Raincoat

It was four in the morning, the end of December. The kind of cold that turns wool to tundra and lingers in your bones. I lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, the type of shake that doesn’t come from the cold.

The type that comes when you write to someone you’ve been trying to forget:

I’m writing now, not for answers — G-d knows we’re well past that delusion — but to see if the desert has been kind to you. Or at least, less cruel than this city.

New York’s bitter as ever, but I don’t mind it. There’s music drifting down Clinton Street, jazz mostly, and it spills out of those smoke-filled lounges all through the evening. It’s the kind of place you’d have loved if you’d ever stayed long enough to grow tired of it.

I heard you’re out west. Building some kind of shack in the middle of nowhere. Maybe you’re chasing silence, maybe it’s chasing you. Jane says you’re living for nothing now. She’s worried, but says it like she understands. Maybe she does. I hope you’re keeping some kind of record.

The last time we saw you, you looked so much older. That famous blue raincoat was fraying at the seams, torn right at the shoulder. You’d been haunting Grand Central like some kind of ghoul, waiting for every train. Always came home alone. No Lili Marlene. Just more smoke in your lungs and deeper shadows under your eyes.

But it’s not Lili Marlene either of us cares about, is it? You treated my woman to a flake of your life — just enough to change her. Not enough to keep her. When she came back, she was nobody’s wife.

And you, with your rose in your teeth, always playing the tragic poet. One more thin gypsy thief in a country that doesn’t have time for poetry.

Well, I see Jane’s awake. She sends her regards. Quieter these days, like she’s carrying something no one else can see. I wonder if it’s you.

So what can I tell you, my brother, my killer? What more can I possibly say?

Maybe just this: I guess that I miss you. G-d help me, I forgive you. And maybe I’m even grateful. You got in the way. Stopped something from happening that I didn’t even know was coming. Broke something that needed breaking.

If you ever come back here — for Jane or for me — the door’s open. Your enemy is sleeping. And his woman is free.

Thanks for the trouble you took from her eyes. I thought it was there for good. So I never tried.

Sorry excuse for a lame excuse. And a shameless fabrication to boot. Of course I tried.

What was it you said about my embodying the dearth of a ladies’ man?

Dearth.

Jane came by with that lock of your hair again last night. Held it like a relic. Said it was from that night you planned to go clear.

Did you ever go clear?