# 9 - Chapter Nine "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

Chapter Nine 

It Hurts to Say Goodbye

Chapter Nine – El Siegel 

It was a Wednesday evening. I knew the “Wonder Words” crew was meeting at Gertie’s Pub. 

I didn’t think it over, which is not exactly my character. I just grabbed a light jacket and told myself to go. I don’t know if it was the need for fresh air, creativity, companionship, or whatever, I just locked up my little Queen Village house and headed out for the twenty-minute walk. 

The spring days were getting longer, and the evening half-light kissed every surface, the cobblestone streets, the historic facades, the trees that lined the streets. The lights along the sidewalks blinked on and off, as though they were confused by the time between night and day. 

In my neighborhood, I walked past the bars and restaurants and shops. Even though it was midweek, throngs of people were out enjoying the spring evening. At one intersection, a miracle occurred; a driver stopped for me to cross the street. I assumed it was the positive vibe from the street, and not my gray beard, because I surely didn’t make an old impression. 

Along my way, the crowds thinned out, but every once in a while there were clusters of people sitting on the stoops in front of their homes, sipping beer or wine. Their conversations looked animated, and when I greeted them with “Good evening,” I received enthusiastic greetings in return. 

Then, something odd: When I changed my route at one intersection in Center City, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t cutting the path of another pedestrian, and I noticed someone quickly step into a doorway. 

I didn’t stop and stare, but that “someone” seemed strange. The image remained lodged in my memory: a small, delicate man who wore a long jacket that looked old-fashioned and for some reason out of place. As I walked one block after another, I allowed that image to fade. I was more interested in watching the bustling crowd on the sidewalk and the diners seated at outdoor tables. 

On the sidewalk in front of Gertie’s Pub, there was a crowd, people enjoying themselves, either drinking or smoking, or both. But inside on the main floor, the joint was so packed that I had a hard time getting to the bar. I was too early for the poetry session, so I ordered a Guinness Stout and watched the other drinkers and diners. Across the room, I did notice Bruce Moore talking with two other members of  “Wonder Words.” 

When I saw Rebecca, I raised my hand to give her a little wave. She must have been the only waitress that night because she looked overwhelmed delivering drinks and dinners. It seemed she was trying to smile, but her expression showed her strain. When she noticed me, she looked away. I didn’t know why. 

At seven, Gertie’s upstairs quarters were opened, and the poetry lovers were allowed to climb to the second floor. I was one of the first arrivals, and I took a seat at the bar. 

Bruce Moore got there earlier to get the space ready for the evening’s session. I saw him talking with two other members. When he saw me, he said something to them and then walked over to me. 

“El, I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s horrible, there’s no other way to describe it.” He placed his arm around my back. “If there’s anything I can do . . .  Like I told you before, if I can help, just let me know.” 

I said, “Thanks Bruce. I’ll get by. It’s a big loss for the whole group.”

“Oh, by the way, I guess I should tell you: I was interviewed by the cops, or at least one cop.  A little guy, his name was . . . Boswell. He said he was doing an investigation, you know, into the murder. So, they might catch the bastard. I couldn’t help much at all. But he sure spent more than a minute with Rebecca.”

“Thanks,” I said. “So, I guess this won’t surprise you. I spent more than a few minutes with him. But, anyway, maybe some good poetry’ll take our mind off it all.”

“I better get this train outta the station,” he said, He patted my shoulder and he walked toward the stage on the other side of the space.

It always took people about fifteen minutes to settle in. Then, the session followed a predictable plan.

Bruce climbed up onto the stage, played with the microphone for a few minutes to make sure it worked for everyone to follow. Then he welcomed everyone, circulated a signup sheet for the open mic session, and mentioned new poetry publications on display for sale. 

A respected poet by the name of Leland Stanhope, took the stage for a few minutes. Stanhope, who went by the name Lee for his friends, impressed me as a Mr. Clean – relatively young, handsome with short blond hair, and dressed in a preppy style. Lee helped “Wonder Words” by editing poetry collections and negotiating with publishers. This evening, he mentioned several new collections that would come out in the next few weeks. 

That entire process took less than ten minutes, and then Bruce introduced the evening’s featured poet.  She was a middle-aged woman who carried a stack of four volumes of her work and placed them in the small table behind her. Bruce said she had great renown as a poet, and I was impressed by several of the phrases in her poems, but she read her works in a monotone and had little stage presence.

My experience at the poetry readings was that, of the maybe ten poets who recited their works, I felt I connected with only two of three of them. Since I’d started trying to write my own poems, I started analyzing the works I heard in a more systematic way. 

This evening during the open mic session, I was touched by three of the poets. One of them was a big middle-aged guy with a big voice who usually appeared at just about every session. He usually dealt with some aspect of Philly life and banged on a tambourine between important phrases. This week’s work criticized litterbugs. Every time he shouted “Pick up your junk, punk!” he beat on his tambourine. 

Another poet was a former U.S. Marine who served three years in Afghanistan. In his big voice, he stood before the group and belted out his experiences on returning Stateside to a cold welcome from unappreciative Americans. He emphasized every phrase by pumping his fist. When he ended his poem, the room was silent, and then broke out in applause. 

The most exciting poet of the evening was a small guy with a big Afro. I had never heard him before, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget his appearance. Without notes or text, he told the story of walking down a Philly street, failing to lower his gaze when he crossed paths with a city cop, and then fleeing chasing cops through alleys, abandoned buildings, junk yards guarded by dogs and other sites. His style was rushed and breathless. It was a riveting. He didn’t have to explain his work’s meaning; it was clear. The audience – including yours truly – was overwhelmed.

