Playing Jacks

v. Life is a puzzle, part 2

The day is shot and there’s nothing Sophie can do to salvage it: a few phone calls, apologizing for missed commitments; throwing a load of laundry into the wash, unsorted; lighting the small grill and tossing on a hamburger.  Closing her eyes against the late evening sun, Sophie leans against the house and tries to reclaim the brief peace she found amidst the surf.  Concentrating on the smell of cooking beef, the hum of the pool pump, the texture of scraggy grass under her toes- it might be prayer . . . or meditation.  Something hard lands on her shoulders, its weight pinning her to the wall. With a quick snap and duck, she’s away from the hands.  She doesn’t look.  Shifting her grasp on the kitchen knife, she swipes his feet out from under him and pushes her assailant to the ground- ready to attack.

She almost doesn’t pull back fast enough.  Dropping the knife in surprise, it falls into the grass next to his throat.  Her momentum lost, she stumbles onto his chest. “Jacks!  Don’t ever do that!  I could have killed you!”

“Can’t say I wasn’t warned,” he admits with a laugh, linking his hands behind his head as if he were sunbathing, grateful that the Legionnaires hadn’t seen that little stunt.  It seems there’s more to this plush kitten than first meets the eye.  “Where’d you learn to do all that?”

Grinning up at her, he looks too satisfied.  Sophie huffs and pushes herself up from where she was perched on his chest.  “My father wanted boys,” she tells him irritably.

Rising to sit in the grass, Jacks rests his arms on his bent knees and stares at nothing in particular.  He should say something- something witty or funny.  Nothing comes and Sophie all but ignores his presence, only acknowledging him enough to skirt the obstacle he makes in her little outdoor kitchen. 

The minutes drag until the silence is difficult to break.  Animosity weighs the air and when she shovels a single hamburger onto a plate, he knows that he’s out of time.  Hours of riding that chopper across the Georgia landscape and he just ended up right here, back where he started because no matter how far he rode, he only saw her.

He’s got to say something.

Catching the tail of her shirt, he stops her retreat.  He can’t even manage to look up into her angry face.  He doesn’t want to see it.  He wants to remember that startled, frightened expression when she’d discovered who she might hurt—

Him. 

She hadn’t wanted to hurt him.

“I . . . apologize . . . if anything I said . . . offended . . .” His words sound jilted and unnatural, like he’s practiced the simple sentence for days.  Maybe he has.

“Everything you’ve said offended,” she interrupts with a snap and before he can respond, she crumples onto the deck where he’s weakly trapped her and cries into her knees. “This has been the worst day,” she complains between sniffles. “First the FBI and now . . .”

Jacks ears perk. “The FBI?”

“Marie Mancuso’s dead,” Sophie wails. “And they think I did it!”

Jacks shifts uncomfortably on the hard ground. “Did you happen to mention . . . anything about . . . me?”

Sophie sniffs, her fear dissolving into confusion. “Well, no.  No one asked about anybody here.  They asked about my New York apartment and where I’ve been and who might have seen me and . . . oh!”

“What?”

“I told them that nobody saw me, but I was wrong!  That little shop owner!  He saw me!!  Oh, I’ve got to get back!  Tell . . . tell . . .” she fishes a small business card from her hip pocket and peers at the small writing again. “Agent Callan!  That was his name!”