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been this boy’s mother realized that he was staring at me. She smiled apologetically at me, while at the same time reprimanding him. He shrugged her off and said something to her that I couldn’t hear, but I knew from the panic in her face what it must’ve been. She grabbed him and forcibly moved him so that he was no longer looking at me. After that I stared out the window and watched while other cars rolled past us on the Mass Pike. If people inside the bus were staring at me, so be it. I had more important things to worry about. And more mundane things also.
    Some of these more mundane things were necessities, like clothing. When Jenny was alive, I knew she was holding on to my old clothes for me, but once she died my kids probably threw it all out. Not that I knew for sure since Michael and Allison wouldn’t take my calls and I had no idea how to reach Paul, but that’s most likely what happened. So all the clothes I had were what I was wearing. In retrospect, I should’ve packed up my prison jeans and tee shirts and underwear, but the thought of smelling that prison detergent a second longer seemed unbearable. Even more so, the prison stench I had grown to imagine soaked into that clothing. As it was I was going to have to spend a good deal of time scrubbing myself before I’d be able to get that stench off my skin. Of course, I had far more than the mundane to worry about, but at least for a little while that’s what mercifully occupied my thoughts.
    It didn’t seem to take long before the bus came to a stop at a congested street corner and the driver announced that we were at the Moody Street stop. I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled off the bus, more tired than I would’ve thought. Bone weary could’ve described how I was feeling. While my work details kept me on my feet all day, I wasn’t used to walking as much as I had today. I stood for a moment blinking as I looked around me. My first impression was that the area was a mix of yuppie and blue collar, with ethnic grocery stores and low-rent shops side by side with trendy-looking restaurants. I might’ve driven through Waltham once, I couldn’t remember. I never had much to do with this area. Even though it was maybe ten miles west of Boston, this city could’ve been on the opposite side of the world as far as Revere and my old life were concerned.
    I stood on the street corner thumbing through the papers Theo had given me, the cold from the wind numbing my face. When I found the apartment rental form, I squinted at it until my eyes adjusted enough for me to be able to read the address on it. Then I set off on foot.

    The apartment Theo arranged for me was in the basement of a five-story brick tenement building which looked like it had been built in the sixties. When I first showed up there, the woman working in the office gave me an empty stare as if I were any other low-income elderly renter, and it was clear to me that she had no idea who I was. She was in her forties, heavy, with badly thinning red hair, and this dull look about her like she was someone who had little interest in anything, at least not enough to bother paying attention to what was in the news and in the papers. If she was the person Theo had dealt with, it explained why my application was accepted. Or maybe even if she knew that I was a confessed hit man, it still wouldn’t have mattered to her.
    Theo had set it up for the state to pay my security deposit and first month’s rent as part of the DOC’s prisoner reintegration program. After that I’d be responsible for all future payments, although I’d be getting additional state assistance checks for my first six months.
    After I signed the required paperwork, the woman gave me a key and warned me that in a week I’d have to make my apartment available to their pest maintenance person; which meant clearing the countertops and storing any plates, glasses and silverware in boxes so the kitchen could be sprayed. I didn’t