After the poetry session, just past nine, I took the creaky stairs back down to the main floor. It had emptied out just a bit. Rebecca spotted me and walked up to me. She gave me a forced smile and asked me to sit at one of the small tables. She announced she wanted to offer me a half-liter of Guinness Stout. 

Of course, I accepted. I had no one waiting at home, and I could enjoy my mellowed mood after enjoying the poetry. 

When she returned with the drink, Rebecca didn’t look tense any more. No, now she was clearly sad. She told me that she wanted to tell me something, but she didn’t want to talk inside the joint. Would I take my drink outside and stand to the left of Gertie’s entrance? She would tell the barkeep Clyde that she absolutely needed nicotine, and then make it outside as soon as she could. 

I didn’t understand, but I played along. 

I walked outside and found a spot to lean on the wall. And I waited. 

Maybe five minutes passed. I was just standing there and looking around.

Then I saw him. There was no mistake. He was the same small, delicate guy I’d seen on the street earlier; he was wearing the same old-fashioned jacket.

When he realized I spotted him – I could see it on his face, so thin with sunken cheeks, so frightened – he froze. He didn’t move for just a few seconds that lasted a short eternity, and then he ducked into a vegan sandwich shop just a few doors down the block. 

I was shocked, and scared. What the devil was going on? He definitely was not a cop. He was as clumsy and unprofessional as possible. But why? What could he want? Who could he be working for? I’m a nobody, why me? 

I turned around, and there was Rebecca. Her hands were holding her forearms, as though she was cold, even though the night air was still warm. 

She looked at me, and the sadness was still there. “I just gotta tell you, there’s something I gotta tell you. And I don’t have much time.” She pulled one, single cigarette and a book of matches from her pocket, and had trouble lighting up.

She took a drag, and coughed a few times. “There’s this cop, says he’s a detective, Philly police, says he’s trying to find the low-life that killed Faith. His name’s Boswell, Doug Boswell.”

“I know him, or really, I had some contact with him.” I looked down the sidewalk, but I didn’t see the mystery man.

“Well, anyway, I gotta tell you, he’s out to get you! Plain and simple, that’s it.” She took another drag, and it didn’t look like the nicotine did her any good. “It just seems he’s trying to pin something on you.”

I said, “I don’t trust him. I’m not surprised.” 

“I don’t have much time, somebody, and his name is Clyde, the barman’s gonna start looking for me pretty soon.” 

Rebecca looked around, and then said, “But anyway, this Boswell, he kept trying to get me to say . . . It was strange. He wanted me to say I saw you leave Gertie’s on some special night, that you left with Faith.” 

I took a big swig of my Guinness, but I didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to waste a second.

“I kept telling him, no. I just can’t keep track of what everyone does, and all that.” Rebecca took another drag, and this time she closed her eyes for just a second.

She went on. “He says just say you saw him, that’s you, just say you saw him leave with her. It doesn’t have to be true, ‘cause you’re confirming what some other people said they saw, what they testified to, and then he said I’d be in trouble if I don’t do it.”

She stopped and we both looked at each other. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a kind of understanding between us right there. I said, “Rebecca, thanks. Really.”

“I just wanted to tell you. It’s bullshit. It’s not right.” 

“And not true, not at all,” I said. “Honest. What was the date? You remember the date he said?” 

She closed her eyes, thinking. “I don’t know. Like it was in May, I think. Not long ago.”

I couldn’t stop myself. “Was it May thirteenth? Was that it.” 

She took a time to answer. “Yeah, I think so. That rings a bell, that might be it.”

We waited. Neither of us knew what to say.  

Rebecca put her right hand on my forearm and squeezed for just a second. “I wish things were simpler.” She waited a second. “Just be careful, El. I don’t know why, but he’s trying to get you. It’s just bullshit.” 

“Me too, I wish things were simple,” I said. “But really, thanks, but I don’t want you to get into any kind of trouble because of me. Don’t stick your neck out. If you have to, say what they want. It sounds so illegal, so stupid, I just don’t believe it could hurt me. I just can’t imagine any judge accepting that.”

Then she was gone. I took another big gulp of my ale, and placed my empty glass on the sidewalk for other smokers to use as an ashtray.

My positive mood, the freedom I felt, the pleasure of the spring evening, the creativity and the warmth of the “Wonder Words” crowd; it all fell apart. Here I was. I finally pulled myself out of the house to get a dose of creativity. But now I was still the victim. I was still overcome by Faith’s murder. 

My walk home was a solemn affair. Yes, the bright lights were still there. There were still laughing and jostling crowds and the neighbors shooting the breeze on their stoops. But me, a cloud hung over me. My smile fled my face. No one smiled at me. Even the pretty women I passed on the sidewalk didn’t raise my spirits. 

My mind was filled with confusion and doubt and fear. 

But a voice somewhere within shouted to me: 

Look, look at yourself! You feel afraid, ashamed! Look at how you’re living, if this is living at all. Here you are, you pulled yourself out of the house for just a little fun. And then you’re afraid of one Philly cop. My God! You get all hot and bothered when you see a little ghostlike guy twice in the same evening. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re letting yourself feel threatened, trapped. But you got a lot more life to live. Why act trapped? Don’t give up.  

I kept thinking about Patrick. How could he be so normal, so focused? He seemed so realistic, balanced, positive. I was not a good parent. How could he be so reasonable? Debbi, was she responsible? There is good, even though I was selfish. There is good. Is this an example for me? I want to be better. I can be a better person. I can be honest.  I want to rebuild my life. So, what should you do? Fight. Don’t let them win. Don’t let them take your life from you. You can rebuild your life. They can’t take my life, a good life, they can’t take that away from me!

I got home. I unlocked the front door. The house was dark. I was alone, still.