no better for the price.”

I examined the weapon, turning it over in my hands, testing the weight. Didn’t want to seem too anxious. “How much?”

“Just $399. Quite a bargain. Cash only.” He gnarled his upper lip, challenging me to say no. “Won’t last long.”

“So you said.” I kept my head down. “If it includes the bullets, I’ll take it.”

“Done.” He slid a piece of paper across the counter. “Fill it out and sign at the bottom.” He leaned over my shoulder as I completed the form 4473. He snatched it away and held out his hand. “ID.” I gave him my driver’s license and he waddled through a rear door while calling back, “NICS gonna take a few minutes.”

I waited and waited, pondering whether to stay or just run out the front door before I got into more trouble. Then Jim Bob himself came out wearing a green baseball cap with his name stitched onto the bill, sipping from a glass of whisky in his left hand. He was tall, lanky, with stooped shoulders, and so scrawny that my first thought was that the alcohol might be his only form of nourishment. The beefy dude tottered close behind. Jim Bob handed me a package wrapped in an old newspaper. “I threw in a few boxes of ammo, on the house.” He looked me up and down and shook his head. “You best go out and practice some before you blow your foot off.” Jim Bob and the fat man got a good laugh out of that as they retreated into the back room.

I slinked out of the pawn shop, avoided eye contact with the hefty left tackle, and strolled down the street. Then turned the corner and sprinted to my car. I stashed the gun under the front seat and drove away as quickly as I could, minding the speed limit so as not to get pulled over.

I’d thought that buying that gun would give me confidence and provide the edge in whatever battle with Duke might await me. But, instead, I felt out of kilter, like I’d just joined some fraternity of sinister characters that I’d always despised. I debated all the way home whether or not to load the bullets into the revolver.

Traffic was heavier than expected, and I pulled up to the south gate of the penitentiary twenty minutes late. There was nobody by the prison exit or anywhere nearby. But a handwritten note taped to the chain-link fence read “I’m in the cemetery across the street. Duke.”

I pulled the car up to the curb by the graveyard entrance. The Glock sat on the seat beside me under the morning paper. I’d decided to load three bullets into the chamber, the first to be used as a warning shot, the second in case Duke was still the same whacko psychopath he was on that night in the alley behind Billy’s Bar, and the third in case my hand was shaking so hard that the second bullet missed. Additional cartridges would have shifted the advantage to Duke if he managed to wrestle the gun away from me.

Of course, it was all crazy thinking. If Duke wanted to kill me, he’d find a way to do it. And it most likely wouldn’t be here by the prison. Then I thought of the nightmares and all the morbid ways he murdered me. Maybe the gun was a good idea after all. At least it gave me a fighting chance. Shit, I was so confused. And scared. There was only one thing I knew for sure: I had to get this thing over with.

I slid out of the car and stuffed the weapon under my belt in the back, covered by my untucked flannel shirt. I scanned the burial grounds and strolled along a gravel path in search of Duke. The sun shone bright; the air was crisp and chilly. A black-haired lady in sweats and running shoes rested on her knees arranging a bouquet of flowers on a grave. A middle-aged couple sat on a bench aside a headstone. The woman smiled as I passed, and I thought of Nikki, the way she liked to sit sideways on our garden bench, her left foot on the ground and her right foot flat on the seat with both arms wrapped around her knee, inviting me over with the tilt of her eyes and a nod of her head. I wondered if she’d ever give me that look again. I knew that she’d be at my side right now if I’d been honest with her right from the beginning.

I wandered in the opposite direction under a canopy of elms and maples. A man sat leaning against a tree in the shadows. He called out, his words muffled by the breeze. I recognized that slow, country drawl. My cousin, Duke. I was exhilarated and terrified at the same time.

He lumbered to his feet. He’d lost weight since I last saw him twenty years ago, stiff and bony. Duke’s hair was cut in a Marine-style buzz, his skin bleached by confinement. A long crooked scar extended from his right temple to the middle of his neck, and it looked like his left earlobe had been bitten off. The oversized khakis and XXL cotton shirt accentuated his atrophied brawn and protruding cheekbones. He didn’t resemble the frightening ghoul that had terrorized my dreams the past few days.

