Final Breath Read online

  We haven't discussed divorce yet, and I hope we can keep the situation status quo for a few more weeks. I need this break from you & Eli. Thank you for not trying to contact me. I don't know if you even wanted to, but you've made the right choice with your silence.

  I hope you & Eli are doing well.

  Joe

  P.S. Your dentist's office called. You & Eli are both scheduled for teeth cleaning on 7/14. I went ahead & canceled.

  "Asshole," she murmured, her eyes filling with tears. Could he have been any colder and passionless? He never even mentioned missing her or Eli. She felt as if he'd just sucker-punched her in the gut. The son of a bitch wanted to keep the situation status quo?

  She started to cry, and crumpled the letter in her fist. But then she heard Eli--jumping from the top step to the first landing, and then again from the first landing to the second landing.

  Sydney quickly wiped her eyes.

  "Can I at least check out some of the rides while you're giving your speech?" he asked, stepping into the dining room. "I don't have to be up on some stage with you, do I?"

  Sydney stashed the crumpled letter back in its envelope. But she was too late; he'd already seen the envelope and no doubt recognized his father's handwriting.

  "Hey, is that a letter from Dad?" he asked eagerly.

  Sydney pressed the envelope to her chest. "It's for me, okay? It doesn't concern you." She glanced at Eli and frowned. "That's the same shirt you wore yesterday, and it has a stain on it. Go upstairs and put on a clean shirt. Okay, honey? Please?"

  Eli rolled his eyes at her, shook his head, and then retreated toward the stairs. "Jeez, fine," he muttered.

  "And could you hurry it up a little?" she called after him. "We're going to be late."

  Sydney wiped her eyes again, then turned in her chair, opened the bottom drawer of the built-in breakfront, and stashed Joe's note under some papers. It was already becoming a junk drawer--with their lease, some stuff from her new bank, and insurance. There were also receipts from the furniture stores and appliance shops. Sydney figured he wouldn't go looking for his father's letter in there. She didn't want him to find it--and read it.

  She didn't want Eli to know that his dad was an uncaring son of a bitch.

  Eli had paused on the stairway at the first landing. There was a mirror on the living room wall that allowed him to see around the corner into the dining room. Frowning, he watched his mother hide the letter from his dad in the built-in breakfront's bottom drawer.

  "That was a letter from Dad, wasn't it?" Eli asked.

  "Yes, it was," Sydney admitted. She looked over her shoulder as she backed the car out of the shelter. "But like I told you before, it doesn't concern you, honey."

  "Well, I don't get it. Why don't you want me to see the letter?"

  Shifting into drive, she heaved an exasperated sigh. "Eli, what part of it doesn't concern you is failing to register here? Could you hit the button for the gate, please?"

  Frowning, he poked at the automatic gate-opening device, which was clipped onto the passenger sun visor.

  "Thanks," Sydney said, slowing down while the driveway gate slowly opened. "Honey, it's a personal letter--addressed to me. When your dad writes to you, I don't ask to read it, do I?"

  "I figured that's because you don't care," he said, folding his arms.

  "I do care," she said emphatically. The gate was finally open, and she pulled forward. "But I also respect your privacy. What's between you and your father is none of my--"

  A man walked out in front of them. Sydney slammed on her brake, and the car's tires let out a screech. At the same time, her arm shot out to brace Eli. The gate-opening device fell off the sun visor and landed in Eli's lap.

  Catching her breath, Sydney gaped at the stranger. He was in his late twenties with black hair, a swarthy complexion, and a lean build. He wore a navy blue T-shirt with a silver 59 stenciled across the front of it. As he glared at her, Sydney noticed something was wrong with one of his eyes--a broken blood vessel or something. The white part was all red.

  "I'm sorry!" Sydney called.

  But he shook his head and kept moving.

  "Well, if looks could kill, I'd be six feet under right now," she mumbled.

  "I didn't see him," Eli said, clipping the gate-opening device back onto the sun visor.

  "This trip's off to a great start," she muttered, turning onto the street. "Anyway, thanks for coming along, Eli. I really didn't want to do this thing alone."

  "Who are the other celebrities there?" he asked, slouching in the passenger seat.

  "They've got David Beckham, J-Lo, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, and me."

  Eli stared at her. "Yeah, right."

