The Last Secret Read Online Free

mother, when he knew better. But he let her have her illusions, crazy woman that she was. One day she gave him away. Just like that, to a perfect stranger on a busy street. They locked her up. End of story.
    “How old're you, Eddie?”
    “Fifty, sixty.” He laughs. “Whatever works.”
    “Any booze, drugs, on you?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Been here before?”
    “Once.”
    “When?”
    “Year ago? I forget.”
    “You on disability?”
    “No.” Nothing preventing him from getting a job, one doctor wrote. Sociopathic tendencies. Reading upside down, among his many talents. Set fire that night to the back of the doctor's office.
    “You work?”
    “When I can.”
    “What do you do?”
    “Whatever.”
    “What was your last job?”
    “Vice president of Microsoft.”
    “Come on, Eddie. I just gotta fill in the blank, that's all I'm doing.”
    “Sparkle Car Wash on Marquand.”
    “When?”
    “December.”
    “How long?”
    “One fucking day.”
    Looks over his smudged glasses. What? Like he's offended?
    “You know what it feels like, swabbing the back of a car, freezing cold water running down your arms and legs?” He wants to work, hates being broke. When he was younger he always had nice clothes and a car. Things are harder now. Lost a little off his fastball. He doesn't say this, doesn't tell how tired he gets. The headaches come too often. The medicine dulls the edges at least, when he can afford it. The intake counselor is bored, tired, whatever. He could care, Eddie sees. Heard it all so why the hell should he? Over and over, day after day, from the stiffs, the maimed souls, the walking wounded. Losers. Worst of all's being lumped in with them.
    “And my headaches, that was the thing.” With the cold, they start up again.
    “You got a record?”
    “Yeah.” He laughs. A record. Perfect. That's it exactly. Half a lifetime gone, he'll tell her. And now it's payback time. Time to give back. To the needy. The truly deserving. God's battered children, all the ones who weren't born into the lucky sperm club.
    He sits on the edge of the cot, unlacing his wet shoes. He puts on the clothes they gave him, threadbare pants and a ripped T-shirt, until his own are dry. He stretches out on the cot and opens the magazine. Now, with her face, it's coming back, her laugh, the sweet trust of her touch. Before what happened. It wasn't just the drunk, but him, too, going off the deep end. Lucky for her she ran. It might've been her. And now, lucky for him.
    Like these pants, time has frayed the seams. Beginnings and endings run together. Even the women, he can't remember. Some, hedidn't even like their smell. The headaches do that, heighten his senses. Smell, for instance, and hearing. Certain sounds are startling. Terrifying. He used to love the sound of a train, relentless in all its rackety force, or the drone of a low-flying plane, thrilling him with the possibility of its crashing before his eyes. The same with the quick gasp of a woman's voice. Now it's all dread. Steel sky lowering, walls pushing close.
    The next morning is the social worker. Lisa goes over yesterday's form, gives him a list of jobs. The shelter has contacts with businesses needing help.
    “Anything there look interesting?”
    Three hundred pounds, anyway. He's disgusted by the flap of flesh that melds her chin to her neck. He is repelled by voraciousness, people who gorge themselves, drink too much, especially this one, silver bracelets jangling on thick, spotted wrists, the low V of her neckline crimping the freckled fat of her breasts, sausage into its casing, flaunting her flesh, why? For these miserable souls? He pictures her primping in the morning, leaning close to the mirror, swiveling on that red lipstick, all the while getting wet, thinking of the lucky stiff she'll turn on today. The air thins. Harder to breathe. Her fat cells, she sucks it all in. Pig. Disgusting pig.
    “The dishwashing job's cool. Bannerman's, the steak house, they feed