Sixty-Six

SIXTY-SIX

BEFORE I GET OUT of the car Jimmy says, "If you quit, the terrorists win."

"Watch me," I say.

"You're always telling me that it's lawyering that makes you feel most alive."

"Only now I feel as if it might kill me and everybody I care about. Starting with you."

He starts to open his door. I tell him I don't need help getting into the house.

"You're just having a bad day," Jimmy says.

"They're all starting to feel like bad days. Ben could have died because of me. Again. You could have died on me. I could have died because of me."

I come around to his side of the car. He's got his window down. He tells me he'd never try to talk me out of something I really want to do.

"I'll have your back until somebody does take me out," he says. "But I'll just leave you with this: I've always said that you should never make a big decision when you're drunk or tired. I think we can add being on chemo to that list."

I walk toward the front door, trying to will myself into looking stronger than I feel. Unlock the door. Disable the alarm. I never used to set it during the day. Now I do. Another reaction to all the bad days I've had recently. Jimmy has redone the system yet again, telling me that even the Army Corps of Engineers couldn't get past it, much less a punk-ass bitch like Eric Jacobson.

When I see Rip the dog standing there waiting for me in the front hall, tail wagging, I can't help but smile. But when I crouch down to scratch his ears, a wave of dizziness comes over me.

So I lie down on the floor, telling myself I'll stay there until the feeling passes.

My dog lies down next to me.

"I'll tell him I'm quitting in the morning," I say to Rip the dog.

We both go to sleep right where we are. It's dark out when I finally awaken and find out I slept through Jimmy's call from Esposito, about the body.