  "Okay, it's Gil Sessions from PM Magazine, Terri Tatum from What's Cooking, Seattle?, that obnoxious guy who does the weather for channel 6, and moi." Sydney watched the road ahead. "Tell you what. When we get there, I'll give you twenty-five bucks, and you can go on as many rides as you want. Just don't throw up. Is it a deal?"

  He didn't say anything. Eli's short hair fluttered in the wind as he pensively gazed out the window. He looked so sad.

  "What's going on?" she asked. "What are you thinking?"

  "Don't you miss Dad?" he asked quietly.

  "Of course I miss him."

  "Then why can't we go home?

  She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and watched the traffic ahead on Madison Street. "We've been through this before, Eli. It's not as easy as that. There are a lot of reasons why your dad and I are apart right now. None of it has to do with you. We both love you very much. That hasn't changed at all. You continue to drive us crazy, and we continue to love you."

  Sydney glanced over at him. He didn't even crack a smile.

  She reached over and patted his shoulder. "I'm kidding," she said. "Eli, honey, for the umpteenth time, the problem is between your dad and me. It's the kind of stuff we might discuss with a marriage counselor, but not with our son. So--please, quit asking. Even if your dad and I resolve things, and we move back to Chicago, I'm still not telling you what's private between your dad and me."

  "If we go home to Dad, I won't ask anymore."

  But he doesn't want us back, she thought. Joe had told her so in his letter, "I need this break from you and Eli." But she couldn't repeat that to their son.

  What was she supposed to tell him?

  It had started four months ago with a phone call from Polly. Usually, she and Joe screened their calls. But that Tuesday night back in March, Joe had gone out on a special assignment, which could have been anything from what he called "desk-jockey duty" to busting a narcotics ring. Whenever he was out on a special assignment she worried about him and always answered the phone--even when the Caller ID read UNKNOWN. She ended up having to talk with a lot of telemarketers on those dreaded nights. So when the call came in UNKNOWN at 9:20 that evening, Sydney snatched up the receiver. "Yes, hello?" she said.

  "Joe McCloud?" the man said, sounding haggard and edgy. "Is Joe McCloud there?"

  "I'm sorry. He can't come to the phone right now," Sydney said. "Who's calling?"

  "This is a friend of his. If he's there, tell him Polly's on the phone. I really need to talk to him."

  "Well, as I said, he can't come to the phone, but if you'll leave me your number--"

  "Is this Mrs. McCloud?"

  "Yes--"

  "Listen, Mrs. McCloud, I gotta talk to him now. He's not picking up on his cell. So you know how I can reach him?"

  She didn't like hearing that Joe wasn't answering his cell right now. "Um, no. Do you want to leave a number?"

  "Jesus," he muttered. "I'm in a phone booth. I lost my cell, and can't go home. It isn't safe. They're probably..." he trailed off. "Um, listen, have Joe call me at home and leave a number where I can reach him, okay? It's urgent. I'll keep checking my voice mail. This is Polly. He knows my home number, but--but let me give it to you anyway. Got a piece of paper?"

  Sydney copied it down
: Call Polly--773-555-4159. "I'll give him the message," she told the man.

  "Thanks, Mrs. McCloud," he said. "You're a nice lady." Then he hung up.

  She tried Joe on his cell, but Polly was right. He wasn't picking up. She left Joe a message about Polly's call. "And after you phone this Polly guy," she said, "buzz me and let me know you're all right."

  Then Sydney hung up and waited.

  Two excruciating hours later, Joe phoned to say he was on his way home. He'd been on some kind of surveillance project. "Same old, same old, a waste of time," he reported.

  "Did you call that Polly person?" she asked him on the phone.

  "That's a waste of time, too," he replied. "Honey, don't you know the score by now? How many times have I told you to hang up on calls like that?"

  "He sounded like he was in trouble," Sydney said.

  "These jokers are in trouble all the time. He was probably stoned. Did he sound like he was high?"

  "He sounded scared," she replied.

  "A lot of them are paranoid. If he ever calls again, just hang up on him."

  He called again--two nights later. Joe was home, watching My Name Is Earl with Eli. Sydney was washing the dinner dishes when the phone rang. She checked the caller ID: 773-555-4159--ARTHUR POLLARD.

