Morris, blasted, Jones. He finished cutting the topiaries outside the door and wanted to see in on me. He stood there in a stupor and left without looking at me. I did not ask him to trim, clean windows, put out the trash, none of it. I reminded him of that with my gaze, and slam of the door. Still he comes everyday, speaks, and then squeaks on his way out.

I woke up, fallen forward to the left, from sleeping in the lounge chair, my right side aching in response to the unnatural curve. I twirled the hem of my shirt between my fingers, working the threads and stretching them until they tugged back. I had no desire to move, desire to turn on the heat or even a light and sat there until midnight when I bothered to move to the couch, before I fell to the floor from leaning to the left.

I would go there to be near his grave. I would take my heart there everyday and seek to loosen the cement above his head and place it, better used, upon my heart. March had two hundred and forty trillion seconds, moments and thoughts for me. I would go to spend them near his grave. I returned home to the person who would come to the airport to help me with my mismatched plaid luggage Gabriel’s father, Campbell.  Together we walked quietly out of the airport our ghost walking between us.

The waiter set the plates down on the table glancing at Campbell’s weathered eyes, staring at my disfigured face. Campbell said, “Saul, can fix that, he’s an excellent surgeon, you know. I’ve worked with him at my medical practice for a long time. I saw that Halifax had colder temperatures than New York.”

His black hair, blue eyes and inquisitive pointing upside down fork, kept me staring at him. It was almost two years since Gabriel had passed; still I stared at Campbell blankly and answered, “I know. Nova Scotia is very cold…all the time.”

“I saw Morris Jones at the doors when I left, undoubtedly, he’ll be there to carry your luggage when we get back,” Campbell said while chewing his food, his head bent over the plate, eyes searching for his thoughts, his voice so matter of fact.
“Blast!” I whispered.
“I signed the papers with (New York City Police Department’s) Internal Affairs a couple of months ago. I didn’t take the money, I signed away my right to sue,” he said, his voice trailing off into silence, “have you? I heard you did the old speak-to-the-hand thing with them.”
“Yes. Yes I did decide what to do with the settlement money, I gave it away. Two million dollars written out in a banker’s check to a Mr. Morris Jones,” I said with an outright sarcastic smile and tone to my words as if saying it like that would send the message I wanted to send to Jones.
“Only two million dollars?” he said laughing sarcastically.
“I only asked for that much and I signed the rest of the money and my right to sue away, too,” I said.

Campbell was finished with his food and obviously content. He leaned forward and drank from my water cup and noticed that I had not eaten one bite of my salad except to push it around; immediately his eyes looked at mine, terrified. Slowly, Campbell’s eyes turned a tender blue while he sentimentally searched my face for what he knew to find, but could not.