Dirty Secrets

Part 44

Everybody here
Get it outta control
Get yo backs off tha wall
Cuz Misdemeanor said so.

Lyla mouthed the lyrics to the music pumping in her headphones. Usually, she could keep pace with the beat, but this morning, she struggled to push herself through a slow two and a half miles. A glossy sheen of sweat coated her forehead, perspiration adhered the neck of her t-shirt to her back and chest. During her run she'd been getting text notifications that she assumed were from Darcy, so, when the call came in, she expected to hear her friend's voice. She clicked the center button on her headphones and rumbled to a stop.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

She didn't recognize the voice. "Hello?"

"It's me. Packer."

"Oh, hey."

"I can barely hear you."

"Just... finishing up... a run." Her chest rose and fell with each gulp of air. She trudged into the community green space with stiff legs and sore thighs, then plopped down on a decorative stone wall, gasping and panting, her throat and lungs burning.

"When my ankle heals we should run sometime," he said.

"That's not... gonna happen."

"Why?"

"I run alone."

"Gonna need reasons."

"Personal preference."

"I can respect that. But people change their minds."

"Can we just drop it?"

"I'm in your neighborhood. You home?"

"I don't run laps in my backyard. I went for a run." She pulled the phone from her armband then opened google maps and dropped a pin. "Did you get that?"

"Wait. Yeah... Okay. I'm literally right around the corner."

"Feels a little stalker-ish."

"Not gonna lie. That hurt."

An elderly couple walking their dog approached. On their way past, the joyful face of their golden retriever made her smile. 

"Be right there," said Packer.

"Well, if you wanna feast your eyes on an out-of-shape sweat--" She stopped when she saw him limp into the park clutching a bottle of water. She pulled the earphones from her ears, watching him hobble along the walkway to the wall where she sat.

"How'd you do that so fast?"

"Magic." He grinned. It was nice to see the original version of Packer. He plopped down on the wall beside her. "You wanna drink?"

She shook her head. "Don't get too close," she warned. 

"Don't be obstinate. Have a drink."

She accepted the bottle and unscrewed the cap. "Obstinate? Is that how all you Emerson boys talk?"

"I'm not like the other guys. I already told you that."

Two young women dressed in business attire sat on the park bench across from Lyla and Packer. They opened carry-out trays and began enjoying their bagels as they chatted. They looked like actual women in stylish outfits, heels, and makeup.

Lyla wiped a glaze of perspiration from her forehead. "So you just carry water with you wherever you go?"

"Actually, I do. Athletes always take water with them. You never know when a pick-up game could break out."

She rubbed her aching quads.

"Gotta stay hydrated," he said.

She took another drink.

"We should definitely run sometime," he prodded.

"First, no. And second, no chance I'm gonna run with some guy with freakishly long legs."

"I'll tie my legs together and hop so you can keep up with me."

"I'm faster than you think. You just caught me after a bad run."

"Bad run. Right."

A sun-baked guy with a bad crew cut and a ragged coat plodded to the bench beside the young women, looking down at them. They ignored him while they ate their bagels, occasionally giving him a mistrustful side-eye. He coughed loudly then grumbled, "You shouldn't sit there."

They refused eye contact.

"Nobody sits there." He raised his volume and rubbed his blotchy forehead.

The closest woman chided, "I don't have any money. Please go away."

"Nobody ever sits there. Not since Geno died."  

They began packing up their breakfast.

"He died right on that bench. Last winter. Right there where you're sitting." He hacked loudly.

The other woman looked around anxiously. Packer stood and approached the coughing man. "Hey. How about leaving them alone?"

"You sure that's a good..." Lyla's words fell on deaf ears.

The man turned, a look of confusion on his face as he squinted up into the eyes of the tall stranger. "Geno died right there." He pointed. "Froze to death on that bench. They found him stiff as a board."

"That's a real sad story," Packer said sympathetically. "What's your name?"

"Conrad."

"Conrad, why don't you move along and leave these ladies alone?"

He scrunched up his face and asked, "You the airplane pilot or you the one drives that coal truck?" 

Packer replied, "I'm the airplane pilot."

Lyla cracked up.

Packer continued, "And I'm asking you politely to please leave."

The women got off the bench taking their breakfast bags with them. One of them said, "Thanks" before departing.

"Now look what you did." Packer sighed. 

"It ain't right." A deep cough doubled him over. His face turned red and saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth." Packer shook his head then retreated to the wall where Lyla sat. 

"Geno Bonatello was a good man," he shouted. "A damn good man. People should show some respect."

"I get that." Lyla nodded. "That's why I'm sitting on this wall."

It suddenly occurred to her. Lyla recognized that bench. A few months ago, scared out of her wits, she was sitting on that very bench when a man materialized beside her, a gaunt unshaven man wearing a soiled second-hand jacket that hung on him like a boy wearing his father's suit coat. The man with the yellow and brown teeth and the ridiculing smile who more recently had appeared to her as the custodian at the hospital. She went pale at the thought.

Could that be Geno Bonatello?