Second Chance was published in the August 1983 issue of Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine and can be found on Page 133 of the collection titled The Rough Old Stuff.
SECOND CHANCE
I watch her from across the room. Pretending to sip coffee, busying myself with lighting a cigarette, but always watching.
Ten years haven’t changed her much. Still petite, still vivacious in a subdued way. Some of the other girls – women, now – have changed considerably. Not just the inevitable differences; new hair styles, and an added inch or two at the waist, the first hint of lines in skin that had been creamy smooth. Those changes are of no importance. The ones that matter are the signs of hurt or despair, of disillusionment or, worst of all, acceptance. They show in the eyes and around the mouth, can’t be concealed by makeup or a new dress or a trip to a hair stylist.
But Jenny looks the same. Her brown hair isn’t shoulder length and silky now, its frizzy curls that toss and bob when she turns her head or leans back to study a new arrival, then smile in delayed recognition. Her skirt falls just below her knees, not three inches above them anymore. Her cheeks may not be quite so full but still she looks the same. Except for the gold band on the third finger of her left hand.
She hasn’t seen me sitting just beyond the glow of the crystal chandelier that lights all but the outer reaches of the ballroom. Jenny was never a pretender. If she had known I was coming she would have been watching for me and if she knew I was here she would smile her dimpled smile, wave, and come over. But no one knew I was coming and few realized or care that I am here. Soon someone will tell her, though, and that’s why I’m watching now, before she knows. Jenny was never a pretender but having me around would make a difference.
A man who has been standing at the makeshift bar in one corner walks to her table and sits down, blocking my view of her. He is sullen, bored with the people he doesn’t know, and his resentment shows. His back is to me but I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he holds his head.
Three others are at the table with me. People I once knew, or thought I did, but being with them now means being alone. I look around the long, rectangular room, remembering it from long ago. On prom night the woodwork around the doors and windows had been polished and glowing. Now it has been painted white and the walls are pink. Only the chandelier remains unspoiled.
Some faces are familiar but many are not. Wives or husbands tied to the class of ‘73 but a little ill at ease because they are outsiders, not really a part of all this. Most are content to sit or stand quietly smiling politely when forced to meet yet another person they never heard of, don’t really care to know, will forget in two minutes. Still smiling, and trying to make it an understanding smile, when told some anecdote that is amusing only to those who were a part of it. Listening with the same pasted-on smile as each new introduction is followed by, “This is the one I told you . . .” You should have been there when . . .” or something similar.
Even some of the class members have a glassy-eyed look that says they are wondering why they ever let themselves in for something like this, something that isn’t at all the way they thought it would be. They are pleasant enough when someone accosts them gushing. “Why, it’s . . .”, but approach no one themselves, aside from the bartender.
Others seem to be enjoying themselves, though, acting as self-appointed hosts or hostesses. They scurry about the room, pausing here and there for a breathless word, a quick laugh. Latecomers are descended upon, taken by the elbow and hurried to some group to be greeted by hugs or handshakes, back-slapping or gales of laughter.
And of course a few, most of them men, seem compelled to impress old classmates with their success. The more ostentatious they are or the noisier they are the more it comes across that they aren’t doing well at all.
Seeing them together again I realize that I never really knew any of them, just their names and their faces. Aside from Jenny. I knew Jenny. Not the others, though, because I was never a part of anything back then. I went to class, went to basketball games, sometimes went to a dance or party, but I wasn’t actually a part of any of it, a real participant. That was how I wanted it.
My glass is empty and I have heard enough of the silly prattle, the excited whispering of the others at the table. Enough of the pointing and the “Look, isn’t that . . .”, and, “Who do you suppose that woman is with him? Surely he wouldn’t . . .” When someone who has been to the bar too often throws his arm over the shoulder of the man next to him and starts singing, “Midland Central, our Midland Central . . .” I murmur an excuse that no one seems to notice and go to the bar myself.
They are lined up two deep so I stand and wait my turn at one end where I won’t feel hemmed in. I exchange a few nods and smiles, even a couple of handshakes, but nothing more. Eventually one of the harried men behind the bar pours equal amounts of vodka and club soda into a glass and hands it to me in exchange for three dollar bills. I stir it myself, something he didn’t bother to do.