  Though she didn't recognize the name or remember the number, Sydney picked up. "Yes, hello?"

  "Mrs. McCloud?" said the man on the other end of the line. "It's Polly--from the other night? Remember me? Is Joe home tonight? I really gotta talk to him."

  She hesitated. "Um, I--I'll see if he can come to the phone. Hold on for a second." Sydney put down the receiver, and hurried into the family room, where they'd switched off most of the lights. Joe, in sweatpants and a Chicago Bulls T-shirt, was in his recliner. Eli was stretched out on the floor in front of the TV. They were both laughing.

  "Honey, there's a call for you," Sydney said. "It's that Polly character who called on Tuesday night."

  Joe glanced at her, and the smile ran away from his face. Getting to his feet, he brushed past her on his way out of the room. "I'll take it in my office," he muttered. "Can you hang it up for me, babe?"

  Sydney listened to him lumbering up to the second floor. His office was a small room at the top of the stairs. She went back to the kitchen, picked up the receiver, and listened. "Okay, I got it, thanks," Joe said on the other extension.

  Sydney hung up, and then wandered over to the bottom of the stairs. She could hear Joe talking quietly, but the words were undecipherable. Only once did he raise his voice. "Polly, I'm sorry!" he said loudly. "Goddamn it, I'm in no position...."

  She didn't feel right eavesdropping. Retreating to the darkened family room, she stood in the doorway and watched TV with Eli. A minute later, she heard Joe come down the steps. Sydney glanced over her shoulder at him. "So--was he a crank?" she asked, under her breath.

  "He has no business calling here," Joe growled. "If he calls again, hang up on him."

  He settled back down in his lounge chair. Something happened on the show that sent Eli into fits of laughter. Sydney glanced over at her husband--the light from the TV flickered across his handsome face. He didn't even smile.

  Polly didn't call again.

  The following Saturday morning--two days later--a headline on page three of The Chicago Tribune caught her eye. Sydney read the newspaper every morning for any human interest stories that might make for a good Movers & Shakers segment. She didn't know why she decided to read the article. It wasn't exactly the kind of subject matter she covered in her Movers & Shakers reports:

  SHOOTING VICTIM FOUND IN WOODLAWN DUMPSTER

  Murder Could Be Drug-Related, Say Police

  CHICAGO : Rochelle Johnson, 23, a clerk at E-Zee

  Mart Liquor on Martin Luther King Drive, made a grisly discovery Friday afternoon while emptying the garbage in a Dumpster behind the store. "I saw this hand sticking out of a big garbage bag," said Johnson, who immediately called the police.

  Arriving at the scene at 3:20 P . M ., Chicago police found the body of a Cicero man, Arthur Pollard, 30. He had been shot three times. Early reports from the Cook County Coroner's Office estimate that Pollard had been killed sometime between midnight and 7 A . M . Friday.

  Pollard, a part-time bartender at Anthony's Cha-Cha Lounge in Cicero, was well known to Chicago Police. Since 2001, he had been arrested nine times and convicted twice...

  The article went on to list Arthur Pollard's criminal record, which included a stint in Illinois State Penitentiary in Joliet for breaking and entering, and another at Stateville Correctional Center for possession of narcotics with intent to sell. The narcotic in this case was heroin. Most of Arthur Pollard's arrests were drug-related.

  According to the article, the police were following several leads.

  Sydney wondered if Joe was involved in the investigation. If so, why didn't he say anything to her? She couldn't get over the fact that Polly had phoned their home Thursday night at eight o'clock, and a few hours later, he was dead--with three bullets in him.

  Joe was cleaning out their garage that Saturday morning. He was always in there; they probably had the cleanest garage on North Spaulding Avenue.

  Sydney threw on a sweater and took the newspaper outside with her. She found Joe on a ladder, rearranging boxes of Christmas decorations on the top shelf of a storage area he'd built in the garage. "Honey, did you know about this?" she asked.

  "Know about what, babe?" he replied, climbing down the step ladder.

  She gave him the folded Tribune, and pointed to the article at the bottom of page three. "Isn't that the guy who called here the other night?"

  He glanced at the article for a few moments. Then he sighed, and handed the newspaper back to her. "Yeah, I heard about it yesterday afternoon. I knew sooner or later that sorry son of a bitch would get himself killed." He glanced at his wristwatch. "It's a quarter to eleven. When does Eli need to be picked up at school?"

