Lou Silva finished his shift at the garage and headed towards the highway. He took the ramp towards Newark. He was not going home. He was finished with home. He wanted to stop by Silver Star Reality and thank Mitch Kiem for taking up with Gallant's wife, Josie. You're doing us all a service, sir. Gallant and Josie would have celebrated thirty years of marriage in November. They'd married too young. The first grandchild was due in October. Ugly milestones, he thought. I've done my bit. If he didn't leave now, if he turned a blind eye to Josie as she had done so many times before to him, he'd wake up at his fiftieth wedding anniversary pretending that he still loved Josie and everyone would be crying and thanking Jesus because Jesus loves grandparents who know what love really is. The family would endure forever and ever, amen.
Tomorrow at this time, Silva would be in Portugal, on a patio in Lisbon. In a week, he'd find be working in his cousin's garage on the Algarve. No-one would call, not even the lawyers, because he had sent notes to everyone who needed a note. Fuck off. They could have the house. They could have the money. Silva didn't need money. He needed peace.
People want things, he thought as he signaled the stewardess for another glass of champagne. But there's no fucking reason why they shouldn't go somewhere else to get them.
29 July 2015