Suddenly I am aware that Jenny is beside me. The hint of gardenia, different on her than anyone else, would have told me anywhere. I turn and she is standing close, smiling up at me. And still she is the same. The little twinkle in her brown eyes, the white teeth just imperfect enough to look real.
All I say is, “Jenny.” And all I do is touch her hand. A tentative touch quickly ended.
“How are you, Tom?” she asks.
How am I? How would I describe it? Exhilarated, somewhere in the clouds. Devastated, the ground pulled from under my feet. A record high, a new low, mixed together in something indescribable because Jenny’s here again, but now she isn’t mine.
“Fine, Jenny, just fine. How about you?”
“Fine, Tom.” She lowers her eyes, then raises them again and the twinkle is gone. “I’m married, you know.”
I look away and nod.
She laughs softly, a little uncomfortable. “Mrs. Brian McLeod,” she says, and there is something in the way she says it that I don’t understand. But she’s not Jenny Williams anymore, she’s Jenny McLeod. Mrs. Brian McLeod.
A band has begun to play, but not a song from ‘73. Something quieter, more sentimental, from a generation before ours. A few couples are already on the floor.
“Dance, Jenny?” She smiles again and I know it means yes.
For a while I’m content just holding her again, lost somewhere in the only world I ever wanted. A world I might have had, tried to have, but fumbled away. But all that is forgotten for a moment or two. Then Jenny looks up at me and says, “Where did you go, Tom?”
Why lie about it, why pretend? I look deep into her brown eyes and say, “To prison.”
They change, of course. The twinkle is gone again but she doesn’t turn them away. They pose a question, though, but I know she’ll never ask it, never put it into words. That wouldn’t be Jenny’s way. So I tell her, “Armed robbery. A bank, and the man with me killed a guard. I was tried for murder, too, but acquitted. I served eight years at Rahway.” She waits a little, then says. “You must have needed the money badly.”
For you, Jenny, I think to myself. But how like you to see it from my point of view rather than condemn or moralize. And the bank hadn’t been the first because I wanted lots of money. A job in one of the factories, a weekly pay check, that wasn’t enough for you, Jenny. You were the daughter of a shop worker but I didn’t want you to be the wife of one. I had bigger things in mind. Real money and all it could do. Now I have it, stashed away in different places they’ve never been able to find, but I don’t have you.
She looks at me strangely, seems to peer into the darkest recesses of my mind, and too late I realize why. She has felt the hard bulge under my left arm and thinks I haven’t changed. But I have, at least for a while. The gun in the special pocket sewn into my jacket is for protection from my own kind, the few who also know the money is out there somewhere and might decide they want it for themselves.
Of course Jenny doesn’t know that and yet she doesn’t seem disturbed. She is smiling again, smiling with her mouth and eyes. We glide around the floor quietly for a few moments, continuing when the orchestra goes on to a second number, and a third.
Then Jenny asks, “Are you staying here at the hotel?” And I tell her that I am. “So are we,” she says. “We live in town but I thought it would be more fun to have a room at the hotel.”
“Do you have children?” I ask. Without preface the question once asked seems too blunt, too personal. I am pleased, though, when she shakes her head. But I look at her, puzzled for a moment, when she says, “Thank God.”
Then I understand. In a way that pleases me, too. But it saddens me as well because I have always wanted Jenny to be happy. I want that more than anything else, even more than I want her for my own.
“Problems?” I ask, and she lowers her head for a moment, then turns slowly until her eyes focus on her right arm. Mine follow and I see two faint bruises, barely visible above the right elbow. For an instant anger surges inside me, then I control it, force myself to remain detached. It’s her business, not mine, unless she chooses to make it so.
The music stops and we walk together back to the bar. We talk a little, small talk about the old days while I try to attract a bartender. I turn though, when someone says, “An old flame, Jenny?”
It’s the sullen man who was at her table earlier. He is about my size and weight, even looks a little like me. At close range, however, there is an air of timidity about him and a petulant look in his eyes. I’ve met his type before, the kind who bow and scrape to those above them but are mean and petty when dealing with those of lesser authority. To him, that would mean Jenny.
As she introduces us Jenny, uncharacteristically, seems flustered, unsure of herself. He smiles from one side of his mouth but it isn’t genuine. I reach out and grip his hand, find it flaccid and unresponsive.
