# 18 - Chapter Eighteen "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

It Hurts to Say Goodbye

Chapter Eighteen – El Siegel 

I pushed the red spot on my smartphone’s screen and placed it on the marble table in my living room. 

I asked myself: What the hell? And why did I sound off like that? 

Bang! Now, it was clear to me. I didn’t think, just reacted. When I talked with Boswell, Lieutenant Boswell, if you please, I knew he was trying to manipulate me. How could I believe anything he said? Frankly, I never thought he was very smart, and I sure couldn’t put him in the category of a nice guy. And how could I suffer again, let myself go through another one of those conversations, with him trying to worm some kind of admission out of me, trying to get me to testify against myself.

I couldn’t listen to him any more.

Maybe the other one was different. From our first meeting, when they caught me at my front door, I knew the detective called Buckles was the smart one, and maybe even the decent one. I didn’t know. He was still a Philly cop. Could I trust either one? Probably not. 

I lay back on my black leather couch and closed my eyes. 

It was early evening, maybe around six, and I could hear the neighbors’ kids playing across the street. Most days, the kids from maybe four families got together on the sidewalk. There was at least one parent watching the whole crowd. There were shouts and laughter, once in a while one of the girls would scream just for fun. Even with that, it was pleasant to listen to them, thinking of them, thinking about being a kid again, and not having to think about the world and the way it really is, about not knowing how some people can be, mean and scheming and sometimes,  . . . That’s enough of that. 

So, if I fell asleep for a little while before trying to decide what I’d do for dinner, so what? My life’s been so unnatural, unconventional, empty, it just didn’t matter. Sure, I’ve been writing in my journal, at least that. I’ve read some poetry in books I took out from the library, and I’ve been reading a lot of fiction. But I’ve been watching too much news on television. And actually writing poetry? I just couldn’t think about it. For me, poetry’s the kind of thing you have to keep working or you just lose your touch. 

The living room was cool and refreshing. I felt myself drifting off.

And then, I was picturing an image. It was a brick wall appearing in my mind’s eye. Why a brick wall? I didn’t know. The image just appeared. And then phrases started coming to me. Honestly, it was like some kind of a force was guiding me, telling me: Com’on, El, don’t just lay there, like you been beaten, like they won!

The phrases kept coming to me: The wall of opposition, trouble, resistance, each brick was a problem. They could be the problems imposed on me, or the problems of my own making. But together, they stood there, and they were trapping me from freedom, blocking me from breaking out of the problems surrounding me and getting back to a normal life. But if I looked at each one, and tried to understand it and find a solution, then maybe, just maybe, I could reach what I want. 

Then I thought more about the bricks. What could they stand for? Maybe there could be positive things. Why not?  Then I realized. I could play with words. I could write poetry. I didn’t have to wait. I was the one that could decide. 

Just let it unreel, I told myself. It doesn’t matter what I said, because it was for me, and it could be drivel. I knew it wouldn’t be slick or polished. I’d let my poetry grow cold. But I knew, whatever I wrote, it would stay in my journal or in my computer. I didn’t have to tell anyone, or show anyone. Okay, I told myself, I could let myself write about “This Wall.” 

Got a wall in front of me, 

It’s blocking me from a good life. 

It’s holding me back from the good. 

Every brick’s a piece of my life. 

The two cops, they’re the ones,

Trying to trick me into stupid stuff, 

Testifying against myself, believe that?

How can they believe I’d do it?

The whole gang at Zout Chem, 

That’s just business stuff, 

Looking for the cheapest solution,

But they were sure just a little bit decent. 

But then there’s yours truly, 

I been the stupid one 

In the way I been leading my life.

Hey, I’m the biggest force in my own life, 

I got the power, now I gotta find the courage. 

Maybe that wall of bricks ain’t so strong. 

Now I can see the wall changing,

It’s turning into a bridge, and 

Each brick is an element of the positive. 

The bricks can be the good side of life. 

I have to be proud of Patrick, 

He’s a strong force moving his life to the good. 

And despite my stupidity, there’s Debbi,

I know I hurt her for no good reason,

And she still remains decent and open.

I could be a better son to dad, 

When I look back I can see, 

The things he’s given me. 

To the friends and family, 

I’m so sorry I cut all of you off. 

Above them all there’s my Faith, 

She was taken from me by the evil, 

But she’s still a force in my life. 

Now I have to be brave and cross that bridge. 

I have to do something to push for the good. 

When I looked at what I wrote, yes, I’m sorry to say, it certainly wasn’t poetry. But that wasn’t important. It got me going. It got me to do something.    

-0-

I picked up my phone, tapped the icon for making a call, and tapped on the name Rob Wong in the list of favorites. 

It wasn’t a surprise. He picked up immediately, and we had a conversation. Now, in writing this account, I’m not going to pretend I remember every word that was said, and I’m not going to make up a conversation and claim that’s exactly what happened. 

The truth is, I did hear what Lieutenant Boswell said, but I got excited and the words flowed from my mouth so fast, and I know I can’t remember that stream of verbiage I let loose. 

Lieutenant Boswell did try to act very official and he informed me that I was now “a person of interest” because I wasn’t telling him the whole truth, and that he was following official procedures to the letter.

So, when I called Rob Wong, I did tell him what I remembered from my conversation with Boswell, and I told him I wanted to do more. I remember telling him that I wanted to take the initiative, and I believe I did use the term “go public,” but those words just came to me, and I wasn’t sure what they actually meant. 

One thing really stuck with me: I knew that Boswell was trying to get me to admit that I killed Faith. He was trying to trick me. And I knew it was a lie. How in the world could anyone think that? 

I had to do something. 

When Rob Wong asked me if I could be named in an Inquirer story and if I would talk with another reporter, I think I said “yes.” He told me her name, but I think I got it mixed up because her name sounded almost like his name. 

But I know one thing: I was gambling. 

Then, so politely, he asked me to wait, because he’d call me right back.

Now I knew I had to call my dad. I had to prepare him for what might happen. 

I used the same list favorites on my phone. It was so easy; I just pushed dad’s name, and dad, too, answered right away. 

I said, “Dad, how you doing? It’s me. I just wanted to call you.” 

“El, it’s good to hear your voice, I was just thinking about you. Funny you’d just call now.” I could hear real warmth in his voice.

“Well, I was just thinking about you, too,” I said. “Thanks for thinking of me.” 

“Dad, one thing I wanted to say, there’s a chance, just a little chance, that you might see my name in the newspaper or on TV. I don’t know if it’ll come to be, but just remember, just in case, everything’s fine. It’s for the good. So, don’t worry.”

“El, you’re not in any kind of trouble, are you? If you need some kind of help, I can help you. If you need anything, like money, just ask me.”

“No, dad. Everything’s fine. I’ll call you back. I better go, someone’s gonna call me back.”

“Okay.” He sounded just a bit hurt. “Just call me if there’s something I should know.”

“Of course, dad. Of course.” 

At least I called him. I felt just a little bit better. The thought came back to me: I want to be a better son.