Duke slid forward as though he wanted to give me a hug, then extended his hand. I stepped back and offered a feeble wave, mindful of the Glock tucked under my shirt. Small beads of perspiration formed on my forehead and upper lip.

“Bring the cigarettes?”

I’d decided against the smokes after awaking from the Joan of Arc burning-at-the-stake hallucination. “Sorry, forgot.”

He snorted his displeasure.

It was quiet and still in the cemetery, nobody else in sight. I tossed him an In-N-Out bag. “I remembered how you liked double-doubles. Got you two.”

Duke slid his back down the trunk of the tree, parked his ass on the ground, and ripped into the bag. He devoured both burgers, a large order of fries, and two pineapple shakes.

Then he got yacky. He told prison stories, one after another, gushed about some Pastor Jack, and lamented about the anguish he’d caused his mother. I snickered to myself. Duke may have lost his beachy tan, racy car, cool-dude sunglasses, and GQ good looks, but he was still full of the same bullshit he was twenty years ago.

Still standing, I owned the higher ground. “The money’s gone. So are the drugs.” I had no desire to linger and shoot the shit with Duke all day.

He glanced up and shrugged. “Figured as much.”

I was heartened by the sincerity of his nonchalance. “Didn’t think you were ever getting out,” I said.

“I don’t give a shit about all that, just blood money attached to bad memories. I’m going to Oklahoma. Got a job working on a ranch.” He beamed like he expected kudos or some sort of congratulations.

I couldn’t believe my ears. I stood, stunned, staring at Duke. I suppose my jaw was even hanging low. I started to ask him to repeat himself, just to be sure. But I could tell by looking at his face, his demeanor, that he truly didn’t care. I’d squandered our savings, bought a gun, nearly tortured myself to death, and chased away my wife. All for nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Who the hell would hire you?”

“Pastor Jack’s brother, that’s who. And I already got the job.”

“They’ll let you leave the state?”

“Pastor Jack’s helped me a lot. He introduced me to Jesus. I accepted him as my Lord and Savior; it’ll be three years this July 17.” The color returned to his cheeks, along with a renewed vitality to his voice. “Jack arranged for a parole officer back there, and the board approved.”

Suddenly the gun felt like a really bad idea.

“I’m gonna be real careful, work hard, and stay out of trouble.” Duke got more excited and started talking faster. “Maybe I’ll even find a sweet woman with a couple of kids who needs a man around. I wouldn’t mind falling in love and playing a little catch in the back yard.”

Duke continued blabbering like a kid with an unlimited budget in a candy store. I stopped listening. It was clear that the only threat to my well-being was me. I couldn’t help but think of how our lives had flip-flopped. Nikki had rescued me from drugs and alcohol while Duke rotted in prison with no prospects, no love. Now he was rehabbed, exuberant about the future, and I would be going home to an empty house. I’d made some horrible mistakes. I said, “We gotta go.”

We sat in the car by the front gate of the cemetery, across from the prison, and talked some more. Duke asked why we were in such a hurry. I told him all about Nikki. The revolver dug into my back, and I let out a little groan. I handed the gun to Duke. “Put this in the glove compartment.”

He held the pistol in his hands, staring at it. “What the hell’s this for?”

I told Duke about him chopping me into tiny bits, burning me at the stake, and all the other dreams. I told him about the many stupid things I’d done out of fear of his retribution for the lost drug money.

Duke looked mortified. “Oh my gosh, why did you do all that? Why’d you risk everything?” He almost looked like might cry. “I should’ve called you. Told you that the money didn’t matter.” Then he stuffed the Glock into the glove box. “I’m worried about you, little cousin. You’ve got to go home and fix things with Nikki.”

Just then the car shook hard and both doors jerked open. Two cops leaned against the front of the car, elbows on the hood, weapons poised on our faces. I panicked and ducked my head. I’d never had a real gun pointed at me before. Two others ordered us out. Within seconds we were both on our bellies, faces mashed into the pavement, and hands cuffed behind our backs.

