hard way.”
He pauses to check my response, but I don’t know what to say. I vaguely remember babbling something about jail and begging him not to call the police. But he’s going to wonder what kind of trouble I’m in, and I don’t know where to start. How can I explain that the trouble that scares me most is the trouble I’ve forgotten?
“I even did time. A couple years in prison, for breaking and entering.” He pauses again. Maybe he’s thinking if he opens up to me about his past, I’ll do the same. “I’m not proud of it. I was an angry, rebellious kid. I’m still a rebel in my way, but I know how to channel that energy.”
Breaking and entering is not as bad as Simon in the alley, assault and battery. Sure, it was self-defense, but would the police see it that way? And there are the crimes I might have committed before I woke up in Penn Station. And there’s that other thing. Maybe you killed somebody. Did somebody hurt my sister? Did I kill the guy? Is that what I’m blocking out?
“Anyway, I guess I’m just trying to say I understand. And if I can, I’d like to help.”
A guitar case is leaning against the wall in a corner of the room, and I focus on that instead of Thomas. I could use someone to trust. And I could sure use some help. But I’m not ready to ask for it.
“You play guitar?” I ask.
Thomas follows my gaze. He gets the guitar case, brushes away some dust, and lays it at the foot of the bed. He snaps it open, and inside is an old Telecaster with a butterscotch finish, gorgeous and in excellent condition.
“Wow,” I say. “Nice ax.”
Thomas picks it up, slips the strap over his shoulder, and plays a few licks. It’s not plugged into an amp, so the sound is soft and tinny. “Haven’t played for a while,” he says, twisting the pegs to get it in tune. “But I was in a punk rock group in the nineties. One of the best times in my life.” He strokes the body of the guitar like it’s a woman and he’s madly in love with her. “This guitar helped get me through some really bad stuff, believe me.”
“What kind of stuff ?” I’d rather talk about music and Thomas than answer any questions about myself.
Thomas runs his fingers up the neck of the guitar, miming chords. “Foster care from the age of eight,” he says absently. “Bounced around to four different homes by the time I was eighteen.” He clears his throat, then pulls the strap off his shoulder and lovingly puts the guitar back in its red felt-lined case. “Feeling like nobody wants you and you don’t belong anywhere can make a person a little crazy,” he says.
Uh, yeah.
Just then, Suzanne comes in with a tray, and sets it down on the bed next to me.
“It’s just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some milk, but Thomas doesn’t have much in the way of groceries around here,” she says to me. “Not that I’m a gourmet cook or anything, but that’s just pathetic.”
“I’m a bachelor. I don’t need a lot,” Thomas says with an easy shrug. “Peanut butter. Jelly. Beer. What else is there?” He latches the guitar case shut and sets it back in the corner.
I’m hungry, so the sandwich tastes incredibly good. And the jelly is grape, which I’ve decided is my favorite. I’ll never be able to eat the stuff again without thinking of that Ephraim Bull guy, father of the Concord grape.
Suzanne goes back downstairs and Thomas and I sit in silence for a couple of minutes, not looking at each other while I eat my sandwich. He jiggles his leg and peers out the window, chewing on a fingernail. Trying to look patient and failing.
“So how did all of that change?” I ask him, licking peanut butter off my thumb.
Thomas stops jiggling his leg and turns toward me.
“Excuse me?”
“How did you go from angry to—” I wipe my mouth with a napkin and struggle for the right word. “Not?”
Thomas kicks his feet out in front of him, leans back in his chair, and laces his fingers behind his head. “Well, let’s see. After I got out of jail, I drifted around for a while, and finally found a job as a custodian at a library. To stay out of trouble, I spent every free moment there