  "Basketball practice goes until 11:30," she answered numbly. "You've got plenty of time."

  Joe folded up the ladder and leaned it against the wall. "Think I'll grab a shower."

  Sydney looked at the newspaper again. "So why did he call here the other night?"

  "Who?" Joe asked, wiping his hands on his pants.

  "Arthur Pollard...Polly," she said. "I keep thinking about how scared he sounded. When he called the first time, he was afraid to go home."

  Joe kissed her cheek as he walked past her. "Honey, I deal with this kind of stuff all the time at work. The guy was thirty-one flavors of trouble, and most of it he'd brought on himself. You shouldn't let it concern you."

  "But he called here, Joe. It sounded like he wanted your help. Did he--"

  "Can we just drop it?" Joe said, cutting her off. He shook his head. "Christ on a crutch, it's the weekend. I don't want to think about this shit right now. And it doesn't even concern you."

  Her mouth open, she watched him turn away and stomp into the house.

  Sydney remembered thinking at the time that Joe was hiding something from her, something horrible.

  "It doesn't concern you."

  She used that same line whenever Eli asked why she and his father were apart now. Funny, she hadn't been satisfied with that answer. She'd gone behind Joe's back, and started digging up what she could about Arthur "Polly" Pollard. And what she'd found wrecked their lives.

  What in the world made her think "It doesn't concern you" would work on Eli?

  She glanced at her son in the passenger seat. He'd put in his earphones and was listening to his iPod, completely tuning her out.

  Sydney saw the temporary sign posted along Auburn's Highway 167. Balloons tied to the sign fluttered in the summer breeze:

  VALUCO GRAND OPENING!

  Fun Fair, Refreshments + Rides!

  Celebrity Guests!

  NEXT RIGHT

  Sydney switched on her turn signal. "Shit," she muttered, knowing Eli couldn't hear.

  "
I'm really thrilled to be here today," his mother announced. Thanks to the mike, her voice carried across ValuCo's vast parking area to the fun fair in the neighboring lot--over all the music, the people laughing and screaming, and the incessant honking of several car horns. Parking was a nightmare. His mom stood on a platform near the store's front entrance. Behind her sat the other local celebrities drafted into this shindig. They had some television news cameras aimed at her. Eli guessed about two thousand people were there, and among those, at least three hundred were listening to his mother. He wasn't one of them.

  He clicked his iPod back on, and wandered across the lot to the fun fair. His mom had given him twenty-five bucks to go on as many rides as he wanted. He'd already tried their Crack the Whip roller-coaster ride, and it had been kind of scary at times--but not very fun alone, and certainly not worth five bucks. Plus he'd felt kind of pathetic, standing in line for ten minutes with no one to talk to, so he'd decided not to waste his money on any more rides.

  The smell of hot dogs and ice cream waffle cones wafted through the air. The hot sun beat down on Eli as he wandered among all the strangers and listened to the Rolling Stones (his dad's favorite rock group) on his iPod. He roamed past toss-and-win booths, refreshment stands, and even a video game arcade tent. But none of it appealed to him. It just wasn't any fun doing that kind of stuff alone. He missed his friends--and he missed his dad terribly. It had been nearly seven weeks, and he still hadn't gotten over this homesickness. He still cried in bed some nights, but he buried his face in his pillow so his mom wouldn't hear. Weird, he didn't hesitate to convey his anger at her half the time, but he'd be damned if he let her know how sad he was. He didn't want her trying to comfort him. He knew he was acting like a jerk and didn't like himself very much for it. Still, Eli figured if he made his mom miserable enough, she'd finally give in and they'd go back home to Chicago. Then he'd get to sleep in his own bed again.

  He stopped in front of a booth, where a gaunt woman sat at a card table, with a mangy-looking German shepherd curled up at her feet. Eli guessed she was about fifty years old. She had black hair and a pale, ruddy complexion. She wore sunglasses and puffed on a cigarette. There was something witchlike about her appearance. Eli wondered if she was blind--what with the dark glasses and the dog; plus one of the lower buttons of her purple blouse wasn't fastened in the right hole. The sign along the top of the booth read: