Free Shadow Traffic by Richard Burgin Page B

leaving London in four days would shatter the little trust she might still have in me.
    And so the hours ticked on, and predictably I went to a pub quite a distance from Queensway and tried to drink away the picture of her by her phone that I was convinced was now planted in my mind forever.
    It’s odd what our brains choose to remember. I recall vividly the day when I had to make my decision, but not the next four. (The letter I remember verbatim because I took it with me back to the States, where I read it many more times over the years.) Those days all ran together in a blur of anxious tourism and alcohol, until eventually I was back in St. Louis, probably back in this pool again, too.
    I thought it would be easier to stop thinking about her once I was home. I thought I’d go back to mourning my father until that slowly lessened, while Paulette would vanish in a matter of weeks if not days. Instead, my memory of her (aided by her letter) made her more vivid, as if I were seeing her on a daily basis. Paradoxically, the main relief I got from Paulette was thinking about my father. It was as if he was still helping me out once again from his grave.

    My thoughts are interrupted by a splashing fight that’s broken out near me between two ten-year-old boys. They look somewhat alike—maybe they’re brothers—and splash each other with equal ferocity. To get out of their range, I walk over to the kids’pool, where the old men with their walkers sit dangling their toes in the water, their lifeguard hovering behind them. I sit on the ledge looking at them, at Grandfather Pool in his hot tub, then at the giant clock on the wall, where I’m surprised it’s as late as it is in the afternoon.
    After a few months it got much better about Paulette, and she might have become one of those occasional twinges of guilt we all learn to put up with but for another letter she suddenly sent me.
    Dear Gerry,
    Are you surprised to hear from me? It was much easier than I expected to get your address, but I did wrestle with the decision of whether to write to you or not and though a lot of me didn’t want to, because of my conscience, I ultimately decided to write.
    Your one-night stand with me had more consequences than you might imagine, at least for me. A few weeks after our time together I found out I was pregnant and then had to decide what to do about it. I thought of writing or calling you then, but since you’d already chosen not to contact me it seemed rather futile.
    Ultimately, after much agonizing, I decided to have an abortion, which happened a few days ago. I guess I’m not much of a Catholic after all. I’m telling you this without expecting or wanting any kind of reply simply because I think people ought to know that they can create life when they do (in your case it was apparently quite easy), and ought to know when they’re involved, albeit indirectly, in decisions involving what happens to that life. Anyway, I won’t bother you again. I’ve handled things very badly, although you did trick me along the way. Still, I hope one day you do find someone you can love and respect enough to marry and start a family of your own with. My church says, “Childrenare the meaning of life.” T. S. Eliot says, “We had the experience but missed the meaning.”
    Paulette
    â€œShe’s lying, don’t fall for it,” said Phil, who’d originally advised me not to go to London.
    â€œHow do you know that?” I said, waving the letter in my hand.
    â€œAll right, I don’t know it, but she probably never got pregnant, and anyway you’ll never know one way or the other. It sounds like a scam to me to guilt some money out of you.”
    â€œShe didn’t ask for any money. She’s the most honest woman I’ve ever known.”
    â€œThen why would she write you? It might make some sense to write when she was pregnant and didn’t know