brow. She too was caught by the oddity of the revelation.
“Dumped but not dunked,” I said, trying to recover.
“You would have stayed with your ex if she hadn’t been moving up?” she finally said. Sherry knew my ex-wife was a former police sniper who was now a captain running the internal affairs division for the Philadelphia Police Department. We had met while working on the same SWAT team.
“Not once I realized she was just collecting the pelts of men on her way up the ranks.”
Sherry laughed out loud.
“Bitterness does not become you, Max,” she said, reaching over to run her fingertips over my brow. “Honestly, she was a better shot than you, right?”
“That’s probably true,” I said.
She had no comeback and instead went quiet again, to gather a recollection.
“Jimmy was a terrible marksman,” she said and I could tell from her eyes she was seeing her dead husband. “He was always asking for pointers, ways to pass the next qualifier without practicing. I don’t think he ever drew his weapon out on the streets in his entire career.”
I let her think her own thoughts for a second, knowing there was another beat just behind her lips.
“But?” I finally said.
“I always knew he would protect me,” she said, her eyes coming back to mine. “You know what I mean? Not just back- to-the-wall, guns drawn protection. But protect me. Then he died and I think I actually felt betrayed by that, like it was his fault. So I hardened up, Max. I decided I could take care of myself and say to hell with the rest of the world.”
She rolled over onto her back, her naked body completely exposed to the sky and the sun. I rolled to one elbow and stared at her, the bridge of her nose, the new sun freckles on her shoulder, and I found something missing. The necklace from her husband that she never took off was gone. I could have been presumptuous, could have hoped for the meaning of its absence. Instead I asked.
“Do you know your necklace is missing?”
Her eyes remained closed. She did not reach to her throat, or show surprise.
“Yes.”
I reached over to lace my fingers through hers and rolled to my back.
“You want me to protect you, Sherry?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Then I will.”
“And love me?”
“That,” I said, squeezing her fingers between mine, “goes without saying.”
I saw her smile from the corner of my eye.
“No, Max, it doesn’t go without saying. Not with me.”
I turned my head to look at her profile. Her smile stayed, like she’d caught me at something.
“I love you, Sherry,” I said.
This time she turned her head and looked into my face.
Again there were those brow lines like she wasn’t sure where the unusual words had come from. Then she smiled.
“You know something, Max?” she said. “I believe you do.”
For another couple of hours we lay there, she on her back, and I finally rolled over onto a towel and watched the western sky, studying the cloud pattern that was building out there on the horizon. It was not a typical Everglades weather construction. During the summer months the heat of the day causes millions of gallons of water from the surface of the exposed Glades to evaporate and rise and start to build a wall of towering cloud in the sky above it. But I could tell from the lessons of Billy Manchester—my attorney friend and his sometimes annoying habit of knowing everything—that the cloud I was watching in the distance was blowing in much too high for that weather pattern. These were the kind that came from elsewhere, pushed by forces that were not homegrown. But I was watching passively, assessing nothing. I was also listening to nothing, literally. Our surroundings had gone silent. No chirruping of the midday insects that fed in the heat. No bird call. In fact, the owl that had made it a practice to come out of its roof hole and had afforded us such viewing pleasure for the past two days seemed to be absent. I rolled onto my side again and
“Dumped but not dunked,” I said, trying to recover.
“You would have stayed with your ex if she hadn’t been moving up?” she finally said. Sherry knew my ex-wife was a former police sniper who was now a captain running the internal affairs division for the Philadelphia Police Department. We had met while working on the same SWAT team.
“Not once I realized she was just collecting the pelts of men on her way up the ranks.”
Sherry laughed out loud.
“Bitterness does not become you, Max,” she said, reaching over to run her fingertips over my brow. “Honestly, she was a better shot than you, right?”
“That’s probably true,” I said.
She had no comeback and instead went quiet again, to gather a recollection.
“Jimmy was a terrible marksman,” she said and I could tell from her eyes she was seeing her dead husband. “He was always asking for pointers, ways to pass the next qualifier without practicing. I don’t think he ever drew his weapon out on the streets in his entire career.”
I let her think her own thoughts for a second, knowing there was another beat just behind her lips.
“But?” I finally said.
“I always knew he would protect me,” she said, her eyes coming back to mine. “You know what I mean? Not just back- to-the-wall, guns drawn protection. But protect me. Then he died and I think I actually felt betrayed by that, like it was his fault. So I hardened up, Max. I decided I could take care of myself and say to hell with the rest of the world.”
She rolled over onto her back, her naked body completely exposed to the sky and the sun. I rolled to one elbow and stared at her, the bridge of her nose, the new sun freckles on her shoulder, and I found something missing. The necklace from her husband that she never took off was gone. I could have been presumptuous, could have hoped for the meaning of its absence. Instead I asked.
“Do you know your necklace is missing?”
Her eyes remained closed. She did not reach to her throat, or show surprise.
“Yes.”
I reached over to lace my fingers through hers and rolled to my back.
“You want me to protect you, Sherry?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Then I will.”
“And love me?”
“That,” I said, squeezing her fingers between mine, “goes without saying.”
I saw her smile from the corner of my eye.
“No, Max, it doesn’t go without saying. Not with me.”
I turned my head to look at her profile. Her smile stayed, like she’d caught me at something.
“I love you, Sherry,” I said.
This time she turned her head and looked into my face.
Again there were those brow lines like she wasn’t sure where the unusual words had come from. Then she smiled.
“You know something, Max?” she said. “I believe you do.”
For another couple of hours we lay there, she on her back, and I finally rolled over onto a towel and watched the western sky, studying the cloud pattern that was building out there on the horizon. It was not a typical Everglades weather construction. During the summer months the heat of the day causes millions of gallons of water from the surface of the exposed Glades to evaporate and rise and start to build a wall of towering cloud in the sky above it. But I could tell from the lessons of Billy Manchester—my attorney friend and his sometimes annoying habit of knowing everything—that the cloud I was watching in the distance was blowing in much too high for that weather pattern. These were the kind that came from elsewhere, pushed by forces that were not homegrown. But I was watching passively, assessing nothing. I was also listening to nothing, literally. Our surroundings had gone silent. No chirruping of the midday insects that fed in the heat. No bird call. In fact, the owl that had made it a practice to come out of its roof hole and had afforded us such viewing pleasure for the past two days seemed to be absent. I rolled onto my side again and
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