But alcohol has made him bold and loosened his tongue. Even so he doesn’t meet my eyes when he says, “So you’re the old lover my wife is always hankering after?” He’s loud and heads turn.
There is nothing to say in reply. I stare at him while Jenny touches his arm and whispers, “Please, Brian.”
He brushes her hand away, pretending to be surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry.” he says mockingly. “I didn’t realize it was supposed to be a secret.” He moves his head to encompass the room in what he’s saying. “I’m afraid it’s out of the bag, though. Everybody’s saying how nice it is to see the ex-lovers together again.”
The room is quiet, he has gained everyone’s attention. Jenny has a waxen look. I can feel the anger rising again. “Just how do you mean that?” I ask him. Jenny turns to me, distressed, and shakes her head.
He is enjoying the scene he has created. It’s his big moment, a new experience for him, so he basks in the spotlight and relishes her discomfort. “How do I mean it?” he mimics. “I mean it in every sense the term implies.” Then, to Jenny, “But I shouldn’t have believed, my dear, that you’d flaunt your old bedmates in public this way.”
Even as I reach out, grab the front of his shirt and pull him, close to me, I realize he knows the lie of what he has said better than anyone else and that I am only doing what he wants, adding to Jenny’s humiliation. Fear flickers in his eyes but he has gone too far to stop now. He lashes out at me but his punch is weak and ineffective, easily blocked with my free arm. I draw back to retaliate but Jenny locks both hands around my wrist. “No, Tom, no.” she says pleadingly. “Please, just go now. No more, please.”
For a moment I stay poised, wanting to strike back, shaken to see her so dismayed. Then I lower my arm and loosen my grip, turn and walk quickly away.
I go straight to my room, climbing the two flights of stairs rather than wait for the elevator. I take off my tie and shoes, hang my jacket over the back of a chair, and stretch out on the bed.
Thinking that I shouldn’t have come, should have had the sense to stay away, doesn’t help because being aware of it doesn’t eradicate the pain I have inflicted on Jenny. I have hurt her, the one thing above all else that I never wanted to do. For several hours I try to think of a way to make it up to her, to help her straighten out her life. No answers are forthcoming and mixing an occasional drink from the bottles on the dresser doesn’t provide any.
A soft tapping on the door jars me from the funk I have been in. I glance at my watch and it’s past midnight. When I open the door, Jenny is standing there. We look at each other for several seconds and I can see she has been crying. I step aside, and when the door has closed behind her we embrace. This may only complicate her situation, I think to myself, but she wants to talk so I don’t discourage her. She sits down, sniffling a little, while I mix two drinks. When I turn back to her she is smiling, even with her eyes.
We talk for an hour. She does most of it, telling me the details of her life but never complaining, rationalizing instead, making excuses for him. But that would be Jenny’s way. We make no attempt to arrive at a solution but when she says she must leave it’s with the promise that we will meet again. Although neither of us puts it into words, there is an understanding between us that something will be done to get her life on track again.
Another hour passes before I finally fall into a fitful sleep. Light streams in the open window when the crashing in of the door jerks me suddenly awake. Two men with guns in hand confront me. One is in uniform.
“Thomas Stapleton?” the other says. I nod, then sit quietly as he recites my rights from memory.
I think of the gun in the jacket draped over the chair where Jenny sat earlier. If they find it, which they surely will, it will be enough to send me back to prison. But while I am still trying to make some sense of what is happening in my sleep-fogged mind, another man in street clothes comes in. He walks to the side of the bed and holds out a plastic bag containing an object. “Is this your gun?” he asks.
I look at it and nod again. “Where did you get it?”
“From a trash container two floors up. Just down the hall from where it was used to kill a man.”
“Brian McLeod?”
“You should know.”
“How did you know it was mine?”
We heard about your fight with him earlier, among other things. And we’ve checked your record so no need to play games about that.”
I study him, but really am studying what he has said. When I have it straight in my mind I say. “I don’t like games. I guess you’ve got it figured.”
We talk a while, then they tell me to get dressed. While I button my shirt the detective who broke in the door stares at me, shaking his head. “It doesn’t add up,” he says. “A pro like you tossing a gun away just thirty feet from where he used it.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I guess you boys were sharper than I thought.”
He shakes his head again. “I don’t think so. You know if you stick to this story you may not get a second chance.”
He’s right, I won’t get a second chance. But Jenny will.