Duke was gone; drove my car to his mother’s house. I’d pleaded his innocence at the scene, and when the warden came out and interceded for him, my cousin was released. It was the least I could do. It was only Duke’s silence that had kept me from withering away in a cell with him all those years as an accessory to murder. They hauled me off to the station where I was searched, processed, and booked on weapons charges for giving a gun to an ex-felon.

I sat in the back corner of a windowless room the next morning with five other detainees. The three phone calls they gave me had all gone to Nikki’s voice mail. Confinement compelled me to concede the anguish I’d inflicted upon others. I’d peddled drugs to kids, imperiled Duke’s parole, and violated my wife’s trust. I remained aloof and despondent, with no prospects for freedom, love, or redemption. An hour later they escorted me to my arraignment.

The judge chastised me for refusing a lawyer, then read the charges against me. “Guilty or not guilty?”

I had it all planned out. I was in a confessing mood. I wanted to tell him the whole story, the shoot-out behind Billy’s Bar, the drug deal gone bad, my fear of Duke’s retaliation, the nightmares, my wife leaving me, and the pawn shop.

But he cut me off before I could speak more than a few words. “Save it for the trial. Guilty or not guilty?”

I uttered two words that didn’t begin with a G or an N, and the judge slammed the gavel down so hard that even the bailiff winced. “Last chance. Guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty.”

“Thank you. The lady in the back with the popsicle-colored hair and a brood of kids posted your bail.”

Every person in the courtroom turned around. Nikki stood in the gallery, our three kids to her right, both of our mothers, Duke, and Aunt Lucy, to her left. I was never so happy to see Nikki and my entire family. But also embarrassed to have my kids witness me in that situation.

“You’re free to go. Sentencing hearing in thirty days. Don’t miss it.” The judge banged his gavel. “Next case.”

We left the courthouse, and Nikki and I trailed behind the others.

“Thank you,” I said. “I was ecstatic when I saw your face in that courtroom.”

“You’d do the same for me. That’s what people in love do for each other.” She slowed and squeezed my hand. “But that was your last chance; don’t you ever do that shit to me again.”

Nikki decided she wanted a family photo and arranged all of us in front of an old California oak tree. This was our family, in its entirety. It was the first time all nine of us had ever gathered together and could very well be the last time.

Afterward, we wandered back to the cars, and I saddled up beside Duke. “I should have visited you.”

“Well, I should’ve written to you. That’s for sure.” He smiled and jabbed me in the shoulder. “But I’m free now, and I’m part of this family. What could possibly be better? Let’s not go spoiling it with misgivings.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. We walked and talked about the Ram’s prospects for the coming season.

We all went back to the house after the family photo session. My mother-in-law cut vegetables and seasoned the meat for dinner. During supper, I asked Duke to introduce us to Pastor Jack and offered to drive him to Oklahoma. He grinned and threw two thumbs up. After the meal, Duke played catch with our twelve-year-old in the backyard; taught him how to run pass patterns and throw a tight spiral. Aunt Lucy and Mom pushed the two little ones on the swing while Nikki and I swayed on our old Amish rocker. She snuggled close and rested her head on my shoulder.

I’d risked ruining my life, and that of my family, agonizing about what Duke would do to me over drug money that was lost twenty years ago. But it turned out that he didn’t give a shit about that cash.

I whispered softly to Nikki in a voice the others couldn’t hear. “How much jail time do you think that judge will give me.”

“He’ll make you do some community service, or maybe pay a fine. But no jail.” She answered quickly and with confidence. “You don’t have a record, and once he hears your story and all the misery you put yourself through, he’ll go easy.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s a gun-hater and will make an example of me. Toss me away for the three-year maximum.”

“You always contemplate the worst that could happen,” she said, exasperated. “You worry and agonize too much. That’s what got you into all this trouble to begin with.”

“I can’t help it. That’s just who I am.”

“Bad excuse. Doesn’t have to be like that. Duke changed. So can you.”

I felt Nikki’s warmth beside me. I didn’t ever want to give that up again. But my eyes riveted onto my cousin Duke. I was haunted by that long crooked scar down the side of his face and the bitten off earlobe. I wondered if I could ever be like Duke. Not the man I idolized as a kid, or the one in that alley. But the man he is today.