The Last Good Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

never returned phone calls, and he had a predilection for Savile Row suits.
    He leaned against an empty desk and crossed his arms before his concave chest. “Not bad,” he said, looking at me.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œBut what happened at the end?”
    I said nothing, just shrugged apologetically.
    â€œI realize that you were used to happy-talk on the local news,” Berkman continued, “but we do not engage in banter on national broadcasts.”
    Quinn stood with his rolled-up Wall Street Journal in his hands, banging it against his thigh.
    I looked nervously back to Berkman, who had nothing more to say. He slowly uncrossed his arms and turned back in the direction of his office.
    â€œThanks for the flowers,” I called after him as he began to walk away.
    Berkman swiveled, looked at me, nodded, and left.
    â€œFlowers?” Quinn asked. “What’s next? Heart-shaped boxes of chocolates?”
    Â 
    I WENT BACK to my office and shut the door.
    I sat at my desk, resting my head in my hands, my eyes shut, feeling my skin peel off my body layer by layer, leaving a pulpy space behind. Only during the live broadcast did it seem to fit airtight.
    I glanced at my watch.
    David would be waiting for me at home, Sophie snuggled tightly in his arms. Sometimes he dances about the living room to Patsy Cline with her, Sophie smiling at the first notes of Patsy’s smooth and mournful voice, turning to the speakers, anxious for more.
    There had been offers of celebratory dinners from my agent, Jerry, from the network news director, from people who suddenly wanted to know me better, but I only wanted to go home.
    Â 
    T HE AIR WAS dense and moist as I left the building. I pulled up the collar of my coat. The streets were dark save for the pools of yellow light from the street lamps. I had gotten into the habit long ago of walking at least part of the way home alone, though David tried to talk me out of it, reminding me of the muggings and rapes I reported every night on the local news, about the dangers of the neighborhood, and the possibility of deranged fans. He even bought me an illegal Mace spray to carry in my pocket. Still, I continue, finding in the night streets the promise of anonymity that first brought me here. Even now, I told myself, I can change neighborhoods, change names, dye my hair, who would find me?
    I turned the corner onto Eleventh Avenue, where a trio of men stood before the liquor store pooling money, and headed south, walking quickly, my arms wrapped about me while Iplayed it over and over in my mind—Quinn’s lopsided toothless smile, Berkman’s voice, “We do not engage in banter on a national broadcast”—dissecting it, putting the fragments back together one way, and then another.
    And I thought of Sophie, of going home to Sophie, with her scent of cherry wood and cobwebs, and the way she fit into my chest like a long-lost puzzle piece.
    Half a block away, I turned around suddenly, thinking I heard someone behind me. I fingered the tiny canister of Mace in my pocket. But there was only emptiness, silence. I continued walking.
    I heard the voice again, just a mumble at first, the words indistinguishable.
    And then I heard it clearly. “Marta.”
    I kept on, my head down, my arms tight about my torso.
    â€œMarta,” the man said louder.
    I froze, the blood suddenly still in my veins as I turned around and saw him.

T WO
    H IS DARK BLOND hair was pushed straight back and his face was whittled as if someone had taken a chisel and removed everything extraneous until all that was left was its purest geometry. A nearby street lamp cast conical shadows across it, striping it with light.
    â€œJack,” I said at last.
    He reached to touch me, his fingertips grazing my cheeks, then pressing into my flesh as if to verify— you are here . “Marta.” His voice was anxious and defiant, scratched with longing and disbelief.
    â€œMy