This Time Will Be Different

1

Jack had seen the man earlier that evening—had noted his bright green eyes that he could, oddly, only describe as...magisterial—but had only been moved to action this time around. Guilt, no doubt. But wasn't doing something good for the wrong reason better than not doing the thing at all?

The man wore what essentially amounted to rags: paint-spattered cargo pants slinking halfway down his backside, a crimson Temple sweatshirt with a rip in the shoulder. When he turned to ask a blond businesswoman, passing by in clattering heels, for spare change, Jack glimpsed a patch— about the size of one of those old JFK half dollars—at the back of the man's head where no hair grew and instead only pinkish scalp showed.

Jack caught the man's glance now. Those eyes. "Change, brother?" the man asked Jack, in a commanding, gravelly voice.

Jack handed him the Wawa bag. "It's Italian. I didn't know if you wanted mayo, so I had them put it on the side."

The man looked warily at Jack as he took the bag, peering inside as if to make sure it contained a hoagie and not a hand grenade. "Thanks."

"Sure thing."

"I'm Ben, by the way," the man said and stuck out his hand. 

Jack took it. "Jack Ampong."

"It's good to know there are still decent people in the world, Jack Ampong."

Jack could have laughed out loud. "Good luck," he said and started on his way.

"You too," Ben said.

Jack walked briskly now. He was already late getting home. When he pulled out his phone to check the time, he realized it was still turned off. He held down the button to bring the thing to life. A notification box popped up telling him that in the last half hour he'd gotten four messages—all from Paul, his wife's kid brother.

"Jack," the first message played, "I'm with Sarah. We're at the University City police station. Call me." Jack stopped in front of a Starbucks and listened to the other three messages. More of the same. Sarah. Police Station. Call right away.

A debilitating dread blossomed out of Jack's stomach, spreading through his chest, head, arms, and legs. Calm down. He listened again to the four short (increasingly agitated) messages, as if doing so might somehow help him assess the truth of what was happening.

Jack called, and Paul picked up before the first ring had finished. "Where've you been?" Paul said.

"My phone was off. What's going on?"

"It's Sarah."

"What about her?"

"She was . . . attacked."

"What? Where is she? Is she okay?"

"She's safe. She's talking to the police."

"Hold on . . . 'attacked?'"

"I don't know. Someone followed her into my building when I buzzed her in. She didn't see him coming. When she didn't come up after five minutes, I walked down to see what happened. I guess the guy heard me coming down the stairs and ran off."

"Sarah didn't tell me she was visiting you tonight."

"Well, she was."

"Did you see him?"

"The guy? Only for a second. I chased him around the block, but he got away. I wish I'd caught the little fuck."

"Do you know why? Why he...Did he take her purse?" Jack hoped it was just this: a robbery. 

"No. She still had her purse, I think."

"Did he try to take it?" He couldn't utter the other potential motives, less in doing so he introduce the possibility to the universe.

"I don't know. Everything happened really fast," Paul said. "Just get down here, okay?"

Jack hung up and sat down on the curb next to a parked car.

I deserve this, but she doesn't. I deserve this, but she doesn't. The sentence repeated endlessly in the talk track of his mind.

"Hey," a voice called, and Jack swiveled around. It was Ben, pushing a shopping cart of his belongings up the street. Based on Ben's eyes alone, Jack was almost moved to unload all his troubles on the man, to tell him everything. An absurd notion, to be sure. "Thanks again for the sandwich!"